ur-

combining form      primitive; original; earliest 

Today things got real . . . or thrown back . . . or mindful . . .  or whatever you want to call it when you have a moment when you remember how to begin again.  A conversation early in the day had me pseudo quoting Kathleen Norris, Thomas Merton, Parker Palmer, Mark Nepo, Mary Oliver, and Anne Lamott (yes, I've been reading her again) as a single theological philosopher.  

"You know," I told a Mr. J, my companion, "contemporary gurus remind us that we, the addicted, dispirited, or ego laden; have to let go of what we think we are, what we think we know and control, so we can reach rock bottom and begin to create our real self."  Mr. J took a mocking posture of attention and stared me in the eye, quickly raising an eyebrow as if to say, "go on."  So I did.  

"And we have to do that repetitively until we learn to be in a constant state of letting go and re-creating.  We must work to evolve to become our most primitive and original self over and over and over again."  Now it was my turn to sit up straight and raise my eyebrow to him.  "You look confused," I offer him after a long moment, my way of letting him know I didn't really expect an answer.

"No, not confused yet," he said as he slowly shook and nodded his head simultaneously.  "I find it takes me a few hours or days to let some things sink in enough to be confused," he confessed.  The next, that is the last, minutes of our conversation were his sputtering attempts to begin sentences laced with silence.  "So then . . . you mean . . . do you? . . . ah well . . . how should I? . . . .hmm."  I was a calm presence who answered and encouraged him with a pleasant smile accompanied by a lean in, an expectant look, or neutral face.  Finally, we hit upon mirrored facial expressions that communicated our time together was done for now.  As we parted he said, "this is good.  I mean, it's gonna be good."  Then we agreed to meet again in two weeks to pick up where we left off.  (But we rarely do.)

As I closed the door behind him, my own realness - or whatever I called it at that moment - thwacked me upside my head .  What I said to Mr. J was true, but I I felt like a bit of a poser handing out great insight or advice when I know I have two things in my life, right now, that I wrangle with daily to control.  I refuse to let myself touch, let alone hit, that rock bottom I was selling just a few moments ago.  

I knew just what to do to evolve me back to my more primitive self.  I got out a few arts and crafts supplies and made myself an UR, or Universal Receptacle.  AKA, a God Box.  I then took two small pieces of paper, wrote a word that represents each of the things I have not been able to let go, and placed those papers in the box.  (It seemed greedy to burden the Universe with all my issues at once.  I recommend no more than one or two burdens per person at a time.)  I metaphorically gave my burdens over to the Universe via the Universal Receptacle, then I moved the UR to a prominent, yet not too visible, location in my home.

I feel lighter, less burdened.  Occasionally I take a quick glance at the UR to see if it has moved or changed in any way.  (It hasn't.)  In time, I expect the Universe to send a clear and specific message to me about these two matters - seriously, I do . I am open to  this communication coming in the form of a call, a text, a burn in the shape of the Blessed Mary on my toast, or my long-suffering in a committee meeting.  My challenge for the days, maybe years, ahead is to stay open to any communication the Universe sends, to listen with all my senses.  I have heard that only sometimes the answers to our most urgent dilemmas actually arrive as a text, a call, or a meeting agenda.  In other instances, the Universe sends answers through the breathing of our breath, the stars reflected in our eyes, and moans of our soft, supple bodies . . .  hitting rock bottom.