Event Horizon. And It's Beige.

3 cups of rolled oats, soaked overnight.
50 grams or so of almonds or sunflower seeds, soaked with the oats.
3 kiwifruit.
About 60ml of olive oil.
Blended with the soaking water and a little sea salt, water added up to 2 litres.

This along with a bit less than two cups of kefir per day lasts me four days.  About 450 calories per day. I have discovered my starvation point, and this is it.  Any less than this and I noticeably suffer, get weak and incapable, etc.  This is survival rations now; the brutal calculus of my survival.

And it's a totally love/hate thing.

It's taken me a while to settle here in what I now think of as my cell, in the sense of a monk's cell, my exit room.    Part of it is that my nature was not letting me properly rest until I had settled something about the question of weaning off from food.  Basically, I had to find this exact point.  It is my bear, you know, like with the old Inuit woman in the story.  It's the Thing.  The line, switch, button, beyond which every increment is anti-body. Destructive. It is the event horizon. The other thing in the room here with me.   You could just say it is death, even.

Now it and I can sit together properly, and look at each other. I feel now a sense of arrival, and indeed even a sense of being welcomed warmly.  It is one of the main reasons I had to leave home, in the sense of my house, to do this.

There was such horrendous grief and sadness and terror when it came, when it happened, when I first properly saw it.  But I had help, and comfort, and Meeta helped me through it.  Little doubt there is more like that to come, but also now I see so much more than that.

I sit there, hands slightly trembling, concentrating on the task of pouring the thinner-than-crepe-batter beigeness into my syringe, utterly adoring, feasting, genuinely worshipping this scant concoction of life energies, of sustenance.  It is my nectar, the one remaining thread by which I stay alive here, and how could I not love that?

Food, in the final analysis, is life.  Everything is either eating or being eaten. Food or feaster.

And it stands in the road of where I'm headed, by the power of my attachment.  There is the rub.

But like I mentioned, the terrors and the lamentations this time passed, and in the wake came cleansing, and more truth.  It is a brutal calculus now, because it has come down to a single-line equation.  The one that asks the question how long will I hang on?  It's an easy one to overthink, the drawing of lines about where my own 'will' starts and ends and where I intersect with inevitables and circumstances so it is such a massive relief to find this space.  I can answer this question now, I know it. It's a question asked of a part of my being that is inexpressible in words.  For it is about complete surrender; surrender of words as well, you see.

That's it now.

Me, comfortable and relaxed in my room here. I feel secure now.  I can see clearly my immense attachment. My sheer animal instinct to hang on. And the burden I have accumulated of life's suffering, as if to balance that somehow.  I have given myself freedom, is what I'm trying to say, I finally realise.  I am allowing myself to simply be here with my attachment, to sit and look at how much it is my being wants to hang on to life.  To meditate on that liquidy beige that is the one last thing.  There is no pressure, I am fine and supported to be here because for the first time I totally trust that the timing is actually all completely perfect.  It is still hard to do at times.  It does still hurt and I am sometimes afraid. But I feel safe with that.

Me here, in my cell.  With the door to the world outside.  There are birds.  Loving the beige going in.  And just looking at that.

Until I find that moment of final surrender and step irrevocably into the event horizon.  Until then, it seems that comfort will mainly be my companion, for which I most immensely, humbly, grateful.

I hope your day is a good one too.

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