Attempting to write again. The History Assignment. Having a hard time with dedicated concentration. Music goes on, music goes off. Sun is streaming through my window and my head is full of the last 48 hours. On kind of education comes to an end and a whole new treasure chest has sprung open…

Don’t push, there’s no rush. Urgency is reserved for this unwritten essay and Constance’s keys. This unusual calm is related to something else. Something quite indescribable. We have devoted much talk to energy, that universal fund which powers us all. We build our bubbles, decided who can join us inside.

The bubble; an abstract concept the vast majority of us understand. Though we can not see it, do not know how to define it, there is a sense. Our bubbles are little or large. They reject and project. Positive and negative magnetism means that some of us bounce off, and then rest become attached. How many times have we just had a feeling about people. Where their boundaries lie. Their personal space. We throw up a force field until we learn how to trust.

Yesterday the strangest thing happened. I found myself inside an other’s bubble. In an act of caring I received an impromptu neck massage. My guard was down and my mind was open. I placed myself in an other’s hands. An other’s trust. In one of those rare moments usually associated with painting, I was on the verge of disappearance. Meditative peace. And there is was, an envelope of energy, like the curved green glass of a car windscreen.  It passed around us in an aurora and disappeared from consciousness the moment we re-entered conversation.

There are of course consiquences. Some threaten to drown us in a fast flowing flood. This overwhelming unknown. It opens doors, lifts lids off boxes and leaves us totally exposed. There is however, no rush. No need to push. There is no expectation, just a will to understand.