Our spirits are not made of the foamy, smoky substance I thought they were made from
Instead they are built, grown like cities sprouting from clay and from rock
They have an infinite capacity to grow and evolve within the frame of their soul imprint
And yet they are slow, desperately slow to change form
Understanding must be carved in hard stone before new buildings appear, older ones collapse carried away by the nearby river
And that cannot happen overnight as I thought, as I hoped
There are layers after layers of memories and blockages and fears to dig through
Every time the same process must be repeated, digging through the dirt, uncovering a ruined temple or a few stones, exploding the hard layer of hardened clay that has formed underneath
And down to another layer before a new, partial understanding is reached
Always partial, never complete
Sometimes this process becomes desperately slow, desperately tiring
Why can’t an earthquake or a giant wave speed it up?
Why do we have to dig all the way through with our own fingers?
Once I thought that anger and determination could do wonders, I thought it only was a question of willpower
But now I understand that these cities have lives of their own, that at the image of plants and trees following the cycle of seasons, buildings take the time they need to sprout and form a hard bark before to give fruits and offer their shelter
