my book is writing itself

Sometimes it seems my whole life has been a struggle between two poles:  the North Pole, where I'm dominating space, in charge, on a high, in control, and the South Pole, where I can't even put one foot in front of the other, and all I can think about is how I slipped down past the equator to this gloomy, horrible failed place.

I'm on a quest to be okay with not being in charge, because I'm really not, none of us are really in charge, right?  That's an illusion.  I fall in and out of being at peace with this.  This morning, we chanted sa ni pa ma.  I think that's what the syllables were.  The teacher said it meant birth life death rebirth and then sa nom which she translated as true identity. I hope this year I will know what my vocation is, what my true identity is, what my authentic life is, but if not, that I'll be okay with it.

Look at those children walking up the mountain.  Are they mine?  My body made them, but their spirits proceed ahead of mine, away from mine, and I can't claim them.  There is both comfort and fear in that knowledge.  

When I reclined into savasana, complete surrender the teacher said, I had trouble surrendering. You can't be writing your book right now came into my mind.  Then:  your book is writing itself.  

My book is writing itself.

I closed my eyes and let darkness cover me with it's blanket.  

How will it read?

What will it say?

I'm trying to have patience to discover the answers.