M. Jay Granger
Investigating the power of narrative to cultivate more restorative responses to suffering. We are a body of broken bones; with compassion, we may mend.

Daily Meditations toward Personal Restoration, №4

From me, for you:

Water falls. It is the nature of water to tumble downward. Lower, ever lower, water runs or drips or seeps until it reaches a barrier it cannot penetrate or that ultimate collective of aquatic energy, the sea. But then, as any child with a bit of education in science can tell you, water rises again. Summoned upward by the power of the sun, what has spent its entire liquid lifecycle falling is reborn into a gaseous afterlife. Transmogrified, water becomes cloud and fog and mist — but only until it is time for it to fall again.

The movement of water is an old symbol, trite and cliched. But images that are used too often tend to be often used for a reason. So ponder this…


Daily Meditations toward Personal Restoration, №3

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Image for post
The King River in California. Photograph by Kyle Bazzar via Getty Images

Throb

I have been thinking about rivers I have known. They are few and far between. I was born and raised in the inland deserts of Southern California where riverbeds are as likely to be dry as wet and the subtle differences between brooks and streams and creeks are more theoretical than practical.

So what does this mean for our image: the River Time? Just this: It’s personal. But everything is, isn’t it? The river flows, and we flow with it. For each of us, the experience is utterly, terribly, sublimely unique. Yet there are commonalities, things that are shared universally.

“Alone together in the River Time,” I described us yesterday. And we wrote about our individual movement in the flow. Today consider this: How is time different for each of us? How the same? …


Daily Meditations toward Personal Restoration, №2

From me, for you:

Here we are, alone together in the River Time. Too often I feel like a stone in the stream, and time seems to wash over me, bathing me in its flow, eroding me with its force. But I know I am not always sunk and stationary. I can drift with the current as it eddies along. And if I can drift, perhaps I can swim. And if I can swim, perhaps I can find myself atop a raft. Perhaps I can paddle. Perhaps row. Perhaps motor. And when I realize I can direct my movement through time, anything seems possible.

It’s time. Right now, this moment: it’s time. I’m announcing it. Once more: this is your time. But what’s it time for? Well, you’re in control. …


Daily Meditations toward Personal Restoration, №1

From me, for you:

Imagine a river running. Imagine yourself beside the river, quite close. From this position, the flow of the water is entrancing. A river moves smoothly, with steady inevitability. The extravagant continuousness of a river is never spent: the tap left on day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. Perhaps this is why we so often compare the flow of time to the running of a river. But we cannot sit safely on the shores of time. We are plunged into the flow at birth, and there we remain as long as we go on living.

How do you imagine the River Time? Does it flow straight and swift? Or is it slow but strong, perhaps winding? Or does it feel spread out like a marsh? …

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