Infinite Practice.
On practice, paradox, and showing up anyway.
I caught my arm on a thorn and watched blood flow across my skin like rhododendrons that figured out how to run. Wincing, I watched the race. She patched me up and I got to look at her as she wrapped me in a veil. Parts inverted. The way new demeanour uncoiled itself with each spin of the bandage around my arm.
Eternal life, that’s what’s promised in the prayer-eyes of the deadman. To live and wonder for more. To die and wonder the same. Paradox, everywhere. To seek fulfilment and treat ourselves like a sore enemy. To know that love is what matters and chase pleasure, success, or anything else instead. To get caught in the strings of desire and have the tangled eyes of a scarecrow.
It’s really quite difficult to live by the word you speak. Truly. The tongue is a slippery one that’ll get you into trouble if you don’t watch out. Endless words. Drooping, dripping, drowsy words. They fall from our lips without much thought and linger like they’re made of something heavier than air.
You don’t need me to spell it out, do you?
Not the spell from a wand but the one that gathers letters, yes, the two are oh-so-close. Letters. There’s something about them. The w-o-r-d-s placed together like recipes to future frameworks. The phrases that spill aside our mouths capture a truth, in joke or jest, in conviction or omission. The words you say lay the game you play.
If you’re going to do anything in life, do it with a full heart. Give it everything you’ve got. No matter what happens. On good days. On bad days. Through doubt. Through betrayal. Remember, yourself.
When is an oak tree perfect? As a young sapling, quivering in the eastward gust? As a fervent teen growing strong and flashing green? Perhaps, at a ripe old age, when its wrinkles show the contours of centuries? What about the moment before it dies?
The answer is every moment. There is no perfection, there is only iteration. Onward ripening till infinity. Mastering your chosen craft takes time. We know this, and we still make it harder for ourselves. Let go of the reins. Just move.
With this being the fifty-second week I’ve posted here consecutively, I reflect on the journey. The greatest blessing has been sticking to it. Forced outcome—posting every Sunday no matter what—ensures a continuous focus on moving forward. No need to fret over mistakes, you’ll go again next week. No time to dwell on flaws, you’ll go again next week. Can’t get too caught up with the drama, you’ll go again next week.
If you have ever loved, you have believed in infinity. Take the infinity back into your life. Let it seep through everything. Fall in love with iteration, with doing, and you will find life expand before you. In the now, in the always, in the presence of infinite practice.
-iL.
A year of Sundays. Wild!
Thank you for reading, responding, resonating. I’m so grateful for this space and your presence in it. Here’s to infinite practice, in whatever form it takes. If you’ve ever read any of these pieces I want to thank you for being part of this quiet, ongoing practice.
If this one resonated with you, or if you’ve been walking your own version of an infinite practice, I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
Feel free to forward this to someone who’s been showing up for their own practice lately.
Till soon,
iL.
For those interested in seeing the latest Bluezone film, you can watch it by becoming a paid subscriber. Screen-grabs from the film are viewable below, and the film is at the bottom of last week’s post.
Thanks for sharing your inspirational reflections. I agree aiming for effortless infinity can only come from love.
Very beautiful as usual xx