Security Blanket

I look around my place and am overwhelmed by the desire to never
leave. My womb, my home, my sanctuary. Vacations always come at the
time when I feel most not like leaving. Or maybe the prospect of
leaving inspires the desire for security.

Security. Sure, safe, solid. Intangible, illusory, eluding us
when we think we need it most.

I find the desire for security squelches the importance of living and
often leads us to make the most insecure decisions.

A desire for security leads us to forsake our mission, to forget our
purpose for being, all in trying to achieve that guarantee. Enough
money in the bank and all my worries will be gone. Security for any
crisis any disaster. Security so disaster does not happen to me.
Security so my lover does not lie or my mother will never die. And
that will be found when everything is in its place . . . each book,
each glass, each pillow . . . security so tight that no one will
disturb it because by the time I find it no one will be there. The
ability to love, to live, to laugh will be gone . . . and yet,
security is still not really, well, secure. Insecure and alone.

As I lie here, exhausted and exhilarated and elated, I see, in
seeking security, trying to hold on to what I had in one moment but
had no need for the next I lost something what was to come next. Or
not? . . . Beyond security . . . sure or not . . . no
guarantee . . . then life will wrap itself around me, like a
favorite blanket -- warm, worn, some days too hot, some too cold, new
holes, fading, softening, stretching, new from one moment to the
next, but always there . . . .