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According to the view from below, the foundations of reality are cracked and rotten. All attempts to heal it have taken the form of concealing the rot, not changing anything in any real way. Like painting over rotting floorboards and covering them with a nice carpet, then acting surprised when the floor falls out from beneath us.
Somewhere in our basement, an alarm bell is clanging, and all the positive thinking and profound discipline and learning in Creation will not make it stop. Only stopping what we are doing and letting ourselves feel how scared we are will do that.
When we stop, we can feel the movement of the spheres, we can hear ourselves breathing. When we stop the constant lectures we give our lesser selves, we can begin to listen to their point of view.
Listen: your body knows things that your mind does not. The flow of understanding has to start to move in different grooves, through loops of feedback, and it canít come from somebody elseís system, not ever. You have to feel your way through the particular weaving winding multidimensional labyrinth that is your personal path, and nobody can teach you how to do it.
Your body is your guide and guru, and it is only mindís egotistical pride that insists on resisting the impulses that come from your physical wisdom. Your body is always right, even when it is wrong. Indulging in your compulsions is the only way to understand them, but you have to do it with attention and intention to understand, not giving up in a huff, saying, ďOk, you get your way, wake me up when you need me for damage control.Ē
Your body needs you to stay awake and alive no matter what, no matter how it looks or feels.
You learn by doing; you know you are there when you are there. You will be healed of addictions when you no longer crave them, but the path of resistance will never take you to that desired end. You will always want things that your mind judges to be wrong until your mind stops judging and starts seeking to understand the meaning of what happens as it happens.
Your mind is blind, deaf and dumb, victim of the numbing barrage from the collective mental freak-out, the shouting of the masses. Stop listening to them, and start listening to your ownself.
When you crave with blind and raging desire to stuff yourself with sweetness, oblivion or altered awareness, donít fight. Give in consciously and stay self-lovingly aware as you do.
Donít say grudgingly, ďAlright, but just this once.Ē Donít impose conditions. Donít condescend.
Give in lovingly, compassionately, without superior understanding. Know that you do not know what it means, and accept not knowing. Seek not answers from books, teachers or anyone outside your own body of truth. Ask the Consciousness of the Whole (that of which you are a minute part) for help and support in your journey. Forgive yourself constantly.
I have a work ethic around writing that makes me feel guilty about not exploring and elucidating in writing every idea that occurs to me to write about. I canít seem to write to order, even on my own promptings. I suffer from what my brother (who has schizophrenia) calls Ďmental confusioní, though to a lesser degree than he, I believe, at least to the extent that I have avoided being labeled with a mental illness.
Except for the one I did get labeled with, but managed to escape by dint of ducking under their radar in every way possible.
But Iím not here to write about the things I think about, not the good ideas I have or the novels, poems and articles that unfold like blooming flowers in my brain. Iím just here to fill that daily hundred words, and Iíve let myself fall far behind this month, so Iím just going to write in 100 word increments, more or less. Of course, by the time it appears in my blog it will have been edited and integrated into a single piece as if by magic. I have nearly the whole month of September to catch up on!
If I hadnít made a commitment to myself to finish an entire year of posting my hundred words a day, I might just blow September off. This is an old problem of mine, the pattern I have of dropping commitments, not finishing what I start. Itís like the garden, which at the moment is overrun by weeds and suffering from neglect. I havenít weeded in weeks, but over the summer, I weeded some every day. Iíve lost momentum, Iím not carrying it through to the end. I hate that I do that. I want to change. I am changing now.
The farthest Iíve ever fallen behind. Okay, so I donít bore myself, Iíll find some stuff to write about, in 100 word segments.
Muslim women covering their faces to vote: Why the hell not? I donít remember being asked to produce a photo ID when voting. Unless photo ID is required, why ask these women to expose their faces? I read a science fiction story once about a future culture in which faces were an erogenous zone and women wore masks. Made me see how vulnerable exposing oneís face must be if you arenít used to it. Leave them alone.
The mail is slower since the advent of e-mail. Anybody noticed? It takes a week for a piece of mail to crawl from Hornby Island to Shawnigan Lake, a distance I can drive in five hours, ferry time included. Whatís up with that?
: ĎTheyí like to abuse their power; they make us suffer gratuitously. Postal rates rise while postal service deteriorates, because they have us by the short and sweets and they know it.
: What do you expect when you call it Ďsnail mailí? Poor critter has no choice but to respond to our collective perception and judgment.
So which is true? Neither. Both. Reality is too fractally complex to be defined in words, even many volumes of words. So there. My problem is I know too much, I see too much. I am higher than acid. Acid just randomizes what I already perceive just fine, thank you. But I am not mentally organized. On the contrary. My mind is both stuck in old past patterns and confused by perceptions which differ radically from eye to eye and sense to sense. I am plugged in. Itís not my fault, it just happened that way.
I blame my childhood.
As a child, I was planted with seeds of both grandiosity and humility. On the grandiose side, I was made aware that I was gifted far beyond the average. I could Ďgo farí. My teachers planted this particular seed, some of them letting me know in overt and subtle ways that they believed I was once-in-a-lifetime exceptional. Grandiose.
Humility came when I got the message from home that it didnít much matter what sort of grades you got or how good you were at stuff. Everybody is equal and the same, nobody gets special treatment. Good grades? Good for you.
Real humility came when I encountered the big world for the first time. I wasnít nearly the big frog I had seemed in the backwoods ponds that nurtured me. Impressive to a northern teacher with fifty or a hundred students in the school is not so impressive to a city teacher with thirty different kids in every class of the day, all in the same grade.
Woh. All those people freaked me out. I was shocked into surrendering my ambitions, that had burned so bright in my last school, competing with George Belsham for the best test scores in class.
Poor little me (there, there), wandering lost as a cloud shoved about by strong winds and crashing into treetops and mountains, donít you feel for that scared little girl? Of course I do, and Iím not ashamed to admit it. Why should we have to be embarrassed if we love ourselves as children and that we sympathize and commiserate when they get crap thrown at them by their lives? Kids go through hell, and my little kid / I went through more than the norm. Of course I feel sad for her / me, and thatís not self-pity. Itís self-love.
I havenít much of a conscious mind, I suppose. My thoughts are heavy, weighty things, and the pot gets stirred so often I canít keep hold of one thought long enough to really grasp it. Any apparent wisdom is instinctual. Words flow through me and arrange themselves in an order that conveys what body knows without my mind having to engage much except the most basic awareness.
When I first learned to read, I commanded the letters to reveal their meanings to me. They shifted around on the page and then I could read, just like that. It was easy.
When I say ĎHellí I mean extreme circumstances, the fire of intensity that we all spend so much energy avoiding because we couldnít handle the way it felt as children. We were too young! The current passion for extreme sports satisfies the letter of the desire (extremity of experience) without satisfying the essence (to feel deeply and intensely our vulnerability to life, to others and to our own sources).
Humans want to live deeply, to embrace life fully. Itís the way we are designed, upright, heart open, arms all set for embracing. And naked skins for sensuous pleasure. Why not?
If you look at anything closely enough, it complexifies. To reduce to the so-called simplest, most basic elements of life, you first go through many layers of ever-increasing fractal complexity. When you look at a stone closely enough, it is indistinguishable from a living cell seen at the same range. Everything lives, everything dances in its own secret heart. It is wrong, inaccurate to say that the difference between animate and inanimate is the difference between life and death. All matter is alive. All life is aware of itself, even if a vague background sense of awareness. All things matter.
ĎAll things matter.í Thereís a play on words in there, but I wonder how many would grok it. Why is it adjudged a waste of time and energy to bother looking at things with love? We donít even look at people with love, except on special occasions with special people. Why such collective heartlessness?
When I let myself know the truth of what I feel and sense, which is that my attitude toward things is felt by them, affects their experience of existence in some way, I am horrified. I want to push the idea away and call it crazy.
Itís truly tragic that love is perceived to be such hard work. Far from it! Love is the easiest thing in the universe.
Love is what happens when you surrender everything, give up every fight, agree to lose and win at the same time, embracing both winners and losers as parts of your own self. Love is the body of the Whole relaxing and releasing tension. Love is the default state of things. Why did we decide to be the resistors and battlers within this system of love? There must be something right about it, for nature is never wrong.
I am ready to shed the pursuit of money as a motivation. I am willing, should my life moment-to-moment choices lead me there, to end up walking strange streets with whatever I can carry and defend. This does not mean I want that, but as long as fear and desire to prevent a poverty-stricken fate remain my sole driving force, then my attention stays sourced in what I think of as the struggle for survival but is really avoidance of inconvenience.
Some way-in-the-back fey part of me longs for and seeks some kind of life on the street, go figure.
Some secret self awaits circumstances to compel me out there where I might be seen and recognized by my like kind. Oh yeah, a city speaks to me; eventually I suspect Iíll be drawn in to one or another, at least for a while.
Still, the bulk of me would far prefer to be empowerful and functional, and one of the measures of empowered function is, or ought to be, the ability to choose oneís path unforced by circumstances such as lack of cash.
I release myself to find the level on which it is right for me to live
I am open to the possibility (among many possibilities) of utter bare bones poverty. Being open to it is not the same as desiring it; certain socially paradoxical parts of me do, of course, while other parts of my multiplex brain emphatically desire something entirely different. Come to think of it, the same would be true for just about any possibility I might imagine. In my heart, I encompass the full spectrum of desires, so I need to choose my actions based on other criteria. Many hungry desires compete and strive to be the ones that survive to be fed.
I now relax the controls Iíve imposed on that chaos. Let it seethe, I donít have to worry about it.
Iíve finally released the pressure itís taken to keep the doorway to my most-feared futures closed; the friction of resistance was starting to seriously compromise my structural integrity. My last ten years has been at least partly devoted to a mad inner scramble to avoid some form of destitution. Some of it was not my stuff, for when I entered my relationship, I merged identities to a large degree. I used to be more comfortable with poverty before we met.
Back then, it was more like: ďIíve always been poor, itís my lot in life, oh well.Ē The relationship and the new perspective my partner brought into the mix has helped me to evolve a new way to be with the prospect of being poor and homeless.
Now, itís more like, ďBeen there and done that; thereís nothing more to be afraid of there.Ē No matter what the future brings, I will already have survived worse, barring of course, the diseases of age and death, which this article does not address (can you say Ďcan of worms, donít go thereí?).
I expect my efforts to be materially rewarded; I expect to be supported for doing the work I am here to do. I am giving in to doing what Iím best at, and I do believe that is the path to some kind of, whatever you want to call it, abundance (I am tired of that word, but canít think of a better one).
I will give my gifts and receive in return as part of the natural ebb and flow of life. I donít yet know the shape of my future. I will learn more as I experience more.
I know that I have the power to jump off this cliff and survive, but whether Iíll learn to fly or drop into the ocean at the bottom and swim hasnít been determined. My life feels as open as it ever has since my birth; more so. I emerged into this life, took a look around, sighed and slumped into unconsciousness. How boring. This is better.
Issues around poverty go way back. My childhood was poor. We used to wake in the morning in the winter to find the drinking water in the bucket by the stove had frozen over.
We lived then in what most folks would call squalor, no running water, no electricity, down endless miles of mucky, rutty back bush roads that led straight up the butt of nowhere, at least from the human standpoint. From Earthís point of view, of course, it was a wealth of wilderness, thronging with ancient spirits and wild innocence, and I was blessed among humans. This innocence was beginning already to be violated; little logging operations like the one my dad worked at were already chewing away at the bush. Compared to now, though, it was nothing. It was true wilderness.
The scale of human encroachment on the wilderness I was born into has exploded on a nuclear scale. From the air, the whole vast province now seems to suffer from mange. Helicopters rake kilometers of trees from mountainsides so precipitous that olden loggers could not get to them. It makes my stomach turn, my heart clench, my temples throb to imagine. The fuss made over the pine beetle seems hypocritical, given the scope of the very deliberate and intentional destruction by humans that has been taking place.
Oh, grimace, groan and gag me with a greasy spoon. Okay, thatís enough.
Self-pity is the sob story of my life. I woke up in my mamaís womb realizing that I wasnít exactly coming into the easiest circumstances; it started there. I wondered Ďwhy meí from the moment I realized there was a me, and that question has never been (nor can it be) answered.
Itís the wrong question anyway. I really need to ask, what does the shape of my life have to teach me about how things work? What do I need to do differently, if anything, in order to change the shape of my life to a more congenial form?
Itís taken me a long time to get this far, and if Iím going to change things on a permanent basis (meaning, longer than just this lifetime), Iíd better get it before Iím dead. Still, Iíve got a long way to go, so no worries yet. I feel young, strong, bouncy, energetic.
Who said fifty was old? What a crock. I feel younger in most ways than I did at thirty, though the face in the mirror shows signs of age. Itís only texture. Inside, in my physical, sensual, kinesthetic experience of life, I feel loose, fluid and very alive.
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