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Time to meander the myriad mall-like hallways of my mind, taste the trickles of past experiences twining their way through like the smells that waft by the nostrils of cartoon characters, lifting them off the floor and floating them away to play in pastures of the past, safe already-trodden pathways where all the bad has happened, safely mapped in easily-avoidable trauma centres.
The red warning blinkers serve to divert attention from the pains you still avoid. Don’t go there! You know what happens next! No, stay in the safe zones, the happy birthdays, Christmases and summer vacations of your life.
If I could choose, I would lose divisions and meld my mind with the Infinite. My boundaries would blow in a blissful implosion; all considerations of self versus other would vanish like bubbles do. Knowing all, feeling all, all experienced and comprehended with full lucidity, that is a good dream.
It must be sweet to be God, knowing each sparrow that flies, every dancing particle, each thought crossing a worried mind, all cradled within one consciousness, held in the awareness of one embracing love.
I like to imagine God, MamaPapa, as genderless or many-gendered. We need mothers and fathers both.
I’ve been thinking about God lately, though I can be as skeptical as the next cynic. Still, I hear that small voice within that whispers, “I Am,” explaining itself in lucid sanity yet if I listen to it, I am labeled crazy. Society is beginning to define itself (despite lip-service bible-thumping done to placate the silent but vote-heavy majority) as atheistic, preaching a paradox of random clockwork, chaotic order, beautiful meaninglessness.
If no higher truth governs our lives, why should we feel such a desperate craving for meaning? If a hunger exists, it means something important is missing. Like God.
Not everyone feels this way. To some, abandoning the search for meaning is a relief from a burdensome task. But others can no more abandon our seeking than we can refuse to see from open eyes. Because one is blind, must another blank her vision or deny what is seen?
Okay, that stretches the story out of shape, making a claim of vision when the foggy forms I see are amorphous enough to be nearly anything. The words whispering in my inner ear make sense, say things I am not aware of knowing. I must believe something. Why not this?
Some Encouraging Words
Don’t you worry about your life
Your next step will be obvious
Listen to your own truth, the song in your heart
Will teach you what you most need to know
Let go of that load on your mind
Close your eyes, it’s time to travel blind
You’ve senses beyond your sight
Listen to the guidance of the light
And walk into the darkness of the night
The stars overhead all know who you are
You are their sister and their lover
They know that you’ve come far
You have access to more help than you know
Held-back hunger, return to womb
Swimming through darkness, turned to tomb
Like a fish in the river, like a wave on the sea
This weighty feeling, this gravity
The sea overhead is pressing me down
In the deep sweet darkness I drown
Opening bottom, aching for light
Hoping in boredom, itching for fight
Who is the hero, who the enemy?
Like a lurker in the shadows I wait and see
Hold me in your arms and never let me go
Or I’ll slip between your cracks like sifting snow
Like the rhythm of the night, the great starry void
Our heart’s desire reflects our deepest, best, truest fulfillment, the satisfaction of our deepest need, the one that gnaws at our roots. The absence of the heart’s desire is the source of all misery.
We spin pictures in our minds in vain attempts to imagine what we want, and this is what we wish for. We are constantly aware of the nagging background itch of unmet desire which sometimes surges forth as intense craving, but we’ve lost the ability to consciously know what would satisfy us. Our knowledge has gone underground, so to speak; it exists only in the unconscious.
The patchwork princess toddled down the grassy path. She’d escaped her minders for the moment and reveled in her unaccustomed freedom until a jewel-eyed dragon swooped low, scooping her into its taloned grip.
In its airy aerie overlooking the kingdom that her pauper parents struggled to maintain, surrounded by glittering gems and storied glories accumulated over many eons of thieving from her ancestors, the princess heaved an ironic sigh. She wished for size, strength and above all a sharp sword suitable for the slaying of dragons.
Eventually, she grew to forget and came to love her captor (as is common).
A boy lived by a waterway. The river nixie stroked his cheeks and swore to love him forever. She kissed him with her cold lips, saying, “Now you may breathe underwater.”
But the boy grew and became restless. He went off to seek his fortune, bidding the nixie farewell before he left. He plucked her damp, clinging fingers from his wrists and rode away, deaf to her sobs.
Before he got far, he fell into the river and, splashing to the surface, choked because he couldn’t breathe air anymore. He felt cold fingers brush his face. The river nixie smiled.
“What is it that you want,
?” The voice was a whisper in her mind.
“I wish I knew. Sometimes I want one thing, sometimes another.”
“What do you want above all else?”
“Why should I want one thing only? I want a lot, and I deserve it, too.”
“It starts with one thing. All other desires grow from that. Until you know what that one thing is, you will never be happy.”
She shook her head impatiently. The voice asked her questions she could not answer, and made her uncomfortable. She plugged in her iPod, turned up the volume.
Since childhood, I’ve been prey to this life-wasting pattern:
I struggle to the surface of dream late in the morning, a corpse rising from the crypt. I scrape off graveyard soil, toil through fog waiting for a sign of conscious presence in my body. Through the day I slowly perk up. I retire when I must, when body crashes but mind keeps going, buzzing, elated and inspired. By next morning, it’s the same thing over again.
Rarely, I wake early and my day feels rich and full. But mostly it’s a wasteland.
Can I please be a morning person instead?
Tim Horton’s, McRonald’s, The Source, tacky McMansions, the train tracks behind the house (train passes by at nine and five, every day), sculpted lawns, highway driving… let me count the ways that living here is different from living on Hornby. This is the Big Island, so big it doesn’t really feel much like an island (provided I don’t need to go anywhere on the mainland), and it comes with all the so-called amenities of civilized life. I avoid (and give in to) daily temptations that aren’t an issue at home, as well as taking advantage of certain extras and amenities.
Oh the horror!!!
Some people have phobias about spiders and snakes. Not me. I like spiders. I once lived a whole winter with a huge wolf spider hanging out in the corner of my bedroom. I called her ‘Charlotte’. We had good talks. I like snakes—they’re so sensuous and magically graceful and gorgeous. I enjoy slugs, I call them ‘the slime people’. Very little in the animal or insect world has the power to give me the creeping heebie jeebies.
But one thing does. Ticks make me freak in a most amusing (from an outsider perspective) and dangerous manner.
There was the time I saw one diving into my foot on the highway—I wasn’t even driving and I nearly caused an accident. Peter had to pull over (not easy with me spastically flailing and shrieking like that) and pull it out.
Fortunately, he’s good with ticks and calm under pressure.
fortunately, he’s not here. I woke up this morning and brushing my hand across my upper back in the process of getting dressed, I felt what I thought was a giant zit or boil. Sore and lumpy. I looked in the mirror and
It was a tick.
Its swollen little (gulp) body, legs waving, poked out of my skin, buried headfirst. In. My. Flesh.
Red emergency lights flashed in my brain and I kicked into ‘get it out of me NOW’ overdrive; took a pair of tweezers and very carefully (amazing, considering the level of insanity I was experiencing) pulled it off me. In pieces. One piece of which stayed there, and is still there right now.
The good news is, my healer / acupuncturist friend will handle it for me when I see him later on. Pull it out, clean it up, do what is needful.
The grey skies continue to dump their load between bouts of sunshine, and being so weather-centric in my mood is making me feel schizophrenic. Happy? Sad? The negative ion count is oscillating and so am I.
It’s not so bad. Life feels more natural that way, connected to the real world of nature, the cycles of seasons and weather, even though I view the wind and rain from the quiet side of the picture window. I can imagine that I am out there, though the experience exists only in my mind and memories of actually being there. This is better.
It wasn’t my first job, but it was my most memorable. I was seventeen, freshly fired from the less-interesting stereotypical job as a waitress for attempting to drink beer in the bar. Well duh, of course they knew how old I was, but I was trying to be cool and hated working there. It was worth the risk, I thought, and when the inevitable axe fell, I went for the other job in town.
The sawmill. It was a guy job, but in the seventies there were a few girls working there so I thought I’d give it a try.
I worked with an older woman (in her forties) piling one-by-fours. It was a great job once I got over the aches and pains of the first few days. The machinery broke down regularly, so whenever we fell behind we were assured of a chance to catch up. We paced ourselves, never taking breaks for too long. I loved it, except for graveyard shift which meant going to parties late in work boots, covered with sawdust.
One day, a male worker approached us and said in a heavy Portuguese accent, “Girls, you shouldn’t work so hard. You’re working too hard!”
He glanced over his shoulder as though worried that someone would see him. “Don’t work so
,” he pleaded, then hurried away, brow furrowed. We looked at each other, mystified, then shrugged, laughed and went back to work. It seemed the man must be feeling threatened by our ability to do the job so well. It made us proud.
A few days after that, the foreman sauntered over and said offhandedly, “Girls, you’re doing really well. So well, in fact, I’m going to lay you off. The job’s too easy. I figure one man should be able to handle it.”
In a daze of bewilderment, I packed up my steel-toed boots, turned in my hard hat and went home. I went back to waitressing, down at the Chinese restaurant, trying to decipher the lesson there. Working too hard was wrong? Success was failure?
Only if you were a woman, it seemed, and I added it to the long already-existing list I was developing about all the ways in which it sucked to be female.
They hired Gordie from down the road, a burly young guy, to do our job. A week after they hired him, they hired him a helper.
Summer Solstice begins the countdown to the year 2012, significant in New-Age circles for various reasons. If you count the days from June 21, 2007 until January 1, 2012, it comes to 2,012 days. I don’t know what it means, but it’s cool.
This is the shortest day of the year
The hours of daylight at maximum
Now, we open the gate to transformation
Dance, sing, play, celebrating
The changes in the world
but first we go through our
Own kaleidoscopic unfoldings
Sweet and bitter, cycling in and out
Pleasure and pain, heartbreak and joy,
Love and isolation.
I like the word ‘thrill’. It sounds like its meaning, a frilly, fluttering feeling that ripples through the flesh as it is spoken. Life lately is one thrill after another. Even the quiet moments contain depth and vastness, opening more and deeper as I expand myself to notice.
I thrill to the knowledge of self-as-God, God-as-All reflecting back to me-as-self, as Dr. Bronner would say, All-One-God. The old soap guy knew things.
We each are a religion of one. Each of us approaches the Infinite from a different angle and perceives it in a different light.
Here we are now.
Life feels so good these days. Better. Life feels wonderful. The smallest thing can cause me to grin in goofy gratefulness. Synchronicities, minor and major, have become commonplace. I’ll think of something I need, then realize I have it in my pocket. Little things are adding up to make big things which fit together in meaningful ways. God is proving Themself to me, skeptical brain is surrendering.
Yes, I have a skeptical side, just as I have a fuzzy-minded mystical side, though fuzzy has dominated. The painful war between the two is ending as God intervenes on a daily basis.
My head is cold, covered with mud (henna) under a plastic bag, and I’m trying to decide whether to go out tonight. If I do, it will be complete with baghead, because I’m leaving it in overnight. I wasn’t expecting an invitation from anybody, and I’d like to go, though kinda weirded out by the plastic-bag-over-my-head thing. These are new acquaintances, not friends yet. I’m not sure I’m up for it, feeling a bit under the weather, so to speak. Tired, no momentum, depressed, blah blah.
I bet if I went it would be fine, and I’d have fun. Okay.
The rain outside soothes the pain of my excess dryness, parched places opening in soft petaled quivers. Shiver me timbers… She who Remembers showers endless pleasures on this green grass and black welcoming soil. No need for toil, but can’t stop moiling through furrowed fetters of fret and worry, hurrying from one destination deemed necessary to another discovered disappointing. Every appointment with destiny messes with our heads with dread that this time the axe will fall upon the golden thread of our precious selves.
“Our Father, Who Art somewhere up there, please forgive me for the crime of being human.”
We’ve always tried to be too much like You, twisting perfectly good truth into skeins of fantasy which we wove into a dense complex tapestries of cause and effect which we used to prove that God could not exist. And still we persist in this outmoded out-of-sane ill-logical approach to life, the strife, stress and distress we suffer becoming fodder for the mills upon which we grind our dreams to a fine powder, sift it into the nostrils of the children that they may entertain our jaded brains with their innocent responses to the pain we inflict on their psyches.
Once we believed in villains; we blamed the dark ones for their perfect mimicry of all that we found most odious about our own desires, yet the flame of life burns eternal despite our increasingly intent, demented attempts to make it stop. The world will not end just so you can step off into the oblivion that you have tried to create.
You can have your own oblivion, just stop trying to bring it down on everybody. Everybody doesn’t want oblivion, everybody wants to live. The joy and pleasure of plain old existence is ready to return to our tales.
Those heroes and villains we imagined were merely fantasy filler to fritter away the empty moments with, the ones we refused to fill with our awareness and interest in finding out what was really happening there. Inventing our own stories because we were bored with the present served to create a nightmare existence made up of our own collective resistance to discovery of the real.
What if? The nastiest and most destructive question that can never be answered continues to haunt and daunt your most noble purposes, crystallizing you into habits of strength and causing you to surrender your will
I realize many fleeting things
Words which seek speaking, leaking
Pressure building, questions unasked
Slip into the past while possible answers
Dance in sketch-comedy skits
On the flickering screen of my-nd
Behind me they drag, bits and bytes
Alphas and betas of failed insight
One-way communication skating
On one leg, clapping one-handed
I want to know where the boundaries are
Where the electrified fences, defenses,
And Thou shalt not passes have grown
In the shadows outside our speaking
Hints, mixed messages spawn
Guessing games, speculations running wild
In curiosity’s brain, desire thwarted
By careful adherence to etiquette of
The pendulum swings, yet forward motion appears to have taken place, for the background scenery continues to shift into brighter and more hopeful patterns. The world seems not as dark as once it did. The encouraging voice in my head remains accessible and responsive, while the discouraging scourge which once haunted me loudly has receded into the distance, little more than a memory, and in those moments when its volume is raised, it’s relatively easy to recognize as the lie that it is.
From this perspective, my downs are downright doable, while the ups are nearly too good to stand.
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