A few months ago my ex-husband found my blog and became angry because I had implied he was 'abusive' without reason. He, as a reaction to my 'defiance', decided to take our dog, Chulo, away from me and our son . We had an unwritten agreement that that dog goes wherever our son goes. Our son has grown up with Chulo. It all seemed rational at the time. When our son stays with me, Chulo would come, and that had brought comfort to our son, adjusting to a new arrangement. But based upon some irrelevant reaction, my ex decided that was no longer a valid arrangement.
Before, when we'd open the door, the first thing our son would say would be, "Chulo?!" with surprise and delight. And yet, now, without him to answer the door, he seemed, to be quite frank, dismayed. This has caused some confusion and consternation for our son. He doesn't like having Chulo away from him for long periods of time. He asks about him a lot. I asked my ex to reconsider his position but he told me to in so many words, to "fuck off", and not discuss it with him any more.
The whole experience has left me sad and feeling like a victim all over again. What RIGHT does he have to TAKE anything away from me?
And, I realize that my very resistance to his antagonism is, in a way, pacifism. I shut down and he wins. And yet, his antagonism, is a form of pacifism; because by afflicting fear in me, he doesn't have to actually "deal" with reality. We are, in short, mirrors.
The way that I react to his aggression is only a measure of my amount of work I have left to do. The idea of sitting back and allowing him to do this again seems fruitless and unfair, but the idea of fighting with a soul that is as bruised and damaged as he is, seems pointless. I guess I believe that all I can do is express love. Love Chulo from afar and love our son as he begs for his companion and furthermore, love my ex for his misunderstanding of the Truth of the Law of the Universe.
It got me to thinking about my last project for a recent VCSL class where we learned about our inner sanctuaries; our "castles" we build around our stories. We build walls around each story. We create fortresses for our entire lives. Once built, we acquire some kind of certainty, to which others can only respond in acquiescence. We, in short, build entire castles around our stories, which, should we want to live in wholeness and freedom, must be broken down, in order to live a fuller life. It takes a lot of effort to build a castle, let alone the amount of work required to consciously tear it down.
During the class, each of us was given a quote for which we were asked to reflect upon during the remaining weeks. At first, I did not like my quote, as which, many of the other students had also expressed. But, as I sat with it; the quote became relevant to me, as quite perfect for this very period of my life. Had it appeared at any other time, it would have not made the impact that it did for me.
It was: "Life is the dancer and you are the dance." by Eckhert Tolle. It's not very magnificent nor magical. It is sort of, "huh??" And that is precisely why I both, at first loathed it and then, after time, fell in love with it.
Eckhert also said, "I am not just a person floating around aimlessly, nor am I just a person. (unattached ??) I am not IN the Universe; but rather I AM the Universe which is in me, is awakening, experiencing, having its being in ME." He goes on to say that every expression of "ME" is fleeting. And then loses me in all his verbosity.
Although, the word fleeting stuck with me. It, in itself is a wonderful word. A dear friend recently relayed a quote from a book he was reading, (Busting Lose from the Money Game), that basically said, "remember that days are not bricks to be laid row on row, to be built into a solid house, where one might dwell in safety and peace, but are only food for the fires of the heart". Edmund Wilson. That whole Castle class now seems frivolous when I read this quote.
I replied to him that, in life, everything seems consumed and not permanent. And he remained attached to the idea that these "experiences" are food for the heart and what a beautiful expression that was. And it is, but then I emphasized to him the difference between food and fuel. One is meant to nourish and the other is meant to be consumed. Both are necessity, which is the most necessary? And then I reminded him again, that everything in this life is fleeting. Nothing is permanent. Life is, unfortunately, a paradox.
And then, as if by some guided force, our Reverend gave her last message about the paradox of reality. She reminisced when, as a child, she'd hang upside-down and what a glorious view it gave of the world. And then she questioned, which reality is the real one? Upside down or right-side up? She reasoned, as did, Ernest Holmes, that the "reality" we choose is the reality we experience. So. there is no "wrong" and no "right" but there only "IS".
Should I believe that my ex-husband's angry words are simply "his life" and I am my own dancer? I can choose to dance his dance or chose my own music? Can I see that life is fleeting and the thoughts we have and actions we choose, lay the bricks of our lives (castles) ( i.e. bearing a child together) and yet see that this is not a house with which to lay a foundation, but rather, just bricks, as they were laid, with no real other meaning beyond their very existence? Maybe, in fact, strewn upon the ground aimlessly?
Is this child, shared between us nourishment or something to be consumed? Is he nothing more than a necessity? I think he is a divine gift.
Nourishment and consumption is based upon the degree to which a soul lacks or serves. A soul that is fed and nourished gives back. A soul that is hungry and in lack, takes. Our son does nothing but gives, freely and innocently, but we, as broken humans in this crazy world, seem to place other values on his very existence.
Anything, that brings joy to a child, which is then taken away out of spite and anger, is a tool used for oppression by those who are hungry and malnourished in Spirit. And you know, Karma is a bitch. I've said that before.
I don't mean to judge, really, I don't, but after beating this dog for mistakes that are well beyond the understanding of a dog's responsibility, this man was himself bitten by the very animal he abused. Tell me Karma wasn't present in that moment? It's fleeting, not built in stones of actions or words. It comes and goes... this presence of Spirit. There is no hard and fast rule for how Spirit retaliates, because It never retaliates, but simply answers, like for like. Spirit's only response, in the LAW of God is YES. What you put in, comes out. It's a mirror. And mirrors are easily shattered.
The sad fact is that I lived a long time in FEAR. And what I received was fearful things. Now, as I step across the threshold from fear to trust. From deception to love, I see that life can be so much more than the reality that Ego or society or controlling, manipulating empty souls paint for us. God has a pallet of colors so magnificent we are shamed by our smallness as we approach the opening from the unreal to the real believing that we are not worthy of the greatness of God. But no matter, God loves us just the same.
When I open the door to my dog today, I open the door to a new reality. One that answers, YES to life and love. One that exists in the reality of fleeting trust and ambivalence of this human reality and duality. This doorway is the the very crossroads between that which is built by humans and that which is the life of God. Thank God I have the gift of crossing it. Thank God it exists to teach me the difference between the two. Thank God for this dance; even though I feel uncertain, I see that I am not in control and things are not permanent, no matter how real they seem at the time. And the fleetingness is a precious gift, not a prison, not built like walls of old stories that hold us in the past.
Monday, January 27, 2014
First Draft - I'm dreaming of a series of short stories.....
If I had to describe my life so far in one word, I would use unplanned. I don't believe I was part of my mother's plan any more than my son was part of mine. Looking back on the last 40 years, I wonder whether a plan would have had me end up in some other place with some other set of circumstances. As a teenager, I struggled to fit in as much as I struggled to abate my sadness over my mother having left. Equally consuming for a girl just experiencing puberty, each guided me down a path, which has led to extreme self-loathing. Had I naturally felt a sense of belonging and had good self esteem, perhaps I would not have allowed so many people take advantage of me. Nor would I have likely been so dammed confused about my role in relationships.
The snow was falling all around me as I wept. The flakes flitted here and then there. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I felt as if God was here with me right at the moment. Yet, I also felt so totally all alone. Abandoned. Rejected. Forlorn. Here I was, 40 years old, alone, afraid and searching for meaning in the woods I used to frequent as a child. It made me think about my life in terms of not just memories but building blocks for who I was yet to become.
~~~
It was fall in Morgantown. The brilliant stands of robust hardwoods; maples, oaks, sweet gums and cherries were ablaze. I slumped myself down between a tree trunk and the rock lined wall circling Woodman Hall. It was about 10 pm. I had been drinking. A local bar that notoriously turned the other cheek for freelance freshman ID's had provided ample opportunity for me to drown my thoughts with $0.10 pints. Tears ran down my cheek. Wallowing in self pity, I picked at the wet leaves around my feet. I inhaled deeply and smelled the scent of rich, decomposing earth. It had rained the night before and the ground was still wet. Autumn in West Virginia was a melancholic time. It was by far my favorite time of year. The forest unconditionally celebrated autumn's annual return with magical, colorful, and captivating displays for all to see. It marked another season for change, but not like the others. No, Autumn was about death and going into hibernation and darkness and shedding that which is no longer needed. It was just this time of year, about seven years prior when my mother left my father, me and my brother to find herself.
I was about 12 years old. My mother and I had just returned from a grocery shopping trip. I say trip because I grew up in a home about 40 miles from everywhere. We had gone to the Tops Friendly Market in Olean because they were honoring double coupons and because we had gone to visit my mother's 'friend' in the hospital. He had had a heart attack a few weeks earlier. My mother was a home health nurse for the regional to hospital system. She cared for elderly and home-bound ill patients who had no one else to care for them. Frank, her friend, was a 70- some year old man she knew from when she was an intern at Sylvania back in the 1960's when the town was actually a town and Frank wasn't an invalid but a handsome engineer. Frank had since grown old, and for some unknown reason to me at the time, his family had abandoned him. She had had a crush on him back then, yet now, it seemed to me that things had evolved. I wasn't the only one who thought so as well. My father, now home too confronted my mother in the kitchen.
"Where the hell have you been?" He asked in a perturbed tone.
"Shopping at Tops" she retorted.
I am uncertain how the conversation progressed, the details are hazy, but at one point he asked her, "do you plan on being a wife or do you want out?"
Grocery bags and various toiletry products lay scattered across the floor; yet to be placed in their respective places. My mother dropped the bag she was folding and simply walked back to her bedroom. The silence was palpable.
She soon appeared with a few items and then walked out the front door. And that was it. She was gone. I didn't know it at the time, but that was the end of my parent's marriage.
~~~
My butt was getting wet and I noticed I was shivering. The tears had stopped and I was hungry. I got up and crossed the street. The lights of the student union seemed overly luminescent and gave off a slight hissing noise. Clanking of doors opening and closing caught my attention. There were about ten doors on the front the building and it always seemed as though someone was walking through each one of them at any given moment. It was a threshold crossed by hundreds of young people every day. Some rushed, some languidly savoring the free time college life afforded them. Some sad. Some happy. Some older. Some quite young. All of us moving independently yet as one collective, the student body. As if we were one body, one flesh, one soul on this campus for a short time with a collective purpose.
I opened a door, crossed the threshold as a sucking wind whooshed over me and I went from the chilly fall evening into the vast, florescent, fabricated living room for 20,000 20-somethings. Taco Bell seemed like a good choice. And the savory, salty, fatty goodness served up for a mere $.99/taco was too good to pass up at this hour.
I had never eaten at a fast food restaurant, other than McDonald's prior to arriving to Morgantown. I lived in rural Pennsylvania in a county of less than 3,000 located in the middle of the Allegheny National Forest. It was a hunting and fishing Mecca. As a young girl growing up, outside my bedroom door was a gun cabinet, which was always left unlocked. A few antlers and stuffed fowl decorated the basement walls where we kept jars of canned vegetables, sauces and fruits from our garden. I fed chickens at 6 am before the bus came to carry me the 30 minutes into town to our school. For fun, as teenagers, we'd steal beer left in the back of trucks parked outside the various "hunting camps". It was a very wild and safe place to explore the limits of rules for community. My grandfather had been born, spent his whole life and died in this town. My father would too. I would not.
The juicy, salty, fattening burrito filled up my belly and cleared away a bit of the drunken haze. But my heart still felt burdened. Just as I was getting up to leave, a hand grabbed my shoulder. "Bean! We were looking all over for you!" Yelled my 5’ 2” tall roommate. Pickles, as we all called her, was a brave and sturdy blonde from an Polish heritage out of Pittsburgh. She had crystal blue eyes and a contagious laugh. She was, in short, the only person I trusted at that time in my life.
“Why do you do that?” she asked, mothering as she emphasized the word ‘do’ emphatically. “Do what?” I casually asked, pretending not to understand her question. I had a habit of leaving bars, social gatherings, parties alone, and wander off, to cry. It was sort of the way I was. Damaged. Sad. Wounded to the core. I was not sure how else to behave.
All these young kids that attended our university came from all over the country; some even from Europe, Asia or Latin America on student exchanges. All over campus you could see dark skinned boys with thick dark hair and glasses just as thick. Or thin, exotic Asian girls laughing boisterously. There were the jocks, the ‘sciency’ nerds, the fraternity guys and sorority girls. They all seemed to have a plan. They all seemed to know what they were doing here. They all seemed to fit in. But I was different. I didn’t have a plan, nor did I know what I was doing here. And certainly, I didn’t fit in anywhere.
I was my mother’s daughter and she was my grandmother's daughter. My grandmother was an orphan. My mother was a child of neglect. Unwanted. Unloved. Given away. Shuffled away. I was abandoned. Left to figure out life without the guidance of a mother's love. An heirloom handed down to each of us as young woman. A badge to wear that marked us as such. But we had nothing to do with it’s presentation. We didn’t necessarily want it. We didn’t know what to do with it. But it was ours nonetheless.
The snow was falling all around me as I wept. The flakes flitted here and then there. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I felt as if God was here with me right at the moment. Yet, I also felt so totally all alone. Abandoned. Rejected. Forlorn. Here I was, 40 years old, alone, afraid and searching for meaning in the woods I used to frequent as a child. It made me think about my life in terms of not just memories but building blocks for who I was yet to become.
~~~
It was fall in Morgantown. The brilliant stands of robust hardwoods; maples, oaks, sweet gums and cherries were ablaze. I slumped myself down between a tree trunk and the rock lined wall circling Woodman Hall. It was about 10 pm. I had been drinking. A local bar that notoriously turned the other cheek for freelance freshman ID's had provided ample opportunity for me to drown my thoughts with $0.10 pints. Tears ran down my cheek. Wallowing in self pity, I picked at the wet leaves around my feet. I inhaled deeply and smelled the scent of rich, decomposing earth. It had rained the night before and the ground was still wet. Autumn in West Virginia was a melancholic time. It was by far my favorite time of year. The forest unconditionally celebrated autumn's annual return with magical, colorful, and captivating displays for all to see. It marked another season for change, but not like the others. No, Autumn was about death and going into hibernation and darkness and shedding that which is no longer needed. It was just this time of year, about seven years prior when my mother left my father, me and my brother to find herself.
I was about 12 years old. My mother and I had just returned from a grocery shopping trip. I say trip because I grew up in a home about 40 miles from everywhere. We had gone to the Tops Friendly Market in Olean because they were honoring double coupons and because we had gone to visit my mother's 'friend' in the hospital. He had had a heart attack a few weeks earlier. My mother was a home health nurse for the regional to hospital system. She cared for elderly and home-bound ill patients who had no one else to care for them. Frank, her friend, was a 70- some year old man she knew from when she was an intern at Sylvania back in the 1960's when the town was actually a town and Frank wasn't an invalid but a handsome engineer. Frank had since grown old, and for some unknown reason to me at the time, his family had abandoned him. She had had a crush on him back then, yet now, it seemed to me that things had evolved. I wasn't the only one who thought so as well. My father, now home too confronted my mother in the kitchen.
"Where the hell have you been?" He asked in a perturbed tone.
"Shopping at Tops" she retorted.
I am uncertain how the conversation progressed, the details are hazy, but at one point he asked her, "do you plan on being a wife or do you want out?"
Grocery bags and various toiletry products lay scattered across the floor; yet to be placed in their respective places. My mother dropped the bag she was folding and simply walked back to her bedroom. The silence was palpable.
She soon appeared with a few items and then walked out the front door. And that was it. She was gone. I didn't know it at the time, but that was the end of my parent's marriage.
~~~
My butt was getting wet and I noticed I was shivering. The tears had stopped and I was hungry. I got up and crossed the street. The lights of the student union seemed overly luminescent and gave off a slight hissing noise. Clanking of doors opening and closing caught my attention. There were about ten doors on the front the building and it always seemed as though someone was walking through each one of them at any given moment. It was a threshold crossed by hundreds of young people every day. Some rushed, some languidly savoring the free time college life afforded them. Some sad. Some happy. Some older. Some quite young. All of us moving independently yet as one collective, the student body. As if we were one body, one flesh, one soul on this campus for a short time with a collective purpose.
I opened a door, crossed the threshold as a sucking wind whooshed over me and I went from the chilly fall evening into the vast, florescent, fabricated living room for 20,000 20-somethings. Taco Bell seemed like a good choice. And the savory, salty, fatty goodness served up for a mere $.99/taco was too good to pass up at this hour.
I had never eaten at a fast food restaurant, other than McDonald's prior to arriving to Morgantown. I lived in rural Pennsylvania in a county of less than 3,000 located in the middle of the Allegheny National Forest. It was a hunting and fishing Mecca. As a young girl growing up, outside my bedroom door was a gun cabinet, which was always left unlocked. A few antlers and stuffed fowl decorated the basement walls where we kept jars of canned vegetables, sauces and fruits from our garden. I fed chickens at 6 am before the bus came to carry me the 30 minutes into town to our school. For fun, as teenagers, we'd steal beer left in the back of trucks parked outside the various "hunting camps". It was a very wild and safe place to explore the limits of rules for community. My grandfather had been born, spent his whole life and died in this town. My father would too. I would not.
The juicy, salty, fattening burrito filled up my belly and cleared away a bit of the drunken haze. But my heart still felt burdened. Just as I was getting up to leave, a hand grabbed my shoulder. "Bean! We were looking all over for you!" Yelled my 5’ 2” tall roommate. Pickles, as we all called her, was a brave and sturdy blonde from an Polish heritage out of Pittsburgh. She had crystal blue eyes and a contagious laugh. She was, in short, the only person I trusted at that time in my life.
“Why do you do that?” she asked, mothering as she emphasized the word ‘do’ emphatically. “Do what?” I casually asked, pretending not to understand her question. I had a habit of leaving bars, social gatherings, parties alone, and wander off, to cry. It was sort of the way I was. Damaged. Sad. Wounded to the core. I was not sure how else to behave.
All these young kids that attended our university came from all over the country; some even from Europe, Asia or Latin America on student exchanges. All over campus you could see dark skinned boys with thick dark hair and glasses just as thick. Or thin, exotic Asian girls laughing boisterously. There were the jocks, the ‘sciency’ nerds, the fraternity guys and sorority girls. They all seemed to have a plan. They all seemed to know what they were doing here. They all seemed to fit in. But I was different. I didn’t have a plan, nor did I know what I was doing here. And certainly, I didn’t fit in anywhere.
I was my mother’s daughter and she was my grandmother's daughter. My grandmother was an orphan. My mother was a child of neglect. Unwanted. Unloved. Given away. Shuffled away. I was abandoned. Left to figure out life without the guidance of a mother's love. An heirloom handed down to each of us as young woman. A badge to wear that marked us as such. But we had nothing to do with it’s presentation. We didn’t necessarily want it. We didn’t know what to do with it. But it was ours nonetheless.
A skirt's chaotic revelation of reality
I guess Christian Bale is quoted as saying that he learned that there's a certain character that can be built from embarrassing yourself endlessly. He rationalized, that, if you are okay with that, then there isn’t much else that can bother you. I agree.
The other day, I was headed to church, as usual, on my bike, in a skirt. It is normal for me to ride to church all dressed up but abnormal to “do it” under general population’s definition of “going to church”. Yet I do, each week, arriving in some kind of fashionable arrangement of dress, heels and bicycle that for me, makes absolute sense, since parking is an issue and I like the health benefits of riding a bicycle whenever I can. But to others, I know, it seems odd. And, well, last week, I had one of those moments that verifies the “other’s” perspective.
Here I was, innocently riding along to church in my skit; long, red, new, pretty. I am usually able to stuff the length up underneath my seat to sufficiently arrive at church unscathed. But this day, for some reason, the skirt, unknowingly to me, fell and suddenly I was stopped short, abruptly with basically 2/3 of my skirt now devoured within the rear brakes and wheel of my bicycle.
First, I looked around me to make sure no one had seen the “incident”. Then, I tried to loosen the skirt from the unwavering grasps of the brakes. No luck. My skirt began to tear. So, I slowly peeled my leg off of the bike, onto the street, so that I am now facing the bike, two feet on one side, skirt tightly and securely fastened within the rear brakes and wheel.
I bend over and release the “quick-release” (Oh Thank God for Quick Release Wheels!!!) and remove the rear wheel, thereby relieving the pressure on my ass and the skirt. It was free from the rear brakes, but not from grease stains and small tears; essentially ruined. And what was I gonna do? Go to church as such?
The thing is, I am not so afraid to admit defeat in such matters. Shit happens. And, in fact, when one is pushing the bounds of society’s accepted norms of behavior, so be it! Allow the chaos to ensue!! And I will graciously deal with it. Actually, I almost say, bring it on!!
But it brings about a thought about chaos in general. I simply do not accept it in my life. I retreat, retaliate, relinquish, and seek to relieve myself in every instance where chaos appears from outside sources. Yet, when it comes from a pure and honest circumstance of my being me, I fully accept it. Does that mean I am selfish? Does it mean I am weak?
Henry Miller said that chaos is the score upon which reality is written. And I love that so much because we all talk about what’s REAL for ourselves but, in my humble opinion, there really is only one TRUTH. And in light of laws and love in this Universe, we are but mere specs upon the windshield, snowflakes in the blizzard, drops of water in the ocean…. Give chaos a name and place in your life and sure, it becomes alive, big, and dominate. Believe that it is simply a part of the greater whole, then you minimize your damage. You remain in stillness. You go with the flow. You are, in short, as Christian Bale said, in bliss, because you don’t really know anything else.
The other day, I was headed to church, as usual, on my bike, in a skirt. It is normal for me to ride to church all dressed up but abnormal to “do it” under general population’s definition of “going to church”. Yet I do, each week, arriving in some kind of fashionable arrangement of dress, heels and bicycle that for me, makes absolute sense, since parking is an issue and I like the health benefits of riding a bicycle whenever I can. But to others, I know, it seems odd. And, well, last week, I had one of those moments that verifies the “other’s” perspective.
Here I was, innocently riding along to church in my skit; long, red, new, pretty. I am usually able to stuff the length up underneath my seat to sufficiently arrive at church unscathed. But this day, for some reason, the skirt, unknowingly to me, fell and suddenly I was stopped short, abruptly with basically 2/3 of my skirt now devoured within the rear brakes and wheel of my bicycle.
First, I looked around me to make sure no one had seen the “incident”. Then, I tried to loosen the skirt from the unwavering grasps of the brakes. No luck. My skirt began to tear. So, I slowly peeled my leg off of the bike, onto the street, so that I am now facing the bike, two feet on one side, skirt tightly and securely fastened within the rear brakes and wheel.
I bend over and release the “quick-release” (Oh Thank God for Quick Release Wheels!!!) and remove the rear wheel, thereby relieving the pressure on my ass and the skirt. It was free from the rear brakes, but not from grease stains and small tears; essentially ruined. And what was I gonna do? Go to church as such?
The thing is, I am not so afraid to admit defeat in such matters. Shit happens. And, in fact, when one is pushing the bounds of society’s accepted norms of behavior, so be it! Allow the chaos to ensue!! And I will graciously deal with it. Actually, I almost say, bring it on!!
But it brings about a thought about chaos in general. I simply do not accept it in my life. I retreat, retaliate, relinquish, and seek to relieve myself in every instance where chaos appears from outside sources. Yet, when it comes from a pure and honest circumstance of my being me, I fully accept it. Does that mean I am selfish? Does it mean I am weak?
Henry Miller said that chaos is the score upon which reality is written. And I love that so much because we all talk about what’s REAL for ourselves but, in my humble opinion, there really is only one TRUTH. And in light of laws and love in this Universe, we are but mere specs upon the windshield, snowflakes in the blizzard, drops of water in the ocean…. Give chaos a name and place in your life and sure, it becomes alive, big, and dominate. Believe that it is simply a part of the greater whole, then you minimize your damage. You remain in stillness. You go with the flow. You are, in short, as Christian Bale said, in bliss, because you don’t really know anything else.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Wine from Orange Juice??
One day, after meditating, I was struck by a certain “truth” that seem inescapable: Ego’s health makes or breaks my opinion of myself. Further, my opinion of myself is either something I know intuitively about myself (healthy view) or is influenced by outside sources (imbalanced view). After conducting a bit of research online and in various texts, I have come to believe that one’s sense of self lies on a continuum, where healthy self-respect and inner self knowing can slowly erode toward self-insecurity and vulnerability, eventually, if left unchecked will evolve into a self-absorbed, abusive condition that is fully suspicious of, yet dependent upon others and outside influences.
I've had a few recent experiences in which I was witness to this phenomenon.
Wayne Dyer explains it this way: You can only give others what you have inside of yourself. Therefore, to give love away to others, you must cultivate love for yourself FIRST. Dyer uses the metaphor of squeezing an orange – asking you what comes out when you squeeze it. Most people answer, “orange juice” comes out. Why? Because that is what is inside. When humans are squeezed, what comes out of them is what they harbor inside of themselves. Harbor love, acceptance, joy, confidence, peace and harmony towards yourself so that you can radiate it towards others. You can only extend to another that which you are in truth.
And then, while in mediation, I realized the truth about light. The speed of light, actually. In physics, the speed of light is expressed as c and is valued at 299,792,458 meters per second, precisely. It is, essentially, the fasted element known to humans and is considered instantaneous. Matter slows down the speed of light.
And in Neil Donald Walsh’s children’s book, Little Soul, he explains that light is all that we are. Ok; bear with me now. This is a spiritual concept. But I think it has some merit. I recently saw a documentary where a very hot and sexy English guy was traveling the US to find out what made us American and he was talking about religion and he said basically that if you think about it, cultures were formed separated from one another, with vast distances between each other. They developed on their own, in their own way, but remarkably they all have similar tenets and basic fundamental ideologies. So, we must have come from one thing… but distance made us think we were different or separate.
In Little Soul, one soul wants to practice forgiveness and another friendly soul steps forward to come into their next life to do “something” that would require forgiveness. The friendly soul explains that in order to do this “not so nice thing” it would have to become dense and dark and slow down it’s light energy in order to perform such a heinous task. Hmmmm…. Light, dense, darkness….
I think that everyone on this planet was given a ’friendly angel’ to come into their life and help them learn a lesson. Maybe a few.
I know that mine has been one of jealous and fear of losing something dear to me. Until I realize, on a very spiritual level that there is only one thing and that thing is me, and that thing is this idea of “God” acting through me, I won’t really be free from the constraints of humanity. And this is ok with me, for the most part. Because, right here and now, as a human, I get to be a mother of a wonderful child. I am friends with amazing people. I have the most spectacular family members. I have been blessed with great love. I have traveled and I have been challenged. As an angel, what is there for me but chess while you await your next assignment? Haaha
I have had a lot of people make me the butt of their jokes, use me to prop themselves up, walk over me, violate me for their own satisfaction, treat me as though I did not matter… but in the end, they could not take away from me what I truly know as my very own spiritual truth: I am that I AM. Dude! I am here! Nothing can change that fact. And while I am here, I might as well seek to find a way to enjoy it as much as possible.
Shallow relationships mean nothing to me. Material possessions? HA! Status? I don‘t think so. But talk to me, look me in the eye, tell me your biggest fears and share with me what you believe to be the truth of who you are and now we are talking. I seek not your approval but your soul. It’s like the orange… I am not squeezing you hoping to get wine. (although I do like red wine a lot) I am squeezing you to find out what you are made of. I am interested in what comes out of you. Not what you want to take from me. Jealousy no longer has a power over me because I realize that there is nothing anyone can take from me that I am not willing to part with, and quite simply, there really isn’t much to me, expect light. I dare you try and steal that.
I've had a few recent experiences in which I was witness to this phenomenon.
Wayne Dyer explains it this way: You can only give others what you have inside of yourself. Therefore, to give love away to others, you must cultivate love for yourself FIRST. Dyer uses the metaphor of squeezing an orange – asking you what comes out when you squeeze it. Most people answer, “orange juice” comes out. Why? Because that is what is inside. When humans are squeezed, what comes out of them is what they harbor inside of themselves. Harbor love, acceptance, joy, confidence, peace and harmony towards yourself so that you can radiate it towards others. You can only extend to another that which you are in truth.
And then, while in mediation, I realized the truth about light. The speed of light, actually. In physics, the speed of light is expressed as c and is valued at 299,792,458 meters per second, precisely. It is, essentially, the fasted element known to humans and is considered instantaneous. Matter slows down the speed of light.
And in Neil Donald Walsh’s children’s book, Little Soul, he explains that light is all that we are. Ok; bear with me now. This is a spiritual concept. But I think it has some merit. I recently saw a documentary where a very hot and sexy English guy was traveling the US to find out what made us American and he was talking about religion and he said basically that if you think about it, cultures were formed separated from one another, with vast distances between each other. They developed on their own, in their own way, but remarkably they all have similar tenets and basic fundamental ideologies. So, we must have come from one thing… but distance made us think we were different or separate.
In Little Soul, one soul wants to practice forgiveness and another friendly soul steps forward to come into their next life to do “something” that would require forgiveness. The friendly soul explains that in order to do this “not so nice thing” it would have to become dense and dark and slow down it’s light energy in order to perform such a heinous task. Hmmmm…. Light, dense, darkness….
I think that everyone on this planet was given a ’friendly angel’ to come into their life and help them learn a lesson. Maybe a few.
I know that mine has been one of jealous and fear of losing something dear to me. Until I realize, on a very spiritual level that there is only one thing and that thing is me, and that thing is this idea of “God” acting through me, I won’t really be free from the constraints of humanity. And this is ok with me, for the most part. Because, right here and now, as a human, I get to be a mother of a wonderful child. I am friends with amazing people. I have the most spectacular family members. I have been blessed with great love. I have traveled and I have been challenged. As an angel, what is there for me but chess while you await your next assignment? Haaha
I have had a lot of people make me the butt of their jokes, use me to prop themselves up, walk over me, violate me for their own satisfaction, treat me as though I did not matter… but in the end, they could not take away from me what I truly know as my very own spiritual truth: I am that I AM. Dude! I am here! Nothing can change that fact. And while I am here, I might as well seek to find a way to enjoy it as much as possible.
Shallow relationships mean nothing to me. Material possessions? HA! Status? I don‘t think so. But talk to me, look me in the eye, tell me your biggest fears and share with me what you believe to be the truth of who you are and now we are talking. I seek not your approval but your soul. It’s like the orange… I am not squeezing you hoping to get wine. (although I do like red wine a lot) I am squeezing you to find out what you are made of. I am interested in what comes out of you. Not what you want to take from me. Jealousy no longer has a power over me because I realize that there is nothing anyone can take from me that I am not willing to part with, and quite simply, there really isn’t much to me, expect light. I dare you try and steal that.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
One Night Only
This may be an X-rated post. I would feel morally responsible for damaging the vision of any Cinderella-esque fantasies.
In my whole life I have had a few of the so-called fairy-book romances. Not one ever worked out just as I had always dreamed. I often wonder what that must feel like for the ones for whom it “had been fulfilled“. Does that relationship exist? God bless them if so. I know that I have had a long, strange trip, as the Dead would say. And all the better for it.
If I could sit down with a young woman today and share with her the trials and triumphs of love, I’d likely share the following series of lessons. Much more. But here’s a start.
Lesson #1: Ford Tempos. Intercourse in the front seat of a Ford Tempo (or any car) is uncomfortable under any circumstances. In the case the antagonist tries to assert himself, affirm your boundaries and request that he relocate to a more appropriate venue, like a coffee shop, where you can discuss, freely, under florescent lights, the reasons why sex is not an immediate need. In this light, things become much clearer.
Lesson #2: Intoxication. Young men under the influence tend to not make the best decisions when it comes to carnal relations. It is best to regard their advances with general benevolence, but it is best to affirm a virtuous boundary that without the long-term promise there is no penetration.
Lesson #3: Crushes. The guy that you’ve had the crush on for two years and finally decides to acknowledge you means less about him discovering you and more about him running out of prospects. Hold tight to your lessons 1 & 2.
Lesson #4: Big Brother’s Best Friend. Don’t ever, under any circumstances date your big brother’s best friend. Even if he approves, he will always butt-in and try to manipulate the outcomes. It’s best to remain the “one who got away”.
Lesson #5: Traveling. When traveling in foreign countries remember that foreign men prey upon foreign women. When they say things like, “you are the most beautiful” or that “they have never felt this way” it’s really simply a cultural difference that we, in America, have yet to experience because most men have never really explored feelings beyond the penis.
Lesson 5 c: When in Austria, remember that studious hostel workers are really as sincere as they look. Please do not damage their innocence. Go to the cafe until the urge passes you.
Lesson 5 d: In Slovenia, all young men are generally interested in learning more about the language, but they are also interested in practicing sexual exploration at all costs. Again, cafes are great places to explore your emotions. I think that is why European cafes are always bustling.
Lesson 5 e: Argentinean men prefer the made-up, sophisticated, alluring women. A lot of independent, strong American women do not succumb to their standard. But if you were to express yourself successfully and then they want to marry you, be careful. Mammitis may displays her ugly head. And she can be a challenge.
Lesson #6: Final Lessons. As you age, learn to focus more on yourself and less on what you think “he” or “she” wants from you. YOU are the only person in your life. Even as a devoted mother I can say this. As painful as it is to admit, my son’s life is HIS life, not something I have any control over. All I can do is allow life to unfold as it may and trust that it was always be a blessing. Curses only happen to shift us from the unreal to the real.
All the loves of my life have done nothing more than give me a better insight into my own light. And without those loves, I’d not have discovered the beauty of my light. And they do not create my light; it’s mine. Yet, it is so often how we associated that feeling of love with the creation of light. Yet, it’s always only our light that ever shines. Even the love I feel between me and my son. Our lights are our own lights; even as much as I wanted to control it and be the source of his light, I know that his light shines with or without me. He is a beacon of his own volition. How scary and yet how beautiful that is.
What lessons would I share with him?
“Your soul once sat on an easel on my knee.
For ages I have been sketching you
With myriad shapes of sounds and light;
Now awake, dear pilgrim,
With your thousand swaying arms
That need to caress the sky.”
~~Hafiz
All I can say for myself now is that I have had the privilege of love and the opportunity to test my theories. I am grateful to all the past loves to have allowed me to come into their lives and experience the exhilarating ecstasy of love at its purest form. And most of all, I am so grateful for the opportunity to love this child, Ziggy Finn Santos for all that he is now and know that all he is to become.
I will never forget the one night in which he came to me. Long, laborious, painful and beautiful night of confusion and trust. And then he appeared, so peaceful and beautiful. He is the LOVE OF MY LIFE and likely will always be such. One night; how it changes your life.
In my whole life I have had a few of the so-called fairy-book romances. Not one ever worked out just as I had always dreamed. I often wonder what that must feel like for the ones for whom it “had been fulfilled“. Does that relationship exist? God bless them if so. I know that I have had a long, strange trip, as the Dead would say. And all the better for it.
If I could sit down with a young woman today and share with her the trials and triumphs of love, I’d likely share the following series of lessons. Much more. But here’s a start.
Lesson #1: Ford Tempos. Intercourse in the front seat of a Ford Tempo (or any car) is uncomfortable under any circumstances. In the case the antagonist tries to assert himself, affirm your boundaries and request that he relocate to a more appropriate venue, like a coffee shop, where you can discuss, freely, under florescent lights, the reasons why sex is not an immediate need. In this light, things become much clearer.
Lesson #2: Intoxication. Young men under the influence tend to not make the best decisions when it comes to carnal relations. It is best to regard their advances with general benevolence, but it is best to affirm a virtuous boundary that without the long-term promise there is no penetration.
Lesson #3: Crushes. The guy that you’ve had the crush on for two years and finally decides to acknowledge you means less about him discovering you and more about him running out of prospects. Hold tight to your lessons 1 & 2.
Lesson #4: Big Brother’s Best Friend. Don’t ever, under any circumstances date your big brother’s best friend. Even if he approves, he will always butt-in and try to manipulate the outcomes. It’s best to remain the “one who got away”.
Lesson #5: Traveling. When traveling in foreign countries remember that foreign men prey upon foreign women. When they say things like, “you are the most beautiful” or that “they have never felt this way” it’s really simply a cultural difference that we, in America, have yet to experience because most men have never really explored feelings beyond the penis.
Lesson 5 a: While in France, remember that they drink A LOT. Their forward advances are nothing more than an indication of their intoxication; not about your beauty. Look around you! You are not all that amazing when compared to the millions of women around the world. We are all beautiful.
Lesson 5 b: When in Croatia, remember that, due to the economic conditions, the many expatiates seems to think they can own, redistribute and confiscate all and any foreign properties at will.Lesson 5 c: When in Austria, remember that studious hostel workers are really as sincere as they look. Please do not damage their innocence. Go to the cafe until the urge passes you.
Lesson 5 d: In Slovenia, all young men are generally interested in learning more about the language, but they are also interested in practicing sexual exploration at all costs. Again, cafes are great places to explore your emotions. I think that is why European cafes are always bustling.
Lesson 5 e: Argentinean men prefer the made-up, sophisticated, alluring women. A lot of independent, strong American women do not succumb to their standard. But if you were to express yourself successfully and then they want to marry you, be careful. Mammitis may displays her ugly head. And she can be a challenge.
Lesson #6: Final Lessons. As you age, learn to focus more on yourself and less on what you think “he” or “she” wants from you. YOU are the only person in your life. Even as a devoted mother I can say this. As painful as it is to admit, my son’s life is HIS life, not something I have any control over. All I can do is allow life to unfold as it may and trust that it was always be a blessing. Curses only happen to shift us from the unreal to the real.
All the loves of my life have done nothing more than give me a better insight into my own light. And without those loves, I’d not have discovered the beauty of my light. And they do not create my light; it’s mine. Yet, it is so often how we associated that feeling of love with the creation of light. Yet, it’s always only our light that ever shines. Even the love I feel between me and my son. Our lights are our own lights; even as much as I wanted to control it and be the source of his light, I know that his light shines with or without me. He is a beacon of his own volition. How scary and yet how beautiful that is.
What lessons would I share with him?
“Your soul once sat on an easel on my knee.
For ages I have been sketching you
With myriad shapes of sounds and light;
Now awake, dear pilgrim,
With your thousand swaying arms
That need to caress the sky.”
~~Hafiz
All I can say for myself now is that I have had the privilege of love and the opportunity to test my theories. I am grateful to all the past loves to have allowed me to come into their lives and experience the exhilarating ecstasy of love at its purest form. And most of all, I am so grateful for the opportunity to love this child, Ziggy Finn Santos for all that he is now and know that all he is to become.
I will never forget the one night in which he came to me. Long, laborious, painful and beautiful night of confusion and trust. And then he appeared, so peaceful and beautiful. He is the LOVE OF MY LIFE and likely will always be such. One night; how it changes your life.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
I am a Change Agent
When I was a young girl I would go to church with my mother,
who was an organist and choir director.
As she practiced the hymns for the service, I’d wander around the pews
and read passages from the bible. My older
brother had been teaching me new tricks.
One, was how to catch things in my mouth.
So I practiced with my Sunday school offering, a quarter. I would toss it up and try and catch it in my
mouth. Most of the time it would fall to
the floor and I would have to clamber under the pews to find it. But once, it slipped right into my mouth,
down the back of the throat and, slurp!
It was gone! I swallowed it!
I was sitting quietly as my mother played the last hymn that
alerted the children to leave service and head downstairs to Sunday
school. She looked back at me and asked,
“where is your offering?” meaning the quarter, which I had swallowed about 15
minutes earlier. “I swallowed it” I
said. She looked at me and then her face
went white with panic. She stood up and
called to the Minister. Service was
stopped and she called the Catholic Church, where my father and brother were in
their own Sunday service and apparently, a lay-person had to interrupt the
Priest in the middle of his sermon to ask him to notify my father that there
was a family emergency and to meet his wife at the Lutheran Church
immediately.
All the while, I felt fine.
I wasn’t quite sure what all the panic was for. My brother smirked at me when they arrived to
the church. My father was impatient and
annoyed that my mother interrupted service so this minor offense. “She’ll just shit it out!” my father
sighed.
Nonetheless, we drove the 15 miles to the hospital; I was admitted
to the emergency room. Our family doctor happened to be on call and
appeared from behind the curtain, ear to ear with a grin that noted his pure delight in this latest
catastrophe I’d gotten myself into.
Earlier that year I had fallen on my bicycle and well, I required
stitches in a rather conspicuous place.
“What seems to be the kerfuffle this time?” he asked. “She
swallowed a quarter. Her Sunday school
offering.” my mother pressed. He looked
me over, took my pulse, my temperature, and looked into my eyes. “Well, there’s not much we can do. I can take an X-ray to make sure it’s not stuck anywhere. Likely, we’ll just have to wait until she,
ah, discards of it naturally” the doctor said.
Xrays were taken. You
could see Washington’s head and the date on the face. My brother took them to show-and-tell at his school. For a few days, my mother would
examine the contents of my bowel movements.
My father told her that this was her project and he’d have nothing to do
with it. She gave up after a few
times. “Yuck!” she'd scream as she was riffling through my poo.
We never did find the quarter. The inside family joke is that I made change:
two dimes and a nickel. I guess we just never saw them come out. And that is why now believe it was my destiny to be a "change agent".
Monday, September 9, 2013
Shoes
I was recently awakened to the idea that the shoes you wear may quite certainly make the impression about you. And, for a fact, I know that the shoes that you wear are important to the activity you are embarking.
Take for instance my recent foray into 14 miles of back country where I wore a study, yet light weight cross-training shoe carrying almost 30 lbs of gear and within 5 miles my arches were not just barking but SCREAMING at the intensity of pain they felt with each step. Later in the hike, a through-hiker on the PCT acknowledged that my choice, while admiral, was illusory given my load.I remember years ago when I was a recent devotee to backpacking that I arrived at the trail head without the shoes required. I simply forgot! I had to buy new ones at the last outpost town and hope that they worked out.
When I was 12 or so I remember being ridiculed by a teacher because I wore cowgirl boots to school. She belittled me in front of everyone saying, "what? you think you are going to clean the horse stalls?" and told me to sit in the back of the room for the class because she didn't want my stench to interrupt her.
Every time I see a pair of sexy boots that I'd just die for I hear her cackling in the back of my mind and I move on to more sensible shoes for the urban set.
Yet, I often go outside my bubble and I see women, clearly not clearing out horse stalls wearing boots and other quite undignified footwear in the setting of choice and they seem quite sexy. What gave them the godly right to walk around like that?? And why don't I feel the same about my shoes?
And then, it became apparent in the last year how my work colleagues began to comment upon my footwear. It was often with surprise and impressionable glee that they commented on my latest pumps, high heels and sleek ballerinas. It signaled, for me, a shift in my career from, doer to overseer. I used to lug these heavy Rubbermaid tubs of educational items from school to school as a Coordinator. But now, as a Specialist, I get to marvelously sit in my office whist a staffer does the schlepping. Has the change in authority and priority really changed who I am?
I have this one friend who wears ridiculously high high heels. Well, actually there are a few of them in the office. They all seem to balance effortlessly as they push buttons on the copier and fax documents. I've often fantasized myself walking into the office sensually with everyone looking at me as I pass and sort of acknowledging that I've got my game on. It's yet to happen. When I do wear the fancy heels, I am often barefoot by mid day.
Then there was the recent long distant trip on I-5 where I saw surreptitiously strewn evidence of a suitcase's entire contents. And what caught my eye, more than anything else was the tiny little girls' sandals that were tossed along the cement embankment between the swift lanes of the interstate highway signaling much more than their presence as outrageous. I saw, in that flash of a second the loss of innocence. I saw the fleetingness of youth. The preciousness of the very seconds we have, when we, as adults, so unrelenting force our children into our schedules, that we hurriedly shove their tiny feet into shoes with abruptness and frustration. And all they are doing is being young.
When I was 20 I bought my first pair of Birkenstock sandals because it symbolized a movement in my life. It re-identified me from one identity to another. I wore those sandals for years before they wore out their soles with defiance that I'd ever be anything other than that rambunctious 20-something who bought them with her daddy's money.
And daily, I find myself, shoving my son's feet into much too small shoes in an effort to be on time and quite frankly because I can't afford to buy new ones. And he smiles at me knowingly as I shyly admit failure.
Sometimes the pain of motherhood isn't something you can walk away from.
And shoot, here I was, 14 miles into the back-county in the Sierras with shoes that were not sufficient for me and I had only 14 miles to hike out. What was I gonna do?
Walk out. Just like I walked in. The pain, yes, indescribable. But that didn't make it into the Facebook posts. No. What was important was that I DID IT. And even more, I did it regardless of the gear lacking, the companion lacking, the time lacking, the son, who was with his father, yet to be ready to do such a hike, was lacking. The shoe choice, that I spent too much money one, was lacking.... I did it.
You know, it was funny because I walked all around the campsite, the hot springs without shoes, in the grass, among sage, rose thorns and stinging nettle without any issue. I felt free.
Today I dared wear high heels to work and wow! the pain I felt as my yet-to-heal arches gave me warning that such shoes are not for the kind of girl I've become. I smiled to myself as I walked comfortably between offices and copy machines barefoot knowing in my heart that I was never the kind of girl to wear them in the first place.
Shoes. We talk of Jesus and the shoes he wore. Or how it's a sacred practice of removing shoes before entering temples. How the sick are washed at the feet of synagogue by healers. I remember the first time I put shoes on my son. It was a major transition between being completely helpless and dependent upon me and finally realizing his own potential as a human. We walk upright. That's what humans do.
"Stand upright, speak thy thoughts, declare The truth thou hast, that all may share; Be bold, proclaim it everywhere: They only live who dare."- Voltaire.
Does walking have anything to do with being authentic? Just wondering. And how do shoes define that?
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