Tuesday, February 13, 2018


Well, the universe is at me again.  At least I hope so, the alternative would be early dementia which is also a possibility, but I'm optimistic.

My lifestyle has slowed and the minutes can now be extended into moments; sometimes
unexpected, other times anticipated or planned.  These tiny immeasurable units of time define
me and validate the journey.  Knowing that I have traveled with purpose, I welcome the moments
which remind me of who I am.

The pause today, came without fanfare on the warm afternoon breeze.  Windows were open and the fresh air was a welcome respite from the recent deluge of heavy rain.  I smelled hopefulness.
Several months had slipped away and I missed the piano.  I missed the part of myself that used
to play every day.  I wondered what had taken me away from joy.

But joy is subjective and I'm to blame for its banishment. I allowed the complexities of day to day living to interfere and I'm tired.  I welcome interruption of self; I believe in a life fragmented. Living
in pieces, chunks and snippets is freeing.  I'm not advocating for remnants, shreds or merely the lingering remains of a purpose driven life, I'm grateful for the opportunities which come by way of a full stop, deep breathing and choosing to continue on or selecting another path.

Given that mankind follows a patterned existence and is guided by an internal clock tempered
by instinct, perpetuity is optional.  If we choose to limit our routines based on these factors,
we soon run out of that which distinguishes us from the lesser apes. Accepting the belief that
the universe is indefinable and our place in it is transient, makes the opportunity to be awe inspired
so precious and life affirming.

When was the last time you paused in your rush to get to the next whatever?  Do you now regret
that those missed seconds resulted in your not changing? Second guessing yourself and living
with remorse, for not being in the moment, is the fodder for many a great poem.  The what if's
have a tendency to weigh us down.

Challenges can be simply overwhelming. Living and experiencing life are not synonymous.
Perhaps it takes the cumulative missed moments in our lives to make us appreciate the unexpected
interruptions.  Perhaps it takes the unexpected interruptions to make us grateful that there are
more than twenty four hours in our day.

Monday, January 29, 2018


On my mind today is the consistently aggravating choice of free will.  Man kind chooses his burdens. Burdens can bloom; they can overwhelm and become the masks we wear.  How is it that truth is so easily disguised?

I strive to live a life which questions everything. I take nothing for granted and have not struggled much.  I am wandering and not lost.

For some, scapegoats are an integral release of conscience. These are learned coping mechanisms.
We all learn to blame others from very early on.  I think it may be time to rethink this strategy.
Why can't reality exist separately rather than co exist with illusion?

Heavily indoctrinated in the theory of evolution and it's evolving thesis', I want for nothing more than
today.  But there is conflict within me. Who I am is unfinished.  What I am is a simple bridge to what is to be.  I know this and nothing else can weigh as heavily as this burden.

Intuition guides my dreams. My waking hours are filled with apprehension. Being present in the moment is not easy. I marvel at those people who can quiet themselves to all that surrounds and infuses the soul. I'm not wired that way. I have a short attention span and get lost in the details of my life. Perfection is unattainable and I should stop trying and just let it be.  I won't be remembered for the incompleteness of my journey.  Who would hold it against me?  No one is equal to the path I am on.  It is mine through all time.

The what if's which comprise my life's story are autobiographical. To some extent, I am being allowed to choose; to opt in or opt out.  Free will is the migraine clouding my destiny. It is an uncomfortable companion with whom I must travel.  It is the self shadow; always between me
and authenticity.

The surrender is inevitable and beautiful in all its mystery. I'm just not willing-yet.  Being
fluid and eternal, my soul will wait upon destiny which is greater than the burden which I perceive
is mine.

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

The Dwelling I am Dwelling In

I retain a memory that is not mine. It surfaces in my dreams, keeping me prisoner.  I wonder why.

There's a message to be revealed at a time not of my choosing. I wait.

To state that I am familiar with the dream is an understatement because it disrupts seemingly when
my life is on track to somewhere predestined. Every attempt to expand my world thru new endeavors
is thwarted and I begin again, with compass in hand and head in a new direction.

Not finding me has been a life long pursuit; admittedly I am beginning to dread the thought that my options are dwindling. I have searched diligently. I am tired of this hide and seek game.  Time for
the reveal.

In my dream, the house is not my house, but apparently it has been my house in another life time.
Guessing that my previous live's have been consecutively lived with in the last say 400 hundred years, the house has all the amenities of the post industrial revolution era.

I don't recall what happens in the house or who or what lived there, I just recall the house-
the floor plan, wall colors, furnishings and views from all the windows.  Why does the building haunt me? Why do I awaken breathless?

Dream interpretation is very precise and dicey.  Without the benefit of documentation, I have no
starting point.  That in itself is a starting point.  I must journal. I must embrace the probability
that my nightly sleep patterns will continue in spurts.  It's a pattern I have had to accept for as long as I can remember: drowse, rest, sleep, dream, awaken, drowse...

Remembering a house seems a peculiar focal point in one's mental catalogue of self.  In THIS house,
my remembrances are not of who or where or what who was doing, it's just the dwelling.  It's my unfinished life within this building; the burden knowing that I will revisit this house in perpetuity.

I am uninspired to begin again. At my age, I have the time and resources, but no inspiration. All I need is within the house and I fear that I will become part of this house; that it will consume me.
Perhaps that's the message.

Perhaps my destiny lays in yet another direction; one where the path will not lead me back to the familiar. Maybe I am destined for something intangible and amazing.

In my waking moments, I am who I am. But in my dreams, I belong to the universe. Eventually
we will be in sync. Just in time for a nap.

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Relatively Speaking

My genealogy dangles like the proverbial carrot before the horse or the horse before the cart because if I find the people responsible, I'll have the burden to inform who comes after. Woe is me.  Why can't I be more like my dogs?

He, she, she and she are oblivious to lineage. Its' not important and that's a lesson I must learn.  "Who I am is not defined by the circumstances of my birth", she said in a text.  The "she" being my friend, Siobhan Peal-the Shaman of Stonehenge. I have been in dialogue with her twice, seeking advice.  I thought knowing the biological facts of my parents and their extended relatives would bring a new perspective and put to bed the notion that genetics are responsible for well-all my unraveling plans.

Surely, I must be related to other people who just can't finish what they start. Procrastination must be an inherent trait.

According to Ms. Peal, "No".

Well, she should know.

I started, again, on the who am I quest and enrolled in a college course given by a member of the Church of the Latter Day Saints. They have the corner on genealogical record keeping.  They're serious!  The files are kept in a vault within a granite mountain in Salt Lake City. The online program and the web of research will help anyone arrive at their definitive roots.  Some roots are shallow, however and mine are of that variety.  I was able to trace fourth great grand parents on my father's side and not quite so far on the maternal line.  The information was all very organized and it was more a process of elimination once I recalled the vagueness of names I remembered in conversations with Mom and Dad.

The opportunity to further research remains for those more dedicated than me.  I'm done.

Next step? Maybe DNA.  That would give me a geography lesson.  One can never have too few of those.  Borders change, people migrate and inbreed.  Record keeping might lapse from written to oral and back again, but the story could be highly entertaining.  Would the new information enlighten or entertain me?

That last question is the thought behind the delay in this probe. How seriously do I need to know?
Do I want to know? Am I prepared for the consequences of knowing?


Back to my dogs; their lives are not complex. Routine eliminates worrying about options.
As long as they are living with me, their needs will be met-promptly. Happy dogs equal happy
me.  I believe that they want for nothing. We are symbiotic and they are insightful, intelligent
and compassionate beings.  Their breeding is for another's benefit. Their lineage makes YOU feel superior.  They don't give a crap about it.

I abhor the word "pedigree". It's among a long list of limiting, self disparaging adjectives. To describe any being in the terms of being "less than" because of an ancestral genetic mutation...

I don't understand the rules which define you and me and them as inferior from ourselves and each other.  I appreciate the theory of natural selection and survival of the fittest.  I get that. Was there a king and queen of the apes in that original troupe somewhere in our evolution?  Was the crown then past up through the roughly thought out time line of say fifteen million years ago to present day? Apparently so, and the resulting monarchies are testament to the inbreeding and migration patterns resulting in the several kingdoms still intact today.

As for me, I'm without my breeding certificate.  I was adopted. I may never know.  The state of Washington doesn't acknowledge pre adoption birth records.  I've tried.

To balance the scales, I know that my soul traveled 444.2 light years to get here. That's a long time to consider who my relations are.  The earth is hardly my place of origin.  Science is on my side. The Earth is 4.54 plus or minus 0.05 billion years old.

I am who I am-relatively speaking.

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

The Turn of a Calendar Page

New Year's resolutions, New Year's intentions, to do list, bucket list- unadulterated insanity! I believe indulging in this ritual will cause completely unnecessary stress and a wasted productivity.

Consider my post "Church of Attaboy".  I was a little more than put out with organized religion when I wrote it. The theme plays into a recent post by my good friend,  Angela.  She proposes that we focus on kindness. I like it.

My take on it maybe a little off center and not exactly altruistic, but I further propose that the first person to receive kindness should be one's self.

I am generally kind-try to help when I can.  I often suggest options for seemingly undoable tasks. Offering advice comes easily; but it's a double edged sword.  I should be able to seek advice as easily. Right?  The scale is heavily unbalanced and I am trying to adjust.  So, I'm placing more on the self side and kindness is the pile I am borrowing from.

I am depleted. My energy fields need adjustment. The Reiki masters have confirmed the diagnosis.  I've had the symptoms for years, but didn't want another traditional psycho analysis.  Psycho babble
has its place and is a good fit for some.  I'm not "some". Matter of fact, I'm not anything that I believed in and "believed"is a relative term.

Grateful that I am part of the solution and not the problem, I have renewed energies and unlimited
opportunity to share a universal message.  However, I am not primed and must devote myself to developing my gift.  I won't be depleted very long.

So back to the kindness thing. Just imagine what you could accomplish if your day began with
just one goal. Find a reason for liking yourself.  Have a dose of ego with your coffee. Know that you will make a difference today. Take a chance on kindness. Let me know how it works out.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

Homage to the Tao of Pooh

In my head, I own my thoughts-intellectual property in the first person sense. Thinking is my newest hobby and it is a complicated endeavor.  I have options in the thinking process. Among them are to allow, conceive, consider, deem, esteem, feel, figure, guess, hold, imagine, judge, reckon, suppose and believe.

What or who I think about and where the thinking takes place further enhances my willingness
to devote time to this undertaking. Subject matter is, of course, the catalyst and the antagonist.
Using the options available, the outcome of my internal dialogue is varied.  Conclusions are elusive and require additional considerations.

Decisions, solely based on thinking may be the inner voice we so often credit for spontaneous results.
I'm guilty of favoring spontaneity. Not planning, however, is not for the faint hearted.  Doing something, going somewhere without a back up plan is sometimes a questionable approach. I've been lucky.

My inner voice has a committee. The chairman of the board has the sole veto power and the secretary
doesn't keep notes.  There's been no change in board members - ever. There is a new agenda at the most recent gathering of my committee and it has been tabled for further discussions. So, I just sit and wonder what to do and I've been sitting and wondering for a few years. On the agenda is an invitation to the rest of my life. Perfect timing. I am open to suggestions.

Travel is a given.  Where is a choice. Playing- a distraction and commitment to remaining tied to the familiar is apparently not an option. My committee has a guest speaker who doesn't like waiting in the outer office and is running out of patience while the debate continues.

Fear and disbelief are powerful emotions. Why me? Why now? These two questions compete for
equal consideration. Think, think, think too much and I'll be the next understudy to Winnie the Pooh.

There are believers and skeptics in the metaphysical community. I live with both; part of my dual personality, I guess. Seems the bi polar disorder is revisiting. The manic says "jump off the cliff"; the depressive replies "there's a frayed rope in the parachute".

This thinking and not planning is exhausting. Certainly I would have thought (pun intended) that I would reach that light bulb moment. But no- I have to learn and practice what I learn-then I must teach and eventually enlighten.  I am finding more than a casual interest in other worldly possibilities and balance this piqued curiosity with more than a passing glance on the topic of ancient aliens.  The topic has credence and I love a debate.  There's more to life than living.

I am learning and thinking and researching and doing more thinking.  I am asking pertinent questions of those I trust to be on similar voyages. Then I think again...

I just saw a quote go across my t v screen:  "Who looks outside, dreams.  Who looks inside, awakens." Thankfully, I am in no hurry and it's time to check on the guest speaker who sits in the outer office-thinking.

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Artistic Justice

I'm easily amused. My mind is challenged when tasked to think outside of the box, but I color outside the lines all the time.

I don't know what my dad saw in me, but I remember what he said "I'd rather live with you because you can find your way out of a paper bag".  I am guessing that this tidbit came from a conversation we had about his eventual old age and whether he would choose to live with me over my brother. His response caught me off guard. We were not alike.  He was an extremely educated man. Far from the several degrees he garnered in his profession, his zest to learn was his purpose. Those, in the world today, who learned from him and shared insights with him, are extremely successful business people.

I was not the academic child.  My brother finished college with two degrees and I was never going to attain that laudable goal. Something in my gut said "why bother".

This quiet rebellion began with an after school detention in kindergarten.  My teacher required me to color the square-just the square; no scribbling outside the lines. My first attempt was tossed in the trash can. Looking back, I can't believe that I was the only student in her class tasked with  a "do over", but my memory is painfully clear. Thankfully, Mom came to the rescue, arm in arm with the principal.  I was moved to another class. It was empowering to realize that I was important, that I had rights at the tender age of 5.

She fostered my creative being.  Mom was an artist in her own right, but never shared her talents publicly. In the 1950's, wives were wives and sometimes mothers and volunteers. We enjoyed quiet times of drawing and coloring and cutting construction paper.  We created entire circuses of Playdoh animals. Our gallery covered the walls of our kitchen, windowsills, tops of cabinets and changed with the seasons. I remember her carefully tucking the artwork into old dress boxes from Neustetters department store.

Mom could sketch women's fashions. I know she had some formal training and one Christmas,
I bought her a cabinet's fill of canvases, sketch books, paints and brushes.  Sadly, she never used them and they were re-gifted to a girlfriend when I married.

My brother mailed me a box this past year and among the old photographs was a sketchbook from my grandmother.  Her landscapes are beautiful and chronicle her youth in the Wisconsin city of Green Bay.  The sketches of trees and river banks filled the pages.   I imagine the stillness beckoned her and she felt connected to her God there.  I did not know these qualities about her. I wish I had, my life could have been so much more enriched.  The few paintings I have finished are certainly a testament to these two women. Not so much the subject matter, but the fact that they are part of me and part of them.

I still color outside the lines and view much of the world with skepticism. I rebel frequently and often find that I don't fit with the traditional point of view.  I am at an age where I am bold in my opinions
and appearance.   The odd and unusual deserve more than a passing glance. Their purpose shouldn't be questioned,  but rather appreciated. The giant ant eater has a champion in me.

I think of myself as a second  hand puzzle at the thrift store- waiting for a chance to go home. Although most likely there is a piece or two missing, my value is no less than an unopened one.
Never one to applaud the popular trends,  change does not come easily to me. I feel unfinished.
Perhaps this reincarnation is just now in its defining moments. Perhaps I am not my memories and my latent potential is finally within reach.  Perhaps all the crayons and neatly colored boxes are not the template of my life.

What lies on the outside of the closed square is far more enticing to me.  Coloring over the line
into the space of possibilities allows me freedom.  Freedom to be who I am.  I already knew this in kindergarten.  I believe it now.