Hmmmm. I've been absent in my presence of mind recently. Too many conflicting interests. How could I be a conflict of interest with myself? Apparently, too easily.
In the absence of fully committing my physical being to a late in life do over, I will opt for a thinking about it perspective. And that's just what I am planning. What's wrong with the concept of wandering? Does it mean that all who wander are lost? I am not "lost". I am just not found (in the first person sense)…yet.
Thought perhaps I could wrap up things here, pack a bag and head to a blue zone. Okinawa would be my first choice. Sardinia is another. People living in pockets, on this globe, have figured out the pathway to health filled longevity. Their busy selves evolve into purposeful, compassionate and single minded individuals. Too perfect, too simple or just unattainable? I feel like an octopus on crutches. The sheer number of priorities on my to do list will out live me. I shall bequeath my unfinished chores to my children and they can fight over who gets what. This was not intentional, for I have been fastidious all my life and am not neglectful of the details. It's one of my endearing qualities.
But then again, I may be waning at a time when I should be waxing larger than life and celebratory in
my golden years. After all, it was promised in the minuscule print, right? You read it; something about
that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Left brain, right brain, stop, go, repeat. Sound familiar? Too much stimulation; eventual implosion. But wait, I'm not done yet! B R E A T H E
My mental merry go rounds and bungie jumping are slowing down. How is it possible that I get stuck in my itinerant destination? I can read a map, (I can draw the damn map); know how to navigate a compass and if all else fails, ASK DIRECTIONS.
Trouble is the destination has changed.
How to balance my "selves"; how to divide and conquer ME gives a new meaning to "presence of mind". The elusiveness of living IN the moment is the catalyst in all this. I am running a marathon, barefooted through the briar patch, while carrying all the baggage I have packed for myself and everybody else. Ridiculous, right?
But true.
My dreams are the reflecting pool of my daily struggles; I should journal them. They hold the key to unlock the chaos. I know this. Another item for that to do list. Great.
I have begun to wander, it's not as bad as you might think. I am a purposeful student of TaiChi. Just started the class and hope to be better acquainted with the form as time allows. Two hours each week devoted to mental and physical draining into that abysmal and forgiving universe.
Okay, now what to do with the remaining 166 hours each week? Maybe wandering is not a good mental picture of my intentions. How about " parade, paseo, promenade; expedition, hike, march, peregrination, traipse, tramp, travel, traversal, traverse, trek, trip, walkabout; excursion, jaunt, junket, outing, sally, sashay, spin, tour; pilgrimage, progress, safari" (thank you Merriam-Webster people)? Oooh, the possibilities are tempting me right out of my quagmire.
Where and how I slide myself into first gear (again) depends on one indispensable element of the variables.
Destiny.
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Monday, October 31, 2016
The Worms Go In, the Worms Go Out
There was a rhyme somewhere in my childhood and the two lines I recall were:
The worms go in, the worms go out, the worms play pinochle on your snout…
This seems appropriate for a Halloween submission to my blog's evolution. I've spoken a lot recently about my metaphysical quest. In the meantime (while waiting for the universe to sync up), I have been in conversation with my writing teacher about composting. She bought worms (on Amazon) and was sharing details of the process of creating an environment to allow the worms to work the food scraps and be able to use the resulting compost for her garden.
That got me thinking about carbon footprints and whether I want to decrease mine.
Gee, I don't know.
Considering the tonnage of pseudo recyclable materials set to curb side every week, my efforts are not without flaws.
I can't seem to want to live green. Global warming discussions are wasted on me. I am decidedly
uninformed regarding alternative living options; without garbage. I pass junk yards and land fills and think "oh". But it doesn't sink in. I just added to that problem recently and had my car crushed and eaten by a giant machine. The 150 bucks in my pocket seemed to validate that decision.
Well, the topic is uncomfortable, so I will not continue. However, regarding my bodily demise,
I think I will welcome the worms and aphids. I've already pre planned my funeral and there won't be one.
As soon as the ink dries on the document I haven't signed yet, I'll be ashes to ashes with the intent of
nurturing a young White Birch or Aspen tree. That seems like a beautiful tribute to myself and the life I loved in the Colorado Rocky Mountains.
The cost of shipping the former me will be nominal and I have already designated my brother as my executor. He will be waiting at the mailbox for me to arrive.
I hope that the occasion will not be somber for I have requested an illegal fireworks display to precede the deed. Only those in attendance will know the designated plot of land (invitations will be mailed by my probate lawyer) so keep those sky miles accounts in good order.
I know a little about a lot of things cadavers are used for and I don't think that I wish to support the advance of science. It's too advanced already in my opinion. Once "Dolly" the sheep made her appearance on planet earth, we crossed the line. There's just no sanctity remaining in the value of a human life.
On the other hand there is too much sanctity given the inordinate expense of a traditional funeral; picking out a casket, selecting a funeral home, a location for final goodbyes, blah, blah, blah.
No thank you. I remember helping Dad select Mom's casket while she was still breathing. That was early on in the pre planning funeral business. We picked the most expensive one with powder blue lining and double or triple lined oak to preserve her remains. In conversation with her before her death, she made a request that we dress her warmly to include shoes (which the funeral home denied).
Her mother wanted just a pine box. I don't want that much. You see, I'm just not that important.
I began this journey not of my own accord and I will conclude this portion of the predestined trip
at the place and time as set forth in the universal contract. Lovely that the way I leave is entirely up to me. It's about the only decision I will have control over. Trusting in my fellow man to honor my final wishes is, of course, the variable in the equation.
Should it all go as planned, my soul will depart on the recitation of these endearing words:
"Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by,
For you may be the next one to die.
They wrap you up in big white sheets
and cover you from head to feet.
They put you in a big black box
And cover you with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for about a week,
Until your coffin begins to leak.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,
The worms play pinochle on your snout,
They eat your eyes, they eat your nose,
They eat the jelly between your toes.
A big green worm with rolling eyes
Crawls in your stomach and out your sides.
Your stomach turns a slimy green,
And pus pours out like whipping cream.
You'll spread it on a slice of bread,
And that's what you eat when you are dead."[4]
The worms go in, the worms go out, the worms play pinochle on your snout…
This seems appropriate for a Halloween submission to my blog's evolution. I've spoken a lot recently about my metaphysical quest. In the meantime (while waiting for the universe to sync up), I have been in conversation with my writing teacher about composting. She bought worms (on Amazon) and was sharing details of the process of creating an environment to allow the worms to work the food scraps and be able to use the resulting compost for her garden.
That got me thinking about carbon footprints and whether I want to decrease mine.
Gee, I don't know.
Considering the tonnage of pseudo recyclable materials set to curb side every week, my efforts are not without flaws.
I can't seem to want to live green. Global warming discussions are wasted on me. I am decidedly
uninformed regarding alternative living options; without garbage. I pass junk yards and land fills and think "oh". But it doesn't sink in. I just added to that problem recently and had my car crushed and eaten by a giant machine. The 150 bucks in my pocket seemed to validate that decision.
Well, the topic is uncomfortable, so I will not continue. However, regarding my bodily demise,
I think I will welcome the worms and aphids. I've already pre planned my funeral and there won't be one.
As soon as the ink dries on the document I haven't signed yet, I'll be ashes to ashes with the intent of
nurturing a young White Birch or Aspen tree. That seems like a beautiful tribute to myself and the life I loved in the Colorado Rocky Mountains.
The cost of shipping the former me will be nominal and I have already designated my brother as my executor. He will be waiting at the mailbox for me to arrive.
I hope that the occasion will not be somber for I have requested an illegal fireworks display to precede the deed. Only those in attendance will know the designated plot of land (invitations will be mailed by my probate lawyer) so keep those sky miles accounts in good order.
I know a little about a lot of things cadavers are used for and I don't think that I wish to support the advance of science. It's too advanced already in my opinion. Once "Dolly" the sheep made her appearance on planet earth, we crossed the line. There's just no sanctity remaining in the value of a human life.
On the other hand there is too much sanctity given the inordinate expense of a traditional funeral; picking out a casket, selecting a funeral home, a location for final goodbyes, blah, blah, blah.
No thank you. I remember helping Dad select Mom's casket while she was still breathing. That was early on in the pre planning funeral business. We picked the most expensive one with powder blue lining and double or triple lined oak to preserve her remains. In conversation with her before her death, she made a request that we dress her warmly to include shoes (which the funeral home denied).
Her mother wanted just a pine box. I don't want that much. You see, I'm just not that important.
I began this journey not of my own accord and I will conclude this portion of the predestined trip
at the place and time as set forth in the universal contract. Lovely that the way I leave is entirely up to me. It's about the only decision I will have control over. Trusting in my fellow man to honor my final wishes is, of course, the variable in the equation.
Should it all go as planned, my soul will depart on the recitation of these endearing words:
"Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by,
For you may be the next one to die.
They wrap you up in big white sheets
and cover you from head to feet.
They put you in a big black box
And cover you with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for about a week,
Until your coffin begins to leak.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,
The worms play pinochle on your snout,
They eat your eyes, they eat your nose,
They eat the jelly between your toes.
A big green worm with rolling eyes
Crawls in your stomach and out your sides.
Your stomach turns a slimy green,
And pus pours out like whipping cream.
You'll spread it on a slice of bread,
And that's what you eat when you are dead."[4]
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Parts
Am I the sum total of my parts or am I part of the sum total?
Play on words? Perhaps. This is my thought today: my being is
rather small in comparison to recent astronomical discoveries. My mass
would be calculated as a negative integer, I think, on the grand scale of
things.
It is exciting to learn about the expanding universe. It
gives me immeasurable hope that I am also infinite. Where did I begin and
where am I destined?
An unsolvable problem, for the value of "x" cannot
be defined on either side of the equation. Maybe it's not meant to. Maybe
there's an element so critical to the journey of one's life, its discovery would
jeopardize its purpose. Maybe the "God" complex is so
controversial, that its continuance should be banished.
I am not in favor of extending the natural life span. I
am, however in favor of enhancing the experience. Quality of life versus
quantity of life. The scale has tipped the other way for me and I am so
comfortable with it, that remaining time is no longer my biggest fear.
The evolutionary process which sustains species, through
adaption of the environment, will challenge science and it will win. Its track
record is undeniable. Whether my specie survives is an open ended quest. But,
all the "break throughs" in the realm of dedicated science will not
change the soul.
How do you define yourself? As others see you or as
the soul who fulfills its predestined design? I choose the latter because I am
not so conceited as to think that I had any choice in the matter. Being open to
possibilities far beyond my present physicality has given me the freedom to
re-prioritize
each day's gift. Realizing that this journey is not
dependent on how I choose to live it and is not self-limiting within the
confines of a spiritual heir achy, I am joyous in the moment.
The shaman relayed the following message: "You
are the truth". That was an uncomfortable realization. I took it to
mean that my travels thus far have culminated in my being validated; that my
existence is for the benefit of others. How freeing it was to release all guilt
that I have not done enough; that I AM enough, I am complete in my passage.
There are more lessons on the horizon. The existential
travel I experienced, while in her presence, reconfirmed my belief that I am
just a part, a fragmentarily painted canvas. I have been in the dark, protected
by universal love and have guided souls (who have done their work) into the
light.
So, again the question : Am I the sum total of my parts
or am I part of the sum total? The question is not important, the answer is not
either or. The journey is not limiting, the destination is not finite for the
soul is the solution for "x".
Sunday, October 2, 2016
Fractured
Listening to National Public Radio in the car yesterday, my life was interrupted by the discussion on the topic of "digital funerals". I need to stream that program again. Did I understand that I need not be present, that my death would no longer inconvenience friends and loved ones who were too busy to attend a physical memorial service?
WHAT THE HELL.
When did I become digitized to the exclusion of my blood and bones? When did you? Is the physical body so disposable that the death of it is no longer at the center of deepest loss?
As for me, I am not your digitized scrapbook. Those pictures are tiny fragments of my life. They don't tell the whole story. They're not meant to and I don't want you to give permission to my digital executor for their eventual release.
If I was important in your life or if you are relieved not to have me here anymore, my wish is for you to honor what we had by taking the time and effort to send me into the universe permanently.
I fully expect you to stop everything you are doing at the moment you are notified and make plans to
get to the designated place at the designated time.
I can't imagine not having attended the funerals for those I loved. The pain was exquisitely
essential in my soul's journey. Knowing that their voice, their smell, their touch would never
come again, allowed me closure. The closure allowed me to breathe again. Loss is the deepest personal
emotion for me; more so than joy. Loss teaches me how to be a kinder person, a more loving woman, a more tolerant human being.
I don't want the burden of revisiting memories. Life has enough interruptions as it is. Balancing the high wire of what-ifs is not my style. Remembering and honoring one's memory are not synonymous.
Being thankful for relationships and wanting to relive them is not the same. I choose to be thankful and refuse to dwell on how my life was changed or enhanced or nearly destroyed. I let go and focus on today.
Do I still mourn? Of course-sometimes decades later. Do I have tangible remembrances? Yes. Do I want to click and relive moments? No, I do not.
Do not define me in fragments. I gave you all I was. My relationship with you was not meant to be shared. My time with you was not meant to be compared to my time with any other. Understand that you were singularly important in my life and in my life's purpose. Promise me that my entirety will not end up like pieces in a digital jigsaw puzzle. Promise me that your heart will have sufficient space to be the caretaker of our time together. Honor me in ways that release my soul's continuing journey; for I am not finished.
Say goodbye as you gather at the river or under the canopy of stars. Honor me with your presence, mourn my passing with dignity and a final tear or call my name just once more for my spirit will be with you there, at that place and at that moment. Let me go, do not keep me prisoner in the fractured
pictures of my life.
I was oh so much more.
WHAT THE HELL.
When did I become digitized to the exclusion of my blood and bones? When did you? Is the physical body so disposable that the death of it is no longer at the center of deepest loss?
As for me, I am not your digitized scrapbook. Those pictures are tiny fragments of my life. They don't tell the whole story. They're not meant to and I don't want you to give permission to my digital executor for their eventual release.
If I was important in your life or if you are relieved not to have me here anymore, my wish is for you to honor what we had by taking the time and effort to send me into the universe permanently.
I fully expect you to stop everything you are doing at the moment you are notified and make plans to
get to the designated place at the designated time.
I can't imagine not having attended the funerals for those I loved. The pain was exquisitely
essential in my soul's journey. Knowing that their voice, their smell, their touch would never
come again, allowed me closure. The closure allowed me to breathe again. Loss is the deepest personal
emotion for me; more so than joy. Loss teaches me how to be a kinder person, a more loving woman, a more tolerant human being.
I don't want the burden of revisiting memories. Life has enough interruptions as it is. Balancing the high wire of what-ifs is not my style. Remembering and honoring one's memory are not synonymous.
Being thankful for relationships and wanting to relive them is not the same. I choose to be thankful and refuse to dwell on how my life was changed or enhanced or nearly destroyed. I let go and focus on today.
Do I still mourn? Of course-sometimes decades later. Do I have tangible remembrances? Yes. Do I want to click and relive moments? No, I do not.
Do not define me in fragments. I gave you all I was. My relationship with you was not meant to be shared. My time with you was not meant to be compared to my time with any other. Understand that you were singularly important in my life and in my life's purpose. Promise me that my entirety will not end up like pieces in a digital jigsaw puzzle. Promise me that your heart will have sufficient space to be the caretaker of our time together. Honor me in ways that release my soul's continuing journey; for I am not finished.
Say goodbye as you gather at the river or under the canopy of stars. Honor me with your presence, mourn my passing with dignity and a final tear or call my name just once more for my spirit will be with you there, at that place and at that moment. Let me go, do not keep me prisoner in the fractured
pictures of my life.
I was oh so much more.
Monday, September 19, 2016
Used To Be Me
Sometimes trolling the internet gives me reason to rethink. Such is the predicament today. Actually, it has been my predicament for about a week, given that I first spotted the headline "Earth's Rotation Cause Shift in Astrological Signs". Further reading resulted in the understanding that the sun's position relative to the earth's axis ON THE DAY YOU WERE BORN, determines your astrological sign. End result: my Capricorn has shifted forward to Sagittarius. Oh no!
I don't like change; especially the changes which endanger who I thought I was…I am.
My attributes and lesser qualities no longer apply. I know that my life has shifted towards new territories. I am on a predestined path which conflicts with free will. My astrological profile is now completely convoluted and I have to open myself to new ways of explaining my behaviors.
But, I'm comfortable and very much convinced that my old sign was spot on. Let's review: Practical and prudent, ambitious and disciplined, patient and careful, humorous and reserved. On the dark side…
pessimistic and fatalistic, miserly and drudging.
I've worked sixty years, carefully honing the above characteristics so as to fulfill my destiny and to
validate those (if any) quirks which might come across every now and again. Once you met me,
there would be no doubt as to my position in the tenth house of intelligence.
Now I have to reinvent mine and yours and his and hers and theirs.
Okay, let's be open to possibilities. I'm not in charge apparently. Should have done more research, but in the tumultuous trappings of high school, I was just glad to be identified with the nerds and for further validation…the band kid nurds.
To date, I am the goat-fish of the "what's your sign" generation. I will die a goat fish in my heart of hearts.
Seems my life is all about compromise…you know, it's THIS way…on the OTHER HAND, maybe not. I've never been so unfocused and driven at the same time. Is it even possible to live this way;
running full steam ahead, over the cliff and hope that I'll make a bouncing recovery onto an parallel plane of existence?
Am I ready for this abrupt change in my autobiography? Are you willing to accept my new persona?
Accepting my latest credentials will change our relationship. Be prepared that we might not be compatible anymore. After all you are not you. Your truth is waning.
How does one handle this slippery cup of noodles? I'm not the only one is this equation, it's a world wide phenomenon.
Ditch the label? No! I won't. I will go kicking and screaming, with disco ball in tow to the next incarnate destination.
I suppose (being moderately curious as to the newest version of me), that the new adjectives may be a truer representation. Perhaps, just perhaps, I will be willing to try them on. Am I above lying about my birthday if I find that disappointment prevails and that I absolutely can not be described as laid out in the ancient practice of astrology? Nope…but lets let that be a last resort.
Okay. Time for a practice run. " Sagittarius-Optimistic and freedom-loving, jovial and good-humored, honest and straightforward, intellectual and philosophical…If you catch me on a bad day, then I may be : blindly optimistic and careless, irresponsible and superficial, tactless and restless".
Perception is a double edged sword. Those attributes that I share may not be received in like manner. This is problematic for me regardless of which sign I favor. What you see is what you get.
There's no deception, there's no pussy footing around.
The earth rotates on it's axis, the galaxies expand and contract. My life requires no explanation; after all my purpose and destiny are a continuum within a vast universe. I am not limited to who I am now and
who I used to be.
I don't like change; especially the changes which endanger who I thought I was…I am.
My attributes and lesser qualities no longer apply. I know that my life has shifted towards new territories. I am on a predestined path which conflicts with free will. My astrological profile is now completely convoluted and I have to open myself to new ways of explaining my behaviors.
But, I'm comfortable and very much convinced that my old sign was spot on. Let's review: Practical and prudent, ambitious and disciplined, patient and careful, humorous and reserved. On the dark side…
pessimistic and fatalistic, miserly and drudging.
I've worked sixty years, carefully honing the above characteristics so as to fulfill my destiny and to
validate those (if any) quirks which might come across every now and again. Once you met me,
there would be no doubt as to my position in the tenth house of intelligence.
Now I have to reinvent mine and yours and his and hers and theirs.
Okay, let's be open to possibilities. I'm not in charge apparently. Should have done more research, but in the tumultuous trappings of high school, I was just glad to be identified with the nerds and for further validation…the band kid nurds.
To date, I am the goat-fish of the "what's your sign" generation. I will die a goat fish in my heart of hearts.
Seems my life is all about compromise…you know, it's THIS way…on the OTHER HAND, maybe not. I've never been so unfocused and driven at the same time. Is it even possible to live this way;
running full steam ahead, over the cliff and hope that I'll make a bouncing recovery onto an parallel plane of existence?
Am I ready for this abrupt change in my autobiography? Are you willing to accept my new persona?
Accepting my latest credentials will change our relationship. Be prepared that we might not be compatible anymore. After all you are not you. Your truth is waning.
How does one handle this slippery cup of noodles? I'm not the only one is this equation, it's a world wide phenomenon.
Ditch the label? No! I won't. I will go kicking and screaming, with disco ball in tow to the next incarnate destination.
I suppose (being moderately curious as to the newest version of me), that the new adjectives may be a truer representation. Perhaps, just perhaps, I will be willing to try them on. Am I above lying about my birthday if I find that disappointment prevails and that I absolutely can not be described as laid out in the ancient practice of astrology? Nope…but lets let that be a last resort.
Okay. Time for a practice run. " Sagittarius-Optimistic and freedom-loving, jovial and good-humored, honest and straightforward, intellectual and philosophical…If you catch me on a bad day, then I may be : blindly optimistic and careless, irresponsible and superficial, tactless and restless".
Perception is a double edged sword. Those attributes that I share may not be received in like manner. This is problematic for me regardless of which sign I favor. What you see is what you get.
There's no deception, there's no pussy footing around.
The earth rotates on it's axis, the galaxies expand and contract. My life requires no explanation; after all my purpose and destiny are a continuum within a vast universe. I am not limited to who I am now and
who I used to be.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Redefined
I have written that I am being repurposed, but this is different. This is my truth…my reason for the earthly presence my incarnate soul has been given.
Rediscovery can come from within as a result of counseling from without. Teachings not found in books and not originating from the human mind are tangible if you believe in intuition. The gut feeling, the visceral messages you must listen to come when the soul is being shaken to the core. Your attention is narrowed to only that which will allow your purpose through.
When the familiar you isn't a good fit anymore, you're ready.
I'm ready.
Allowing the universal messages to flow to my conscious mind, I am primed for learning. I am open to possibilities which take what I thought I knew to another dimension…literally.
The Shaman taught me, her teachings were recently validated by my intuitive. Warning: the following may challenge you if you are a heaven and hell kind of person...
Time in Stonehenge, Wales was brief, maybe two hours. The pinnacle of that window of opportunity was my interaction with the Shaman. My daughter and I walked the circle, photographed the stones, and not feeling drawn to the energies there, headed to the gift shop, concession area. Found two seats at the perimeter counter and planned a leisurely snack before catching the return shuttle back to town.
Seated next to us were a pair of women engaged in some ritual using a goat head staff. One woman was apparently in receipt of messages, the other, in a rather theatrical costume gave instruction and validation. I wanted to know more, so I abandoned my juice and my daughter and interrupted them by asking "who are you and why are you dressed this way"? The reply was a simple four-word sentence "I am the Shaman".
I was invited to join them after permission was granted by the other woman. The next 46 minutes
can not be retold for the teachings formed the most intimate conversation I have ever had. I will
share that my journey was unexpected and not earthbound. I will tell you that my purpose that day was
predestined and that no other person could have completed the task for I had been summoned to help.
I had to travel four thousand miles. The Shaman had waited for me. How long? She did not disclose.
That experience has brought me out of my comfort zone and not gently. This present self is housed in a physical body whose limitations are waning. So as my bones weaken and muscles atrophy, there is a seeming urgency for repair and maintenance. My reason for being here has just been revealed and it's
so surreal that my explanation may not suffice.
Being afflicted with a straight forward demeanor, I'll just say that I am gifted to guide souls from the dark into the light.
I thought that I was to heal by the laying on of hands. Yes, that is still an option. I have free will.
That seems more of a career than a purpose. Both will require travel, although spiritual guidance is not limited.
How to proceed? Where do I go? With whom will I provide guidance? How frequently? How many souls await? Again, it is predestined.
I must quiet my mind. I must remain open. Priorities are no longer measures of my worth. There is work to be done. Soul reawakened. Life's purpose redefined.
Rediscovery can come from within as a result of counseling from without. Teachings not found in books and not originating from the human mind are tangible if you believe in intuition. The gut feeling, the visceral messages you must listen to come when the soul is being shaken to the core. Your attention is narrowed to only that which will allow your purpose through.
When the familiar you isn't a good fit anymore, you're ready.
I'm ready.
Allowing the universal messages to flow to my conscious mind, I am primed for learning. I am open to possibilities which take what I thought I knew to another dimension…literally.
The Shaman taught me, her teachings were recently validated by my intuitive. Warning: the following may challenge you if you are a heaven and hell kind of person...
Time in Stonehenge, Wales was brief, maybe two hours. The pinnacle of that window of opportunity was my interaction with the Shaman. My daughter and I walked the circle, photographed the stones, and not feeling drawn to the energies there, headed to the gift shop, concession area. Found two seats at the perimeter counter and planned a leisurely snack before catching the return shuttle back to town.
Seated next to us were a pair of women engaged in some ritual using a goat head staff. One woman was apparently in receipt of messages, the other, in a rather theatrical costume gave instruction and validation. I wanted to know more, so I abandoned my juice and my daughter and interrupted them by asking "who are you and why are you dressed this way"? The reply was a simple four-word sentence "I am the Shaman".
I was invited to join them after permission was granted by the other woman. The next 46 minutes
can not be retold for the teachings formed the most intimate conversation I have ever had. I will
share that my journey was unexpected and not earthbound. I will tell you that my purpose that day was
predestined and that no other person could have completed the task for I had been summoned to help.
I had to travel four thousand miles. The Shaman had waited for me. How long? She did not disclose.
That experience has brought me out of my comfort zone and not gently. This present self is housed in a physical body whose limitations are waning. So as my bones weaken and muscles atrophy, there is a seeming urgency for repair and maintenance. My reason for being here has just been revealed and it's
so surreal that my explanation may not suffice.
Being afflicted with a straight forward demeanor, I'll just say that I am gifted to guide souls from the dark into the light.
I thought that I was to heal by the laying on of hands. Yes, that is still an option. I have free will.
That seems more of a career than a purpose. Both will require travel, although spiritual guidance is not limited.
How to proceed? Where do I go? With whom will I provide guidance? How frequently? How many souls await? Again, it is predestined.
I must quiet my mind. I must remain open. Priorities are no longer measures of my worth. There is work to be done. Soul reawakened. Life's purpose redefined.
Friday, September 2, 2016
Living Fiction
Wizard of Oz or Alice Through the Looking Glass? These great works of literature are seemingly
parallel to my life at present; if not in totality at least in part.
In snippets, really, because I don't possess total recall of all the delightful and complex characters involved in the telling of those two tales. I'm just sitting here deep in thought as to why I don't recognize my role in my own life. Am I not justified in thinking that the consequences to all MY choices are the result of MY actions? Is MY truth not mine?
There are two possibilities, given the title to this story. Either I have fallen down the rabbit hole or I grabbed my picnic basket and little dog and headed down the yellow brick road. My reality needs a reality check. Loss of control is a terrible burden to one who believed herself incapable of mental incontinence.
I am unprepared, ill-equipped and scared to death of this present situation. There is no reasonable explanation for this abrupt divergence from my strategically planned life. I've paid my dues and slid into old age according to the directions. The warranties on my parts are expiring and I'm a victim to the current health care options. Life just gets less exciting, more predictable and then you die. No reason to be thrust into another existential dimension, NOT NOW!
And yet, here I am-in flux. Damn.
Denial won't solve the puzzle. There's energy, constant swirling energy approaching the horizon and I will be swept up into it. This I know. It has been foretold. In my soul portraits, the focal point remains but the evolution through the series, defines my energy being guided by entities of passionate love and protection. My last portrait was commissioned 4 years ago. The color pallet softened and the canvas appears to have tiny twinkling lights (my guides).
Don't get excited, I am not a predictor of any apocalypse. I don't believe in the end of the physical world, I don't believe in final judgment and I don't need my soul saved (it's not mine to begin with).
I'm a metaphysical being in transition. I have layers and layers upon layers of purpose. We all do. We all have multiple personality disorder; it's just that some of us would rather not expose ourselves. We fear ridicule and failure. Neither will cause an end to our truth.
Unlike the masterpieces of fiction I have referenced, my journey does not invite companions. There is no cast of characters; no personification of relations. I have my own White Rabbit keeping me in the moment.
The yellow brick road leads to Chrystal City. The Wizard is not whom we first believed. Perhaps my journey is a reflection in the looking glass rather than through the other side.
Dorothy and Alice awakened to find nothing had changed. As for me, I'd rather keep dreaming.
parallel to my life at present; if not in totality at least in part.
In snippets, really, because I don't possess total recall of all the delightful and complex characters involved in the telling of those two tales. I'm just sitting here deep in thought as to why I don't recognize my role in my own life. Am I not justified in thinking that the consequences to all MY choices are the result of MY actions? Is MY truth not mine?
There are two possibilities, given the title to this story. Either I have fallen down the rabbit hole or I grabbed my picnic basket and little dog and headed down the yellow brick road. My reality needs a reality check. Loss of control is a terrible burden to one who believed herself incapable of mental incontinence.
I am unprepared, ill-equipped and scared to death of this present situation. There is no reasonable explanation for this abrupt divergence from my strategically planned life. I've paid my dues and slid into old age according to the directions. The warranties on my parts are expiring and I'm a victim to the current health care options. Life just gets less exciting, more predictable and then you die. No reason to be thrust into another existential dimension, NOT NOW!
And yet, here I am-in flux. Damn.
Denial won't solve the puzzle. There's energy, constant swirling energy approaching the horizon and I will be swept up into it. This I know. It has been foretold. In my soul portraits, the focal point remains but the evolution through the series, defines my energy being guided by entities of passionate love and protection. My last portrait was commissioned 4 years ago. The color pallet softened and the canvas appears to have tiny twinkling lights (my guides).
Don't get excited, I am not a predictor of any apocalypse. I don't believe in the end of the physical world, I don't believe in final judgment and I don't need my soul saved (it's not mine to begin with).
I'm a metaphysical being in transition. I have layers and layers upon layers of purpose. We all do. We all have multiple personality disorder; it's just that some of us would rather not expose ourselves. We fear ridicule and failure. Neither will cause an end to our truth.
Unlike the masterpieces of fiction I have referenced, my journey does not invite companions. There is no cast of characters; no personification of relations. I have my own White Rabbit keeping me in the moment.
The yellow brick road leads to Chrystal City. The Wizard is not whom we first believed. Perhaps my journey is a reflection in the looking glass rather than through the other side.
Dorothy and Alice awakened to find nothing had changed. As for me, I'd rather keep dreaming.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Collections
I have more than one. My parents, grandmother, brother, children and neighbors have at least a singular assemblage of mementos. Why?
The church has them along the wall of the sanctuary. My son's property manager has one which is taking over her desk. What is the attachment, the affinity for, the need to grow a collection? Animals don't do it but people do.
Our lives defined by collections. What do they reveal? Well, mine would scream personality disorder to anyone entering my private spaces. The display of neatly positioned figurines, mostly dusted, are years in the making; from childhood and from my mother's childhood.
The objects are displayed with great care and effort in the placement of each. They remain grouped together, they have themes. If you observe them closely enough, they give clues to who I was and who I am today.
There is beauty there; on the shelves and table tops. There is grace and artistry, whimsy and joy.
There are memories attached to some which make them irreplaceable in my heart. I anguish over cracks and dents. New damage causes me sadness in the knowledge that they can not be replaced.
I tried to replace one; searching the internet for a duplicate. Found one, bought it and substituted it
in the original grouping. It doesn't belong somehow. You wouldn't notice it, but I know better.
I remember where and when most of the figurines came to stay with me. Some were gifts, others part of an inheritance. More recent acquisitions were the fruit of trips to flea markets, garage sales, antique malls and just once, a junk pile I passed. That special addition caused me to go around the block again and stop, turning on the hazard lights while I stood there intent on closely inspecting the latest treasure.
I have slowed down in my efforts to sustain and grow the collections of decorative objects. The excitement of discovery has left my conscious and subconscious; maybe I am just focused elsewhere.
Trying to reignite my enthusiasm to begin again, I concentrate on the task of acquisition and with good intentions and a full tank of gas, I head out. More times than not, I come home empty handed; disillusioned and upset that I wasted time. But was it truly wasted time? Maybe not.
Surrounding myself with history or (my version of history) unchains my soul from day to day mundane
living. The adventure of searching behind and under something; opening a drawer or door to discover what lay hidden, is stimulating. An adult version of hide and go seek where hiding my eyes and counting to ten are no longer part of the game. I suppose I could yell "ollie, ollie in come free" at the cashier counter!
My white duck collection began with an expensive single duckling belonging to Mom. I inherited 700 plus elephants as well, but let go of all but a handful when my husband and I realized that there was no hope of traveling with that responsibility during his years of active duty service. The ones which keep me company now are distinct and so my Mom.
I have two moose, which will suffice. The figurines of dainty, bisque and porcelain women are
dissimilar but as a group define my affection for years gone by; a gentile world. The paintings are mostly original works of art and there the similarity ends.
Not all of my collections are of multiples. I have a collection of one; it is of a carved stone anteater. The grouping may not increase given the unlikelihood of ever finding another.
There are stories behind each cherished piece. I may retell them some day and then I may keep secrets and allow the next collector to remember me in the details of my collections.
The church has them along the wall of the sanctuary. My son's property manager has one which is taking over her desk. What is the attachment, the affinity for, the need to grow a collection? Animals don't do it but people do.
Our lives defined by collections. What do they reveal? Well, mine would scream personality disorder to anyone entering my private spaces. The display of neatly positioned figurines, mostly dusted, are years in the making; from childhood and from my mother's childhood.
The objects are displayed with great care and effort in the placement of each. They remain grouped together, they have themes. If you observe them closely enough, they give clues to who I was and who I am today.
There is beauty there; on the shelves and table tops. There is grace and artistry, whimsy and joy.
There are memories attached to some which make them irreplaceable in my heart. I anguish over cracks and dents. New damage causes me sadness in the knowledge that they can not be replaced.
I tried to replace one; searching the internet for a duplicate. Found one, bought it and substituted it
in the original grouping. It doesn't belong somehow. You wouldn't notice it, but I know better.
I remember where and when most of the figurines came to stay with me. Some were gifts, others part of an inheritance. More recent acquisitions were the fruit of trips to flea markets, garage sales, antique malls and just once, a junk pile I passed. That special addition caused me to go around the block again and stop, turning on the hazard lights while I stood there intent on closely inspecting the latest treasure.
I have slowed down in my efforts to sustain and grow the collections of decorative objects. The excitement of discovery has left my conscious and subconscious; maybe I am just focused elsewhere.
Trying to reignite my enthusiasm to begin again, I concentrate on the task of acquisition and with good intentions and a full tank of gas, I head out. More times than not, I come home empty handed; disillusioned and upset that I wasted time. But was it truly wasted time? Maybe not.
Surrounding myself with history or (my version of history) unchains my soul from day to day mundane
living. The adventure of searching behind and under something; opening a drawer or door to discover what lay hidden, is stimulating. An adult version of hide and go seek where hiding my eyes and counting to ten are no longer part of the game. I suppose I could yell "ollie, ollie in come free" at the cashier counter!
My white duck collection began with an expensive single duckling belonging to Mom. I inherited 700 plus elephants as well, but let go of all but a handful when my husband and I realized that there was no hope of traveling with that responsibility during his years of active duty service. The ones which keep me company now are distinct and so my Mom.
I have two moose, which will suffice. The figurines of dainty, bisque and porcelain women are
dissimilar but as a group define my affection for years gone by; a gentile world. The paintings are mostly original works of art and there the similarity ends.
Not all of my collections are of multiples. I have a collection of one; it is of a carved stone anteater. The grouping may not increase given the unlikelihood of ever finding another.
There are stories behind each cherished piece. I may retell them some day and then I may keep secrets and allow the next collector to remember me in the details of my collections.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Living With Kong
"Stop humpfing at me…it's disrespectful that you do not use more than one word to reply, it's like you're not listening to me...that's one of the reasons sending me back to the psychiatrist" I said. He didn't reply, just walked out of the house on his way to the movies.
I can't believe the retrogression manifesting itself in my spouse of 28 years.
It's impertinent, discourteous and rude to reply to EVERYTHING I say in the monosyllabic retort. It's been this way for a couple of years now. The only break I get is when we are in public or in unfamiliar surroundings; then he manages a clever and well thought reply. If I said, "my mole has sloughed off", he would compose an entire paragraph to describe his interest, surprise, consolation, whatever.
This repugnant development in his personality is a tell as to his eventual return to the primate survival kit. He's beginning to resemble the troupe and I am hopeful that I can supplement my retirement by renting him out to those who study the species. He would be a great addition to any primate study. Research could reach full circle; not with the conclusion that humans evolved from but also regress to the original biped.
I can join Dr. Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey and their contemporaries ( as an honorary member, of course)
with my contribution to the continued studies of living with apes (great apes, lesser apes, chimpanzees, etc.)
I don't understand why the medical community hasn't stopped to consider that the chronic degeneration of the body, as it ages, is simply evolution in reverse. The diagnosis' which consume and support the pharmacological sectors could be redefined, although acceptance of this inevitability may lead to new networking within the medical and architectural leaders.New think tanks, new industries, a boon to our economy…all related to the eventuality of ditching current trends to support our aging populations.
New design concepts would have to be created in order for us to live as we once did. Jungle gyms come to mind and lots of sand boxes with rocks which could be sharpened into tools for every day use.
The Naked and Afraid reality show could be the latest trend in mini documentaries to validate that the primordial can not be genetically altered. It can not be bred out of the human. In our desperate
attempt to prolong life and dishonor the natural world, we ignore purpose, we ignore the circle of life which is inherent in the diversity of species which survive.
All this outpouring of possibilities comes from my observations in my husband's simple choice of vocabulary. At this point, I hope it is a choice, but it could be destiny.
I'm excited to see how close to the original neanderthal my husband resembles in the coming decade. His vocabulary is already primed...
I can't believe the retrogression manifesting itself in my spouse of 28 years.
It's impertinent, discourteous and rude to reply to EVERYTHING I say in the monosyllabic retort. It's been this way for a couple of years now. The only break I get is when we are in public or in unfamiliar surroundings; then he manages a clever and well thought reply. If I said, "my mole has sloughed off", he would compose an entire paragraph to describe his interest, surprise, consolation, whatever.
This repugnant development in his personality is a tell as to his eventual return to the primate survival kit. He's beginning to resemble the troupe and I am hopeful that I can supplement my retirement by renting him out to those who study the species. He would be a great addition to any primate study. Research could reach full circle; not with the conclusion that humans evolved from but also regress to the original biped.
I can join Dr. Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey and their contemporaries ( as an honorary member, of course)
with my contribution to the continued studies of living with apes (great apes, lesser apes, chimpanzees, etc.)
I don't understand why the medical community hasn't stopped to consider that the chronic degeneration of the body, as it ages, is simply evolution in reverse. The diagnosis' which consume and support the pharmacological sectors could be redefined, although acceptance of this inevitability may lead to new networking within the medical and architectural leaders.New think tanks, new industries, a boon to our economy…all related to the eventuality of ditching current trends to support our aging populations.
New design concepts would have to be created in order for us to live as we once did. Jungle gyms come to mind and lots of sand boxes with rocks which could be sharpened into tools for every day use.
The Naked and Afraid reality show could be the latest trend in mini documentaries to validate that the primordial can not be genetically altered. It can not be bred out of the human. In our desperate
attempt to prolong life and dishonor the natural world, we ignore purpose, we ignore the circle of life which is inherent in the diversity of species which survive.
All this outpouring of possibilities comes from my observations in my husband's simple choice of vocabulary. At this point, I hope it is a choice, but it could be destiny.
I'm excited to see how close to the original neanderthal my husband resembles in the coming decade. His vocabulary is already primed...
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
The Altered State of Me
My BFF replied, "Tomorrow is another day". That was her way of acknowledging the chaotic day I had had and that when I awakened, it would have ceased. Time to begin again.
Begin again? But wait, I failed at yesterday. Nothing was accomplished. Or was it? My response (which was delayed until that new day's dawning) was "So glad today is not a continuation of yesterday".
Since when have my days become compartmentalized? Since when?
My to-do list has taken on a life of its own. The burden of being me is overwhelming. This new self-definition has crappy timing.
Now that I have opened myself to a metaphysical way of thinking, the universe has taken control.
It just came in and stayed; filling all the voids I used to enjoy. The voids of doing nothing.
The choice of doing nothing; nothing beneficial, nothing creative, nothing productive, meditative, healthful, ego filling nothing.
I am consumed with my soul's housekeeping. No more secrets, my insides have been hung out to dry in front of the world. My cleaned, folded and put away emotional laundry is filling the clotheslines to capacity.
Why now?
The reincarnate process has begun and I'm still not finished with the present version. Nothing has prepared me for this. Didn't anticipate THIS! Thought that it (reincarnation) was not a task meant for human endeavors. Well, it's not the first time I have bumbled. But it is the first time I have come face to face with me and all I used to be.
Messages have been received and I am processing them. I am analyzing them. I am trying to incorporate them within my list of things to do. You have one. Everyone has one. Caution: the list of things to do and "bucket list' are not the same. They are parallel tasks; not always on the same plane of life.
Dreams are messages. Dreams have interpretations. Interpretations are varied and seem to fit whatever mood I am in. Still, they come, vivid and unrelenting. I must chronicle them, I must study them in order to separate the urgent from the I'll get to it later categories.
Recently, speeding cars wherein I am always the passenger has been the theme. Going forward towards crashing, in reverse towards oblivion. They keep me prisoner in that deepest state of sleep.
I can not immediately awaken,..trance-like…slow to dismiss them; sometimes details remain until the first light. Duty and destiny are converging, becoming interlocked and inseparable. I can hardly pause to catch my breath. The straight and narrow path has hurdles. Who knew?
Messages come through my intuitive counselors. I have several…hoping to discredit one, hedging my bets for I am capricious and can not always discern truth. Doesn't matter, all the messages are the same, the source is constant although I have not inquired as to "who"? Consistent and relentless they come in fractured unison.
My turn to choose. Do I take that leap from safe and predictable to kismet? All I can do today is wonder. All I can do today is to prepare…think I'll sleep on it and let you know in the morning; after all tomorrow is another day.
Begin again? But wait, I failed at yesterday. Nothing was accomplished. Or was it? My response (which was delayed until that new day's dawning) was "So glad today is not a continuation of yesterday".
Since when have my days become compartmentalized? Since when?
My to-do list has taken on a life of its own. The burden of being me is overwhelming. This new self-definition has crappy timing.
Now that I have opened myself to a metaphysical way of thinking, the universe has taken control.
It just came in and stayed; filling all the voids I used to enjoy. The voids of doing nothing.
The choice of doing nothing; nothing beneficial, nothing creative, nothing productive, meditative, healthful, ego filling nothing.
I am consumed with my soul's housekeeping. No more secrets, my insides have been hung out to dry in front of the world. My cleaned, folded and put away emotional laundry is filling the clotheslines to capacity.
Why now?
The reincarnate process has begun and I'm still not finished with the present version. Nothing has prepared me for this. Didn't anticipate THIS! Thought that it (reincarnation) was not a task meant for human endeavors. Well, it's not the first time I have bumbled. But it is the first time I have come face to face with me and all I used to be.
Messages have been received and I am processing them. I am analyzing them. I am trying to incorporate them within my list of things to do. You have one. Everyone has one. Caution: the list of things to do and "bucket list' are not the same. They are parallel tasks; not always on the same plane of life.
Dreams are messages. Dreams have interpretations. Interpretations are varied and seem to fit whatever mood I am in. Still, they come, vivid and unrelenting. I must chronicle them, I must study them in order to separate the urgent from the I'll get to it later categories.
Recently, speeding cars wherein I am always the passenger has been the theme. Going forward towards crashing, in reverse towards oblivion. They keep me prisoner in that deepest state of sleep.
I can not immediately awaken,..trance-like…slow to dismiss them; sometimes details remain until the first light. Duty and destiny are converging, becoming interlocked and inseparable. I can hardly pause to catch my breath. The straight and narrow path has hurdles. Who knew?
Messages come through my intuitive counselors. I have several…hoping to discredit one, hedging my bets for I am capricious and can not always discern truth. Doesn't matter, all the messages are the same, the source is constant although I have not inquired as to "who"? Consistent and relentless they come in fractured unison.
My turn to choose. Do I take that leap from safe and predictable to kismet? All I can do today is wonder. All I can do today is to prepare…think I'll sleep on it and let you know in the morning; after all tomorrow is another day.
Monday, August 8, 2016
The Church of "Attaboy".
The Church of Attaboy doesn't exist. That's a truth which is universal, worldly and more precisely evident in every house of worship; regardless of theological differences.
I want to start one.
I want a place (a physical dwelling) or recognizable static location where I can join others for zealous
validation of a job well done. It's a simple request.
My husband has just modified his news app on his phone to the BBC. He is tired of the negative press. He's sick of the politicking. Really…who are you kidding? Neither party nominee is qualified for the oval office. Crook (with money and connections) vs. megalomaniacal racist (with money and connections). There's not an honest candidate. I'm not voting.
Sorry for the rant…it's been waiting to come out for a long time…
Negative, horrific news bombards the inquiring mind. Even those of us who are not constantly tuned in
are aware. That's in THIS country. We are being watched and redefined. It's not the impression
I want to give.
Where to go to escape, recharge and not give up? It's not to worship as far as I know and that's what needs changing.
We all need recognition and appreciation for being us. Those of us who follow the golden rule needs
support and accolades. What happened to kindness? What happened to respect?
In the church of attaboy, we would celebrate the everyday joys. We would count and applaud the number of times we smiled at someone. We would "happy dance" for each unselfish kindness toward another. We would sing silly songs of childhood because it is joyous.
'
No need to meditate or atone, no required confessions. There would be no absolutions or hail Mary's.
No commandments, no doctrine, no worship.
Celebration, continuous happiness, contagious joy without constraint; without reminders that
what we do is not enough. Truth be told, it's more than enough.
Can you implement this simple ideal? Of course! Start with your heart with mind to follow.
Be unafraid to initiate random acts of kindness because it's the right and honorable thing to do.
Be gentle and gentile. Be a force for peace. Come for validation and veneration. I hope to see you there.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Wrong Number
It happens to you, too. Come on, admit it…either you butt dial or receive aggravating wrong number attempts.
Thinking that cellular and digital-based phone calls eliminate human error is fantasy. It all begins with data entry, which begins with human or robot (which began as human programing-which began with digital or graphic art-which was preceded by pen and paper-which was a credit to total human effort).
Ever tried and failed at the newest automated directory assistance? Either your diction is never clear enough to prompt a probable reply or the person or business you THINK would be listed is not. Or the operator you hope is at the very last resort for human connectivity is ESOL challenged and you just give up and send an email or Facebook, Twitter or give up because the reason you wanted to reach them has eluded your temporal lobe…
Technology will never catch up, enhance or replace face to face time in my opinion. Yes, I still reside in yesteryear and am happily irresponsible for techno-failure. I am, however, totally responsible for screwing up on my own terms in the world of "used to be". On the flip side, I can still locate any business or person in a printed paper phone directory, using my intuition and skills honed in a library science class in high school…40 years ago! They can't take that away from me.
You see, the mind doesn't stop at the first hurdle; something technology will never out master. Failure is a tool for the mind, it allows a "do-over". It doesn't recognize limited responses, it loves a puzzle. Technology is only as good as the PEOPLE responsible for implementing it. Period.
Now that I've stood on my soapbox for the allotted time, I want to invite you into the realm of possibilities which exist out there…really out there…indefinable out there.
I am at odds with my self-preservation. My path was already set with minimal hurdles. I was comfortable and looking forward to my choices for the next ten to twenty years.
Twice now, in the span of one month or a little longer, I have been grappling with a wrong number which is attempting to connect and change my plans. The source of this "misdial" is unknown to me. The fact that the phenomenon is persistent has me stopped dead in my tracks. What the hell?
You see, I am destined for a new course, one which sets me apart as a spiritual or metaphysical healer. There's no logic here. I'm empathic, I know this. I can absorb and absolve the minor trauma of another; be it animals or human. My hugs and embraces are well known and have gotten me in trouble a couple of times because I misread the others' intentions. That's part of my learning curve, I guess.
I am born under the sign of Capricorn. Capricious? Yes, I am. You can sort through the description of this astrological sign on your own time. A born leader? Yes, but not a willing one.
Healer? Well honestly, never described me as one. Spiritual? Perhaps. Hopefully, no doctrine will intervene. Hate is a strong word, a hurtful word, but I absolutely hate religion. That organizational chart with a deity at the top and middle tier of hierarchy and bottom tier of the poor, miserable beings who will never ascend makes my blood boil.
Back to spiritual: okay, I can grasp that ideology. I can acknowledge that connection. Where else would the message emanate?
So, when does the wrong number become the right one? When is destiny justified? Who will have the conversations with me as I struggle to accept this new course? There's no one answer; it's a collaborative effort by the universal voices. I hear them. Just give me a minute to add them to the address book and yes, the contact list on my phone.
Up?
Up?
By
Laura Duerrwaechter
2016
I rearranged three green houseplants yesterday. My routine is to
water every few days, remove yellow leaves and other debris, dust and turn.
They weren't surviving in the tiered wrought iron plant stand. The former
trio was separated and placed on tabletops throughout the house, all within
close proximity to north-facing windows. The plant stand is at curbside.
Today, they are not the same plants. They
are hopeful and leaves upturned toward the promise of sunshine.
I wonder, is there a parallel to my own
existence?
What would happen if I dusted off myself,
turned and headed north? Is it the universal magnetic field
of my soul? Is it north or just up?
If it's north, geographically, I'd be in
Canada eventually. No problem, I have a valid ten-year passport.
Always wanted to go there; it's on my
bucket list actually.
If it's up, I don't know what method would
be at my disposal. I suppose I could carry the ladder out back and climb
it. Arriving at the top, sit and view the possibilities from that perspective.
Could be just enough to give me the space I need to carry on. That
would be okay for a single effort. Seems rather improbable that I would be
willing to tote that ladder with me everywhere I go.
How else does one get up? Jumping,
rock climbing, stilt walking, jet pack, parasailing or hot air ballooning?
Flying? NASA? Absolutely…there are options!
Is it altitude that I require? Or is it
the need to focus on the light source, to become diurnal and thrive
under the sustaining light from sun and
starlit canopy?
Something within already knows and is the
reason my home is awash with sunlight. Something within
already keeps me navigating where the
shadows do not linger.
I am aware of the science behind this but
I have forgotten the biology, botany and chemistry lessons once studied in
school. I am not discrediting the facts; I am appreciating that these
thoughts keep me entertained and in a constant state of wonder.
I have been a recent visitor to
"up" during an out of body experience, with a Shaman at Stonehenge,
Amesbury, Wales. I connected with the universe and its' myriad residents.
Believe it or not; I do not wish to entangle you in my experience, only
wish to share that my existence was not limited to sensory
exploration. The soul is fluid and
the need to connect with ALL things can not be accomplished
within the limits of five senses.
My journey's evolution came late in life.
That's okay. There's no timeline, even when the body
ceases to provide the security of life as
I knew it. My soul will travel and reincarnate and I shall be the where,
what, who, how and why because
I exist.
"I think, therefore, I am". I
must give homage to Descartes for his meditative points. It would be
difficult to adapt his philosophy as a template for my own, but his words and
my understanding of those words validate my present self.
In sync with the universe? I am
hopeful. This soul is tired and ready for what lays beyond the perceived
horizon. Newfound knowledge is transformative; what will be, will be and
I can't wait to get there.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Whose Truth?
Just thinking about the definition of "truth"... Is it always as a perceived idea? Is it finite? I am grappling with it. Is the totality of my experiences my "truth" or is it the achievement of another's definition?
The absence of fiction, the absence of nonfactual. The opposite of "lie". ..the state of being the case: fact (2): the body of real things, events, and facts: actuality (3) often capitalized: a transcendent fundamental or spiritual reality…as defined in Merriam Webster's latest evolution of vocabulary.
Let's dissect.
My truth is not your truth. It is unique and that which can not be challenged. My soul's provenance; to be cherished and respected above all else. The conflict arises from deliberate misrepresentation of one's own experiences. To be an actor, to honor another's story is not what I am talking about. We all borrow excerpts from those who mentor us, who train us, who offer us escape from our reality. We mimic, some of us more than others.
When does one's truth emerge? At birth? Upon one's first spoken word or utterance? On the battleground of one's first conflict?
How does truth justify conflict? Which side to blame if both are immersed in truth? I believe all world conflicts, battles, wars, genocides are the result of truth vs. truth; not good vs. evil.
I am six decades of truth; the composite heap of the good, the bad and the ugly. How the heap continues to expand will depend on mostly educated guesses as to the right path mixed with occasional I don't give a shit and full speed ahead.
Recently, my dreams have been vivid reenactments of seemingly inconsequential events in my life. Same people, a slight variation on the themes and all wake me right up, sometimes with urgency and rapid heart rate. What is happening here? My truth is changing. My repressed memories are my constant companions and it's not comfortable being me anymore.
So now, I have versions of my truth; I am conflicted. The benefit of age is not necessarily wisdom; in my case, it's acceptance of the truth and the acknowledgment that the conscious and unconscious are entwined. Memories, which are my soul's timeline, are the tools I use to debunk the "what if's" of my truth.
The accumulation of stored gray matter, which I thought to be locked away, is spilling from the trunks and boxes, closets and wall safes of my mind. What events have caused this chaos? Is it normal middle age muddle through and get to the next crisis stage of life? Does it present itself to everyone contemplating their golden years?
Chasing my own tail is not what I expected to be doing RIGHT NOW. Something is below the surface of my predictable daily existence…waiting…waiting.
I know what my gifts are. I know what my destiny is. I am warned to stay the straight and narrow. These revelations are my present truth. I must strive to allow the hidden to be revealed and wear them as badges of honor. To dismiss them would be disrespecting who I am.
Let's dissect.
My truth is not your truth. It is unique and that which can not be challenged. My soul's provenance; to be cherished and respected above all else. The conflict arises from deliberate misrepresentation of one's own experiences. To be an actor, to honor another's story is not what I am talking about. We all borrow excerpts from those who mentor us, who train us, who offer us escape from our reality. We mimic, some of us more than others.
When does one's truth emerge? At birth? Upon one's first spoken word or utterance? On the battleground of one's first conflict?
How does truth justify conflict? Which side to blame if both are immersed in truth? I believe all world conflicts, battles, wars, genocides are the result of truth vs. truth; not good vs. evil.
I am six decades of truth; the composite heap of the good, the bad and the ugly. How the heap continues to expand will depend on mostly educated guesses as to the right path mixed with occasional I don't give a shit and full speed ahead.
Recently, my dreams have been vivid reenactments of seemingly inconsequential events in my life. Same people, a slight variation on the themes and all wake me right up, sometimes with urgency and rapid heart rate. What is happening here? My truth is changing. My repressed memories are my constant companions and it's not comfortable being me anymore.
So now, I have versions of my truth; I am conflicted. The benefit of age is not necessarily wisdom; in my case, it's acceptance of the truth and the acknowledgment that the conscious and unconscious are entwined. Memories, which are my soul's timeline, are the tools I use to debunk the "what if's" of my truth.
The accumulation of stored gray matter, which I thought to be locked away, is spilling from the trunks and boxes, closets and wall safes of my mind. What events have caused this chaos? Is it normal middle age muddle through and get to the next crisis stage of life? Does it present itself to everyone contemplating their golden years?
Chasing my own tail is not what I expected to be doing RIGHT NOW. Something is below the surface of my predictable daily existence…waiting…waiting.
I know what my gifts are. I know what my destiny is. I am warned to stay the straight and narrow. These revelations are my present truth. I must strive to allow the hidden to be revealed and wear them as badges of honor. To dismiss them would be disrespecting who I am.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Visitation
I am not comfortable with this eyewitness account rather I am so deeply a part of it, that the totality of my five senses has been redefined.
And we begin…
Knowing that the day trip would be once in a lifetime, my daughter and I boarded the train from Cardiff to Salisbury, Wales in anticipation of a spiritual connection. We were going to Stonehenge. The scenery passing was familiar; countryside, pastures groomed by the thousands of sheep. Village church steeples defined each pocket of row housing with the occasional farmhouse, well kept and manicured on the in-between spots. There were community gardens where you wouldn't expect them and natural hedges overgrowing the attempts at fencing.
The two-hour journey landed us at the station where we connected with our tour bus. The prerecorded audio guide highlighted the history of the city of Salisbury as our bus headed to the second pick up point in the town centre. Learned about the commerce industry and of course the brutality of public executions (all too common a theme though out the United Kingdom). For me, personally, they could have left that part out.
Stonehenge is not visible from the road. Signage is minimal and all efforts to film the approach were thwarted by the sudden appearance of the car park and visitor's center building. There's nothing but fenced pasture for acres upon acres in all directions. City life has encroached the perimeter and hikers with burdensome backpacks and staffs traversed the fields without care as to the neolithic stones nearby.
We waited on the bus while the driver submitted paperwork to the staff of the National Trust and soon we were on our way. There were options, walk the mile path or take the shuttle. Option 2, please.
Up a short incline, cameras at the ready, we stood at the world heritage site in a non-ceremonious manner. Most visitors were busy selfie documenting their arrival or taking advantage of a stranger's help to photograph themselves there. Some just stood. We did a little of both. Sometime in the seventies, direct access to the stones had been stopped. Special requests by guided astrologists to visit at dawn are still viable.
We circled the path and headed back to the shuttle queue which was well orchestrated by staff who counted heads and directed lines to each awaiting vehicle.
The shuttle back was much quieter.
Time for snack or memento shopping. Snacks please. Fifteen pounds for muffin, hot chocolate and juice. We spotted seating at the counter along the outer edge. Found two seats and sat and then I found myself up and asking a person in costume why they were dressed that way and what they were doing.
Initially, I thought "a theatrical troupe"; maybe a monologue or a guided tour of the sacred places.
I was up for it.
My life changed, right then. . . at THAT moment. She said, "I am the Shaman."
Without revealing the intimacy of our encounter, I will say that I've never been on a journey of that caliber ; solely of the mind and heart. I learned how to redefine the universe and it's not what I learned in school.
Once in every lifetime, the opportunity comes to step outside of your personal comfort zone; to open your mind to possibilities. I am not who I was and I am grateful.
Seeking for answers lead to an unplanned reveal. I didn't know it, the universe did. It has been confirmed since my return, by persons who study the metaphysical, that my journey there was not by chance. It was not just another day trip in a two-week itinerary across two countries. It was my destiny.
How I go forward and live out my remaining years, months, days or hours has validation. I understand
that the intricacies of my daily existence are not mundane. They are amazing gifts to share.
My life changed when I least expected it; 4,000 miles from my front door. I will revisit this place; this mecca for those who are seeking truth beyond all understanding. In the meantime, I will ponder
the teachings and begin to connect with my Archangel Ariel who revealed herself to me in the person of the Shaman of Stonehenge.
And we begin…
Knowing that the day trip would be once in a lifetime, my daughter and I boarded the train from Cardiff to Salisbury, Wales in anticipation of a spiritual connection. We were going to Stonehenge. The scenery passing was familiar; countryside, pastures groomed by the thousands of sheep. Village church steeples defined each pocket of row housing with the occasional farmhouse, well kept and manicured on the in-between spots. There were community gardens where you wouldn't expect them and natural hedges overgrowing the attempts at fencing.
The two-hour journey landed us at the station where we connected with our tour bus. The prerecorded audio guide highlighted the history of the city of Salisbury as our bus headed to the second pick up point in the town centre. Learned about the commerce industry and of course the brutality of public executions (all too common a theme though out the United Kingdom). For me, personally, they could have left that part out.
Stonehenge is not visible from the road. Signage is minimal and all efforts to film the approach were thwarted by the sudden appearance of the car park and visitor's center building. There's nothing but fenced pasture for acres upon acres in all directions. City life has encroached the perimeter and hikers with burdensome backpacks and staffs traversed the fields without care as to the neolithic stones nearby.
We waited on the bus while the driver submitted paperwork to the staff of the National Trust and soon we were on our way. There were options, walk the mile path or take the shuttle. Option 2, please.
Up a short incline, cameras at the ready, we stood at the world heritage site in a non-ceremonious manner. Most visitors were busy selfie documenting their arrival or taking advantage of a stranger's help to photograph themselves there. Some just stood. We did a little of both. Sometime in the seventies, direct access to the stones had been stopped. Special requests by guided astrologists to visit at dawn are still viable.
We circled the path and headed back to the shuttle queue which was well orchestrated by staff who counted heads and directed lines to each awaiting vehicle.
The shuttle back was much quieter.
Time for snack or memento shopping. Snacks please. Fifteen pounds for muffin, hot chocolate and juice. We spotted seating at the counter along the outer edge. Found two seats and sat and then I found myself up and asking a person in costume why they were dressed that way and what they were doing.
Initially, I thought "a theatrical troupe"; maybe a monologue or a guided tour of the sacred places.
I was up for it.
My life changed, right then. . . at THAT moment. She said, "I am the Shaman."
Without revealing the intimacy of our encounter, I will say that I've never been on a journey of that caliber ; solely of the mind and heart. I learned how to redefine the universe and it's not what I learned in school.
Once in every lifetime, the opportunity comes to step outside of your personal comfort zone; to open your mind to possibilities. I am not who I was and I am grateful.
Seeking for answers lead to an unplanned reveal. I didn't know it, the universe did. It has been confirmed since my return, by persons who study the metaphysical, that my journey there was not by chance. It was not just another day trip in a two-week itinerary across two countries. It was my destiny.
How I go forward and live out my remaining years, months, days or hours has validation. I understand
that the intricacies of my daily existence are not mundane. They are amazing gifts to share.
My life changed when I least expected it; 4,000 miles from my front door. I will revisit this place; this mecca for those who are seeking truth beyond all understanding. In the meantime, I will ponder
the teachings and begin to connect with my Archangel Ariel who revealed herself to me in the person of the Shaman of Stonehenge.
And the sign said...
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It happens more frequently than you might expect; especially given that the sign is owned by the catholic church in my neighborhood.
Seems the Almighty has no message for the faithful or the occasional person stuck in traffic along the highway where the sign can be viewed. After all the expense of its installation and the removal of its outdated predecessor, I would think that this larger than life message board would be more productive; at least announce weekly sermon topics.
I am an inquisitive woman and just might wander up the street and into the church office in an attempt to solve this mystery.
There are several possibilities for the lack of advertisement. You may come up with your own, but here are my top guesses: Lazy priest. Lazier office staff. No authorization from the Dioceses which governs the church. Possibly the faithful have been overly dutiful in their obligatory visits, that they are not in need of direction or inspiration. Or perhaps…
The messages no longer apply.
Actually, they never have. My separation from organized religion came just recently. I am no longer relegated to weekly chastisements or annual celebratory routines.
My connection with the universe is without boundaries. I now live without fear of repercussion from one who believes himself or herself in charge of my soul. How do others live completely and freely through the narrow restraints of religion? My quest is open-ended. There is no "reward" for a life lived
purposefully and lovingly. There shouldn't be a reward, just the conclusion of the experience.
I am seeking. I have time now. At least I think I have the time. Contradictions abound for I have been sent the message that I will teach and heal. I missed that sign along the way.
Signage may be as old as recorded history and for the most part, the human has come to rely on it.
I suppose the directional variety was born out of necessity. The advertisements and inspirational
group came later. They're a fact of life, almost global now, multilingual and multicultural.
Still, the church sign remains blank, message-less. A small victory for me and the thousands of would-be readers who have better things to do. With the limitlessness of the internet, the parishioners could opt for messaging: text, twitter, facebook, email, talking watches, etc. For the generation which prefers
snail mail, there's that choice as well.
I understand the need for advertising, it's basically survival. Even the places of worship
are competing for business. That's not news; but is it a necessity?
I do not need reminders that my soul is in jeopardy. It's not. Never has been. My journey is continuous.
The signs I choose to read are not the ones brightly lit, blinking and invasive. They're not the ones
vying for my attention. They are the ones revealed in the quietness of my life, concurrent with the
path I am destined to follow.
Seems the Almighty has no message for the faithful or the occasional person stuck in traffic along the highway where the sign can be viewed. After all the expense of its installation and the removal of its outdated predecessor, I would think that this larger than life message board would be more productive; at least announce weekly sermon topics.
I am an inquisitive woman and just might wander up the street and into the church office in an attempt to solve this mystery.
There are several possibilities for the lack of advertisement. You may come up with your own, but here are my top guesses: Lazy priest. Lazier office staff. No authorization from the Dioceses which governs the church. Possibly the faithful have been overly dutiful in their obligatory visits, that they are not in need of direction or inspiration. Or perhaps…
The messages no longer apply.
Actually, they never have. My separation from organized religion came just recently. I am no longer relegated to weekly chastisements or annual celebratory routines.
My connection with the universe is without boundaries. I now live without fear of repercussion from one who believes himself or herself in charge of my soul. How do others live completely and freely through the narrow restraints of religion? My quest is open-ended. There is no "reward" for a life lived
purposefully and lovingly. There shouldn't be a reward, just the conclusion of the experience.
I am seeking. I have time now. At least I think I have the time. Contradictions abound for I have been sent the message that I will teach and heal. I missed that sign along the way.
Signage may be as old as recorded history and for the most part, the human has come to rely on it.
I suppose the directional variety was born out of necessity. The advertisements and inspirational
group came later. They're a fact of life, almost global now, multilingual and multicultural.
Still, the church sign remains blank, message-less. A small victory for me and the thousands of would-be readers who have better things to do. With the limitlessness of the internet, the parishioners could opt for messaging: text, twitter, facebook, email, talking watches, etc. For the generation which prefers
snail mail, there's that choice as well.
I understand the need for advertising, it's basically survival. Even the places of worship
are competing for business. That's not news; but is it a necessity?
I do not need reminders that my soul is in jeopardy. It's not. Never has been. My journey is continuous.
The signs I choose to read are not the ones brightly lit, blinking and invasive. They're not the ones
vying for my attention. They are the ones revealed in the quietness of my life, concurrent with the
path I am destined to follow.
A Moment in Time
She remains unchanged; forever 23, red hair, deep green eyes, still and timeless. The portrait of my mother speaks to me of another time when dreams were still possible. My grandmother commissioned it the year before Mom married Dad. Wish I could have known her then.
I barely remember if she told me the details of her life at that time. I have scrapbooks and photo albums which leave the questions unanswered. It's not fair.
In six year's time, I will be the age she was when she died. Those details are forever in my heart. I won't tell you, other than it was awful and unnatural and chaotic and merciful.
We may be alike; I have an appreciation for music and fine art. I love color in my home and garden.
My house will always have at least one dog and there is nothing more perfect than chocolate.
She knew the importance of friendship and secrets. I have a handful of "besties" with whom I am completely devoid of judgment.
I am missing her. Hoping she will come to me in my dreams, I talk to her portrait. When I am home at her gravesite, the conversation is always fraught with sadness, but my mood as I gaze at her likeness is light and joyful. Thankful? Maybe.
Or perhaps it is guilt. Her dreams vanished when I came along. She self sacrificed out of respect for Dad. Perhaps it was the proper thing or maybe the expected lifestyle. In 1956, 2.8 children were the norm. In 1959, we had reached 2.0 and I don't know how to explain the omission of the eight-tenths of a child. Maybe that's where the family dog(s) came in.
She was not happy parenting; she didn't know how. Dr. Spock was her go-to reference and if the pages in that book couldn't address the crisis, Grandma was right next door. Once my brother was adopted (as it had been with me), that sage advice didn't apply as frequently as Mom had been an only child.
Nature vs. nurture... .an uncomfortable internal dialogue. I could argue either side. Upbringing certainly helped to mold me. Nature, on the other hand, eludes all current quests. Although,
on this point, I have had recent insight by way of messages from beyond, but that's another story.
If you follow my blogs, you will conclude that I am in flux. The spirituality which flows from those who channel my connectivity from the universe to my soul has me disquieted. Don't misunderstand me.
I am not questioning. I am seeking validation…that which defines me as having purpose.
Where is the logic behind my being the daughter to this particular woman? Whose decision was it?
Did the decision lay within the wisdom of the universe? Was it predestined?
The answers will not be forthcoming. It is unimportant.
Her portrait honors the woman she wanted to be. I see it in her eyes. I see it in the shyness of her smile and the softness of her shoulders. She aspired, she hoped, she dreamed. Her "fork in the road" came abruptly. Her purpose was redefined. Her dreams vanquished.
The next time I pause to gaze upon it, I will whisper "Thank you. It is because of you, that I still have time to realize mine."
I barely remember if she told me the details of her life at that time. I have scrapbooks and photo albums which leave the questions unanswered. It's not fair.
In six year's time, I will be the age she was when she died. Those details are forever in my heart. I won't tell you, other than it was awful and unnatural and chaotic and merciful.
We may be alike; I have an appreciation for music and fine art. I love color in my home and garden.
My house will always have at least one dog and there is nothing more perfect than chocolate.
She knew the importance of friendship and secrets. I have a handful of "besties" with whom I am completely devoid of judgment.
I am missing her. Hoping she will come to me in my dreams, I talk to her portrait. When I am home at her gravesite, the conversation is always fraught with sadness, but my mood as I gaze at her likeness is light and joyful. Thankful? Maybe.
Or perhaps it is guilt. Her dreams vanished when I came along. She self sacrificed out of respect for Dad. Perhaps it was the proper thing or maybe the expected lifestyle. In 1956, 2.8 children were the norm. In 1959, we had reached 2.0 and I don't know how to explain the omission of the eight-tenths of a child. Maybe that's where the family dog(s) came in.
She was not happy parenting; she didn't know how. Dr. Spock was her go-to reference and if the pages in that book couldn't address the crisis, Grandma was right next door. Once my brother was adopted (as it had been with me), that sage advice didn't apply as frequently as Mom had been an only child.
Nature vs. nurture... .an uncomfortable internal dialogue. I could argue either side. Upbringing certainly helped to mold me. Nature, on the other hand, eludes all current quests. Although,
on this point, I have had recent insight by way of messages from beyond, but that's another story.
If you follow my blogs, you will conclude that I am in flux. The spirituality which flows from those who channel my connectivity from the universe to my soul has me disquieted. Don't misunderstand me.
I am not questioning. I am seeking validation…that which defines me as having purpose.
Where is the logic behind my being the daughter to this particular woman? Whose decision was it?
Did the decision lay within the wisdom of the universe? Was it predestined?
The answers will not be forthcoming. It is unimportant.
Her portrait honors the woman she wanted to be. I see it in her eyes. I see it in the shyness of her smile and the softness of her shoulders. She aspired, she hoped, she dreamed. Her "fork in the road" came abruptly. Her purpose was redefined. Her dreams vanquished.
The next time I pause to gaze upon it, I will whisper "Thank you. It is because of you, that I still have time to realize mine."
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Far From Home
That's me. I feel misplaced. Wrong place, right time. The familiar is on the other side of the planet, but how could that be? I am disheveled, untethered, free-floating and it's unraveled my core. I am because I exist, but the identity I have been given is false. I know this.
I'm so tired of the infomercials which interrupt my occasional television viewing. "Just click on the leaf and blah, blah, blah".
So where do the rest of us "click"? I am thinking. Same feeling washes over me seeing those programs which document the lives of persons searching for biological relations; birth parents, birth children and such. It's a constant message: One is defined by family. Really?
I was filling the need of someone else. That last statement is my truth as explained by my intuitive guide. My soul in suspended animation until it was called to complete the lives of others. How did it turn out? Sill determining the results even tho my "parents" are long dead.
Where do I go from here, now that I am no longer part of the original scheme?
I think England.
For years upon decades, people have commented that I am too formal. My grammar is a dead giveaway that I ain't from around here (here being America's Gulf Coast). Even when I lived in the midwest, I would elicit uninvited criticisms on my choices of words.
There's no available research as to genetic predisposition and I can testify that my adoptive parents did not encourage this formality within the child they were raising.
The journey will commence in seven weeks. I am going with my kid. She's formal, too. She has a great interest in all things Celtic. This passion has not been purposely nurtured; it just exists. She is going- to discover. I am going to-reunite; with what or whom is yet to be uncovered.
Now that my life is so unfocused and seemingly fraying at the seams, the timing is paramount. Maybe new vitality will surface to give my life purpose. It's rather tiring to just exist in a shell of comfort and predictability.
Knowing that my identity may collide with the unfamiliar is rather invigorating. The planning is in process and I am getting that uncomfortable feeling, in my gut, that my efforts will not be in vain and that all the planning and detail work will be met with enlightenment. I'm too old to get butterflies in my stomach but they're there!
I wonder if I am coexisting with another self; string theory on a very personal level. How do I separate the reality from perception? How do I shed the labels and falsehoods of living a borrowed life without the risk of losing the memories which sustain me? Who do I think I am? I think I am someone else.
I could subject my pride to a saliva test and be glad that I already knew my genetic makeup. I know from whence my people originated. I just have no way of finding out who my people were. Go back far enough and I know I was one in a troupe of apes at the beginning of a long evolutionary process.
Don't need to travel that segment of my timeline. I just want to know how I got to be who others assume me to be. Why is my true identity undiscoverable? Court records are sealed, borrowed relations are dead and the story stops.
And then maybe it doesn't. The real me could be just on the wrong side of the pond.
I'm so tired of the infomercials which interrupt my occasional television viewing. "Just click on the leaf and blah, blah, blah".
So where do the rest of us "click"? I am thinking. Same feeling washes over me seeing those programs which document the lives of persons searching for biological relations; birth parents, birth children and such. It's a constant message: One is defined by family. Really?
I was filling the need of someone else. That last statement is my truth as explained by my intuitive guide. My soul in suspended animation until it was called to complete the lives of others. How did it turn out? Sill determining the results even tho my "parents" are long dead.
Where do I go from here, now that I am no longer part of the original scheme?
I think England.
For years upon decades, people have commented that I am too formal. My grammar is a dead giveaway that I ain't from around here (here being America's Gulf Coast). Even when I lived in the midwest, I would elicit uninvited criticisms on my choices of words.
There's no available research as to genetic predisposition and I can testify that my adoptive parents did not encourage this formality within the child they were raising.
The journey will commence in seven weeks. I am going with my kid. She's formal, too. She has a great interest in all things Celtic. This passion has not been purposely nurtured; it just exists. She is going- to discover. I am going to-reunite; with what or whom is yet to be uncovered.
Now that my life is so unfocused and seemingly fraying at the seams, the timing is paramount. Maybe new vitality will surface to give my life purpose. It's rather tiring to just exist in a shell of comfort and predictability.
Knowing that my identity may collide with the unfamiliar is rather invigorating. The planning is in process and I am getting that uncomfortable feeling, in my gut, that my efforts will not be in vain and that all the planning and detail work will be met with enlightenment. I'm too old to get butterflies in my stomach but they're there!
I wonder if I am coexisting with another self; string theory on a very personal level. How do I separate the reality from perception? How do I shed the labels and falsehoods of living a borrowed life without the risk of losing the memories which sustain me? Who do I think I am? I think I am someone else.
I could subject my pride to a saliva test and be glad that I already knew my genetic makeup. I know from whence my people originated. I just have no way of finding out who my people were. Go back far enough and I know I was one in a troupe of apes at the beginning of a long evolutionary process.
Don't need to travel that segment of my timeline. I just want to know how I got to be who others assume me to be. Why is my true identity undiscoverable? Court records are sealed, borrowed relations are dead and the story stops.
And then maybe it doesn't. The real me could be just on the wrong side of the pond.
Leaving
The quote is partial as it was the concluding sentence in my recent horoscope. Apparently, my immediate goal is to explore the metaphysical. Actually, I have been on this quest for several years now, but not inspired enough to quiet myself and listen to the universe. Maybe it's time."Happiness doesn't reside in possessions; it resides in the soul."
Sometimes wisdom can be found in the obscure place. This sporadic influence and reality check enters my life more as a curiosity than a dogma. I am of the "what's your sign" generation and still find comfort in the knowledge that I a part of a much bigger picture. Now that Steven Hawking has defined the black hole as a portal and his vision suggests that whomsoever enters one will find their way through although completely unrecognizable on the other side. To one who relies on the general premise of proof and will not under any circumstance allow a belief system to provide answers, Mr. Hawking is my hero.
How do I continue to that plane of the metaphysical which parallels my life? On and off again research, coupled with the advice of those already in sync with the universe, I would be wise to learn to meditate. I have a confession, I find that scenario difficult.
I don't think I could learn to quiet my thoughts, exist in the moment and allay all that gives momentum to my existence. I've seen the movie "Eat, Pray, Love" numerous times and know that the Julia Roberts character is eerily familiar.
I need discipline and I need to remove myself from the familiar me. So, this is my plan.
I will seek me from a different perspective. I will connect with the universal energy which sustains me.
Then…
I will stop asking why.
From there…
I will learn to breathe and let the dusting go for another day.
Eventually, I will find my center and with no apologies, redirect my energies to experience joy on all its levels. I may leave you for a while.
And in my absence, your life's path will come upon a fork in the road. Choose the path which will bring you peace. Proceed with wild abandon and if you find yourself in memory of us together, I will be there.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
To Paraphrase...
Just did some research on a favorite phrase of mine only to find out that I inadvertently shortened it. I was only following whom so ever quoted it before me.
Before I reveal it to you, let it be known that I'm not prone to using popular lingo. I was born an old soul and my language comfort zone is conservative, Merriam-Webster vernacular. It really pisses people off around here that my choice of words are difficult to interpret and I have to really dig into my 3rd grade primer to make my self understood. In other words, I have to dumb down to talk to some folks. That's a sad, sad commentary on the current educational system in these United States. I have a tee shirt which espouses this fact. It states "I am right 97 percent of the time, who cares bout the other 4 percent."
My dad was an extreme college professor. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than a scholar.
He lived it, he spoke it, he raised his children to honor and respect every word that came out of his mouth. I did until the day I left for college and then suddenly, there was no evidence that we had ever been related. My admiration for educators was challenged and I became disillusioned, dropped out and made my own way in the company of a very liberal, free thinking crowd. That relationship lasted for more than a decade. Glad to report, that I was not emotionally scarred and those memories gave me deeper insight and appreciation for the good in common man than any lecture involuntarily given me by him.
My education, except for a single semester post college, was attained west of the Mississippi, east of the Pacific Ocean, south of the Canadian border and cradled in the bosom of the vast Rocky Mountains along the 42nd parallel. Elementary school was reading, writing and arithmetic plus Spanish, physical education, art and music. Junior high school was an elevated addition of the previous with emphasis in the sciences and home economics. My high school experience must have been moderately interesting as I graduated in the middle percentile of a fairly large class of over one thousand. College was hit and MISS as far as academics but heavy into the social scene. Could have really gone far with a major in music, but the professor had no tolerance for skipping class, so…
Well that's enough back story. Anyway, my choices of expression are pretty much maxed out and are reflective of the successes and failures as mentioned above. My current challenge has nothing to do with what I learned but where I currently reside. Geography and genealogy are great predictors of both the spoken and written word. I blame both currently for my sporadic inability to communicate. Having traveled here and beyond and appreciating the challenges of cultural exchange, I am constantly amazed at the limitless opportunities to mis understand another. Sometimes I wonder, who is doing the mis understanding. So far, compromise and resolution have been my guide.
But as I enter my twilight years, I think I will resolve to just wear the tee shirt which best describes me on a particular day and let the world figure it out. After all, there's little time remaining to argue a point, better to just be a visible representation of my thought processes.
My current fav tee shirt is black with white lettering. It's printed on the front only, has a small graphic of a penguin outline and states "KEEP CALM AND WADDLE ON". That about says it. Time for the younger generation to figure it all out.
Oh, and the phrase which started it all used to be: "Been there, done that, have the tee shirt". But that's not the whole quote. Sometime in 2007, thanks to a posting in "www.alt.music.pinkfloyd.usernet/newsgroup" it continues "…wore a hole in it and now use it as a duster".
Now that's just the right sentiment. It's a mouth full. Don't know if the entire sentence will fit on the front side of the shirt; may need to up size. Need to get that one in several colors. Could come in handy.
Before I reveal it to you, let it be known that I'm not prone to using popular lingo. I was born an old soul and my language comfort zone is conservative, Merriam-Webster vernacular. It really pisses people off around here that my choice of words are difficult to interpret and I have to really dig into my 3rd grade primer to make my self understood. In other words, I have to dumb down to talk to some folks. That's a sad, sad commentary on the current educational system in these United States. I have a tee shirt which espouses this fact. It states "I am right 97 percent of the time, who cares bout the other 4 percent."
My dad was an extreme college professor. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than a scholar.
He lived it, he spoke it, he raised his children to honor and respect every word that came out of his mouth. I did until the day I left for college and then suddenly, there was no evidence that we had ever been related. My admiration for educators was challenged and I became disillusioned, dropped out and made my own way in the company of a very liberal, free thinking crowd. That relationship lasted for more than a decade. Glad to report, that I was not emotionally scarred and those memories gave me deeper insight and appreciation for the good in common man than any lecture involuntarily given me by him.
My education, except for a single semester post college, was attained west of the Mississippi, east of the Pacific Ocean, south of the Canadian border and cradled in the bosom of the vast Rocky Mountains along the 42nd parallel. Elementary school was reading, writing and arithmetic plus Spanish, physical education, art and music. Junior high school was an elevated addition of the previous with emphasis in the sciences and home economics. My high school experience must have been moderately interesting as I graduated in the middle percentile of a fairly large class of over one thousand. College was hit and MISS as far as academics but heavy into the social scene. Could have really gone far with a major in music, but the professor had no tolerance for skipping class, so…
Well that's enough back story. Anyway, my choices of expression are pretty much maxed out and are reflective of the successes and failures as mentioned above. My current challenge has nothing to do with what I learned but where I currently reside. Geography and genealogy are great predictors of both the spoken and written word. I blame both currently for my sporadic inability to communicate. Having traveled here and beyond and appreciating the challenges of cultural exchange, I am constantly amazed at the limitless opportunities to mis understand another. Sometimes I wonder, who is doing the mis understanding. So far, compromise and resolution have been my guide.
But as I enter my twilight years, I think I will resolve to just wear the tee shirt which best describes me on a particular day and let the world figure it out. After all, there's little time remaining to argue a point, better to just be a visible representation of my thought processes.
My current fav tee shirt is black with white lettering. It's printed on the front only, has a small graphic of a penguin outline and states "KEEP CALM AND WADDLE ON". That about says it. Time for the younger generation to figure it all out.
Oh, and the phrase which started it all used to be: "Been there, done that, have the tee shirt". But that's not the whole quote. Sometime in 2007, thanks to a posting in "www.alt.music.pinkfloyd.usernet/newsgroup" it continues "…wore a hole in it and now use it as a duster".
Now that's just the right sentiment. It's a mouth full. Don't know if the entire sentence will fit on the front side of the shirt; may need to up size. Need to get that one in several colors. Could come in handy.
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