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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.