Homage to the Tao of Pooh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artistic Justice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Night Before Christmas Or Is It?

I can't imagine my life without me in it. After all the years of honing this identity to its unique and awe inspiring form, I'm not me anymore.

Oh sure, the outside me is still vaguely recognizable, seemingly well preserved by the elixirs of later middle age or early later age or definitely post menopausal and not looking a day past sixty age. Admittedly not trying to hide the years of good living, I am replete. Or so I thought.

I am harping on the philosophy of metaphysical existentialism.  Not knowing if such a description is truthful, it's as close to a definition as I can muster.  The "existential" relates to a principle my father
related to me: the verifiable flesh and bones part...I think therefore I am. Metaphysics is a new
science to me and is best described as the subconscious narrative that is always present.  That little voice in my head that argues with the me I know.  Funny how stifling an endless loop of antagonistic and provocative thoughts can interrupt the flow of things.

I am and I am not responsible for this outcome.  Contrariness is my natural view of the world.  I can view the world from the front of a multi paned window and delight in the varied perspectives.  All I have to do is adjust my posture or distance from the window and the other world is all of a sudden very enticing.  Problem becomes the reality of the situation- that I can not remain at that exact distance or position as I continue to explore.

I believed in black holes before they were defined. I have known there is a finite number of atoms
within the universe; that change is infinite and believed that the universe is undefinable. We will never be able to grasp the enormity of existence. So, what makes you think you can limit my potential?  You can't because we are similar and being similar there are obvious hurdles.  You'd better test your theories on yourself before you attempt using me as a template. I'm just saying.

That long hallway to the bright light doesn't interest me anymore. I'm not going there. My journey
is one of returning to what is within.  Now that I understand that and the pretenses are vanishing,
my identity is becoming plural and integral within the universal voice.

Obfuscation is the ill mannered bed mate to free will. Commitment and fear play together
on the see saw; balance is never the goal. Clear choices, and with them the consequences of
evolution, occupy my mind these days.

Winter Solstice has come and gone. The world is in chaos and the well intentioned are grasping for answers. Those who  resonate with the highest frequencies in the fourth and fifth dimensions
will help to enlighten the masses.

In my lifetime, man will terra form Mars.  Promise and diligence will carry me to the milky way and eventually home.  Me, myself and I will cease to exist and you will wonder where I've gone.
I do not know the answer.

Virginia still believes in Santa Claus. Anything is possible.

Two Way Mirror

Thoughts are scattered. I am unable to concentrate, on any topic, for longer than a breath mint.  Try as I do, there's no period, just commas and an occasional semi colon ( for that regurgitation of the previous thought).

My soul is in chaos, turmoil and consistent unrest and it's not self inflicted. The more I question,
justify and analyze, the greater my disquietness.  I have entered truth; the pathway is narrow and apparently one way- for the further I travel, my past fades like footprints along the shore.

The biggest hurdle at present is wanting to go there. Wanting to stand in my truth conflicts with
I like who I am, so far, so why change NOW?  Is time a really a consideration?  Perhaps, but time
is a man made diversion. It limits potential and rewards the immediate. What's all this rushing around?  Seems silly from the stand point of evolution.  I don't think man/woman is the finite
model.  I am beginning to believe that the body is the vessel and my take on it is definitely not
biblical.

My brain is my armor. It shields me against myself.  I wish I could drain the gray matter and begin again. How does one accomplish reprogramming of oneself? Education, I am certain is the key. How am I going to determine the qualifications of the teacher?  Based on what criteria? I haven't hit the ah ha moment yet. I am optimistic and driven; although I can't say what fuels the gears.

Can I be spontaneous and flexible or must I remain tethered to some one else's schedule?  Thinking that I have always been in control makes me distrust.  Knowing that I have always been in control
makes me resist.  Learning has always been a two sided affair. There is always an opposite point of view.  There's always a polar extreme and maybe this time I need to leave the comfort of linear thinking and consider the possibilities.

As I try to process this awakening, my path beckons. Steady up the hill. I can't wait to see what's around the bend.

Connected

Comfy in the reclining rocker with laptop at the ready, I am listening to the Commodores hit "Three Times A Lady" and thinking. The deja vu moment causes me to pause and remember a me I used to know. I find great comfort in the music which defined the 1970's.  I suppose each decade revises and creates a musical  homage to the numerous issues, struggles and successes of the times.  Not that I remember who I was then, but some of the lyrics tap into the defining moments of my twenty somethings.

Now in my sixties, I wonder what musical period of time defined me.  Since I am a fluid soul, perhaps I can pick and choose. That would be a research project for another day.  Limiting me to
one era would discount my evolution. Let's just agree that music is inherent in my DNA.  Messages came that I am connected to Franz Josef Haydn, so who knows?

 Even out in the natural world, sounds reconnect me with myself. It is comforting for me to witness conversations which go on in the animal world; sometimes I jump right in, feeling that I also have something to add to the topic being discussed. Conversations and nature's white noise confirm that I am part-not separate and not alone.

I am in a period of transition, that which elevates one from the third dimension to those dimensions which transcend linear thinking.  Not completely understanding the conduit to this realm, I am heavily dependent on awareness.  Awareness of messages which come to me as I am a safe harbor; so I listen-to everything.

I listen with my eyes. The visits from my animal spirit guides keep me focused on priorities
on this path of learning. Trusting that the universe has my back, I am fully engaged in the unspoken
union between us.  They are here, I am here with them.

I listen with my hands and arms.  An embrace of another and the energies exchanged heals.

I quiet myself and just listen. Directives come, one note at a time.