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.

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 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.

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."