When You Have Run Out of Fixes

When the last series on Netflix that drew your attention was finished at 2 a.m.; when the last day of sun in the sky was well over a week ago; when the next change in the weather system threatens to be weeks from now; when the list of things you intend to do are as uninteresting as eating a slice of the heel of stale week old bread; when the business is slow and friends are all caved up fighting some heroic battle with a plague like virus; when you find yourself going through emails from nobody interesting and watching posts from Facebook with no thing except postings of the insistence of the wrongness of other dunder headed dumbed down walking dead vampire black night of ignorance creatures; when the prevailing smell in your house is of the super strong vinegar you have used to unblock the drains because damn it you will get something done today; when you watch the Tony Robbins video and your response is “Fuck you, Tony Robbins,”; when your entire narrative is bland, obstructive not like a sand storm but more like a dandelion head storm with no particular drama offering itself to juice you awake; that is when you hope you are at the bottom of it.

But you walk over the calendar after drifting on the internet for three hours and see, holy hell, that it is still January. You are prepared for this feeling of disconnect and floating disembodied grayness but now now. Not yet!

 

February, my mother used to repeated tell me, was when the lab where she worked had more medical tests than the other eleven months together. People were coming in to try to figure out the rash, the cough, the fever, the diarrhea, the sense of weakness, the lack of will. But, she told me, it is just the February affliction for places where the sun has been banned by low pressure fronts, rain clouds, obscuring mists.

So I do what Tony has yelled at me to do. I will not listen to my mind. And then maybe when I am 85 I will have been in a helicopter with the doors open flying my family around the sky beyond any clouds right into a freaking rainbow.

Why?

So I put vinegar in the drains, I dust, I do dishes, and I make a list for the day even though the smirching darkness is headed in.

This being human is an amazing challenge. And it isn’t even February yet. I might make toast and bury it in sugary jam. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

When you have run out of fixes there is always coffee and toast.

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All Trump’s Eve

There is a tension in the air of North America and a watchfulness of the world on the eve of Trump’s inauguration. Once when I was in New Mexico, the air felt stretched thin. It was hot and impressively still as I stood in the laundromat. The sound of crickets, dogs, people moving through the streets just stopped. The pressure had built to the point of affliction.

 

getting caught in the whirl wind

And as I watch social media tonight there is a similar sense of prescient not knowing. People are not knowing how this happened. People are not knowing if the new president is the result of fate, corruption spiraling out of control (because corruption has a decent structure), or if it somehow his or her own fault (I should have know/voted/chosen differently).

The vacuum is oppressive. Obama is leaving and there is only emotion to replace him. To relieve the yawning opening sense of loss, people are choosing a particular focus.

Some are huddled fearfully under the stairs trying not to breathe noisily. Some are armed with weapons of mass distraction. Others are deciding to march. Demonstrators are planning to witness for human rights; to witness for their new leader; to act as a human barricade between three other factions (see meat wall).

William Butler Yeats lived in a time that was also “an opening” or shift in global energy. And it is his words that come to mind from the poem The Second Coming:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

The only thing that I know is that the weather systems will change. There are laws of shifting air, exchanges of temperature, moisture, pressure that are at work.

And it is only increasing the velocity of emotion if I stand anticipating that either the storm will come, a violence of rain or unexpected winds. I clean my house. I work out. I leave the house with the intention of enjoying those I meet.

It is a time to release attachment to a story. It is not the time to cling to the necessity to be correct.

I will do what I can for social justice, for human rights and the rest I will leave to the fates.

I remember standing in the laundromat and allowing the sweat to suddenly appear and roll down my body. And then the rain drove the dust high into the air. The downpour cleaned everything in its way. That is my hope for after this storm.

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Risk Taking for the Timid

Well I have obviously been gifted with high levels of Monoamine oxidase (which functions as a regulator of risky behaviour). Individuals with high levels are seen to have an entire narrative generated from the brain as they sit assessing a possible risky action.

 

down the slippery street

In the past, If I stood on a step ladder, I would spin out the story of me spinning out and falling backward onto my neighbour’s fence. This choose your own adventure pattern had me selecting various outcomes. I could see in full three dimensional colour projections the future quadriplegic self learning to use a mouth tap to read books. The equally likely story would roll out of the wheel chair bound woman who builds her upper body strength to over come all limitations. The brain damaged person whose hair is never more dyed and comes out in gray roots as she drools upon her self would be another possibility. The blinded by grape vines cane tapping ever wary woman could be the outcome.  Or the super woman who pushes herself at just the right moment to fly beyond the fence and land upon her feet was another script that would flash into my head.

I did not like travelling in fast cars, on escalators, on rope bridges, in glass encased elevators or taking off or landing on planes. Always, my brain which had soaked in years of literature would align some outcome from any activity.

The few times I tried to be outrageously courageous did not work out well. In university a group of my husband’s male friends decided to pee in an alleyway. I too was overflowing. So I wanted to “show them” how one of the guys I was. I carefully went behind a barrier, pulled down my pants and stepped on a gigantic nail facing upward in a board. Limping home and then getting to the emergency ward for a tetus shot was I felt the natural outcome for one who had taken such a hasty action.

Is it worth it?

I followed the rules. I wore safety gear. I said, “no thank you,” to most of the adventures that the other 20 year olds in the 1960’s set off on. I looked for fire exits when I went into a room. I kept purse handles, luggage, objects out of the way in rooms I stayed in. I was careful with knives and scissors always.

One of the things that mindfulness practice has done for me is to make me very aware when my high levels of monoamine oxidase is leading me into anxiety, I stop the spiral. My practice of asking, “What if,” helps tremendously.

What if my response is just wisdom? What if my response is bio-chemical? What if my response is irrelevant?

I went to Peru… up the Amazon

The question becomes: ” Is this risk going to make me feel an opening up to life?” The question becomes: ” Is this risk simply a way to distract myself and hook into the necessity for peak experience?”

I watch my reaction and stay in the middle. Fearing the risk, seeking the risk is irrelevant. What values am I pursuing in my life? Sometimes I get on a small plane in a windstorm because I wish to feel safe in the world. Sometimes I walk alone at night because I wish to feel safe in the world. Sometime I say exactly what I am thinking because I want to show up in the world. None of my decisions are based on the thrill of taking the risk in and of itself. But then, I was born with very high monoamine oxidase. And I made it to 72 years of age.

Being aware that who we are, is a gift, makes the mind so much calmer. And a calmer person is more capable of taking well assessed risks. Every day is a new beginning to explore. And there is no story.

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How to Live in Interesting Times

These are not trivial times. You would have to have been abducted and put in some shed, bunker, outback hill hollowed out captive at random especially built structure to be unaware.

 

Every beautiful thing is here

It is a time of triggered, reactive, defensive, spewing of fear. So many are feeling like their nervous systems have been tasered and as they finish their convulsions of neurological energy epilepsy, they lay limp looking around for WHO did that. They find some post on facebook, or twitter, or snapchat or some news source and attach all of their explosive overload onto that one thing.

The other day a troll fight broke out about Oprah and Weight waters. What was her motivation? Was she altruistic? Was she simply marketing? God help us all if we can’t believe in the Oprah Ministry of Follow Me.

I put up a response as I watched some insisting that Oprah was being disrespected and attacked by others’ comments. Reading through the thread again, I saw not one disrespectful comment. I was curious.

Then I got it. Good lord the media is corrupt. We have to cover our heads to protect ourselves from the revelations that most of the structures, systems, institutions, inculcated belief systems are mind prisons and simply not reliable. We are like a partner in a marriage that has been betrayed and can no longer believe in anyone.

People are like children. The safety corner is gone. The sanctuary is a myth. Daddy is a monster and has committed atrocities that we weep to see.

So what is left? The limbic system is running the show. We have four choices when we are in rapid foaming at the mouth fear states: fight, flight, fornicate, feed.

The cracks mean reformation

And so people are triggered instantaneously. They are having trouble with insomnia. They are experiencing neurological diseases for some yet unexplained reason. They are walking around with a skin crawling type of anxiety.

Blaming themselves works for a while and then they look outward.

The question becomes, “Who is attacking me now?”
How else do you explain the tsunami of cortisol flowing through the society?

What if the crow were yellow?

So we attack one another. Somebody out there is doing this to me. Something out there is doing this to me. And then the eyes squinch up and they fall upon somebody who is attacking the vestiges of faith they still manage to cling to.

Oprah… no. I will fight for this symbol of light and truth.

I joking said that people are so triggered at the present time and so engaged in verbal fist fights on social media that I dare not post I like sweet pickles.

Somebody will come on the thread and say only garlic dill pickles are real and good. Sweet pickles are chemical, GMO, owned by a devil company, poisoning heavy lead mercury nano robot bone marrow depleting.

And heaven protect us all if I had said olives are the best.

And so we have become like children or frightened animals and race around looking for someone else to blame for the clearly and truly chaotic energy place the world occupies today.

Now more than ever, we are called upon to ground ourselves and become mindful. To see the flash of fear energy entering the body or leaving the body is to be in a place where you are no longer a victim.

It is what meditators strive for. It is what paramedics strive for. The calm understand that people are hurt right now will allow you to be able to see everything with the higher brain function. Instead of being a victim, you can become an emergency worker. You can show up with love. You can show up with compassion. It is what we are being called to do.

And I have no emotion around Oprah, pickles, which music group is the best. The heated debates are the result of marauding gangs of victims looking for a way to release fear. It is unnecessary.

The result is a population that is more fearful and more easily manipulated.

Sit down. Meditate. Check your body. Everything you need that allows you to grow up is right there.

You eat whatever pickles or olives you wish listening to any music that makes you vibe high and learn to believe in yourself and your instincts. There is no Daddy or Mommy. We are grown ups.

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The Mandela Effect. Consciousness Cookie Cutting

Today I was introduced to the Mandela Effect in one of Bashar’s you tube videos. Bashar is a channel who is emphatic, entertaining and engaging.

He assesses the energy shift that is occurring since the Fall of 2016 as the beginning of an entirely different sense of reality. The Mandela effect aligns with the ideas postulated in the study of physics.

All times are one. All possibilities are present at once. All alternatives lives, histories, global energies are at the same time.

The Mandela Effect is a study of how a group of people can hold a tribal belief. The term is garnered from the latest online conspiracy theory that argues we are living in an alternate reality.

The Mandela Effect was named by paranormal enthusiast Fiona Broome when she discovered she wasn’t the only one who wrongly believed Nelson Mandela died in prison in the 1980s.

When I look at the splitting off of “alternative” reality camps that are forming around political beliefs; that are creating a normative response to different races, religions, lifestyles; that have hardcore variance in trust in science, I can see how the Mandela Effect is a definite possibility in today’s world.

First, in politics there are groups who believe that the Democrats rigged the election; others who believe the Republicans rigged the election; others who believe the Russians rigged the elections. The sense that only those that I believe hold truth is isolating us into groups that have little interaction with one another. And at times create so much fear that vitriol spills out.

The planet is dying; the planet can still be saved; there is nothing wrong with the planet are all currently held belief systems.

The differing systems of reality are becoming so divisive that people are refusing to have contact with any other individual, group or source that does not hold an aligned belief with the ones they hold dear.

If Mandela died in 1980, then all of the information has been co-opted, controlled, reconstructed. There is OUR truth and the rest are all manufactured lies.

Physics talks about alternative realities. And what we are seeing today is people choosing which field of truth, which hallway of forward movement they will select to reside within.

My mind takes me to a similar word; a Mandala… distinct formations, clumps, shapes of belief creating a pattern. The original meaning of this geometric shape was a symbol in a dream, representing the dreamer’s search for completeness.

The questions of who is right; who is correct is ultimately irrelevant. The anxiety driven goal of believing that others are deluded at best and down right evil at worst is an irrelevancy.

The path to completeness is in staying open and dropping the necessity to be right. Being focused on being correct is a trap. It keeps us small. It keeps us always scanning the horizon for a perceived enemy. Everything “out there” is a black op.

As we separate from those who hold differing beliefs and isolate ourselves into tribes of alternative lives, we become smaller and smaller.

We end up arguing at a party that Mandela died in 1980, or 2008 or is still alive.

It just ends up being another distraction from the goal of being alive which is to learn compassion.

What if all of it and none of it was true all at once? It is a possibility.

As the Youngbloods wrote in the song Get Together:
Some may come and some may go
We shall surely pass
When the one that left us here
Returns for us at last
We are but a moment’s sunlight
Fading in the grass

Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now

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Planting Seeds

The thoughts that pass within my brain; that flow in my mind; that cycle in habit spin are simply seeds. With every impulse of cognitive planting the past pushes pressure into the earth of now. And with that seed the future is impressed and will grow.

There are times that are so clearly a space between what I have experienced, created, maintained, and invested in and that which I hold as a possible future existence. I have been feeling that prescience without the clarity of a precise vision lately.

I see what it is I cannot see. I understand how what I have dragged into the present is the dead weight of slain monsters from the past. The seed demons for the new crop have been kept as if they were treasures.

Loosening my grip on the old, heavy narratives is allowing a growing curiosity to present itself.

What am I becoming? What beautiful exotic crop I do not know how to name is growing out of my sight.

Spring will bring a growth of something not yet imagined. There is the sense that joy, sweetness and quiet belonging are descriptors of what is to come.

And so I plant the seeds of unexplained optimism. I push new stories in the ground not even stopping to open my hand to push them around. I don’t have a name for them, for it, for the future. But I am confident that what I am doing now is exactly what is supposed to happen.

I am content. I am confident.

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The OA. Why now?

I have finished watching the first season of The OA and I was astounded about how creatives can pick up on a scent in the wind. Creative persons feel cultural shifts. They become a barometer of in coming weather.

Brit Marling is reflecting back to her viewers a message that is totally in tune with their own internalized perceptions. For a narrative to succeed, the one who views/reads it must identify with the protagonist.

With that in mind it is easy to see constructs that are being held in some kind of contemporary convergence. Those who are “captive” have no physical control over their environment. They no longer have privacy. The reason they have become lab rats is because they are more spiritual, have a more heightened awareness, and hold a belief system that is beyond that of mundane society. It is the paradox created by the us and them mentality.

So much of our current story telling in books, in movies, in television shows is wound around the spinal “truth” that we have been mislead. We, as a society, have believed in limitations; have lived in the idea of isolation; have been captive to concepts created by an old mode of thinking.

The ego has laid a spike strip on the road. If an individual allows their beyond mundane experiences to be perceived, what will happen to her or him? We must be careful of growth, or being “seen.”

Two major concepts that I see reflected in social media at the present time is that we are collectively “captured” by some manifested form of Dr. Hunter Hap. The glass cages are perfectly analogous to the screens on social media. We can connect in limited ways, empathize with one another but we can never touch each other.

The Democratic Party, or the Corporate Elites, or the media, or the Electoral College, or the current government, or the incoming government has us trapped. We are locked down and must suffer.

The only courage is to suffer as bravely as we can.

There is, somewhere, information that we need to access. It can be “given” to us.

Issues of control are prevalent. In our own lives, issues of formulation of personal destiny are driving us. We feel that we are somehow between worlds.

The answer according to the mythology of the series is that we must physically work together in a group.

I thought about how much yoga informs the series. The belief system that moving in a certain way opens us to universal source is patently a Western Belief. Yoga as it is prevalent in European society is not the Yoga that came from the East. We in the West hold the truth to be self evident that we must pursue goals. We are only making progress if we are physically working at it.

Five people doing yoga moves at once changes energy. We hold that as a group belief system.

So as I viewed the series, I thought about the despair I am seeing among so many. The sense of being captive in a scientific system that is transitioning to the early stages of an understanding of energy is being met by fear. Where are the old rules?

How can I make “correct” choices if the ten commandments have been exploded by a laser gun? Where do I belong in a world that is shifting so rapidly I can barely make out the new constructs before they disappear and something else is worshipped?

We can no longer rely on a centralized concept to guide us. But what we are drawn to and what we see popular culture believe is evident in The OA.

We are captives. We are unable to get close to others. What we hold close as a belief may not be true or may not be true for long. We are misunderstood. Only by taking certain proscribed physical actions and working with others will we find a way to hold power in the world.

The end of the show was a perfect example of where these current limiting anxiety beliefs lead us. We are like Steve who runs behind the ambulance calling out, “Take me with you. Take me with you.”

We are desperate for surety but caught in a world where there is only investigation. The OA appeals to us because we can so deeply identify with the type of isolation that is only alleviated by finding a group that is creating a paradigm that makes us feel safe.

When we feel fear, it is lessened by watching the fear enacted in others. It is the cathartic role of art. The release of the repressed emotions lowers the tension of the viewer.

The OA is doing a service to many who feel trapped.

It is my belief that we will grow into an understanding that we, each one, can find connection. We can find connection to other people; we can receive space to be who we were meant to be; we can no longer create our own cages of belief. I think that is where we are headed. And artists will be the ones who herald in the entry of the new cosmology. They will know.

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Walking Meditation: Pause

Years ago, I would attend the Yitang Temple in Kelowna. One of the weekly practices was the walking meditation. The concentration and focus upon the earth meeting the foot was the goal in order to dismiss trivial thoughts. Toe pressure, shift, heel leading created a rhythm. And then there would be the pause. As the practitioners wound snake like between the cushions under the giant golden Buddha, all would pause simultaneously. Toe down, touching the other foot was the action of the entire group in the same moment. We disrupted the action of disrupting our thoughts.

Winter pause

Today, I was thinking about how this day, this date December 24th is much like that pause. We have walked about seeking, moving striving in the convulsing pathways of our lives. But there are pauses. There are days when the stores are shut. Going to a door and pulling on it only to find the way in is locked reinforces that this is a time where the automatic pattern is broken.

It is on this day acceptable to turn inward, to stay home, to rest the body, to rediscover the joy of the family. We float between our goals and release the necessity to strive, to reach, to struggle.

Birds decorate the trees

Most of my days before Christmas, most of my December 24th experiences are lost. Nothing happened. I might have worked on a puzzle with my children. I might have picked up a book only to lay it down on my belly with the spine tented up as I sank into a nap that had been coming on for weeks. I might have looked out the window and dismissed the out of doors as too white, too twilight, too cold, demanding too much effort and turned to the seasonal blanket absolution. Whatever I had done which was indulgent, indolent, unwise could be erased by pulling the afghan around me and nodding off as I heard my children playing close by.

There are times when we touch one toe to the floor and stop our progression forward. The smothering heat of the end of August; the week around Christmas invite us to simply surrender.

There is no place to go; there is no achievement expected. All at once, in a cultural exhale, we pause. Merry Christmas.

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Fresh Snow Christmas wonderland

Christmas ribbons my neighbours tied on my fence for me as a surprise.

The joy of living in a neighbourhood for over twenty years is reinforced after a fresh snowfall. Not only are we suddenly transmitted into a movie set from the 1930’s with the fluffing up, puffing up branches holding the voluptuous white but we are called to go outside and play in it.

blue snow

The adult version of play is to shovel the sidewalk, brush off the car and dig out short bull dozed entry ways and exits for the car.

I step out the door and feel an excitement to be able to stand in such a beautiful place. The old trees planted in the 1950’s were once all along the street but some have survived. Some stand arching over the sidewalk, framing the vanishing point of the end of the street five blocks away. It is an unadulterated exquisite moment.

down the street

I slide my yellow plastic shovel along the walk way to clear a path for the phantom visitors in my mind. Only the mail person usually comes to the house but it is almost time for my winter guests to appear in my bed and breakfast.

Being careful not to catch the shovel edge on the ridge seam in the cement, I move the new snow in one long swipe in front of three houses. And then I begin to clear what will be only this amount of time from the layers of snow. More will come. There is no sense of staying clear, being done. There is just the walking and rhythmic sweep of the shovel.

My neighbour comes out of his house and he begins to sweep off my car. We talk about the one legged crow sitting in the tree overhead that his wife keeps alive by feeding it. We talk about the widower pigeon that my neighbour has named but I can’t remember what exactly. I know the pigeon by his color, shape and markings.

My neighbour talks to the pigeon and to the crow and promises them food as soon as he is done. But he is having fun. He moves down the block clearing other people’s landholding sidewalks because his shovel is filling up. He leaves a mark revealing cement not twenty minutes from the time I have cleared the area.

Christmas ribbons my neighbours tied on my fence for me as a surprise.

When I go into the house, I feel good. The conversation was not begun. It began almost 20 years ago when we talked over the fence from spring to fall. It is on going, effortless.

When I next go out, I see the footprints of the pigeon spinning out from the circle of bird seed. And further down the one foot print from the crow by the pile of peanuts.

More snow is falling, and the trees are holding it close. It is Christmas.

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Your Christmas Gift of Disruption

I am frequently like some floppy large-eared cartoon character. I just doh de doh down the road with a semi-hopping rhythm and singing stories to myself.

Doh de doh de doh, I bring my knees up to a gangly kind of energetic goofy gait. And it is fine. This is my road. This is my way. This is how I walk.

But when disruption hits, the old messages become more easy to see. That stumbly crumbly road was not a good choice.

 

Find Your Way

I stumble on the path. The path fails to hold me and crumbles. So whether it is a stumble or a crumble, I am on the ground asking the question, “How did I get here?”

The world is going through a disruption right now. The US election; the blatant disregard for the lives of entire groups of people; the phantom haunting fears for the planet; the sense that we have lost our knowing where we belong, are all acting as disruptors.

Recently, I have been going back to Daryl Anka’s channel Bashar for some clarity. Last night as I viewed a You Tube Video I heard him talk about Dissociative Cultural Conditioning Disorder. It is actually a wonderful moment when a person is disrupted so violently that he or she begins to see the cultural conditioning that has held the person as a hostage.

The mental constructs; the tribal values; the reinforcing of what is “correct” and what is “deviant” is deeply embedded in our consciousness.

 

When an individual achieves Dissociative Cultural Conditioning others may see it as a disorder at first. The woven fabric of a society may interpret it as a tear or a shredding. It is a bad thing. But as more and more people leave behind the concept that validation comes from exterior sources, they will step up and change their lives from an interior understanding of power.

So the old systems are experiencing shock. The road is crumbling and people are stumbling. As they fall and scrape knees or elbows or bang their noggins, they will blame someone else for it. They will become angry at their facebook friends, or get into a values knife fight at the family Christmas table.

Holding on to the understanding that every single disruption in my life has helped me to grow is helpful. It is the time now when the failure of the old system is so blatantly obvious that there is absolutely no space left for stopping and discussing it.

Find another road quickly, find another way of thinking quickly, find another way of being in the world as rapidly as you can. And embrace Dissociative Cultural Conditioning disorder in order to find a way to be more compassionate in the world.

Ultimately, it is a good thing. And try not to jab a fork into your relatives at Christmas.

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