Sannyasa: The Fourth Chapter of Life

Awareness of the movements, chapters, seasons, and acts of life are distinctly different when viewed from a distance of age.

The contained existence in my childhood through grade school to high school was controlled, enforced, and structured. Those who lived before me had stories, egregores, and trauma-marked cells that surfaced in my own biological blueprint. That era, the abraiding of intersecting cultures wearing away to a single smooth surface of belief, I see as almost cult-like. We believed what we were taught to believe.

at 4 years old

My arrival on the earth was the year that WW II ceased. I shot out into a time of rabid hunger for growth. The depression reduced choices for my grandparents and in the childhood of my own parents. But NOW we were like the starving crowds let loose in a field of food. The norm was for us to gorge ourselves.

We paid close attention to what our neighbors had newly purchased. The fins on our cars grew to sci-fi proportions. We were propelled into competitive hedonism. My father bought the first TV set in our neighborhood. There was a cache´, an undisputable sense of status that a family could achieve instantaneously.

One could move ahead of the pack. One could be the house that people pointed to as they drove past. The Thunderbird in the driveway; the TV antenna reaching out beyond the roof to outer space; the books lining the bookshelf on hypnosis, self-improvement, some with bright pictures of modernist houses insistently and rebelliously sleek; the lounge chair covered in orange fabric in the living room that was impossible to sit upon no matter how one contorted the body, all signaled patriotic dedication to consumerism.

And so as I moved through my life, I watched the carefully cultivating craving. If only…. if only I could get good grades. If only I could graduate from university. If only I could earn a master’s. If only I could find a husband, a house, and have children. Always, always moving toward a goal whose dopamine hit of pleasure disappeared as soon as it was achieved. It was decades of crawling through the sand to arrive at a mirage.

I watched as the cultural imprint caused people to balloon from an average size of 6 to size 16. I watched as the slavish pursuit of power, pleasure, and fame became currency.

what did I buy?

Today, our striving for clout on social media is like showing a membership card to an exclusive club. I am acceptable to myself because I have masses of friends, masses of followers, a new dress, and a new achievement. But I also watch as the fleeting moments of the new sign of personal value fade away. It is like having an entry card to a club that disappears in the hand. It was once in my grasp. But now it is gone. That sense of being special so we can be considered normal haunts us.

I worked 70 to 80-hour weeks for decades in the hopes that I could be recognized as a valid human being. It was a caucus race as in Alice in Wonderland. Quickly run to nowhere so you can stay in place. This was my period in life when I was in hot pursuit.

But now, now I am in Sannyasa. In Hindu lore, this is the period of time past 70.

Everything and nothing

In Eastern society, it is believed that everything is already in existence. Art is already complete and it is only up to the artist to remove the unnecessary. And that is the explanation for this time of life.

We grow weary of the accumulation; the caucus race; the unfocused blind pursuit of goals that do not serve our souls. Instead of a list to accomplish, we now have the wisdom to discard the unrolling scroll of itemized effort in the day. It becomes easier to say, “Does this decision, this effort, or this action make me a better person?”

We are now able to discard the trivial as unsatisfying. The imprinting of my culture, because of when I was born was to run on a track of acquisition of things, of pleasures, of status bijoux objects.

And now, in this last stage of life, it is easier for us to understand ourselves. We no longer pay attention to what the culture requires of us. We drive through the images, the ideas, and the demands like a car plows through the rain. The water just rolls off. And we begin to divest ourselves of all the burdens that we were told were treasures to be held close. We free ourselves.

We understand that an accomplishment can be just to sit in the now and feel the wind passing over us. We watch the clouds so carefully that we can see they are moving.

We are doing something. We are learning to control the mind. We are learning to be inner-focused, to be at peace, and to keep our flame of compassion for others alight. We are finally beginning to understand our purpose. It is the time for that.

Oh What Fragile Beasts We Humans Be

The illusion of toughness gets in the way of self-care. I often think of how my understanding of my “margin for error” has just been insanely optimistic. At 78 years of age, I have learned that we never know what is spilled milk and what is an irretrievable error.

self

learning the self

The car passing on ice cutting off a semi flips and only through the skill and intent of the professional driver do we survive spinnimg around, smashing multiple times into the guard rail, and sitting finally still and shocked in the totaled car. How many times previously had the driver next to me made that move with impunity? But this time could have been ‘the exit.’

The last straw, the last exit from disaster, the minor blithe ignorance of the howling voices of the carnivorous wolves in the forest is something we simply don’t understand. We are so disconnected from our mortality that we are like children.

My family narrative was that we were tough. My father and mother could take countless risks with their lives and their children’s lives because we were of sturdy stock. Two times I had pneumonia and because we were inordinately stoic, I was left at home with a tray of soup after getting a penicillin shot.

The message was: “Don’t be a wimp.”

My mother was enfeebled by double pneumonia when I was 14 and refused to be admitted to hospital. I was kept home to keep her alive. Even though she worked in a hospital, or simply because she served as a nurse in the hospital, she distrusted the germ-infested atmosphere.

And so we were praised for not crying; taking our shots without holding a breath; enduring small bone fractures without medical care and our very strength in never asking for help was a badge to be worn proudly.

But it was worn inside the clothing next to the heart. One never bragged about being a stalwart and resolute soul. That would be a sign of weakness.

For most of my life, I have been like a driver who has been given a new car. It is fancy and technologically complex and I have never been sure how to read the gauges.

I soldiered on through pneumonia without an adult in attendance. I healed angrily inflicted bruises quietly under clothing. I went to work every day for five years with bowel cancer that was undetected. I did not know how to advocate for myself and so I assumed the exhaustion was my mistake and I was unable to ask for tests from my doctor.

My learning has been slow and sloppy. My ego was puffed up and gruff when I saw other people whining on about hunger or cold, or disappointments. I was taught our family was superior. We did not need to be babied.

The family egregore was built around me like a walled castle. We were special because we were not special.

I remember as a teenager reading about a man who lost his legs in an explosion and crawled for an hour to help. I thought to myself, “I could do that.” I was 15.

The years have taught me to fall in love with my body as if it was my baby. If the body is hungry, I feed it. If my body is tired, I lay down. If my body is in pain, I cry out and ask for help. It has taken me decades to leave behind the ancestral trauma that made our family members feel ‘special’ because we lacked empathy for ourselves.

tough people

And always, always, always I talk lovingly to my body now. I thank it for warning me when I have drawn the last straw. The body knows far more than my mind can ever understand. It knows far more than my subconscious, my ego can ever know. It knows how to survive and thrive.

I am growing into myself, at last.

 

A Season of Change

The last year has been challenging for me. To move, to sit, to walk felt like a sword was stuck straight into my hip joint with the pain travelling down into my knee and like a true baroque expression of torture becoming a strip of fiery shin splint.
I am an active person emotionally fed by physical challenges. I have managed my Airbnb single handedly for 12 years going as much as ten months without a day off. My garden was so magnificent that people who inevitably stop to smell the roses which I kept tall so the elderly would not have to bend down for the perfume.
But then COVID hit and I folded my dreams and plans like an ivory ribbon fan and stuck them away in a drawer. It was useless to pretend. The choices of denial, or angry resistance have never been something I am drawn to. I know how to wait out the shit storm in periods of disaster. You get that skill when you are over 70 or you risk looking like an imbecile toddler throwing a fit into the faces of innocent people caught in your spewing inability to absorb the vicissitudes of life. After a certain number of decades one should learn that the elevator goes up and it goes down sometimes even getting stuck for no reason.

Working with Ego

So I stayed home and turned inward dedicating myself to learning, reading, studying and coaching my clients. In October 2021 when I went on the surgical hip replacement list I had finally lowered my proud head and given up on toughing it out.
The entire year has been one of deep and abiding growth. Submission to what is was all I could do. My choice was to deepen my grounding practices or to thrash around in the net of constraint I was now caught within.
When it came to me as a metaphor I thought of it as “the last firing” of a piece of pottery. I had been glazed and now I would see my true colors appear.
There were days when as I struggled out of bed the first thing I would do would be to weep. It wasn’t vigorous athletic/dramatic/theatrical sobbing but more of just a leaking out of grief.
I was 77, 78, 79 and isolated from real life contact with others because I was minutely aware down to the smallest detail carved with statistics that my age cohort had no room for stupid.
The deepest lesson that I received was that I am fully, inexorably and fucking human. My emotions would arise and I had to make choices. Would this hour be one of wise decisions, resignation, or of internal vitriolic debate of self with self?
I kept my compass out. I kept coming back to the question: Who do you want to become?
And what I mean by that is not how do I present to others, or how much status or power I can accumulate. What I kept returning to was the pottery metaphor. My clay was being thrown about by hands other than mine. I was being burnished, polished, placed in a fiery kiln of apparent chaos and something was happening to me.
The consistent restrictions on movement, the chronic pain, the disengagement from groups, from normative behavior, the Egregore of society was a full on attack from all sides.
This is not particularly extraordinary to my life. Most people in the last three years have had their contract with life put in the shredder. We have all stood and watched it cut into thin strips.
It became so very clear to me that I had little understanding of what depression does in a life. Because I was used to enduring, I came to see that this very habituation to the dissociative state was my greatest scarring from my childhood. I had no urge to paint, to write, to send in poetry or stories. I was used up in not allowing despair to eat me alive.
“How long,” I asked myself, “How long have you gone to ground, become frozen and paralytic when you are in pain?”
And then I remember where it came from. As a toddler if I cried, I would be attacked physically. As a child in school I would have the “silliness” slapped out of me if I looked sad. So now I was deep into the initial wound.

at 4 years old

By nature, I think I am quite stoic but there was also a large part of the residual scarring in my experience of cruelty under the age of 6. It was violently taught to me that I had no rights to host the demons of negative emotions. Only my parents could be angry.
I could see how deep in ran in me. But now in this retreat in the hermit cave I faced the fact that I had to forgive myself for everything that made me human.
I am still and have been in pain for a year. Because of that, I will be triggered into the helplessness of no rescue in my early years. Who will protect me? Who will make it stop? There is no one.
But I have me now. And I have given myself permission to shut down and just tend to my body. I have given myself permission to see the victories I have achieved that don’t shine out into the world. They are private between me and me. All of it is the clarity of seeing how strong I have made myself.
And now it all changes. I am going through three surgeries in a month. I am promised a new hip.
So many of my ancestors were knights. They knew about battles, self discipline, stoicism and skill in the face of the enemy. I know my enemy has been my own ego and I feel the ancestors in me as I have faced the lesson these past three years. The sturdy warriors had the wisdom to leave old wounds and battles behind and trained for the next battle. They have much to teach me.

 

 

The knights in my ancestry

 

 

Learning to Let it Go

I was sitting on the deck today and the sun burned through the clouds in a miraculous halo of heat. On the line, yellow sheets were lined up sailing somewhere new. They were Sailing away from the thoughts, sweat, unseen microbes caught in their folds. The wind did it all. It cleared the last week’s memory from my four shades of yellow sheets.

Closing my eyes, I could see an image I had just captured to the left of me. Two pots of snapdragon plants were far apart and yet their flowers leaned into one another. Were they conversing? Were they drawn to one another? Is there a secret language called Snapdragon?

I am as you find me

As I usually do when I am checking in, I felt around in my brain/mind subconscious for the rolled up scroll of drama words. I visualize a hand, a giant hand like Alice’s when she grew suddenly large in the room.

“What is here?” I asked myself.

Nothing but wind, the sheets billowing ritual of cleansing, the snapdragons chatting with one another.

“What should I do?” I asked myself.

My history of work addiction causes a reaction like that of a former alcoholic walking past a bar and smelling the seduction of destruction.

The answer was clear: “Nothing.”

The day will bring me suggestions, hints, nudges, to let me know which activities are arising.

It is no longer about a drag race on a crowded street with the pedal grinding down into the floor board. I have washed and hung the sheets without the presence of planning, pushing, the surge of energizing adrenalin. Now, I correct my former blog for no previously established intention.

I think to myself, “You are like a child just exploring the world. You pick up a rock and pile it on a larger rock without a plan.”

I think to myself, “I think I am going to enjoy watching you explore what calls to you. This will be fun.”

Always alert

Well Slap Me with a Dead Fish and Call Me Alive

The past three years I have been secluded, taken the veil, married the Christ of chastity and solemnly withdrawn into my own cave of unasked for lessons. I have developed patience with not having patience. I have learned how to move my cursor from shock and anger/awe at other people’s choices and responses to a softer reaction. I have learned to live with absolute silence day after day so great that even the songs that my refrigerator sings are important in my ambience of reality, my projected biography.

self contained

I ask the question: Was this period of time absolutely necessary, was my reaction to the changing world a revelation, was my resultant mindfulness practice pre-ordained?

And I think it is a tremendous sign of my growth that I can answer firmly: “I have no fucking clue.”

I think of the Tarot’s fool card depicting him just stepping off into the unrevealed with his happy dog beside him and a few necessary provisions tied to the stick over his shoulder.

Everything and nothing

Today, I am three days living after a tooth implant. I was unusually nervous as I walked to the oral surgeons office so I had a self interview. I find that emotions are clarified if I show up with a microphone and ask myself questions. Listening to the answers is a skill.

“Why are you vibrating with a flood of energy?” I asked myself.

Usually, I am very calm during procedures. I trust the medical practitioner: I trust my body: I trust that the universe holds me in love. But this day, I was slightly triggered.

My answer came quietly. “My hip hurts.”

I have had chronic pain in the failed joint since October and it has been a challenge. And so I forgave myself for telling myself that I was a victim of pain, a victim of my body.

As soon as I called in my guides and angels I settled the hell down. And today, I am three days living after a tooth implant. I surprised those doing the gum surgery with the fact I scarcely bled at all. I had no pain. I slept peacefully for 8 hours last night.

training the mind

But the surprising part of this voyeurism that I indulge in upon my own psyche is that I feel like I have landed like Harrison Ford in the Raiders of the Lost Arch ‘ping’ off of a cliff onto the rock bridge below leading to ‘the other side.’ I felt that I had pushed through challenge after challenge that would not be understood by the public at large, however large that still is in today’s fractured Gregore.

I have a story I tell myself and I hold it up to the light to see how negative it can be. I have won prizes in three local writing conference competitions. I have not thrown arrow-of -death words at others when I drive. I have fed myself well and made good choices. (Well, there was that pile of mashed potatoes but I won’t talk about that.)

September is surgery month. I have gotten my implant moved forward and down into my gums. And at the end of the month I am having my pull up balloon curtain eye lids remodelled so I can see and be seen more easily.

But most surprising of all for me today is the sense that the anesthetic numbness I have felt since 2020 is wearing off. I feel like my vision is clearer. It is as if the path that I cannot and have not been able to see is under my feet again.

The smack up side the head is necessary sometimes to get some energy flowing.

Do I feel certain of what is next? oh, hell no. But I am signing up for it without reading the contract.

Quo Vadis

 

What can COVID teach us?

I was thinking today about perceived reality (again and again). For many, there has never been the sense of waiting for something ‘out there’ growing and coming closer. For many, their lives have been predictable, safe, and they believed that their survival was due to their own merit. “I did this” was a shared delusion.

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And then there are others who have known this current sense of the ominous wait, this sense of fate, the out of my control formation of some new future.
There are those who lived through the depression and knew food scarcity. My mother’s family had six children and owned 2 pairs of shoes for their offspring. Daily, everything changed as they used up their resources and had to adapt for survival.
I remember clearly sheltering at home when school was done as I watched polio spread in my home town. The pool, the movie theatre, the parks were all dangerous. I lost friends. People were deformed for life or laying in an iron lung. It was out there… the unimagined threat. It could not be controlled. And so we waited. We were careful.
As a schoolchild, we heard the school PA go on and at the yelling out of the word “flash” at random times during the day, we huddled under our metal and wood desks. Across the river was a major port. We were told, when the bombs were dropped, it would be close to us. And so we waited and ducked.
One day at noon, I walked into the vast school cafeteria and it was dead silent. We were eating lunch with dry mouths. The Cuban missile crises was underway. A teacher told me it would all happen within 15 minutes. The missiles would be released to cripple the country in which I lived. The missiles would seek out the important ports and melt the area flat. Hundreds of us sat at the tables with our knees pressed against the underside of the table tops. We remember the flash training. We ate our lunch waiting to die.
When a group of people have had an unthreatened existence there is imprinting within them. They begin to think that it is through some merit of their own that they are healthy, that they can predict their own future. And the wounding it leaves on their psyches is that it destroys their compassion. They no longer understand “the greater good.”
They have never experienced the moments of ominous waiting for something that is formulating in the moments of hung time.
Covid is bringing us back to that feeling. We suddenly see that through no fault of our own, we could cease living or for some, even worse, be the one who carries death to others around us through our actions.
We are experiencing what all of those who have lived on the face of the earth have experienced in what we call “uncertain times.” Attacking tribes, sudden famines, plagues, homeless masses of people dislodged and migrant, economic disasters are all the same experience. We are thrown out into an unpredictable world. We see that it is not our own merit that protects us and gives us a good life. We see with stark outlines that it is our ability to react to the inevitable onslaughts as a united group that is, finally, our only protection.
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Is this a time to be conflicted?

We are between two stools, sitting on two fences, contorted into a new yoga shape that is more Chinese acrobat circus than a pose that has a name. Shouldn’t we be more clear with ourselves than just walking around the gallery of funhouse mirrors watching our projected sense of self morphing into grotesque and incredible shapes.

“That is not me,” we say.

Where do we stand when the floor is lava, the once green and calm back yard is thrust up by earthquake? Where do we stand when the very topography of our reality has changed beyond any name we could dial into our label gun? What do we believe in a time when all beliefs are suspect? Who are we when the nicely-created cattle runs that separated us no longer work? What is our purpose?

I ask who are these people around me when I see a post on social media. A friend boldly emblazons in the status space, the idea that autistic children should be killed because of the drain on society and, you know, the gene pool?

How did we get here wherever here is now? But it all changes first in the dismantling of old systems. It all changes as we have to adapt our behaviour to the new threat to our continued existence. And what I, personally, can feel right down into the marrow of me is that we are just beginning to end it.

I see in my mind’s eye the depiction of an old method of killing an individual who contravened some subtle law drafted with the hope of maintaining a structure of beliefs for some perceived goal. ‘Death by bricks’ is what comes to mind. An individual lays down and is under a board. Weights are gradually added until all the life is pressed out of the person. And for so many that is exactly what it feels like now.

The virus is not real. COVID is only in some foreign land and surely the border mark made in the invisible marker will keep it isolated to hurt only the not me people. COVID is shutting down access to the shiny distractions that have kept us running in place. The second brick is that we can no longer just run in our lives the same pathways we have always run. The third brick is the economic distress now dispersing like ink dropped in a pan of water. People are struggling with fear of the virus while some refuse to believe and are hosting happy COVID spreading demonstrations.

Alone with self

And then we are alone

We no longer have the distractions, the drug of the usual, the mindless actions that we have invested so much time and energy into the building.

And then we are alone with ourselves.

As we sit like those arrested and sent to the involuntary walls of the monastery, we endure the results of climate disruption. Thousands endure storms. Spain has snow. Earthquakes continue. Mountains, we are suddenly reminded, are volcanoes await the moment of release.

As we are like those who are trying to adapt to the weight of the bricks. We see political chaos. We see that which we cannot believe.

But we are getting better and better at absorbing shock. The concept of “It is impossible. It will never happen,” fades away.

The vaccine is created. The virus mutates. The storms throw trees through houses. The crews show up to return electricity.

The stock market keeps track of how happy the corporate rich are in any given situation. And we are envious. We are envious of their invested point of view.

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Our very sense of self erodes. Who am I when I am at home? That is a British saying I have always loved. When you are not involved in the performance art of assuming a character in the eyes of the world, who exactly are you?

When your sense of self is built in the spaces between the restrictive pillars of society, of family, of your role at work, of your star-like coming down a stairway in your costume then who are you?

As we sit at home we are mightily irritated by the sense of being conflicted, of being confused and, may the saints help us all, ignorant.

“I did not know that!” is the beginning. It is where we all become submissive to the idea that what is manifesting in the future will be unlike what our past experiences have lead us to believe was reality.

“I don’t know what all of these bricks of fear are doing to me.” We say this to ourselves as we release expectations.

Some will find it too crushing. Some will decide that it is too much to stay with the transition and to keep creating space within themselves. Some will not make it through.

But others can, at least, build their skills at surrender.

“Yes, I believe two things at once. Yes, I was wrong in my perceptions and I might be wrong even now. Yes, I allow myself to transform.”

And so the old life gets crushed out of us as we teach ourselves to stay loose. We teach ourselves to breathe deeply and not ask for assurances.

The greatest teachers for us are our ancestors. They went through periods wherein the very paradigm of reality shifted. The earth was no longer the centre of the universe. The upstart middle class refused to be slaves to the lord of the manor. Cars and horses shared the same streets. Black death, smallpox, polio swept through towns and villages. Thousands starved because of food emergencies. Wars brought the harrowing Vikings, knights, warriors that decimated the work of generations.

I look at my ancestors and know that in each of us there is the ability to survive even as the very nature of our concept of reality is destroyed. They rebuilt. Those that survived were more creative, more energized and more likely to bring forth an unforeseen future.

I look to my ancestors to understand that what is happening now is simply a new formation of something we don’t understand yet.

The bricks will not kill us. The events will not end our curiosity, our creativity and our desire to participate in a new way, in a more mindful way in the life that is arising.

Embrace the conflict. Shout loudly, “I don’t know. Yet.”

 

The Dream Map. Awakening After Reading Jung.

As I come out of the enfolding sleep, a hear a phrase in my mind. My eyes slide along the crack between the blinds and the windowsill. The sky is obliterated again. There is just the thick sickly blended muddy color that the burning world has filled in where the sky once was. My nostrils feel swollen, assaulted by smoke. The fires are everywhere, persistent, threatening.

 

But the word stays clutched in my thoughts. “Substance”. That is the primary idea I cling too. And as I slowly awaken more of the words tied to the first become clear. “Substance and strength”, I hold onto that.

shimmer of energy

I focus on the entire narrative that wants to disappear into the unremembered dreamfield and pull tightly on the connecting thread. I follow it. There is something there, I realize.

 

When I was 27 and 29 I gave birth so I remember when I lived in Vernon, B.C. Two women befriended me. Maureen was a fighter, a person who was deeply connected to the power of women, to what liberation should look like. Kathy on the other hand had a stone like strength. She showed me that setting your jaw and trusting your own power could be quiet, persistent, effective. What both of these women demonstrated for me was a deep substance in the way they chose to live. They were wives and mothers, yes. But they read, they had a life of the mind which meant they were always adding to their store of knowlege

 

Now the connections were showing up for me. I was seeing the lesson in my dream state. I lay still so as not to lose the wisdom delivered as I slept.

 

My eyes begin to itch with irritation. The body knows when it is being poisoned.

 

Usually, when I first awaken, I orient myself. I check my body. I feel into space between sleep and waking. I see if the pain is with me today from disintegrating vertebrate or if I have emerged whole and free.

 

But today the words stay in my mind. I realize I have taught myself something about my very nature this night after an entire day of being lost.

 

My north star, my purpose, my yearnings have always been for my life to mean something.  The days are heavy at times and yesterday I didn’t want the spreading map of the hours to unfold before me in the morning. I didn’t want the vast expanse of the morning until night because I could see nothing on the surface of the day that engaged my interest.

 

“Everything is falling in on itself,” I thought.

 

The dream reminded me of the moments in which I felt most engaged in my own journey.

 

The trivial repetitive actions that support my continuing to exist, the eating, the preparing of food to eat, the planning of the preparation, the procuring groceries, the maintenance of the car in order to purchase and store the packages and plants, the earning of money to exchange for a method of keeping the body alive. All those hours and habits and actions have used up much of my 76 years.

 

The moments that have a shining intensity as I look out over the map of my life, are the moments in which I was a seeker.

 

Questions are answered by quests.

 
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Lately I have been revisiting C.G. Jung. As the pandemic is enclosing the world into a second state of paralysis, the deepening consequences of mankind’s accumulation of thoughtless repetitions of destructive actions are encircling us. We can no longer escape the pay off.

 

The fires burn and fill the air with tarlike flakes of the destroyed forests. The failure to understand COVID is resulting in more and more individuals falling ill. Winter is moving toward us and the sun will be a mere memory soon.

 

Without the hypnotic trance of the trivial, what will we become? Who will we become?

 

I realize I have used up my life in what I was used to.

 

My north star, my way out of the dark night of my childhood that more closely fit a narrative of a hostage taking than a time of nurturance has always been to find examples of people who were seekers.

 

The books I curled around in my bed were stories of heroes. Madame Curie, Eleanor Roosevelt, Golda Meir, Isadora Duncan informed me. No matter what the current culture’s formulation of restrictions and limitations on the efficacy of a single individual, these individuals did not refuse to step into power.

 

I needed to know that there was more. I needed to see that the scope of human curiosity and attention was magnificent.

 

My eyes opened and the swollen eye lids told me immediately that it would be another day of thick obstructed skies. It would be another day of each breath being ladened and laboured.

 

But Jung had reminded me that we create our own mythology. We look into our own dark well of the subconscious mind to see our creation story.

 

We can choose to feel abandoned, bruised, invisible. It is a childlike narrative that begins to be whispered in our ear when the outside world refuses to give us a map to follow.

 

I have hundreds of hours of storing biographies and autobiographies of people who faced crises and like early explorers simply geared up and went into the wilderness. What kept them whole, what kept them strong was a clear sense of their own purpose. They found out who they were as a result of knowing why they were on the journey.

 

My dreams were talking to me. My dreams showed me two women I once knew who were strong in their own specific and opposite ways. My dreams reminded me that I need to get back to my own myths, my own symbols of power and push into my own wilderness.

 

It has always been thus, Jung reminds us. We are each essentially alone and responsible alone for our manner of being. As I move through the world, I become more and more who I am. I can see that as I lay still in bed waiting to start again.

 

I cannot depend on the exterior existence of  others to protect me from the task of defining and birthing myself, That is and always has been up to the individual. The second next worth is self, I realize. Substance, Power, Self.

The Easy way or the Difficult way.

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The Struggle is Not the Point

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