Monthly Archives: December 2016

Planting Seeds

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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.

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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.

The OA. Why now?

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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.

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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.

Walking Meditation: Pause

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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.
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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.

Fresh Snow Christmas wonderland

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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.
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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.

Your Christmas Gift of Disruption

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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.

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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.

Others Show Me: Mirror

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My habitual response when I see a poet who has done a performance to an audience of 1,000 is very knee jerk. I was formed in the embryonic fluid of scarcity. My very cells were splitting while surrounded by the liquid belief in either/or.

That poet has “taken” the opportunity away from me… I can feel that splinter in my heart almost immediately.

As a person stands on a stage receiving applause, I think, “I could do that.” And then I take myself home to the cave of punishment with the thoughts that I am imprisoned in some lower energy field and unable to rise to the big, bold shining energy shape I wish to be.

The way I have dealt with the scarcity mind of late is I am really tuning into it. In the moment, when I feel the small sharp jab in my chest and it is a visceral reaction for me, I take a breath and go into it.

I stop and ask, “Whoa. What is that you are feeling?”

I am learning to check in to it and to recognize the child on the street match girl poverty refugee starving looking into a restaurant window pattern immediately.

Over time, as I work with my patterning, I have learned to be patient with myself. I will hear a clear, untainted truth and look at it, again through a window. Or it will stand on the surface like oil on clay and just dome up to catch rainbow light. But it does not sink in.

I have learned that training myself takes loving kindness, repetition, sitting with others who are further developed than I am at present.

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“If they can be so full of spirit and light while standing on the stage, while writing, while moving through the world,” I remind myself, “then it is possible for me.”

It is not that they have taken the prize from me. It is that they are showing how to make the commitment to their gift in order to receive the prize.

I often used to say to my students, “The universe is not a pizza. It does not have only a certain number of slices and the person next to you has taken the last one.”

At that time, I could partially understand the concept of universal flow. But it is as I work on myself in each instance of the arising of scarcity mind that I become more relaxed and confident that we are receiving what we need.

The information is seeping into my hard, clay formed surface. And all I can do is be loving in my relationship with myself. The goal is to accept where I am now, and not wait to have a compassionate feeling about where I am now until I attain some fantasy construct of perfection.

The accolades I wish to hear are in my own head. I begin with who I am. I begin with what I am. I begin with love for my passionate desire to be a bigger self. The only scarcity is that which I create in my own thoughts.

The universe is a 24 hour as much as you can eat pizzeria. There is plenty more where that came from. Relax.

Fate or Whether?

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When I am driving a car, I notice that whatever conditions surround me my mind will latch on to. If it is blinding snow, I build out the narrative that the entire 16 hours will be a wrestling hold on the steering wheel: The experience becomes a fierce concentration to avoid the looming ghost shadow of death which might appear at any time in concentrated darkness out of the white.

 

In rain, I envision a world of planing on the road at the next curve, or this next curve, or another curve further on that I cannot now see. All I need to do is lose my focus on my imminent demise and I will cease being in this body. Fate will take me.

Christmas has been a time for me that I liken to driving in bad weather. Because the “systems” I have experienced in the past are hard wired into my navigation system, I imagine that further down the road, say Christmas 2017, Christmas 2018 will be simply the continuance of the bathos sound track of isolation; being misunderstood; abandonment and resultant despair.

It fascinated me that even with my rigorous studies; my sitting at the feet of masters; my meditation practice and my prodigious reading, the “whether” systems keep building out.

As I was sweeping the snow off of the sidewalk to a quality of clearness that would easily match up with my neighbour’s standards so I could “fit in,” I thought about the traces of old stories that I still carry.

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Mindfully watching. Allow.

I continue to move forward as a stronger believer in my own ability to love my way out of dark places.

It is like driving… and the bad weather was just something that happened a few hours back. The past never predicts the future. Clear roads are here. The snow has passed. My sidewalk is indistinguishable from the neighbours’ on two sides.

Right now, I am just curious. I am curious about who I am becoming; about how I will be in the world; about what my gifts can do to help others. I loosen my hands on the wheel, remember to breathe and know enough to know weather is not fate. And everything passes.

My sidewalk looks great.

the Manifestation of what exactly?

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The question of how I move in the world comes more and more frequently to mind.

Because I am so open to vibrations, when I am in a group that carries lower energy it feels like I am experiencing an operation with out anaesthetic. Groups of people who hold an agreement that the world is blighted; that the focus should be on an accumulation of status symbols; that the only strength is the strength of power which can be easily perceived by others around them, hold no comfort for me.

The Angel Michael’s secret name is, according to Edgar Cayce and others, based on the Sabbath. Michael’s power is the power of going inward, of sitting silence, of finding the soul spark of life seed that is truly the signature of self. And I embrace that way of life.

I isolate myself for days on end as I read, sit silence and turn to teachers contemporary or from the past. Because of the limitations of the body and the limitations of the human experience there is at one time, only so much instruction at a time that I can embrace and allow to incorporate into my world view.

Always, always my mind comes back to the question: Is this helping me to be a better human being? Is what I am learning helping me to rise above petty, limiting reactions? How much is the experience of this single life constricting me to doing no more than living out the experiences of this single life.

Great meditators, Shamans and spiritual teachers seem to have achieved a balance between sitting contemplation and working in the world.

However, for me the idea of a balance is a huge area of fear energy.

How do I remove myself from imprinting groups that flash white teeth, expensive purses, garish displays of consumption as their miles posts for their growth? How do I manage myself when I perceive there is a darkness in a group that is taking them off purpose. I have had no role models to teach me.

When I was younger, I simply tried to use words; I repeatedly tried to use logic; I vainly tried to argue the case and it never worked.

For the last seven years I have cycled from isolated periods to periods of being out in the world more frequently.

“Once burned twice shy. ” That is the saying and for me, because of my childhood and resultant habits, I have been wary and guarded. The ability to feel energy; the moments of channelling information with no support or teacher have sent me to a place of shutting down socially as a default behavior.
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If there were no ” jobs” for me to do, I would not appear. Workaholism was a gift because it got me out around people.
My Obsessive Compulsive nature was a gift because I would allow myself to be with others in order to achieve a goal.

The work I have done on myself has been prodigious. Almost instantaneously, I can check into my body and understand what it is feeling. My ability to see past mental patterns arising has become much stronger of late.

The question still lays on the table: “How am I meant to be in the world?”

Today, I decided to let the concept of supporting others be enough of a attraction to lead me out of the house. How can I support others in their growth?

To be constantly interior or protective of my own energy does not help me to learn from my weaknesses how to gain strength. On the other hand, I am wise enough now to know that I must never allow my energy to serve another who is corrupted by a lack of understanding. I do not blame the person. I just will not allow myself to become a log on their fire.

Reflections Perceptions

What I look for in others is what a child looks for. Is this person kind to me and to others? Is this person gentle in their passage through life? Is this person able to see themselves clearly enough to say, “Opps. There was my ego again. Sorry.”

Being authentic means always observing oneself and others in the world. I no longer fall for the people who walk into the room puffed up with power.

My journey is to understand that each of us has power already. We came into life with a “golden ticket.”

It is my work to figure out how I am to be in the world. I don’t need to audition. I already have a ticket.

When weather becomes the truth

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Sometimes we live in our heads, or in our past, or are lost in a scripted narrative someone else has penned. But when each of us opens the door and the percussive wall of cold strikes the entire body, all of the accompanying orchestration of violin thoughts stops. There is only the skin taking the temperature.

 

extreme weather

The frozen patterns like faces press against the windows partially imprinted on the car. It isn’t until the extreme falls away after turning on the heater that I go back into the droning, circle patterned of flying thoughts.
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Part of the pleasure of walking the icy sidewalk into the howling wind is the weather itself bringing me into the breathing moment. I hear my lungs at work. I see the air warming and steaming out of me. The cold is slapping me out of it. I am only this step, this foot, this warm boot, this creature moving on the ground.

And when I was in Peru and laid in the hammock, I ran sweat slipping my body surfaces like waterfalls on a sculptured hillside. The walk up the path would begin with the skittling thoughts but as I shoved myself against the moist, hot air I recognized that the trailing end of a narrative had melted and disappeared. With several more steps I would begin again but the line of thought dissolved even earlier on until I was released from any interest except my breath and the wall of opposition the tropics pushed against my progress. At times, I felt I was behind myself trying to catch up with the place my body had now moved into.

Extremes of weather hold some fundamental truth. There is only the body, the skin, the breath, the intention of movement and it leaves us free of the embroidered speculations in the mind. It stops us cold.

Anticipated Pleasures

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Sure, I am 72 but I am still a child. My entire life looks better when I have the Hershey Kisses silver wrapped pleasure laid out before me on my weekly path.

I am having a visit from my son, his wife and the amazingly wry toddler girl they have created. So because of that anticipated pleasure, the frosting cold on my windows and gnawing numbness at my feet does not bother me. The neighbour who parks his gigantic pulsing truck in my parking space does not bother me. My mind is living in the future place of experiences not yet arrived.

Like setting out with a basket, I look for the easter egg delights that are to come. A Netflix special, a dinner with friends, the three books that I have purchased and envision myself reading with a cup of Orange Spice tea at my elbow all await me.
How simple it is to simply learn that I need these scheduled surprises; these orchestrated moments of the music of the senses; these rewards scrawled on my giant calendar.

 
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golden walk in park

For me, Christmas is not about buying things, not about running around to see what I might be missing. But I am learning that shutting down does nothing to make my spirit bright.

The muffin at the coffee shop on Sunday morning makes me entirely happy. I can hear myself say to me, “This is nice. This is really nice.”

There are the big victories and then there are the victories that simply coming from learning what makes life brighter. I am a child who wants sparklers, sitting by the lake, a good tasting beverage and a foot swinging conversation. But first I have to plan and map them in my future. It is a plan. X marks the spot where the treasure is hidden.