My Last Nerve

Yep… it is getting to me. The people that post semi-automatic weapons are really not semi-automatic weapons. Those who stand firmly on a flat earth. The birthers, the racists who don’t know they are racists, the entitled city council that decides which people should be allowed on the streets and try to fine away human pain and evidence of trauma.

For the last two or three days I have been like the violin that only has one string left. It is the really, really high sound nobody wants to hear. It is my last nerve. I don’t feel shaken up in my body… nope. I am too grounded for that.

My body is a lovely friend and its energy is steady eddy. It is that safe warm home.

It is more like the “afraiding” around the edges. It feels like hamsters are committing suicide on my computer screen. Big, plump bodies of vibrating ignorance and anxiety colliding with my internet interface.

We are vibrating like puppets whose strings are being pulled too fast by the masters and slapping one another in the face. Wrestle dancing about the truth and “ultimate reality”. Some are unaware of the string pulled jerks and others are yelling, “You have a puppet master. I don’t have a puppet master.”

As the splatting of fear and spewing out of anxiety continues, occasionally some one is far enough back; someone is observant enough to have a sense of humour. I am so thankful for when that appears. It is a joke, people. The whole thing is a joke.

And running into someone else’s feed with your teeth bared doesn’t change the hamster suicide, puppet pulled manipulated dance.

All we can do is step back far enough.

The first level is to view other’s behavior as a reaction to us. They love us. They hate us. They agree with us so therefore they are safe. They disagree with us so therefore they are a threat.
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The second level is to view the cultural layer. People who have no knowledge of past civic and political history do not understand that this same script, scenario has played out previously. And so we can say… this happened before. It is a recycling of an old societal story.

The third level is to view it as a game. There are avatars; people see themselves as this character or as that character. They have aligned with a created nation concept and play out the conflict. There is a “them” and an “us” and we owe allegiance to some cadre construct.

The fourth level is to view self. What is most interesting about this level is that it entails all of the lower levels.  The everything is about me energy is still there but can be pushed aside once it is recognized. The everything always happens this way in history story can be seen and stepped over. The level of the gang mentality; the clinging to belonging which chains us to one another and to the concept of being correct (so we don’t die) can also be by passed.

And what we are left with is the ability to see all of the calls to drama, anxiety, reactivity. And what we are left with is the responsibility to decide how to react, to respond, to advocate based on our own understanding of who “I” am.

You know those 3D glasses you put on in a movie; well stepping back allows us to see 4D, 5D and know it is a CGI creation.

So knowing I am hearing the annoying plucking of my own ego last unbroken string allows me to forgive myself for falling for it. The drama is just a story.

I am going out to chip paint off of my front step now.

Coveting Dirt

This time of year my soil addiction begins. I hide the fact that I am purchasing so many bags and spending an undisclosed (to me) amount of available funds. I make a run to a hardware store or a nursery and take out my interact card for a mere three or five bags. I pick them up with my damaged hands with wrists that no longer function and hug them tightly to my chest. Each one I release into the trunk of my car until they are badly stacked and then I head home.

I struggle them out onto the lawn. The placement is important because I will not willingly be moving them again. It is painful and difficult.

The ritual of slicing open the soil bag is established and careful… four horizontal slits and two along the top and the bottom. Then I shake out the dark contrast to the green stems of the appearing plants. The neon green pops against the black ground. Immediately the pallet of colors enlivens the incipient garden: seafoam, sage, pickle, pistachio, crocodile, parakeet, mint, moss, army, hunter, jungle, kelly, emerald all show themselves bravely.

The beginnings of blossom are suddenly visible. The tiny baby finger tip of a bud comes into focus on plants all over the yard. The neatly edged touching of lawn and flower bed is delineated.
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I stand back and observe how the addition of contrast and fresh surface creates an entirely different construct. This is a garden with purpose and planning. This is a front yard to promises to hold a fashion show of bulbs and roses. People stop at the fence and look expectantly. It is like a poster for a coming attraction. Something magnificent will come to life here. The stage is being prepared.

And people pause to watch each new step leading to the extravaganza. Soon, the black oil proclaims, soon the spectacle begins.

Allowing the Day to Find Me

Link

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Often when I arise I hold a list in my head, I flirt with some goal I have been attracted to and then I wait. I start the day gently not forcing it to show me anything at all.

Outside my attic window, what is the shape, colour, temperature, temperament of the day showing itself to be?
I have learned to be gentle with myself.

When I awaken early, I curl back down under the blankets and have a memory of being four and just going back into the soft blur of the down duvet, the hazy light, the tenebrous sense of self. It is a luxuriousness, this unwinding of self.

Now, with all of the work I have done on my consciousness, I move from sleep to partially awake with the sense of safety. I am complete. I am protected. I am floating on the warm water of the buoyancy of the universe. Whatever guides, or spirits or angels or forces of fairies or loving dead that exist are around me.

Last night as I went to sleep I looked back into my life to take inventory of the spirit medicines that I had asked to help change my mind. The person who woke up screaming with nightmares every night and who lay in the crib, the bed waiting for violence somehow knew to turn to plants for a deep repair of the neurological pathways.

Knowing that all recollection is colored by the structures of the present, I hesitantly counted up my transformative experiences. And there were at least 28 times I allowed the journey to something greater to repair a very fragile, shattered sense of self.
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For eight years, I sat silence and meditation without seeking a crowding intimacy. I knew something without knowing it. I was reaching for something without seeing it. The broken boned, broken spirited person who suffered in the belief that suffering was the reality knew to go after something bigger.

As I went to sleep last night, I saw that I had been on this “mission impossible” since I left home at seventeen. I wanted to be stronger and I was strong enough to reach for that. I wanted to be more capable of love and I was loving enough to reach for that. I wanted to be open and honest with myself and with everyone else and I was trusting enough to reach for that.

And the result is a greater peace. The result is that I am more gentle with myself. Each morning I am reborn. Each morning I come into the world gently knowing that I cannot know what I am becoming.

I look back and I see the courage of my spirit. The many times that the pain was too big to endure, yet I persisted knowing that beyond the despair there was peace and that I was never alone. I am never alone.

Last Sunday, I did readings as a clear channel for 16 people. The ability to see their struggle, their pain, their wounding is clear for me. And what is also clear is what their shining core spirit is called to be. It is because of my journey that I can say to them, “Peace awaits you. Your purpose awaits you.” I know.

I have been there.

Patterns in my head

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When I awoke, I held in my mouth the dry feeling of dun colored words. The usual pattern of joyful enthusiasm was lattice over shadowed by the decades of self punishing discipline and the commiserate depression of a child refugee in a world gone wrong. The barefoot tiny person standing in the rubble of bombed out generations stood observing me before I was fully awake this morning.

The sun is shining outside of the attic space of my thoughts and I know how to fly blind. I negotiate with myself how to take off into this day.

Most of my self soul retrieval has been by dead reckoning. I experience the confusion and mist wrapped gray thoughts and trust that somehow, within myself I know the way out.

And finding that relationship with the horizon, with the sky and the earth has most to do with recollecting the many times I literally did not know which way was up. I have felt my way. The instruments of my practice, the gauges of my teachers have righted me repeatedly.

Thinking of the necessity of feeling and knowing all of it, allows me to soften to myself. I am that broken child, unprotected and unseen. I am the pilot experienced in navigating internal and exterior weather. I am the student humbled by each new lesson. I am the teacher who keeps myself alert to the gifts of failure and the delights of new formations of the self. And before me is the landscape of this one particular day.
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Learning

Outside my window the sun is weakly touching the boundaries of my kingdom.

I woke up with a dry mouth full of bitterness and old stories. The gift of the work is that I knew immediately the taste and the method to clear it.

I know that I can watch and learn.

Being human is always a dynamic process. Accepting what is now releases shadow bitterness. I trust with each step that I am learning. All of my experiences are in service. And the day can shift to hold me gently as I hold my own woundedness gently. I will get off the ground and find my way to fly. I have got this.

Shadings

There are yearnings of the heart for that which did not; could not and will never happen. The sun sets at dusk, time for the curtain to go down or the house lights to blacked for the opening of some recycling drama.

Silence is not silence in the city but just a quieting of the beast to now only the sound of breath. The night takes in light outlined movement erasing certainty. The night takes light into itself and holds it to move a sigh like air over the internalizing lives.

perspective

It is all shoes on in the morning, step, march, move through something making purposeful paths to some outside definition of a goal, or some pale tattooed dream markings of a desire on our maps. We think we are in control. We check our costumes in the mirror.
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But as the split opens between the seasons of the day, of what presents as one, we feel the breath of the beast of yearning. And there is gaping sadness, this cavern of falling away. A soreness awakening for those things we are not even sure we have felt, or failed to feel, or desired to feel.

shadow truth

Resting in the space between this and that, we are not. Undone Self dissolves all elemental structures. The darkened house. The anticipation palpable. The utter blankness as we sit with empty hands waiting to see what we are playing at. We languish together in rows of  collective obscurity.

What is of merit?

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For me this has been one of the most puzzling aspects of living. The need for assurance, reassurance, security, safety has had an iron grip on my decisions. If I am safe enough, if I can careful enough, I will not die. Ever.

My poetry and art book Laying It on The Line from lulu.com

How can I best move in the world in a way which will most clearly insure that I am not at risk? As my eyes scan the horizon, I am like a primitive, I am child like. I am like a surviver of old wars. Where is the danger? How do I blend in, stay in the centre of the herd, avoid catastrophe?

In actuality, most of the shattering, panic inducing damage has already been imprinted on my body and subconscious. The flack jacket of caution and indecision is thrown over a body already carrying broken bones, familial trauma and the woundings of childhood. The war I fear has already happened to me.

looking for clarity in chaos. my art

I have come to know that my urge to protect myself is actually quite silly. It is like having a phobia to clowns when you live in a circus. And yes 15 clowns can get in one tiny car.

So the issue of what particular decision I make precisely now has to be detached from perceived merit. If I do this thing, in the future I anticipate this particular reward.

Knowing I cannot know. my art


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I have come to see that kind of linear, protestant, constrained energy has not served me. I have come to see that I cannot anticipate which pulses I send out into the universe will eventually have an intended efficacy. How can I know what lessons I need to learn?

As I look back at 73 years of my life, I see that in the moment I frequently had no idea what I was experiencing, what I was going through. There was no way of judging if it could be assessed as a good thing, a neutral thing or a damaging experience ultimately.

The body itself is the greatest compass for travelling in the stormy confusions of stories we tell ourselves. The body reacts to that which is an assault on our well being. Always.

needing to see my artwork

If the breath is present in a gentle, fulsome way; if the body is not releasing cortisol and adrenaline; if the body feels grounded and solid, there is no need to use the mind to assess anything. The mind is like the relative who shows up and repeatedly tells old stories. Everything becomes a mind worm.

If the body is excited and in love with the project, the ideas, the creation of a new experience, then the worthiness of moving into this new engagement will show itself eventually.

Knowing that the value of a situation cannot be understood by the mind is so much simpler. Only a deep engagement with the present allows full, complete trust.

experiencing. body

As I stack stones one by one to create a garden wall, I feel the sun on my back. Overhead a fifty year old maple tree has green baby fists of leaf buds. Everywhere around me birds are telling one another stories. My body tells me peace. My mind has stopped assessing and just sleeps.

March Lion

Wow. Talk about shifting energy. I feel like I woke up, stepped out of bed and was eight inches taller. Goals are easier to reach. I can see to the back of the dark mind cupboard more easily. “Oh there it is?” I say to myself. There is that wish, hope, dream, long hidden desire, container of passion sprinkle for my daily consumption. It was there all the time but I had forgotten about it; or I had hidden it from myself: or I had stuffed it too far into the unseen regions.

I have entered two writing competition and found writing the non-fiction narratives of things I have experienced to be relatively easy now. All those years of therapy, shamanic retreats, ho’oponopono practice, the chanting to release have paid off. I can not only look at a scenario of weird trauma but I can write about it in a kind of flat, unexpectedly humous manner. I call it the dead pan gutting. I can handle it now, with words. I no longer dissociate when I talk or write about events.

 

And the fact that I can now see the comic aspect, the absurdity of the “short stories” I have lived through is actually quite delightful.

I have had yearnings in my life. Belonging in a group of creative, non-competitive, authentic people has always seemed to me to be impossible. I think it was some of the scarring on my perception of reality. On some level, because I had never experienced an open flow, I couldn’t believe in it.

“Just believe,” says Peter Pan.

Easy for you to say, buddy. But I could never get off of the ground. Or if I did I didn’t believe it was happening so just fell to earth again.

How do you know if you’re at the HIGHEST LEVEL you will ever be within the company! That’s pretty much https://unica-web.com/ENGLISH/2015/GA2015-minutes-1.html order cialis the comp-plan in a nutshell. Even though it would not have an excess cialis generic price check out address consumption of such medicinal treatments since it would not be useful. Have a habit to eat healthy foods including vegetables and fruits and also consume supplements for health. vardenafil online australia It also contains viagra levitra Polyphenols, a chemical substance produced by the body. Being in the Vagina Monologue play was healing. The 24 women around me were not only physically beautiful but loving, compassionate, inclusive and authentic. I could feel my spirit being healed by the experience. I could feel myself lifting off.

I volunteered for the NDP because my entire adult life I have believed in inclusion, social justice and the concept that all people, just by being born, deserve love, connection and protection. Working for Shelly Cook was so satisfying. Here was a woman who was authentic and honest. The people around her were delightful, open, ready to see the best in their co-volunteers. And I could feel my spirit being healed by the experience.

The board of the Living Positive Centre needed a member in order to keep operating. As I sat at the table, I was warmed by the other people. They were there to save lives. They were there to help street people, the disenfranchised, the drowning in the cold waters of a commercial/competitive society. And they were bright and educated.

It was as if I were finally going back and getting some of the trauma of being uncared for in my childhood healed. The experiences of being bullied and terrified in school were being healed. They made me a more compassionate person because I really do understand.

There are just certain times in life when you work blindly, hoping against hope. But you keep going.

The desire to be recognized for my writing skill, my quick mind, my political acumen and to be in a group that not only accepted me, but loved me seemed too far out of my reach.

There are just certain times in life when you feel your spirit blossom and the struggle fall away.

“Just believe,” I tell myself. And you will finally fly. Lift off.