Category Archives: kelowna

What I learned by 70 years of age.

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What it took me until I was 70 years old to learn:
#1 If you put it back where you keep it you will save 2 years of searching over a lifetime.
#2 If you stay in the now and not be in the future planning, or in the past rummaging through garbage you won’t slice into you hand or trip downstairs.
#3 When you have an appointment don’t just write Julia on the calendar. When the day comes you will have no fucking idea who Julia is.
#4 If you save all of your errands for one day, it will save you money. Suddenly shopping and running around will just exhaust you and you will go home with only what is necessary for immediate survival.
#5 The best gift for another person is something he or she has been denying themselves.
#6 Flowers in your house are a survival necessity. They release feel good hormones and fantasy stories.
#7. You will never have the carefully made list you wrote down to go shopping actually on your person, so give up on that one. Just grab strange things you have been desiring and go home.
# 8 Having a clean car is only important if you are picking up a celebrity at the airport.
#9 Getting into or out of any new environment needs as much focus as getting out of a space shuttle. Drop down into the body, pay attention, scan for danger and obstacles. It is the transitions where the broken bones, lost cell phones and left behind coats happen.
#10 The best thing to say in every single circumstance is nothing. God gave you a face, eyes and nice teeth. Smile sweetly.
#11 Always prepare for the apocalypse. There is never too much stored toilet paper, dried beans, cash in an envelope, water in the attic, printer cartridges and paper for the next 3 months, incense for clearing energy when the world ends, (or to prevent the end).
#12. If you can afford plastic surgery get a skin pocket done so you always know where your cell phone is.
# 13 If you don’t answer your cell phone or pick up your messages you will avoid those pesky appointments you did not want to make anyway. (Who the hell is Julia and why does North Dakota call me 5 times a day?)
# 14 Don’t care. Undertake the practice of NOT giving a flip. Until something comes at my house like a bulldozer, I pay no attention to it.
#15. Exceptions are: do sign petitions that push for social justice, do speak out for the weak, young, poor and unprotected constantly. It does make a difference if you are annoying the crap out of politicians.
#16. Speak the truth to beauty. Saying, “I love your scarf to a random woman in a grocery store,” allows her to stop and tell you she bought it on her trip to Italy. Her face lights up. She has happy chemicals releasing in her body. I call it giving a “bump up.”
It is social cocaine.
#17 The only thing that matters in health care is sleep. If you did not sleep deeply with Rem every night you are running on empty. You are like someone getting off of a 20 hour plane trip. Everything you think is just stupid. Get sleep and the whole world is better.
#18 Don’t put the fuzzy red towel in with the rest of the laundry. And if it shed the first time, don’t do it ten more times just to make sure.
#19 If it didn’t fit when you bought it, it will torture you and suck the joy our of your life. Be comfortable.
#20 If it didn’t make YOU look gorgeous, don’t buy it. Nothing is worse than having your clothing upstage you.
#21 Meet the challenge when it first appears. Run toward it like a Viking storming a village. Waiting only allows it to get bigger, more horrifying and weakens us.
#22 You cannot know who you are. That is absolute bullshit. Who you are is like a strobe light image. Now you are this, now that, now something else. Allow yourself to follow your joy and grow the hell up, why don’t you.I am 80 in August and while I sat in the kindergarden desk with my knees not fitting under it for so long, I finally am learning some things.
Love yourself constantly. Coming to earth was the craziest decision we ever made. We are Navy Seals, Red Berets, our own brain surgeons and tough as nails. We are as tough as nails, baby. Don’t you ever forget that.

Spring is an expectation

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Outside my window rain, rain, rain day after day the gray clouds are wrung out by wind and pushed high over the surrounding mountain ridges. A daffodil or two has survived the tourist deer touring through our neighbourhood. They used to feed on Knox Mountain but now with climate disruption, they come in family groups to treat our carefully planted gardens like a salad bar in a buffet. I cannot be angry with the eight in my yard today. Their ribs are prominent and signal malnutrition. Their world no longer supports them.

I have sprayed deterrent. I placed silver pin wheels to spin confusion and trigger the hesitancy of fear in their faces as they bend their heads to nibble down the burgeoning bulbs to the ground with one delicate bite after another.

The days play with us. The flirtation can come on in a moment with the clouds parting to allow sun to leak out and sometimes even allow escaping warmth. Just as quickly the clouds are blown back to cover the sky. The only variation is how high they hang. At times, they are layered across the tops of the surrounding mountains. At others they are low enough to form a backdrop to the black drama of branches in neighbour’s trees.

Next to the door are coats for protection against the shifting climates. The light weight one has been worn a few times but stays on the hook attesting to the optimism with which I face the two steps down into the outside world. My triple-layered, hooded blizzard coat hangs next to the lighter choice. Too many times I have opened the door to weak sunshine and had the whip of stinging wind slap me.

At least…. I keep thinking. Back East the maps have eliptical circles showing where the weather is to be feared either now or in the near future. ‘Guerilla hail’ is falling to create an attack likened to warfare on those who move along the sidewalk or rush to the car for shelter.

At least our houses are not being ripped up by the angry Gods of Valhalla to punish humankind.

And there are the occasional surviving bright yellow golden daffodills standing tall but with the petals closed around the heart. Volunteering in my garden bed out back, I found early snow glories. I pinched the tiny blue flowers off between my fingernails and placed them in a miniature clay pot I held with two tight fingers.

They sit now in front of the Buddha in the window reminding me that sometimes the subtle signs are a cause for optimism. At least…. I keep thinking.

 

September is Gently Leading

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September has an agenda. It begins to shut us down. Because it is cooler, we close the doors and windows. We begin the transition. I found the summer’s relentless pounding heat unpleasant. If I had wanted to live in Death Valley, Algeria or Iraq, I would have purchased a ticket and packed my body armour sunscreen.

We were protected this year from the toxic air lung destruction of past years. The fires were mostly far away. Because only other people suffered, I did not have to think of it. The flooding of past years that washed away the highway and isolated communities was not part of our story this year. Because only other people suffered, I did not have to think of it.

And then at the end, as if to remind us not to celebrate too soon the toxic air floated in for a week to obscure the hills, obstruct the breathing and send us indoor with windows firmly closed.

It fascinates me how my defacto setting is “separation.” Not me is the first message on my assessment dial. I observe myself following the stone path laid out for me by my culture. The lines, the boundaries, the subsets of reality so carefully drawn that rule my thoughts.

September is not summer. It is more contemplative, reclusive, and harder to know. Is it predictive, is it compliant with some nature Gods that rule the universe?

We just sit back and observe it. It is like driving on a highway and going up into the hills. Will there be fog, ice, and danger around the corner?

The volunteer pumpkin lantern plants were profuse this year. The blackberries baked on the bushes. The grapes began well but were eaten by the animals living under my shed. Everywhere around me I see that there is no probable outcome. It is a game of chance this living on the earth.

I watch September’s days expecting some form of climate insanity to manifest. I do this to protect myself. I want to be ready for whatever happens next that I can’t possibly know. That pattern of logic is the very definition of instability.

 

Where are you taking us September? What next?

Well Slap Me with a Dead Fish and Call Me Alive

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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

 

The Dream Map. Awakening After Reading Jung.

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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.

Data Pixels: This much is true

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I don’t know where the days disappeared to, what place at the back of time, what dimension. Were they even present in my present? They just went somewhere as if there was some universal zoomba grinding around all of my surfaces of recognition picking up the dirty particularization specks of time or large fallen fetuses of leaves curled tight which are constantly peeling off of my bare feet as I enter the house. The leaves that were once attached distinctions now wind-blown disconnections. They have come down, down to the ground. Nine days of heat and entropy. Nine days of explosive change. Nine days of amnesia.

In this now moment, I sit on the deck and speculate about a bird that just flew low down over me and squawk chirped. The bird-shape individualized and milliseconds behind it the shadow trailing. I saw them and I thought, “Is it always like this?”

Is there the event, the action, the sense of being real and at the same time a trail of who we are?

The living roundness of a living entity appears and too soon for the eye-mind to register, the shadow appears but not like the bird. It is shifted by change in the precise moment of being cast, created. The intensity and direction of the phantom of the bird which could be perceived in a second to be ‘ this one thing’ is more of less saturated darkness. The sun’s direction, the interference of wind in leaves, the stately sailing ships of clouds, the cast shadows of other objects defying the sun, the star dark of the deck umbrella all interpret the flat black and white appearance of the bird itself as it moves low down so only my left eye registers this passage of bird riding on the wind dragging its shadow like a second home.

I spun out, was pinwheeled by the events last Monday. Saturday and Sunday were given over to pacing and muttering the monologue I have tried to memorize previously. Why is it so difficult to commit other’s words to memory for me? I add to the list while I am abusing myself: You can’t do math, understand flat pack instructions for assemblage, learn new technology without agony. The suffering is part of the imprisonment of a slow mind.
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Is it because I find so many things in my life easy? I can grasp new ideas about cultural, emotional, scientific or physiological discoveries as quickly as a toad whips out its astonishing length of tongue and zip it into my self. It becomes disgested. It becomes my new view of the world with unbelievable speed. I can physically feel it settle into my being. Yes! I see it. I swallow it and digest it. It is now part of me.

As I prepare the monologue for an audition, I am now more like a baby strapped into a high chair than like a lightning quick toad. The bib tied onto me, no matter how expansive, cannot protect me. The spoon of mashed up something which looks predigested moves toward my mouth and my lips are clamshell locked. The concept, the system, the monologue is forced into my face by sheer persistence and it is simply spewed back. I don’t absorb this new information. I wear the mess of it upon my person. The failure is like mashed peas slowly creeping down my front, my face, my arms and some ends plastered in my hair.

I have gone from the Fast Train to an old truck on a pockmarked road. I hit an area of cognition that has lain dormant for years or maybe for this entire lifetime. The level of contrast between instantaneous absorption of far-reaching concepts and the infantile attempts to close the thumb and index finger around an item of information is dumbfounding, It snaps my head back every time.

A bird flies low and both it and its shadow exist but in different worlds. Nothing is simple. There is no one thing. Ever.

I am shifting. Time is shifting. The world is rebooting itself. It is a time to be curious, to simply watch and ask questions. We ask, “What is true?” And we wait.

What is in a day?

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This morning I was up early and out to the Independent Store for the “seniors shopping” hour. I pushed out of the isolation capsule of my house without coffee, without makeup, without enthusiasm.

“Today, I told my constant companion, Noone, ” I will get more fresh greens for the great coming lock down in personal space”.

To give me further purpose, finally, my son and daughter in law had asked me to help them. This is a platinum rare event. So I had their list in hand and was hoping I could purchase the type or brand of items that they enjoyed. I held the peanut butter up while mentally asking it if it was the most satisfying smooth rendition possible.

As I walked through the stores, I watched my resistance. I felt as if I was surrendering. I felt as if the swat team had shown up at my house and used a bull horn to say,” Would all old people come out of the houses with your hands up.”

“I am not decrepit,” I said out loud to myself.

I continued on as I pushed my cart thinking about diminishment and when it begins. If I admit that I am somehow fragile, does my body start spinning off skills and strengths? Will I end up taking my false teeth out and sucking mashed potatoes from a spoon? When does the falling off of belonging begin?

As usual, my imagination took me down the entire spinning of a narrative.

There I am rocking back and forth in my wheelchair idiot mumbling to myself some song of senselessness.

But I have the list in my hand and for now, I am still functional enough to fulfil that goal.
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Just yesterday I remember thinking that the only survivors will be early adaptors, germaphobic introverts. Try running a world with that population personality.

I selected things for my son’s family and items for me but with only four hours sleep and no coffee, I just frustrated myself with my lack of organization. As I walked longer, I woke up enough to see I had once again forgotten my bags in the back of the car. They are like a neglected pet that I just drive around but rarely take out.

It is another habit I need to work on, I admonished myself.

The self is like a vast ranch with critter habits on it. There is so much to tend to so it doesn’t become derelict.

I took the groceries, some bright carnations, chocolate and strawberries to my son’s family and headed home.

What is my purpose? How do I use time? What am I creating of my vast ranch of self?

I see these as simultaneous script words scrolling constantly under my life. And I bring myself back to the adventure of not knowing. Every now is different.

As I put away groceries, I think about how the Independent Store at 7 a.m. is a place to find single senior men. They are unaccompanied, slow-moving and stopping to read all of the labels. If I wanted to pick one up I might ask, “Is that a good disher detergent?” I could try some come hither looks over my new glasses.

Every change holds an opportunity, I remind myself.

Art. Why?

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Art. Why?

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Posted on February 29, 2020
I have come to realize I have a relationship with art and with cultural events that is central to my sense of well being. As I do in all relationships, I step back and analyze the dynamic with a curious mind.
 
What I seek from art is a transformation of self. I stand before a painter that was looking at his concept reality in 1400 and I feel as if I have stepped into his very mind. This was the world he inhabited; these were the beauties of mundanity that surrounded him. What appears on the canvas are the objects limiting and expanding his very sense of his own humanity. And it deepens my understanding of what it means to be mortal beyond the boundaries of my own culture, current normative habits and constructs.
 
When I watch a choreography that is precise, unexpected and paced just beyond my ability to aperceive it, I feel more flexible. My understanding and ability to behold the eternity of the performance is being challenged. It wakes me up. I find myself holding my breath.
 
To hear poetry or a film script that is just beyond my capacity to follow the words, puts me in a state of alertness. I am panting after the patter, forced to keep up, to keep alert.
 
When I see a play and the acting, directing and intelligence of writing is so beautifully beyond that which I knew previously, it can shred my sense of confining comfort. The tightly locked up ideas of who I am are released. I am forced to the identity of the characters. I am that person. I inhabit that kind of grief. That particular rage is within me. I will have unanticipated tears flow. The sense of deep humanity and the fragility of living a life sweeps over me.
 
Perhaps, I am shocked or horrified or taken like a captive ripped out of my own repetitions of understanding. Good art over-takes who I am in normal life and drags me to a hilltop where I now have a greater purview of the entire landscape of being born into a body. This moment in front of a painting, or dissolving in music, or listening to an actor channel the narrative of slavery destroys me.
 
All that I have known is exploded and the intensity of something so much greater than myself floods through me.
 
I fall in love with the created piece of art. I fall in love with the artist who can hold and transform that electricity. It is such an act of bravery to grab the wire and allow the self to be used to transmit energy. I fall in love with the earth, my body, the shared humanity of all of us.
 
For me, great art is about connecting to passion. It is about allowing the small self to be reformulated through an experience. I am renewed. I understand now: To be human is an act of incalculable courage. An artist taught me that.

reconstructing self

 

My Role Models

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Throughout my life, I have sought out books about, watched movies about a particular type of individual. He or she runs the seas of chaotic times with a true compass. No wind or waves or threat of kraken beast turns him or her away from the ultimate destination.

I selected programs about the detective who won’t take a bribe and continues the investigation no matter what the personal cost. I followed the life stories of those women born in a time of female inequality and suppression who lead a movement, spoke out in public, wrote copious treatises about human justice, who suffered indignities in order to maintain their diginity of purpose. Many women were arrested and force-fed in order to garner the right to vote. The pacifist who goes to jail rather than picking up a gun is in my eyes the most courageous of beings.

In my college dorm, I met a quaker girl whose uncle spent the entire Viet Nam war breaking rocks in a hard labor camp in Alabama because he did not believe war was a solution for any human problem. He was not considered heroic by his community. He was considered to be one who lived in his truth.

People that I so greatly admire cannot be forced off of their path of choosing to do that which is ultimately the act of greatest compassion. These people could and can not be convinced that their own sense of humanity is mistaken in the face of a current necessity to suppress others.

They are told to abandon their internal values during the playing out of whatever is the currently unfolding drama narrative.

“The cruel act is only for now. The jailing or oppressing of innocent people is just this one time,” they are told.

A role model’s strength is in the firm grounding in knowing who they are as they move through the world. They believe the vision of their values of equality and human justice without needing validation.

And what they all shared as they invented the impossible new technology, or spearheaded the movement to change the ten commandments of oppression, or stood alone holding a sign until others joined them was and is a strong sense of self. They did not check to see if someone else was with them, if others were dancing to the same tune, if their actions would allow them to be included in the folded arms of the tribal circle.

Some researchers compare the results around the brain to be comparable to Prozac without having the best out of the pills of mouthsofthesouth.com pfizer online viagra. When sesame seeds are administered with butter, it reduces pain and bleeding in hemorrhoids. 7. prescription de viagra canada Make sure the drug is cialis on line taken an hour or probably 45 minutes before they start having sex. There may be physical or mental online levitra india reasons, or a mixture of the two. A person cannot be dissuaded, converted, subverted, taught to submit their own internal value system of equality and kindness if they fully understand what it means to be human.

Innately, people are kind. There are a plethora of studies that show what happens to social groups under great duress. When a threat is overwhelming enough, people will sacrifice themselves for others. Acts of great courage taken in the name of  compassion are recorded.

Sociological studies show again and again that when there is a clear understanding that all will suffer if a few do not intercede, that is when the quiet heroes appear.

My neighbour said, “What we need now is a shared value.”

I said, “We have a shared value. All human beings want to protect their loved ones, their children.”

When we can understand that protecting those we love, means protecting everyone who is human, then the temptation to drop our own internal values will have no effect upon us. We cannot be frightened out of our humanity; bribed out of the truth; threatened out of championing the weak.When we can understand that protecting those we love, means protecting everyone who is human, then the temptation to drop our own internal values will have no effect upon us. We cannot be frightened out of our humanity; bribed out of the truth; threatened out of championing the weak. When we can understand that protecting those we love, means protecting everyone who is human, then the temptation to drop our own internal values will have no effect upon us. We cannot be frightened out of our humanity; bribed out of the truth; threatened out of championing the weak. When we can understand that protecting those we love, means protecting everyone who is human, then the temptation to drop our own internal values will have no effect upon us. We cannot be frightened out of our humanity; bribed out of the truth; threatened out of championing the weak.

Perhaps what we are seeing now as chaos on the earth is just an intensifying of the lesson so that we finally internalize it.

But always, throughout human history, a few strong, grounded individuals have chosen to act based on kindness. These people are my heroes. They teach me that there is a place for ferocity in the name of love.

Self Ass sessment.

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illusion of stillness

Some days are stones. Some days are boulders.

February has had me practising being retired. No guests are in my house. No eight hours of cleaning direct my day. No readings at local psychic fairs written into my calendar. No yard work insists I landscape today.

I turned it off; shut it down; went into exploring the deep quiet of not knowing.

“What are you doing?” People ask me that. “What are you doing?” I interrogate myself. As I awaken in the morning I ask, “What will you achieve today?”

At night, I lay so comfortably relaxed in my perfection of bedness and look back through the day. “What happened today?” I ask myself.

But then I lose interest. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. That narrative has run aground as firmly as a tugboat headed straight for shore.

Is drifting through the day a good or a bad thing? I keep interrogating myself mercilessly but I get no answer out of me. I am a witness neither for the defence nor for the prosecution.

I take out my tape measure pull it flat between my two hands, one held high and one held low. “Did you grow? Did you diminish? Here. Let me take your measure.”

I am not gorging on fat, sobbing into the crook of my elbow, cutting out pictures of crows pecking out eyes to paste on my vision board. No. It isn’t that bad. Nor is it that good.

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I travel to other landscapes I cannot even describe because I have no waking experience of them.

When I see posts on facebook, I think, “Thank God that isn’t me.” I don’t want the drink, the food, the harsh sunshine, the sand in my pants. I don’t want the crowd of grinning people around me. I wish the others well but for now I seek my house, the magnificent bouquets I guy for myself, the satisfying one on one coffee times with old, dear friends.

I honour this time. Something is changing and I have no idea what it is.

I am unmoored…floating. The water is calm or slightly ruffled.

Releasing the need to work, I spend my morning learning and teaching. But it is disembodied, my connection with others. Social Media is like a hazmat suit. I can post from behind the protection of the computer screen.

I practice Win Hof with breath and cold water. One day I listened to Eminem as I plunged myself into the artic electricity. It was perfect.

“What next?” I keep untangling the wrapping roots of weed thoughts from my ground. I am. I am so focused on not being focused. For once in my lifetime. I hear that as a romantic song in my head.

For once in my lifetime. For once unafraid, I can go where life leads me.

I am resting in wait to know where the path will appear. I am content in this retreat. I breathe deeply into the silence. I am right here.