We get on up onto the back of a new day with the expectation energy of continuity. This new day will be a continuation of yesterday and the previous days. It is not difficult to understand how this deadening of the specificity occurs.

I step out of the same bed, on the same side, with the same leg and stand exactly as I have done countless days before. But it is a lie the numbed down mind tells me.

There is a taste, a smell, a texture, an over riding theme to each day to each passing hour that distinguishes it from all others. The weather alone is the most predominant marker. As the sky opens it may bring in sun or fist clamp down again on grayness. The wind may tear limbs off of the tree or refuse to give relief to over ranging heat.

But as we move in closer there are so many variables that it is like looking minutely at a woven piece of fabric. The day is an interaction. I am in a mood, or in a frame of mind. Associations with neighbours, friends, family may shift me.
Viewing in an unmindful manner some political news that distresses me may change my internal barometer in a shattering second.

And yet we are asked, “How is your day?” Others inquire, “How is your day going?”

You will order levitra devensec.com definitely see the results after few months. Herbal treatments include supplements cialis levitra generika which naturally stimulate the body. The act of writing down your goals creates cialis soft tabs a stronger commitment and thus motivates action. This order viagra overnight is done to prevent the provisions of the drug by the laws that now exist. I learned a great deal watching You Tube videos from practiced meditators about allowing for negative space. It is a created geography of simply not knowing, not judging, not expecting, not naming. When we hold a negative space within it is very positive. It means we can simply experience moment to moment without having to catch it with a butterfly net, stick a pin through it, put it on a board and label it.

“How was yesterday?,” I might ask myself.

It was a flowing intersection of various energies, expectations, weather systems and it was mostly sunny.

Today held moments of rain. And finally, that is all we get. We get moments. An event shows up like the neighbours’ cat at my back door rubs on the threshold and then disappears again.

This now not judged holds a peaceful sanctuary. It is free of expectation which means it is free of disappointment. I do not own it. It does not own me.

I remember that the birds sang and I heard the rain’s waterfall through the trees. I could not have been better, done more, been more perfect or been more flawed. I just lived what ever this day was.

And I don’t need to find out its Latin name.

I open my eyes and my first reaching out of the night numbness is to assess the day. I hear birds already at their posts in the trees calling out in a language I am not comprehending. Their tone suggests living as usual. Before a big storm, the neighbourhood crows are insistent, nagging, harsh. But today there was no need for alarm.

The cool breeze coming in my window lifts the blackout curtain and touches the parts of my body that are unwrapped from the blanket. I know that I have some stage unknown to myself wherein I shift from my self comforting fetal position on to my back when I know I am about to release the day. I will move to my left side my knees drawn up, two clasped hands touching my mouth. It is probably some memory of self comfort thumb sucking from infancy.

The morning inevitably finds me flat on my back, spread out and floating on whatever segment of dream I still feel solidly. And then it is swept away with the rest of the night’s visions leaving me only with the tonality, the theme music of the narrative journey.

The day is cool, sunny, the birds are content and busy with their mating and nesting.

Next, I run my mind gently over the house… tracing the shape of it. I feel out to the walls that enclose me… It is almost a ritual reconstruction of the domicile sanctuary daily. The ritual of making my home actual.

I ask, “Who is here?” When 160 people have passed through the house nightly in four months, it takes some effort to re-inhabit the bedrooms downstairs.

Lavender along the walk way

The wonder of my life in the last five months is the very gentleness of it. My transition to waking is soft. As I stand on the floor, I have a sense of purpose. I have guests to make coffee for, to chat with and if they are gone I have rooms to prepare. The garden is flourishing under the habit of care I have established.

Many people lately have told me I have never looked better and it surprises me. I am so uninterested in how I appear to others, it is almost shocking when somebody makes a comment. It feels like they are noticing a coat I am wearing that I don’t remember putting on.

After almost ten years of retreat, mourning, study, plant medicine, writing, sitting with teachers I feel that I am ready to live. The sense that something was wrong with me that has haunted me most of my life is gone. The sense of “me” is gone. I am only an energy of exploration. I am only a “bundle of habits” as my teachers have explained to me. Most of the day there is just flow, work, thought, learning.

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After decades of struggling in the spider web and hearing a voice off screen yelling to just lay still, I get it. There is a way to escape and it is not through work, worry, wasting attention. I feel like one of those birds in the tree outside my window teetering on the edge of the nest.

peace

It is time to fly and let the air take me. But first I have a garden to weed. I can finally say, “I wake up happy.”

I walked out onto my “estate” lawn early this morning before the debilitating brick wall of heat hit and surveyed my yard. The grass is an Ireland green. The tulips whose explosion of color and shapes flagged in a new season have strewn the ground with their petals. A few survivors out of synch with the others still stand alert and erect.

All over the yard the fists of daisy flowers are budding at the waving top of the plants. And two roses are blooming where I recently buried them along the chain link fence.

The ground was cool and night damp under my bare feet and I was seeing the lessons of being a partner in a garden for almost thirty years.

The bleeding heart that I had moved to various places in the yard and wilted down to a survival only size this year is busy, expansive and holds an elegant Victorian curve branching with perfectly formed hearts along the length of each flowering stem.

The daisy plants I purchased to put into a distinct area are now joining the violets and buttercups to replace what was grass in my lawn.

The columbine are egoically large this year. They are no longer flowers but have pushed themselves ambitiously into bushes hiding less compelled flowers.

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The garden is full of lessons. A plant in one place with wither, lay on the earth and be gradually re-absobed. If it is moved to a more supportive environment, it will rest and recover and become unrecognizably spectacular.

Peonies need support. Pansies need sun and space. Roses need daily watering. And if something is in the wrong environment, it will fail to thrive.

All gardeners know nothing is ever done. Being responsive to conditions and willing to change your mind is important.

And so gardeners learn about themselves. What once was failing, the dream or the idea may need only some mindful shifting or restructuring. This year is not the goal, this garden in 2018. The goal is to learn what the plant wants, what support it needs and for the mindful gardener to know when he or she has simply mistaken the decision. Forget Me Nots used to bloom in my front bed but now they will not survive.

If it isn’t working, change the structure, change the plan and wait. There is a time to dig the entire idea out… roots and all and stop trying to grow it. There is a time to move the plan to another place, environment, surrounding. And there is a time to simply persist and wait. After all, my bleeding hearts and Columbine are magnificent beyond all past years.

The single thing a gardener learns is when to wait, when to adjust and when to release the idea. There is a relationship between intention, the plan, the environment and the earth. A gardener knows, we are just part of a larger system.

We step back and learn.

It is not a time to be mince mouthing around, clutching status dead animal purses to the chest and bobbing and weaving to the rhythms of whatever the hypno masters want us to dance formation into.

Now is not the time to believe believe like I would set myself or Savonorola on fire for some chimera cause. The javelin throws of warring media accounts, embattled interpretations of every aspect of reality go whirling by our heads. We duck down covering our brains. It is all too much.

The bad acid presidency we cannot seem to come down off of, the global snarling of indiscernible seasons has sent us into dark movie theatres to watch dystopian cinema as an escape into a ending that is at least more controlled and predictable.

At a time like these days of the upside down, it is difficult to find one’s footing. At a time like these days of hurling down the rabbit hole, it is difficult to look for clues in the outside world for a surety of structure.

The missiles flying into an already dying Syria sent the profits of the manufacturing company up a soaring additional 5 billion dollars overnight. And we are reminded that genocide is a spectator sport.

What can “I ” do I ask? There is little other than to understand that my values, my internalized compass, my decades of experience in the zoetrope projections are where I put my feet. My head is in the clouds and I am keeping it there.

I used to clean my oven to Accept’s Balls to the Wall and the lyrics are cleaning out my thoughts.

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What character would inhabit my life movie? No. I am not asking what actor would play me, I am thinking more of the scripted, literary aspect of it. How would the rhythms of the life be constructed? What would be the signature dialogue tics? What would be the arc of lessons and recovery? Who is she?

It is not so much like I feel I am ghosting my life but more like I am floating on it. I watch. I learn. I stay loose. I keep finding sanctuary in not knowing. Such a warm, cozy bathrobe of “I haven’t got a fucking clue” presents itself when I am rigidly sore from resistance.

Yesterday on my way to work background for a movie something remarkable happened. I entered my recurrent nightmare.

Since I was in high school my haunting dream has been that I was late and panic walking in an architectural structure for which I had no map, no reckoning, no tiny clue about the way. I would grow increasingly anxious until I awoke panting, sweating and crying out deep grief.

They would find out. They would discover that I could not discover my path, my assignment, my destiny, the destination.

As I set out yesterday, I carefully set up my phone for the address I was to arrive at to report to work. I left early. And then my google maps went beserk and was crisply delivering words that were lunatic. No. That is NOT the correct direction.

I was talking very loudly to myself and to the chiding hyper female voice coming out of my phone. I could not look at the phone because I would be twice felonious. I could not be late because I would be guilty. I could not get lost because I would be guilty. I could not be distracted at the wheel.

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At an inter section I frightened the driver of a gigantic red pick up by making a suicide turn in front of it to cut down on time. I was not totally sane at this point. I heard the screaming of the truck’s breaks.

Then I asked my guides and angels to take over. Then I breathed deeply and I said outloud to my neurotic self living the worst nightmare recurrence but this time in real life to just trust. “You are okay.” I told myself. “You will get there.”

And I did. I got there early. I got there with sweat pouring out of my arm pits and covering my palms. As I parked the car, I was shaking.

I got there by driving through the manifestation of my recurrent nightmare and reliving it with a successful ending.

The character who would play my life is neither a hero nor a villan. She is just someone who is changing, shifting, growing, failing, succeeding, learning, being stupid, being stubborn, being open, embracing every single thing. Life is dynamic. Life is a vortex of energies. There is no map and no deadline. I just make my way. And silently apologize to some terrified person driving a red pick up. I could still hear the brakes.

“I was a crazy woman. Forgive me.”

The energy is shifting. Most people I know are wading into the river of change. There is frequently fear and reluctance to let go of the rotten log they have been clinging so ferociously in their clasping arms.

But inevitably, the job ends, the relationship shifts, the children that were the total focus of their lives are growing and will be gone. It is a time when resistance is less than futile, it is actually destructive.

What will happen next? We don’t know. The movies keep presenting dystopian images of techno slums with people trapped in overly stimulated darkness and projections of neon lights. Our sense of direction politically is being challenged. Those things we thought we had grown beyond are back to challenge us. Right wing fear of others spins out into anti-immigration legislation. Women rising up..(again) is causing lobbying for control of the reproduction of women and fear of their voices being heard.

People can no longer tell what is true or not true. In days past we all stood in line and drank from the same cup at the village well. It was a local newspaper. It was a national television show. But now there is a shattering of that singularity of delusion and conditioning. We see it as an attack. What do we believe if the tablets of wisdom are now mere screens of propaganda?

There is no centralized system to rebel against. And so we are confused and lost.

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Last night on the Knowledge network I heard sociologists express that cultures under severe pressure turn to cannibalism. It is always a sign that the culture, or the tribe is about to cease to exist.

Is not the turning on others what is happening more and more violently on social media? We fear the change when we have no assurances.

Letting go of the old inscribed tablets is the answer. Letting go of the shared knowledge is the way to move into new systems of knowing. Each of us needs to take a deep breath and just allow ourselves to let go of being correct. We will float. We will see new systems arise. We will survive. And that which was rotten and decaying will no longer hold us.

Do those things that are before us one step at a time. Take care of the body, the spirit, the family and simply hang loose. We can surf this wave.

Last night was an usual twisting of thoughts, legs, pillows, memories, plans, analysis, grief, excitement all intertwined. I was tossing here and there and wrapping myself up in a cocoon of threads of themes.

I reset myself. I lay one hand over my heart and another on my abdomen and I slowly breathed to bring me back home.

It is my ritual. The body is home, this breath is where I rest. As I breathe out I feel along my spine for the grasping mind tension of yearning. These are obstructions, I tell myself.

Then I replay Rag and Bone man’s music in my head. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3wKzyIN1yk

“Maybe I’m foolish, maybe I’m blind.” I sing to myself. And I forgive myself for not being able to drop the drama. “I’m only human after all.”

The voice/ego searches the flat plane of the past day from my high night time perch. My eyes sweep from morning to night to see what assaults/insults have activated old wounds. I know it is not now. My mind understands that it is old scripts that are ruling me now. My terror for survival as a child resurfaces. The yawning black fear of abandonment has me pinned down and will not allow me to escape into sleep.

So much went on last night. Surfacing of grief. And the agitation dances in me as I stand on the threshold of taking bigger chances in my life.

I want to scream out, “Leave me the fuck alone! Stop pressuring me to grow. Stop tricking me into being more open and speaking out the truth that causes other’s eyes to sting.”

The distractions of smallness. The withdrawal into normal, compliant hiding in plain sight is just not available any more. I cannot stand myself. I cannot go back to what was and stay quiet. I cannot step forward into the exploding risk that calls me of being full on power. So I cling to the threshold between levels just vibrating with memories, shadow entities and the unseen bridge of stone I am called to jump blindly onto.

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A guest said there was “scum” under some bottles of shampoo in the shower and I was devastated. I made excuses… people have been in the house steadily for two months and trying to get into any one space is like waiting for the jump rope to turn exactly to the right moment. I missed my pain clinic injection appointment that takes two months to set up because I was talking about the stress of dealing with criticism. So I did not get there on time.

Then I went to a writer’s group and I was already fermenting with two “failures” in my vat body persona. The moderator talked about how important it is to attend conferences. That very morning I had signed up for the Penticton Conference much like you would drag a four year old to a play date who doesn’t like noisy places. I have forced myself to pay and sign up. But HE is urging me to do more of it.

So my sleep was slow in coming and I was at work releasing the octopus arms of fear and tension that would wake me up during the night. Breathe. Chant. Recognize. Allow.

I am on the verge again. And like all other times I have been on the edge of something bigger, I absolutely hate it. But what was, the old small metal toy windup movements no longer satisfy me. It is the way I move in the world. Boredom, safety, predictability become intolerable strait jackets. And what I am yearning for is causing agitating and upsetting.

Last night, I was wrestling with the grief of the transition and the excitement of knowing there is nothing I can do. I am on the move.

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.