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Fear is the Lava at the Core.

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I go about my daily rituals smoothly, calmly, ritually. The morning coffee, the care of plants, the walkout on the lawn barefoot in my nightdress that is a day dress so nobody knows. The sky is Baltic blue, the air is gentle on days between the blasts of heat. When I awaken without neck or head pain from deteriorating vertebrate in my neck I am immediately thankful.

What will this day bring? Who will I be in this meeting of my flesh, breath, hands moving among the minutes? What did I do yesterday or in the deep dark forgotten jungle amnesia of many yesterdays?

The marker is March 11th. That is the day I retreated and stayed hunkered down, bunkered down away from COVID. At first, I was finding a deeply tranquil way of living without the expectations or the gentle tugs from the calendar… tomorrow you will do this, or get in the car and travel across town.

It was becalmed and introverted. But for the first time, my love of the introverted existence was not a rebellion. I was not some motorcycle leather-clad rebel acting out ferociously against the constrictors that have been placed on me in my life.

We were all at home. we were all not gathering for an exchange of idle talk, breath, the agreement to burn up time in some meaningless circle of bodies. I was not going against any social mores.

And it was weird for me to experience that for the first time in my life because it meant I was no longer weird.

The second stage of gradual opening was when I felt most lost. The collective societal agreement was the same as if a drunken uncle had fallen face forward at a family celebration and broken the china, or the heritage crystal vase. We would all agree not to remember, not to have noticed. All around me I saw people taking the words “extend your bubble” to mean anything they desired to happen would happen.

Twenty-year-olds gathered close, yelling in one another’s faces. No one wore a mask. The walks that I took previously in a cityscape that appeared like the neutron bomb had been dropped were now sporting clusters of people who had decided that their bubble meant anyone that they had known for long enough.

People were past the building of a raft of toilet paper rolls and clinging to them as they left the stores and were now confident. The virus was not for them. They were young enough or bright enough, or energetic enough, or educated enough to be immune to its reach.

My personal reaction began to amp up. The more I saw people taking their children to crowded venues without protecting them with masks, the less I trusted others to act in a manner that would protect my loved ones.
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I reacted by digging my fox hole deeper. I stayed home more. I focused on my fitness, my wise eating, my gardening more. As much as I had an underlying desire to expand, to take risks, to send my novel out, to drive to another town for coffee… I found I just could not.

This feeling is not new for me. I have been in a car rolling off a highway. I have been in a car swirling around and around on ice smashing front and back in to the point where witnesses assumed we were dead inside. I have made a dreadful decision that took me ten years to recover myself.

I remember knowing as a small child that the wrong move, the wrong response would result in a beating that could break my bones. And these life experiences are coming to play in my response to COVID.

Always alert

The wrong decision, a step too far, acting out of some undisciplined urge to feel pleasure for a moment can be tragic. I know this.

So now I have been mostly cut off and isolated since March 11th. The bigger dreams, the underlying desires for a richer life are still there. But I live as if the floor were lava.

“Don’t you dare take the wrong step,” I say to myself

I live in a quiet that is monastic. But underneath there is fear. Underneath there is the aching realization that I depend on other people to make wise decisions. And it takes me back to the very heart of my woundedness.

“Who can I trust?” I find myself asking that.

July 27 Facing the Heat

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The day was fine. It sweat-motivated people driving them indoors to escape the head pounding heat or out to the water’s edge under the trees. I walked along the park tonight with sun laying on the surface of the lake as if a brush of yellow had been pulled along the surface. People were haloed and some hair moving in the small breeze was backlit to a saturated colour. Shadows crept into the skin folds: the inside of a bent arm, the rolls of fat and skin across the belly. The light caught in the brim of hats.

The impressionist were drawn to tableaus like these of people specifically assuming a shape while the last surviving light grabs onto all the possible edges trying not to slip away. For a moment the setting sun is held in place until it lowers into mere smudges of color in the torn bits of clouds floating overhead. It is as if in that one moment the world takes a photograph of itself, a memory of the captured day.

Overhead a seagull with knife-like wings cuts the early moon in half. It is cycling like the seasons shift, like life shifts from full to waning to non-presence. At times, a fingernail clipping of moon memory becomes pinned to the sky. And then the moon begins again to fill up its expectant shape.

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But tonight the moon was severed, in between its possibilities. The sun hung low not yet entirely set. The air was saturated with the 35-degree heat like a presence. Only a small wind offered relief. Everything supporting the theatre of life was set upon the grassy park. It was a scene in COVID time. An artificial, staged, constructed reality surrounding us.

The closing moment of the day is like all moments in our current lives. It is now and not yet. We live with messages of who has died and how many are in a science fiction coma with bodies invaded by machines. They hang between worlds not alive and not yet dead.

The young ignore the warnings. Some deny the looming presence and refuse to don a mask from their righteous indignation at not being seen. They float as a planet in the centre of their own constructed universe.

Tonight, the seagull flew low over my head and chopped the moon in two. I walked along the waterfront separate, distant like a spirit being but not dead. My shadow was in front of me.

 

July 20th another day on the sea of COVID

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Journal for July 20th:

As I sit under a tree and watch two swallows flit from branch to branch it occurs to me, I have no ideas how birds have sex. How do eggs suddenly appear in a nest? If I go to youtube to voyeuristically watch birds mating should I then clear my browser history in case of my untimely death? My reputation for puritanical behaviour must remain unbesmirched.

I have so many questions about existence, perception, parallel lives, self-talk, illusion and physics. The idea of ideas, the concepts of concepts are like mirrors reflecting infinitely upon one another. They are intellectual echos in my hollowed out mind. There is so much I don’t know. I call out in my ignorance and wait for my own voice to bounce back.

Inquiries come to me unbidden: what are the 12 dimensions and is it time to change my toilet seat?

Later,  I invite a woman walking past my house with her dog to unlatch the gate and come in to smell the 6-foot tall lilies in my central raised like a grave garden. I stop working in order to watch her face. I watch the sweetness melt her. Her shoulders release and fall down into place. She is transported, her face is transported and I, in turn, am transported by witnessing her pleasure.

The mail carrier comes to my door the same day. I quickly put on my mask out of courtesy for her, grab a freshly cut sachet of lavender. Out the door again, I say, “When you feel anger or anxious or are frightened of people, this is your negative emotion eraser. It will clear the energy that people send to you or you are creating that can make you feel down.” She steps forward and takes the net bag, holds it to her face and closes her eyes. Smiling now, she says, “I needed this.”
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Journal July 27th.

I was in the yard when the mail carrier arrived, She had the lavender tied to her bag strap… directly under her face. She told me, “I wear it every day. I smell it all the time. I take it off and put it on my desk when I work there. It makes me happy.”

I am puzzled by so many things, but when my inner voice tells me to do something to help another person, I always listen. I always deliver the action I am asked to take. Some things are simple and dead clear.

As the days elapse on the wide floating space of COVID spreading out as far as the mind’s eye can see, there are clear moments of beauty.

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.

Virtue Signals and Promises

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On social media, I have observed a hair pulling and kicking in the knees caps type of fighting. One person calls out another with a snarling tone. “You are virtue signalling,” the troll that lives in feeds says in a deep, accusatory voice.

Beware those who have the unmitigated gall (or any other ancient tribal name such as Celt or Galli) to brazenly state that they are not face down in an alcoholic daze during COVID. They will be attacked.

Shut in

The social fetish with victimhood, suffering, repetitive self-destructive behaviour has become more fashionable during the COVID retreat for some. Post that you are day drinking, have put on ten pounds, no longer comb your hair or can’t stand the smell of composting armpits when you lift your arms and the congratulatory messages come flowing in like a waterfall under your Facebook status comment.

Some are applauding paralysis and dysfunction as if it were a superpower. It is, indeed, a strange time. It is an open competition for those who can be the most worst. It reminds me of a bicycle race where the person who stays upright and has covered the least ground is the winner.

Virtue signalling has saved my life. Each time I chose not to tumble down the cactus-covered hillside because I wasn’t watching my steps, I start to trust myself more. Each time I look at my options and ask the question, “Who do you want to be?” Or visualized the person my actions will create, I become more gently optimistic about my own ability to run my life.

When I work out instead of binge-watching Netflix, I talk to myself. I will say, “Look at you go!” I will keep track of my walking, my eating, my sleeping, my reading, my meditating so I can clearly observe my growth. It is a necessary part of my personal growth journey to virtue signal to myself and to others as well.

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There is another way, another path, another reality to step into when I pay attention to my small, mundane choices. Every decision creates an entirely new world. The tiniest act is powerful.

I watch a lot of HGTV and I have a clear sense that we are constructing the place we live within at this time in history. Our home is in our thoughts. And every time I rip out old inefficient wiring and have a more functioning pattern of thinking installed, I congratulate myself. And every time I rip out old inefficient wiring and have a more functioning pattern of thinking installed, I congratulate myself. And every time I rip out old inefficient wiring and have a more functioning pattern of thinking installed, I congratulate myself.

Keeping promises to my body, my health, my garden, my friends, my family makes me stronger and more trusting. I am not imprisoned by my own interior troll voice cackling gothic noises in the background.

Virtual signalling tells me, “Woman, you got this!”

It makes me stronger.

 

Mr. Robot

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I have just “found” the Mr. Robot series and it is enlightening to view it in the face of the disruption we are experiencing in the world today. Questions arise from the story’s script such as: “Who controls me?” and “Is anything I do originating from what I think of as self?”

During the turmoil that has arisen from societal dissatisfaction with hundreds of years of inculcated cruelty, institutionalized inequality and the resultant blatant public murders of those who are deemed lesser and of no value, people have begun to vibrate at a high rate of anxiety. The questioning of self is resulting in either a defensiveness of a person’s long-held views or a denial of the reality that seems to condemn what the person holds as the truth.

People react in various ways in order to disclaim their part in the system. They have a choice of saying, “It isn’t true. It is information that is being created to control my reaction.” Or they have a choice of saying, “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know. It is too much for me, too big for me. I don’t have any power.  I am just standing here passively being a good person.” Or what we are seeing on social media is a third response which is growing stronger. “The people who are killed are at fault. They aren’t like me. They somehow deserve what happened to them.”

It is fascinating to see the philosophy of the early settlers winding through our world, still, in 2020. Preachers in Plymouth delivered hellfire sermons based on the philosophy that a person’s soul was either blessed by God or under the control of Satan before he or she was born. The signs that a person was anointed by God were found in skin colour, physical beauty, wealth, and perfection of health. To ensure that the devil did not rule children, it was recommended that children have the “devil” beaten out of them if they behaved badly.

And it was well known in the religious community that the mark of Cain was punishment. At some point after the start of the slave trade in the United States, many protestant denominations began teaching the belief that the mark of Cain was a dark skin tone,  Cain had killed his brother Abel and let Abel’s blood flow on the earth.

We think that we are in a world that is clear of the past and somehow balanced correctly in the now. But as we see how an inherited belief that the colour of a person’s skin is the result of some sin, some lack of being fully human, we start to wake up. We start to question everything that we have been inducted to believe in.


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An interesting example of how we view the world showed up on my social media feed. A man who understood how conditioning works explained that the map that Americans sit staring at in their 12 years of public schooling is nothing more than propaganda. The USA is placed in the dead centre of the world in order to reinforce the idea that America is special, the centre of the known universe. The other continents are not depicted in their actual sizes. The comparative size of the USA to other nations and of North America to other continents is inaccurate. Power is size. Power is being in the centre. And so the conditioning is ubiquitous. It is in every part of our social context.

What we are being driven to face is the question of what matters. Which of my actions has any inherent power?  Does it matter if someone I don’t know dies of COVID? Does it matter in my life if someone is living without clean drinking water? Does it matter if someone unlike me is being deprived of social justice?

We don’t like the feeling because it forces us to understand how we are formed. Each cell is a thought we have implanted in our concept of reality. We are so very uneasy with having to question all that we consider “normal”. It is painful. It is disturbing. It frightens us to a place where we feel like unprotected children and so we react like children.

As I was weeding my garden yesterday after viewing Mr Robot, I heard a question in my mind. “Is anything you think emanating from your own mind? Is everything you think just something you were taught, conditioned to believe, planted by some societal conditioning?”

I stood up with the weeds still connected to the roots swinging in my hand. And I knew. I suddenly knew. I had no way of knowing.

 

2013 Reflections on Blake and Troward

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“Our more immediate personal recognition of the all-originating love and beauty will thus flow out as peace of mind, health of body, discretion in the management of our affairs, and power in the carrying out of our undertakings; and as we advance to a wider conception of our concept of the spirit of love and beauty in its infinite possibilities, so our intuition will fine a wider scope and our field of activity will expand along with it- in a word we shall discover that our individuality is growing and that we are becoming more truly ourselves than we ever were before.” p110 Troward

William Blake discusses the process of going from a state of innocence then experiencing betrayal, loss, grief. This is where most adults stand. It is the burned out land of shadow structures.

The dark removes the confidence of ground
edging us with sharpness
we are blind to balance
stumbling darkly,
we know only that we are out of place.

This valley of despair results in a deep alienation from other people and even more hurtfully from ourselves. An imminent psychologist who spent over 40 years running psychiatric hospitals said that there was only one source for all the manifestations of pain which he observed. Self loathing. Self loathing is the result of lack of compassion. It is this state of experience that is applauded by society.

Cynicism is an armour forged on the fire of fear.

Cynicism is Forged in Fear

We are taught to defend ourselves. We are rewarded for being suspicious for finding arguments for finding faults and weakness. We wear the badge of “sophisticated intelligence” proudly. The statement “I don’t believe that,” is automatic when one is in the shadow land of experience.

Alienated from self. Standing sentinel in the fortress of isolation hardens a soul. We are told that this is what experience must inevitably teach us.

But mystics such as Blake know and understand that there is a world beyond experience. There is a place that resides beyond the fortress walls. And this new dimension is of a richer innocence. It is an opening up that often comes to people in deep, blinding grief when it feels as if another breath will break the heart, the chest, the throat open. It is a death beyond death because of the confused sense of numbness and chaos at once.

It is after the lightening strike that individuals find themselves sitting on a step next to flowers and being so exhausted they cannot remember to separate themselves. And so in that moment, they open. The flower becomes the most ecstatic, explosively beautiful single living thing they have ever seen. Because they see it.

And they are delivered to a new place. With the numbing of mind, of cynicism, the destruction of all defenses, the individual is left with only here. Here and this beauty. Here and this miracle of color and life. It is to be as an infant. It is to be as a child who is deeply relating to both an outside living thing and to themselves.

One way to stop the endless comparisons and judgments in our minds is through grief. Another is through creativity.
When we open we are like a choir. When we open we are like members in an orchestra. When we open we are like actors in the same play or dancers in a choreography. Each goes down deeply into the experience of separate self. Each listens closely to his or her own voice. Each learns the range, tone, warmth, passing of air that is coming from their singular body. And in the fullness of the individual, in the power and release of the single individual all voices, all instruments, all bodies form a unity that is an aesthetic statement of innocence. It is brave, unafraid of individual expression, uninterested in territory or boundaries or walls. It is the greatest freedom that an individual ever experiences as many all separately functioning together form intensity of expression.
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It is in the state of innocence that a person can truly connect to self. With no history of the past mistakes, bad decisions, egregious losses the person is free to be enthusiastic. A person who feels whole and protected in the world, like a child should, is now capable of exploring. Who am I? What can I do? What can I learn? How can I love? These questions are formed from a place of trust. It is easier to take care of a body that is loved. It is easier to be excited about the sound of one’s own voice if one is loved. It is easier to recognize skillful daily living and applaud it. To see oneself as a magnificent flower blooming through grief, through cynicism, through dark nights is to connect to the wonder of God in each of us. It is like a child moving its hand in the slanted light coming in a window. Wow. Look at that! Aren’t I clever?

And like all nourished flowers, it becomes more radiantly what it is meant to be. Like all children who are deeply loved, he or she becomes more exactly what the pattern of their spirit was meant to be.

How do we escape a state of experience, of isolation, of turning away from others and eventually turning away from ourselves? It is through realizing that each of us is a gift. Each of us holds the ability to express fully what it is to be alive. We can then move forward in a way that is not hampered by defences, moats, walls, imprisoned by our own army of reactive thoughts. We can be as children running full tilt into the next experience because we are fully in love with ourselves, with the spirit within and with one another. We are free to grow big.

Grand daughter on the lawn

Wild one
lip synch coincidence dance
drama queen
flying hair
alight in sun’s stroking the air
fenced crib lines cannot hold.
And she moves over rock and hole ground
bare toes wide turning long strands of music
into spun gold
making her seven year old free now.
All Now.
Heart pulse, music pulse being
beyond constraints wrapping unwrapping
her form, music’s form to accelerate beyond
this edge of what is named
to merge.
Original primitive soul
getting her freak on.

Wind Talking

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Today, I could feel the urge to slide down emotionally coming on again. It reminded me of the coal cellar chute we had under my house when I was young. It was dark down there and I was admonished in the ten commandment chiseled tone my mother could use when laying down the law to NEVER slide into that unseen space.

As I woke up, I remembered the visions from my viewing of the various streaming services I use to numb out before sleep. I had jumped from one documentary to another finding people who had set a goal, worked unflinchingly toward it and stood a healthy, tough, accomplished monument depiction of what a heroically dedicated senior looks like.

“Yes”, I thought to myself, “You will stop doing just enough, good enough, running along the tracks of the usual habits. Today you will dig your shovel into the coal pile of fuel and throw it into the furnace of ambition. Today will be a flame.”

After I took my pills and made coffee, my skin blossomed out like an aggressive tea rose with petals of hives. I couldn’t tell but it felt so pervasive, I imagined even the back of my eyeballs were swollen. My agenda made out so carefully by my personal assistant self was now out of the question.

“First, we cope.”

I took a Benadryl, slurped cups of water and lay down on my left side which is my poor- me baby curled position when I am sick. Just as I was about to fall into a drugged sleep my mind chirped at me, “You had a nap yesterday.” I ignored the nagging.

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So the urge to dig deep, make something happen, speak those words that would cast a spell so powerful it could lift a tsunami of curved lace waves to hit the shore had abated.

I heard the wind outside as I made my whatever the time it was now meal. The wind yowled at me to come outside.

I let the mind sit there in my skull under my twisting hair and walked barefoot to a garden bed. First from one direction, and then from another the wind confused the branches. Acid yellow pollen rained down onto the lawn. The sky shut gray and close to the earth when day began but now it was flickering from one picture projection of itself to another. Silver clouds opened up and the sideways sun took a stab at the earth.

There is something ineffable about a strong wind: It is primitive and savage. We have so little common understanding for the causes, the motivations of violent wind. We do not discuss in our lexicon of weather stories the first mover of the still air that makes it wild suddenly in our own backyards. We are so amazed that we cannot dismiss the force with a label of words. We stand amazed.

And lately the wind has been quixotic, unpredictable, blowing first hot and then cold. But always I feel a call to go stand in it especially when it is ferocious, multi-pronged, hysterical. I stood in the wind changing its mind surrounding me, my hair wrapping across my face and thought, “I want to be like that! I want to be so passionate that there are no words to describe me. I want to speak to the wind.”

I must ask my personal assistant for a new schedule.

Metta View: I can’t see me.

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.As I was twisting around in the mirror, turning lights to reflect illumination on the upper quadrant of my back, I thought about the ideas of “seeing” and “flexibility.”

I was bitten by a brown recluse spider three weeks ago and part of my morning ritual is now to go stand with my back to the mirror holding my phone on camera and trying to set up a clear shot at the inflicted area.

Almost immediately after I was bitten, the two puncture wounds showed themselves but over time with strong antibiotics and tetracycline cream, it is down to a distinct area of red. However,  I am under compulsion to view it. It is “behind” me. I cannot reach it easily. I cannot see it clearly. The ritual of self-protection is built in the monitoring of my body.

The entire OCD driven idea of assessing how I am at this moment, how my past decisions and actions impact on my physical, emotional, spiritual energy, is the place I have landed in my life.

The bite is no longer spreading. The dark ring around it is no longer turning black. The center is beginning to collapse inward as the online information had predicted. But what about the rest of me?

I keep coming back to the idea of blind spots or black boxes. There is an obstruction in knowing the self and it is held in the steel-like neurons that form a spider’s web of concepts.
I know I cannot turn easily to look at my spider attack but that information goes into the basket: “Must do yoga- I hate yoga.” It is filed away.

I watched a video today by a 92-year-old weight lifter who began his self-improvement beyond the age of 80. As I watched, I felt the flush of the warmth of excitement and passion for what I in my secret most heart want for myself. And as time elapsed I filed the intention in the: “Must work out more but don’t feel like it now” basket.

The issue I explain to my patterned self, my toy train on a track self that goes round and round and reaches only the same train station as it ever reached, is that I have a bankruptcy of using time.

Time is energy. Time is optimism. Time is the ultimate expression of the physical. Since I have been retired in 1999 I was outer directed as an artist. I prepared for shows. I worked to deadlines. I spent money in the hopes of making money. I “was” something.

over view

And then I opened the Airbnb for eight very successful years. I was once again outer-directed. The customers coming in would trigger action. The six to eight hours a day spent making beds, doing laundry, wiping down surfaces was not negotiable.

Now, at 75, I have my debt paid down. I have all the time in the world. The Pandemic has turned off the switch of the impulse of action triggered by the outside world and I twist around attempting to see myself.
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And what I see is the problem with “float”. I float in time because “I deserve it.” They tell me that. The inability to look forward to appointments, to trivial meetings with others, to pleasurable strolls through thrift stores to buy things I have no use for and store in the dark peripheries of my house has left me bereft.

Issues such as age, the constant mirroring back to me of what I am expected to do or be as a senior, an inborn faulty setting due to years of being a workaholic and one who has trained herself to jump for the reward cookie held in someone else’s hand haunt me now.

But when I drift in the mornings, I do it listening to coaches, watching videos, reading teachers.

training the mind

I think of the trips I took to Europe and how I spent so much time buying maps when I could have been learning a new language.

Always, always, always my mind runs like a sheep dog herding up scattering thoughts. I come back to the knowing surety that I am a construct. The habits that I build create my choices.

So can we ever know ourselves? How can we twist around enough to get a clear view?

I can only register in my mirror the actions that I am taking. Some of them are shaky, unskilled, full of frustration. But some of them have removed countless moments of drama and struggle that used to occupy my ego.

The spider bite is healing because I followed doctor’s orders even though the antibiotic was very unpleasant. The food I eat is kind to my body and supports my health. The friends I have around me are loving and supportive.

Each day is another construction site. Each day is another laying down of more track for my train to go further, to explore more, to not be so tightly wound.

Ultimately it is a better use of my time to focus on the use of my time instead of looking behind me to see if there is any scarring from past poison. I see my mind grabbing at me for security and I understand the fear that drives that grasping.

Can I loving schedule my time so that I am being rewarded for each minor victory? I begin. I begin again. I begin each every now. Eyes forward.

Looking at “the self.”

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First I have to say (because I am forthright if nothing else) that when we no longer hide, we are now in a position to heal. A door opens. We no longer try so hard to not feel, to not hurt, to not show our human weaknesses. We speak, or take action, or redirect our thoughts from a deep place of knowing who we are, or who we are attempting to become.

Trusting others is the way we build our confidence in ourselves. When others are allowed to see us as who we are and meet us in that open place, we see that we have a shared vulnerability and humanity. The struggles are not unique or signs of failure. Every soul born in a body has to face the same challenges.

It helps us to move from an adolescent place of posturing and the fearful wearing of a mask into a greater connection with our own personal power.

The feeling that we will die if others don’t accept us is normal. I believe it comes from our ancestral memory. Being shunned meant no one would allow you “in”. Being alone in the forest, without food, shelter and clothing meant you were condemned. There were predators in that unprotected place. The teen years are when these feelings are most intense.

Throughout my life, the people I trusted the least were people who are wearing a mask. It is probably why I failed to trust myself for so many years.

So how does an individual become real?

Somewhere in the mess of habits and emotions that we call the self, is the “sweet spot”. It isn’t about revictimizing ourselves (although we have been trained to do that brilliantly). It isn’t about self-loathing that leads us to punish ourselves because we are not good enough. It isn’t about killing off the core soul self to prevent others from rejecting us.

That is why I grew to be 178 pounds when I was alone in a tiny apartment one summer in university. Because I feared and was at war with my body, I put on weight. Because I put on weight, I only felt in control when I was eating. I had no distraction from the searing imprint of abandonment in my childhood other than punishing myself. By unconsciously deforming my physical presentation, I was showing I was in control.

self

And, finally, it isn’t by resigning to pain, to dysfunction, to the operating system of past habits that a person can end the struggle between the static and the dynamic self.

(That is my gold medal stuck place. I will tell myself I did well enough. This new resting place of reset is as good as it can get. Just settle in. I am not on the podium but at least I didn’t trip on my own feet and fall on my face.)

Finally, we are merely mortal. We can only take ONE thing and focus on that. It is up to each of us to figure out what keystone habit will change our entire construction of reality.

For me, I was driven into a corner to face myself by debilitating Rheumatoid Arthritis. I was deforming, unable to sleep, in constant pain. My war with my body could no longer be ignored.

When the specialist told me I would be in a wheelchair, I cried the entire hour-long car ride back to my house. And then I got angry.

I got angry at myself for not paying attention. I got angry at the medical system for not understanding more about mental pain and physical pain. And I sat and began to research for eight hours without taking a break every medical journal, world wide study, and methodology I could find.

Three doctors said I could never live without pain.

My attitude was, “Fuck you.”

I did research. I ordered DHEA on line myself. I followed the Norweigan study’s procedure and fasted for 12 days with only water. I went to a hormone doctor and got my hormones balanced. I became serious about meditation practice and watching my mind. I began to honour the entirety of myself. I paid attention to my masked rage, my limitations, my childishness, my yearnings, my gifts. I went on a path of soul retrieval whereby I accept all of my complexities. I was only human.

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We live in a society that had a good-until-date on our bodies. My yearly testing indicates that I “read” as 20 years younger than I did seven years ago. My body is dynamic. It shifted as my relationship with it shifted.

Traditionally the system gives up on us…. oh you are 50, or 60, or 70. Of course, you are hurting, growing increasingly weaker and the best you can hope for is to slow down your own disintegration.

It is simply not true. My reaction was, “Fuck you.”

I started reading about DNA about telomeres about stem cell experiments. I began to look at Ted Talks and YouTube videos of senior body builders.

It used to be believed that Tuberculosis could not be cured, that Polio would deform, that longevity was 50, then 60, then 70.

Everything changes.

I am a dynamic set of habits and thoughts. Society is a construct of ideas. Science no longer is a thick leather-bound bible of facts.

Finally, who we are is a field of energy, a collection of beliefs, a structure of habits. The place of magic is to be open and curious. Who am I? Who am I now?

And to get to this place of possibility, we first must not be encased in a sarcophagus of identity.

In addition, people around us create who we are. Thirty-five years of longitudinal studies prove that If others in our “social amoeba” are eating poorly, we will eat poorly. If they aren’t proactive and are in a “survivor’s mode” so will we be in a state of constant struggle.

We fall for old habits when the new habits are not hard-wired. We fit in with the social reflections around us.

Take for instance the habitual problem of losing my keys. I spent 30 years not knowing where I last put my keys. And then one day I stood in the doorway furious with myself. It was only then I set an intention. I got a key rack and taught myself to put my keys away.

The study of neurological pathways shows that 66 days of repeating a behaviour until it is hard-wired is a step to a new life.

This person that we stand within is NOT the best we can be. It is a leftover of past thoughts and habits. It is a leftover of the mother’s story and the grandmother’s story back for seven generations.

So somewhere between resignation, victimhood, inward-directed anger is the ability to calmly and carefully rebuild ourselves.

But in order to do that, we have to research the most effective manner to go about it. We don’t decide to rebuild our bathroom without watching youtube videos or hiring a plumber. It is not crowbar work. Self needs finessing.

When we give ourselves as we are too much credit and ourselves as we are becoming too little, we deny ourselves the opportunity to live a more peaceful, a healthier and more satisfying life. And it all starts with desire.

Sign up for change. Find articles and study them. Figure out who you want to be and do everything you can to lovingly guide yourself there. The self is a dynamic construct.

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