What gates I have passed through? What disasters have I survived? What choices have I made along the way?

The relationships with various men fall away and no longer are visible in my rearview mirror. The monstrous pain and dysfunction of my parents has been removed tediously and laboriously from my green lawn of the present. I went after that deep rooted gnarled old deadness with crowbars, shovels, therapists, ayahuasca, meditation, chanting, writing, performance poetry, reading, seeking teachers. I went after that living deadness taking up space in my life with every tool I had and gladly adapted new tools as I found them.

The near death experiences, the operations, the marriages and divorces, the sobbing into the nest of my fetal position pillows for years, the waking to screaming in the night of visions whose appearance alone re-traumatized me have been part of my journey.

And it all falls away. The forgotten, the shadowy memories, the scars along my body are all then. This day is now. August 20, 1944 I came here to this life.

I am 74. I did it. I survived. I did not succeed the times I feebly tried to kill myself. I did not stay with the light bodies that took me to a beautiful place of ease. I did not become bitter or angry or dress myself daily in the uniform of a victim veteran and go out armed to the teeth on the street.

a step at a time

I have abided. I have learned to abide. As events occur, I simply live them. The moments of joy are not something I plan, or go after. They show up. When I sit with a person and do a channel reading and I see them connect to that thing which has them imprisoned, I feel so grateful. Every single thing. Every single thing in my life has been on purpose. I see that now.

I can help those that seek me out because I understand so much about the unintended accidents of living. It is not because I was skilled or wise that I can sit with others and help. It is because I was so fucking stupid, obdurate and slow to learn that makes me a gifted healer. I can say, “Yep. I did that. And I did it five times. I did it for 20 years.” Immediately others feel better. Immediately others feel hopeful.

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And they are right. It won’t. I am the best bad example they could find. It gives them hope.

Today, I have reached 74 years of age.

I should have died as a child with my broken bones; with my father smothering me with pillows as he violated me. I should have died as a child with my father shooting a gun at our backs as we ran. I should have died as a teenager driving Chuck A Nut drive with a mad man who turned the car lights off and drove down the wrong side of the deep space blackness of night. I should have died when I took the sleeping pills, or when I had cancer, or when my bowel twisted and was about to burst, or when the car was totalled on the mountain highway, or when I hemmorhaged and lost half of the blood in my body and went to the after place.

I could have died when I joined the Peace Corp and changed my mind. My husband and I sat in a bar and watched the live feed of an Eagle Scout shooting into the group from the tower on campus. Among the 11 people killed were the Peace Corp volunteers being sent to raise chickens in India. It was our group. We would have been there.

And what of the doorways that I walked past without even knowing that some choice or movement of fate kept me in the hallway of life? It is unnecessary to know anything.

I have survived. I have grown. I have benefitted from all of the lessons. And once in a while the beautiful deep joy of being on purpose as one who can help others arises.

Today, I am strong, healthy, at peace and so deeply connected to my spirits and the earth. I am grateful for the lessons. I am grateful for my meditation practice. I am astounded at the transformation that my life has been.

What next? Well, it won’t be bland or average… I can tell you that. I came here to get my double PhD about life. I came here to learn.

And then the grief comes. And then the smashing into the glass side of the jar comes. And then the understanding that the body needs to be protected comes with the churning frustrations.

The Okanagan summer is unfolding like it has for the last couple of years. Flakes of cancer causing burned trees were landing on my deck last night. The temperature has gone up to 35 to 38 degrees for days on end. And the relentless cleaning, laundry, greeting and waving adieu to people is sending me into a pattern of lower energy. I am trapped by my debt, I say to myself. I am prisoner to a seven day a week job. My low blood pressure leaves me feeling as if I am dragging around dead oxen draped over my shoulders like a mistaken fox stole.

And my practice is being used to inflict yet more sadness upon myself. “You should be….,” I say.

My right eye suddenly became so blurred I could not see out of it. The eye doctor after using five machines and two kinds of drops declared it an “occural incident.”

I have run out of gas; no longer driving on paved road; in the weeds; at my limit. And as is my way, The Overseer is lashing my back. “You have not worked out.”

And so I attempted to move through my list and download new software on my second computer. After four hours of different servings of failure from the possibility menu… I felt bereft. The urge to cry was there but I had the mother voice telling the Overseer that it was stress and now was not a good time. Let it go for now.

I put on the bionic air filter next to my bed, turned on both small air conditioners upstairs and soaked my foot. It isn’t strange at all that after four months of going barefoot on the lawn with joy, yesterday I impaled my arch on a lethal stem of lavender.

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Turning to Netflix which is my teddy bear soothing ritual, I watched Ricky Gervais evicerate various people. It was calming. Watching someone else spew out the anger I hold inside myself is quite validating to me.

I know somehow I will solve the growing list of technical dark caves I have walked into. I know somehow I will learn to operate these systems. But yesterday… yesterday I had the urge to shave my head, tear off my clothes and go into a forest with a wooden bowl and a roughly constructed fork and just forage.

The victories were not greeting with fanfare. I didn’t cry myself to sleep. I didn’t eat a bag of cookies. I didn’t buy some outrageous piece of clothing I will never wear and I didn’t work frantically to prove to myself that everything was in my control.

Slowly, slowly, I am learning. Gay Hendricks calls these times of mysterious failures as reaching the upper limit. My airbnb is in the top ten in Kelowna. I am fit and strong. My friendships are blossoming. My blog has gone past the 70 thousand subscribers mark. And my gigantic debt for buying my freedom from a poisonous relationship is whittled down to under the cost of a car now.

It is an upper limit problem and I am practicing patience. The heat does not help me. Pollutants in the air do not create a supportive environment. Waiting it out is the wise decision at this point. And as always, trusting that I am growing even when it feels like I have just been failing. Increments, baby. I say to myself in my loving mother’s voice. Step at a time.

Being human is never a rose garden. Or maybe it is and it just needs judicious tending. Watch out for the thorns.

When I think back to what I did yesterday or the day before there is little I can recall. My interpretation of what motions I went through; what I have accomplished I liken to a movie critic addressing a potential audience their construct of the criteria of a good production.

Was it a “successful” day? With the habit of the philosophical mind, I laugh at the possibilities of that word. What is a successful day? If I have kept my plants alive; if I have written a blog; if I have connected with a friend I feel stronger in myself and better about my life. The act of keeping promises to myself is encouraging and helps me to trust myself more implicitly.

Allow

And yet there are always those loose threads of imagining a future fabric that wave in the wind like my Tibetan prayer flags on my back deck. I have so many goals, projects, expectations of perfection flying loose in the air around me, that I can easily feel that I have failed on some level.

The deep discipline is to take myself back to my body. I do a scan of my body and see the areas that are crying out for more attention, for a more loving treatment. A life long pattern of living with pain is not living in wisdom. Something hurts. If this is true, then that is my focus today. The goal is to move through the day paying attention to the signals I am receiving. The body is always first in line. After that, I will attend to my business. Making beds, hanging laundry, cleaning objects, replacing objects can take up to eight hours a day seven days a week.

And then comes paying attention to my protective script. I listen in to see what kind of crops of frustration I am planting in my mind. I stand back and watch the habits of “not enough” ; “not perfect enough” ; “not good enough” being strengthened when I give in to them and let them take over the ground.
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speaking my truth

For me, I think the greatest achievement in my life has been understanding that life is a process. I am a process. My dreams are in production. My skills are building because I attend to them and practice them.

Understanding that I cannot always see what my investment actions are totally up to, helps immensely. Every action; every thought; every new lesson is a coin in the bank. And over time, I will see how it pays off. There is no way of knowing how “successful” I am becoming in the moment. But I do know that I trust myself and the universe more fully than I ever have before.

I am barefoot on the ground taking a breath.

I remember when I was finding sanctuary in books, my door firmly closed against the exploding rage in the hallway, I was reading a Victorian novel about a short sighted woman. She was in a stone house peering out the tower window but could not see.

the journey out of blindness

Although I had spent my life up to the age of 13 unable to see clearly, my mother had finally understood that I seeing impaired in my distance viewing. The optometrist called my vision bordering on blindness.  When I got glasses I was delighted by the detail in the distant landscape. So the passage in the Victorian novel created in me my first really deep understanding that circumstances can effect how well a person can see the world.

Born in another age, I would continue to be unable to recognize people as I walked toward them. It did not help my introversion that I dare not call out a name because I could not ascertain what the other coming at me was called. I made many mistakes and finally learned to not even attempt to connect. Perhaps some of the extra hot sauce on my introversion was created through the blurred vision circumstance.

visual clarity

In the novel, the townspeople down below in the street thought the woman to be witch like. She was reclusive and constantly staring down at people. They mistook her disability for some configuration of evil.

Although I was only 14, I instantly realized that being born in another era; mistaking other people because of short sightedness (mine or theirs) ; lacking compassion were all possibilities in the birth lottery.

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However,  I can only sit with this particular now.

My work at present is to be more gracious to myself. My harshness; my self-discipline; my complete near sighted focus has served me well. But I am starting to open up to a clearer vision of myself as simply a child born into a life on earth who spends the next 70 years trying to find the ground under my feet.

finding the ground

I have accepted that I cannot see clearly the particulars of this life.

What happened, happened. What will happen is unknown. I walk barefoot in my garden feeding my plants or I sit and cry with the chanting of Krishna Das. I am becoming me.

It is always now.

A water strider spreads its legs out and sits still on the surface of water. Its looks belie its capacity for quick, precise mobility. As a child, when I gazed at a water strider. I was taken by it. I became still and observant of our connection. I in my surface of time and shine rested watching it rest. There was a sense of completeness. We both were fully. But neither of us was agitated or in mid undertaking.

It was all riding the surface. The bug was free floating, resting, riding effortlessly the now of place. And I, a busy and electric child, was stilled.

stillness

I thought of that today as I hung laundry. I thought of the moments in life when the intense peacefulness of nowness had presented itself to me. I could not tell a story about it, because it is in a field of energy far more vast than narrative. The smallness of what I think exists, opens to something far more numinous. God is that still.

The waterbug is perfectly balanced with the water.

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It is like that. This sudden understanding of the arresting moment. I am in its thrall. And it is without drama, without shifting emotions, without intellectual engagement.

I breathe with the rose. I feel it breathe into me. The drops of water are impeccable perfection. Three silver globes of reflection curled into the heart of the orange rose.

The waterbug rests impossibly still on the argentate surfaced water.

And I forget myself. And I find myself. And I am destroyed.

I don’t know if it is arrogance or wisdom but when I am out socially, I always come away with lessons about my own behaviour. If a person is aggressive and not good at listening: I ask, “How am I like that? How can I be more open and compassionate?”

How to be a woman… seduction

I watched people “celebrate” last night in an expensive restaurant that was crowded and noisy. Some of the women were in full flirt ” I am available” mode. The groups gathered around tables were mirroring to one another what was “the way to be”. The code is held in rituals that go back for decades.

We learn what to eat; what to say; how to dress; how to wield our sexuality; how to show power or social power. We observe our parents and then our school mates. And as adults we go into a world that is chaotic and confusing. Immediately, we look for where we will “fit in”. We look for social behaviours that are familiar to us.

The young women were circled around tables wearing bodycon dresses, flipping their hair, drinking heavily and as the evening wore on talking more and more loudly and insistently about how someone had victimized them.

tell me how to appear.

I was once again brought up short by the contrast of ideas. The women were broadcasting (pun intended) their economic power by eating at an expensive and well reviewed restaurant. They were wearing clothing that only the securely upper middle class could afford. The shoes were high and demonstrated their commitment to the circus of sexual attraction. Their hair looked like they had just left the trailer to go onto a movie set.

They were ready for any kind of close up you can name.

And yet as the alcohol set in, they energetically “reinstalled” the victim stories. They told of the ex who had gutted them. They stridently took the center of attention to drag the past infliction of an old boss who disrespected them. They told of friends who were ghosting them. And it became louder and louder at all three of the tables.

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finding out your unique strength

Because I rarely go out where alcohol is working its black magic, I was a bit shocked. I wondered if men who are well lubricated need to take the floor to do the victim dance?

Somehow, I think not. And I rarely see upper middle class men going out in clothing that shows every mole on their bodies. So why is it that women hold themselves in such low self esteem that they believe that their sexuality is currency? And why is it that women allow other women to practice being defeated, rejected, victimized.

I would love to see a world where there was an instant interjection. Someone at the table just saying, “Mary. Stop living the martyr story. Stop talking about how you can’t get a break. Find your power woman!”

When I got home I was just exhausted by the energy in that space. I stood on the deck and listened to the wind saying nothing at all. And I thought, “What have I learned?”

My vigilance has increased for those times when I am shit talking to myself. I don’t want to be someone who only feels valuable if I have money; who dresses to fit in to some very skewed concept of feminine power; who gets into a biggest losers competition about how weak and damaged I am.

How women got to a place where they so clearly misunderstand the power of authenticity is absolutely clear to me. It has been a difficult and punishing journey through the generations to be a women. But enough is enough. It is time to understand what happened and to simply refuse to play into the “game”. Everyone who is alive has had to rise above challenges. It does not make you more interesting.

learn who you are

The way out is to be Pink or Serena Williams or Tina Fey or Adele but in your own way. Step into your own authenticity, and be “all that”, all that you are. It takes guts. It takes facing the fear and it takes facing a whole shit load of demons. And if for one minute you don’t think these giant spirited women haven’t gone through a process, you are falling for the myth trap of simply letting others tell you who you are.