Control is Not Controlling

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As I sat at breakfast with a talented dancer and yoga teacher, I enjoyed her presence, the sun on the patio and not so much the big white dog licking my butt between the iron boundary fence.

seeing flow

I am so entwined with work, discipline and control issues that I have to be skilled and respectful. Removing some of the ties to my usual method of living has to be done with a surgeon’s care. Issues that came up when she asked me to breakfast were deeply set into my habit mind like some glistening stone.

She is a dancer and does not have a lot of money. She has to work hard, travel and squeeze out survival by being a gypsy hustler. Intentionally dismissing these thoughts I remembered that it is my wholeness that allows me to accept gifts, love, care and help.

Being in control is exhausting and ultimately cruel to others. Can I grow my spirit enough to simply rest in the present without making it some kind of reality game where in I keep track of who holds the greatest power? So often, I have paid for others, I have helped people to move from one place to another, I have given free coaching advice, given away clothing. And down down down in the deepest darkness I have come to realize it is a bribe. It is a “Please love me” bribe.

The greatest attachment wound I carry is that I believed for decades that I was not loveable. And with that metal flack jacket over my heart, I have protected myself from injury. Or so I thought.

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As she watched the home made cinnamon buns rising in the over to take with her on her journey to the south, she told me her truth.

“You never let anybody close to you. You never see people trying to help you. You are constantly proving you are strong, independent and have no time for trivialities like friendship.”

After she left, that observation stayed with me. I wasn’t able to heal or solve the problem at that time… but it was like a first injection of the cure. It took more experiences, more failures, more heartbreaks to come to a place where I understood that I alone was keeping the bitter plant of “not being loveable” alive where my heart should be.

With the constant flow of people through my house staying at my bed and breakfast, I have been exposed to much joy. I make the beds with the intention of providing a clean, calm healing space for people. But it is not an adrenaline driven attempt to compensate. It is sufficient to smooth down the sheets, to put a small bouquet of flowers on their night stand.

And I am able to let more energy in. I pick up the money and thank the person in my mind. I touch the little note the couple has left me and think of how beautiful they are. I put the present someone left me in front of my Buddha on my altar. And as I sit at breakfast with a beautiful, strong dance professional, I think that I am finally learning that trying to control, measure and monitor the exchange of love is a mugs’ game.

We are in an energy dance and sometimes I lift up others and sometimes they lift me up. The choreography is perfect.

The Delusion of Sameness

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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?”

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“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.

The Opening…Finding New Energy

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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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             brain has closed itself.

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.”

 

Attachment attitude: What is it?

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As I work in a daily, rhythmic manner running the airbnb I notice the thought arising: too much. It is interesting to see how jaded my attitude is to work. It has been my saviour as I worked 70 hour weeks most of my life as a teacher.

Our family embraced labour as an anaesthetic. Gabor Mate explained in his recent on line class that those who have been abused have “itchy” limbs. They seek to move in order to dispelling the trapped energy.

pink pinwheel catches the wind

I spent year after year watching myself and assessing my relationship with work. Scarcity mind set created an adrenaline fuelled kind of desperation. If life is too difficult, then everything is too difficult. This next “thing” is a struggle.

“And let me prove it to you,” my ego said. “Keep moving. Keep in the struggle. You cannot remove the dancing shoes, Princess.”

I no longer feel as if I am falling through uninhabited universes one after the other alone when I am not doing the cortisol/adrenaline dance. The sense of yawning emptiness that will melt my very existence no longer horrifies me. I know how to see it and release it.

intentional sanctuary

The secret is in checking my body. These are the signs that I am not abusing action:

1. I feel as if there is enough time for everything
2. I am not competing in my head with my past, with others, with some societal projection of success.
3. I feel at home in my body. I feel the ground beneath my feet, the space around me upholding me, the in flow of new energy in a smooth and untroubling manner.

I have shifted from making a copious to do list, the kind that takes up two sheets in my journal, to just touching intention in the same gentle way I touch a new blooming rose. I feel its texture. I breathe in its smell. I see the beauty of it.

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close up beauty

And then at the end of the day, when I was coming off of work addiction I structured a transition.  I had to write a list of what I had done without the rigidity of me trying to survive anything, or block out anything.

What most surprised me is that I would create as many intentions while moving through the day, as I did when I sat and forced myself to task. What surprised me is I was elated to see that I could trust myself.

Digging my heels into a donkey was my old way of working. But I came to see I was not a stubborn mule. I was a race horse filled with joy to just be kicking up my heels. There did not need to be a whip, or a jerking on the reigns.

I wanted to move and explore and learn. And I have found a way to do that that is more organic and less fear drive.

So when I feel a tightness in my chest from working 7 days a week, when I feel the old violin sawing irritation music, I remind myself to sink into the senses.

As I make the beds after hanging the candy colored sheets wave on the line, I select which brilliant pillow cover to place against another. Everything is art. Everything is creating. Everything is play. And I am spreading love energy in my house, thinking of the guests that will sleep peacefully.

the beauty

Can I know where I am headed by being frightened of it? I am beginning to see how the anxiety has handicapped me, now I am calm and trusting. Where ever I am, I am supported. Where ever I am, regenerating energy surrounds me.

And if I am beyond my limits after making beds for 153 people in four months, there is always a Netflix Brooklyn 99 binge retreat available.

I know how to take care of myself, finally. And it took over 70 years of learning to get here. But it is pretty “Toit”.

What Gardening Taught Me

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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.

My Story and I am Sticking to it

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I learned “whatever” as my clearing process. I imagined the Heathers or Reese Witherspoon being seriously blonde.

While I am not a hair tosser, I could picture the hair flip, the pursed lips the shoulders rising and shaking off anything just not desired that might be perching there… a parrot or raptor, or three crows in a row. Whatever… with the eyes rolling in a way that minimized the narrative.

It wasn’t so easy for me at first. Before I was born… you know the Buddhist Koan, “who were you before your mother and your father met?” Before I was born when I was just part of the spirit soul soup floating, I went to the decision room, the headquarters where the next contract was drawn up.

I have a stubborn psyche. I was offered first this life and then that one. The images of what was possible were shown to me. So many lives before this one, I had experienced poverty, imprisonment, dying alone and moments of beautiful ferocity, bravery and prophecy.

No! I answered. No, I am tired of the lessons and the programmed learning moving me up one small step at a time on the stone landings thrust into the universe’s hillside.

Give me the lessons. I signed up for the double Ph.D because I was voraciously focused on shifting myself. There was a demurring and some half hearted attempts to dissuade me. But I was sure. I wanted it all this time… everything I had not understood in the past HAD to be revealed to me.

And so I was born to a psychopath. My dark haired father with the muscled out body whose arms and legs were crawling with the popped out veins of a weight lifter came home from Europe when I was 18 months old.

My mother had her own fractured self with serious confusion of you for her that acompanies Borderline Personality Disorder.

At some point in my father’s past he was so traumatized, so fragmented that he shared six fully formed personalities in the one robust body. I would say that seven people raised me but in fact a person with Borderline Disorder does not hold claim to a self so that accounting does not work.

Whatever.

Chaos was my laboratory. It is where I studied the lessons this time. At any given moment, I could be attacked. My bones were broken… cheek, nose, collar bone, hands, arms. I learned early on to comply with demands that left me no sanctity of my own body. My body belonged to them. The threat of death hung around me as a constant part of my environment. Furniture, dishes, my toddler self were hurled at the walls.

And it was confusion. Not everyone learns to run in the night as a father stands on the porch with a loaded German Luger. Perhaps that is why I don’t enjoy jogging.

Whatever.

What I learned early on was that there was nothing I could count on. I could not count on protection, stability, acceptance within my home. There was no pleasing or compliance that would stop the crazy.

I also learned how beautifully hypocrisy works in its way through the world. My mother who would slap my face until it bruised volunteered at my school as the home room mother and everybody loved her. She dressed me in beautiful clothing and we acted.

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What I learned was that no one cared. The teachers saw me as a possession of my parents. The neighbours were focused on consuming and accumulating status. In the 1950’s there was no sense of intercession.

But I could read. I could study and experience other’s lives through narrative and biography. I ready every fiction and biography book in the school library by the end of grade 6. I could escape into other experiences. It saved me. It kept me alive.

I ran for the door when I was 17 to go to university and there I found a kind of sanctuary.

But the wounding was something I carried as a deep shame as if it were my fault. I felt that I was outcast. Early on I had experienced bullying and group battery in school.

My sin was my vocabulary. My sin was my intelligence. And I ‘got’ things more quickly than others. Because my very survival depended on my rapidly tuning into the emotions of other, I understood situations instantaneously. It has made of me a very political animal.

I was called weird by classmates and a genius by my teachers. In grade 6, I could read at first year university level.

The nightmares, however, followed me. I awoke screaming for decades. And that can really put a hex on your love life.

One day when I had used up all of my work addiction, I decided it was time to do what I had come here to do. It was time to heal myself and learn the lessons I had signed up for.

I entered a ten year period of meditation, plant medicine, semi-isolation and fervid study: What determines our decisions? How does the brain work? How does family history, our social amoeba, our proximity to others shift our decisions? I couldn’t get enough. I was hungry to learn.

 

As I grew and settled into myself, I realized what a gift I had given myself by walking this chosen path. I became a stronger channel. The messages were crystal clear and always accurate. I learned to more deeply trust the channel. I learned deep compassion as I came to understand the trauma that both my mother and my father had experienced and inherited within their body signature.

I sat with Gabor Mate, with Duncan Grady, with shamans in Peru, with women’s energy workers in Nelson and I read and I read and I read. For three months, I sat Ho’onoponopono focused on My connection with all of my relatives one by one. I took responsibility for the way I envisioned them and I allowed myself to run back along the narrative trail of their lives until I broke. My warrior’s armoured chest, the leather protection of a Roman soldier fell away. And I sat with their pain. I cried for them. I let it go.

Whatever. Whatever had happened to them. It was theirs now and not mine.

Now when I sit facing a client… someone who I am coaching, I can think to myself… yes. I have been there. I have been abused. I have been terrified. I have been addicted. I have been suicidal. I have been locked into ill health and deep bottomless despair.

When I sit facing a client I am not imagining their story. I have lived it. And it makes me more compassionate. It makes me a person who knows absolutely that they can get beyond the drama. They can walk away shrugging their shoulders and saying…..

 

Whatever.

Is It Me?

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When I awoke this morning I came out of a two week darkness. I have been productive and sad. I have been friendly and grieving. I have been doing my job of running my bed and breakfast and at the same time being emotionally sluggish.

Yesterday, I awoke with a smashing headache, a stiff neck and a sense of the eternal weather of gloom around me.

What makes/made it even worse is that I know this weather system is from old geography.

I am highly aware that my self criticism is left over scar tissue. The conjunction with reality and my perception of reality is so blatantly out of line that even in my most unforgiving moments, I see it.

I say to myself, I  have nothing to be depressed about. My house is gorgeous. My garden is spectacular. The fences surrounding my queendom are sparkling white with fresh paint. My deck is sanded and freshly painted. My body is strong and healthy. My children know how to love their children. The signs of building a positive life are all around me.

But there is always something. There is one friend who always criticizes me. She bends to pluck a weed out of the garden, or points out something that is wrong in my life. I can feel the extra weight of her inspection piled on top of the scale. When she speaks to me, it shines a light on how fragile I am. Her thumb pushes down on a pile of weight I have already placed there. My own disparagement is already unbearable. And the heaviness of it appears more clearly when her voice is added to the deprecation dialogue running in my head.

When my counsellor said yesterday that my attachment bonding is wounded, I began to cry. Not a nice Victorian lady like drip that can be swept away by a lace handkerchief. It was a break in the retaining wall. It was a breech of the encapsulated story. I felt the grief of it and all that it has cost me.

And so I know that while my hands, my focus, my skills have created so much that is positive for me. I have a yearning to no longer be ostricised by my own mind. I was never good enough and so now I am never good enough for me. I could never help the pain around me as I was growing up and so now I try valiantly to heal the pain around me. But the pain within me… that is “sinning” I explained to my therapist. To carry the yearning for more than I have is somehow a transgression into evil.

The counselor asked me what it was I wanted to be. She asked me why I try so hard to be perfect and the words poured out.
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Toronto Love

I want to be “blameless” I said. I want to be not responsible for any failure. I desire once and for the rest of my life to be able to say that I am above reproach, beyond criticism, above suspicion, irreproachable, unimpeachable, in the clear, not to blame, without fault, exemplary, perfect, virtuous, pure, moral, upright, impeccable, unblemished, spotless, stainless, untarnished.

Untarnished. And there it is. “Nothing you did to me hurt me or handicapped me.”

The constant criticism in my head is where I carry the greatest damage. I yearn for connection, for expression, for the freedom to be the ferocious spirit of my soul.

And the methodology I intend to embrace is being “good enough.” I cannot protect myself from the violence that lies in my past.

“Can you be more loving to yourself?” she asked me. And it is exactly what I say to my clients. So I get it.

Processing is such a bitch.

Balls to the wall.

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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.

too many slaves in this world
Die by torture and pain
Too many people do not see
They’re killing themselves, going insane

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Too many people do not know
Bondage is over the human race
They believe slaves always lose
And this fear keeps them down
Watch the damned (God bless ya)
They’re gonna break their chains (Hey)
No, you can’t stop them (God bless ya)
They’re coming to get you
And then you’ll get your
Balls to the wall, man
Balls to the wall
You’ll get your balls to the wall, man
Balls to the wall, balls to the wall
A day of reckoning comes only if we witness, have compassion and refuse to stay silent. It is time. It is time to vote, to advocate and to trust that we have a hand in shaping the outcome. We can help others to “break their chains,” if we are in our power of advocacy. Speak out. Vote. Stand up.

So There is this Character in a Movie.

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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.

100mg sildenafil Blood vessels in the eyes are also subjected to possible threats of disorder which later can affect the eye. This reliable theory works differently in various organs that are inhibited by different discount levitra rx negative emotions. Usual exercises keep our bodies in a good state should you take hop over to these guys buy cialis levitra also. They increase blood cheapest levitra pills flow to the male organ daily two or three times for 2 to 3 months, you are advised to consume healthy diet. Stopping at a gas station, I was short of breath when I asked for the X on my map. I was going the correct way. I would get there. But I might be late. They would find out I was not orientated to serve, to be blameless.

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.”

 

Change Is Constant

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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.

Census viagra sale uk Bureau using the Survey of Income and Program Participation (SIPP); CDC and the U.S. The process of Kamagra buy can be done round the clock but simply giving your order online cialis generic request through online stores. Getting approaches to cure your fear and anxiety about experiencing an ICD shock.In the survey questionnaire, survey included questions about confidence, satisfaction and the ability to maintain an erection during sexual act. cheap cialis uk Testosterone in men gradually declines after the age buy levitra from canada of 40. In this state, we react by grabbing harder onto the conditioning and group think safety of our tribe.

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.