Blinded by Power & Force

There’s a Ren & Stimpy birthday card where they harmonize about having so many candles on the cake, keep the firemen standing by. If I had a cake for my birthday today, it would be a sheet cake & I’d need an actuary to place the bets on getting all the candles lit … or blown out. Happy birthday, me!

Indeed, happy birthday from my island, this timespace bubble wherein live my cells & thoughts – my Be Here Now.

I was recently told I’m “blinded by power & force.” Funny, this is a fresh, recognizable insight which drew an initial shocked breath & then an appreciative smile. Yup, I do think I’m ready to have the world turn My Way! I’ve described myself as “imperious” many times. My own mother called me Queenie as a toddler. Yet, I’m far removed from the notion of nobility. I am an American woman of Italian descent: I love laughter, being held, good conversation, an unexpected joke…I love spiraling pasta from the sauce & delicious travel.

I’ve arrived at 71 with limbs intact, a cheerful demeanor & a plethora of skin tags. If anyone were to connect the dots on my body, either I would ascend or they’d have the secrets of the universe. As if!

I know the P&F thing to be true. My best friend calls me “Zinger” for a no-holds-barred manner of speaking. In this town of complaint & repetition, I am indeed the Last Brain Standing. I am forever the cuckoo in a nest of robins, my big fat egg sucking up all the energy in the room. I am the most bristly child of Fortune!

My “accuser” stands to one side, in his own bubble of understanding. Do his words sum up all assessment on my 71 years on-planet? And tho accurate, he does himself disservice in his projection of this opinion. I’ve declared him too strange for me to take in & after three attempts to reconcile a bare knuckle friendship, I no longer do so. I have found myself in a fishwife stew, screaming aloud at a man who is not even my husband! No mas!

So, what’s the problem with Power & Force?

Shall I give in to the black pearl of life alone & despairing? (There are times when this is terribly attractive.) Shall I stop offering to help or sharing the graces I also possess? Nope. Not happening.

And if my lifestyle of personal success, blessing & laughter doesn’t bear your stamp of approval, so be it. I’ve gained two comfortable descriptors that fit like softened hand-me-downs. It’s good to be in my own cult. It’s good to have a brand name. I’ve dared the fields where angels feared to tread to choose my path. I am appreciated by students & clients, beloved by [some] friends. I don’t have time for the rest right now.

Last night I met a Siamese named Percy who carefully arranged himself across my lap & nipped me when I stroked him. I hesitated & reached again. He projected, “If you wish to touch my silken grandeur, I will tolerate it.”

I nip at times, too. I push people around. The days of “sweet, silly me” are well & long gone.

I do Tinkerbell as a nuke.

I’m a Real Woman, imperfect in sight & bearing. I accomplish what I perceive as mine to do. I didn’t get here by rolling off the surfboard when the tsunami appeared. I’ll stuff these two words in my Super Powers Backpack from Dollar General.

So, wish me a Happy Birthday, a level stretch in the road, some cash for the sock. Laugh at my chutzpah, mock my Jersey accent. I have New Mexico as my sky… And what I have, I share. In the time when a heart might be heartily scored, I can slam a shield of words in place. One day I may lay them down…or explode behind them. I take my chances.

I am both happier & sadder than anyone else I know. But mostly, I am grateful that I do not succumb to robin-hood, & if it took power & force to get me here, I also have more love in the abstract than most I know.

Come, my kingdom, my mismatched blessings; come my liars & Lovers, settle here with me. I don’t mind being nipped. Should it be required, I will put myself between you & an oncoming train. I will heal you from the heart out.

I will rock your world.

Surviving Life

The beginning is farther away than ever, what with another birthday lining up. I don’t remember the beginning anymore, so much in between is gone as well. How many doorways have I passed through in this life? How many lives have lived me inside out to get me to move? How many put spurs into my sides if they thought I’d best go right then. They never told me about how to keep up with the pinball game: or how loud the pings could ring. Spirit has me on sonar, radar, “lov-ar” & much else. Spirit has turned my stumbles into discovery & my haltings into handwritten considerations of note.  

I keep on telling you I’m the ‘point n click’ gal.

My memory serves in a nonspecific way – tho at times things line up. But these are more holistically geosynchronous –  being in the right place at the right time. Little is contrived anymore. Who’s ready for Truth, really? My truth may not even be in the game, but I’m all for Truth. I like designating my memory to my phone cuz if the phones fail someday, I won’t need the numbers.

I am a Cassandra: a Gift so few hear lightly. I cherish those who do. Truth is the original Playdoh®. I keep my eye on the prize, but I have visions to account for.

One night on a dark drive down a two-lane paved road in Tennessee, my ex & I almost drove into a large body of water. The downhill was making me nervous, I slowed & our headlights caught the black lake in tree-edged shadows. Events like this make me mindful.

I got this far & gray to prove it, yet I’d be hard-put to tell you what I learned. Oh, not specifics. I store details clinically, For many specifics, my mind works more like Hogwarts’ Pensieve, There’s much rich detail for the taking, (Somehow today will turn up in that bowl if I need it.)

I know less about getting from here to there than you’d think. It’s all on record somewhere & I can tap into what I need in good time.

Once upon a time I thought I came here to pray us through the changes or pray me through mine. Early in life, elementary school (about which there was nothing experientially elementary) saw me tagging after nuns, appreciating all that white around their faces that lit them up. Much as I looked, though, I could not find a reflection of me. I was a sponge soaking up approval vastly lacked at all other encounters; even, perhaps, with myself in mirrors.  

I thought of prayer as a pathway again while at Unity where the message cloaked me in raw feathers – uncleaned & sharp-like, bearing bodily evidence of life. I earned every feather I found on the sidewalk & patched together into these wings. Their message of self-divinity was a huge chord wrung from one-note me. So much came together about who I was wanting to be & how to get there.

But prayer was not my path for very long. It DID help me get organized, though.

(While in young adulthood, I listened to classical music by preference. It seems to have adjusted my mind along organized routes. But music is not a talent I have time to master right now – enough going on with the words, yeh?)

At so many crossroads, I paused while a neon sign appeared, “Here,” it said. Well, ‘here’ starts with ‘her” & if you fill in the circumference of the last ‘e’, you have ‘hero’. Heros are avatars: how far up am I aiming? If no sign appeared, I pulled out the scribing pad & began de-scribing it for when you take words apart, energy flames up & out.

Exposure is the B side of honesty.

I’ve been refining all those early shavings I gathered of my life to bring along. They are sparse, flensed of emotion (except when not). There’s a bit of my soul rubbed off & on each. They emerge from the pouch in a rush but some resurface periodically. That’s when I know I’m at crossroads & waiting for the sign.

I’ve been here awhile now & time seems to stretch out like some Silly String Theory. I follow an elusive Avatar: my own Joy.

And she has left some rubbings off on me.

It doesn’t matter how many mountains appear in front of you; the idea is the scale the one you’re on right now.

Thanks –