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.)
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.