Off the cuff

When I found that ‘fabric’ in a tall pile at the flea market this morning, I knew it to be the so-far elusive “tablecloth” (something with yellow & cheerful) I’d been searching for. In my hands!

(My table has a large chip missing. I like to cover that up. A cloth is so much easier to deal with… but I have to live with it in my kitchen. I want something I can live with. What does that say about my life, that I need to have an in-house relationship with my tablecloth? Put that in your dishwasher & hit soak.)

After scrubbing the table up, I put the pattern on it. I stood back & laughed, my mind flashing on my 9th Grade Home Economics Teacher, Helen Something & how she looked when I chose the most difficult pattern in the box to make for Homecoming. It had gathers in it, stitching across the back, oh my! I could not & if you want to be picky about it, still c a n n o t thread a needle. But the front of that dress was ready to display 4 months later.

I have a karma with patterns. When I was out of teen-hood but barely, my sister decided to show me how to sew. She gave me a pattern & fabric to cut out on her king size bed. Which I did, also making a pattern of her deep green bedspread. And I had not even seen Gone With the Wind at that point.

Well, I just wanted to share that little bit of my afternoon with you. I couldn’t resist the thought of putting a smile on that face!

Love,

Carol

Post for Mom

If the focus on physical is no longer working, it is time to develop a new focus: to assume Creatorship, also referred to as Sovereignty (Over-reign) (reign over). But we can only claim it one at a time & only for ourselves.

We’re more comfortable in a blend: Some braid in with the “growing trend” folks, others with the “oats” crowd. Few want to figure it out beyond their acculturated worldview. But in the rush to experience, depth is lost. Actions are unplanned, results not thought-through. Such randomness bespeaks chaos.

It becomes more complex when language is corrupted into a coarse string of trigger words – language used to be safe once upon a time, a “safe space” place.

Welladay, it’s been that for me in my life. More so lately, as I take time to relish it.

I figure no less than embracing the Transcendent will work here. What’s your take on it? How did you ever put down the Cosmos you are created to bring in, to participate, to populate to this place of here & now? Or is that memory gone, too, like so many that surely were real when happening? Where did our childhoods go?

But what life has proved to me overall is its ephemerality. Yet it is all we know … this physical tag along, drag along body. But it was what we came in for: the reason we dug down into DNA to make most of it automatic, to free up Creativity. We came back in the Michelin Human Suit just to experience shedding the many outer, ephemeral bodies, peeling these away (repealing them). We can only do one body at a time as we uncover to the core (le Coeur). How many of us can get that naked? Even for our God? Yet what else is there to offer a  god?

I came into it without even a blanket to my name. A space was carved for me by Mom: her tunnel to happiness was where she led me to, knowing it a fallback if others failed. I wandered around the landscape for awhile, but in the end, stepped into its cool interior & felt my way along its walls.

I took the bit particularly hard, being Libra. In being “set up” by Mom & Society & growing up in a once-removed beach resort. (In casting back, I realize I’ve lived in resort settings all my life – a place to be to celebrate, but also cheap living when they were not. That place to be when there’s no way change is to be had, as in being at your “last resort.” I was a child in a resort many resorted to for recreation (re-Creation) of their ragtop to Cadillac rides, a return to the mainline after a time-out in Wildwood.

A resort-dweller is to be permanent amongst the fluctuating crowd: those who did not know the beach or the boardwalk as part of the neighborhood. We natives opted to watch  them carefully; we were truly small-town folk amongst the city-dwellers & mostly profoundly grateful for that largesse.

I may be off-track already. I wanted to tell you there’s ways to go no matter who you follow, but you’ll always find the steadiest track to be the one where you’re comfortable. Getting comfortable takes more strength than we are given credit for & usually unprepared around when events happen in our lives. Being or staying comfortable in the spaces of enormous change are why we strip away all else.

I live in a land blasted by light & by the irregularities that have happened here. Once again, it is ramping up behind me, breathing a certain fire to singe the hair on my ears. Once again, I turn to stand in it, to face it, to absorb it, to resort to light for my healing. So, tell me again, why do I need this body?

To feel the light?

(Thanks for watching. Love you, C)

No More Mr. Nice Girl.

HOW MANY DREAMS MAKE A SAINT?

(As many as prayers enwrap sin.)

Make me flexible again, Lord,

Bring me to that place of comfort

In this everlasting body.

Let me be but another Beginning

One more Easter; re-admitting the Light

I carry it upon me,

A cape of strong silk

Snapped out to stop the wind & fly.

There is a ray of light with my name on it

Somewhere here – I know it!

Another elusive Start, supported

Unreservedly by universe.

I am best at beginnings…

The one keeping track,

making notches on my stick…

Must be plumb worn-out by now!

Quelle Stupide!

Holding my horses while I’m in the parade is lunacy!

NO MORE MR. NICE GIRL

I look as sappy in the photo as the cottonwood behind me

And when did I ever wear pink in Real Life?

No more!

I don’t even know what I’m missing

Except it’s no longer there.

A sea entered my inner chambers

Hollowed/hallowed as any woman –

Wrought the change you see here

The rebirthing: resistance re-inflating.

What emerges? Who is this new Being?

…she who no longer needs pink?

In the desert, sometimes butterflies turn into dragons.

ANOTHER

I put the mirror low, to see myself coming & going.

First is awareness; teaching myself what to look for

         By seeing what others see.

I built a wall I thought a lattice

A work of temporary art that became a template

Situations fill themselves in

Too broad by far: whole emotional categories apply

To a scintilla of evidence!

BOUFFANT

“Becoming the universe” is the soul’s ultimate

Philadelphia Experiment:

Something here

Appears there.

Then very little ever matches up again.

It seems my mind

Wants to dart for every circumstance…

Fear keeps one paw upraised.

I’ve Got A Secret

At first it seems covert:

The Path: The Mystery: The Rest.

But now all that’s trappings…

And I’m on about mileage.

Make haste! Tempus Fugit!

MY INNER TEEN

Knows nothing but what she wants

The little thief dishes guilt like hash

Serves it hot & smelly

Sends it down the line

Souring

The little Righteous Scold

Who only knows rules & rulers, really,

Whose heart compressed them

Into puckered arrows arcing the sky

Putting all to distance.

Her Worlds gone hormonal

Too much knowledge, not near enough Knowing.

Beads, rattles, bells

Remind me where I’m from

Tho dry, I know ceremony counts

In stays broad & elemental

Verily I repeat, “There are not enough women singing.”

Mother Earth needs the voices of her daughters

The rhythms of women walking

That gentle, constant drumming

The light patter of every girl-child

Returns as fish & butterfly

Retracing their paths

To beginnings.

To review the terms

Refine the Vision

Reclaim the prizes left behind.

  

       Cheat

Why only & ever a chip off the old block,

It seems to be I got as much as I ever wanted from that quarry.

This is not yet the time I am to strike flint & create fire.

I stand along a widow’s walk

Near a bridge, feeling equally suspended

When all I ever wanted was to be a rock.

ROLL

May this wind bless our presence

May this rain bring forth our garden

When the One-Way signs point at each other

Often at crossroads,

Don’t take on any more lifetimes

Than you can handle.

Just walk straight through.

Take some time to sit with the cat.

Carol Borsello

April 2022

Once More Into the Breach

People sometimes say they are a “product” of their times. What does that really make us? Who produced us? What’s the role of a producer? Telling an actor how to act. Wait a minute, this is getting complicated & I was trying to make it simpler.

For years I have used the tools I was given to engineer my life. However, I’m not a “tools” kind of gal. I joke all the time about my “Hello Kitty” plastic tool kit being all I’ll ever need… I’ve listed it before on the blog, in a kind of wonder – how did I survive on my own with only this to repair it? The toolkit was always an admonition of guilt: I can’t do this; time to ask for help. At the risk of assuring the “in” in “inept,” I never got the hang of driving in a nail, or hanging a picture straight. So that meant hanging it twice, which was really four times the trouble when I gathered my head around it. I’ve enlisted the help of tall people all the time – in stores, where I will approach a total stranger (who’s tall) to ask him to get me a jar of something on the top shelf. I wrote the lists: my ex used to ask strangers to read them for him; then they would speculate on what the little lady really wanted. Going to the store, for him, with one of my scribbled lists, must have been like Frodo walking out of the hobbit-house with the Ring in his inside pocket.

We never know the ripples downstream from where we stir the water.

Tools bring up an immediate physical reaction in me: I put my hands behind my back. I don’t even touch them.

I’ve done this with my life a few times too. I’ve always opted to sail past the self-help section into sci-fi/fantasy, usually opted for the heroine I childishly & wonderfully pictured myself to be. The posturing & the great cloud of unknowing I resided in were a double-whammy to learning life by logic. Overall, I’m not quite sure there is a logic to life. Mine, for example, has been random at times to the point of writing the word ‘hopscotch’ to describe it. My resumes were chock-full of growing responsibilities in the work arena: would I have applied that energy to personal growth, I’d be running my own whatever. I left out the work of the tool-bearer completely.

But while I imagined living in a vacuum, it was never the case. I affected (afflicted?) any number of people over a lifetime of monetary focus: I chose currency as the currency to live by. At this point, there’s no use assigning a good or bad to it. Acknowledgements alone work as witness to the event. It was a choice I do not regret: I was funneled into it & it is still working in its own way.

When the writing pushes up between the cracks in my brain, when the truth of my ineffectuality is known on all levels but this: & I cannot know if it is even worthwhile except to me… ?

In fact, just like another fabulous & long-lasting analogy: if the tree falls in the forest with no one to hear it, does it make a noise? If everyone ignores all my writings meant to entertain, identify, belong with, enjoy manifestation with on this level … if no one reads me, do I exist?

I rely on the ripples.

Love,

Carol

Where. From. Here?

If the focus on physical is no longer working, it is time to develop a new focus: to assume Creatorship, also referred to as Sovereignty (Over-reign) (reign over). But we can only claim it one at a time & only for ourselves.

We’re more comfortable in a blend: Some braid in with the “growing trend” folks, others with the “oats” crowd. Few want to figure it out beyond their acculturated worldview. But in the rush to experience, depth is lost. Actions are unplanned, results not thought-through. Such randomness bespeaks chaos.

It becomes more complex when language is corrupted into a coarse string of trigger words – language used to be safe once upon a time, a “safe space” place.

Welladay, it’s been that for me in my life. More so lately, as I take time to relish it.

I figure no less than embracing the Transcendent will work here. What’s your take on it? How did you ever put down the Cosmos you are created to bring in, to participate, to populate to this place of here & now? Or is that memory gone, too, like so many that surely were real when happening? Where did our childhoods go?

But what life has proved to me overall is its ephemerality. Yet it is all we know … this physical tag along, drag along body. But it was what we came in for: the reason we dug down into DNA to make most of it automatic, to free up Creativity. We came back in the Michelin Human Suit just to experience shedding the many outer, ephemeral bodies, peeling these away (repealing them). We can only do one body at a time as we uncover to the core (le Coeur). How many of us can get that naked? Even for our God? Yet what else is there to offer a  god?

I came into it without even a blanket to my name. A space was carved for me by Mom: her tunnel to happiness was where she led me to, knowing it a fallback if others failed. I wandered around the landscape for awhile, but in the end, stepped into its cool interior & felt my way along its walls.

I took the bit particularly hard, being Libra. In being “set up” by Mom & Society & growing up in a once-removed beach resort. (In casting back, I realize I’ve lived in resort settings all my life – a place to be when things are great, a place to be when there’s no way change is to be had, as in being at your “last resort.” I was a child in a resort many resorted to for recreation (re-Creation) of their ragtop to Cadillac rides, a return to the mainline after a time-out in Wildwood.

A resort-dweller is to be permanent amongst the fluctuating crowd: those who did not know the beach or the boardwalk as part of the neighborhood. We natives opted to watch  them carefully; we were truly small-town folk amongst the city-dwellers & mostly profoundly grateful for that largesse.

I may be off-track already. I wanted to tell you there’s ways to go no matter who you follow, but you’ll always find the steadiest track to be the one where you’re comfortable. Getting comfortable takes more strength than we are given credit for & usually unprepared around when events happen in our lives. Being or staying comfortable in the spaces of enormous change are why we strip away all else.

I live in a land blasted by light & by the irregularities that have happened here. Once again, it is ramping up behind me, breathing a certain fire to singe the hair on my ears. Once again, I turn to stand in it, to face it, to absorb it, to resort to light for my healing. So, tell me again, why do I need this body?

To feel the light?

(Thanks for watching. Love you, C)

Becalmed by Light

Only I can turn poverty into reality. Where is my real wealth? I am spotting it in so many places now. Is this my Nesara? My recognition of self & other’s worth? Yes, certainly.

I no longer need put up with what I felt that way about. I no longer need to feel anyone is not nourishing me, nor wishing me well, even if misunderstood in their reality. Yesterday I said hello to four strangers sitting in the wine bar, each with a long-stem glass in right hand, poised around a face… these faces looked up at me, the ruder intruder burgeoning in to wish all well! Here’s the scoop: I was looking for a lovely friend, the owner; not only that, but I had cleaned the very chairs on which they were snobbing. I mopped the floors under their single-foot-legs-crossed poses.

I laughed to consider they would consider me a “rube” or whatever they call hill-people-strangers these days. Rube is the most polite…

I rejoiced in the sharp sunset light, the long, long shadows fanning the street. I celebrated the memory of living in this town, of being in many of the houses. I reveled in the thought that I had cleaned the entire Lady of Guadalupe R.C. church entirely on my own, reliving my childhood effectively, this time with permission to touch.

It was a very releasing day, yesterday. Empowering.

At the end of it, I wanted only to be in my own home, put away from everyone. After the time “home alone,” & plague, I am still sensitive of others nearby. Literally sensitive. My skin feels them & I am no longer accustomed to being seen.

Poverty is not living as well as I think I want to. Yet it isn’t giving things up either or, rather, seems to me to be. Until I have a recognition like yesterday’s, a review of/in the light, an attention-caller to what was my reality only four years ago.

Perhaps it has always been only change which is familiar. I am willing to change, but I want to do it my way, in my own time, in answer to my own questions. I’ve had enough freedom & done things my way pretty much. Is that not an untold wealth as valuable as any chest of rubies in a sea-cave?