Intermission

I am in a twilight, bardo state. One foot is in an old reality, the other searching for the new, tapping the linoleum. I listen for echoes which grow faint, distancing gently to silence.

The apartment is two-thirds packed but not properly so, as in boxed up to be sealed. All is in a temporary holding, odds & ends protrude from the cardboard flaps. I’ve arranged for a loan of tables, put an ad in the paper about the moving sale. Daily I check all the rooms, perhaps to see if any possessions have sneaked back upstairs, looking for pictures which may have leaped onto their old nails still on the walls. I open closets to ascertain if the clothing has multiplied & I understand this is the next step: the pinnacle of a final sort to bring me down to what will fit in my Volt once I have the cat “environment” set up – those parts arrive Tuesday. I envision a three-sort, the third being the final one.

I will be left with some clothing, the cat, the car, some cash, a long journey which may lead to a longer one once at destination. I am heading to a state where I’ve only ever skimmed the border on a church weekend many years ago.

And all of this as the world changes into a place just as unfamiliar as my arrival will be.

I experience a layer of stillness – not of a peace, but rather a drawing-back to take stock. Then I get to moving between the boxes, rearranging the surface levels. Ideas emerge in a whisper which I tug at to discern meaning. I am withdrawing from one world but have not achieved exit speed. One more lap, then another, until the door opens in finality & we depart.

I have a feeling on these days when the sun slips away to allow the unusual balm of afternoon rain. I wonder if I am escaping just before the tiny world of Truth or Consequences shrinks to a pinpoint light & pops with a spit-hiss to go out. When I lived here in 1998, the people talked about being amidst a 25-year drought. Townies still describe it that way, taking no notice that another 23 years have passed & we are still in that same drought. Lately it has started to rain almost every day. But the town is scraping the river bottom for water, the Rio Grande is reabsorbing itself & once the irrigation gates close, will dry to a soupy grass, literally a wet spot with brackish edges.

Attention spans are short: nature is as close to eternity as the foibles of men will allow. My neighbors shower for 30 minutes each. Some still water lawns returning with the afternoon moisture. A cloudburst produces giant puddles which will provide many birdbaths before evaporating. The familiar dusty streets immerse. The plumbing never did get fixed although much-discussed. Instead they spent a cool million on electric meters. shortly after which the City Manager left town.

The weather & I coincide. Both in a hush of indrawn breath, we gather strength & purpose & continue on our way. T or C would be an easy town to miss. Two sawhorses & some cones would close off our either-end-of-town exits. Our two markets serving 7,000 bodies can only provide as they are provided & that could change far too easily. Who would miss us? City services dwindle; the departed City Manager brought a number of expensive contracts to the City Commission for signature about which few questions were asked… why? We had the money! It sounded like a good idea (though only the City Commission thought so as they staunchly shuffled papers while alarmists predicted this scenario, assuring no one took more than three minutes so they could head into Executive Session to approve purchases.)

Endings for one & all line up. I wonder if the town can carry on. New people move in, the Californians & Texans finding inexpensive housing, cheap land & just enough amenities to get by. I am reminded of John Mayer’s song “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.”

My ending will not precipitate that of the town’s, but I wonder just how far behind that is.

Halfway to Wholeness

Moving. Need I say another word? Top of the list for stressors. Moving at this stage seems frivolous in so many ways. I have it “all” here: a place in community, friends of all description, walkers, foodies, familiar volunteer activities, close-ups of a tolerable reality. Yet something is missing from this situation which I am seeking out.

My cat has her own dreams of sameness. She likes her chair in a certain spot, the sun coming at a specific angle, having a variety of “venues” to perch upon. Now even the cinderblock wall she rushed to outside every morning is disassembled. She liked the higher perch. I moved the chair to that place, but the chair is for sitting on later in the morning, not first run at 3:30 a.m. So now she comes back indoors & sits at the front door before curling up on her office chair, palpably bored.

In this halfway place odd noises occur. An investigation shows a picture has slipped from its hook. I remember the last time relocating & how the pictures removed themselves like this. Now that I’ve packed the spare bulbs & given them away as fragile, my favorite lamp starts to flicker & two of its 3-way lumens are gone. A top I gave away to a rummage sale jumped up off the pile when I attended, so I brought it back home. My red shirt: really?

My mind is halfway to wherever too. I nibble at the idea of home being totally empty then waiting for the change to happen, the green light to depart to shine. I look at things & think, “I have to pack that.” But it’s something very tiny that I don’t want lost in the mush of prepping a yard sale.

I have met a boy-man who says he wants to spend time with me but more wants to stay at home & chill. I talk with the other men I know who are intent on wearing me down on my chauvinistic political views (which I do not bring up for discussion.) I give food to a friend who denies having my containers – not even a “Hey, let me go look” just a “No, I don’t have any of your stuff.” (I see myself dropping stuff off on his porch & believe you me, the food stew was not dropped from a ladle thereupon.) Another dances with proving a Trump son more evil than a Biden son, but I cannot equate money with harm & that seems to be the cutting edge making my heart bleed. Perhaps its time to pack up something small & fragile to occupy myself.

I pray a lot these days. I tap on Heaven’s windowpanes when the doorbell doesn’t work. I know help seems farther away cuz my Heaven is also repositioning itself in a comfy new spot.

I stop “looking local” in order to keep eyes to the horizon. I daydream about new vistas, about movie theatres with a real sound system, about being able to buy shoes & clothing without driving 75 miles. I dream of “different” – faces, places, spaces, bases. I think about the cat rushing to my new roommate & how happy we are to share her. I think of not having to deal with all the stuff I have now, but translating it into gas money to replace it elsewhere.

I smile.

Tintinnabulation

I was reading a book recently which took place in medieval England. The character lived near a church & it seemed the bells were always chiming.

I thought for a few moments how many bells I’ve lived by. I thought for a longer time how it must have been for those people living under a tyranny of bells – there were many reasons to despise religious factions. Bells ringing at all hours 24/7.

The sounds of bells carry on down alleys, on cobblestones, around right-angled corners, over the fantasias of rooftops. Imagine:

You owe me five farthings say the bells of St. Martin’s

Or a bit farther along,

Oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clement’s

Head sharp north for

Bullseyes & targets say the bells of St. Margaret’s

Everywhere you walked, a GPS network of church bells oriented you, served up the time of day, remanded you to prayer & endless alms.

And there is much to be made of bells, of chimes, of the attention they bring to the mind: the quickening clarity as they ring. My attention would be easily mislaid in a ringing city!

Yet didn’t I spend my childhood under the tyranny of the “Bells of St. Ann’s”, my elementary school in Wildwood? Indeed! The bells rang us into transition, one classroom for another; one personality for another, one normality for another. My nuns were brilliant & quirky from here (60 years into a future where they no longer are) but back then they were simply terrifying. They say stress learning sticks with you.

Look up the bells of Old London sometime.

Thou Shalt Not Judge

But I do & do it all the time. My mind is like a Venus Flytrap, snapping at a pheromone here & there for food, for nourishment, of course. The words keep moving around in this cosmic shell game of choosing one, when the words no longer have impetus & meaning & are also in dire need of nourishment. I can feel my mind closing down with that same “Snap!” on this thought or that one.

Then I manage to get a hand in & pry the jaws open to check what it is I’ve just ingested. It isn’t always what I thought at first & sometimes better.

Everyone judges except those who’ve mastered the kind of Flow which stays even & uninterrupted by phenomena. Hey, I’ve had lots of lifetimes where I lived it out in safety & fullness. Late in life in other lifetimes, I was “hied” to a nunnery & it was peaceful after the tumult of running a household, husband, hounds & have-nots of yore. How is this life different if it ends the same as others, in contemplation, prayer, source-connections & observation? Has that always been the netted goal? It seems to be taking on the force of a heading.

This is a circumstance I am bringing about now that I’ve settled busy-bee-mind upon it, kind of telescoping the pole dangling that carrot… it’s closer now & more defined, this goal: life gets to a point where what’s best to do is just pray for it. I perceive prayer as the up & coming Tech still mostly undiscovered although we’ve sure heard a lot about it. Like that famous profile of Tesla, his iconic thoughtful pose, it’s been around for the ever part of forever & we are now being urged to get to know it more closely. Have you ever wondered why there’s just one rendering of that man? Not one company shot with ten lab-coated figures standing behind? Not one of him in front of that century’s equivalent of a whiteboard? No reporters on the steps asking how his interview with Mr. Morgan went, no microphones. Just universal energy. Nothing to see here.

LEAVING DESERT

Like Prayer, to sit again in a room looking out

as rain spends itself furiously against my windows

to watch the light change & blur, to see the world greening visibly

healing with every drop.

to contemplate – not complicate -this world again,

moving heaven & earth, finding one beyond the other

while still strong enough to do so.

I can hardly imagine a whole day of rain.

~Carol Borsello

Moving On

MOVING

A tribute to T or C where we’re all here mainly cause we’re not all there.

I always give a piece of advice I like to repeat: “Don’t put down your glasses when you’re fixin’ to move.” 

Now, I step within the framework of these words to peer out from inside them. The view assures me I am in a different space, a more variable space. I untie from anchorage, my homemade balloon striped with new experiences, breathes in air element. For a longish time, I have been letting go of Earth, one tie-down at a time.

I have claimed to be a battery. I don’t carry out the work so much as charge it to occur, or to continue, or to simply watch the success happen. The work presents itself with interest & need, & I plug in. I could be a meanie & say T or C owes me, but the truth is I leave it with a greater debt, for so much feels unfinished. Yet it was not mine to begin with since, I can only ‘inneract’ with it all.

Then that tiny voice teases inside my ear saying, “You were here for the boost, kiddo, battery, remember?”

It’s taken years for the Age of Aquarius to wash over me. I brought along a boat & dory first time I left home, now I leave with power-pack made of thank-you notes, the kind I always write.

I’ve dismantled my desk, dismembered my writings, disbanded alliances dependent on geography. T or C is a cauldron; I can only cook so long before looking for another recipe. I’m not being flip about any of it.

But change just tickles the Hell out of me.

How High That Moon?

Even the news seems void of course – a Newsprint Retrograde that never goes positive. Oh, it can go gleeful at times, but usually about items that have a “Hmmmm” trailing after. What has happened to “information” is criminal. The language barrier has become insurmountable & the tech is not yet outwardly invented to translate that to humans at the level where it engages our truth meters. (This can be done, but only by the heart-brain after exposure to a more resonant Truth; an opening, as it were.)

In that larger space this Truth is interpreted by discernment. I could add every adjective there is before that word & be accurate with each. Truth is, for us each, our perception only. There’s no way for me to function with someone else’s since my discernment is individual to me. To the media, I am what is known as a lost cause – but it was they who lost me first.)

I hope to be one of those Truth translators. I hope to develop my fantastic personalities out there in the ether: my superpowers. It’s my vocation to be a voice for Truth & have mine be adaptable/acceptable/accountable to & for others, for the positive.

It’s not my way to take over the world, but I wouldn’t mind being allowed to drive sometimes.

For Heaven’s sake, where would I take the world? Well, on my Journey, of course. For each of us, there is really only our Journey. Most travel in the same direction but the ones determinedly traveling backwards upend the entire flow in a fluttering super-babble of mis-directives.

I understand there’s no understanding anymore to fight or flight the System. Where I choose to not submit is not mainstream, but no less imprinted on the Akashic. I’m making my mark & it’s atop all the ones I’ve already made. There’s a cliche for that, “carving out a life.”

Wait’ll we find out it’s an illusion we all made up, a long story with a nasty character who curses & never gets written out until the very end … That one to whose name you react to along the way; (names being triggers.) I’ll bet it will happen in tiers: some will casually walk off the stage for a coffee, some will break in ways which are not as much wounds as triplicate repair tickets (body/mind/spirit). For many, the intensity will be too much to unwrap our heads from for a time. And then we’ll find out there’s no such thing as time.

It’s an anti-Eternity to live here like this, tapped on till we’re tapped out, flapping the pages of the script with all those red-inked, last-minute-change marks.

I believe once we discover the joy or our real divinity, we’ll sheepishly laugh, clatter off the boards, thumping each other on the back as we exit stage left.

The Fountain & The Feather

THE FOUNTAIN & THE FEATHER

I saw the angel from four blocks away

I hesitated, trembling: I heard him say,

“I know you from among the stars –

You’re one of them, you’re wholly ours.”

But somewhere his voice became a song.

He held out a hand I shakily took

He pulled me in closer, he gave me a look

Not one word aloud, but a music arose

He tugged me forward, I stood on his toes.

We danced together down an empty street

That led to a fountain so cool in the heat.

He trailed his wingtips, I soaked my feet.

No words were needed, nor did we say

Together, invisible to all on the way…

When a kid popped between us, tossing a dime

And grinned at each of us, one at a time.

At sunset we parted. I watched him fade

One feather remained; one only had stayed.

I reached for it slowly, glowing & white –

When a small hand quick-snatched it into the night!

That child again! Not home in his bed?

“It’s just what I wished for!” He hollered & fled.

Carol Borsello

July 1, 2022