Ordinary Wisdom


I am getting into continuation more & more these days. I keep finding wisdoms which, I told a friend, bring me up so short, I leave mental skid marks. I know these are trite as cracks in sidewalks to others, but maybe you can share where I am if I share these:

[from The Midnight Library by Matt Haig]

“Sometimes the only way to learn is to live.”

“Never underestimate the big importance of small things.”

“Nora had always had a problem accepting herself. She always had a sense she wasn’t enough. She imagined now, what it would be like to accept herself completely. Every mistake she had ever made. Every mark on her body. Every dream she hadn’t reached or pain she had felt. Every lust or longing she had suppressed. She imagined accepting it all. The way she accepted nature. Just another sentient animal trying its best. And in doing so, she imagined what it was like to be free.”

These thoughts appear as I imagine my life as one long, tubular existence. Passing through corridors of “getting to where I want to be” which open into ballrooms or bedrooms or dappled forest clearings. The corridors have windows where I can see where I think I want to be. Arrival is one thing. Getting there a second. Accepting & staying there yet a third. That’s how possibilities become endless. Getting these sorted in my soul is like separating a dish of cooked spaghetti into individual strands. Just pour on the sauce & enjoy the meal!

Where’s your focus today? What are you doing for yourself or others? One morning on an early walk in T or C, I helped a woman using a walker to get a package from her mailbox. I thought how great it was to get my good deed for the day out of the way early on. I don’t think I’ve gotten all my good deeds out of the way yet…tho some came on early & were accomplished without fuss. Or even anyone noticing. Hey! I look at it as a reminder for self & others. It doesn’t look like I can do it alone anytime soon. If I reach out for help, I need to be prepared, indeed eager, to help those others.

The St. Francis Serenity Prayer comes to mind. There wouldn’t be so many quotes like that, nor would these be so popular – bookmarks, signs, bumper stickers, slogan posters – if they were estranged from practice or consciousness. That recognition tweaks a smile that we already knew that! The real smile comes with its accomplishment in daily life.

Leaving off here with one more quote, this one from Fall Out Boy:

“You are what you love & not who loves you.”

And you don’t have to quote me on that.

Road Trip

Irony has a predictive element that’s disconcerting. It loops around to preen & rub, trailing a tail across my knees. The Dodge Ram Van I bought with mother’s estate money brought this great vehicle into my life but it had a flaw in a cracked battery somehow unseen by the inspector. I left Pennsylvania as a camper with a puppy & found my first stop was to a dealer for its replacement. A new battery & I was “OMW” across the country, returning to New Mexico’s Truth or Consequences, which had taken me in & tossed me out years before.this

I departed T or C this past Saturday morning, heading to stay at a friend’s place in Las Cruces. This short hop provided a chance to do some shopping for travel supplies – “road food” I called it, plus giving me 75 miles on a trip of 350 planned to start Sunday.

Sunday morning brought me a dead battery with its spectacular sunrise & the two tubs I had reduced my life to from a two-bedroom two-story apartment. AAA replaced this & I left ‘Cruces for El Paso & points east in a nervous frame of mind. Once the buttons don’t work, there is a bit of suspicion about pushing them again, a frisson of ‘will this work?’ Fortunately, mechanical problems are so much easier to resolve than others & after a couple of stops & starts to tank up, my confidence returned & I pressed on, mulling over history’s repetition. Like Hollywood movie plots, there is just as much same-same.

I recognize the situation for what it is: resolvable. I also accept I am on my own, on the road & many angels are sharing the space. I am not afraid. The future doesn’t frighten me as the past once did. While not repeating mistakes, I search for what will serve me now. As then, I am unsure what this might be or even where; I am only certain it is worth the search. And it is all I have to do, after all.

As an old woman, I am also an old friend, but these ties do not bind. Travel is its own true love. I could speculate on many why’s but truth tells me I find validation in movement & seeing fresh vistas, landscapes and faces. Two days on the road show me the faces today are determined & not a little harried. People seem pressed for time; the road is full of speeding cars while speed limits sprout orange flag-ears warning: “We mean it! Don’t speed!” For me, Texas’ limit of 80 is over my comfort zone & I hover at 75. Which actually is by no means a hover! I seem to have a dim memory of watching the sway of Conestoga wagons with the same intensity.

I have not seen enough to say with any authority what has changed but there is a sense of rushing about similar to anthills. I’m not decrying it here, just commenting. I’m sure I seem like another ant to fellow travelers. I sense people are trying to make up for lost years, masked by the effort to turn the great ship of state from its seeming port of no return. While some see a golden calf on its horizon, others search for a way to reverse the course.

There is no returning to a past which was not really as satisfactory as its memory. But the travel forward must be understood as an attempt to recapture an idealized “what was.” I do not have that expectation even understanding. I’m on the same loop as everyone out here driving with me. Of course we all want to believe we’re on a unique passage which will bring us to a personal Eden. I’m happy for a clean road stop & a friendly face.

The unknown is interesting & gathers my attention. I know my passage adds at tease of energy to the mix already enriched by hopes, desires, dreams, ideas, feelings. I drive without expectation other than to accomplish the goal of reaching an unexplored area for me: the southeast U.S.

For now, the driving is all there is. A road trip is a suspension of both belief & disbelief. The miles ensure change but truly, is there real change? Yet I am still discovering America & myself, rooting out old emotions & beliefs to be replaced with a mysterious new. Might be I will simply stay the course already set & on repeat mode.

But what else is there for me except pursuing the dream?

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.

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.

Foolish Monk

Seems I’ve held this shape forever now, but that’s because I don’t really remember what forever was, just mainly what this shape is. I don’t mean shape as in body only, here.

Even the wind knows boundaries are to fly from & fly over. Change invokes a resounding chord, yet I pluck a single harp string. I am happier when change is gentle, making friends first before taking over completely.

Lately I don’t mind being led down the Garden Path. It gives me time to look around, a change from faithfully watching what my feet are going to land upon. It gives me time to smell the flowers.

While sauntering, I remember all the orders to “Sit up straight!”, “Feet on the floor!” & on. I’m not sure now’s the time to drag this out of the Pensieve to examine, but I’ve been off the mark before. My body has these favorite postures & always has. Lately it’s a longer time preparing to stand up than the act. It feels good & right to take it slow.

Heart is the ultimate Editor in Chief, sometimes her wheels grind very fine indeed.  

You must be honest with love to the point where no fabrications may occupy it. (Tho many haven’t wanted truth for a longish time.)

The cadence to which I marched set early & is now the cadence to which I am at rest.

Who’s to tell me what’s possible?

I don’t think I know anyone who’s in charge anymore. This is now mine but I’ve disowned it before, effectively, too. It’s too clearly defining to try to pass along this one now.

What if I’ve had a bucket list going since the beginning, I just didn’t know it then? If everything has happened to me in the right place at the right time eliciting the right emotional ringtone and I answered? What? Did I do something wrong?

I wonder where I’d be if the word ‘better’ had been erased from my life. I was always compared to that. It made life longer somehow. It’s a can’t-win word. Likely not the first of its kind I encountered.

I do feel the groundswell of a major change oncoming. If tech has been kept a hundred years out from us – a generous idea – how far behind am I anyway? If my generation has iPhones, they have telepathy for sure. But theirs isn’t to be considered mine anymore.  

Forging the next path is all i can see now. There’s absolutely no time to look behind me, not for followers, not for the ones who didn’t – like parents & siblings who led the way, leaving me on my own. They think of me now – like it was 100 years ago they were here.

And I still don’t care. I’m still the same stubborn child with crossed eyes & chewed fingers, the same electric-strange hair & attitude. Just because I’ll never catch up, I am not stopped from moving on. Just because I don’t even know where or when I’m going … I am not stopped from moving on.

It’s all trivialities. It’s all a moment on the beach, that perfect moment 100 years ago when there was nowhere else to be.

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.



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?

The Fade

There was a cleverer beginning to this, but it seems to have faded off in the time it took to boot up. I’m sure it will return & if it doesn’t, we’ll just make something up.

I was never one to enter morning by way of staying up all night. There were a limited number of these, I can perceive now, from this farther-along-the-timeline-perspective.  To do this now – to have what my friend calls a “creative overnight” to stimulate talent… Well, for me, this would be one tired following day during which I had energy only enough for systems on low power. Why would I do that these days? These days, when I find myself cherishing every action I take, even the pads of my fingers skimming the keyboard.

I tell people these are my last days, but I’ll tell you directly, that I am hoping they are. I will be here as long as agreed, but I was ever one to promise More. And grow restless at the end.

First the days got long, being locked down, being forced to face a direction I could hardly believe was coming into view. The alt news hosed me down with bracing hope each day. It all is happening behind the scenes. While I am not thinking it has fractionated beyond recovery, I am putting a lot of Trust into the Hope bag – discordant as deflating bagpipes – yet this is something I wrote years ago:

Faith is hope grown strong enough to hang your heart on.

When I emerge from this mask-maze, I understand This was not necessarily About That. Does that make sense? I feel my entire life has been only the product of a “look over here” complex practiced by master illusionists. I am freer, now, of the Stereopticon Life. I choose now to participate from a molecular level. I understand molecular experience to be my building block to knowledge, for knowledge will be all that is left aside from a bit of DNA here & there. But believe me, World, “they” don’t want to clone me. I have that for a flat fact.

I reside in the idea of now as it was made & meant to be lived; as I live it now, one pure moment at a time, attention to all, intention to some, joy like lights in a bottle, aglow around every detailed molecule.

How long I’ve sat on side rails, watching the entrained, entertaining world! But why would I make that into a query when the answer I really want questioned is “How much longer now?”