Category: Musings

Solstice Emergent

Ah, what the hell did I know? I could ‘move’ out to a narrow spectrum of music, mostly drums. I could ‘be still’ to a huge range more, the kind of music that puts me back together, finding new pieces to turn over in the sun. I only need to warm up a little bit these days. I have so much experience with that experience, yeh?

Where I lived on the fringe is now so mainstream as to be borderline boring. My outer fringe life just arrived earlier than for some others. It’s now absorbed in the culture – from outer edges to inner circles. It’s a place to not necessarily return to. I am absorbed in continuing the life I have now while recognizing I didn’t even have to think about it before. Life did itself. It offered what it gave me without having to check the library free table all the time.

Now, I have a kind of dollhouse life: each noise of is to be investigated. (“What’s running? Oh! The neighbor’s bathroom fan.”) Neighbors help turn that figure eight energy back towards me so I examine my actions – really my thoughts – far more closely.

We have proven we can do parasitic. How about cooperative? I’m ready for cooperative. I remember the places where I ground someone into the dirt & remember even more that I was ground in as well, tho you’d never catch me admiring it. My innermost doesn’t stay inner for too long. Nurture takes longer by its nature.

“You are exactly as you appear.” This sentence is from my astrological chart.

The lard of it all, or perhaps now the silicone spray keeping delicate gears dancing might be self-interest. My generation grew up just under the ones that wanted absolutely NO dirty laundry hung “out there.” The first ‘someone else’s crying jag’ I endured on one social media giant on MY own page, assured me control was out the Microsoft window. That was years ago.

I wander Twitter like a butterfly, alighting on a face I value a comment from. I’ve tied in a couple of Nature photography sites there, so along with ribbons of dire information or a tweet repeated 27 times, there are scenes of explosive beauty, pockets of other worlds peering out just behind the political one. The truest reality remains with mystery. Nature should never be second nature…it is Habitat. It is where we live. It needs to be acknowledged every moment.

I do put the polished stones of my thinking here on the windowsill of the blog. On the B-roll, I guess, since I’m at the recording process more assiduously. But what is left in my imagination is the White Stone Ceremony held each January at Unity where we chose one single word to model our new year. (I began writing on both sides of the stones just to move things along.)  

Although in slow-motion, this is a time of tail-spinning change. Whether I’m chasing mine or watching yours… And it’s all changing as it settles (life, I mean.) We have ideas after a year indoors, a time of push come to shove & it’s all happened at our front door with a big invisible hand pushing & shoving to keeping us inside.

I kenneled up pretty well, considering.

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Listening Devices

It is my daily routine to open the computer & check favorites & newsy blogs. I saw the “update” button on the power screen, that tiny orange malevolency indicating such a highjack coming soon. I hit it last thing last night, hoping it would be over by morning.

But it wasn’t over, it just ran out the battery. I plug it in to 18% completed but “Still updating…don’t turn off your computer.”

I believe it’s true that Bill Gates introduced the idea of getting a “virus” & this requiring periodic “updates.” My best guess is some AI team in Nevada or Arizona, sitting in an underground room where (if they breathed) they could see their breath. I see their lighted silver fingers walking through my files. What will they do with poetry & prose, with editorial letters & preachy emails? Will they yodel to discover fiery youtubes about health & wealth & mankind’s skirting the lava plane of an active volcano? Will their tiny lights grow brighter? I’m still at the back of the threat line, yeh?

20%

I am rambling around the point of this blog but arrival is at hand.

20%

What, exactly, is happening to my computer? And how can I get to the point where I simply pluck information from the ethers as do so many of the folks I follow? If I can’t get the goods on creation from this vivid mountain air & this exceptional light, why do I hope to glean it from a machine?

The laptop is snuggled up to my leg like an indoor cat. I glance at it as I read my book. It is not an alive thing. It’s a package wrapped in brown paper, left on the peeling porch.

22%

This computer (embarrassingly code-named “mylove”) [which name seemed foolish even to me until I saw a friend had named hers “beloved.”] must be given over to the nerdy A.I. in training, the one still needing corrective lenses to connect to humans.

The person who said “Three’s a crowd” had that practical wisdom thing going. I am speaking here of a machine, essentially a toolkit / file unit. It’s a comm device. Why would I not be comfortable wondering if nascent Big Brother knows he has a crowd reading over his shoulder?

(Sitting in that large warehouse room in a form-fitted, chilled cubicle, its green eyeshade canted just so to filter my frontier light, bionic fingers fluttering along a narrow, inky tape of my efforts to stay informed…)

22% still.

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Indigo Child

I got here just as the world was shifting inter-dimensionally & surfed in on that new wave. I am called an Indigo Child. Except that I have renounced the child on occasions, I did a good job staying in touch with my core reality.

In the World of Exactly Today, I am a changer & a chronicler – even unwritten, this life will be indelible on my consciousness. The more so because I recognize it; familiarity being a trait of mine.

I came across the word this morning of “Reparenting”. I did not recognize it immediately, so it sank a little deeper when I did. When what I was reading caught up with my immediate perception of an Inner Child concept base. Specifically, mine.

“Here’s another area for reparenting. I need to provide for myself the missing experience of bondedness.  No sense waiting for the outside world to do it for me; I need to assume the adult side of me and reparent the wounded child.”   – Steve Beckow (www.goldenageofgaia.com)

The pattern of my childhood was that of the singleton & it has not discontinued. I have many ways of coping & promoting & being aware & reacting. These are as practiced as any Yoga or T’ai Chi regimen.

My Inner Child was such a solitaire that she is still sitting & walking in places alone. She came loose when I was free from other obligation. She is stirring now & peeking out between the blinds because she sees I’m not so busy as I was.

This is the Indigo Child. She leads armies on her empty paths. Her mind is quick & responsive, just likely not synced with your particular thoughts though she nods & listens. This child knows what it is to be overpowered emotionally. This emotional bullying was done regularly but who cares since it was only a pattern repeating, laying down a track that is there if I choose to follow it. Indigos do not stay on any track usually; they move from topic to topic, devoting the same attention span & vigor to each. They sample the steam table of life, seldom oriented to the salad bar. Indigos are unlimited though they get their toes stepped on. They never stay underfoot long enough for real damage.

Many cycles of time have passed on this assignment. The edges are wearing thin, I am seeing through what used to be solid. I’m going back to talk with Little Carol who brings me visions & will never leave the beach.

Making friends with her again gives me a companion in the house. For Indigo Children grow into Indigo Adults. Attitudes assumed early will out. I am a leader of a ghost army of me’s, crowding around for attention, but settling in once I choose.

If think of it poetically: I came here to be an immovable rock, a bulwark, a warrior for the incredible Lightness of Being. I am worn to a pebble on the beach. I shine in the knowledge that from all the abundance here, Mother God will exclaim over me & put me into her pocket. Later, she will place me among her treasures. How could she not? She will rub her thumb over all my flicks & imperfections & love me regardless.

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Minyan

We’re lucky to realize & recognize the reality now presenting itself for inspection. It is being made to look uninviting but inevitable.

The reality is that we are already past that doorway – what seems like such a transition is actually being done from 20-20 Hindsight.

For me to renew, or perhaps obtain, compassion & empathy with no attachments, I am here, now & naked. I feel like I’m moving forward but who can say for sure unless I say it first?

For some while the physical trauma of what I experienced has been assimilating within; I keep an eye on it. Ideas help it to reform me after infiltration. Pain & sheer goldurn inconvenience inform me now.

To find uniqueness in the matrix of how souls have overlapped each other (they were not keeping an eye on things) is to live in “threads” & “sound bites” – we live in underscores, not the fullest expression of life, but  our version, so it is in us, embodied,  We get snippets of stories where we get anything we’re not our own selves making up at this point. The individual took over the collective by a long shot…yet because it is defined by that, it still participates, telling itself it is individual.

This part ongoing now, this tsunami of undirected energy, is the part in the Biblical story where God says, “Go find Me ten good men.” We are looking carefully at what is ours to work with. But we have only ourselves to work upon, long-run. Was God saying Find me a Minyan; then we may pray? I can sure see that. At that time, & likely just in that location, there were too few able to pray in at the power to change the world; so that world as it was had to go. It was rendered, parsed up, mythologized with real bad weather & the knowledge of hard times ahead. It was given a name that would become a mark against mankind (“mainkind”). A skull & crossbones of a warning name.

Few roads are entirely straight. We seem to have meandered back there somehow. But we would find ten good persons within ten feet, did we have to seek today. The Universe seeks to extrapolate information from us; it is insatiable. What am I telling it? I seem to be getting a broader range of information incoming, but it is not on an intellectual level exclusively any more.

I need to keep an eye on my Prayer Quotient. I’m fairly sure it is ticking upward, so this is ideal. So, right now, all I can do is light it up for me. It’s up to others to seek their “what comes next.”

Remember, these are just writing exercises I have here. This is me, practicing scales. If you’re here,  you’re tuning up a bit by touching another psyche. We said in Unity no candle ever lost by lighting another.

My life improves in a step by step pattern. It is a newer dance designed about allowing more fragility. That which was broken has healed with new memory. Somehow, I now have my Minyan. Step by step allows the impertinence of the step just before to pass unnoticed. It is interesting to watch the pace of others from the places where, like any good Trailblazer,  I’ve stopped to look back.

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Schwinn Twin

I’ve always been the bent spoke in the wheel at that violent angle proving vicious to lower limbs, Perhaps this is why I kept distance from others.

I guard my independence fiercely; it has a presence others may find bristling. But nothing is as it once was as I soften. Trouble is, I’ve already driven off hope of merging in polite society.

Expectations brown & fade, providing nutrients for a softer medium. I still hope to grow. I really tried to stay on the beaten path, but being born in wilderness outs too readily. Once I walked city streets, though, blending in.

Now I’m torn between returning to my roots & simply getting comfortable where I am.

Now I understand knowledge to be hollow, “can’t” to be a form of surrealism, certainty to flex, Life to be a wild & untameable event.

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Dear Time,

I’ve been trying to catch up to you for a longish stretch now. You got away from me a bit ago – what happened there? Was it in Nashville where we shared so many deadlines; where you became a steeplechase run at full gallop, full of fences & water hazards but where you mainly surfaced as Total Taskmaster?

Was that where I pushed back from the table, starving & sated both? Was it where I first perceived your importance & indifference (& impotence)? For surely at that time, you started to slip now having lost traction altogether.

(If Time were a racehorse, it was riding me with a brutal bit bruising my mouth. Foolish with faux power & authority, I was fooled into feeling in charge.)

Now you spin on your own axis. Now you wobble along scarcely missing other planets. I ride your edge but am no longer certain of my own boundaries. I have seen too much, heard too much; bled too much, lied too hard. I knew no better at the time.

Forgive me?

Can we be friends? Can we drop the Master/Slave relationship? I just can’t hold on that tightly anymore. Times have changed, hell, we both have. Boundaries & dynasties blur as I grasp for my place within these. I arrive to find I stand in the center of the Hall of Mirrors.

One by one my systems fail your tests. Words burrow under the surface when I try to speak them. Ideas change color or come so clear as to be invisible when I rely on them thinking these individualistic & whole.

And, Time, what have we wrought with the physical? Good grief! I so miss being beautiful, moving fluidly, the casual fearlessness. Hesitation becomes caution, caution a transparency of hesitation. Hey, I don’t mind mortality – I mean, we all die to the third dimension as we move into others. Perhaps I find that much-touted stance of Youth just plain boring now.

I like my wisdom. I enjoy filtering all you teach me through experience. I am certain of less & less. You, too, have lost certitude & lack surety.

Okay, this is how it is: I started this thinking to point out how far in the lead I am, or you are. But I now see we are so intertwined…walking together, neither leading, both leaning into each other.

I left at arrival & still search a destination only to find the walk is all there is.

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Writing Life

In the photo above, I am reassured of my worth…I wonder that I ever doubted it. This “now” is one where facts are proven not to be, where wishes lack the power of story, where no information can be trusted.

The separation is so powerful, we doubt we exist at times, let alone that others do alongside. We see them, we hear them, we know them. Then we query their place in our lives – even as we reach for their hand to hold, pinching slightly to prove this tenuous reality.

In Nashville, I raised morning glories from seed on my patio. I put long window boxes under the patio railing & planted them. They grew up the rails of the balcony & softened the view of the beautiful golf course the apartment bordered. I do not recall if they had a scent. I do recall their heartful intensity in growing, tiny tendrils climbing against gravity, waving about. Perhaps they had an inaudible chant: “What can I hang on to? Where am I going? When will I get there?” Despite these valid questions, they simply trusted their sole task & grew, putting out delicate flowers. Tho I echo my own cosmic questions, we reach out together, wrapping ourselves tightly around the best & only life available.

The blossoms appear overnight. They open every morning. I’d like to think that I do too. Each midnight dream gathers love, deep & velvet, fragile, tentative & somehow secure.

In my stony New Mexico backyard, the morning glories I did not plant appear each September, resurrecting from dry brown wisps clinging to the cyclone fence. This September they showed up on the other side of the yard – I watered them gently, wondering if they would discover the laundry rack & as you see, indeed, they did.

I keep driving away life & from life. I cannot escape, but the thought I can draws me forth into the void. I am never out of touch with my divinity, but sometimes it is too remote to grasp. My bouquets at the wedding of life are clouds atop the mountains I scaled to marry stars.

Love,

Carol

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SEA CHANGE

(The wave, the wave, the second wave is coming.) This may be a pointy thing to take in, but I’ve had eleventy-seven sea changes & headed well over too many waves to number. Occasionally I dove through; at times I dog-paddled up & over; sometimes I jumped straight up & held my nose in case I came down in the crest.

On my walk today, I perused thoughts of where I want to be for the next decade. Answers seemed more available than they were before. Either or both: the veils thin this much or I learned from my “befores” how to choose. A future is an after-burner on the present. When I hit the ignition switch, I’ve always before preferred to know where I will land. It seems less specific in geo-location & only specific in a dream location. My dreams push gently on the bubble I live in.

“Hey kiddo, time to get started to go.” A little tapping on dream doors can haunt the day.

Always I have given my dreams away. Some accepted them. Some found true love instead.

All the Oriental wisdoms say, “your thoughts are your future.” As I walked, I outpictured “future.” I momentarily missed again the wishes that got away, the capes I’ve left on the road in defeat while walking towards the next superpower. None of them have anything on that which is coming.

I fill in the vacuums I create with my personal helpers. I read an angel book once where the advice was to form  Angel Committees to help you get tasks done. It’s time to hearken to Chairwoman of the Board stuff… Even as I write this, I can hear them laughing in the occiput of my head. “There she goes again, making plans! Wait’ll she figures out it’s unfolding in divine order (yet again). But hey, you have to admire her ‘take-charge’ attitude. If you can.”

I think the water is the closest I can get to the visible Air element of my sign.

Excuse me, time to plunge in.

Ta!

 

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A Hall of Mirrors

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Recently, I compared my life to having lived in a hall of mirrors. There were mirrors that reflected me in beauty, shining. There were mirrors that reflected me as shriveled, dulled. Then it occurred to me they were the same mirrors.

I meanwhile found a greeting card of a woman looking like an “air corpsman’ with a dragon on a hoop on her shoulder. I immediately thought of three women or more I could send this to as statements of our lives. Nurturing dragons is not easy. It is a task brought to the wiser among the women. Dragons ever call for quick thinking.

By these & other omens do I determine my days. I have taken steps to change my home & my energetic signature within it. First the rearrangements to create space. The space becomes organic & begins to grow. The next step in growing is invited in & the energy changes: boom!

So is it not with my life? Refilled over until one day, only new will serve. I am approaching this “new.” As the timelines around me collapse, my life flashes in front of me – a Tarot deck of my own dealing. I spoke elsewhere of seeing my past leap by on its own two legs as I stayed in place in the present. I spoke of doing massage in every room I’ve done massage in – most notably New Mexico & most recently, Delaware. I feel momentarily in that space as I see the room through these eyes.

What’s it gonna be, girl, dragons or mirrors? With what keen beasts will you keep company now that company is shaved away to the barest of minimums as we are trained to keep distances?

Finding the within is worthwhile. My activities of late are what once was called ‘contemplating the navel.’ It is finding the middle lands in me. I have lived from bottom & top chakras so busily. Now comes the time to go back & revisit the middles: relationships, creativity, my re-greening, all flourishing. How long ago did I abandon these to leap with my past over my present into the ever-emergent now?

I might have seen myself go past in one of those other rooms & only now be remembering it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Company’s Not Coming

As usual, writing is my lone companion, the golf towel to absorb my tears, the faraway smile fading into Cheshire darkness.

I hate to admit weakness. I am emotionally stronger than the average, so it is a distant place to find where I can let myself be this weak.

I seldom ask, mostly as I don’t want to be refused & a bother or be considered a pest. And mostly, asking does no good since people do not understand that an offer can be a cry for a visit or a time not alone. They figure it’s an offer & they all have lives so it’s easier to just say “No” rather than, “Oh, hey, come over. Let’s sit on the porch & talk.”

I keep setting my walls higher. I’ll die alone & be relieved to do so. It’ll be the fallout of a life unexpected.

I used to think I’d be married & otherwise in a beloved state, a member of a pod. I make myself a desirable friend; but that’s just being loved at a distance.

Maybe I’ll – but I don’t even think I can do this – maybe I’ll just withdraw entirely to myself. No more dinners with others, no more asking for conversation or laughter, no more sharing.

I feel like this unwanted, underfoot, misshaped person. I feel like I’m a burden & a PITA. The way out of this feeling is to keep moving along in relationships, ideas & in writing.

So I sit with my real BFFs: a steno pad, a pen with a new refill & lovely writing point. And hey, fueled by tears.

Sad, isn’t it? Or? Maybe not. Could just be Fate it would have been so different & maybe could have been so except it’s where I’m at. Me & my words, closer than my shadow.

And I wish there were some other way to live my life. And it may change still. I sure do believe in miracles, so standing by for one isn’t a bad way to go, I guess.

If not for me, the life lived here would be enough

If not for silence I would have even less to say.

I might have been a wife, a mother, a lover, a friend.

Instead of this-that-is, a might-have-been of any other one of these.

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