Category: Blogs

New(s) to Me!

Human Design, this terrific descriptive (a’ la’ astrology) program for the body/soul has been around since, oh, say 1992. Actually it’s been hidden in the matrix forever but surfaced in the channeled information of Ra Uru Hu around then. I’m told in my first class Ra lived in a tree for eight months, or eight years or maybe eight days. I like eights, myself.

It’s a combination of the I Ching, overlaid by astrological symbols, & five other such systems both “energetic” & “proven.” I’ve studied a bunch of them individually, some thoroughly, some by running my eyes over a page or two, or my fingers over their book spines in bookstore self-help sections.  

If the universe was sending timely information all along, I wasn’t ready to hear it. Who knew I could do anything in the world just cuz I wanted to & if I put all my energy into it? Who knew that my imitation of a bounding kangaroo-like existence this lifetime could have its pawprints tracked & even predicted as to outcome 35 years ago? I certainly did not & so fumbled about being luckier in my choice of cars than husbands, jobs, living places & so many other life events. (In fact, cars have been a one-true-love deal all along. I’m fond of saying my car loans lasted longer than my wedding vows – on every occasion.)

What does it say about the ephemeral me that I was better at choosing cars than jobs or men? Ra knew that! Had I known, I might have tapped on the bark of his tree a long time ago…dare I say going out on a limb?

And where would I be now? Living my best life (an anagram for “file,” yeh?) All this time I’ve been living in the “H” drawer under a real name beginning with “B.” Shoot!

However, I must ask if it’s ever too late to do this, even when the energy to start again needs a full-body face lift, an energy drink I can mainline by IV & possibly an energy patch of two on my ass.

That’s a rhetorical question, before you answer. Only my Human Design teacher knows for sure & she’s covering it all in three more classes, having missed one out sick.

It’s been an ant on a patchwork quilt kind of life sometimes, complete with distractions, much mileage, encroaching wrinkle patterns & a sore left hip right now. Where are those medbeds anyway? Guys, I’m waiting here, right? Languishing, in fact.

And even as I settle under the covers for another night of broken sleep punctuated by wakey-wake time I’ll spend on the computer, checking for updates, or writing, writing, writing – any activity not requiring volume since my hard-working roommate is sleeping next door.

The cat seems to have made better life choices: she gets fresh water 2-3 times each day, a spoon of Tuna every three, her litter cleaned daily. She gets all the sleep she wants albeit in the odd places cats can choose to sleep – like the glass coffee table that wobbles like a surfboard on the incoming tide. Oh yes, did I mention she gets brushed 2-3 times a day too & has her choice of sticking around for this or hopping off the table four brushstrokes in? As well as her choice of brushes? If she had any better of a life, I’d say she was a dog.

So, let me tell you a typical story in my life:

Driving along a narrow street – many streets in Sarasota have “traffic calming” features like lovely mini-garden medians bisecting their centera & narrowing the driving area already pinched by oblique parking patterns, or “rotaries,” or speed tables, I noticed my seat was sitting too closely to the pedals. I decided to disobey Rule Number One in the driving manual – the one saying  Never adjust your seat while you’re driving. I contorted my left arm to brush the top of the adjuster which released with the immediacy of a greased trapdoor in a haunted house.

My squeal of “no!” was cut off as I pitched forward into the steering wheel. My boobs crashed into the horn which makes a respectable noise at 7 a.m. on a sleepy little street replete with traffic calming devices to prevent pull-overs. I was in mid-breath & held there, afraid to expel what was in my lungs, but giggling kind of doesn’t help one to hold their breath… I got no farther than that: I was pinned against the wheel, mid-lip-smooch to it, having just applied “Barely Beige” to draw off attention from the wrinkles, um, the laugh lines, on my pursed lips. (I am not a multi-tasker anymore, let me add here.) My right knee had lodged beneath my chin as I lifted it trying to stay my foot from pressing the gas pedal.

The horn blared, my breath halted, my boobs were crushed. I had noplace to pull over for the nonce & I realized this is serious but I could not stop laughing. My fingers vaguely brushed the bar but because my shoulder was pinned into immobility, I could not manipulate a finger under it. I finally found a shallow spot to pull into, opened the car door & extricated myself, popping off a button on my blouse.

Thank God for quiet! Lights were coming on in the townhomes to either side. My phone (call 911?) had rocketed from the passenger seat onto the floor… but I did it! I got loose!

If I had done my chart properly, would this have shown up in the Daily Predictions? Does Human Design DO daily predictions? Not sure on either count.

This is the kind of event that adds reasonable doubt to the thought that any system is going to help me at this point.

My only predictive programming seems to be “pretty much anything can happen at any given time.” It’s a fortune cookie life I Iive here. And I won’t even try to tell the story of the blank fortune cookie I once received.

Proof to one & all I need to simply go with the flow, all power to Ra.

Obeying the driver manual now runs a close second…

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Someday, My One Day Will Come

Haven’t I affirmed & had it affirmed for me lifelong… One day you will … One day I know I’ll be able to …

Well, hey, I’m past ready & one day has turned into 27,890 of them, give or take 50-60. Ok, Great Universe, I’m waiting! Yes, I have, too! I HAVE tried, I have declared… I claimed, I demanded, I surrendered, I laughed, I cried, I stamped my right foot & then my left one even harder. I swept the altar & scraped off the wax drippings, I’ve burned wagonloads of sage, palo santo, practically mainlined Rescue Remedy, I smoked sacred substances, I’ve entered the many mansions in my mind moving swiftly thru doorways, shouting “Clear” at every one as I rounded it with a lit candle & a crucifix.

I’ve learned very little is sacred when it comes to humans & for all my fly-in-the-jar buzzing, I am so. And I’ll say it again, I’m ready!

I know so few of those who believe they know me would even take a flying leap into what I’m about discussing this with the universe. I know this is because they are each on their own path, the drums repeating behind them.

Each day it comes clearer. The world isn’t going to admit to anything. It will say, ‘Haven’t I made you happy? Haven’t I been clear & blue & scarlet & fragrant & flowered & butterflied enough for you yet?’

No.

You don’t understand either!

And what will it accomplish to declare what I want now? Aren’t I doing some sweaty little dance off in the corner keeping time to my own heart?

My life hides in the wrinkles now. I get a little desperate now & then. I’m watching down the road for the bus that isn’t coming, that may have changed routes a decade ago while I balanced on the curb. Did the announcement come the one time I took my eyes away?

This world isn’t made to satisfy what I believe my desires to be. This world is a paean to dissatisfaction, to falling short in the moment. I no sooner say yes than someone nearby begins singing no no no no no. Those two letters trip over in eagerness to assert their negating power.

When I was a child, my mother had to go to a meeting when a nor’easter was coming in. The sky was dark, the wind whipping itself into a real blow, the rain becoming a personal affront to whatever one wore. The Atlantic crossed the four blocks of our tiny peninsular neighborhood. The bay crested over the bulwark traveling one block to meet it. They formed a widow’s peak in the parking lot next door, gleeful & super-charged, a discovery of elements & forces against which few had any control & certainly not my 4’5″ Mom breasting the current to Come Home. My brother & I watched her out the window, cheering her on – “Come on , MOM!” We stripped up the bathroom towels & raced to the second floor porch door as she tiredly emerged from the flood, both hands on the wooden railing. “Mom! Where’s the car?” we stupidly asked – she’d have needed a motorboat at that point. She pulled the towels from us, wiping her hands, her face, wrapping one around her soaked hair.

“How did you do at the meeting?” we chorused, “Mom! What happened?”

“He said no,” she tiredly replied. So her mission to reclaim the Grail of my brother’s reputation had failed & he would not be allowed to return to school for the three months before graduation, but would always bear the diploma of the known-to-be-inferior public school. The entire senior class would graduate with him from there.

Knowing what I know now, I would have known: The church existed to condemn, to pinch off mercy at any source, to draw a woman out into a force of nature to be admonished in person by a man in black, his Roman collar declaring his loyalty. Mom had no tithes to offer. no way to stay the storm.

She went into her bedroom; we hung up the towels. The storm blasted us all night & left a shambled neighborhood in its wake.

My life is only one of so many, all deadlocked in a “no.”

But here it is, Universe, I’m going to keep singing yes until I die & quite probably for some time afterward. I WILL find my way to Some Day. It may be the one before they bury me, but I will have mine.

I will sit in a shaft of winter sun, cozy & warmed clear through. I will write all my tomorrows & hide the book in the cedar chest in the attic where I will know them to be. I will watch for storms from the windows, a supernatural self in the fore, a preternatural force of the pen. I will write all day & my hand shall not grow tired. Food will appear nearby, & only my favorites & I’ll ignore it all to get what I have to say, said.

That Some Day is this One Day I have now!

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Worth Repeating – 4/15/15

This is a transplant from a Weebly Blog I kept during 2015. The words ring truer to me now than they did then & at the time, I considered this a rant.

Anyway, read it & let me know what you think in the comments.

Haven’t you had enough of the divisiveness? Isn’t there a way around this disconnection of truth which skips over itself, like flat stones skipping across a river? These create ripples wherever they touch, all the circles eventually push over and around each other, everything touches back upon itself. 

But we are tired of this now. We have grown weary of deceit, of ugliness, of never having enough, never being enough, never doing enough. All of that is artificial since we are and always have been enough. Our future was stolen, the past mislaid, the present deceived. And when they say this was done with our free will, I stutter in anger. I never! But somewhere in the past I must have and the filth lingers in my aura since this still is affecting my light, splintering it, reducing it, minimizing it.

Many of us just want out. We got caught; we were so close to scuttling out the door and someone stepped on our tails, picked up our squirming bodies and threw us back into the milieu of time. Time was frayed, circular, looped, caught up in itself, on itself, by itself. I know more than a few people who have said, no matter, they simply don’t want to return again. Me? I haven’t seen enough of this world, nor will I ever do so; every day is a miracle of light, life, beauty, spirit and breath. But I would appreciate it more if others took the time to do so and if we all could simply love what’s in front of our eyes. I don’t like disorder, I don’t react well to someone who litters, whose trash lines my roads. 

Here’s a story: I picked up trash along a walk one day and put it into an empty trashcan at the end of a driveway. Next morning all six or so pieces of trash I had put into the can were dumped at the end of the driveway. What does that mean? My trashcan is only for my trash? But in dumping it at the foot of the driveway where you live, hasn’t it become yours in a more personal way? I do not understand. These are the kind of folk I’d like to see removed from my planet. Yet the Texts tell me this person is also me. Oh Lord!

I find it wearying to blame them, or even to hold it against them. They are entitled to a private trash can if this is a manifestation of their sovereign free will; however, it seems easier to not redistribute it to the road. That’s my easier…not theirs. Stay calm, carry on.

There’s no need to rub my eyeteeth against the container, trying to scrape off whatever I can to prove my point. My past isn’t the most shining example it might be and future will surely become if I keep up with my soul’s opening to the Light. I’d like to think none of this is my fault, but f we are all one, it’s all my fault. I’d sure like it, though, if you stoppped blaming me!

When will people find out how much we have been manipulated? That’ll be a tipping point of major proportion. There’s good and bad in everything, if not necessarily in everyone. Situations can always go more than one way. It is up to the individual I AM to parse the event into its components, decide which to keep, which to push away. Like stripping cellulose strings off celery, are there any you would hold onto? For sure we don’t need the roughage – we have had enough of that and in spades. 

There is always a vision of the best thing in the world calling us forward, asking us to forget the past, forgive it, lay it aside, yet I know few who are willing to do this. Even I balk, at times, with just letting of that which has been done to me in the name of my life, my progress, my reaching set goals. Each is a chance at letting go…each is an end run made easier by all the times I’ve set myself toward the prize before. I’ve worn down the path, stomped all the weeds, made myself a crop circle that bears my fruit when others look at it. Since I’ve made the way easier, why not just follow along and marvel at this efficiency. I could use the praise and you could use the simplification. 

Here’s the catch: we all have to do it for ourselves. Yet I follow along in the tracks made by others’ words. Few think for themselves anymore; TV and mass media have removed us from the need, the current state of stupefying education has removed from us the means. Google has relieved us of the responsibility of research. We can gather opinions and ideas like wildflowers to make a bouquet, never noticing the locoweed settled among the daisies. It’s just another source of greenery. 

What makes you scream? What frustrates you to gnashing teeth? How much disorder is needed to make you move your world back into order? When someone pulls the rug out from under you by telling you everything you know to be truth is a lie – from your religion to your financial state, to the nutritional content of your foods and how this relates to your ability to reason, what is your next step? Not only have they pulled that rug, they’ve shaken every single thing off of it and laid it down bare. Now’s the time to rebuild, repair, replace, resource your life. Don’t let others do it for you. Don’t let anyone else mess with your brain. Edward Snowden has pointed out so clearly just how much we have been messed with. 

We are both consumer and consumed in the way of today’s world. I can’t say it gently: there are entities that have fed off of us like those in the worst of our horror movies. We are their feed lot and they don’t really care if we befoul our living space because it gives them more nourishment when we wax into complaint. The spider deliberately snares the fly. The fly has enough facets on its eyes to see its way, yet it enters the web: how is this so? We have all the tools and intelligence we need to step away from Ground Zero and instead plant a tree. However we have a powerful tendency to stand restlessly in place, gesticulating, moaning and generally carrying on about the destruction.

Declare who you are. Become all you can be! You are your own and only advocate. Live your life and taste what it brings you. Imagine synesthesia: “hearing a color” or “scenting a musical note.” Imagine if Beethoven came through in your eyes in greens and yellows, Wagner in deep browns and grays. Imagine if your garden simply sang to you, its melody both haunting and delicate. Each composition of this world should lead us to another way to say what needs to be said. 

Let go with vigor. Toss stuff away that no longer serves. Clean out the garages in your minds, muck out the stables in your gut…find a way to move off dead center (it’s called that for a reason, mind) and go to the peripheries and the edges. Whether the earth is round or flat, we are made to live in it. It is ours. It’s a bit stupid to wait for rescue from the motherships when we can’t even get our heads out of the refrigerators, our hands out of the snack cabinets. Stop devouring chemicals like they are good for you, demand whole-grown food, healthy life, clean water, beautiful skies, temperate weather, cooperative children, intelligence-gathering leaders, well-paid teachers and an education model that models…even moderate government which takes an actual interest in its constituency. Imagine these to be so. To believe otherwise is to place your hands firmly under your buttocks and only wave your mouth about. 

Still your tongue for a day; watch how the world assumes a different shape when you’re not hacking away at it verbally. See, consider, construct mindfully. Grow a plant, plant a tree, hold someone’s hand and walk with them awhile. 

Understand the world is on the cusp of change as it has never been before. Decide who to back and let it be the good guys – enough of the nastier alternatives. Hold them in anxious regard no longer and watch them melt back into the primordial soup. Enjoin your heart with the sun, mind the world with your third eye, bury your own dead after a final washing with careful soap and your salted tears. Catch your own food, feed your own children, and become aware of your world as you never have before. The world is just that different and far more deserving. Treat it like your best friend; write it love notes…we’re celestial sonnets here to create beauty, love, peace, grace and joy. Huh? If this is too much for you, find something you can begin with. It is too small for you, discover free energy and get the word out to everyone.

All of this, all of these, are activities you can accomplish. Making the effort brings the light to us. We become visible to others and to our gods as we perceive them. when we all take an interest in becoming our best selves, our children go no longer hungry, our adults no longer under-nourished on so many levels. Our wild pets become our dear friends. Life abounds in blameless movement and joy. Become a part of that dance, enter the elemental, allow the heavenly, abhor the unnecessary, avoid that which makes you feel badly, feel unhappy or lost or victimized.

The water remembers everything. This is why the bad guys want to kill the water. They have tried in slow ways, pollution, poison, discoloration; they lay waste to the water on the land, the water in the sky, the water in our bodies. It seems like they have us just the same, if they desire, because the water cannot harm them no matter how their manipulation of it destroys us or our lives.

It’s all about the I AM you are!

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Closures & Cooking

I’m not sure “Etc.” is a good closing for a letter, but it should be. I’m gearing up to teach a writing class & tho I won’t be including the seven  parts of a letter, but how to gather your topic into sentences, paragraphs & chapters… So this has made me sensitive to such topics.

Woke from my nap feeling hungry, so enjoyed a bagel with ghee for my non-nutritious dinner. Sometimes ya just gotta – but probably not every night. I used to cook. There was a time when I prepared enough for a football team every night with a super-social first husband & a dishwasher in the apartment. Over years of meal prep incentive dwindling, I am inclined to bread & a cup of coffee at this point. I remember the days of roasts, vegetables, pasta in its various manifestations… I remember Sara Lee cakes for dessert.

A more pleasant memory, it would seem than reality at this time of life. My nutritional intake meter is pretty close to a “none” on any metric scale. Crackers & avocado, check. Peanut butter, check. Pot roast with carrots, potatoes, pearl onions & a side veg, no check.

Food itself has changed. That which I once remember being tasty & satisfying doesn’t cut the mustard when your sense of taste is at about 34% of normal. The nicotine patches are helping, but sometimes instead of flavor or smell, I get odd reactions: the coffee tastes like it has lemon in it, or the food being cooked runs me out of the kitchen with the smell.

I now have two boxes of couscous – which I have not eaten voluntarily ever, – two boxes of rice, two cans of chili beans, 3 chicken tenders (frozen) & a bucket of salad which will likely wind up in soup before the trash, tho that’s not a given, given my current state of gustatory non-electives & a strong failure-to-cook routine running.

What happened here? I need to get Nancy Drew on this one. Maybe I could pay her off in corn muffins (87 cents for the Jiffy boxes at current on-sale market rates.)

Oh, and the alligator? The Linger Lodge serves alligator bites as an appetizer, maybe I …

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Flubbered

 Jan. 2026  Rent  Car  Food  Dining  Grooming  Household  Misc.  Spending  Clothes  Utilities   INCOME      

Life is where you find it. My life is in words but sometimes my words are not where I left them. There’s this thing called “One Drive” on my computer & it resides somewhere in the atmosphere, I’m told – the ‘cloud’. I’d rather have it in a kitchen drawer where I can get to it.

Specifically, I keep a spreadsheet of expenses. It’s more decorative than all else as I don’t really follow how much I’ve spent on food or gas or getting breakfast at Millie’s. I just log in the receipts in case I ever want to check these. However, I’m quite compulsive on this data entry so I keep up with it. Now that it’s January, I want a summary of what went where in 2025. Guess where it went? Into the cloud.

So I pulled up the old/old one ending with June & just copied off the headers. Why didn’t June go into the stupid cloud? I don’t need the one that ends in June & perhaps that is why. I started one for 2026 & put it on the desktop. I see a year ahead of filling up the desktop like I sneer at others for doing. “Why don’t you put these into files?” I ask with a slight curl to my lip.

I can’t stand when universe catches up to me – like my Mom not having a sense of smell & making me smell hamburger thru my entire childhood just as I was getting to Chapter 5 of some Black Stallion book. “Carol!” she’d call in that Command Voice which only mothers possess & maybe 4-star generals, I’m not sure, never having served.

My heart would seize. I would slam the book shut, (losing my place) & dash into the kitchen, certain I’d left something on fire. “Smell this for me?” she’d demand, holding out a brown-paper-wrapped package of bloody meat. I wanted to just back away, but would dutifully take a sniff & say, “I don’t smell anything, Mom.” She’d whip the package into the sink to rinse the meat & I was dismissed with the gesture. That is, until she realized I must have been doing something like reading in my room as the Voice would again snag me mid-stride, “Why are  you in the house anyway Go outside & play!? You have the whole beach, go play!”

Beach? The beach is empty except for the cold wind sweeping across it, tugging the trash out of the wire baskets. The sky is gray as a prisoner’s underwear. The boardwalk is shivering, the railing forming a rime of ice. “Mooooommmmm” would rise the whine within; the one never spoken aloud. Trudging to my bedroom to put on my Keds, I’d grab a jacket & mumble down the cellar stairs to wrest my bike from the wall as tho it was all the bike’s fault I had a mom who believed one could never get enough Fresh Air. I’d head to the playground & dispiritedly climb on the cold swing, grabbing the clanking chains & launch. Then I’d think about why I allowed her to upset me so much I even forgot my book! Reading can be done on a winter beach & can even be entertaining if the story’s good enough.

Well, all that to say that I do not have a sense of smell anymore thanks to Government Covid & I buy chicken tenders to cook right away when I get home. With onions.

What was I on about? Oh yeah, people not filing their stuff ‘correctly.’ My righteousness about that topic.

So, I called up my spreadsheet & the computer said, effectively, you can’t get there from here. What it really said was “make sure you have access to One Drive & try again.” How did it get to One Drive anyway? Who moved my cheese? And, like the nasty blue screen of death I never understood, I’m flubbered. I can’t recreate six months of recycled receipts. I have no idea what I spent except about a third of it went for something besides hamburger & the rest for rent & the car lease.

2026. Rent / car / household / miscellaneous / entertainment / clothes / grooming. 

Sigh.     

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Time Bunches Up Again

Just when it seems Saturday (a break in routine) is available, I check two calendars to find out it’s only Thursday! Who said it can only be Thursday? Thursday is not the new Friday even! But Friday can feel an awful lot like Saturday, depending…

I got this image of a clock sputtering, rushing forward at times, every CGI of a clock spinning & then an equal & opposite image of time holding back, hands spread across the clock, not permitting the second hand to progress.

Must be Now.

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Talking to Myself

I think I talked to myself constantly as a child, discussing the weather, listing my possessions, reading aloud to hear the story, too. I recall it being a reassuring commentary, full of exclamation points. It was sometimes a litany of guilts to bring to Confession. (No life lives without sin, the Church assured me frequently.) I rehearsed what I’d say to my Mom when I was late getting home. I muttered impressions of innocent passers-by. I used curse words under my breath upon those who stepped in front of my bicycle just as I was getting up to a good speed. I implored saints, angels, God & Mary to help relieve whatever powerlessness currently being experienced…

When sent to my room, I breathed imprecations at life’s unfairness.

Fortunately, now a so-called adult – ahem – senior citizen, I consider aloud all the reasons why I left my shopping list at home while searching the food aisles.

Sometimes people stare sidelong at me when I whisper an emphatic “Yes!” upon recalling an item. But I hear them reading the cereal names out loud while pushing their carts up ahead.

I’m sure I’m on tape everywhere, mouth moving, reciting something or other or laughing at an internal joke.

My morning coffee brings on a lively discussion of the day with the steam rising from the cup. I find nomenclature a great source of satisfaction: enjoying the bright weedy wildflowers out loud as I walk, croaking back to crows, commenting on shapes of clouds. I ask my feet to be careful walking over cattle guards (which mildly freak me out to walk across.) I greet the stone angels as I pass the cemetery.

Oh, Lord. If you’re going to send the guys in white coats, make sure they’re packing a size Large net, ok?

My roommate laughs when she hears me talking to the kitchen appliances.

I talk back to the hungry cat, tell the howler next door to “just shut up, will ya?” I sound out my life under cottonwoods while above, the turkey vultures spread their papery wings for takeoff.

Attempts to curb this enthusiasm seem doomed to end unsuccessfully. I’m recorded on every government listening post with some ongoing life commentary. I know the trolls with their headphones are yawning when they hear the tapes. It doesn’t get much more ordinary than me, after all.

Last Friday, I was home from the gym an hour early for my Yoga class, forgetting the schedule had shifted. When I arrived back home, walking in the door announcing, “I’m home!” to my roomie, I heard her talking away to herself in the shower: “Ow! It’s cold! It’s really cold. OMG, the weather’s changing so fast…”

I rest my case, ladies & gentlemen.

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The Flood Gates

Seeing this phrase on a page got me thinking about this. I have read it so many times in various writings. It’s a cliche, of course, and as such, not much considered as to any deeper meanings.

But the flood gates signal (harbor?) a Change to the ‘what is’ of life. In New Mexico, I learned about acequias, the life-giving ditches full of water only in certain seasons. Trusted community members opened the ditch dams & the water flows, a measured & soul-enlivening chord of life singing across the land.

For those living in cities where turning on the tap is so simple, it’s easy to forget that water can be a rare resource in dry lands. Desert breaks into life with hearty determination as the water courses through – growing crops, clearing, carrying, moving & re-moving all along its merry way.

Floodgates signal celebration in such instances, pressure release in others, as water builds behind barriers & seeks another level. It’s a form of ceremony – the flow incites dance & color, invites growth & change.

It is time to consciously open the floodgates in our lives. What will you invite in? What will you acknowledge & celebrate when you have more of that which brings growth & greenery into your inner/outer environment? What are you awaiting? A return of Grace with the merry song of splashing nearby? The magnification of minute & large life holding more laughter & clearing the way for discovery as water finds its way, seeking new levels? Magnify magnificence in the magic of opening a gate…corny but true.

Water changes what it touches & we live on a water world, bathing constantly. Many cultures believe water carries memory & connects us all, levels us up or down. Many spiritualities use water as a descriptor of heaven’s abundance & presence, from baptism to burial.

I haven’t a solid idea where this is coming from, but I’m jumping in!

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What To Do With Rage?

I made a mistake at work. I told the village mouthpiece/handyman something which would have been better kept confidential. He repeated my confidence – I should have known. Should I have known? Yes, I cannot escape this easily. I should have known, but in the moment…

We have a Board Member who’s go-to state is simmering hate & disdain – the ever-active nose-up fishwife. She called to ask about the info, but I refused to tell her, asking her to wait til the manager returned Monday. (The return of discretion, with poor timing.)

“But you told so’n’so! I AM YOUR BOSS! You will tell me now what I want to know! “I am writing you up for insubordination!” I AM A BOARD MEMBER!

I said let me make a call to check this & I called the Board President, explained my dilemma. She said go ahead & tell her. “You shouldn’t have shared it in the first place.” Yes, I now know that but it was a silly mistake. And I made it. I told the Prez to expect a letter & keep a fire extinguisher nearby or maybe at least a roll of TP for the shitstorm to follow.

Back to rage. I simmered for awhile on my own. I called the mouth & asked WTF? He apologized for five minutes straight. Another futility exercise.

I planned what I would say, my response full of knives I would toss at this woman while she spun on a wheel, each one falling short of injury, but each a gasp from some appreciatve imaginary audience. The first was “Need any help spelling insubordination?”

I worried for about ten minutes on the sheer discommode of changing jobs, getting back on the Indeed.Com flesh market. Oh Lordy.

I called her back to give her the info.

“How dare you? I Am A Board Member! I am your boss! I am writing you up!

I said, “Write your letter. I won’t listen to you hollering at me.” And pushed the button, searching briefly for the blocking feature, then thought better. She is, after all, a Board Member.

After rubbing the sore spot awhile, I decided to write it out. I always get great responses to my Letters to Universe & this one did not disappoint:

“Be Peace,” they said. “We will hold your hand thru any embarrassment & hold them both if necessary to keep you from strangling her. She is  not beyond redemption, nor are you, but you must discover this for yourself & thus for the both of you.“

Time to walk the talk.

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Thank God for Happy Endings

Read an Anna Quindlen book tonight called After Annie, a novel about a Mom’s death, the fumblings of her lost children, the searching father, the flailings of her best friend. By the last page, all conflict was resolved, the children united in healing, the father renewed by new love, the best friend finally pregnant. I closed my eyes, putting the book down, & thought “Thank God for happy endings.” I don’t think I could have handled a “reality finality.”

I have not had a sense of smell or taste since Covid in 2022, but friends recommended nicotine patches. After four days, I rolled a smooth line of patchouli up my arm, bringing it to my nose; I inhaled it, faint but present. An itty-bitty miracle in real-time. An up-close blessing. A new beginning.

I remember beginnings – I’m very good at them.

My boss angered me today & made me anxious that I’m losing ground at work. She was sharp about my not turning an impossible owner over to her for handling. “You need to call me right away when this happens!” she insisted. Not until the ride home did I remember that she had told me on Tuesday she wanted no interruptions this week as she was working for closure on some thorny accounts. I understand my anger – I recognize my anxiety. She’s leaving in January partly because of impossible owners, so I also feel her frustrations. Still, I’m counting on tonight’s sleep to bring me back to center. I will find the words to rebalance this tomorrow.

I am worthy, strong, capable & proper in my job. I’ll find the happy ending.

I am through with the bloody rags of the world. I’m done with porch pirates & nasty screamers & dining on scraps of others’ error. I make my own joy from now on. I don’t accept the out there because I’ve resolved so much in here. I know it’s an ongoing war, but I understand so much more about peace just from these interactions. My angel card today was Gratitude.

There is a whole new world pulsing beneath this one. There’s another sky formed above it.

I stand between.

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