Category: Blogs

Stairstep Miracles

In Taos, I walked a dirt road where many stones were heart-shaped. The end of the road was a heavy bar gate tattooed with “No Trespassing! Reservation Land” signs. I believe it was what is left of the Tiwa reservation. Originally, the Taos Puebloan people owned the land, allowing others to live nearby, build their small houses & stay. Now the Reservation is contracted as they seemingly sell edges of it for million dollar homes while fencing off the rest. I totally grok the “No Trespassing” signs. They have been trespassed upon quite enough.

There was a magpie flitting from yard to yard: remarkably colorful for being just black and white. Gambels Quail called liquidly from the sage, thrashers curried the yard.

A huge tree shaded the sun passing by.

Beautiful art everywhere.

Shady places downtown to rest.

Truth on mild display.

Mouth-watering food at Michaels.

Breakfast Burrito Smothered Green

Yard art.

Bees were a constant & the silence I so sought was based on their soothing hum. (I can go anywhere & bees will come to land on me. Taos was no exception.) I’m glad to refer myself as Carol B, not Carol Elephant! When they landed on my glasses I got the close-up. They investigated my pen, my books, my water bottle, hovering just to set up a sound track to “get busy!”

There were moments, however … as in any spiritual endeavor, doubt & phantoms come to haunt, to be dissolved into the confidence of prayer. I chanted my way through these & felt victorious to do so. Resolution came easily when I pushed through with not allowing it to frighten me, contract me, put me into a barred corner & poke me with old fears. Hallelujah!

A great retreat & time away for me, this Taos trip turned up to be. I was able to cull out many affirmative prayers to add to my personal resources. I experienced blessing upon blessing with a wonderful view.

Love to all –

Carol

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Potpurri

I recently spent days in a place where scents were forbidden. Since my world includes incense, essential oil diffusion, sage burning, lots of patchouli & Somali Rose every day – to the point where opening my clothes closet is a bouquet drifting out, I was perplexed. How long could a shampoo with rosemary destroy peace of mind? (I know about allergies, I just don’t have any.)

My teabags became a problem, ginger heavily owning the air. I kept these on the bathroom windowsill & made sure the window stayed closed.

Scents are an important part of my day. Who doesn’t like passing the burger joint at midday for an appetite perk? I remember on the Boardwalk, the owners would roll up the shelter door & toss onions on the grill. Soon heads would turn, bathing-suit-clad people would drift up from the beach & line up for food & drinks. It was a no-miss situation.

I was really pleased to get home where I could light up the joss sticks, push the diffuser buttons after pouring in Spiritual Healing blend, or peppermint or wintergreen. “Ah! I breathed. “Home sweetly Home!”

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Your One Wild Life

Poet Mary Oliver asks,

“What will you do with your one wild life?”

So I came to thinking about how un-wild my life had become

As it lived, how it loved, why it closed doors so quietly

          sometimes the people being closed out did not even know.

I came to no life-altering conclusions save the one that altered it first:

Whose life has ever been theirs?

          Knowing that set me up to understand there were many Masters to serve, some I chose my own self. There were also Those who chose me.

          Now one by one, I begin the Divestiture

The Departure. The Conclusion Protocol ~ ah! (As many flowery ways to say “die” as flowers on a grave!)

Life deepened on me. I ripened from seed to nut to blossom to fruit.

Now to firewood? To blaze along a horizon between worlds?

Someone told me, “Don’t worry about it.” I never heard the “don’t.”

Until I stopped saying it to myself as I no longer did worry.

I lived rightly. I bowed my head in all the right places.

          Remember, I had no manuals, only instincts & the Baltimore Catechism.

Betimes I was feral myself, I tasted of earth all over, and salt.

Is this the Wildness she speaks? Is it enough? I can’t care now for it is what was.

I walked the outer fringes of two worlds many times, perhaps always do.

I lived both vicarious & victorious; all life alluded to this me.

I made familiar choices until I chose to venture around that.

I was given to make it up as I went along, imagination my only tool.

Carol Borsello      10/15/21

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This Writer’s Writings

I get abstract poetry

Words as puzzle pieces,

Difficult to believe in

   As the sum or all its parts.

The words bully in, caring little for sense

Pushing only for placement & notice.

Blatant, this awareness of self

And the question will anyone else understand?

Yet even as it blinks on the mind-screen,

I peer around it to continue writing.

Writing as Root & Sustenance

It was instinctive, writing. I always had words lined up even as others chewed their erasers into the metal. Writing has been more in faith with my heart than I ever entrusted Love to be.

Writing holds my body, holds my hands, holds my heart & soul.

Unlike animals, it never passes away, tail waving in the distance. Unlike God & Man, writing always answers the phone. No cosmic hold; no options-by-number.

My life is forever in the distance itself. My tomorrows only arrive as todays. I am told it all will change tomorrow but without a tomorrow, really, the changes must be the ones I make today. That’s why I write them down. Or maybe I write them up. You decide.

Carol

7/15/21

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Neap Tide

NEAP TIDE

The place where all is above-ground & visible. It’s a place in my soul now, too. Here is where it comes down to delivered wish – a Wish on Demand deal.

I’m striding two worlds, but okay with that.

Hey, when I came down this road, I realized the stars in my eyes were often going to be my only light. Well, with my horoscope, if you’re going for light, nothing less than a lighthouse will serve to start.

What did I expect, growing up at the sea edge? Roots?

I took a brainwash & started down so many abortive paths: [you don’t need to ever grow up, Baby. There’ll always be a man to take care of you. Happily ever after is all your fault.] These are all written off, accounted for, beyond retrieval. All are reminders to forget who you truly are & this pearl will gore you from the inside until it is manifested in lucent glory.

Am I right?

Life enters life slippery. For me, it’s been a prolonged state but one I’ve chosen for self. I rolled my lazy eyes & conformed – outwardly I was a cupcake. Inwardly, though, a hurricane brewed, a storm of motley proclivity & random impulse – inside I think I remember being a kid, but not a kid’s kid. I was a Wild Child with Roman Catholic Angels watching over.

There comes a time to each life where forward momentum diverts. Long ago I gave up the highway for the byway. I learned Gratitude. At that time, I had seasoned road veterans as angels & they rode with me, scouting out ahead.

I’m in a foxhole of 3D, submerged by what many out there prefer that I see. But I’m moving from particle to wave & nothing deters that.

All byways lead to the highway.

I’m treating myself lately to a minds-wide-open stance. Once I ally with Peace, I am no longer in the marketplace for swords.

Oh, I talk a feisty line – I only want my words to part the overgrowth so you can see there’s another Way.

Aloha.

Carol

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Ferals II

I was in the yard early, eyeing the one-eyed cat I call Mike, while watching for black Tzusu of the green eyes who winds around my legs. She’s in a hurry for food, but slows me as I mince around her small, muscular body. She doesn’t like Mike, his sweet face partly caved on one side…she hisses & holds her place. She eats no food, leaping the concrete fence to stalk away. Mike settles in to chow.

I hear a small noise, looking to the alley – is my neighbor out already? But no, he is not dumping trash, but a Hispanic couple roots for cans, tying & untying stinking bags. Dressed in ragged coats, in ill-made shoes, pulling a tiny cart lined in oily black plastic. They are hidden in their own world. Only the cart stands sentinel, hoping cargo.

I fill the bird feeder tubes, I think hard about all my living of life for I have no insight into theirs. They are of an age where grandchildren should be bouncing at feet resting on a hassock. They should be smiling, holding bowls of cherries, laughing about how they used to contest the length of spitting pits.

I come in the house to my tall desk, pulling out a wallet, removing two fives. I fold them & make my way to where they are, still in my bathrobe & slapping flipflops. I hold the money out to the man who takes it with no smile, but a murmured thank you, before bending back over the trash to help his wife.

I notice in deep sorrow he has one working eye.

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disintigrating with Distinction

I used to go out in the world in the morning, braced, like Rocky Balboa on the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps… Chest heaving, head dripping, I was beyond ready for my world.

Too bad I didn’t have this exact attitude at those times in my life. It’d been a lot more fun. But it was pretty good, as it was. Looking over my shoulder didn’t get me any real perspective. There is a Spiritual Review going on here & I’m not sure I remember signing up for it, but like some seminar you do not attend & then receive 68 emails about from every teacher who welcomed your attendance… Intent is the better part of something, but I’m not thinking valor these days.

Again, with Time. I have been dying to use this analogy somewhere & this blog is it: when I was once in Rome, I went to a set of famed hanging gardens. I was wearing cute little comfy flats (nothing to stop the skid.) I set foot upon the charmingly indented steps, slippery with only age, worn smooth meeting smooth shoes & somehow I skied down those steps & remained upright & whole & cute. It’s like my new job.

In my new job, I am required to track time once again after months of paying lip service to clocks & calendars & yet time is implied (get this done timely) instead of appointed (by 3 today.)

After all, the lockdowns were my first time not tracking time & almost nuclear in effect on me. I have always accounted for my time. In return I asked a valuation for that, something with cost-of-living built in. This corporate structure has disappeared into a fluid connective made of cyber-interstitial tissue. That ‘We Are All Connected’ Coke’ commercial takes on a whole new dimension when cyber or meta is looped in to be employed as an end run. (By folks you thought were on your side.)

Because time as I knew it lifelong – at the attention level it once demanded, is no more.

We knew coming in it wasn’t going to be easy. When I’d get that lump in my throat in other times, I recognized it for Original Fear – my original sin. I used to say if I picked up every stone I tripped over, I’d soon be unable to even walk. Wisdom & optimism lurk in fortune cookies.

I’m thinking now I got this. I’m thinking I’ve been doing it pretty well but nowhere else in this God’s Goddess-blessed world would be the place to emerge from whole except bearing truth or consequences equally cheerfully. Turns out life’s in Invitational. RSVP with love.

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Opening To Receive

We know that you have been making the most of a pretty bad situation there on Earth. We also know that you have summoned so much help, so much healing, so many solutions, that there is a sort of logjam of energies that have been coming your way but that not enough people are open to receive. (Arcturian Council)

Decisions are being made for me & I love/fear it. I feel finally in touch with so much more of me than was available before.

Now I have read for years the veils are thinning. At times, different signals were pulled through – inspirations, epiphanies, far too many to be synchronistic – way above & far beyond. I stand in a shaft of sunlight every day. Right after I step free of any shadow of fear. There are more days now when fear doesn’t even crowd the frame of my picture.

My point, since I am goaded/guided to put this into writing & send it, predawn, into the cybersphere, my point is that I notice repetition. Re-petition. Some seer once said (when asked if it was ok to filibuster God), “You don’t mail a letter twice.”

Information & data have been arrowing toward me since childhood. It wasn’t necessarily me they aimed for, just I was there & wide open. I grew up in a relative form of isolation (think lighthouse-keeper in training.) Wisdom keeps elbowing to the front, accosting me most directly. All attaches my attention, engages synapse, repeats again some time-told truth humming in vibrational sympathy. It turns out I know everything. I have heard it all before.

It is now when the databits are coalescing into real information. I am differently attended: paying different attention as perceptions are not just widening, but layering. A sense of jubilation attends. I feel as though I have entered a library while wandering familiar premises. I feel like saying, “Hey, I’m home! Who else is here?”

The information is already codified: written up: reproduced on all media: spoken: unheard: remote. The information dances just around my reach. Sometimes I knock it aside, reaching for to satisfy another appetite. However I removed myself from it, the knowledge is all around now, I walk through a Theatre of Change, constantly pushing up my glasses.

The timeline is bifurcating ahead. Others buy food to have a year’s supply. I buy black-marble-copybooks as a hedge against death. I write. Soon I will write more. One motor that kept me running has wound to a stop. The ones I move forward with now run on this form of Light, as far as I can see. I need to walk in this for awhile.

I’ve run with the Sages, the Seers, the seen, Life is no more than before it would seem

but light lives in spectra we strive to achieve in notice, in knowledge, in all we believe.

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First Person

The lance that pierces my side is not made by anyone out there. I take full-on responsibility for that one. You can accept that as you wish, but my point in putting it out here is a kind of alert.

I recognize putting it all in the first person can come hard; I’m hoping to get there. I’m feeling more … umm … “real” isn’t enough of a word, all watered down with usage. Maybe genuine? (We see that on leather tags but not much else.) It’s an interesting feeling. At a time when I feel most personally powerful, I am relegated to virtual living over being alive.

From the little doors that creaked open when my daughter sent a wedding picture of her parents, some distant dreams have emerged. I see the hope in those eyes; I see the life that still wants to come forward & be lived beloved – by all or none or some and done. With these choices, I cannot lose.

So, while there is an everyday life, it is made to be accelerated through these days. This comes at a time I am ready to slow down & pick it apart.

Or at least that’s my take on events. After this much isolation, I’m more able to pick & choose that with which I crave comfort. More than ready to be the observer, the chronicler, the descriptor. But who am I recording it all for? Isn’t it obviously me? So I wriggle my feet & agree to just do it.

Shapeshifting isn’t for everybody. It is what I’ve been doing on the inside for all my life. I recognize this now that I see old pictures. Please understand I shredded as much of my life as I could when I left Nashville… in fact, the machine burned out a fair bit before I left. There were parts I had to lie to get back, but it wasn’t a Big Lie. It was a Handy Lie involving Xerox copies of my life.

All of life is abroad now. When restrictions are put away, it will burgeon forward as we have never before seen. See? There I go. Rephrase: “as I have never before seen.”

A once-friend said I live on many levels. Once in a while, that observation returns. Am I still interesting? Who do I need to interest besides myself? Yet my favorites are those distractions that catch me in unknowing need so I must respond; this I perceive as childlike. I enjoy to think my child is getting to play aloud. (An example of this is standing in a sunbeam: the sun has reached the level of the windowsill & spills unrestrained into the room. I adjust the blinds & am caught in the light & heat moving up, taking me in & then full upon my face. Light on mountains arising.)

Maybe all these blogs have all along been imaginative etchings done by her.

I’m ever so glad one of us has grown up! The me-in-charge has wanted to sit back & just take notes for a real long time.

Ciao!

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Liberty

No matter how many times we’re told we have to save ourselves, we still go for the, “yeah, but you sure you can’t help?”. It worked with mom and dad.

Americans hold a view of themselves that they’re not panhandlers. In the desert, this can mean you dry up & drift off. We pay attention to one another & to stories.

It’s not the time to drift off, be cast adrift, lose the drift, not right now. It might be the last bike down the hill through a dark town where one woman holds a brief lantern in welcome. (I held that lantern out in a dark street & only heard the bike as it braked.)

Digression runs a close parallel to the ideal. The commentary is overheard on both parleys. Comes a time when the only way to undo a knot is with patience & sourcing. We have reached that time.

We are everyday people. But we can excuse ourselves to keep an eye on excellence should It be in the immediate. I see now how often my expectations of excellence call it forth.

It has always been so, been what this is now which is sheerly your perception of it. As mine is. In practical terms, if I move my winter curtains to put up sheers, I will lose to discomfort in a jiffy. My comfort zone sports blackout curtains with blinds.

There are always changing times. When times need a boost it’s a boot with a bust in the butt oncoming. It used to be mostly individuals, but I have just enough room in my paranoia for one more, should you care to investigate. I might, can you hold on while I check?

(He’s got a bust of Che Guevarra in his office, for God’s sake. And the curtains have obviously just been unpackaged, you mean to tell me the White House has no iron?)
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