Riding the Light –

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  • Unraveling

    Unraveling

    I have become a third world country. What does that mean? My life is rimmed around a definite high each day & I get to choose what it might be: A morning walk, a sunny place to sit, a terrific book to be lost within… I take my bags to the market to fill & since they are infected with Covid, I get to do this myself. I could probably take the world record in holding my breath in time to grab a few things at the market. (Can’t even get into the only other grocery in town – which is Walmart – with the lines & what not. Thanks, China! In so many ways, thanks! I find it interesting that my bags carry the virus & my face: not my hands sifting among avocados, not my jacket which l has brushed up against all kinds of possible hosts, etc. You know that rant could go on for a couple of days.

    I get to choose from my five or six winter outfits – an exciting moment! I am not permitted to buy any other clothing which cannot be acquired from my [Chinese] Walmart; thus supporting the overt providers of Covid. Interestingly, I am not hearing of gigantic death numbers from the virus in China. Did they flatten the curve?

    I am singled at work for not wearing a mask. The fact that I find it very difficult to breathe or do quality work while wearing one – that my clients give me permission to not wear one – that they themselves feel put upon forced to wear a mask on a massage table where they must breathe deeply for maximal benefit rendered irrelevant by conflicts of science & con-science.

    I am tired of seeing Fauci’s face. His Hitler salute is not a raised arm, but an index finger pointed upward as he calls the shots for my life. I read Switzerland is doing fine, South Dakota is doing fine… Herd immunity is proved out. Statistics are down (even the CDC says so) but for whatever reason, I wear a mask to every store. Which amounts to the few open here in town – Chinese Walmart, Chinese Family Dollar & Chinese Dollar Store plus a couple all-American hardware posts.

    I am wearing down. I hate to say it. I dislike admitting defeat. I miss our small businesses. I miss being able to eat a meal I did not prepare myself. Last night I didn’t even have dinner & infrequently in my life have I gone to bed without dinner like some truant. I miss friends, entertainment, the occasional movie, drives to nearby old West towns to spend my dollars on postcards. I have put about 400 miles on my car since March – an invitation to an oil change had me laughing as I tossed it.

    I’m done with conflicting news, one source telling me I’m dead so just lie down already, another telling me I live in Jesus, a third assuring me the Pleiadians are en route in answer to my thumb stuck out over the horizon of Earth, a fourth to say the Pleiadians are sitting to one side watching “the show” & unwilling/unable to help. Pleiadian Uber?

    I will live as long as I live & no longer. It is up to me to make these days reactive or passive. I think of it as “clapping for Tinkerbell” where she will fade from existence without applause (a cheap crowd participation trick.) I am down to one hand clapping.

    I want to get back into gear. I want to tend my volunteer duties, travel at will & with a way, get a definitive reply when I reach out – because it seems as things have slowed down, no one is keeping up.

    Nothing is normal & I want some semblance of that back!

  • Oaths: Legalities: Legal Ties: Insights

    Oaths: Legalities: Legal Ties: Insights

    This is the part of my life where I’m allowed to be funny, to be creative, to talk to people using language I’ve spent a lifetime developing. Instead it was “Shut up, it’s The Covid” at all times.

    I do not consent. I am literally of a different mind when it comes to all of this talk/script going on/playing out. I am fiercely for health in everyone, for all of us to be mobile, active, determined, forward-facing … (what’s your add to the list?). I want the freedom to be outrageous at times, to wear hats with plumes or belts with bull riding clasps. At this time of wanting these, I am in the mindset of wanting them is having them & not doing them. Did you follow that? Thinking about as doing? My excuse & acceptance…

    Anyway, I am an actress who’s quarreled with the Theatre that loved her & this is never done other than with Drama (which is usually an emotional subset of Trauma.)

    I am a woman who sees her debts as decisions & perceives debt on levels seers do. There are times when I’ve scattered paths like pennies & been found to round off miracles. That there are people who love me despite the boundaries of love I usually reside beyond, amazes me. And I love back!

    I have done Lover as spider woman, creatively exploring & ultimately deciding no one’s mind except mine needs to be present in my present. What I love best about being Present to all of this allows it to interrupt & re-present itself. That can always bifurcate, but I’m quick to categorize & ‘opinionize.’ (The next layer to peel away is that opinionizing. The Lovers of the deck have always been, for me, 1) being alone or 2) being with another. Tumult survives no matter how much oil is poured upon the waters – on the “wanters.” )

    I’m a lion in my own world, but a kitten on the screen door for many others…the one with claws dug in so tightly to pry her off is to exercise fearlessness at peak levels. I’m up there hanging on, trusting the view of what I see will be the view when I’m again out there. You know, when I’m older & after I can locate the alleys. When I find a reign to Queen.

    Eccentricity is an aura of everyone in Truth or Consequences. The amazing blending of eccentricities is what we feed upon & enjoy its dancing, blending/braiding. If we don’t know you, we do know of you. And are perfectly willing to leave it at that…until we get to know you – which often happens by simple propinquity.

    I think this started better than it’s going to end. In an acknowledgement that each of those Present moments made up for the rote of life, that each enforced “rote” is now sustaining me where I in-dwell, in-habit. It’s an admission of being Ok My Way. If I’m okay with me, there’s not much need for all else.

    We are all re-solving our Vasanas.

  • Solstice Emergent

    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.

  • Almost Solstice 2020

    Almost Solstice 2020

    I can hear the insects walking on my grave

    (Sounds like some old Beatnik thing to say)

    Any line that meter will start a poem

    Like any old crank cause a Model A to

    Cough & wheeze & ready-go.

    (Honk honk, rattle rattle rattle, crash!, beep-beep)

    I ramble thru the ages living other stories

    Moving left to right but mostly straight on.

    It’s just that everything now looks familiar:

    Is there no home I have not occupied?

    No wonder at no need to wander

    Perhaps it is all in my backyard.

    I am, after said is done,

    An Alchemist.

    Remember that part about history

    Belonging to the writers?

    I do.

    ………………………………………..

    How far back would I need to go for a role model?

    Back to the Chesters, I guess, the couple who ran

    Our local public school, Margaret Mace

    J. Elwood & Marie Chester.

    I have no one else to share this story with, so bear with me.

    Mr. Chester was the Principal & Mrs. Chester my home room & English teacher. Mr. Chester was of a larger than life mold & shared that with me – he would pull me out of class (thus actually conferring the status on me  of being pulled out of the room by the Principal. ) He would bring me to his office & recite Rudyard Kipling or a parody of some long piece of tintinnabulation. It still uplifts me to think on it.

    Quiet, black-haired Mrs. Chester wore English like a suit of armor. I learned all the finer points of jousting the language with her.

    I think the Chesters were the reason Mom sent me to the public school after Brother Joe lost to the Monsignor. They were involved with Mom financially, I believe, having co-signed a note.

    ………………………

    SUNOCO

    My favorite restaurant here has an old gas station bell at their drive-up window. I was awaiting my order outside & the bell rang with a car passing over. My friend with me remarked on the notice & in a rush I remembered I grew up NEXT to a gas station that had a bell system like that over both lanes.

    My whole life must have been filled with that sound…

    Hot summer nights

    Bitter-bite seashore cold

    I did not know I had memorized it so well

    A friend would have to point it out to me

    Waiting for lunch one day.

    ……………………

    Someone said practice art

    My art is wordsmithing

    Wrangling words that ride me over cliffs sometimes

    So I cannot get back to the mesa above

    Doomed to canyons

    Yet appreciating the shade.

    ……………………..

    For a long time I said my life appeared in vignettes of my vision

    I got pulses which pulled me back to that time as an immediate environ

    Now I think that even the ones of the future appear at times

    I want more to do with earth now, than tech

    I take two steps back from seeing the future

    For the holiness (simplicity) of yesterday

    Holds my heart harmless

    …………………

    I can see now that I put myself into impossible situations

    This lifetime. I made demands upon heaven, tugged on many angel wings to get what I needed. I moved mountains but with nowhere to put them, my backyard just got full.

    I cut people off cold if I cannot get along with them. I assume. The word “err” comes up in my crosswords a lot & I always take it personally.

    I wonder if it’s correct to say I get in my own way.

    Just when I’m getting into the good thoughts

    I come forward from the back of the room to say

    Time to leave, gotta go … what we  doin’ here?

    Like photobombing my own life movie.

    …………………………………..

    As I watch, the World of the Impossible slides next into the stereopticon

    I do not remember buying [into] this slide

    It is as real as any other & each life I unbury is similar to the one just before.

    I can’t even remember who handed me this shovel!

    Somewhere in a city is a diner in white enamel

    With lights reflecting white uniforms with long black aprons.

    Red/silver jukebox modules hang over the tables

    Collecting quarters in exchange for memories

    Fainting-lucky

    If it had “our song”

    Somewhere like B 15.

    ………………………..

    The familiar grows shadows so long

    Over my shoulder, I get cold in my last lifetime.

    ……………………….

    There were horses & hounds, sir

    Thundering & howling through the dream

    More than that I cannot say

    More than that would be confession

    But there are no more priests

    People today don’t remember horses

    In a hunt, laboring by

    I do.

    The pack of red/brown dogs silken–

    Eared & snarling

    A “snap!” at me tho I was ne’er their fox.

    …………………………..

    The conservatives have left

    Only madmen remain to rule

    All the sanitoria are open

    While the churches are closed.

    I missed somewhat of the egress,

    Deciding to hunker down, stock up,

    Obey the impulse to just be still

    To flatten the curve.

    The curve gone cursive in my case

    I might have once thought

    Other than I do now

    Like I said, I don’t remember.

    Is it ok to stand up yet?

    ………………………….

    Where do your thoughts go when you’re not thinking?

    Everyone has those blank moments on arrival:

       Shrugging: “Um, how’d I get here?”

    The cloud knows not its landing,

    Nor my soul

    Tho Higher Self pokes a head in regular-like

    To test progress.

    (The same way I click videos to see how much longer they’ll run.)

    She shows up, takes a peek from my eyes.

    My Higher Scout checking in

    To see if she recognizes the terrain.)

    ………………………

  • Listening Devices

    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.

  • Indigo Child

    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.

  • Minyan

    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.

  • Returning to Prayer

    Returning to Prayer

    So, a time or two ago, I was able to tune into prayer as being that tiny generating engine behind my energy. While I’ve been making my changes, it turns out so has Prayer. What I was told was a technology has become solid as such.

    I’ve learned “What were you thinking?” is not a rhetorical question. With the thought police increasing every day, it can now be an accusation. But I feel a potential sifting through: Alchemically, a potentiation sifting through, taking root around me, binding me down while nourishing my wings.

    I see a “Next Level” sign blinking overhead.

    I see big flakes of me, psychic flakes, pulled off & scampering down the sidewalks of other places, more geographic places.

    Every once in awhile, I think I am pedaling backwards; slack; no traction. Then I just arrive, because Spirit has already done all the arranging while I was sightseeing. On tour may mean “On To Our” or “onto our”.

    The wind that pushed us steadily forward has turned into a gusty go at us, sidling in or full-frontal. We emerge again & again. We arrive at our truest selves repeatedly or our repeated selves more truly. Even (& perhaps most accurately), we get to the ones who started out compliant, but are now rattling the chains back at the gang. The closer we get to ourselves in the Silence draped upon us, the more Powerful we become.

    Compliant to Complaint is moving one single letter.

  • Digital Alchemy

    Digital Alchemy

    I believe this would work well as a name for massage therapy salon. My first practice was called “Angelhands” in my own mind, Then it wound up that I mostly worked for spas & so did not even need a name. Yet it lives on, emerging into this timeline every once in a while.

    I remember how awkward massage therapy was for me in the beginning. Before my hands learned the language of the body outside the formal frame of school. Before I knew the patterns my hands twine into on the client’s body. I love the way it has evolved & continues to evolve.

    After I broke my arm recently I thought I had retired from doing massage. It seems I cannot stay away & I am once more in the lotion.

    If I had a business now, I’d call it Digital Alchemy. For years, a shamanic friend of mine kept me in touch with a familiar name: Merlin, yes, of Arthurian fame. Merlin urged me consistently to use alchemy. He implanted the word so I react to each mention or exposure. Years after he & I no longer shared spirit-time, he had me on watch for a word.

    Recently, I got the rest of the story: I figured out the magic travels through my hands whatever format it comes through. The hands have it, aye.

    My injury has added a subset of emotion to the soundtrack I follow when doing massage. I plan to keep the reverence going.

    As I shift, everything else does too. I am watching small cities I have built crumble.

    Right now, the sacred instant demands prayer. Totems appear; one came to me recently as another left to be a wild thing again after many years. We got away from each other at the end there. My bull elk probably got most of what I accomplished done for me – at least the heavy lifting part. Now another energetic force is needed.

    I began seeing dragons, moved beyond lower earth to an energetic stream beyond (Behind? Below?) 3D. Now I understand this totem is here to help with healing in all stages of my current life. She is an embodiment of my fire element.

    The woman I sold my massage items to I work again, using my own tools more than I did at home.

    One beautiful client held my hands after her massage, blessing them to God.

    Just like everywhere else in life, growth happens. Sometimes this takes place in spurts. I am getting a feel for what I am being called forth into: it is more healing work.

    Feels good to have a dragon involved.

  • Schwinn Twin

    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.