Spring Thaw

I haven't posted here in a couple of months...I ran out of words, for a minute, and have been dealing with caregiving things. Today, I can't help myself. I went to the beach, where the sun shone brightly and the surf was large and springtime-powerful, and called all angels. I will be doing that for a while. 

Calling angels means emptying myself of the typical mind-gibberish while asking to be filled with what's real. I don't know how else to describe it...but when I am sincere, the answer is almost immediate. There comes a rush of space, the boundaries melt away, and magick returns to my fractal body. That means color, light, power. It means understanding that I have arrived, every second. It means no doubt, no search, no "but...". It means that little pieces of broken shell and burnt twigs are what make this universe so perfect; it means bird-screech and human-call come through as the music of the spheres. Wild strawberry blossoms among the dunes may as well be shining stars, green runners making new galaxies. Stepping over them, I feel pain in my ankle for a split second. I notice I am still not entirely recovered from the virus that ran through most of the family last week. It is brilliant, this pain, this weakness. 

I am a constellation of living things, a universe in my own right, and I have no idea how this can even be.

Driving back, I listen to the pulse of the music, feel it gathering up my brain waves and making something new. Fresh, like April. The angels tell me they are exceptionally pleased with all the space. They encourage me to check in often. They can do anything! What I feel, all the way home, is the absolute fullness and perfection of each moment. Seems so trite--but we are accustomed to judging everything as Not Quite, and waiting for the better sound, image, color, a lack of static, the trash spill to be cleaned up, the daylight to change. Angels point out that it doesn't get any better, fuller, more perfect than this right here. The total suchness is like being topped off with love while swimming in love, having learned to inhale love as sustenance. It is almost too much to look at, to feel, and that is why we are afraid.

My human life wants to pull as many others into the deep as I can, as are willing to fall, even while the stuckness and fear are are all part of the scenery. I have given up wondering why. I have also given up feeling guilty over this particular desire. It seems as natural as gravity, to want to share, even while this experience is absolutely unique, unrepeatable and perhaps not at all similar to the fall of another universe.

Much love!

Release

I walked to the park and back, yesterday, taking a few photos along the way. It was a much-needed break--one of those where I can forget myself for a while, abandon roles and rules and "survival mode".

I used to think that there was a tremendous amount of resistance in this mind, and maybe fear, around my "responsibilities". I thought that when I faced the daily-grind story with a sigh and a great deal of reluctance, that there was something wrong with me. I love these people. Why the inability to accept that this is just the way it is? (A great, booming voice came out of the sky and said, "Because it's DIFFICULT and TEDIOUS!" Just kidding.)

It is difficult and tedious. There are beauties along the way, but generally, it's a job that requires operation within an artificial system in a way that seems mostly foreign to me, for both the welfare of eternally-dependent people and my own physical survival. Had I not been blessed with this set of circumstances, I would have put a bunch of stuff in a backpack (camera, art supplies, pen, paper) and thrown myself on the mercy of this big world. That is what I think. Do I entirely believe this story...? No. I don't know exactly what I would have done. Am I trapped? No. I can walk away. Will I? Not at this point. So, here I am. I, I, I.

Somehow, the realization dawned that fear and resistance don't belong to this mind--that when the self-image disappears at home, in the thick of things, a physical/psychological tension is there, in the air, so to speak, not produced here, but definitely noticed. It seems to belong to no one in particular, but everyone in general. Many of the people in my house lack the capacity for much self-reflection. There is a very "immature" and reactive way of being coming through and coloring the days. Of course, up springs an insecure child in this body, like a twig surfacing and spinning in a whirlpool. Of course, of course. However, this is the river, and when I remember that, a clarity ensues, and I relax. This place is like some kind of immersion course in independent peace...and constant mindfulness practice.

When I take the body out there, in nature, I can more easily open. There is a softening of the heart and sharpening of the mind, a sort of third-eye vision that is incredibly discriminating, in the sense that it understands its own highly-detailed projections without assuming them like so many shadows. Stepping back, back into vulnerability, raw to each kind of sense data, all of which spring up in my very own body, world-large. I light up with something that feels like an exquisitely painful, joyous love. Full, full, full. Very physical, very warm, no effort in the movement.

It sometimes seems as though I'm on the very edge of a surrender so sweet that I will be destroyed--not some ego, not some woman, but all of it. Right there, under the habitual patterns, singing like a siren...

Fallen

It doesn't matter what I say or do, because from now to now, I'm just pouring myself out on the sand. There it goes. There it goes.

What I'm seeing is a reflection of such delicate fragility that one drop of million-year-old rain sets all of it dancing into chaotic, nonsensical patterns. The stability is entirely illusory. Yet, there are aeons. There are patterns. There are things and sensations. I live on the famed holodeck, and I, myself, am but one more hologram perceived by another. Oh--and all this creation is entirely mutual--so mutual that it's singular. So singular that it's nothing.

Part of this beauty is that there is absolutely no way, as the Singular Nothing, to be attached to anything, any experience, regardless of any apparent longevity. There must be some form of separation to make up an attachment...the struggle to let go may as well be an attempt to hang on. It is futile. Either way, it is all experienced thoroughly, deeply, nothing missed. Love does that.

However

The most unbearable tickle is the understanding that there is no separate aware-er here--that consciousness or awareness is made up of exactly everything in this moment. It's nice to believe in a sort of "giant essence of everything" that by definition is somehow, on some level, apart. There is no harm in it; there is no lack, really, and nothing to locate or contact. If I manage to peel everything away, all the layers of crap and forks in the road, I would still be here, now, my own lover, and not even that.

The deep tickle comes in with the complete failure of cause-and-effect. I am not "causing" a world to happen, or vice-versa. It just is/n't, with all its qualities, unqualified. There is nothing I can do, nowhere to hide, nothing to accomplish first. All here, all the time. Nothing left out, no need for a director.

I am learning that this kind of a tease is something not too many human personalities can bear, or even want to acknowledge. It doesn't matter what intelligence we assign to this situation (Being) here...the freedom of unknowing eats all its own crutches, excuses, every victim story, every shred of white-knight armor, and renders itself so naked as to be unborn. The freedom isn't even "freedom" in the sense that I often wish. Without my layers of denial, all the possibilities, response-abilities and a painful, glorious honesty shine untouched. Details are intensified--suffering and love, also. The potential of US is fabulously evident, as well as the attempted repression of said potential by every institution created by US--as if we can't bear to see how this truly is, or change or accept what we truly can.

Then there is the beauty of it all, just as it is/n't.

Beauty happens when the mind lies down with the heart, and senses--sense-abilities--are born.

I might be slicing cheese, staring at a column of numbers or walking into a forest. Cheesing, numbering, foresting. A second ago, there was a person-in-charge...now, just happening-of-its-own, with a dusting of awe, here and gone. What lingers is appreciation in the poetry of Being. That's it.

All my glory unsharable, all my love unrequited. If I laugh, only stars can hear; if I cry, the wind carries it right into silence. I am, indeed, absolutely alone in an incurable way. There  is no comfort in this, as far as the mind is concerned, because love can only be a word to the intellect.

However...

Poof

I'm writing from an ego, a character, a story, because there is no way I can do it otherwise. I find it fascinating that there is an ability to communicate all these worthless ideas with a code that was made up to be broken! Ego's favorite thing--make to break--mysteries, plots, reasoning, logic, time, no time.

Forgive your parents, culture, the world for teaching us, not only to cultivate this skill, but establish it within our psyches as the One True Religion. Forgive it all for building a self-image based on fear, to be worshiped blindly until interest in the futility of this practice is lost. There is no real Ego, of course...just spontaneously popping ideas, like so much airborne fluff...seeds to fall on the ever-fertile soil of imagination, perhaps grow, wither, and die. Everything does.

Forgive as it happens, and see the pure poetry, the singing necessity of it all, the perfection of such a mysterious non-thing. 

Much love!

Longest Nights

Winter Solstice just passed us here in the Northern Hemisphere. It's one of my favorite seasonal markers, even with the cold, dark and damp. I enjoy the turning-in, the introversion, the sleeping trees; I love the seeking of fire and body heat and soft blankets. Hibernation can be a wonderful thing for Maria.

I have have seen much unfolding in this heart of mine (which also happens to be this heart of yours!). Lots of learning, growing and shedding going on. The last few seasons have shown me some beautiful insights, as well as shadowy recesses that never enjoy the greening of summer, and (to my initial dismay) never will...just as some places on this planet will never touch the light of day. Some wounds may or may not heal when you leave them alone, when they are left to do whatever it is that they do. Some scars never fade. It is, as they say, what it is.

This isn't meant to be a despairing message, however. I grew up in and out of a psychological (and sometimes physical) war zone, so it isn't a sermon on acceptance, either. Accept, don't accept--it's all the same to the Great Whatever. It takes you as you are. There is no need to earn your way into happiness, prove your mettle, express your gratitude. It took years and years for this understanding to sink in all the way. No one has to apologize for being here. There is no right way to live a life. I cannot judge a single human being--including this one--not because of a moral issue, but because it's an action that carries no weight at all. It's a waste of energy, in my humble opinion, an opinion that changes exactly...nothing!

As I mature, my interest seems to lie more and more with honesty. Brutal, lovely, heartbreaking, life-expanding honesty. If I could have consistently lied to myself and gotten away with it, I probably would have. It turns out that, in the long run, and for the sake of everything, honesty is the best policy--again, not because the universe is "moral". There are degrees of honesty, all with their accompanying discomforts and releases. There was a time when I lied to myself because I knew no other way to survive. This is, somehow, a very honest thing, in an immature way. Comes a time when it no longer serves, and the carrying of illusion gets very difficult. Drop a layer. The new perception serves until it doesn't--and repeat. I have no idea if this ever ends.

I don't know how it is that those layers fall, but it seems a ripeness is in order; they certainly don't leave before everything is ready! Then, in a rush, or with an inaudible sigh, or in complete stealth, things have changed. Maybe subtly, maybe drastically, but new worlds are available to view. Honesty most definitely supports this process, aids it, and makes the seeming transition "cleaner". Eventually, there is a feeling of loving presence, a reflection of strength and vulnerability bouncing off any conceivable thing, finally enfolding all things. It is, of course, a further opening of the heart.

At this time in life, I am in a very interesting place. It's a place with not much room for "I", literally and metaphorically. In many ways, the most common image of Maria--the self-image--has been challenged and pushed, more and more, into a corner of itself. This Maria is representative of some original wound, some terrible violation (or a few), and presents typically as a bundle of reactivity, anger and pain. Over the years, well-meaning therapists have counseled me to "repair the self-esteem" and "heal the wounded child" with all the love and understanding my parents couldn't give me. Also, I should stand my ground, demand respect and consideration, and stop picking up wounded birds. Yeah. I should do this because Maria deserves a good man, time off, more help, and self-respect. Alright--I get that. Still, something is not ringing true in this advice, anymore. It seems trite, redundant and no longer fitting, and I suspect the shifting of another strata. It's as if we have taken the repair of the ego as far as it can go. Been there, done that.

More and more, there is a detachment, an objectivity waking up in place of the wounded creature, where a spastic mind once held sway. I was taught that detachment was a way of avoidance or not caring. This turns out to be true, but not in the way I assumed. What I have lost interest in is the outcome of the story (they all end the same way, right here), and in the quest for something better. Contrary to how this may sound, it isn't as though I have "given up". It's more that the structure disappeared, the race was called off, and I found that what I had signed up for was not any of this, after all. In fact, there is no real thing to admit defeat, no real person to be shamed, or to claim victory. I cannot know what this really is.

I've educated myself fairly well in most things "spiritual", and so of course, the concept of the Void, the illusion of the personal, the world of maya all make intellectual sense to me and balance the seeming solidity of everything quite nicely. And being an expert at coping, I've learned to "be objective", or philosophical, about most things. It never really occurred to me on a visceral level that I would wake up one morning viewing my familiar body in my familiar field of vision with all its sensations as something...not foreign, exactly, but unassumed. Something as natural as that tree outside, and as impenetrable, unknown, and in that sense, unfamiliar. A mystery. Nothing I can improve, run from, or seek to fulfill. Fulfillment is suddenly a laughable idea. A completely unnecessary-anymore-idea.

And this body, in its utter innocence, owns nothing, claims nothing. It has no thoughts (I don't know what does). It has its own way of speaking and is completely unconcerned about what happened when I was five. This realization is startling.

There are feelings, emotions, and they act of their own accord, without any meddling on my part, without my interference. They don't lash out and destroy anything. Nobody gets hurt. No planets are pulled into my orbit. Even if they did, that would somehow be okay.

I think about my old therapists, and wonder if they would find some "dissociation disorder" in this point-of-view-which-isn't. I've never been more sane. :)

Saule, Sol, Gold, Go

I used to know a young prospector who spent hours in creeks and rivers, looking for that elusive chunk of luck--the big payoff, the proof that all the pain and expense and hope was worth it. He had the fever, the bug, the addiction to the search. He searched so hard because he knew that occasionally, someone did strike it rich, find a vein of metal shining like the sun, even in the shadows. Precious, precious stuff. 

After a while, the hobby grew too expensive and time-consuming. There were heavy flakes, glimmers in a pan, tiny nuggets here and there...and there was occasional peace, under the water with a dredge running, or communing with a brave trout. But the reward that was supposed to come--the marker, the end of the search, a fist-sized treasure, held up for all to see--it never happened. The adventure was abandoned, the urge to hunt taking other forms. Seek, and you shall find...what? Accolades? Comfort? Escape? What? Have you found it? Are we there yet? Can we control it, is it pleasurable enough, are we safe?

It is said that water seeks its own level. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that water surrenders into itself. It falls up, falls down, pools, rushes, sits in silence, roars in waves. It vaporizes, powerless, and condenses to take over the world. It remains frozen for eons, uncomplaining. We are mostly water, and earth, fire, air and the rest, all having no problem cooperating in the form of a human. We are burning, evaporating, calcifying this very moment. Lightning beats our hearts. Something moves, we change, and yes--the process we tag "mind" will seek, seek, and seek some more. Incredibly restless and creative Mind. So full of its own luscious self, casting shadows on everything it sees, every other part of itself...not conscious, asleep and dreaming of success in love, in finances, in the good fight, whatever it is at the moment. Advancing, retreating, screaming, cowering. Rejecting. Coveting. Trying this method or that, this recipe, this formula, taking these steps. Looking at itself in horror, in joy, in defeat. Confronting its own death...unable to understand, calculate, reframe such a thing. There is death, there is no death. Off/on--what is this, really? What am I, really? Am I real? What the hell is "real"? What about this--and this--and this?! What an annoyance!

Something happens--an overload, an exhaustion, an experience of suspension. Ahhh. Yes. Peace. This is it. The payoff. Look! Here's the payoff! Right? Eureka! Breakthrough! I know the way! 

Oh, little brain. Here come the shadows, and the light dims. Iron pyrite, fool. This way looks like it might get us lost again. It's gold we want, right? Light in solid form? Learn to recognize it (says some prospector with a long beard, missing teeth and a mule). It gleams, even in shadow. It loves, even in pain. You have seen it, it has seen you, and neither can forget. Onward. Up that canyon, down that ravine. Follow the river, she will show you. Stop being so damn mean to that mule. She will show you. No, you don't need a new, shiny pickaxe!

Prospecting is lonely, full of hard work, and according to lots of intelligent folks, unnecessary. I understood the seeker of my acquaintance very well, more than I cared to admit, even though we were mining different things, through different mediums, with different goals (or so I believed at the time). My seeking was somehow better than his, because mine was on a "spiritual" level. My search had value higher than his. Mine was somehow justified, and his was not. Oh, little brain!

I don't know if he ever found what he was looking for, but now I realize that he went about the growth and death of himself in exactly the right way, for exactly the right reasons, and that I can never know his story. I can only know this one, and not even that.

So, what happened?

Well, I lost all the maps, my mule wisely sought greener pastures, and I was forced to carry all my own stuff. Very hard work, I can tell you. By that time, people's opinions of my adventures ceased to matter. I followed the river, anyway, because--I realized that I loved it. Or it loved me. Either way. 

I found more and more gold, ironically--and just as ironically, it lost its value--that is, the value that others placed upon it. However, my appreciation of the mining process deepened to the point that it was more play than work. There was beauty in the landscape, in the looking, the finding, even in disappointment and the occasional injury. Consequently, I was content with less and less. One day, I quit searching. People thought the gold was pretty and full of amazing value, so I gave it away. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed this. And along came my old friend Mind, who whispered, "Hey, Eureka! I found the way!" 

I laughed until I thought my heart would break. I made a good, nourishing meal for my restless friend (happy chewing, Sweetheart!), and went to sleep like a good animal. In the morning, gold was everywhere--just everywhere, like a messy fairytale...or a gripping mystery. There was the body, the heart, even the mind, gleaming in the shadows. Aladdin's cave was the kitchen, an old lady, a man burying himself in porn, the cat stretching, frozen fog around the moon, the primitive, the futuristic, oil paint, a coffee spill on white tile (again). The voice of Precious says I love you, leave me alone, I don't know, I hurt, this is it, watch out, don't leave, get out, I have no opinion...the heart contracts, expands, feelings wave, stomach growls. Decisions are made, seemingly by everything at the same time, and things move. There is no identifying this, but words go around and through...so full I'm empty, so empty I'm full. The thought of death shines like a rising sun. 

Get a mule, polish your pan, get to work...or not. It's worth it. Even finding nothing...perhaps especially, finding nothing. A river loves you.