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Iíve never been much of a birthday type of person. Iím more of a Ďcelebrate yourself everydayí type of person. Iíve also never been one to dread turning another year older. Iíve related more to the ideas of immortality and living Ďnowí as best one can. So why the birthday log? Well, it seems somehow that coming up on a half century, marked by my upcoming forty-ninth birthday next week is asking for acknowledgment to deliver to my psyche, some sort of life path message. Whatís more, I think Iíll receive it in receiving myself as a writer, of sorts.
Beneath the mundane blooms the beauty of everyday ordinariness. This bloom contains the essence of all life. It is allowing the flowering of this raw aliveness that gives unity to our disconnected lifestyle, a lifestyle where being Ďspecialí is the ultimate goal; where being Ďlonely at the topí means success. It advertises the acquisition of special-ness for the mere price of oneness. Perhaps this is at the ground floor of our feeling disconnected from ourselves. Authenticity, blooms from the courage to be genuinely oneself, always. One must be willing to forgo special-ness to be the gardener of ones own soul.
I donít see myself as a fiction writer, though I have to admit to believing that is world-life is a fiction of sorts. I want to speak to a deeper truth ~the stuff weíre made of, versus what be believe. I know this canít be done directly~ as in hitting the nail on the head. But perhaps, like those writer-lovers who have gone before me, I can join with the movement of that truth behind and beyond the words and allow meaning to arrange words to fulfill a deeper understanding, leading to a deeper experience of the seat of truth.
I am beholden to this moment in time. It houses every possibility, and only my complete surrender to it, gives me access. There is really chance of controlling it. Pretending, control, yes; maneuvering, yesterdayís thoughts in some contrived way that temporarily sedates the stark nakedness of this moment, Stripped down, naked to now with still mind, thoughts think me, and refresh a world of living perspective, in a brand new way. Ah, to live always, only from now Ö To refuse to listen to the dictates of decayed past thought, but wait in quiet mind for the truth ~thatís honesty.
I want to talk about Humor. Is there anything more real or enjoyable than when humor grabs you by the short hairs; mouth to mouthing you beyond your ability to hold on to the constructs of serious life? Where the release gifted by humors penetrating will impregnates your story with meaninglessness. Where, for just an instant, you, while nearly loosing control of your bladder, loose all sense of propriety and let the laugh have its way with you. How you look or act, canít hang on the radar of mind during a big belly laugh. You hopelessly, helplessly surrender. Happily.
I love it when I feel in flow; like Iím just floating along, being directed by a holographic purpose bigger than me, yet that if surrendered to, brings joy to even the occasional bolder or rubbish in life. Todayís transiting flow asks I encourage it through the channel of my new found love of writing. I donít have any criteria except that I write. Or rather, that I show up and let words use me, infusing me with new meaning that is fresh and also deeper and richer and more fully alive. I, in symphony, attempt an expression that joins.
Time is such a fickle thing. Itís totally defendant on ones mood. Or should I say attention, or what one values. Lately, time seems hardly a part of my experience of life, save it to say, this is the time-space cosmos I seem to be living in. However, time or time-frame no longer makes decisions for me. I do what I do according to the dictates of my love. Now, frames the experience I live, moment to moment. Each now, is complete in and of itself. Joy is its natural partner. It is the undercurrent that strings them all together.
Itís funny; I donít know what I have to say until I see it flowing through my mind headed for print. I canít really think on my own it seems. Like, planning some marvelous piece; thinking ahead. No. My mind is too small to say anything I want to hear or pass on, much less, in someway contribute to humankind as a whole. Yet, like meditation, which, in stilling my mind, opens me to true thought, Ďwrite-sití does much the same thing. I witness thoughts that respond to and copulate with other thoughts, and produce something I feel to write.
The sun morning is rising, gently kissing the rooftops, illuminating a fresh world; awakening and sleep, strangers passing in the nightÖ. I too, awaken, kissing the rooftops of concluded identity. I rise to Self. This is the metaphor picture I am sitting in, invited by my new found companions; techno-pal, and writer-mind, like a school girl with her first crush, ďWill they like me? Can I bring something to relationship theyíll want and use? Could they love me, be patient with me, mentor me and hold a space for me to work out my kinks and gifts in their grace?Ē
I wasnít to tell the story about motherhood till I knew it intimately; till there was no way separate out the mother and the child; the devotee and mentor, the lover and the friendÖ These labels, so seemingly individual titles of great epics in their own right, prior to the immersion in motherhood, now meld together in a single life giving meaning: Love. The story tells itself, living in the memory-hearts of mother and children. With each uncontrolled outburst of laughter, tears, anger, and forgiveness, in the twinkling eye of inside jokes and the present awareness of unrelenting acceptanceÖ Love.
Creation expresses intention. So whatís with the trying to impress? Itís a form of control. Old habit. Stems from thinking improvement, instead of love. I am no longer interested in controlling the world around me. I am hundred percent responsible for it yes, but itís ridiculous to think one can change the core structure of something already produced. It follows the laws of its maker. I see now, that the world is in me rather than the other way around. Desire to control is a sign I have forgotten who I am. It is a lack of faith in Self.
In forty-nine years of living, I feel I am just beginning to really recognize the truly valuable and distinguish it from the simulated mimicry the ego mind busily bombards the thought-field with. Today is my birthday. In moments like now, I can only see the student in me. It has taken nearly half a century to get there~ to the beginning of living. I spent the youngish half of my adulthood teaching what I didnít know, until I learned I didnít know, and that that was the only place from which I had a chance at any wisdom at all.
I hate how once Iíve made a commitment to myself to do something, I screw myself. Satisfying that promise becomes the new God. Just once, Iíd like to be left with my free-will and present moment spontaneity in tact, with the ability to respond with love to whatever situation arrives, instead of viewing it as an enemy messing with my service to the commitment God. Iíd like to trust that whatever is taking place, right now, is the best possible thing for that moment. Absolute logic only reveals that the most futile exercise in life is arguing with what isÖ
Iím thinking about the power of raw defenselessness and right now I canít think why one defends. It so obviously strips one to the bare skeleton of self-identity. Defenses canít work. The mere presentation of them unveils a needy, hungry, frightened child. Alone, unwilling to join. Yet, daily, we wake up; spit ourselves out while brushing our teeth, costume up in uniform, gulp down our transformation-brew coffee, lock the door, set the alarm, take our posture and wait. What if instead, we rise only to the call of our own voice and wait in naked truth for our welcome friend?
Donít you dare get disenchanted on me now! My mind is always gets up to its sabotage tricks at crucial tenacity periods in my life, like now. Iím totally in flux. Nothing that defined me 2 minutes ago, quite says it now. Like, whereís the gel for writing? The saboteur attempts to swipe the legs beneath excitement, creativity, and adventure before momentum gets a firm hold and Iím really off and running on a new project of knowing more of life. Well, now, caught in the act, saboteur and I can have a cup of coffee and talk things over.
Expression chooses me by which to be given birth, this time around. The pulse begins at the base when voice stirs; it makes the journey up the spine, riding life current round one chakra to the next and to the next, up to the throat, where it pools. Concentrate and focus in and feel the pulse of the spirit making the journey through mind, matching up, stretching and expanding the moment. One with the pulse, so focused now, I am aware of the entire world. Voice asks only to be given birth. Speak it now or forever hold your peace.
Out my window, cotton candy clouds crowd the darkened sky. Summer whispered something like ďcome out to playĒ, a few weeks ago and then went into hiding, forced to find refuge from the depressed weather mafia searching for a permanent season to call their own. Seems this weather mafia has infiltrated expectation with uncertainty at its core. Maybe Iím too small minded wanting sunshiny days and smiles? Iíve always been this way; all glass-half-full like. Didnít I just call the clouds cotton candy? So bring it on. Iíll bathe in the rain today, just like I planned it all along.
I donít understand boredom, per se. I understand being uncomfortable at a given moment in my own skin. I understand the restlessness that accompanies the unwillingness to look deeper within, and despairís obsession to escape the present moment where Ďlack of self-appreciationí is poignant and present and unbearable. Of course this understanding only visited me when I became willing to sit still with what is and not give in to the compulsion to run. To not label escape boredom; find something to do, eat, sex, watch, read or other withdrawals from self. Boredom? Perhaps thatís just another name for escape.
Slipping in the back of the room, unseen, I watched. There was a heated discussion holding everyone in the room captive. No one had held on to themselves. Survival had taken over. Flames of rage consumed whatever breathing room there might have been to begin. It was no longer about the details of the new playground the mommies had sacrificed and scrimped to allocate every possible dime to the fund for. The topic now was legal implications. The fire was lit. Familiar satisfaction spread through me, a fly on the wall, witnessing this room alight with the passion of motherhood.
Tenacity plays a huge roll in life change. The decision is paramount, yes; unequivocal, single-minded, imperative. It is like the breathing part of life. One decides for life; full-on, passionate, life-giving life. Then one must breathe self into it, and keep breathing. I can retrace my footsteps in the sands of my so-called past, only according to where I kept breathing, so to speak. Wherever I dropped the ball of self to rest on some kind of Ďmade-it-laurelsí, no traces of my self remain, only the vague memory of having gone this way before. Known is thyself through tenacious willingness.
Wherever we go, whatever we do, one thing remains constant; we always take our self with us. Thereís no escaping that. I like change. I love the feeling of freedom, shedding the old and starting fresh. Not everyone feels this way. For many, all security is tied to the fragile persona of yesterdayís must-haves, built one upon the other. For them, today is a combination of past accusations and tomorrows promises. Possession defines them. Me; I possess myself. For me, past means past, gone, finished. Surety, lies in the knowing self; having faith, trusting, knowing I can count on me.
We spent the day together. Like so many days. Laughing, talking, and being. Indivisible, indissoluble. What distinguishes the moment that two becomes one? Or maybe a better question is, ďat what point do we find our way back to oneness? Is it the amount of time spent? I think not. The quality? Define quality. I think it is the decision to love; to let love rip. Rip through the scripting that insists separateness and difference. Let it rip till rip becomes flow. There are not so many obstacles to get around now, only ripples of love and reflections of me.
I find it curious to notice my daily life reflects infrequent living from a true internal purpose. Itís so easy to be lazy-mind; to give a damn about the seeming necessities of daily ritual. I know better. I know the great to-do-list of life is bogus. I have, after all seen the light; recognizing the Self. Life, I saw, had an internal locus; out-picturing the beliefs that reside in mind. In that brilliant flashing light of awareness and I changed my identity focus, and then my world~ entirely, peopled it with new beliefs and structures and values. Never to return?
When I think of home I think of Vegas. The smell of the desert in the early morning lingers with me. Sandman doesnít slip in while youíre sleeping and diminish warm comfort. I think of early morning when I think of home, regardless of location. I love the solitude and dark quietness, witnessing the sun rising, materializing the world. It seems natural in the wee hours of the morn to reside beyond the physical; sit without judgment and wait, to be in the still perfection of being. Yes, for me, home is the mind alive now. While you were sleeping.
Iím satisfied deep down. It takes a different type of motivation to go after new experiences, take risks, and begin something new and foreign. One has to reach deep and tap the well of raw passion and invite it to take the ride sparred by interest and curiosity. Fear of loss and anxiety for the future wonít work any more. Those days are gone. I always relied on worry and regret to kick my ass into action back in the day. But now, all is forgiven and there is no place to go. I am already here, now. Excitedly serene.
How can one be truly content? There can be no areas unexplored. The mind must be acquainted with. Deeply. Where old ghosts still rear their heads, willingness to go another round till full rest must show up without reservation. Conversations that beckon must be given life, supported in fleshing out inquiry, satisfied with passion, freshness and full disclosure. Iíve been bed with malcontent. It is the seed of secrets and lies; of faithlessness and self betrayal. All that I am, nothing excluded, is the only wholeness. Improvement must be for exercise not for definition. I am enough. As is, now.
When worldly goals no longer attract and motivate. When regret is left where it belongs; in the past, gone forever, passion is fueled from a source beyond the strategic mind. This passion isnít a consuming fury; a use it or loose it kind of passion. It is a deep heating- up of the lamplight of creation. It is actually creation choosing now. I can only remain the witness, the vehicle and blended with grand-mind, infinite mind. One state only is required for this experience: let go my thoughts to experience Godís. This is the burning passion of Love unto itself.
To trust oneself is the greatest honor one can bestow on oneself. After its all been said and done; analysis, character flaw correction made, new skills honed and gelled, or not, what has stayed with me is the constant soundtrack of trust beneath and back-grounding it all. At the end of the day, I have my Self. This is the blue-print from which I develop all other relationships, finally. If I donít love me, nothing else will ever satisfy. If I donít trust me, no place is safe. No one escapes suspicion, entirely. But with trust, now is always enough.
You came to me empty handed and open hearted, completely willing. And still, this is how I think of you. Itís not those times when we thought survival was a defense exercise, instead of allowing love to tell us weíre safe with and in each other. You never could put up much of a fight anyway. You always throw up the white flag at the slightest hint of harmony on the horizon. Itís impossible to not feel myself ashamed in your presence; embarrassed by my petty, grubby insecurities which I too often mistake for myself. I fear you will too.
Hope. Hope is a concept. How one defines hope underlies accountability on a very subtle. If hope is a noun, expressing a state aimed for through action being currently taken; as willingness for total accountability, then one has the power of creation at disposal. When hope is a verb used to subtly accept a state of victim hood within our current situation, as it so often is, hope is disempowering. One sees themselves impotent, hoping things will get Ďbetterí; at the mercy of the unperceived forces that be. I call bullshit! Todayís circumstances are a result of yesterdayís chosen perception,.
Three babies sleep. Two in the big bed. One in the single. I watch through joyful tears of gratitude, washing my soul. I am the privileged conduit of these beings into physicality. The awe is as fresh today, this wee morn, as it was the first morn, with the first babe, thirty years ago, today. She sleeps, now, breathing in perfect symphony with her young brothersí breath. Peace abides and my breathing slips into rhythm, harmonizing my soul as spirit, woman, mother, wholeÖ Completion releases my mind. Oneness lifts me above and beyond, leaving the neatly packaged illusion to itself.
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