Pilot to co-pilot. Do you copy? I need you to take over. I have made a mess of things and I’m ready to hand over the controls. It appears that I may have miscalculated, misjudged, misread, misinterpreted, misconstrued. MISTAKEN. So…many….things.
Why so long? How many years did it take to get here. How many errors, failures, trials necessitated the realization that I, yes me, myself, make a horrible pilot. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Toosie Pop? I know the answer to neither. I know nothing. I simply do-not-know.
It is in this simplicity, this profound awareness of ignorance that allows us to truly discover the treasures of life. To truly comprehend even a portion of what our soul already knows. In this life. One must always remember that there is no such thing as being in ‘control.’ The ego wants you to believe that you have innate power. It urges you to think that you can bend the energy of the universe, turn back time, alter the course of history, ‘create’ the perfect life. It lies to you. With silver tongue and mellifluous words, it whispers to you; sweet little words. Crumbs of lies become a feast at our table. We eat until we are full. Gluttons for the delicacies of the mind, we listen, we believe and most certainly ignore the softer voice. The higher self. The truth. Shut up and listen. Be quiet. Find peace.
A wise man once said, ‘the heart rules and the mind fools.’ Food for thought. Though this sustenance may not be as palatable as the lies of the ego, though at times less savory, velvet in passage, it nourishes the soul. Control is essential, the mind will tell you. Control…is an idea. A farse. A way to exist but not to live. Life, requires taking your hands off the gear, closing your eyes and laying back while you enjoy the ride.
Twenty nine years. Twenty nine. Not how long it takes to get to the center of the Tootsie Pop…but how long it took to release the grip. To let go. To let god. God, the universe, the higher power, her, him, it. Whatever. When the grip gets too tight, one is reminded to ease it. Gentle ripples in the fluid energy of the universe, quick tugs in the fabric---just enough to get one’s attention. With each day, we are allowed to being anew. We are refreshed. The slate is clean. The palate of our souls is soiled by our unconscious decisions. Our desire to dictate our own lives. Control is existence. Ease is living. Live with ease.
The heart rules. Speak from it. Live in it. Breathe with it. Breathe.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Who You Are
I see you. You are much older than I, with so much experience, so much life, so much more than I. You bear the marks of a woman scorned, beaten, bruised, abused. However arduous things became, you persevered. You overcame. You are. You...are...not. Perfect. You aren't perfect. Then again, neither am I. I am you. Much like you. So much like you it frightens me sometimes. Protege. Apprentice. Your legacy.
I see you. You accept the crumbs that are tossed your way. Like mother, like daughter. I see where I learned such things. I understand. I do not condone. With what you have given me, bestowed upon me, granted me, I will not accept your acceptance of pain and heartache. If you made me...who I am, who I have become, who you wanted me to be, how can you be the opposite? If I emulate you, then how can you be....you?
This is unfathomable to me, and I will not stand for it. You must rise above such absurdity. Find your strength as I found mine. A parent to a parent. It is apparent that you are unfit to do it for yourself. As you shaped me in my youth, I shape you in your maturity. I will give you what you gave me. I will share with you, the knowledge that you shared with me. It appears that you have forgotten your own words. Let me remind you of your strength, your intelligence, your value.
All my life, you were there to show me who I was. I now return the favor. You may not remember, but I have not forgotten who you are; I never will. Years have aged your beauty, yet it remains, a faint essence of what once was. I see you as I saw you years ago: a smile of light and countenance of ethereal beauty. Razor sharp, your words still cut diamonds and your wit remains quick. No need for whetting, your edge persists.
Do not tolerate such degradation. I implore you to terminate such relations with such vampires. Those who wish to alienate you, cheat you, use you up and spit you out. Psychic vampires. He steals your thunder. He dampens your spirit. Monsters such as he do not wish you see you get ahead; they wish to see you trampled, ruined, helpless and inconsolable. Come to the stronghold. I will give your stake and your hammer, but you have to be the one to drive it home.
I see you. You accept the crumbs that are tossed your way. Like mother, like daughter. I see where I learned such things. I understand. I do not condone. With what you have given me, bestowed upon me, granted me, I will not accept your acceptance of pain and heartache. If you made me...who I am, who I have become, who you wanted me to be, how can you be the opposite? If I emulate you, then how can you be....you?
This is unfathomable to me, and I will not stand for it. You must rise above such absurdity. Find your strength as I found mine. A parent to a parent. It is apparent that you are unfit to do it for yourself. As you shaped me in my youth, I shape you in your maturity. I will give you what you gave me. I will share with you, the knowledge that you shared with me. It appears that you have forgotten your own words. Let me remind you of your strength, your intelligence, your value.
All my life, you were there to show me who I was. I now return the favor. You may not remember, but I have not forgotten who you are; I never will. Years have aged your beauty, yet it remains, a faint essence of what once was. I see you as I saw you years ago: a smile of light and countenance of ethereal beauty. Razor sharp, your words still cut diamonds and your wit remains quick. No need for whetting, your edge persists.
Do not tolerate such degradation. I implore you to terminate such relations with such vampires. Those who wish to alienate you, cheat you, use you up and spit you out. Psychic vampires. He steals your thunder. He dampens your spirit. Monsters such as he do not wish you see you get ahead; they wish to see you trampled, ruined, helpless and inconsolable. Come to the stronghold. I will give your stake and your hammer, but you have to be the one to drive it home.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Words Are Power, but Don't Give Them Too Much
A passage in a fabulous book I am slowly making my way through encouraged me to write yet again today. There is so much to share every day upon this earth and moments to cherish are numerous and often missed.
"Words are merely utterances: noises that stand for feelings, thoughts, and experience. They are symbols. Signs. Insignias. They are not truth. They are not the real thing."
Labels. Left unchecked, unmanaged and used liberally can destroy individuality, desire and dampen or extinguish the spirit. Liar. Cheat. Whore. Degenerate. Grifter. Sensitive. Depressant. Manic. Alcoholic. Addict. Spendthrift. Alien. Trash. Loser. To label is surely to condemn. To label is to die...inside. Who we are is not to be contained, corraled or masquearaded by idioms or phrases. To classify oneself or others is to whittle down the blade of humanity, to fray the tapestry, to remove the strength of ourselves as individuals, as God's essence, as divine energy is akin to removing the locks of Sampson.
Grow your tresses long--place no limits upon oneself or allow it from others. As soon as we accept a word as our label, we place our soul within a box. Because you think or worry about one instance in one day, you are not 'alcoholic, addict or obsessive.' While there may be elements of such in your story, your history, you are merely human; as humans, we maintain the right to imperfection and fault--perfection is an ideal and fruitless if sought.
Because you feel lonely, crestfallen or isolated, do not allow yourself to expect that your position and attitude are inexcuseable. No one is concerned with your label but you. What was once dark can be light again. The dark hole which you call 'home' is only as deep as you allow it. It is only home if you decorate it with fancy furnishings and persian rugs. Remember though, that all of the artwork in the world will not fancify a hole for it is just a hole. It becomes darker and deeper with our misery, our perceptions, our judgements and our actions--our resistance of the universe. People, excuses, labels, material goods, love--these things cannot fill the hole if the inhabitant tosses out each load of dirt as it is placed. A little dirt is good for us. Leave it be and ask for more.
"Words are merely utterances: noises that stand for feelings, thoughts, and experience. They are symbols. Signs. Insignias. They are not truth. They are not the real thing."
Labels. Left unchecked, unmanaged and used liberally can destroy individuality, desire and dampen or extinguish the spirit. Liar. Cheat. Whore. Degenerate. Grifter. Sensitive. Depressant. Manic. Alcoholic. Addict. Spendthrift. Alien. Trash. Loser. To label is surely to condemn. To label is to die...inside. Who we are is not to be contained, corraled or masquearaded by idioms or phrases. To classify oneself or others is to whittle down the blade of humanity, to fray the tapestry, to remove the strength of ourselves as individuals, as God's essence, as divine energy is akin to removing the locks of Sampson.
Grow your tresses long--place no limits upon oneself or allow it from others. As soon as we accept a word as our label, we place our soul within a box. Because you think or worry about one instance in one day, you are not 'alcoholic, addict or obsessive.' While there may be elements of such in your story, your history, you are merely human; as humans, we maintain the right to imperfection and fault--perfection is an ideal and fruitless if sought.
Because you feel lonely, crestfallen or isolated, do not allow yourself to expect that your position and attitude are inexcuseable. No one is concerned with your label but you. What was once dark can be light again. The dark hole which you call 'home' is only as deep as you allow it. It is only home if you decorate it with fancy furnishings and persian rugs. Remember though, that all of the artwork in the world will not fancify a hole for it is just a hole. It becomes darker and deeper with our misery, our perceptions, our judgements and our actions--our resistance of the universe. People, excuses, labels, material goods, love--these things cannot fill the hole if the inhabitant tosses out each load of dirt as it is placed. A little dirt is good for us. Leave it be and ask for more.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Taking the Stairs
It is our seance. No others are needed for the ceremony. Voodoo. Witchcraft. Magic. A lifeless body is once again alive, called back from the stark eternity. Sweet incantations have revived me. Energy exchanged, rendering me spellbound.
Did I ever tell you I thought I was dead? I was dead, anyway. My soul departed, my body hollow, my heart empty. How easily we forget. How easily I forgot--how to love, how to feel, how to live. How quickly we remember in perfect time. Perfectly. All is perfect. Perfect. What does it mean to be perfect? Perfection is a state most easily attained by none. It does not exist, yet there is the essence. Its essence is now. In the present. Presents. Presence.
You knew the right song to play, calling me as the charmer to the serpent. Serpentine. Serene. Entranced in notes cloaked as words, the song you play awakens my spirit. What once lay dormant now thrives again, a dance to match your song. Swept up by the Vertigo, my soul is resurrected.
The spell cast was constructed with eloquence, artistry, mastery of the craft. A warlock superior in mastering the powers of the universe, your spoken words, your focused intent was enough to shake the cosmos. Falling. Fallen. Fell under the spell.
A life without passion is no life. An existence void of love is none at all. I was once of the walking dead. Wings outstretched, armed with words as weapons I willingly surrender my hear to be pierced. Show me how to mend, my feathers bear the marks of war--tattered and sullied. I want new ones. I want to fly with you, wherever, whenever, no matter the course. No matter the distance; do not worry, I will keep up. This time, I will not fall.
Did I ever tell you I thought I was dead? I was dead, anyway. My soul departed, my body hollow, my heart empty. How easily we forget. How easily I forgot--how to love, how to feel, how to live. How quickly we remember in perfect time. Perfectly. All is perfect. Perfect. What does it mean to be perfect? Perfection is a state most easily attained by none. It does not exist, yet there is the essence. Its essence is now. In the present. Presents. Presence.
You knew the right song to play, calling me as the charmer to the serpent. Serpentine. Serene. Entranced in notes cloaked as words, the song you play awakens my spirit. What once lay dormant now thrives again, a dance to match your song. Swept up by the Vertigo, my soul is resurrected.
The spell cast was constructed with eloquence, artistry, mastery of the craft. A warlock superior in mastering the powers of the universe, your spoken words, your focused intent was enough to shake the cosmos. Falling. Fallen. Fell under the spell.
A life without passion is no life. An existence void of love is none at all. I was once of the walking dead. Wings outstretched, armed with words as weapons I willingly surrender my hear to be pierced. Show me how to mend, my feathers bear the marks of war--tattered and sullied. I want new ones. I want to fly with you, wherever, whenever, no matter the course. No matter the distance; do not worry, I will keep up. This time, I will not fall.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Whispers in the Dark
I hear it, or so I think I do. I stop and remain stationary for a short time, pondering, questioning, debating, analysing. I shrug it off and continue. If someone had told me, I would not have listened. If someone had shown me, I would have granted no credibility. I would have scoffed. I would have laughed. Much to my detriment, I knew better than you. I knew better than God. I---WAS---GOD.
Enlightenment is exquisitely divine and a gift that is not to be discarded. When divinity intervenes, it is best that one accepts, surrenders and follows. There was once more darkness than I could bear. More pain that I could manage with a mere salve. More loneliness than I could remedy with companionship. Strong mind and foolhardy ego could not sustain existence any longer. The mind becomes fragmented, distorted, deceptive and fantastic in its grandiose permutations of reality. The voice---it screams. It plots. It critiques. It critiCIZES. Amidst the commotion, the tiny whisper cannot be heard. In this whisper, is the answer. In the whisper, is peace. Serenity. Clarity.
Padlocked, sealed and contained in an airtight container, the infinite voice of reason without sanity, rationality and purpose is dampened. In the darkness, there is a faint whisper; it is faint and foreign, yet mellifluous and familiar. Quiet invokes restlessness. Peace incites resistance to what simply 'is.' What we fight for so long is a cunning opponent--agile, expedient, formidable. Once enlightened we feel foolish. When the universe finally flips the switch, we stand their beaten, bruised and exhausted. Amazed, we look around to find no one crouched and ready to scuffle. Our worse and only opponent was always our own self.
Enlightenment is exquisitely divine and a gift that is not to be discarded. When divinity intervenes, it is best that one accepts, surrenders and follows. There was once more darkness than I could bear. More pain that I could manage with a mere salve. More loneliness than I could remedy with companionship. Strong mind and foolhardy ego could not sustain existence any longer. The mind becomes fragmented, distorted, deceptive and fantastic in its grandiose permutations of reality. The voice---it screams. It plots. It critiques. It critiCIZES. Amidst the commotion, the tiny whisper cannot be heard. In this whisper, is the answer. In the whisper, is peace. Serenity. Clarity.
Padlocked, sealed and contained in an airtight container, the infinite voice of reason without sanity, rationality and purpose is dampened. In the darkness, there is a faint whisper; it is faint and foreign, yet mellifluous and familiar. Quiet invokes restlessness. Peace incites resistance to what simply 'is.' What we fight for so long is a cunning opponent--agile, expedient, formidable. Once enlightened we feel foolish. When the universe finally flips the switch, we stand their beaten, bruised and exhausted. Amazed, we look around to find no one crouched and ready to scuffle. Our worse and only opponent was always our own self.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Fixing What Is Not Broken
You are whole, though your head and your heart are in fragments. You camouflage, though you feel alien and conspicuous. You have fear when the world is unshaken and uneasiness when sailing is smooth and fortune is abundant. What rewards you receive must not be deserved for without struggle, failure and trepidation the game of life is being cheated; you have gone too far, taken too much and exceeded your limitations concerning wealth and prosperity.
When did everyday existence become so cumbersome? I have a name, a physical body and a position in the universe yet I know not who I am; I am without identity. Fully, I understand my capabilities, my gifts and individual qualities; although I know, in the cerebral sense, that I possess the essence of an angel, a legendary spirit and a soul of unblemished antiquity, I watch the shell of my tangible self as an outsider, an intruder, an interloper; in truth, what is known is not believed. Concerning faith, never do I question the rising of the sun, the beating of my heart or pull of my feet to this earth; my faith, my belief reaches far and wide---the only thing it cannot touch is me. I am deserving of doubt, speculation and ridicule for he who is capable of and accountable for any degree of failure is me. I am fallible. I am minuscule. I am weak.
A peculiar existence I lead. Repeatedly I ran from all that tormented me; a novel venue would provide temporary solace, but it seems that the devil chased after me. A fraud, a wolf in sheep's clothes I wandered as a nomad seeking refuge and finding resistance. If I escaped the prison of my childhood with the disguise of a pleasant exterior, stoic disposition and stifling wit and intellect, then how do they know? They know. I am a fake and they see right through me. Those who seek my company do so out of pity and/or gain. After all, love comes with a price and the reserve is set by the one entering the barter. The world appears small, the confines are hostile; where is the air. New scenery brings new promise, yet wherever I travel, there they are. Wherever I go, there I am.
You believe you are broken, yet you are not. You feel alone, yet you are enveloped in warmth, love and pure white light. Your thoughts tell you that you do not deserve happiness---they lie. I see you becoming that which you were incarnated to be. We ran and it found us. 'It' found us because 'it' IS us, inside of us, in our minds. Our beautiful souls chose this life to heal old wounds, balance our karmic debts and follow the path to the light. I am always here for you and always will be, in this life and the next. We do not have to run anymore for everything is perfect AS-IT-IS, we merely have to have faith. Love no longer comes with a price, least of all the love of a sister. No one must fix you, for you are not broken; you are no fallen angel. You are an angel and you always have been. Now you shall fly...
To my sister
When did everyday existence become so cumbersome? I have a name, a physical body and a position in the universe yet I know not who I am; I am without identity. Fully, I understand my capabilities, my gifts and individual qualities; although I know, in the cerebral sense, that I possess the essence of an angel, a legendary spirit and a soul of unblemished antiquity, I watch the shell of my tangible self as an outsider, an intruder, an interloper; in truth, what is known is not believed. Concerning faith, never do I question the rising of the sun, the beating of my heart or pull of my feet to this earth; my faith, my belief reaches far and wide---the only thing it cannot touch is me. I am deserving of doubt, speculation and ridicule for he who is capable of and accountable for any degree of failure is me. I am fallible. I am minuscule. I am weak.
A peculiar existence I lead. Repeatedly I ran from all that tormented me; a novel venue would provide temporary solace, but it seems that the devil chased after me. A fraud, a wolf in sheep's clothes I wandered as a nomad seeking refuge and finding resistance. If I escaped the prison of my childhood with the disguise of a pleasant exterior, stoic disposition and stifling wit and intellect, then how do they know? They know. I am a fake and they see right through me. Those who seek my company do so out of pity and/or gain. After all, love comes with a price and the reserve is set by the one entering the barter. The world appears small, the confines are hostile; where is the air. New scenery brings new promise, yet wherever I travel, there they are. Wherever I go, there I am.
You believe you are broken, yet you are not. You feel alone, yet you are enveloped in warmth, love and pure white light. Your thoughts tell you that you do not deserve happiness---they lie. I see you becoming that which you were incarnated to be. We ran and it found us. 'It' found us because 'it' IS us, inside of us, in our minds. Our beautiful souls chose this life to heal old wounds, balance our karmic debts and follow the path to the light. I am always here for you and always will be, in this life and the next. We do not have to run anymore for everything is perfect AS-IT-IS, we merely have to have faith. Love no longer comes with a price, least of all the love of a sister. No one must fix you, for you are not broken; you are no fallen angel. You are an angel and you always have been. Now you shall fly...
To my sister
Monday, August 24, 2009
Find Out What It Means to Me
Sock it to me. Common theme in life this week: self-respect and making your word mean something. Now maybe it's just me, but I find that these two things are becoming slippery notions and falling just out of reach.
When you're cleaning up the past, apparently you encounter a lot of cob-webs. Let's get more graphic; they are not cob webs, because those are easy to clean with a little feather duster or broom. These nasty things are something straight out of a sci-fi movie. You know the B-rated ones I am referring to: giant, rigid and obscenely awkward representations of real-life arachnids, encasing rural towns in pathetically represented silk webs as frenzied citizens scurry about in shear terror. Those are the ones.
I would like to officially announce that I have been ensnared. As much as I writhe about, attempting to free myself, I become more entangled in their traps. I guess the past continues to haunt you, as long as you let it. Lately, I have been gripping it ever so tightly. Maybe, it's because I'm afraid of the future. Maybe it's because it is familiar and homey. Maybe, it's a habit. More than likely, it's all of the aforementioned.
So where does that leave me? I look at many of my relationships, whether longevity based, superficial or peripheral and begin to realize that people tend to treat me the same way. From my relatives to my business relationships, many people I surround myself with resort to behaviors wrought with manipulation, placation and domination. Against my own will, I have been forced to take several steps back and look hard upon myself and these people. Why is there a continuous pattern of behavior exhibited by people that I surround myself with? Well, as much as I wish to avoid admitting being an enabler, I cannot; the answer is that I allow people to treat me poorly.
I do and always have allowed people to treat me as I treat myself: without respect and consideration. People tell me they will call; they don't. I text people; they don't text back. People owe me money; they don't pay. People use words and similar behaviors to try to enforce a belief that I deserve poor treatment. People use words to turn their bad behaviors into the powerful suggestion that I am crazy. I have done wrong. I am the reason for their bad behavior. Well....guess what people? Today is the day of my epiphany. I am not crazy. I did not behave poorly. I am a tremendous and special individual, worthy of your respect just as you are worthy of mine.
With all of this cleansing, comes a lot of pain. Realizing that the one that you have hurt the most is not as you always suspected, not as you always blamed yourself for and not as you always assumed you were doing wrong unto is yourself is immensely painful. Realizing that you allow people to push you around is downright disarming. How could I do this to myself? How could this happen? Where have I been this whole time?
At this moment, I make myself a promise: I will no longer encourage others, no matter how much I love them or care for them, to manipulate me. They will act on their words. They will be called on their bad behaviors. They will treat me with respect and consideration. They will do this, because today I start doing this for myself.
As much as I need to call others on their sh-t, I have had to begin to clean up the biggest pile of my own.
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