Fly! Fly, Birdie!

Fly away and don't come back until you're a sovereign Big Bird...

I realized today that it's appropriate for me to let go of my old role of trying to uplift and be the wind beneath everyone else's wings. 

I let go of the role--not out of resentment or blame--but out of gratitude and celebration for myself, and for all those outside of me whose projects, creations, causes, and stories I supported. You all served me so well--Well Done! And much of it has been a pleasure. Many of you helped me remember to simply LAUGH at myself--and to spread my own wings and just leap--and now it's time for me to part ways.

I'm off to live my own sovereignty my own way--no more trying to mold myself to fit in with others' ideas and passions--or trying to protect them from unfriendly energies. I do need this time to disconnect, to be alone with me for a little while, in order to refocus all that love and energy and attention I gave to others, on uplifting and flowing my own self-expressions. I've realized that any time you have two or more people gathering together in order to feel better about oneself--well, the SEXUAL ENERGY VIRUS has slipped in. 

I choose to completely independently love and encourage and honor me. When I've got that part down, then I can return to laugh with others from the gatherings that I so love, who have also, hopefully, each claimed their own embodied self-mastery and sovereignty. I'll return in the form of a new kind of free-living and free-loving friend, sans (without) the energy feeding.

In the old energy consciousness, we've long been accustomed to creating our ideas and passions by first garnering the outside approval of like-hearted or like-minded people, who would then supply the "belief-in-its-value energy", the "labor energy" and the "money energy" to back those causes and get our creations (self-expressions) up and flowing. 

The fear is that if the old funding and old energetic support is pulled, the creation will collapse--but I KNOW, without a doubt, that it won't... 

Energy never ends--it transmutes, it changes, and it flows and flexes. And if the need, or passionate desire, is there for a system or creation to continue, the energies will rearrange themselves in order to keep it flowing--even if someone like me should opt out of it. And it can happen with ease and grace for all parties--no trauma or drama necessary in the shift.

I've been holding energies for the causes that I've supported because of that old fear that I will have let my friends down. That the good things we created together in the past will come to an end if I disconnect and withdraw my financial and old manner of energetic support--and that is what was stopping me from taking that final step over the threshold into my own sovereignty.

No one needs my wind "uplifting them" to help them fly--and I don't need outside support in order to soar either...

No one really flies until they've allowed themselves to be uplifted BY THEMSELVES. You can love the living daylights out of another being, but if they don't allow themselves TO BE loved--your love doesn't matter, and their life won't change.

Remove, quit being, the crutch. Give everyone the opportunity to discover their own god within, that they can walk (whatever mode one chooses) on their own...because we each can.

I am all that I need, to fly on my own...the Source of all of us created us to do exactly that.

Fly! Soar! Be FREE!

Discerning the Pity Trap

"Awakening is not POLITE...Awakening is BRUTAL..."

Good old Adamus Saint-Germain nailed it. For me, awakening was painfully brutal:
I put myself through hell in order to motivate myself to wake up. I creatively lost a boyfriend in a motorcycle "accident." I lost my beloved home on the farm, my pets, more friends, parents--myself. Shattering old belief systems in order to shake myself awake from the layers of hypnosis of the mass consciousness of humanity involved all kinds of physical, emotional, mental and spiritual pain.

See related post by clicking here: Physical Symptoms of My Awakening Self-Awareness. The rest of my blog is about all the other types of aforementioned pain that I used to help me step back out of the reality illusion I'd unknowingly created when believing I was an all-alone Little Insignificant Human Being, being tested by, and trying to please, some god "out there."

It was the only way at the time to get myself to look more closely at, FEEL more SENSUALLY--this life I was complacently and unquestioningly inhabiting. 

You know, when you're deep asleep in a hypnosis and if life is always pleasant, there is no passion-fired desire to change it, much less explore the possibility of there being more to it. But pain (imbalance)--that motivates one to more quickly shift perspective and try new ways. One even begins to imagine, and to go beyond into, things once believed impossible!

I was taught to be considerate of others, to be sensitive to their needs--over and above my own.

Being polite kept me outwardly focused. We are constantly inundated with stories of the wrong and bad things in the world--and we're constantly bombarded with guilt-laced admonitions to get out there and fix it! That's our responsibility, damn it!

That POLITELY-CARING outside-of-me focus was the hook that repeatedly snagged me into playing in the perpetual game of pity for others in their stories. I hadn't realized how much it was still a culprit in my own life until Adamus pointed it out. Especially in times of chaotic distress and tragedies in the world around me, I have to constantly remind myself that it's all just illusion, that those experiencing it are doing so by deep inner choice, and that everything is okay. But I KNOW THIS, without a doubt, WITHIN MYSELF--it's not something I was taught.

In order to become self-aware--you have to literally close your eyes to the outside world, breathe, and feel into your beingness within. You become aware of your PRESENCE.

Pity and Compassion are two very different feeling energies.

After reading each of the two energies' statements below, CLOSE YOUR EYES (it's the quickest and easiest method of self-awareness) and feel into them. How do you feel inside? Does one make you want to jump up and try everything you can imagine? Does the other just make you want stay in bed hoping to not have to wake up to another dismal day?

Pity says,
"I'll pray to some god out there for you, you poor thing. You're in the clutches of the whim of some being that you can't possibly know or understand the reasoning of."

"Let me hold your painful baggage for you. I'll sacrifice myself and haul it around like it's my own cross to bear, and hopefully I'll figure out how to fix it for you..." (I was an expert at ENERGY HOLDING--and it sucked the big one. If I did find a solution for someone, they didn't want it--they wanted their experience--and to commiserate with me about it).

"You poor, meek VICTIM of life. This experience you're having is NO GIFT. It's your sad cross to suffer and bear...until you die." 

"Hopefully--who knows?--your reward in Heaven will be great for enduring the pain and misery that you're living right now." 

"Sorry you're stuck with it. I feel powerless to fix it for you. You don't deserve this. One, or both, of us must have done something really wrong to have brought ourselves this punishment."

"You poor, poor thing...I'm so sorry for you..."


Compassion says, 
"YOU are the CREATOR of your own REALITY."

"You're choosing to immerse yourself in an experience! Dive in, have fun! Explore! If things get tough, all you have to do is choose to release yourself from the illusion you've created. You can't get stuck--not really--but you can pretend that you are stuck." 

"If it's in your life, YOU put it there--and, appropriately so--ONLY YOU can choose to let it go." 

"Isn't this grand illusion of the human virtual reality game an amazingly ABUNDANT gift? YOU ARE a GIFT!"

"Enjoy your life, and remember you really don't ever do anything wrong. It's just illusion--A SAFE and SACRED SPACE to experience and discover all that you are."

"And I honor and allow myself and you in however each of us chooses to play the game, the current scene--whether we choose to play it the same way or not."

When I was in fifth grade I had the hard measles. My perfect attendance record was blown all to heck by being kept home for a week or two. I was afraid of missing too much school and being held back. I remember Mom finally giving in to letting me return to school, only to have the school nurse do a scoliosis check on everyone that day, and discover I still had signs of the rash. She told me I shouldn't have come back to school so soon.

It was the first time I remember being so ill that I fainted when getting up in the night to use the bathroom--an ancestral biology trait (another type of story you can release yourself from by simply choosing to do so). My point in telling this story though, is that I overheard my mom talking on the phone to a neighbor lady, telling her how sick I was--and I didn't like being discussed that way. I didn't like being thought of, or perceived as "poor Penny"--ever.

Feel into that act for a moment:  Close your eyes and Feel as your own energies deflate and your radiation dims when you immerse yourself in the role of "poor, pitiful me."

Shortly after Mom died, Dad had a physical done in order to get qualified to drive bus, and ended up being diagnosed with an erratic heart rhythm. It not only prevented him from driving a bus, but with the diagnosis, he believed himself to be a sickly man. Suddenly he was caught up in the mental belief system trap of trying to keep track of the symptoms of bruising too easily and bleeding out, versus, a too slow and sluggish movement of blood out of his heart.

He was prescribed medication where he had to try to figure out, by trial and error, how much to take to regulate his body. I watched him quit eating anything green (this is the guy who believed in organically-grown food and vegetables) because of the fear of the vitamin K in such vegetables causing his blood to thicken, thus counter-acting the thinning properties of the Cumadin medicine. Does anyone else see the irony in that whole scenario? He gave up eating foods that he believed healthy for him in order to take a medication.

When the arsenic drug (a.k.a, "rat poison," according to Dad) failed to help regulate things, he opted to have the out-patient procedure done where medical professionals stopped, and then restarted his heart, hoping to get it back in rhythm.

I observed him enter the hospital that day, acting kind of poorly and pitiful and scared--and then saw him shift out of the role shortly afterwards. While walking the hallway in his hospital gown after the procedure, he stopped, suddenly shook his head, and acted like he felt foolish, silly and disgusted with himself for playing out the act of "I'm the poor, sick, helpless patient." He didn't like playing the role of being ill and pitied by others anymore than I did.

I had an epiphany similar to Dad's the day I CLEARLY CHOSE to take responsibility for my own health and well-being while meditatively walking things out. I was in the midst of chiropractic therapy for scoliosis-related symptoms--and it wasn't working. The discs were still shifting out of alignment almost daily, weeks into the process, and I'd feel myself tense up (not a good thing) when he would adjust my neck. I didn't want to do medications, nor did I want surgery, or trip after trip to doctors and appointments.

It was truly an inner knowingness moment--I have never felt more certain about a choice than I did about that. Even afterwards, when I was literally told by the chiropractor that I would "crash and burn" if I didn't stay with the program, I walked out of that office and never looked back or second-guessed my decision. This was my life--and I was taking charge of it my way.

And it helped that the chiropractor pissed me off by acting so egotistically that day. He truly served me well, both by compassionately helping me through a painful and terrifying experience at the beginning of our relationship, and by playing the role of antagonist for me at the last. It helped me see clearly, and finally experience feeling with certainty, my own determination and conviction.

Anger--I know it's not comfortable feeling it because we're so deeply ingrained with believing it to be wrong to feel--does help to shake a person awake and into self-awareness. I've gotten much better at acknowledging it and allowing it. I now know that it doesn't mean I'll be stuck permanently feeling angry if I do experience it. Anger is just an energy--and all energy will naturally flex and flow easily when we allow it.

Thank you to the doctors
Who could not cure my ills.
All you seemed to see was the "sin" in me,
Which we tried to fix with pills.
It made me look past my pained condition 
To the perfection that's my Soul.
I never would have seen it,
Much less, believed it--
Had you done anymore than my will!

I was born in 1964, so the consciousness that I grew up in was focused on pitying the poor, the sick, the helpless and the meek. We saved old clothes to give to the "poor" people in some other place in the world. When I turned up my nose at something at the dinner table, I was told like every other kid my age in the western world, "There are starving kids in Africa who would love to eat that!" I admired the kid who had the audacity and wit to respond to that manipulative guilt trip with, "Then why don't you feed it to them instead of me?"

From my beloved mom's example (much more powerful than lecture), I learned the art of pitying. She listened patiently and endlessly to the relationshit dramas and aches and pains of others (who chronically happened to be the same people all the time).

I searched for methods and practices to help heal those less healthy than me. Sometimes it felt like I was more invested in healing the perceived sick person than he or she was. I actually got to the point of feeling apologetic for being healthy! Imagine that--a low sense of self-worth for not being a drain on the health-care system or friendships!

I respectfully drove elderly people to doctors appointments. I visited and assisted them (not looking for compensation), and I politely listened to them and felt sorry for their circumstances.

I had people befriend me only to find myself guiltily feeling resentful in a supposed friendship that seemed one-sided. The other person was always sick or in the midst of some trauma or drama (which they seemed to always attract). She or he always seemed to be commanding and demanding to be the center of attention in any room. Those were really sucky experiences.

I have watched people line up and discuss all the medications they're taking--with pride. It's a subject matter that I find boring.

Sometimes people like to see if they can trump all the others sitting at a table of commiseration of physical ailments in a weird type of contest where the most miserable person deems himself superior to all the others. "Nobody has been through pain like I have...blah, blah, blah..." I may be bursting bubbles here, but, frankly, everyone's pain is unique. You really can't compare pain.

I observed a mother-daughter moment while they tested their blood sugar, took their shots and meds, and discussed all their latest ailments--they actually cliquishly flaunted their illnesses in my healthy face. It was so obvious that they were enjoying themselves in the story they had going. Who wants a cure when you can have that?

Too often, I heard the biggest (funniest, in retrospect) manipulative friend statement ever, "You're the only one who understands me...You'd never do or say anything to hurt me or betray me...YOU'RE ALWAYS THERE WHEN I WANT and HOW I NEED YOU TO BE THERE!"

I see those "poor, pitiful misunderstood me or some other people," and whining "how only true friends should be," B.S. statements on Facebook and catch myself gagging.

In my book, a true friend will remind you that you are the creator and master of your own gift of life. If you have a trauma-drama going and I'm not rushing to your side to carry your bum over your mud puddles, it's because I love you unconditionally and I'm going to compassionately allow you to immerse yourself fully into the experience you've created--oh, fellow sovereign.

And when we're done with that scene, the two of us can sit together and laughingly swap stories of our experiences and share how it felt to play such-and-such a character role.

PITY and EMPATHY are two highly seductive energies that have had me playing in old icky, so-not-fun-anymore stories with others way longer than I've wanted. I don't like seeing anyone in pain, because I--out of old defaulting habit--energetically feel myself rushing into their story, clothing myself in all their stuff, literally weighing myself down with the weight of their world.

And that doesn't compassionately honor either one of us in the experiences each individual wants to have. It also distracts me from my personal pursuit of changing MY WORLD. In my world, I choose to make some changes--drastic ones. I choose to see if I can create a personal world free of disease and the fear of death.

So when someone is sick or has an "accident" (I don't believe in accidents anymore), I don't go rushing to the people involved--AND THAT CHOICE IS NOT MADE LIGHTLY, because I DO CARE in the sense that I'd enjoy living in a world of stories beyond the old dramas and traumas. I actually stay put, and give myself the opportunity to step back and out of the illusion, in order to more clearly see the dynamics of whatever is happening--and to better understand the gift that particular experience has for me!

I remember that when Lazarus was sick, Jesus didn't rush back to take care of him. One of the women actually was a bit angry with him, and admonished him for dilly-dallying, when she had to tell him he was too late, that Lazarus had died and already been entombed a few days. Did Jesus apologize for betraying a friend in need? No, he had the audacity (love that word today) to reprimand her for having a lack of faith--for just giving up and believing that Lazarus's death was the end of the story.

And it wasn't the end of the story. Lazarus did come back to life in the body he had left for a little while...

Could I be wrong in believing such a miraculous and magical story to be a true possibility? Of course! I could be totally wrong, but I won't know unless I give it a try in my own life, and I can only do that by changing the commonly practiced rules I once accepted as a way to be in a POLITE SOCIETY--one where I used to just shake my head at the injustices in the world...here goes another funeral, here goes another loss that I'm powerless to change...alas!...woe is me...woe is you...

If I don't allow myself to even consider it as a possibility,  it'll remain an unattainable dream, a wish...and that's no fun for me.

Thank Your Moms and Dads

Words and music by Penny Lewton Binek

Mom and Dad, you know that I have adored you
From the moment I was born.
Imagine my dismay, when I found one day
That to your views I'd not conform!
It made me look deep inside,
And question my pride,
For with this I must not be wrong!
But what better way to see the strength of my faith--
Than have to"go against" the two of you...

These are my footsteps, my battles--

A contrast, every one,

To the Light which I see within me

Dawning as the Sun/Son.

The love that I sought was in me,

Buried beneath a film.

From the sorrows of a blinded heart

To the joys of opened eyes!


Take a bit of time alone with you to thank your Mom and your Dad--for everything, no matter where they are. I had parents and grandparents who were easy to love, but even they did things at times that had me thinking, "That's NO WAY TO BE! I'm not going to do that...I'm choosing a different way."

That, my beloved friends, is wisdom gained...

And I don't care how raunchy and horrid the part played, someone had the love and the courage and the trust to play it convincingly to the hilt for you. It's easy to play the hero--because they get all the love. Look deeper.

The stories we humans have acted out together are filled with ancestral and personal karma (an energy balancing mechanism that we all put in place to keep ourselves from getting completely lost, and to give ourselves the true and sensual fullness of experience).

That person who plays the role of abuser of you now, was probably someone that you (a different life expression of your soul) abused in another lifetime. Be quicker to forgive both of you, than to hang onto blame, guilt, victimhood, revenge. Choosing to forgive, and to be grateful for the wisdom gained from the experience, dissolves and clears all karma away. The slate is made clean, fresh--ready for new...

It's good for the human and the soul to reminisce together, as one--because it transforms even the murkiest moments of the past into a priceless gem of the present. Thank all who have been and gone before, for all the parts played--heroic and dark, vibrant and dull--because they helped to build the bridge we're crossing today...

I love a good egg salad sandwich. I helped Mom assemble them, and to bake the fork-criss-crossed peanut butter cookies that were Dad's favorite. We'd pack up the lunch to take to Dad and the boys. Bump across the fields in the pick-up. The dogs--Cricket, Pudge, Charlie, Urch--run alongside, loping off every now and then to chase a deer, rabbit, bird, gopher. I can see Dad's hands, all dusty and grimy, one holding his sandwich and the other the screw-cap cup from the thermos of coffee. There was no place to wash the hands that had greased the equipment. All that earth freshly seeded, or swathes of mustily sweet golden grain, mowed and drying in the sun, fresh air tinged with the aroma of black coffee, underneath that expansive sky-blue ceiling--the picnic--seemed to make everything taste gourmet.

I'm not a huge lover of ice cream, but I love chocolate or strawberry malts from the Tastee Freez--maybe more so the idea and memory of them than the actual imbibing in them today. Just because when we were in town for groceries and errands, Mom would stop to pick one up to drop off with Dad when he was farming land close to town. One summer day, the year before he died, Dad bought a couple chocolate malts for Laurie and me, and stopped by to visit with us while we were painting her new house. He would probably have actually helped paint, but as it was, he couldn't stay very long because the paint fumes were too hard for him to be in.

Mom made it a point to know everyone's favorites--it was usually home-made from scratch. We didn't do cake mixes or pre-made pie crusts or fillings. I inherited the knowing of favorites from her. For years, I've easily remembered things certain people like or hate--I do it without thinking about it. I do it as a way of letting them know they're important to me, that I'm listening to them, that I love them.

I did a whoopsie a few weeks ago. In a flurry of computer housecleaning, I deleted a writing about some treasured memories of my dad--totally erased them from my hard-drive.

But, he's here yet--though he's been physically gone from my perception for almost 10 years.

When I was driving our pick-up around town the other day, I suddenly felt Dad in the way I was lounging against my seat, left elbow on the support on the door while my right hand manned the steering wheel, lazily easing around potholes like I watched him navigate the creek crossings and the grassy, rutted trails out to the fields on those Sunday afternoons--when we walked into the sun, across the dormant furrows searching for treasure from ancient civilizations, in the light-glinting form of arrowheads, scrapers, hammers, and such. I realized this feeling of his presence in me happens often. When I go for walks, I find that I still search the ground beneath my feet for a special-looking rock.

I spent a lot of time in vehicles with my dad. He was a speed demon well into his middle-age years. He was known as the "Silver Streak" by highway patrols, in his Hudson convertible with the red leather seats. One of my favorite photos is of Mom posing in it--she photographed like a movie star. He went through a lot of tires in those early days of mostly gravel roads, courting Mom after meeting her while attending his one quarter of college in Spearfish.

Dad told me that, as a kid, sometime around the conclusion of World War II, when on a trip to South Dakota with Grandpa to pick up a piece of farming machinery, he'd JUST KNOWN he was going to marry a girl from South Dakota--and he did. She was an angel that even his own mother loved.

I guess they met in the laundry room. He tried to show his appreciation for her ironing his pants and shirt by literally paying her with money. Any of you who knew Dad, will recognize that part of him.

Mom laughingly told me that when she informed her roommate that she was going on a date with him, her friend's reply was, "You're going out with him? He's been out with a different girl every night of the week since he got here!"

On their first date, she had to sit on his lap, in the rumble seat of the car of the couple with whom they were double-dating, on the ride to Rapid City to see Lawrence Welk.

Mom finished school and became a teacher, but Dad chose to end his formal education and, instead, learned about life in a different way, by touring around the United States in the specially-made convertible that was a gift from his parents. In the months after Mom passed away, my dad used to lament to me (when talking about the car and Mom), "I had too much."...

He thought he'd been spoiled with the car (just a material thing), and that he'd foolishly taken for granted the ones with true value, importance and worth--loved ones like Mom. Dad--you were just so hard on yourself, and I didn't know how to fix that for you...

Mom's former students would not only talk of her--this amazingly gentle, kind and beautiful lady-teacher--with fondness, but they'd also tell us kids about the guy, her husband, who brought them candy on Fridays.

My brothers and I went from fighting over who got to crawl into his lap and blow out his cigarette match (the smell of sulfur and a freshly lit cigarette still makes me swoon a little, though I've never smoked), to who pulled the packet of gum out of his front shirt pocket. My friends always knew Dad had some Juicy Fruit gum to share with them.

Later on, I think his grand kids and their friends expected it to be either Big Red gum or quarters for the prize machine, in the glassed entrance to the Gateway Inn, that tantalized little ones.

If Dad set foot in the grocery store, there would be candy. I'm certain he inherited that from his mom--she had a bureau drawer in the dining room full of an assortment. She also had a basement with bottled pop and a freezer full of Popsicles, push-ups and ice cream bars. In preparation for weekends fishing out at the dam or for a grandchild's birthday party, Mom and Dad made sure to pick out an assortment of Brach's candy for Dad to place in a bowl on the table.

Grandpa Frank kept candy in the drawer after Grandma passed away, but it seemed to get old and hard--probably because he didn't personally eat much candy. He did, however, make us popcorn using an electric skillet. That was his specialty--and whenever a grandchild got married, his gift was an electric skillet.

Dad's few short months at college wasn't a waste--it was there, in a ballroom dance class, that he discovered his natural ability to dance. Mom and Dad danced together--a lot! My next best thing to getting the pleasure of personally dancing with either of them, was to watch the two of them work their magic together:

Passion and his beloved Compassion

glide a path together--

sometimes breaking apart,

sometimes framing the other, heart-to-heart--

waxing and waning

'round the floor of the Flagstone Terrace.

They dance through the annals of the ages,

the picture book that is my mind,

to the wildly whirling-twirling,

strangely peaceful,

dervish that is my heart,

in rhythm to

the song that is my soul...

Mom and Dad would both be the first to admonish me, "Pen, we weren't that good." And, no, they wouldn't have won a little metal statue on the latest TV show with a ballroom dance competition--they won something more...

When Dad was driving, the roads and curves used to feel like a roller coaster ride to my stomach. Mom joked that she always knew she was pregnant "again" when she got carsick with him on the way to Newell to visit her parents and brothers. I spent the first hours, upon our arrival at Great-Uncle Woody's (near Lodgepole, SD, usually to go catfish fishing on the Grand River), waiting for my land-legs to return, my bloodless lips to get their color back, and the green around my gills to go away.

I catch myself leaning against the back of my chair, leg crossed at the knee, my right forearm on the table, running my fingers and thumb over the handle of my coffee cup, nursing it so long it turns cold--unconsciously imitating all those idiosyncrasies that were his.

I feel him standing inside me with his one-legged lean and my right hand in the front pocket of my jeans.

Even when I walk across the yard, I feel his loose, flowing gait as we walked side-by-side to check out his garden that's the size of a field--he liked to see people feed themselves with good, fresh food. Dad gardened, and Mom prepared meals from it, froze corn, canned beans and tomatoes. And all of us kids and grand kids, at some point, picked potatoes--it was back-breaking labor--laughing together, while crawling around to fill buckets to dump in the gunny sacks.

...and then in the days following Mom's death, I helplessly watched Dad gasping for air as he lugged those awkward-to-hold, 100-lb. bags from his van as he delivered his love-enhanced produce to friends and customers.

And I feel him smiling into my eyes, spinning around the floor in circles with me, guiding me, every time I dance the waltz.

Kel and I have cappuccinos now every afternoon, and that reminds me of talking with Mom in the living room. She has her legs nonchalantly draped over the arm of the Lay-Z Boy, and instead of the 70-year-old great grandmother that she now is, I see the teenage girl, jeans rolled up at the ankles. She just sparkles with grand plans for her whole life ahead of her.

In her high school scrapbook, I discovered that she'd planned to have a career and travel--but she lived on a farm, instead, gave birth to and raised eight kids, often alone at night, while her husband traveled. I remember her often walking, in the evenings, the quarter mile to climb the Big Hill to see if she could see Dad's headlights coming home.

I remember him calling once while he was away--just because it was Thanksgiving and he didn't think he'd make it back in time. I felt sad because my dad might not be home with us and he'd be stuck eating pizza all alone. But, if I recall correctly, he did actually make it home. Mom's motto with him was "No news is good news."

She became a standard of living life (not an easy one either) gracefully. She loved us, unconditionally, and the slew of grandchildren and pets we brought home to her. Wherever Mom was, that was Home, our bit of Heaven on Earth.

She was the one who inspired me to decorate my home with the things I loved and cherished created by someone I connected with--dandelions picked by a yellow-nosed nephew sniffing 'em before he gives them to you, cherished rocks from another, artwork where you're the subject matter painstakingly rendered in crayon, pencil or whatever medium is available.

Whenever I was back for a visit, upon first stepping inside the door, I walked directly into her soft and so-enfolding, bosomy, heartfelt hug. And she's just...SO beautiful!...all of her!

I think I have some of Mom's sense of humor--we have something of a wind-blown look over the top of our heads upon initially hearing a joke with some naughty innuendo. Several minutes, or hours later, you'll catch us laughing out loud because we finally actually "got it," understood it.

Our beloved Max and Molly cats were the offspring of Mom and Dad's long-haired calico, Cally. It's why it was so hard for me to let them go, because they were the closest we got to having kids of our own--and they were connected to Mom and Dad. During her first year with Mom and Dad and Dave, on our Sunday morning chats, Dad used to hold the phone up to Cally, and have me talk to her to see if she would listen. Yeah, I know...but we had fun!

I named her Cally, but Dad called her Hummer. To this day, we all still think of her as Hummer--I don't think anyone else would know who I was referring to if I used my name for her. I've always thought Dad's little nickname was cute for a kitty because of its reference to purring--you know, humming a sweet tune.

It was just a couple years ago at my ripe, old-enough-to-finally-catch-onto-stuff age of 47, that my brother and husband informed me that my dad kind of secretly chuckled with mischievousness over his name for her. The only "Hummers" I knew of were an extra-wide vehicle initially used in the military, and people who hummed tunes. I did not know that Dad's name for their precious kitty was a naughty innuendo. And I'm really wondering now if Mom even knew that? I'm almost sure she didn't, because she called her Hummer all the time, too--without giggling. And I don't think she could have pulled that off with me.

As Mom and I chat away in the living room, we watch Dad comically emerging, blurry-eyed and blinking in the light, not-fully-embodied-yet, from his after-dinner (that's the term we mid-westerners use for "lunch") nap. He's pulling on each cowboy boot, smoothing his jeans over the tops of them, as he moves towards us through the hallway, combing his hair back off his forehead with one hand, while hovering his cap overhead with his other, tilting it to my left, rolling the rim around the back of his skull to the right gathering his hair neatly beneath its crown, with the other--all in a choreographically-smooth motion. And with that oh-so-familiar sheepish grin, he asks, "Ready for coffee?"

He knows it takes Mom and I a few extra moments to get ourselves ready so he heads out to his van, crawls into the driver's seat and patiently waits for us. We load up and head into the Gateway Inn.

We sit in Dad's favorite booth--the one with an indentation deeply worn into the seat cushion from his bony butt, after spending many hours drinking coffee, playing Johnson's Bar or wrap Poker, visiting and laughing with friends of all ages, and sometimes with strangers passing through. It's the side of the seat next to the window facing the door, so he can hear better by keeping his right ear (that's hard-of-hearing) next to the silence of the glass. Behind him is the coffee and water service station--the waitresses and owners may occasionally stop by and chat for a bit, when things are slow. There's a running joke, based in truth, that he's there to help open up the restaurant for the day...and probably to close it down, too, at night. He doesn't spend the whole day there, though. He comes, and he goes.

Two nights ago, his best friend treated me and my husband to supper. And as always, whenever I'm visiting with this man, whether by phone or in person, I feel my dad breaking out in a grin and laughing--simply twinkling all over the place, excited about how far we've all come in our individual lives and as a part of this earthly humanity. I feel his passion and his excitement about our world, the new one emerging out of all the pain of the old.

And all of these self-awareness moments give me the warm tingles, and a goofy grin across my face.

Yes, I know it's REALLY CHAOTIC right now, that the old consciousness energies are having a last extremely-blustery hurrah--just because that old obsolete stuff realizes it's on its way out. WE DID IT! All of us together, through the ages...

Dad's best friend (other than my mom, of course)--a man who shared his vision and passion for this world--became my best friend when I was around nineteen years old. His daughter and I were good friends all through our younger years, so I was a bridesmaid in her wedding. For some reason, her dad was giving me a ride somewhere that weekend, and he told me there was no one else like my dad--that he thought of Dad as his best friend, as a real brother.

This was from a man who has known people and heads-of-state from all over the world, people for whom wealth and power were just everyday things--some are even close friends of his, as well. But to this day, he maintains that none of them were like my dad--that his best times were sitting fishing with Dad, chewing the fat, laughing together--reminiscing of stirring up politicians, fighting greed and hunger in their own special way. These men were the ones inspiring me to live my own best life--to be a benevolent rebel.

Thankfully, my dad wasn't a veteran of a war. I honestly don't think he could have handled being a soldier in that way in this life expression. I remember him telling about his beloved uncle who'd served in World War II--how my teenage Dad remembered him staying in their home upon his return from overseas, screaming himself and everyone else in the house, awake from night terrors, as he re-lived the battle fields. Dad never wanted that experience for his own children--or for anyone else's. He valued and honored all the soldiers and the veterans, but he was not into wars as the solution for anything.

When I was deep into Freeman Education seminars and conspiracy things, I returned home to hear Mom and Dad telling me about some people in the area meeting with the intent to start a local militia. Dad told them that wasn't the thing to do.

He attended gun shows and, just like his own father did before, bought his kids and grand kids all kinds of fishing equipment and guns. He supported those who had a passion for the sport of hunting and target shooting. But, in the latter years, when he didn't have to resort to hunting to feed his family, I seldom ever remember him shooting a gun himself. He fished a lot.

Dad was looking for a way to change the world--for the better--without having to go play war. This is the legacy he and Mom left me.

Dad and Grandpa had a love-hate relationship that was difficult for me to find a place of balance within. When I was little, I overheard my beloved grandpa say to Dad, "Dean, I don't care about you..."

NOBODY, but nobody!--was going to get away with saying such a mean and hurtful thing to my dad!

And, unfortunately, that colored my own relationship with Grandpa--a man who treated me with such kindness, love and compassion. The grandpa, whose lap I found myself sitting on at the dining room table when I was a fully grown girl of 20, who'd just lost her boyfriend in a motorcycle accident. My grandmother, his beloved wife of 50-plus years of shared experiences, had just died 10 months before.

I was working at the local drugstore at the time, and he told me his own stories of working in a drugstore when he was young in the nearby town of Hettinger. He made an extra-special effort to connect with me that day, to comfort me.

As a result, I did soften some then, my heart lowered its protective gear a bit, and I realized that sometimes loved ones said, and did (myself included), mean and cruel things--but we amazingly still love each other even so.

Dad and Mom and my brothers struggled to keep the farm afloat while Dad simultaneously tried to change the world. He traveled so much that Mom was left to care for and raise the family of eight kids, while my older brothers dealt with the farm and livestock.

When he was home, he and Grandpa just seemingly clashed over everything. As an adult, I can see how they each admired, and longed for the approval of the other--they couldn't stay apart. And I think they must have liked the drama of the relationship they had going because neither of them really seemed to make the effort to change it.

Grandpa was all about survival and family, often tough on his sons and his grandsons (though, he was softer with us girls)--I think of it as a "cruel to be kind" mentality. It was a tough world out there, and you had to be aggressive and always working. Taking time out to just be with your family was precious time wasted when you had to make a living to provide for them. Maybe you even believed you had to do things that didn't feel so good inside to do, but you just sucked it up and lived with it.

He and Grandma raised a family during the Great Depression, and it was a matter of great pride to not accept charity--Dad talked of how he used to envy the kids at school who were eating oranges. Grandpa and Dad had different approaches to the federal government farm programs and hand-out systems, though, truthfully, they both viewed them as basically flawed. I appreciate that about them. It's had a tremendous influence on the way I view world issues. Empower people in themselves and we won't have to worry about us or them.

According to Dad, towards the end of his life, Grandpa walked into their carburetor shop one day, sat down, and said, "Dean--I did it all wrong." He didn't elaborate any further. He and Dad did go fishing together down at Haley Dam, just the two of them, one last time. I know Dad enjoyed it, and when it all was said and done, I think they were okay with their tumultuous life together.

And Grandpa--you never did anything wrong, not really--ever! Thank you for everything and for all the roles you played for me. I'll always hold you close and in my heart and memories, with fondness and gratitude.

My brother was telling me he remembered Dad being all about work all the time with them, too. And then one day, he just changed. He told them that was enough, that there was more to life than hard work all the time. "Let's go have coffee."

Dean having coffee with his sons was a pretty common occurrence from then on. Another of my brothers used to sign his own "get out of class free" passes from high school in order to go have coffee with Dad. Dad was a pretty talented welder, and he'd taught his sons that craft, too--so they were ahead of the game sometimes in the vocational agriculture class curriculum. I truly believe my brother got more out of those moments socializing with his dad, learning about other aspects of life, than he did in a class that probably would have just been redundant for him.

There was a sense of an inner restlessness about Dad--he came here to do great things with his life. He just couldn't seem to sit still. He loved his family--he loved people! He was so easy-going with waitresses. Shy and quiet, more of a listener like my mom when it came to social settings, I used to envy his ability to comfortably talk to and joke with anyone. Those brilliant blue "black-Irish" eyes of his just twinkled, and you knew you were safe with him.

I loved watching Saturday morning Bugs Bunny and The Roadrunner cartoons with him. My nephew chuckles, telling the story of how his grandpa used to laugh, raising his leg, and slapping his knee at at the parts he found particularly hilarious.

I remember cuddling against him, inhaling Old Spice as I snuggled under his arm, Dad holding my hand, gently squeezing my fingers while watching The Love Boat on TV. And going to the theater, crunching popcorn from the little white and red box, watching a John Wayne western.

I used to peruse the shelves of the city library in search of a Louis L'Amour western that I didn't think he'd read yet. I always looked for the shorter novels, because once he started a book he never put it down until he was finished, usually in the wee hours of the morning.

People who are able to laugh at, and share humiliating anecdotes about, themselves are the most likely to get my admiration and friendship. "Don't be an insincere fake" is a value I learned from Mom and Dad. We all had an appreciation of people who maybe seemed gruff on the outside, but on the inside--and through their actions (in place of politically correct phrases and chatter)--had hearts of melted, buttery gold.

Dad and Mom both would be the first to remind me not to put either of them on any perfect-human pedestals. I feel their delight in my reminiscences, but I also knowingly hear them reminding me:

"Pen--please make sure to tell your stories with us with integrity--be honest about all of it. We trust you, because we know you trust yourself in your celebration and gratitude and love for yourself first, and, thus, for all of us... 

And we hope that when you're all done writing, you've managed to encourage whomever reads this to laugh with us--especially at the seriousness with which we acted out our temporary roles together."

"We did all right, didn't we, Pen?"

"Yes! We ALL did..."

With Friendship, Love, and Honor, Yeshua--A.k.a., Jesus

I've been intrigued by, and in love with, Yeshua--aka, "Jesus" according to religious dogma--since I was a child. I'd never attended church, Bible camps or Sunday schools. What I knew of him in my lifetime, came from a movie at the theater in town and from the celebration of Christmas. I spent most of my Christmas Eves trying to catch Santa Claus sneaking in, and trying to stay awake until midnight in hopes of seeing that bright and shining Star of Bethlehem.

I Don't Know How to Love Him--a song performed by Mary Magdalene's character in the musical, Jesus Christ, Superstar--resonated with me on so many levels. Yet, I was just a kid without an actual religious education.

I always wanted to learn more about him--his entire life--from childhood to death, resurrection, and beyond. The Holy Bible scriptures--dogma-laced stories that made him into a perfect, untouchable God, incarnate in flesh and blood, that I was supposed to worship just because everybody was doing it that way--didn't tell me enough about what Jesus's life was like. I read a book called The Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ, which told of his travels throughout India, Europe and Egypt, etc.; and I read Celtic, Old World history fiction that referred to him being as far north as what is now known as the United Kingdom.

I read about the history of Earth in a tome called The Urantia Book. It covered the nature of God, spiritual beings--seraphim, cherubim, the Melchizadeks, to name a few--the creation of the planet, the evolution and revelation cycles of human consciousness and physicality, and the start and growth of all the world religions and science. It was heavy, mind-blowing reading at the time--thousands of pages channelled back in 1933, but left unpublished until after World War II. It, too, dedicated a section to the life story of Jesus, and connected it to archangel Michael. I ate it up. I was finally reading something about an actual person--who had feelings, emotions, and human difficulties that I could relate to.

How much of these stories was fact, and how much was fiction? I honestly don't know and don't really care. All that matters is the parts that resonate with my own heart--that resonate with that SAFE and SACRED SPACE that is within me always.

And those parts are more sacred and holy to me than anything that I ever read in the Bible--an account that left a huge gap about what happened to him between the ages of 12 and 30. Plus, I didn't believe his mother Mary was a virgin, especially after reading more about the evolution of religions, and discovering that the Virgin Birth originated in pagan tradition. I also didn't need him to be celibate.

As far as I'm concerned, the scriptures were originally channelled, often from a place of purity, too, but all those words have been taken too literally by too much mental studying (instead of allowance of the heart to translate). The true message has been drastically distorted by those hypnotized and blind-to-who-we-really-are beings through the ages, who had an agenda of attaining power and control over others. I include myself in that latter group, too. I'm certain aspects of my own soul played in all those stories over the ages, dabbling in playing the spectrum of roles, ranging from power-hungry persecutor to victim.

I felt as though a part of me actually knew Yeshua when he walked his story upon the Earth. And inside, I KNOW that another life expression of my soul, actually did. I'm certain many of you who have similar feelings to mine, were there also. It just makes sense.

I call you not father, mother, brother, sister...I call you "Friend."

I've shared, in a few postings in this blog, that calling him my lord and savior, and trying to use him as my telephone to God--well, those approaches just didn't work for me. I found myself uncomfortable and unable to sincerely call him my savior. The words clogged in my throat, they just never resonated with me, even when I thought of myself as being a Christian. In the early 1980s, a much-beloved friend and fine art creator did a portrait of Jesus--and titled it, "Friend." You can see more of the art of Marsha Lehmann by clicking here: Prairie Bleu Studios.

Having done a few drawings of my own, I do know that titles have a way of finding their way into whatever you're working on, long before one's completed the piece. It doesn't come from mentally trying to figure one out--it's just there with a certainty of heart--an inner knowingness.

But, before I knew that, I was certain that Marsha's title fit how I felt about Yeshua--and it seemingly fits not only how Yeshua viewed us, but also how he desired to be perceived.

Friendship doesn't depend on you being a member of a family, a religion, or a country. It's an HONOR to be called a friend. Especially for me to be called so by him, because it means I have it in me to not energetically feed off him. It means that I'm not trying to use him. That I can be with him, just for the joy of being together. I like to think we're laughing--A LOT.

It's been awhile since I've perused the translated scriptures, but here are some of my impressions from them. I'm not speaking literally here--this is how I've perceived them by reading and experiencing through my heart.

I remember someone trying to call Yeshua "Master (Maestro)." But Yeshua said, "No. I'm not your master." To me, this just doesn't feel like Jesus was into having a fancy I'm-better-than-you title, with a ton of "lesser" servants running around trying to guess and do his bidding, nor was he out to have others worship him. I don't get the sense he wanted anyone to place him on a pedestal above them, and then to have them pray to, or through, him--for stuff, or about situations.

I do, however, have the feeling that he likes to visit with us as friends--to compassionately and unconditionally love and encourage us, helping us clarify things--when we ask him to--in order to help us remember the Christ seed within each of us, and to help us bring it into bloom, and to live out that realization.

Too much emphasis has been placed on expecting someone else, other than oneself, to perform miracles. I'd prefer to create my own miracles, rather than be dependent on another to do it for me--where's the fun in that?

I actually had a very profound dream where everyone was oohing and ahhing at huge screens of images, trying to direct my attention to them as though I should be amazed and awestruck by them--that I should worship them. But all the pretty man-made fireworks on the screens meant absolutely nothing to me. It reminded me of that admonition in the scriptures where we're warned to look to the true teacher within, rather than the outer, false and misleading ones who are pointing and saying, "Look here. Look over there. Look outside of yourself for the coming of the Christ..."

Remember the miraculous incident involving the feeding of thousands with a couple of fish and a loaf of bread? Did Yeshua stand up on a rock to perform a miracle to entertain, to woo, and to ooh! and ahh!, a delighted crowd with his antics in order to gain followers? No. These people had been listening to his teachings for hours--he had a bunch of hungry people on his hands. And people with empty stomachs are easily riled by others in the crowd who are up to no good.

I'm certain he was Self-Aware and trusted himself implicitly. He KNEW within HIMSELF--without a hint of doubt--that the universe would manifest what he truly felt, thus radiated out, to be possible. All of it happening without a lot of efforting being done by anyone.

If I recall correctly, he'd had some practice in his own inner knowingess by then--inspired some to heal themselves. I'm not sure where his invitation to Lazarus to return from the dead back to the living fits in the timeline. He did NOT force or demand Lazarus back into his body--ENLIGHTENED CONSCIOUSNESS cannot use force--force does not work.

My point is, Yeshua knew he could create what he wanted, as long as it honored, instead of intruding upon, the free choice of others--just because he embraced and trusted his SELF-MASTERY. He realized he was the master of his own life.

He had a discussion with one of his apostles at that time, encouraging his friend to be aware of, to trust and to have faith in, his own knowingness within. That he, too, could abundantly feed the multitudes, or whatever, as long as he trusted himself.

Yeshua said there would be many more, who would come later, that could move mountains and other seeming impossibilities--and who would accomplish more than even he did.

He showed us that death wasn't real--that there is life after death! I'm not throwing aside the possibility of experiencing that one for myself! He went to a great deal of trouble and difficulty (he experienced a miserable death nailed to a cross, and, in the bargain, got mistakenly perceived as "God's blood sacrifice") in order to lay the groundwork for us. I'm grabbing that baton, and I'm going to run with it--but I'm not feeling guilty about being some "sinner" who he supposedly "lovingly sacrificed his life for." That really screws with my concept of friendship. 

I love Yeshua's teaching and messages! I truly feel his messages were meant to inspire personal love and sovereignty--and, yes, friendship with others. I got the warm and tinglies just writing that.

Yeshua's story tells me that personal enlightenment doesn't depend on wealth, the "right" religion, family, government, intelligence, education, orientation, gender, doing the perfect deeds, following all the rules, personal sacrifice or social status. I don't care who you are, or what your stories are--when you're ready, you'll choose to be the master of your own life, in your own way. That's the message, I know from within myself, that he was trying to convey.

Many of his teachings were shared through the use of parables. Hearing a story without you being personally accused in it, is less likely to put your ego fully on the defensive. Yes--if you feel into it, the ego armor is still on, even then. Just not the full metal jacket. When encouraged to step back out of the scene enough, in order to allow a broader perspective of all of it, one is more likely to ponder over the story when observing it from a bit of distance. It's easier, then, to make a connection with a person's opened heart.

I never heard Yeshua campaigning for the job of King of the Jews. I never read anything about him trying to amass an army of soldiers (or voters) to conquer others in order get his point across.

Unawakened people wanted to make him their king in order to have someone take care of them. Sleepy, unscrupulous politicians and agenda-driven religious leaders were trying to use him for their own purposes of keeping power and wealth.

They just couldn't seem to grasp these mentally-confounding new ideas, and ways of being, that this man was not only talking about--but LIVING. And they were scared of him and his ideas. He was blowing huge holes in their belief foundations. So, in their fear, they tried to kill him off...

And yet, HE LIVES!

All of the above is supposition and imagination on my part, and someday, I may look back at this and ask myself, "What were you thinking?!"

But I don't care. I could be TOTALLY WRONG...and it doesn't matter, because I feel good right NOW, inside and out, when I view things this way. I know truth expands, and this just happens to be where I'm perched at this moment...

May you REALIZE the Light of the Christ that is within you, that is you...you precious gift, you!


P.S. If you are like me--yearning and hungering for more about the full life of Yeshua, "Jesus," before and after his physical death--here is the text pdf link to the December 7, 2013, Crimson Circle Shoud where ascended master, Adamus Saint-Germain helped all of us to put together what he called the Yeshua Composite. In short, it's the Yeshua story that joyfully resonated and matched the Christ story within me, and it paralleled my own journey of awakening.

Please note: Adamus is not afraid to provoke a person's anger and shock--and laughter--in order to help one get into FEELING WITHIN, and to step out of an old hypnosis or mindtrap belief. I always watch the video, listen to the audio, and read the text versions at least 3 or more times--because I miss stuff the first couple of times through. While his playing of "The Jesus Game" with us might seem irreverent, his ultimate reason for the game--and getting us to laugh--is the ten-minute message at the end.

I've loved all the Shouds--freely offered every month since 1999--because they encourage me in my INDEPENDENCE and SELF-SOVEREIGNTY and COMPASSION. But this one is probably one of my all-time favorites. May you allow yourself the freedom to feel into it, laugh with us-- celebrate the Yeshua Story--if you so choose, of course.

Also, for links to the FREE audio and video versions of the monthly Shoud, please visit crimsoncircle.com, LIBRARY, The Discovery Series, December 7, 2013 SHOUD.

Trying to Save Face when Personal Shame Haunts

Humans don't need to be told he/she should be ashamed of themselves--we already are--TOO MUCH! We're supposed to be ashamed of our ancestors' deeds (and they--our's) and we're supposed to beat ourselves up for pillaging planet Earth--but does all that guilt heal and solve anything? Let's take a closer look at these shameful aspects and release them so we can NOW create worlds free of so much misery.

"Oh, God--I did it all wrong..."

How do you hold your head up high and look others in the eyes, open and free--after you've immersed so fully into the experiencing of a certain belief that you thought was truth in its utmost form, only to discover things aren't really jiving with what you feel deep within?

God! Do you know how many times I've done this? I have dived into so many things--made them my own, this lady of I'm off on a new tangent today! Only to realize, after having some eye-opening experiences, that the role and the costume just doesn't work for me anymore--that some never really did.

And I look at myself in the mirror, shaking my lowered head, in shame, thinking, "Pen--what the hell were you thinking? How could you? That was SO DAMN STUPID!"

I dived into the conspiracy theories of governments, world banks, despots and religions, scaring the crap out of myself with them.

I quit paying income taxes for a time, and experienced so many self-doubts about whether I was doing it right (used the right words, filled out the right forms correctly), and for all the right reasons (pureness of heart, or personal greed?). I even had a close friend, who had a government job, questioning what I was doing--all the while, still loyally trying to defend me to her co-worker who questioned our sanity.

I put myself through over three years of hell, only to give up after so getting so many harassing and intimidating letters in the mail, and after having so many peers sent to prison. Many of these people were kind and loving people simply trying to stand inside their truth and make changes for the better in their world. They weren't harming anyone else.

It's a challenge though, when the TV is running shows and commercials which hypnotize the masses into believing that refusing to pay taxes, even ones that you don't like and agree with (remember the Boston Tea Party?), is an un-American act. Admittedly, some were zealots (just to be honest here, I played a bit of a zealot at times, too, to my embarrassment)--scary in their passion--but I find that in any general population. Just look at Facebook postings.

I felt powerless, humiliated, stuck, and still enslaved by the system. For years afterward, after having paid the penalties and having returned to the old system I disagreed with--I found myself trying to stuff it all away in an attempt to pretend it never happened. People would bring up the topic of taxes, and I'd feel myself fold up, cringing in shame, tongue-tied--feeling like an idiot.

As I sit writing about this particular, at-one-time shameful period in my past now, though, I understand those of you currently immersed in those experiences and belief systems--and I don't judge you, or condemn you, or even pity you.

I understand the fear for survival that drives one into a dark-feeling corner, where we find ourselves doing really crazy things just trying to get through another moment. I am NOW the poster child for self-forgiveness, and I can laugh at, and celebrate it all.

I NOW have a more fully developed compassion for all of us (than I did before), BECAUSE OF all these past experiences and the feelings I had about me in them. 

And I honor your souls' joy in having the experience, no meddling--because I "KNOW" that, really, everything is all right in, and out of, this glorious and grand illusion.

I also know now, inside of me--in my gut and heart--that proclaiming one's sovereignty doesn't require filling out forms and filing paperwork in courthouses, or for any other entities outside of oneself. It doesn't require fighting anyone or anything.

It's just the realization that I am that I am! Sovereign of my domain. Knowing it, without a doubt, trusting myself in my knowingness. There is no one to convince or persuade to my way of seeing. What anyone else does or what others think of me no longer matters...

But I now know that stuff, because of that naive kid in an adult body, who had the courage to try some experiences others thought to be insane at the time.

I indulged in several inner family feuds that nearly tore me apart--because I loved the parties of both sides. I wrote letters to aunts and uncles, saying things that I still wish I'd never said.

But after all of that, I find I'm no longer quick to choose sides in the relationships of others. In fact, if there is an issue--I'll most likely leave the parties to play out their agreed-to game, and I won't commiserate with either. I no longer tolerate someone playing "I'm the poor victim of so-and-so." If it's in your life, you're liking it--otherwise, you'd choose to release yourself from it.

I didn't let myself enjoy the love of my grandpa, for me, because of holding a grudge from my childhood, after overhearing a heated conversation between him and my dad. No one was going to get away with "not caring about MY DAD!" It was only after Grandpa died, that I was able to step back enough, to see things clearly enough, to realize that love was always there--even between him and his son. Dad didn't need my protection--and those two were actually enjoying their arguments.

All those years lost with my grandpa...

But we made our peace even after he'd been gone awhile. I had a warm and tingling inner-knowingness awareness of various events and conversations that had me finally understanding the dynamics between father and son:

My husband swatted me on the butt as he passed by me in the kitchen, and it reminded me of Mom telling me how Grandpa used to affectionately do the same thing with Grandma Pearl. I recognized the deep love those two had for each other as I sat on my grandpa's lap one morning, following the death of my own beloved Arlen.

I saw how close my dad and his mother were. How she tried so hard to balance out, and temper, the relationship between her husband and son--each of them unaware of his jealousy of the other's relationship with her.

Jealousy is the fear of the loss of love from another. Through my experience, I discovered there is enough love in me, in all of us, that love for one doesn't diminish in any way, our love for another. It's a win-win, if we just trust and let that be so.

I finally allowed myself to feel Grandpa's loving embrace at last--and I'm still feeling that love--of all of them--as I sit here tapping away at this keyboard.

And now, when others talk to me about their frustrations with family--I can empower them in ways I never could before my own experiences--once again, those personally shameful moments were suddenly transformed into gifts.

When I was just a little kid, I tried finding--thankfully, unsuccessfully, because I really detest gore--the grave of a favorite cat who had died. I was curious about seeing what "dead" looked like, evidently, after having been buried. Even as an adult, I've looked back at that one, and thought, "Oh. My. God."

But, when I was about five years old, I used to lay on the couch, peeking out of one eye to watch Dark Shadows, a soap opera in the 1960s. There was always a vampire coming out of a coffin in a tomb at the beginning of the show.

I was also having dreams at that time about losing my parents to death--it was a huge fear.

When you look above at the tabs to navigate this website, you'll see Death with a section of writings devoted to the topic. I'm far from an evil-doer out to slaughter for the adrenaline jolt and the morbidity of it. In fact--I don't like violent movies, and stories filled with extreme perversions and horrors. It's not entertaining for me. I've just needed to understand, and to experience, death differently than it's been done so far--it's a driving passion of mine.

This is why I write the way I do. Trying to save face, when feeling so ashamed, has been a key aspect running my life in the past--and I'm aware of it in pretty much everyone around me.

We humans have spent ages indulging in long-established belief systems in our soul's desire to experience everything, for the joy of the dance, and for the self-expression. It's a void when you realize those things are no longer making much sense. And a person feels really foolish--believe me, I know...

Those of you Christians who still believe that Jesus is your lord and salvation--I get it. I truly do. I know it feels like an abomination to even consider stepping outside that belief. Your whole foundation changes--the bottom of your life seemingly drops from beneath you--and then who, and what, is going to catch you in your free fall?

So I understand your reluctance to look outside of that comfort, and I accept and honor that.

I had, what I consider, the luxury of growing up without being educated and baptized into a religious organization. However, I later tasted, and immersed myself in, enough of the Christian belief system to know how frightening it is to be tempted to look at ideas one's been so ingrained to seeing as being (grimacing appropriately here, as taught), "New Age nonsense."

Here's the kicker though: I don't even consider myself a New-Ager. Definitions and titles don't work for me--they're too limiting. I'm just the simple master of my own life--God/Divinity/My Soul--walking this earth in a human form as me! I am that I am! A one-of-a-kind Body of Consciousness, playing with each of you, also unique Bodies of Consciousness, in this wonderland called Earth.

Take another look at your shameful past. You'll know you've come full circle when you can share  all those old stories, out loud and uninhibited, with the world around you--in celebration and gratitude for all the wisdom that is you...

All of it gained, only because, we courageously played the role of the Prodigal Sons and Daughters...all of it played out of, and for, love...

Related Posts:
Accepting Full Responsibility with Self-Compassion

Guilt--the Elephant in Your Room

Yes, caterpillars seem to wreck things with that insatiable appetite of theirs, but when they're done with that life, they turn into mush and become these amazingly beautiful butterflies. Part of that process seems to involve self-forgiveness for simply having experienced life as a caterpillar...

I was all set to delete this entire blog last fall (2012), and then I had the internal nudging to blog about a childhood experience I'd healed via my inner knowingness.

Several years ago, I was guided to self-compassionately revisit that wounded child's guilty past, and to simply write about it from my adult's more experienced, and much wiser, perspective of it. Then, this past fall, I was urged to make it available to the world--to really bare myself--by sharing links to it through Facebook and Google. Suddenly I had a readership a bit larger than my first four beloved followers. (Click here to see Overcoming the Victimhood Addiction).

Up until that posting, my blog was probably about as obscure and blah as you can get. I was basically writing it all down for me, anyway. I knew nothing about website creation, much less, design. Google provided a basic template that I used for the first three years. Blogger improved. They made it easier for me to write (and edit), and to personalize it with more attractive backgrounds and pictures. Last month I figured out how to use Blogger's features to make my site more easy to navigate, and to publicly share.

Google also has a blogger dashboard where you can see statistics showing the countries of your blog visitors, and how many times, and when, a specific post is visited. A visit doesn't necessarily mean the posts are being read.

As a general rule, I don't care much about statistics, but it is fun to see how easily we can connect with the world via these computers. When someone comments, or I see someone (I can't identify you--your privacy is safe) seems to be browsing around the different posts, it's a boost for me--I catch myself grinning.

The most-read posts are: My Awakening, Overcoming the Victimhood Addiction, An Ah-Ha! about Guilt. Two out of these three posts deal with the issue of guilt. I have two other posts with "guilt" in the titles, and they've been hit on quite often, as well. And a large portion of the rest of my blogs have guilt as a basic ingredient mixed in the stories.

GUILT is probably one of the most commonly shared "I feel so damned stuck" frustrations of all of us humans. Some part in every one of us seems to feel ashamed of being human.

Even victims feel guilt. It's been bigger than the topic of death. But most of us shy away from that death thing, due to our feelings of guilt surrounding it.

Here is one of the biggest guilt trips many of us humans have been on--those of us who've practiced the Christian faith, anyway:

Get Jesus off that cross! Let go of carrying that bag of "I am a sinner" guilt.  You did NOT nail him on, and hoist him up to die, miserably and painfully, on a cross, using a common-at-the-time, barbaric old Roman practice of crucifixion--anymore than I did!

You know what? That is what was going through my heart and mind on the long drive home to be with my dad as he slipped away from my perception in that belief called death. Jesus didn't have to suffer a miserable death. It wasn't necessary at all!

That actually felt really good to finally say out loud. I have felt this way for years. I NEVER could consciously call Jesus/Yeshua my lord and savior--I always stumbled over that. When I conversed with "God," I talked directly to my Father/Mother--I didn't go through Jesus as my translator or my priestly pure go-between. 

I used to think of myself as a Christian--but it doesn't fit me, and I've let the limiting definition go. For years, I wondered what was wrong with me for seemingly thinking so differently from all the Christians around me. I've held this in for so long because I didn't want to offend anyone--I chose to unconditionally honor each person in his own faith, and I still do.

But with the statement up above, I realized honoring also means to lovingly allow myself to state my own honest truth out loud, too.

No one else is required to agree with me--that's free choice. That is sovereignty, pure-hearted love, and compassion.

In an earlier post, One Nation under a "Christian God," or Separation of Church and State, I wrote about ancient pagan traditions, customs and beliefs getting intermixed with newer religions like Christianity. I believe that happened with the newer Christian perception of Jesus being God's son who was sacrificed for our sins. It was a crossover from the old Judaism belief in blood sacrifice. I don't believe Jesus intended to save the world, or even those who believed in him as a savior.

I was always intrigued by the life of Jesus, whose story is alluded to in the Holy Bible translations. The New Testament is supposed to be about him, but it didn't tell me enough about the person, what his life was like as a child, and what happened as he grew up.

This amazing person was made into an idol, an untouchable god--an example of living a life HERE that we had no hope of achieving ourselves. From the very beginning, religion made him different from all the rest of us by his supposedly having been given birth to by the virgin, Mary.

This god-man was way different than the rest of us human slobs and sinners. He supposedly led a perfect human life, had the perfect answer for every question, and performed miracles. He was sacrificed by a god he called Father in order to save all who believed in him forever from their sin of being human, and then he came back to life.

Has anybody else noticed that Christianity, as taught and practiced today--at least in its faiths in my area--doesn't even look at the possibility of living a life on earth, in human form, after our own death?

WHY??? 

Jesus got slapped up on a cross in a gruesome and barbaric manner and has stayed there in the minds of most of humanity's Christians for over 2000 years!

Instead of exploring his message from our hearts, his teachings (those beautiful parables like The Prodigal Son), his example of having a personal relationship with "God/Father"--he's been turned into an untouchable, outside god, that people are supposed to worship, without question.

And somehow be rewarded with an ever-lasting peace in a heaven after earth...while trying SO DAMN HARD (and failing) to be the perfect human NOW...

I never could get the perfect way to be figured out. I've blundered about quite a bit.

I've read other books about Jesus's life (The Urantia Book, The Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ--to name a couple). Some writings said he didn't like the sacrificing of animals as practiced by his family and peers of the Judaism faith. He supposedly traveled and talked with people of various faiths and backgrounds. He experienced the too-soon "accidental" death of his human dad, Joshua. His siblings had trouble understanding him because he had such different ideas.

Adamus Saint-Germain says Yeshua fathered children with Mary Magdalene after he died on the cross. He actually lived a human life after his death! That sounds like an ascended self-master to me.

Adamus also said that Yeshua had a temper, that he wasn't a passive-aggressive, holier-than-thou person, who always turned the other cheek to be slapped again--sometimes he fought back, with fists. How dare he come down off that pedestal that we've had him on!

To consider that Yeshua struggled, too, in this very dense human experience comforts, encourages and uplifts me. And helps a great deal with that thing called guilt...

You don't have to agree with me. I created this website to be a SAFE and SACRED PLACE, first for myself, and then for anyone who visits...

One Nation under a "Christian God," or Separation of Church and State?

Contrary to the beliefs of many of the Christian fundamentalists I interacted with in my "fight those conspiracies" days a couple decades ago, the founders of this nation--the United States of America--were not all Christian. It appears to me, that the founders didn't intend for any one religion--not even one of their own personal choice--to have authority over the people of this country.

I watch the posts forwarded around Facebook, and I see people are still trying to persuade others to join in their personal belief of one nation under a Christian god. It's obvious they haven't re-visited the history of this nation, much less, of this world and the many religions at their deepest foundations. Instead of considering opening themselves to a possibly more personally freeing perspective--they squish their eyes and hearts shut, and run away in fear.

If you dare, take a look at the history of the Old World countries in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, etc. prior to the founding of this freedom experiment in the New World of the Americas.

Britain was bloody with fighting between Protestants and Catholics. Anybody heard of "Bloody Mary"?

Kings beheaded wives on a whim--marriage vows were definitely not sacred and holy. Women had no equal rights--not really even those with the title of queen--and very few women artists were allowed to sign their own masterpieces.

Years before that, Constantine made a political move, to get some sense of order and stability, by combining all the religions together under his one governing authority. He called himself a Christian, yet held onto his pagan worship practices, too. It's why you see pagan ideas and traditions mixed in your religious doctrines and celebrations.

For example, the celebration of Christmas, which takes place now during the old pagan-celebrated winter solstice, is believed by many proclaimed Christians to be the actual birthday of Jesus, but it isn't.

Was Jesus born of a virgin? The virgin birth idea was rampant in ancient forms of worship. Call me a heretic for bluntly asking the question, but, really--does it matter whether Mary had sex, or not? What's pertinent to me, is that she gave birth to this amazing messenger and friend who taught about the Kingdom of Heaven being right here, right now, right "at hand."

Also look a bit more closely at Victorian-era Britain--and you'll see some strong influences in our own western ideas surrounding human sexuality and government and religion. Victorian ideas influenced my 1960's childhood perceptions of my sexuality and sensuality--you weren't supposed to touch yourself (those "nasty" parts), and if you did, it wasn't supposed to be pleasurable.

Sacred scriptures (you know, that "word of God" thing people point out as their Holy Bible) were put together and translated according to the self-interests of the rulers of that specific era and region. Some writings were even eliminated, due to not wanting to give the masses any ideas of self-empowerment and responsibility.

You'll find the people of the old world were over-run by the power by force and money belief systems, by feudal enslavement systems, and by religions and government so intermixed, they were no longer discernible as different entities.

In some cases, religious zealots played the role of puppeteers of the governments of the masses. They provided the wealthy a supposed means of buying their way out of their sins and into the graces of their god, a moral bribe.

In the old world, humanity was so immersed in, and conditioned to, living under the thumbs of outside institutions and belief systems for so many eons, that it was too difficult to even introduce the idea of personal freedom and responsibility to the masses. Much less, live it. It was too volatile and confusingly mired together.

The founders of freedom found a fresh clean slate here, in the form of the Americas. Granted, some of that old world aggression unfortunately forced some terribly atrocious cruelties upon the natives who were here first. I can't change that part of our nation's history, but I can feel gratitude for all those who have gone before me, for allowing me the chance to explore, and begin to truly experience, this amazing thing called self-sovereignty.

My personal belief is that the ETERNAL SPARK of SOURCE--aka "God"--lives and breathes within every single one of us. Who then, needs some outside authority to rule over them?

That sacred, Holy word (expression) of God, is you...and it's me. A priceless gift. Do you really want any other outside being mixed up in the beauty and intimacy of that which is within you, and you alone?