I was driving home from the grocery store a couple of weeks ago when it struck me that Home/Heaven for me was here on Earth—that to return to where I originated from would seem empty and colorless. I gazed around me, remembering how amazing it is to be able to touch and to feel and to behold all that I love—that even the searing pain of losing a loved one was worth it all.
I recognized the truth for me of that old adage: It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. While I know love is always present, regardless of the realm, it’s in this physical body that I get to witness and experience it in action. I have a sense of that being priceless.
That was a huge shift in perspective for me—especially having so recently lost someone so precious to me yet once again.
This time I’ve decided to walk through this whole loss to death thing in a new way. I’ve realized that the old platitudes and approaches aren’t enough for me. I don’t give a crap about the four steps of the grieving process, and I’m sick of believing it all as unchangeable just because of millennia of unquestioning acceptance that “that is the way it is.”
I’ve heard others say over and over again that they can’t wait to die in order to be reunited with their dead loved ones. But that’s not making sense to me. If I’m looking forward to getting this life over with, then am I truly enjoying and living the life--the gift of experience--that I have right now?
After losing enough people in my life to make it easy for me to let go and die myself, there’s something strange going on—I’m still here, and I’m not suicidal.
And I remember the story of Job in the Old Testament—the man lost everyone and everything dear to him to the point that this God-favored man got outright angry with God, with his circumstances. Platitudes and mental rationing (why and how this could happen to him, what he “needed to fix” about himself, how “he should be”, even sympathy) didn’t mean squat to him—none of the old ways and perspectives mattered to him. He got authentic and honest with himself—let his perception of the moral rightness and wrongness of everything go. And in the end, he lived--and what he’d initially lost was restored, but way better than what he had before he lost it all--because his experiences enriched all of what was once just airy, insubstantial concept. That story encourages me to awaken each morning with hope.
And then there’s Jesus. He died and yet he lived—and he also said that those who came after him would do “all these things and more.” So I’m standing here, hopping up and down, my arms waving wildly, yelling, “Pick me! Pick me!”
And then it occurs to me that really I’m the ONLY ONE who can pick me for the job. And so I have.
In Ecclesiastes, the poet came to the conclusion that there was a time for everything under the sun. In other words—my own words—every way IS a WAY TO BE. Each form of love in action provides us with insights and understandings inconceivable in any other way.
I believe these stories of life after a physical death stay in our world for thousands of years just maybe because there is a truth in them. And frankly, I’ve got nothing to lose in exploring their possibility of being a reality today—for me, they represent hope for my own enjoyment of this life, to create and to be my own unique Heaven on Earth.
I’m not willing to just get through another day without being able to connect with Molly. That death wound for the Little Human never truly heals with just the passage of time—the emptiness ache is still there, and sometimes it’s knife-sharp pain.
I still talk to my parents and to Arlen. My relationship with each of them has continued to evolve and expand just as much as it has with those around me who are alive.
In the past twenty plus years, I’ve had all kinds of dreams of interacting with those who have crossed the Veil. But during the dreams my heartache was horrendous because my mind would get in the way and remind me that they were “really dead and that I had to accept and get used to that.”
So instead of enjoying the moments I had with them, regardless of the dimension I was in, I was miserable at the prospect of knowing they would be gone soon. And I’d awaken to this world in a state of deep sadness. I hated those mornings after—despair hung around me like a cloud.
When I remember the look in Molly’s eyes that last day with her and the many things she communicated to me intuitively and physically, I KNOW that despair is NOT what she wanted for me. She wasn’t dying in order to hurt me beyond being able to breathe again—she was reaching out, touching me, showing me moment by moment how much she enjoyed her life with me and how much she loved me. And it seemed important to her that I recognize that she was choosing that path in order to help me go beyond—to help me transcend death.
Molly and Max came into my life when I first began to make choices to live my life my own way—and they have played supportive roles through this whole process I look at as being my awakening to remembering who I really am.
The roles I’ve acted out and felt stuck in for so long are just dramatic scripts that I’ve immersed myself in for awhile in order to understand the energies and concepts we think of as LIFE. But ultimately, they were all just roles; no one acting part was completely reflective of all that I am.
And my two precious furry friends continue to support me—Molly on one side of the Veil of Forgetting, and her brother Max with me on this side. I’ve seen her twice in dreams—and she’s very much alive and well. Max leaves wet food in the dish for her to clean up each morning like he always did when she was alive.
The only time he didn’t leave food for her was the last day she was alive. She could only lick up and swallow the gravy, so he’d come by afterwards and clean out the drier remains left in their bowl--this was completely opposite of their usual way of eating together. When she was gone, he then reverted back to leaving a bit in the bowl for her.
Max also seems to allow her to use his body as a way to touch me—he’s done “Molly acts.” One night he lay next to me on the couch with his paws draped over my legs like Molly used to. And he now sits on Kel’s lap in the evenings like his sister used to, but only after looking me in the eyes to make sure I know that he’s sharing himself with both of us.
In moments, my heart still hurts with her not being here teasing me, scratching on my calf for butter or traipsing towards me with that smile—whiskers on a lady never looked more darling. And I’m not always certain which aspect of myself is running this particular show. Sometimes I wonder about letting myself wail out my grief like the gypsies and just immersing myself in feeling it all until the emotions are spent. Would it somehow release me? I’ve moved a great deal of pain through and out of myself that way in the recent past.
And sometimes I wonder if maybe I should just stay calm and watchful and keep my drama queen in check. Always I’m reminding myself, Molly’s right here—she never really did die—this is all just illusion, after all. And if that’s so, then HOW DO I want to walk this journey between her seeming to leave and her being here?
I see how Max allows himself to continue to enjoy his days on Earth and he works to make us laugh, too. I talk to Molly and tell her I’m watching for her—that I’m open to all of us being together again soon—and I’ve no idea how that looks. But I choose to explore the possibility that I don’t have to die in order to be reunited with her. I’ve got nothing to lose—I don’t care if I look foolish, and I don’t care about having a reputation.
And I hope it’s here—that Heaven is here on Earth wherever I am, for me…and wherever you are, for you…
Because when this is all said and done, it's truly been an honor...
We're all quite the characters--actors, that is--role-playing together. These are stories of my awakening, my remembering realization that Home/Heaven is wherever I am. That I am not the puppet on someone else's string. The search is over. I simply FREELY CHOSE to quit searching outside of myself, and realized all my answers have always been within.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
My Last Waltz with Dad
This was a night of Hell on Earth for everyone involved, and I wanted so much to be able to make it all never to have happened in the first place. But that wasn't the way it was to be. Like Jesus with his beloved friend Lazarus, I had to experience coming on the scene shortly after the death of one, and then feel and see myself and others go through pain I wouldn't wish upon anyone...
All of it just to learn to let go of control and allow the story the freedom to arrange and transform itself to play out for the good for all of us...
This one is still transforming for me, nearly eight years later...
It was the last week in August, 2005. I was home in Minneapolis feeling a bit sad. I’d just remembered a phone conversation I’d had with Dad sometime in the months before he died. After Mom died, he and I usually talked with one another every Sunday.
On this particular Sunday, he told me he’d gone to a wedding dance in Ludlow and had danced with my sister, Laurie, and his granddaughter, Renae. He then said he was sure sad that I wasn’t there, too—that he’d missed the chance to dance with me. Our favorite was the waltz.
I remember feeling a bit choked up at the time, and in an attempt to head off a really painful moment for the two of us that I didn’t want to tarnish the little joy he’d recently had, I chimed in, “Oh, that’s okay, Dad. I’m so glad you got the chance to dance with Laurie and Renae.”
Two years later, here I was remembering that exchange, finally allowing myself to feel the pain of the loss of that last waltz with him.
A few days later I was on the highway alone, headed to Laurie and Terry’s place to spend a little time visiting them and other family, and taking in a football game that my nephews were playing.
On September 3rd, the two-year anniversary of my last night with my dad, I was heading back to Laurie and Terry’s after having spent part of a joy-filled day with my oldest brother and his family and part of it with my brother Steve. As I passed the turn-off where Arlen had been killed, two guys on motorcycles passed me, causing me to think of him and that night, and finding myself grateful that I’d arrive at Laurie’s before it was dark. Deer were in the ditches and I was especially vigilant about not driving after dark.
As I rounded the curve at the North Dakota/South Dakota border, I found myself talking to Dad sharing my joy of the day with him. I glanced at the clock and noted it was nearly eight o’clock. A few moments later I saw a wavery, dark-gray haze moving across the highway a mile or so in front me, on the north face of a hill known as Microwave Tower Hill.
As I drew closer, I noticed a man was standing in the middle of the highway waving his arms to flag me down. I pulled to the shoulder, taking in the glint of a motorcycle off to the side, and realized it was the guys who had passed me earlier. As I stopped the car and got out, he ran up to me and asked if I had a cell phone, which I didn’t.
I started following him and realized they’d hit a deer and that one of the men, his brother, was sprawled across the center of the highway, and motorcycle parts and deer parts were strewn across both lanes. I got about three feet away from the man lying on the highway, didn’t notice any movement from him and found the question, “Is he dead?” choked off somewhere between my heart and my vocal cords. I couldn’t bring myself to voice it.
And then we heard the roar of another vehicle, not visible yet, but approaching from over the top of the south side of the hill. We rushed into the middle of the lane, waving our arms trying to stop the truck. But the engine never slowed, and I remember grabbing the guy’s shoulder to signal him to jump off the road with me, keeping my back turned away and bracing for the sound of the impact as the truck ran over the downed biker. As his brother yelled and screamed his frustration beside me, another vehicle sped by, never stopping.
Shock took over—it would take me days to remember the second vehicle whipping by without stopping. I realized I needed to turn on my emergency flashers on the car, and as I started down the road in that direction, the passenger in the first truck met me. They’d pulled over at the first approach and he’d walked back to help—never realized that their truck had run over a human being. They thought it was a motorcycle part--parts were strewn all over the highway, as I explained earlier, and the man was clothed in black, pretty much invisible. I didn't even know he was there until I'd gotten out of my car. I knew the occupants of the truck, they were friends of the family—and my heart just dropped.
I ran across the highway to turn on the flashers, but even though I had noted gratefully how easy they were to find when we bought the car, I couldn’t see them. In the meantime, a truck pulling a horsetrailer came from the direction I had, and we managed to get them stopped in time. The husband and wife, with a daughter named Hope, helped turn on my lights and stayed near me, and one-by-one, traffic was stopped both directions and emergency vehicles began arriving.
I remember making the conscious choice at the time to walk through this whole accident with compassion for myself instead of the self-criticism of what I “should have done.” I didn’t know I was on the scene of an accident until I’d left the car, and then things just unfurled in a matter of seconds of time.
Once we had someone managing traffic from both directions, his brother went over and sat down next to the man on the highway—and told me the story of why they were out riding that late. He was blaming himself, but I finally knew by that time that it was important to express those thoughts and feelings in order to release them, no matter how painful, or seemingly misdirected. So I kept my mouth shut and my hand on his shoulder, and let him vent his pain.
Human angels came out of the prairie that dark and tragic night. One man came forward and suggested he help move the brother over to the side of the road. Another vehicle drove slowly through offering first aid and use of their phone. A school friend who was a member of the fire department took the time to give me a comforting hug as he went about his duties. And yet another friend came to keep an eye out for me until I’d talked to the sheriff, and then she and her husband delivered me and my car to Laurie and Terry’s that night.
Laurie and Terry’s house reminded me of a lighthouse that night as we drove up. I remember needing to shower right away to rinse the smells and the tastes of that scene off of me. Ever seemingly present at times I needed her the most, Laurie was there to go for a walk with me in order to move and clear some energies in yet another way.
My sister-in-law had given me a pair of cute red flip-flops that day, and after wearing them that night I couldn’t bring myself to go near them. I ended up throwing them in the dump, but what I really wanted to do was to burn them.
I was concerned for the friend who was driving the truck that ran over the biker, so I finally mustered up the courage to call him the next morning. It was then that I found out that his wife was driving—that’s why he’d looked especially heartsick at the scene. They didn't know they'd run over a person (albeit, I'm certain the man had already left his body by then) until the highway patrol came to their door later that night.
When I called, he was grateful, because his wife was understandably horrified by it and having a hell of a time. Plus, like me, I'm sure they were both in a state of shock yet, too.
That Sunday morning after, Terry drove down the highway to have a neighbor familiarize him with the layout of some land and access routes for fighting prairie fires, should the need arise. Terry told me afterwards that he’d driven that highway all those years, never noticing until that morning that there was a blind spot as one descended the hill that kept a driver from seeing all the way to the bottom.
By then, I also realized that both brothers and I had been clothed in black, and that against the fairly new-topped black highway, we would have been invisible in the hours of dusk.
Armed with these few facts, I made myself get in my car a few days later and drive into town to see the driver of the truck. Understandably, she admitted she wasn’t so sure she wanted to talk with me when she saw me walking up to her home. But once we got to talking and sharing our versions with each other, we both found it helped answer mercifully a lot of scary questions.
She was actually a hero. She was the one who’d made the emergency call and gotten help to the scene—using a dead cell phone. She said she almost didn't take it with them that night on their way to town for supper because it was uncharged, but she remembered hearing a story about battered women who were given old cell phones, because 911 calls could still be made on them.
While her husband walked back to where we were, she stayed with the vehicle and proceeded to flash her lights on and off (she couldn’t find her flashers either, but got creative). I’m pretty sure she was instrumental in getting the traffic stopped behind me.
Our conversation took a turn down memory lane and we got on the subject of my parents. She began telling me about attending a wedding dance shortly after the death of her first husband. She said she hadn’t wanted to go, but that the parents of the bride were good friends of hers so she endured the pain of watching couples dancing by in front of her.
A man came by—my Dad—and invited her to dance a waltz with him. She told him she didn’t know how, but he encouraged her that they could still give it a try. She told me, “I don’t know if I could ever do it again, but I think we actually did pretty good. I felt like Cinderella in the middle of the floor, surrounded by all these people…”
When I remember that awful, tragic night—this story, my last waltz with my dad, is at the forefront...
It gives me hope that no story, no matter how dark, is ever complete until it takes a turn for the good…and I hope the story of that night for my beloved friend and her husband, and for those two brothers, is one of those, as well...
My beloved friends, please keep your hearts and minds open to new possibilities--miracles. This didn't happen in order to punish any of us. For me, it was another step towards opening the doors beyond the old story illusion called Death. As well as a chance for me to actually practice the art of SELF-COMPASSION that was then naturally expressed as compassion for all the others.
With love and gratitude, Harry and Edward...
P.S. Less than two years later in May, on our way to my nephew's graduation, my husband and I were driving down the same highway in broad sunny daylight around 1:30 in the afternoon. We passed a caravan of motorcycles and a Jimmy pulling a trailer parked on the side of the road exactly where I'd parked that fateful night. It felt too coincidental for both of us, so we turned around about a mile past to backtrack and ask if they were somehow connected with the motorcyclists that night. Even with knowing they were there, we couldn't actually see them until we were actually upon the site on the other side of that little dip and rise in the highway. And the cyclists knew nothing of the accident. They had stopped to do repairs on one of the bikes.
I've decided that miracles and gifts are all around me--I just have to keep my heart and eyes open.............
Another P.S. In 2008, Kel and I experienced our own personal collision with a deer at night. We were unharmed, but our pick-up warranted a trip to the body shop. We were in the middle of nowhere, couldn't find the deer, but called in and reported the accident. A week later I picked up our truck from the shop and drove it straight home. That night, Kelly was called into work on an emergency. As he backed out of the garage he noticed the clock read 1:11 am, and that the odometer read 111,111.11 miles. In numerology, the number "one" means "new beginnings"...
Click on the following links to read posts related to this one:
Can Death Be Transcended?
In Loving Memory and Honor...Arlen
With Love, Dad...
All of it just to learn to let go of control and allow the story the freedom to arrange and transform itself to play out for the good for all of us...
This one is still transforming for me, nearly eight years later...
It was the last week in August, 2005. I was home in Minneapolis feeling a bit sad. I’d just remembered a phone conversation I’d had with Dad sometime in the months before he died. After Mom died, he and I usually talked with one another every Sunday.
On this particular Sunday, he told me he’d gone to a wedding dance in Ludlow and had danced with my sister, Laurie, and his granddaughter, Renae. He then said he was sure sad that I wasn’t there, too—that he’d missed the chance to dance with me. Our favorite was the waltz.
I remember feeling a bit choked up at the time, and in an attempt to head off a really painful moment for the two of us that I didn’t want to tarnish the little joy he’d recently had, I chimed in, “Oh, that’s okay, Dad. I’m so glad you got the chance to dance with Laurie and Renae.”
Two years later, here I was remembering that exchange, finally allowing myself to feel the pain of the loss of that last waltz with him.
A few days later I was on the highway alone, headed to Laurie and Terry’s place to spend a little time visiting them and other family, and taking in a football game that my nephews were playing.
On September 3rd, the two-year anniversary of my last night with my dad, I was heading back to Laurie and Terry’s after having spent part of a joy-filled day with my oldest brother and his family and part of it with my brother Steve. As I passed the turn-off where Arlen had been killed, two guys on motorcycles passed me, causing me to think of him and that night, and finding myself grateful that I’d arrive at Laurie’s before it was dark. Deer were in the ditches and I was especially vigilant about not driving after dark.
As I rounded the curve at the North Dakota/South Dakota border, I found myself talking to Dad sharing my joy of the day with him. I glanced at the clock and noted it was nearly eight o’clock. A few moments later I saw a wavery, dark-gray haze moving across the highway a mile or so in front me, on the north face of a hill known as Microwave Tower Hill.
As I drew closer, I noticed a man was standing in the middle of the highway waving his arms to flag me down. I pulled to the shoulder, taking in the glint of a motorcycle off to the side, and realized it was the guys who had passed me earlier. As I stopped the car and got out, he ran up to me and asked if I had a cell phone, which I didn’t.
I started following him and realized they’d hit a deer and that one of the men, his brother, was sprawled across the center of the highway, and motorcycle parts and deer parts were strewn across both lanes. I got about three feet away from the man lying on the highway, didn’t notice any movement from him and found the question, “Is he dead?” choked off somewhere between my heart and my vocal cords. I couldn’t bring myself to voice it.
And then we heard the roar of another vehicle, not visible yet, but approaching from over the top of the south side of the hill. We rushed into the middle of the lane, waving our arms trying to stop the truck. But the engine never slowed, and I remember grabbing the guy’s shoulder to signal him to jump off the road with me, keeping my back turned away and bracing for the sound of the impact as the truck ran over the downed biker. As his brother yelled and screamed his frustration beside me, another vehicle sped by, never stopping.
Shock took over—it would take me days to remember the second vehicle whipping by without stopping. I realized I needed to turn on my emergency flashers on the car, and as I started down the road in that direction, the passenger in the first truck met me. They’d pulled over at the first approach and he’d walked back to help—never realized that their truck had run over a human being. They thought it was a motorcycle part--parts were strewn all over the highway, as I explained earlier, and the man was clothed in black, pretty much invisible. I didn't even know he was there until I'd gotten out of my car. I knew the occupants of the truck, they were friends of the family—and my heart just dropped.
I ran across the highway to turn on the flashers, but even though I had noted gratefully how easy they were to find when we bought the car, I couldn’t see them. In the meantime, a truck pulling a horsetrailer came from the direction I had, and we managed to get them stopped in time. The husband and wife, with a daughter named Hope, helped turn on my lights and stayed near me, and one-by-one, traffic was stopped both directions and emergency vehicles began arriving.
I remember making the conscious choice at the time to walk through this whole accident with compassion for myself instead of the self-criticism of what I “should have done.” I didn’t know I was on the scene of an accident until I’d left the car, and then things just unfurled in a matter of seconds of time.
Once we had someone managing traffic from both directions, his brother went over and sat down next to the man on the highway—and told me the story of why they were out riding that late. He was blaming himself, but I finally knew by that time that it was important to express those thoughts and feelings in order to release them, no matter how painful, or seemingly misdirected. So I kept my mouth shut and my hand on his shoulder, and let him vent his pain.
Human angels came out of the prairie that dark and tragic night. One man came forward and suggested he help move the brother over to the side of the road. Another vehicle drove slowly through offering first aid and use of their phone. A school friend who was a member of the fire department took the time to give me a comforting hug as he went about his duties. And yet another friend came to keep an eye out for me until I’d talked to the sheriff, and then she and her husband delivered me and my car to Laurie and Terry’s that night.
Laurie and Terry’s house reminded me of a lighthouse that night as we drove up. I remember needing to shower right away to rinse the smells and the tastes of that scene off of me. Ever seemingly present at times I needed her the most, Laurie was there to go for a walk with me in order to move and clear some energies in yet another way.
My sister-in-law had given me a pair of cute red flip-flops that day, and after wearing them that night I couldn’t bring myself to go near them. I ended up throwing them in the dump, but what I really wanted to do was to burn them.
I was concerned for the friend who was driving the truck that ran over the biker, so I finally mustered up the courage to call him the next morning. It was then that I found out that his wife was driving—that’s why he’d looked especially heartsick at the scene. They didn't know they'd run over a person (albeit, I'm certain the man had already left his body by then) until the highway patrol came to their door later that night.
When I called, he was grateful, because his wife was understandably horrified by it and having a hell of a time. Plus, like me, I'm sure they were both in a state of shock yet, too.
That Sunday morning after, Terry drove down the highway to have a neighbor familiarize him with the layout of some land and access routes for fighting prairie fires, should the need arise. Terry told me afterwards that he’d driven that highway all those years, never noticing until that morning that there was a blind spot as one descended the hill that kept a driver from seeing all the way to the bottom.
By then, I also realized that both brothers and I had been clothed in black, and that against the fairly new-topped black highway, we would have been invisible in the hours of dusk.
Armed with these few facts, I made myself get in my car a few days later and drive into town to see the driver of the truck. Understandably, she admitted she wasn’t so sure she wanted to talk with me when she saw me walking up to her home. But once we got to talking and sharing our versions with each other, we both found it helped answer mercifully a lot of scary questions.
She was actually a hero. She was the one who’d made the emergency call and gotten help to the scene—using a dead cell phone. She said she almost didn't take it with them that night on their way to town for supper because it was uncharged, but she remembered hearing a story about battered women who were given old cell phones, because 911 calls could still be made on them.
While her husband walked back to where we were, she stayed with the vehicle and proceeded to flash her lights on and off (she couldn’t find her flashers either, but got creative). I’m pretty sure she was instrumental in getting the traffic stopped behind me.
Our conversation took a turn down memory lane and we got on the subject of my parents. She began telling me about attending a wedding dance shortly after the death of her first husband. She said she hadn’t wanted to go, but that the parents of the bride were good friends of hers so she endured the pain of watching couples dancing by in front of her.
A man came by—my Dad—and invited her to dance a waltz with him. She told him she didn’t know how, but he encouraged her that they could still give it a try. She told me, “I don’t know if I could ever do it again, but I think we actually did pretty good. I felt like Cinderella in the middle of the floor, surrounded by all these people…”
When I remember that awful, tragic night—this story, my last waltz with my dad, is at the forefront...
It gives me hope that no story, no matter how dark, is ever complete until it takes a turn for the good…and I hope the story of that night for my beloved friend and her husband, and for those two brothers, is one of those, as well...
My beloved friends, please keep your hearts and minds open to new possibilities--miracles. This didn't happen in order to punish any of us. For me, it was another step towards opening the doors beyond the old story illusion called Death. As well as a chance for me to actually practice the art of SELF-COMPASSION that was then naturally expressed as compassion for all the others.
With love and gratitude, Harry and Edward...
P.S. Less than two years later in May, on our way to my nephew's graduation, my husband and I were driving down the same highway in broad sunny daylight around 1:30 in the afternoon. We passed a caravan of motorcycles and a Jimmy pulling a trailer parked on the side of the road exactly where I'd parked that fateful night. It felt too coincidental for both of us, so we turned around about a mile past to backtrack and ask if they were somehow connected with the motorcyclists that night. Even with knowing they were there, we couldn't actually see them until we were actually upon the site on the other side of that little dip and rise in the highway. And the cyclists knew nothing of the accident. They had stopped to do repairs on one of the bikes.
I've decided that miracles and gifts are all around me--I just have to keep my heart and eyes open.............
Another P.S. In 2008, Kel and I experienced our own personal collision with a deer at night. We were unharmed, but our pick-up warranted a trip to the body shop. We were in the middle of nowhere, couldn't find the deer, but called in and reported the accident. A week later I picked up our truck from the shop and drove it straight home. That night, Kelly was called into work on an emergency. As he backed out of the garage he noticed the clock read 1:11 am, and that the odometer read 111,111.11 miles. In numerology, the number "one" means "new beginnings"...
Click on the following links to read posts related to this one:
Can Death Be Transcended?
In Loving Memory and Honor...Arlen
With Love, Dad...
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Can Death Be Transcended?
This gift of a world of experience that God/Source gave me turned into a harsh, cruel world for me sometime in my early childhood. One of our dogs gave birth to a litter of puppies that was put in a gunnysack and drowned in the creek right after birth. It was done from an intention of doing the right and compassionate thing, because too many dogs in the context of that time and place equaled a pack that could wipe out a neighbor’s entire pasture of livestock.
But I didn’t understand that at the time—not that any rationalization mattered. All I knew were my own feelings of devastation, along with the mother’s, at the loss of all of that playful life. It’s the only time I recall of ever running away from home--which was to a place in the currant bushes a few trees into the shelter belt closest to the house--where I bawled out my distress and pain.
In looking back, it was one of those life-influencing moments where the door to the magic land closed. The new portal that was opened and that I’ve been exploring ever since is the one where the pre-dominant belief has been, “This is a cruel world and this is what you do to survive in it…and some of the things you have to do, you’re not going to like…but that’s life…that’s just the way it is…”
So, my question is, and has been all along: Can death be transcended? I really desire to know that it truly can. My own death doesn’t scare me, but losing my loved ones to death scares the hell out of me. I’m so tired of it. Eleven days ago I was done writing because death came calling at my doorstep once again and hit me where it could hurt the most. I literally lost it all for awhile. I couldn’t seem to get myself centered in the present moment and then I got a cold like I haven’t had in years and I just torpedoed into crazy land.
But, here I am, writing, getting centered, telling myself out loud over and over again, “I am that I am!!! I AM that I AM!!! Telling myself to trust that part of me that “knows” this experience is going somewhere that I truly don’t want to miss out on. So, at the risk of showing to the world how big a fool I can be, I’m writing everything down. I don’t know where this will lead. I only have the sense that it’s going to take a few postings and this first one will be a long one.
Part of this past week has been a process of becoming aware of all the voices that I’ve been listening to: mass consciousness, my own aspects, parents, teachers, preachers, any of the people around me at a given time, my “I am” voice, to name a few. This week one of those aspect voices came screaming to the forefront. She’s been pulling on my strings for a very long time, sometimes quietly, sometimes raging. And I’ve worked long and hard to try to quiet her, even avoid her, but she won’t shut up. I will call her Pure Desolation, a.k.a. All-Aloneness.
July 21, 1984: That’s the night Penny Lee Lewton died. Yes, my heart continued beating and my brain waves, waving—but while my biology kept on going, something intrinsically me died that night. I’m not sure what to call it even. I just lost HER.
That’s the night I returned home from a night out (the night from Hell) with my cousin and a friend of ours in Baker, MT. Pat had invited me to ride along with him—he was going over to have Brenda, our barber friend, cut his hair. Earlier, I had called Arlen to see if he’d go with me to the movie “Sixteen Candles” that was showing in town but he declined because he’d taken the weekend off from his job to help his family with harvest.
I felt a bit hurt and angry with him—this would later turn into the guilt trip (yes, from Hell) that lasted me decades—but decided I’d ride along with Pat for something to do. His staying home to help the family by working was a noble thing—I was being frivolous and irresponsible and demanding. It took me well over 25 years to realize that I’d actually offered Arlen a different path that night—but no, I had to view myself as a selfish little bastard instead, and punish myself accordingly.
We got to Baker, and Brenda cut Pat’s hair, after which we went to one of the bars for a drink. It seemed we just set foot in the bar when some inebriated guy took a shine to me. I tried convincing him that I was unavailable—even tried passing Pat off as my boyfriend—but the guy didn’t buy it and continued making advances.
We finally left Baker and on the drive home all I remember is thinking over and over to myself--I can’t wait to get home to Arlen. I can’t wait to get home to Arlen…
But when Pat pulled the car up in our driveway, Dad, Mom, Laurie and Dave stood outside the back door on the steps waiting for me.
I don’t remember the exact words, only that Dad told me Arlen had been hit by a car and killed while crossing the highway on his motorcycle on his way home from the field.
All I remember is screaming over and over into the night, “No-oooo! No-ooo…” For once, I didn’t give a shit what the neighbors or anyone thought.
And it’s the one night I experienced my solid, strong but gentle mom completely left hanging out there, not knowing how she was going to console or pick up the broken being that was her daughter.
Mom knew all too well the pain of losing loved ones to death. Her own rock-of-the-family mother had died when Mom was 19—only six weeks after she and Dad got married. Her youngest brother shot himself after being left paralyzed from an auto accident—he’d also been in his twenties. She’d also lost her only sister to cancer in the early 1970s.
After this night we had in common an experience neither of us ever wished on anyone—ever. But the damn thing called Death keeps happening.
Laurie slept in my bed alongside me those first few nights. I felt SO ALONE in my loss of Arlen. And when I think of it, we all uniquely experience the loss just as we do the life—no one’s is greater, just different and the only of its kind.
Mornings were Hell—one more day to get through, one day further away from touching Arlen. I just wanted to be held by him, but it wasn’t happening. I just wanted to be held, but I didn’t know how to ask for it. I was terrified of forgetting with the passage of time, the smallest detail of the moments we had shared.
I was aware that I was an aching reminder to Arlen’s family of the void left by Arlen’s death, though they were so good to me. I was painfully aware that I was a reminder to my own brother of the best friend he’d lost. Tim and Cheri and Arlen and I had done everything together. They had set us up and were with us on our first date. I couldn’t give Tim his best friend back. It almost felt as though he’d entrusted me with something priceless and I’d screwed up and lost it all, for all of us.
I felt like a walking bomb of pain that people tolerated—that I no longer really fit in anywhere. At least, not in the places I had when I was a part of the twosome called Arlen and Penny.
Christmas was Hell. Everyone around me kept on with their traditions, lives, families—but my celebrating had stopped. And I couldn’t find the words to express it—it just moldered away inside of me. I had no future, no partner, no children—I was in the world, but for all intents and purposes, I was dead at twenty.
I know I walked around with a scowl etched on my face. I was angry as hell with God, believing He was punishing me for not loving Arlen enough by taking him away from me. You know, “Nip that emerging tyrant in the bud.”
I remember likening the whole experience to feeling as though I’d been thrown face-down into a pile of gravel with a hand at the back of my head pressing and grinding my face in deeper.
I don’t remember confiding many of these things to the people around me—maybe some I did—but much of it I kept to myself, mainly because I had no words.
I SO DID NOT take Arlen’s death gracefully, in any way, shape or form. But I kept my most tortured parts of myself to myself.
After all, according to the belief of the time, sacrificing one’s own happiness for that of another was what it was all about. So I moved forward choosing to enslave myself in what was a distorted form of service to the never-ending supply of wounded ones outside of me, all in an attempt to keep Pure Desolation, who resided inside me, from feeling All-Alone. She just wanted to be held…
Maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright…I’m hoping that’s where I’m headed with all this…
For more about Arlen click to access the following post: In Loving Memory and Honor...Arlen
But I didn’t understand that at the time—not that any rationalization mattered. All I knew were my own feelings of devastation, along with the mother’s, at the loss of all of that playful life. It’s the only time I recall of ever running away from home--which was to a place in the currant bushes a few trees into the shelter belt closest to the house--where I bawled out my distress and pain.
In looking back, it was one of those life-influencing moments where the door to the magic land closed. The new portal that was opened and that I’ve been exploring ever since is the one where the pre-dominant belief has been, “This is a cruel world and this is what you do to survive in it…and some of the things you have to do, you’re not going to like…but that’s life…that’s just the way it is…”
So, my question is, and has been all along: Can death be transcended? I really desire to know that it truly can. My own death doesn’t scare me, but losing my loved ones to death scares the hell out of me. I’m so tired of it. Eleven days ago I was done writing because death came calling at my doorstep once again and hit me where it could hurt the most. I literally lost it all for awhile. I couldn’t seem to get myself centered in the present moment and then I got a cold like I haven’t had in years and I just torpedoed into crazy land.
But, here I am, writing, getting centered, telling myself out loud over and over again, “I am that I am!!! I AM that I AM!!! Telling myself to trust that part of me that “knows” this experience is going somewhere that I truly don’t want to miss out on. So, at the risk of showing to the world how big a fool I can be, I’m writing everything down. I don’t know where this will lead. I only have the sense that it’s going to take a few postings and this first one will be a long one.
Part of this past week has been a process of becoming aware of all the voices that I’ve been listening to: mass consciousness, my own aspects, parents, teachers, preachers, any of the people around me at a given time, my “I am” voice, to name a few. This week one of those aspect voices came screaming to the forefront. She’s been pulling on my strings for a very long time, sometimes quietly, sometimes raging. And I’ve worked long and hard to try to quiet her, even avoid her, but she won’t shut up. I will call her Pure Desolation, a.k.a. All-Aloneness.
July 21, 1984: That’s the night Penny Lee Lewton died. Yes, my heart continued beating and my brain waves, waving—but while my biology kept on going, something intrinsically me died that night. I’m not sure what to call it even. I just lost HER.
That’s the night I returned home from a night out (the night from Hell) with my cousin and a friend of ours in Baker, MT. Pat had invited me to ride along with him—he was going over to have Brenda, our barber friend, cut his hair. Earlier, I had called Arlen to see if he’d go with me to the movie “Sixteen Candles” that was showing in town but he declined because he’d taken the weekend off from his job to help his family with harvest.
I felt a bit hurt and angry with him—this would later turn into the guilt trip (yes, from Hell) that lasted me decades—but decided I’d ride along with Pat for something to do. His staying home to help the family by working was a noble thing—I was being frivolous and irresponsible and demanding. It took me well over 25 years to realize that I’d actually offered Arlen a different path that night—but no, I had to view myself as a selfish little bastard instead, and punish myself accordingly.
We got to Baker, and Brenda cut Pat’s hair, after which we went to one of the bars for a drink. It seemed we just set foot in the bar when some inebriated guy took a shine to me. I tried convincing him that I was unavailable—even tried passing Pat off as my boyfriend—but the guy didn’t buy it and continued making advances.
We finally left Baker and on the drive home all I remember is thinking over and over to myself--I can’t wait to get home to Arlen. I can’t wait to get home to Arlen…
But when Pat pulled the car up in our driveway, Dad, Mom, Laurie and Dave stood outside the back door on the steps waiting for me.
I don’t remember the exact words, only that Dad told me Arlen had been hit by a car and killed while crossing the highway on his motorcycle on his way home from the field.
All I remember is screaming over and over into the night, “No-oooo! No-ooo…” For once, I didn’t give a shit what the neighbors or anyone thought.
And it’s the one night I experienced my solid, strong but gentle mom completely left hanging out there, not knowing how she was going to console or pick up the broken being that was her daughter.
Mom knew all too well the pain of losing loved ones to death. Her own rock-of-the-family mother had died when Mom was 19—only six weeks after she and Dad got married. Her youngest brother shot himself after being left paralyzed from an auto accident—he’d also been in his twenties. She’d also lost her only sister to cancer in the early 1970s.
After this night we had in common an experience neither of us ever wished on anyone—ever. But the damn thing called Death keeps happening.
Laurie slept in my bed alongside me those first few nights. I felt SO ALONE in my loss of Arlen. And when I think of it, we all uniquely experience the loss just as we do the life—no one’s is greater, just different and the only of its kind.
Mornings were Hell—one more day to get through, one day further away from touching Arlen. I just wanted to be held by him, but it wasn’t happening. I just wanted to be held, but I didn’t know how to ask for it. I was terrified of forgetting with the passage of time, the smallest detail of the moments we had shared.
I was aware that I was an aching reminder to Arlen’s family of the void left by Arlen’s death, though they were so good to me. I was painfully aware that I was a reminder to my own brother of the best friend he’d lost. Tim and Cheri and Arlen and I had done everything together. They had set us up and were with us on our first date. I couldn’t give Tim his best friend back. It almost felt as though he’d entrusted me with something priceless and I’d screwed up and lost it all, for all of us.
I felt like a walking bomb of pain that people tolerated—that I no longer really fit in anywhere. At least, not in the places I had when I was a part of the twosome called Arlen and Penny.
Christmas was Hell. Everyone around me kept on with their traditions, lives, families—but my celebrating had stopped. And I couldn’t find the words to express it—it just moldered away inside of me. I had no future, no partner, no children—I was in the world, but for all intents and purposes, I was dead at twenty.
I know I walked around with a scowl etched on my face. I was angry as hell with God, believing He was punishing me for not loving Arlen enough by taking him away from me. You know, “Nip that emerging tyrant in the bud.”
I remember likening the whole experience to feeling as though I’d been thrown face-down into a pile of gravel with a hand at the back of my head pressing and grinding my face in deeper.
I don’t remember confiding many of these things to the people around me—maybe some I did—but much of it I kept to myself, mainly because I had no words.
I SO DID NOT take Arlen’s death gracefully, in any way, shape or form. But I kept my most tortured parts of myself to myself.
After all, according to the belief of the time, sacrificing one’s own happiness for that of another was what it was all about. So I moved forward choosing to enslave myself in what was a distorted form of service to the never-ending supply of wounded ones outside of me, all in an attempt to keep Pure Desolation, who resided inside me, from feeling All-Alone. She just wanted to be held…
Maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright…I’m hoping that’s where I’m headed with all this…
For more about Arlen click to access the following post: In Loving Memory and Honor...Arlen
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Just Breathe and Receive…
“You’re such a good girl!” My landlady would tell me this the few times I delivered some homemade caramel rolls to her and her sister who lived across the hall from us. They were elderly, and so very kind to Kel and me.
Kel used to mimic her, taunting me about being so nice all the time—yes, it made me get flashy eyes. I was trying so hard to do the right thing all the time, and then I’d get teased about it and I’d question my sincerity and motive for doing and saying the things I did.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to be a good fellow being, to leave the world having done some good in it. I tried so hard to do it as perfectly as I could, but never quite succeeded—ever. At least not according to my ego’s expectations.
I’ve been writing quite a bit on Facebook, as well as here—and in the last week I’ve found myself worrying about my use of cuss words in both places. My mom and dad didn’t raise me to use them at all—and I have to admit, the urge has been very strong to go back through all my comments and posts and either delete them entirely or edit out the naughty words.
I reread through them, cringing, but I haven’t allowed myself to delete any of it. Authenticity is important to me.
And sometimes I admittedly can’t resist using a little bit of shock and awe in my writings and speech. I know the occasional cuss word is probably not likely to gain me any more followers, but I sure have fun whipping one out every now and then.
My eighty-plus-year-old great aunt told me that a friend of hers (the widow of a medical doctor) said that cussing was a good way to lower blood pressure. So I observed my aunt relishing with joy, the flinging of expletives to her heart’s delight—and the delight was simply in doing something she’d never allowed herself to even try before. She wouldn’t quite go as far as the “F” word, but “shit” and “damn” were a “hell” of a lot of fun!
So every time I allow myself to go there, it frees something up in me, and I shift out of taking myself so seriously and, instead, start laughing at the things in life that sometimes have me feeling baffled, stymied, paralyzed, powerless. Funny what a naughty word can do.
As a little kid, some of my favorite moments were when my older brothers let me join them and their high school friends in their bedroom as they shared stories—many of them funny. It was so much fun, that as we all gathered around the kitchen table for a meal with everyone afterwards, I decided to try my own hand at making everyone laugh.
I lean over my plate trying to smother my giggle at the hilarity of it all and say, “Aw-Ugh! I think I’m going to throw up!” I burst out laughing and look around the table expecting to see the works holding their sides, only to be met with unbearable silence and discomfort.
Then Dad gives me a stern, disgusted, disappointed-in-you look and says quietly, “Pen, we don’t talk like that at the table.”
So, my moment as a comedian was extremely short-lived. But that little girl with the questionable taste in humor still pops embarrassingly forth every now and again. I love her and she still makes me grin in the moment, but sometimes, afterwards, I just want to shrink and sink into the ground and pretend she didn’t say what she just said.
I’ve had many a way-less-than-stellar moment—more than I care to remember, much less record for the world to see here. I have a deep-seated fear that it’ll cause people to reject me, not want to be with me.
A few nights ago I had the best dream:
Basically, LOVE was here to be with me. Love was symbolized as a beloved man in my life who I found myself barking with laughter with because I was so over-joyed to finally be together.
But, in the dream, I had just awakened from a night’s sleep and I found myself wanting to get cleaned up before we spent the rest of the day together. So I leave to “take care of business” only to find that there are other people along the way who have issues that I decide I need to help out first—some are dealing with releasing old hurts, others are dealing with their perception of lack of abundance.
My beloved had given me a gift—a pair of earrings—but I didn’t take the time to put them on. I was saving them until I was dressed up enough for them.
Ultimately, I never get my own releasing or cleaning up done and return to find that my loved one is going away for a bit. But just as my heart sinks at the prospect of him not staying with me, he reaches across the table to grasp my wrist to let me know that he’s not leaving me again--that his intention is to stay with me, to be with me for the rest of time.
I keep remembering that conversation I had with God years ago when I’d pleaded for help with the whole judging my neighbor thing. That voice within had said, “Penny—love yourself unconditionally FIRST. And the rest will then be easy.”
As the dream showed, I’ve been spending all this time FIRST loving everyone and everything outside of me, trying to make myself worthy of unconditional love.
I wasn’t allowing myself to receive the gift of it—symbolized by my not putting the earrings on the moment I unwrapped them.
It seems like an oxy-moron kind of thing: by its very definition, I don’t have to do, or prove, or be, anything in order to be loved UN-CONDITIONALLY.
All that is necessary is that I ALLOW MYSELF TO RECEIVE it!
So, these last few days I’ve been reminded to “JUST BREATHE and RECEIVE…Yes! Yes!”
And breathing it and a-receiving it I have been, that goofy little girl with the weird humor absolutely relishing it…
P.S. The man in my dream was my soulmate--me, my DIVINE MASCULINE--the partner to my DIVINE FEMININE. I used to feel him kissing me on the lips, sometimes while I was awake, and often in my dreams. For years, in my dreams, he was on the sidelines, just out of my reach. I could never seem to connect with him. It was so frustrating, because I was working so hard to get him to notice me, but no matter what I did, it was never enough, and I'd wake up disappointed. People mistakenly believe their soulmate is another person outside of you, but it's not.
Your soulmate is you! It is you...
Or you could think of the dream being the story of the all-alone-feeling Little Human finally REALIZING and INVITING HOME its DIVINITY/Soul/Spirit.
The important thing is, I had to CONSCIOUSLY CHOOSE to invite my divinity into my life as a human in order for it to come home to me in my present consciousness. As long as I kept it out there somewhere outside of me, while trying to perfect my little human story, I never really truly ALLOWED myself to RECEIVE all the love, grace and ease it had to offer.
In short--we're all perfect already in all our human imperfection. There's nothing we need to fix. It's just a matter of consciously breathing until we tingle with the knowingness presence of our DIVINITY--and ALLOWING ourselves to RECEIVE the love of oneself...
Kel used to mimic her, taunting me about being so nice all the time—yes, it made me get flashy eyes. I was trying so hard to do the right thing all the time, and then I’d get teased about it and I’d question my sincerity and motive for doing and saying the things I did.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to be a good fellow being, to leave the world having done some good in it. I tried so hard to do it as perfectly as I could, but never quite succeeded—ever. At least not according to my ego’s expectations.
I’ve been writing quite a bit on Facebook, as well as here—and in the last week I’ve found myself worrying about my use of cuss words in both places. My mom and dad didn’t raise me to use them at all—and I have to admit, the urge has been very strong to go back through all my comments and posts and either delete them entirely or edit out the naughty words.
I reread through them, cringing, but I haven’t allowed myself to delete any of it. Authenticity is important to me.
And sometimes I admittedly can’t resist using a little bit of shock and awe in my writings and speech. I know the occasional cuss word is probably not likely to gain me any more followers, but I sure have fun whipping one out every now and then.
My eighty-plus-year-old great aunt told me that a friend of hers (the widow of a medical doctor) said that cussing was a good way to lower blood pressure. So I observed my aunt relishing with joy, the flinging of expletives to her heart’s delight—and the delight was simply in doing something she’d never allowed herself to even try before. She wouldn’t quite go as far as the “F” word, but “shit” and “damn” were a “hell” of a lot of fun!
So every time I allow myself to go there, it frees something up in me, and I shift out of taking myself so seriously and, instead, start laughing at the things in life that sometimes have me feeling baffled, stymied, paralyzed, powerless. Funny what a naughty word can do.
As a little kid, some of my favorite moments were when my older brothers let me join them and their high school friends in their bedroom as they shared stories—many of them funny. It was so much fun, that as we all gathered around the kitchen table for a meal with everyone afterwards, I decided to try my own hand at making everyone laugh.
I lean over my plate trying to smother my giggle at the hilarity of it all and say, “Aw-Ugh! I think I’m going to throw up!” I burst out laughing and look around the table expecting to see the works holding their sides, only to be met with unbearable silence and discomfort.
Then Dad gives me a stern, disgusted, disappointed-in-you look and says quietly, “Pen, we don’t talk like that at the table.”
So, my moment as a comedian was extremely short-lived. But that little girl with the questionable taste in humor still pops embarrassingly forth every now and again. I love her and she still makes me grin in the moment, but sometimes, afterwards, I just want to shrink and sink into the ground and pretend she didn’t say what she just said.
I’ve had many a way-less-than-stellar moment—more than I care to remember, much less record for the world to see here. I have a deep-seated fear that it’ll cause people to reject me, not want to be with me.
A few nights ago I had the best dream:
Basically, LOVE was here to be with me. Love was symbolized as a beloved man in my life who I found myself barking with laughter with because I was so over-joyed to finally be together.
But, in the dream, I had just awakened from a night’s sleep and I found myself wanting to get cleaned up before we spent the rest of the day together. So I leave to “take care of business” only to find that there are other people along the way who have issues that I decide I need to help out first—some are dealing with releasing old hurts, others are dealing with their perception of lack of abundance.
My beloved had given me a gift—a pair of earrings—but I didn’t take the time to put them on. I was saving them until I was dressed up enough for them.
Ultimately, I never get my own releasing or cleaning up done and return to find that my loved one is going away for a bit. But just as my heart sinks at the prospect of him not staying with me, he reaches across the table to grasp my wrist to let me know that he’s not leaving me again--that his intention is to stay with me, to be with me for the rest of time.
I keep remembering that conversation I had with God years ago when I’d pleaded for help with the whole judging my neighbor thing. That voice within had said, “Penny—love yourself unconditionally FIRST. And the rest will then be easy.”
As the dream showed, I’ve been spending all this time FIRST loving everyone and everything outside of me, trying to make myself worthy of unconditional love.
I wasn’t allowing myself to receive the gift of it—symbolized by my not putting the earrings on the moment I unwrapped them.
It seems like an oxy-moron kind of thing: by its very definition, I don’t have to do, or prove, or be, anything in order to be loved UN-CONDITIONALLY.
All that is necessary is that I ALLOW MYSELF TO RECEIVE it!
So, these last few days I’ve been reminded to “JUST BREATHE and RECEIVE…Yes! Yes!”
And breathing it and a-receiving it I have been, that goofy little girl with the weird humor absolutely relishing it…
P.S. The man in my dream was my soulmate--me, my DIVINE MASCULINE--the partner to my DIVINE FEMININE. I used to feel him kissing me on the lips, sometimes while I was awake, and often in my dreams. For years, in my dreams, he was on the sidelines, just out of my reach. I could never seem to connect with him. It was so frustrating, because I was working so hard to get him to notice me, but no matter what I did, it was never enough, and I'd wake up disappointed. People mistakenly believe their soulmate is another person outside of you, but it's not.
Your soulmate is you! It is you...
Or you could think of the dream being the story of the all-alone-feeling Little Human finally REALIZING and INVITING HOME its DIVINITY/Soul/Spirit.
The important thing is, I had to CONSCIOUSLY CHOOSE to invite my divinity into my life as a human in order for it to come home to me in my present consciousness. As long as I kept it out there somewhere outside of me, while trying to perfect my little human story, I never really truly ALLOWED myself to RECEIVE all the love, grace and ease it had to offer.
In short--we're all perfect already in all our human imperfection. There's nothing we need to fix. It's just a matter of consciously breathing until we tingle with the knowingness presence of our DIVINITY--and ALLOWING ourselves to RECEIVE the love of oneself...
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
How Do I Quit That Judging Habit?
One of the most exasperating challenges in this walk of mine has been how to quit judging—period. Just when I think I’ve got it licked, I find evidence of my own self-righteousness bleeping at me all over the place—the postings on my blog are littered with it. And that brings on feelings of self-shame which then seduces me into further recycling dramas, which are frankly getting extremely boring.
My little human ego mind will cover and deny and slink around the fact that I’m judging, thus getting judged (victimhood).
I’ve posted about studying my belief systems—and one thing I’ve found is that my emotions will cause things to manifest very quickly, especially when they’re connected to judgments I have. I’ve found that when I’m emotionally bracing myself for some shoe to fall because of believing I’m either wrong or right, I’m conjuring up a shoe to fall.
Jesus was not accusing or blaming me for being human when he stated, “Judge not, lest you be judged.”
He was reminding me of how I was unconsciously bringing forth (manifesting) the challenges I was experiencing in my life simply because I was deciding this was wrong or that was right.
By labeling it a “right choice” or a “wrong choice” I actually charged it into being an experience based in judgment. They are simply choices—period.
I remember my dad once telling me I was being selfish—and that “that was no way to be.” So that phrase, that’s no way to be, has been circling around in my consciousness ever since, and I’ve been looking at it from as many different perspectives as I can.
Every way that humans have been and are throughout millennia, are all ways of being. Selfish IS a way to be. And so is selfless and self-loving and self-condemning. These are all ways to be, compliments of the MOST LOVING ONE who gave us life and free choice.
Some choices may be painful, miserable ones—and I may hate them, but they don’t have to be labeled as “wrong choices.” They were just a choice that led to an experience that didn’t feel very good so I probably won’t choose that one again.
Likewise (and this is the tricky one for me because of pride or shame), some of my choices may be truly joy-filled and fun and exciting, but I’ve discovered that labeling them as a “right choice” has placed judgment in my creation, and that is going to bring about judgmental-charged consequences.
Anyway, that’s my latest and greatest.
I’m liking the idea of feeling and breathing and living just plain and simple GRATITUDE for this amazing gift of being able to experience first-hand my own choices…A special thanks to all who walked with me through my self-righteous way of being…
My little human ego mind will cover and deny and slink around the fact that I’m judging, thus getting judged (victimhood).
I’ve posted about studying my belief systems—and one thing I’ve found is that my emotions will cause things to manifest very quickly, especially when they’re connected to judgments I have. I’ve found that when I’m emotionally bracing myself for some shoe to fall because of believing I’m either wrong or right, I’m conjuring up a shoe to fall.
Jesus was not accusing or blaming me for being human when he stated, “Judge not, lest you be judged.”
He was reminding me of how I was unconsciously bringing forth (manifesting) the challenges I was experiencing in my life simply because I was deciding this was wrong or that was right.
By labeling it a “right choice” or a “wrong choice” I actually charged it into being an experience based in judgment. They are simply choices—period.
I remember my dad once telling me I was being selfish—and that “that was no way to be.” So that phrase, that’s no way to be, has been circling around in my consciousness ever since, and I’ve been looking at it from as many different perspectives as I can.
Every way that humans have been and are throughout millennia, are all ways of being. Selfish IS a way to be. And so is selfless and self-loving and self-condemning. These are all ways to be, compliments of the MOST LOVING ONE who gave us life and free choice.
Some choices may be painful, miserable ones—and I may hate them, but they don’t have to be labeled as “wrong choices.” They were just a choice that led to an experience that didn’t feel very good so I probably won’t choose that one again.
Likewise (and this is the tricky one for me because of pride or shame), some of my choices may be truly joy-filled and fun and exciting, but I’ve discovered that labeling them as a “right choice” has placed judgment in my creation, and that is going to bring about judgmental-charged consequences.
Anyway, that’s my latest and greatest.
I’m liking the idea of feeling and breathing and living just plain and simple GRATITUDE for this amazing gift of being able to experience first-hand my own choices…A special thanks to all who walked with me through my self-righteous way of being…
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Moments I Fall in Love All Over Again
I know it seems like I’ve been writing about “my angst” an awful lot lately, but truthfully, I’m realizing more with each passing day how beautifully the Universe and God/My Divine Source has supported me in every moment of my being. I’ve been, and am, abundantly gifted with whatever I desire in every single moment—without any efforting on my part—unless, of course, I’m wanting to experience that.
I picture it as all sorts of wavy energies coming together to burst into beingness all these amazing, and sometimes perplexing, things in my life. The energies take the forms of everything touchable--from a tiny grain of sand sparkling on my shoe to our beloved Max and Molly cats to this house that I call home. It flows outward to become the community that I play with. And that expands even further out to become the planet on which I live.
A whole world is created magically just for me to experience—and I’m the source and center of this amazing bubble of reality that is mine. I’m feeling more at Home here than I ever have before. The Kingdom of Heaven truly feels right at hand—right here on Earth where I am.
One thing I’ve recognized more and more fully as I go along is how truly we love one another unconditionally. All of us—every single human that was and is, has loved, and loves, unconditionally. Even when we were acting out love dramas loaded with conditions—the real thing was there right in the middle of it all.
Here are some of the moments when I fall in love with my world and those in it, all over again and again and again:
I woke up this morning with Kelly’s arm around me snuggling me close. I headed to the bathroom to turn the faucet on for Molly to get a drink, and Kel went downstairs to put together our morning cappuccinos. As I joined him in the kitchen, Max and Molly were sitting right behind him on the floor, waiting patiently for the food he had assembled to put in dishes for them after he finished frothing the creamer and milk for our coffee.
I was putting dishes away that I’d left in the sink to dry overnight when I heard him cuss. He’d accidentally dumped his freshly frothed milk all over the counter. My instinct was to intervene and grab the dishcloth and start wiping it up before it got to the edge and spilled over onto the floor. But something had me hesitate and watch instead—and I’m SO glad I did!
Kel stepped across the kitchen to grab a pancake spatula and a big serving spoon out of the utensil drawer. He used these to scrape up and save his precious froth off the counter and return it to our coffee cups. It looked and sounded like he was back working at his old fast-food job at Max’s Drive-in, wielding his utensils at the grill.
I burst out laughing. If I’d allowed my old tendencies to interfere and started cleaning up after him, I’d have missed out on one of the most prized and entertaining moments of my life.
As it was, I watched a new day come to life as a sparkling frost-covered morning outside while I sipped my delicious, frothy cappuccino (counter scraped) in my warm home. I had a contented Molly stretched out on the table beside me, along with Max gazing out the patio door from his place on the rug next to my feet. And I listened to Kel sipping his coffee and singing along with some song he was working on in the room below us. All was truly well in my world.
About a month ago, Kel came to find me the moment he got home from work to show me what he’d been perfecting with his co-workers all day. He bent his knees in something of a lunge, and rocked back and forth on his feet as he pumped his arms in rhythm and sang, “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” We’d just watched the movie, Dear Frankie (one of my all-time favorites), where a little nine-year-old boy was doing a similar dance in the hallway outside his friend’s apartment as he waited for the door to be answered. God--my husband was adorable!
A few days later I was passing through the rec room where Kel was practicing guitar when he said to me, in reference to himself, “I suck. I should just give up and quit.”
My usual, exasperatingly useless response was to chew him out for being so cruel to himself. But this time I decided to hold my tongue and leave the room. I returned to the room a minute or so later and asked him what he wanted from me when he said things like that about himself in my presence, specifically for my ears.
He replied, “Tell me I suck and that I should give it up.”
So I obliged him and said, “You suck. You should give it up.”
And I walked out of the room grinning to myself as one of the great loves of my life continued playing his guitar.
“The World is My Oyster,” said the Pearl…
I picture it as all sorts of wavy energies coming together to burst into beingness all these amazing, and sometimes perplexing, things in my life. The energies take the forms of everything touchable--from a tiny grain of sand sparkling on my shoe to our beloved Max and Molly cats to this house that I call home. It flows outward to become the community that I play with. And that expands even further out to become the planet on which I live.
A whole world is created magically just for me to experience—and I’m the source and center of this amazing bubble of reality that is mine. I’m feeling more at Home here than I ever have before. The Kingdom of Heaven truly feels right at hand—right here on Earth where I am.
One thing I’ve recognized more and more fully as I go along is how truly we love one another unconditionally. All of us—every single human that was and is, has loved, and loves, unconditionally. Even when we were acting out love dramas loaded with conditions—the real thing was there right in the middle of it all.
Here are some of the moments when I fall in love with my world and those in it, all over again and again and again:
I woke up this morning with Kelly’s arm around me snuggling me close. I headed to the bathroom to turn the faucet on for Molly to get a drink, and Kel went downstairs to put together our morning cappuccinos. As I joined him in the kitchen, Max and Molly were sitting right behind him on the floor, waiting patiently for the food he had assembled to put in dishes for them after he finished frothing the creamer and milk for our coffee.
I was putting dishes away that I’d left in the sink to dry overnight when I heard him cuss. He’d accidentally dumped his freshly frothed milk all over the counter. My instinct was to intervene and grab the dishcloth and start wiping it up before it got to the edge and spilled over onto the floor. But something had me hesitate and watch instead—and I’m SO glad I did!
Kel stepped across the kitchen to grab a pancake spatula and a big serving spoon out of the utensil drawer. He used these to scrape up and save his precious froth off the counter and return it to our coffee cups. It looked and sounded like he was back working at his old fast-food job at Max’s Drive-in, wielding his utensils at the grill.
I burst out laughing. If I’d allowed my old tendencies to interfere and started cleaning up after him, I’d have missed out on one of the most prized and entertaining moments of my life.
As it was, I watched a new day come to life as a sparkling frost-covered morning outside while I sipped my delicious, frothy cappuccino (counter scraped) in my warm home. I had a contented Molly stretched out on the table beside me, along with Max gazing out the patio door from his place on the rug next to my feet. And I listened to Kel sipping his coffee and singing along with some song he was working on in the room below us. All was truly well in my world.
About a month ago, Kel came to find me the moment he got home from work to show me what he’d been perfecting with his co-workers all day. He bent his knees in something of a lunge, and rocked back and forth on his feet as he pumped his arms in rhythm and sang, “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” We’d just watched the movie, Dear Frankie (one of my all-time favorites), where a little nine-year-old boy was doing a similar dance in the hallway outside his friend’s apartment as he waited for the door to be answered. God--my husband was adorable!
A few days later I was passing through the rec room where Kel was practicing guitar when he said to me, in reference to himself, “I suck. I should just give up and quit.”
My usual, exasperatingly useless response was to chew him out for being so cruel to himself. But this time I decided to hold my tongue and leave the room. I returned to the room a minute or so later and asked him what he wanted from me when he said things like that about himself in my presence, specifically for my ears.
He replied, “Tell me I suck and that I should give it up.”
So I obliged him and said, “You suck. You should give it up.”
And I walked out of the room grinning to myself as one of the great loves of my life continued playing his guitar.
“The World is My Oyster,” said the Pearl…
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A Painful Lump, An Answering Dream, Love of Angry Me
The last week or so, I’ve had a lump in my lower left-side back near the waistline that’s been painful again. The pain comes and goes, and I have probably had the lump all my life—just lately in the last decade I’ve pinpointed it to a more specific area. Normal activities like snow shoveling or vacuuming, sometimes even walking, don’t feel so good when it hits—so I lay low for a bit and listen to what the pain has to tell me.
Pain, for me, is a way of my body supporting me in helping me to realize:
1. That I’m running away from myself.
2.That I need to stop and listen so I can become aware of my feelings and thoughts at that time.
3. I need to lovingly care for myself.
As I readied for sleep last night, I rubbed the painful spot and chose to ask my dreams to show me the underlying core energy struggle/wound that was resulting in the pain I felt.
The answering dream was a night terror:
In the dream, I was in a recently vacated room with two other guys who felt like friends of mine. I reached down to pick up a pile of blown-up photos left on a table. The photos were of murder victims and of people’s hands that had fingers severed off through torture. The murderer’s appearance in the room felt imminent, so I grabbed the pictures knowing he was coming for them, and I left with one of the guys. As I crawled across the driver’s seat of my friend’s vehicle to get into the passenger seat, I noticed that my side of the vehicle seemed frozen over with a thick layer of ice in the interior (like in a frosted deep freezer). Occasionally water from the ice would drip on me.
The dream shifted and I found myself in a café with mobster-like men. One of them grabbed me and slammed my head repeatedly on the table with a metal napkin dispenser. I seemed to be in and out of my body—one moment it was me being beat-up, the next I was watching him do it to my sister. I was trying so hard to scream but something kept interfering with my ability to make a sound. I was terrified for the two of us.
Somehow I slipped free of the two men at the table. One of them was grappling to hold onto my sister with the intent to kill her, and in a blaze of pure rage I plunged a spoon into his neck to stop him.
Thankfully, I woke up then--though, I awoke terrified, drenched in sweat and with a sore throat. And even after getting up to use the bathroom and taking some breaths to center myself, I was still shaken up enough from it to make it difficult to return to sleep right away.
In yesterday’s posting to my blog, I’d written about recently becoming aware of how I emotionally protected people from experiencing the consequence of my anger with them when they judged or tried to control me, or someone I love.
My temper scares the crap out of me—and I’m really quite harmless. But my feelings of anger frighten me so much so, that I look back often at what I write, whether on this site or in personal emails, to see how harsh I’ve been in response to my feeling of being attacked in some manner.
I have to say, my writing shows how I mentally try to handle the anger I actually feel because I’m terrified of losing control like in that nightmare and actually murdering someone. The anger I actually feel is more like a raging blast of energy that’s pretty much yelling, “Back off NOW!!!”
Back in 1998, a dog mauled our one-year-old Molly cat right outside the door in front of me. I watched him drop his mouth over her entire front end and pick her up and shake her. My mother instinct kicked in and I slammed open that door screaming and beating on that dog until he dropped Molly and ran off. He was a big dog, too, either a mastiff or a boxer. Rationally, I know not to interfere in dog and cat fights—but, my well-being wasn’t even a thought for me in that moment. All I knew was, “Make him stop!”
If I’d had anything handier than my two bare hands, I’m afraid I would have killed that dog. And I love dogs, too.
In a nutshell—as I’ve written many times over here—anger is one of those HUMAN emotions that has been a real challenge for me. I’ve tried to keep such tight control of my expression of it that it’s actually physically painful for me. My body has just been alerting me to what I’ve been doing with it—reminding me that I’m better off expressing it the moment anger hits, rather than stuffing it until it’s got nowhere to go except to explode in order to release the energy. I choose to HONOR MYSELF and whoever is playing my button-pusher by releasing it before it gets to that point.
There are certain things in this world that are taking place that do anger me. I don't like gossip and back-biting—and I’ve quietly suppressed myself while in the presence of someone engaging in that. I hurt from being in the presence of such malevolence. I get angry at people forcing their beliefs on someone else—whether it’s forcing them on me, on their own child, or on some distant person in a third world country. I dislike wars and finger-pointing. These are to name a few.
Guess I’m really just tired of all the unnecessary fighting, period. I see us—humanity--as capable of having so much more enjoyable lives together. I envision a world where we’re celebrating our diversity and uniqueness along with all those things we have in common with every living thing on this beloved Earth. I guess I’d rather we looked for ways to connect with each other rather than setting our sights on getting the others to conform to our expectations.
Maybe making that vision a reality first involves allowing myself to get upset and angry with the old ways…
And I don’t believe I have to kill anyone off either…just be aware of how I feel and honor that in my expression of all that I am…
Pain, for me, is a way of my body supporting me in helping me to realize:
1. That I’m running away from myself.
2.That I need to stop and listen so I can become aware of my feelings and thoughts at that time.
3. I need to lovingly care for myself.
As I readied for sleep last night, I rubbed the painful spot and chose to ask my dreams to show me the underlying core energy struggle/wound that was resulting in the pain I felt.
The answering dream was a night terror:
In the dream, I was in a recently vacated room with two other guys who felt like friends of mine. I reached down to pick up a pile of blown-up photos left on a table. The photos were of murder victims and of people’s hands that had fingers severed off through torture. The murderer’s appearance in the room felt imminent, so I grabbed the pictures knowing he was coming for them, and I left with one of the guys. As I crawled across the driver’s seat of my friend’s vehicle to get into the passenger seat, I noticed that my side of the vehicle seemed frozen over with a thick layer of ice in the interior (like in a frosted deep freezer). Occasionally water from the ice would drip on me.
The dream shifted and I found myself in a café with mobster-like men. One of them grabbed me and slammed my head repeatedly on the table with a metal napkin dispenser. I seemed to be in and out of my body—one moment it was me being beat-up, the next I was watching him do it to my sister. I was trying so hard to scream but something kept interfering with my ability to make a sound. I was terrified for the two of us.
Somehow I slipped free of the two men at the table. One of them was grappling to hold onto my sister with the intent to kill her, and in a blaze of pure rage I plunged a spoon into his neck to stop him.
Thankfully, I woke up then--though, I awoke terrified, drenched in sweat and with a sore throat. And even after getting up to use the bathroom and taking some breaths to center myself, I was still shaken up enough from it to make it difficult to return to sleep right away.
In yesterday’s posting to my blog, I’d written about recently becoming aware of how I emotionally protected people from experiencing the consequence of my anger with them when they judged or tried to control me, or someone I love.
My temper scares the crap out of me—and I’m really quite harmless. But my feelings of anger frighten me so much so, that I look back often at what I write, whether on this site or in personal emails, to see how harsh I’ve been in response to my feeling of being attacked in some manner.
I have to say, my writing shows how I mentally try to handle the anger I actually feel because I’m terrified of losing control like in that nightmare and actually murdering someone. The anger I actually feel is more like a raging blast of energy that’s pretty much yelling, “Back off NOW!!!”
Back in 1998, a dog mauled our one-year-old Molly cat right outside the door in front of me. I watched him drop his mouth over her entire front end and pick her up and shake her. My mother instinct kicked in and I slammed open that door screaming and beating on that dog until he dropped Molly and ran off. He was a big dog, too, either a mastiff or a boxer. Rationally, I know not to interfere in dog and cat fights—but, my well-being wasn’t even a thought for me in that moment. All I knew was, “Make him stop!”
If I’d had anything handier than my two bare hands, I’m afraid I would have killed that dog. And I love dogs, too.
In a nutshell—as I’ve written many times over here—anger is one of those HUMAN emotions that has been a real challenge for me. I’ve tried to keep such tight control of my expression of it that it’s actually physically painful for me. My body has just been alerting me to what I’ve been doing with it—reminding me that I’m better off expressing it the moment anger hits, rather than stuffing it until it’s got nowhere to go except to explode in order to release the energy. I choose to HONOR MYSELF and whoever is playing my button-pusher by releasing it before it gets to that point.
There are certain things in this world that are taking place that do anger me. I don't like gossip and back-biting—and I’ve quietly suppressed myself while in the presence of someone engaging in that. I hurt from being in the presence of such malevolence. I get angry at people forcing their beliefs on someone else—whether it’s forcing them on me, on their own child, or on some distant person in a third world country. I dislike wars and finger-pointing. These are to name a few.
Guess I’m really just tired of all the unnecessary fighting, period. I see us—humanity--as capable of having so much more enjoyable lives together. I envision a world where we’re celebrating our diversity and uniqueness along with all those things we have in common with every living thing on this beloved Earth. I guess I’d rather we looked for ways to connect with each other rather than setting our sights on getting the others to conform to our expectations.
Maybe making that vision a reality first involves allowing myself to get upset and angry with the old ways…
And I don’t believe I have to kill anyone off either…just be aware of how I feel and honor that in my expression of all that I am…
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