HIDE AND SEEK

She was way ahead of me.  She already had a boyfriend when another guy took one look at her and said, “She’s the one.”  She didn’t cotton to the interloper at first, but that didn’t deter him.  He won her over, as I discovered while watching the documentary that covered their impending marriage and new life together as a young couple.  The bride and groom both had down syndrome.  And I was jealous. 

This had happened to me before.  Feeling lonely and depressed (in part because I was single, but mostly because I was alone since my mother’s death) had been a way of life for me for years.  Depression was my default mode.  I was on a crosstown Manhattan bus one night going nowhere.

In the midst of feeling sorry for myself I caught sight of a young lady sitting across from me.  She had down syndrome.  My heart softened as my mind switched focus from my woes to thoughts of her lonely life.  Now, there was someone who’d never find someone.  I, at least stood a good chance, being “relatively” normal.  In fact, I knew I’d find someone someday.  Or year.  Or century, as I liked to joke.  For a while I wasn’t even sure in which millennium I would be mated.  Since Y2K came and went with me still solo, that answered that.

As I took in the young woman on the bus, my heart compassionately aflutter,  my eye was startled by a glint of gold on her left hand.  By God, that did it!  Even she was married!  She was a member of the club and I was still out in the cold.  I couldn’t believe it, though I could see the humor in it, too.  I fluctuated from depression to compassion to exasperation.  Sigh.  Maybe her husband had a brother.

The documentary was called “Monica and David” and I heartily recommend it.  The short film captured the unconditional love bestowed upon Monica and David by their respective mothers and Monica’s generous step-dad (Monica’s bio-dad split 6 months after she was born).  This was a beautiful, inclusive family that did everything  to give their kids a full, happy, adult life.  Complete with a beautiful wedding. 

I started crying almost immediately watching the film.  The love and affection between the couple was sweet as could be.  They called each other “Honey” and “My Love” and touched each other tenderly, with happy hugs and kisses aplenty.  And they were surrounded by a warm, loving, watchful family. Which I was not.  

Netflix, in a stroke of cruel genius, delivered this flick to me on my wedding anniversary.  Not that I cared, but it added a bit of salt to the wound given the subject matter (a happy wedding), since my marriage (not so happy) ended many years ago, and, 13 years into the new millennium, I find myself still single.  My cat had died just days ago, mother’s day was around the bend, and my mother had managed to die the day before mother’s day, making mother’s day doubly depressing ever since.  If I were a lesser person, I’d be maudlin.  I was only crying because of the movie.  

When I finished watching, I got an email from my publisher posting my first quarter earnings. My first book, RAVING VIOLET, came out four months ago.  After 18 months of work, great fun, excitement, enthusiasm, my financial compensation was, well... small.  I started crying again. 

Weeks before I’d been fretting about money and my cat’s health.  I went into my local Catholic church (it’s modern, peaceful, and seconds from my house).  My dog comes in with me, unbeknownst to anyone but God (who, by the way, adores her).  My dog is utterly silent and sits patiently in her bag.  I can talk to people elsewhere for an hour and they have no idea there’s anyone in my purse.  She’s a stealth pup.  The peace of God is for all Her (well-behaved) creatures.  Why shouldn’t I bring her to church?  She needs a respite from the noise and grit of the streets, too. 

I was surprised to find Jesus this fine day covered by a drop cloth.  I’d never seen such a thing. Were they painting?  I saw no signs of it.  But the “drop cloth” was purple, so I quickly discerned that this was a fashion choice, not a renovation.  They must have been playing some Catholic game I wasn’t familiar with, like “Pin the Tail on the Crucifix” or, better yet, “Hide and Seek”.  Jesus was playing peek a boo, but I couldn’t imagine why.  Who was He hiding from?  Perhaps He was sick of everyone staring at him non-stop.  Mimi (bagged) and I took our spot on the bench and heaved our usual sighs of relief upon settling in.  Here was respite from the noise of the city and reprieve from the stresses of daily life.  We softened into the silence.  

I’m no Christian, as most of you know by now, so I’m not up on the rules, regulations, and past-times of the Church.  I’ve always referred to the Eucharist as “cookies and juice”, so you shouldn’t be surprised that I thought (with a smile),  ”Oh, he’s just hiding.”  He’s pretending to be dead cause it’s almost Easter, then he’s gonna jump up and surprise us on Easter morning!  Jesus was the original Jack in the Box.

When I realized he was playing hide and seek I decided that I could go along with it.  Guy wasn’t really dead, anyway, was he?  Son of God and all.  That “dead” act was a big ruse to see if we were all really paying attention.  Well, Jesus’ message via the resurrection is ours as well.  I’m due a resurrection, I don’t know about you. 

My cat had been sick on and off for about two years.  A urinary problem here.  A dental problem there.  This past December she was gravely ill, just as I was entering the hospital for surgery.  This was a double whammy scary sad “ouch”.  I begged her to stay.  She stayed.  But she was on the fence since, oh, November, and since the doctor’s medicines didn’t cure her, I decided to take the law into my own hands.  I treated her with herbal tinctures to support the three organs which were inflamed.  I force-fed her since she was hungry, but wouldn’t eat.  We were stuck between a rock and a hard place.  I believe in miracles and kept waiting for her to turn a corner.  She never did.  Her last week I took each day’s morbid evidence into account and considered whether “today was the day”.  It was not.   Yet.  

Two days later, it was.  There were tumors all over her body.  They had sprung up overnight, like mushrooms.  Her now obvious lymphoma went undiagnosed in January.  I put her down. 

The last few months of her kitty life Angela manifested some of my mother’s dying symptoms from pancreatic cancer.  The same organs were afflicted (liver, gallbladder, pancreas).  And there were "messes" everywhere.  It took me back to my Mom’s sickness which lingered and worsened over two years to the point that I could not wait for it to be over.  The thing I dreaded most in the world, the loss of my mother, became preferable to the daily hell of watching her suffer and fall apart (we worked with a hospice and I took care of my mother, and her messes, at my sister’s house).

My mother died on a supremely gorgeous May day.  Everyone around me seemed quite happy.  In fact, everyone around me (at college) was graduating in a few weeks.  Including me.    The disconnect between my daze of endless tears and the brilliantly beautiful day was cavernous.  People celebrated life, spring, and happy transitions while I steeped in sickness and death. 

Angela died on just such a beauteous day at the same time of year.  Spring had finally sprung in Manhattan and everyone was out with their sunglasses, boyfriends and shopping bags, laughing and having brunch at sidewalk cafes.  I passed by them while on the bus to the vet and cried the whole ride down as I stroked Angela in her carrier.

Never fun on a good day, I’ve grown too familiar with the sad procedure of putting a pet down.  As I spent my final moments alone with her, I stared curiously at the repeating purple infinity pattern that kept swirling across the computer screen in the examining room.  Infinity.  There it was.  Angela was at the Gates of Infinity.

While I believe in “forever”, the unlimited nature of spirit and consciousness, saying goodbye to the mortal form of our loved ones remains a bitch.  I wish I could say I’ve conquered that one.  But I gave her Angela a good death.  She was held by me and aided by three gentle muses, the lovely staff at the vet’s office I went to.

For the first time in 28 years, I am without a cat.

As quiet and gentle as my girl was, the silence produced by her absence is pointed. 

One of my teacher’s used to say “Always, always, the comings and goings.”  Yes, this is life.  Someone comes in.  Someone goes out.  Things are always in flux, though it may not seem that way for times at a stretch.  Yet I’ve been hit with an inordinate amount of goings since I was five.  And the comings I have wanted haven’t come.  More feeling sorry for myself, here and there, even decades after the last human death.  Well, that’s my cross to bear. 

But my experience of Angela’s death has been unique.  It seems I have made some progress in dealing with grief over the millennia.  I did most of my keening and wailing before she died.  I was not as bowled over by her death as I was by my father’s, mother’s, grandparents’, and my many cats until now.   What had changed?

Mimi and I went to church again while two people were tuning the organ, a woman at the keyboards and a man on a ladder.  We listened for a few minutes.  Easter lilies were everywhere.  As we left I saw the sign, “He is risen!  Alleluia!”  Like a good loaf of bread, Jesus rose.  The drop cloth was gone. 

As with Jesus’ good friends, I have heard from Angela since her passing. 

But there’s a little something called “discontinuous change” I want to discuss with you, first.

While change, or “evolution” may seem to go on at the same, invisible, plodding speed, there are some exceptions. If you look at water getting colder, the temperature drops steadily until something “magic” happens and all the water crystals freeze.  At once. Not one at a time, but “whoosh”, otherwise known as a quantum leap, (or discontinuous change).  Everything steady and predictable leads up to that magic moment of transformation.   Or transfiguration, a complete change of form or appearance into a more beautiful or spiritual state.  Like a butterfly from a chrysalis. 

When laying the groundwork of our lives, it’s pretty much brick by brick, day after day.  Sometimes it rains and we don’t lay any bricks.  Sometimes there’s a mudslide and it sets us back some.  Perhaps we stop because we realize our blueprint isn’t right.  Back to the drawing board we go.  One day it’s sunny and we lay the whole foundation.  Day by day we build with our thoughts, feelings, choices, changes and behaviors.  Everything we read, eat, listen to, everyone we talk to, how we spend our time, what we say.  Every choice is a building block.  

The fact of the matter is that most change IS continuous, even if we don’t see it.  Life is constantly in flux, our cells die and renew.  We don’t see seeds growing beneath the frozen earth.  We don’t see buds of new leaves on trees in January.  We don’t see the surprises, both “good” and “bad” that await us tomorrow.  But they’re there.  Slowly, inexorably, they respond to the call of the Sun, fulfilling our destinies.  Some days, seemingly “overnight”, those changes burst forth.

The week before Angela passed away a halogen bulb blew in my kitchen and my toaster went up in smoke (I thought it was the toast, but it was the toaster, black smoke billowing forth). Spirit communicates through electricity, since both are energy.  One morning, a day or two after Angela’s passing, I was in the kitchen preparing breakfast and heard her meow, loud and clear.  I turned to look for her.  The day after she died I plugged my iPhone into my computer to charge and sync them and got a message from iPhoto regarding the importation of 35 new photos from my phone to my computer.  This was clearly a software glitch, as I’d not taken any photos in weeks.  Not wanting to lose any photos either on my phone or computer, I agreed to the download.   Once the transfer was complete, photos of Angela taken on May 30^th, 2012, popped up on my screen.  There she was, looking up at me from my screen. I didn’t freak out; I accepted it as normal spirit communication, though it wasn’t normal computer behavior.  In all my years as an iPhone user that has never happened.  And of all my hundreds of photos, the shots that popped up were Angela’s. 

I’ve heard Angela’s spirit engaging in an old, formerly tiresome habit, that of licking my plastic bag collection as she protested her hunger, very often in the face of food I’d given her.   Since her passing I’ve heard her little feet walking on the newspaper on the floor (a backup bathroom option for my small dog) and general “unexplained” movement, including some plastic lids spontaneously and noisily sliding/popping/dropping off of my storage container collection when nothing was near the pile of plastic to disturb it.  She’s just playing. 

Today is mother’s day.  I’m spending it with my dachshund.  My mother died yesterday, May 11^th, 28 years ago.  Happy mother’s day, Mom, and love to my spirit kitties, apparently all in the custody and care of my mother, according to a medium, who accurately described my cats, and my mother. 

Life is always in balance.  Some things are seen.  Some are unseen.  Some seem to be missing or hidden.  We must focus on and love what is here, and gracefully embrace the existence of what is “not here”, as being elsewhere.  “Hiding”.  Hibernating.  Transforming for its next rendition.  Who wants to play the same game, forever?

I’m single for now, but now is not forever.  I told Angela to come back in another kitty body, and I can’t wait until she does, someday, somewhere.  My “starter” royalty check was just that.  A start, not a finish.  Like Jesus, I’m ready to spring out of the box.  Alleluia.   

©2013.

RAVING VIOLET the book is available in print, e-book and audio (recorded by me) from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, Audible.com, SmashWords, KOBO, AllRomance.com, and Black Opal Books.  

Hieros Gamos

HIEROS GAMOS- Sacred Union.  Holy Marriage

I am, hundreds of years after it first became popular, finally reading The DaVinci Code.  It is often this way with me.  I shunned A Course in Miracles for decades (it is a slow and unusual read, to be sure) and the same with Medicine Woman by Lynn Andrews, now one of my favorite books and authors. I picked up The DaVinci Code numerous times and put it down in boredom and disgust but now I can't put it down.  It’s all in the timing. 

Since first rejecting Dan Brown’s book, I’ve read the infinitely more dense, less fun, but powerful Holy Blood, Holy Grail, and seen the riveting documentary, Bloodline (2008) which follows the particulars of Holy Blood, Holy Grail and The DaVinci Code in heart racing detail. The film documents the secrets of Rennes Le Chateau, the town where Catholic priest Berenger Saunière discovered potent artifacts that brought him tremendous wealth and ultimately led to his untimely (and most likely artificially induced) death.  There are many ways to kill people without making it look like murder.  It can be done with suicide, too.  Things are not always as they seem.

Last week, I found The DaVinci Code on the free bookshelf in my building’s laundry room, along with Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol.  I clutched them both.  It was time.  The central theme of the DaVinci Code is the loss of the Sacred Feminine (as symbolized by The Holy Grail), and it describes the sacred sexual rite of Hieros Gamos, or Divine Union, which celebrates the alchemical magic of male and female in balance.  

Dan Brown outlines the systematic killing of the Goddess by the Church, resulting in womens' current status as second-class citizens in many parts of the world, and evidenced by our violent treatment of females of all ages.  Matriarchies and Goddess worship were omnipresent before the Church denigrated, demoted, and demolished Her.  The DaVinci Code helped to identify and resurrect Sophia, one face of the Goddess.  Her regeneration proceeds apace in this Dawning Age of Aquarius. 

I studied Gnosticism (ancient Christianity) in college and the Gnostic Holy Trinity included a feminine aspect, Sophia (which means Wisdom in Greek).  The feminine was powerfully embraced by pre-Christian religions.  She was also embraced by Jesus, the Christ.  I, like many others, accept that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene (not a whore by a long shot, this was nasty gossip spread by the Church to dismiss her, her relationship with Jesus, and the Sacred Feminine).  Mary Magdalene came from a prominent, wealthy, possibly even noble, family.  She bore Jesus’ child, Sarah, who was raised in France.  It is possible that Mary’s body is preserved in the area of Rennes Le Chateau.  Rent Bloodline.   

The Church held a political convention in 325 AD, the Council of Nicaea.  It eradicated reincarnation from Jesus’ teachings (it was most assuredly there, and still is in the bible, if you know where to look) decreed him divine, and denied his mortal life (as husband and father). In doing so they also denied us ours.  By putting him on a pedestal they threw us in the trenches, the exact opposite of what Jesus taught.  “All this and more ye can do”.  Out went the sanctity of women.  The sanctity of sex.  The sanctity of life.  What were we left with?  Imbalanced male energy.  War.  Aggression.  Control.  Power.  Domination.  Rape.  Our last 2,000 years have not been pretty.  If people could reach heaven by themselves (“the kingdom of heaven is within”) then they wouldn’t need the Church to act as intermediary.  The Church crippled and infantilized the populace.  And became very rich and powerful in the process. 

By suppressing women, sex, and life itself (by judging this world as ugly and sinful) we were told to eschew our earthly life and aspire only to the gates of heaven (after paying perpetual tolls to the Church).  It was a bold, political power play.  It worked.  Life has had little value on this planet for a long, long time. 

“Do not tell lies for there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed, and there is nothing covered up that will not be uncovered.”  The Gospel of Thomas (Gnostic Christian text discovered at Nag Hammadi) 

The truth has been withheld from the people of Earth for millennia.  The truth about Jesus’ life, marriage and fatherhood.  About extra-terrestrial visitations.  And certainly about the dark, hidden powers that have dominated our planet for millennia.  A shadow government has subjugated the world, controlling our money supply, the energy supply (the name Bush ring a bell?) and manipulated our governments.  Their number is up.  2012 marked the turning point, the fall of their dark, unseen hand.  It was written, and many native and spiritual communities knew it was coming.  A thousand years of peace is at hand, after the current dust storm settles. 

As messy as the world appears at present, as disarrayed as our personal lives may be (finances, emotions, you name it, you know it, you’re living it!) think of this time as Europe post WWII.  It was in tatters, but on the mend.  We are building a new world now, a brave new world, and a good one.  The second coming of Christ is here.  It is coming through each and every one of us individually.  We are the second coming of Christ.  Christ is a title.  Jesus the Christ.  The Christ is a crown, a crest.  We are earning our wings, or crowns, if you will, as our hearts and souls awaken.  The People are reclaiming their lives, their governments, their sacredness, and this planet back from the dark forces of oppression.  Just look around at all the protests and petitions!  People are collectively claiming their power, as ONE.  United We Stand.  Divided…we were a conquered people.  Our “freedom” was an illusion, just as in the movie The Matrix. 

We still have work to do, as anyone with eyes can see.  And it is our work to do, not God’s.  We are the children of God, and we were assigned as Earth’s stewards.  It’s time we treat Mother Earth and all her creatures with kindness, care and respect.

A few nights ago I had a dark dream.  I came upon a tiny little girl.  She was five, moon pale, frail, with big green eyes, a high forehead, and light hair. She was terrified.  I was able to earn her trust and discover that she was being sexually abused by her adoptive father.  I was appalled.  She was frozen with fear and could barely speak.  When I got her to open up she clung to me like a tiny monkey.  I was now her protector.  I heard labored breathing around the corner from us, then hushed, female voices, “she’s still alive.”  I rounded the bend and found an 8-year-old girl lying on the ground, bloodied and near death from ritual abuse.  There was blood everywhere, on the walls, even spattered on the ceiling.  I saw into the apartment where she came from.  It was run by women.  There were more children inside. A cult of some sort, the women were assisting the men in the abuse of little girls.   I was livid and screamed, “I am calling the police!”  I couldn’t protect both girls at once, I ran back to the little one I had taken on, while knocking on a friend’s door to help me. 

The dream was deeply disturbing.  The satanic cult activity was clearly visible,  misogyny and pedophilia were out in the open.  This is a change from the past when everything was unseen and unspoken.  The light of day is here so we can take action.  We must all speak up.  

Hours later, I was stunned when I met a little girl who looked remarkably like the child in my dream.  She was only two, but was the same size, with wide, pale eyes, a large forehead and light hair (there was absolutely no indication that she was abused, just that my dreams are prescient).

A day later a friend encouraged me to place an ad for tutoring kids, something I’ve done before and enjoyed.  She suggested Craig’s list, and I balked because I don’t like the look or vibe of Craig’s list (or e-Bay, for that matter).  I use neither site.  However, I decided to play and impulsively crafted an ad I was very pleased with, presenting my philosophy regarding a child’s emotional well-being and confidence being as intrinsic to success as any academic skills they might require help with.  It was an upbeat, friendly ad with a focus on well being and happiness. 

To symbolize the sense of peace I wished to impart, I googled photos of “natural beauty”.  In addition to waterfalls and ponds I got an image of a child, 12-14, out in nature. I couldn’t tell at first whether it was a girl or a boy.  I concluded that it was a girl with a pixie haircut.  Only her face was visible, smiling, looking up to the sky, surrounded by the lush emerald green of a bamboo forest.  The image epitomized hope, positivity and peace.  I attached it to my ad. 

Very pleased with myself and my ad, I placed it.  Within minutes I had 3 responses.  Two from men who wanted sex, and a third from a massage parlor who wanted to employ me.

What about my ad, focused on education and well being, elicited invitations of sex?  I was utterly baffled until I realized that these idiots thought that the image was of me.  How they could think that a 12 year old could amass my litany of academic credits is beyond me.  But then it sunk in.  They weren’t thinking.  They were looking.  They saw a child, a young girl, and she was a target.  There was nothing provocative about her smile, her pose, or her garb.  There was just her shining, bright, innocent face.  It was that innocence they wanted to buy, sell, pervert, subvert, abuse, dominate and own. 

I was appalled.  I was dumbfounded. My joy and satisfaction in embracing positivity and life was met with low down dirty perversion. I didn’t notice at first one guy even attached a nude photo of himself, his six-pack contracted as he “handled himself” off camera (only the torso was visible, but it was clear what he was doing). His solicitation was as follows:  “Hey there, I'm a 32yo clean cut, athletic finance guy who's looking for a younger girl to get to know, have some laughs with and have fun with.   Want to meet up for drinks by my place in soho and get acquainted with each other?” Now, 32 is pretty young to begin with.  When he said a younger girl he meant a child for that was clearly the image he responded to.  He called himself “Bill Damon”.  I doubt that’s his real name, as he was Asian.    

Another guy wrote me: “I don't need a tutor but I would hire you as my mistress, in a second! That is, if you were bold enough :)”  He was challenging that 12-year-old sprite in the bamboo?  I had unwittingly unleashed Pandora’s box with my ad.  I was angry. 

The last response was from a massage parlor: 

“Saw your post and hope you do not get offended. We offer a great networking opportunity as we have very high end clientele most who are in the entertainment and sports industries.

My name is Jasmine and we are a private members only body rub (massage) establishment and 100% legal.  The business is owned by myself and my partner, James.  We have been in business for 9 years and we are a members only establishment.  A lot of our girls do this part time to make additional income.

House Rates:

20 mins: $250

50 mins: $450

80 mins: $700”

This was a hell of a lot more than I was asking for as an academic tutor.  No degrees required for this line of work.  Just a license from the school of hard knocks. 

I changed the classified ad photo immediately to a blue sky and a pile of “Zen” rocks to represent the peace and well-being I had initially intended, and then reported all 3 solicitations as abuse to Craig’s list.  Does the FBI (who lures pedophiles with fake online profiles) know that tutoring ads attract pedophiles?  My mind was reeling.  I guarantee you some freak will want to fuck those rocks, too. 

I came face to face with pedophilia within 48 hours of my dream about it. 

We must honor and protect women, children, animals, and the environment.  Until we view all life as sacred, including sex, people will continue to feel guilt, anger, and revulsion about our bodies, and life itself (Eve was the Church’s patsy, along with Mary Magdalene, oh, heck, all women).  That dark view of life, of women and sex as evil or degenerate is itself a perversion perpetrated by the Church.  It dragged the Sacred Feminine off of the pedestal and threw her into the whorehouse.  There was now a boy’s club where matriarchies and Goddesses reigned prior. 

The sexual revolution may have been necessary in the 1960s, but it’s time now to question our choice of sexual partners and not make casual sex a way of life.  It is not imperative that you only have sex combined with love but it is ideal if you do.  Sex with love is a key to enlightenment if used properly (tantric sex), another reason the Church wanted to keep people away from it.  Sex with love is divine.  It is a far cry from the low-grade sexuality and pornography being peddled today, to adults and children alike.  It’s been separated from the human, instead of comfortably integrated, so that the dick now wags the dog.  If we honored sexual union as the heavenly gift that it is, one of pleasure (and, when we choose it, procreation) we would never feel shame, or relegate it to the basement. 

Psychologist Philip Zimbardo has an insightful and funny TED talk called “The Demise of Guys”  It’s under 5 minutes, and I encourage you to view it.  http://www.ted.com/talks/zimchallenge.html

I love what Madonna did for women’s empowerment and sexuality.  I love her brashness and confidence.  Madonna owns her sexuality.  I was never a Marilyn Monroe fan for the very reason that she was the exact opposite of Madonna.  Marilyn did everything to please men, not herself.  Madonna and others made huge strides forward for women in claiming their sexuality.  However, women now think they are empowered with 50 Shades of Gray titillation, but being sexually liberated without a partner of the heart is like a Porsche with no driver.  There are many levels to sexual union that are never enjoyed when people limit the act to the genital arena alone.

Our culture is fixated on image with no concern to substance.  We value looking young and sexy (a job with built in planned obsolescence if ever there was one) instead of leading meaningful lives and creating loving relationships both in and out of bed.  I am sick of people trying to look sexy.  “Hot” is for baked goods.  All the Botox in the world will not keep those looks from fading.  When we honor all phases of life as sacred and special, we liberate ourselves.    

Sex when substituted for intimacy and warmth is a technical exchange, not a spiritual one.  Until we open the possibility for the vibration of sexuality on this planet to be one of SACRED UNION (even if partners are not married), until we worship the Goddess for who she is (every woman and child) until men recognize the Goddess within themselves (yes, we all have male and female aspects, which must be balanced) we will continue to condone pedophilia, sexual slaves, and sell ourselves short as perverts, freaks and creeps instead of the Divine, Spiritual Human Beings with magnificent sexual and mystical abilities that we are.  Life was meant to be fun.  It was meant to be safe.  Sensual.  Sexy.  Beautiful.  Divine.  

When we corral our runaway crotches and hitch them to the rest of us, we’ll take a wild ride to brilliant, new, mystic dimensions.  ©2013

RAVING VIOLET the book is now available in print, e-book, and audio from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Audible.com, iTunes, SmashWords, KOBO, AllRomance.com, and Black Opal Books. 

Color My World

"No power so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear."  Edmund Burke

I scared the hell out of myself.

The wash of adrenaline was so complete that I was still weak in the knees days later. 

Now, adrenaline can fuel your flight if a minotaur or wooly mammoth is gunning for your carcass.  But I was just walking down the street.

What primordial sludge did I wade through that kicked my reptilian brain into overdrive?  My fear was so acute that I was incapacitated, no good for anything beyond stupefaction and panic.  So much for "fight or flight" being useful. 

The inciting event was my appointment with an accountant to prepare my taxes. 

Now, I like my accountant.  He’s a fun guy.  That’s why I go to him.  For something as un-fun as taxes, you need something to ease the pain.  I dislike tax forms.  Not just because of what they represent.  But because they’re unattractive.   They’re poorly designed and impossible to decode, unless you’re a wonk or a tax person.  They are the paperwork equivalent of standing in line at Manhattan’s DMV (a bureaucratic purgatory at best), second only to the tribulation of a huge returns line at a poorly staffed, crowded store on a hot day with screaming children.

Why can’t the DMV be cheerful?  Why can’t tax forms be pleasing to the eye and easier to discern?  Can we get a graphic designer and interior decorator in the house? I mean, when you go to the gynecologist, does the speculum have to be cold?  And metal?   No, it does not.  Everything unpleasant in this world can be made kinder and gentler.  When they’re not, it’s up to us to soften the blows.  This world is due an ergonomic, economic, ecologic and emotional makeover.

I’m here to help with the emotional part.

Every year when I prepare my paperwork for the accountant, I review the oldest year that I am discarding.  Seeing where I spent and how I earned my money is a sometimes depressing way to review my life.  I guess because I continue to grow happier, looking back at where I was draws me temporarily into that less happy era.

Years ago I was still trying to earn my keep as an actor, and holding down hated corporate jobs to support my theatre habit.  I’ve let go of acting.  I have a new dream.  My writing career.  My writing career has gone a lot better than my acting career.  Oh, I had a lot of fun acting, but not earning a living at your profession of choice can get you down.  Then again, I know of successful actors getting depressed because they wanted to do film instead of TV.   To quote Roseanne Roseannadanna, “It’s always something.”

Ah, money. Making money.  I heard about a guy who happily announced, “I’m set for life”.  What was his claim to fame?  He invented “2000 Flushes”.  I googled his story.  His wife asked him to clean the toilet, and in order to forevermore avoid the chore, he experimented successfully with what was to become a blockbuster product.  I suppose no one is crazy about cleaning the toilet.  However, chlorine and bleach products (such as “2000 Flushes”) devastate our water supply.  His American dream compromises the ecosystem. Oh well.  No one wants to think about where the trash goes.  But it does come back to haunt us.  

Reviewing old tax returns is like re-reading my diaries (some of which I throw out depending on how embarrassing and stupid they are).  Recently I found a diary from 2008 that included a dream that perfectly predicted a massive flood I had in my apartment this past April 2012.  I’d forgotten about the dream, but there it was, clear as day, describing a ruined wall in my bedroom where the pipes burst four years later.

Many of my dreams, even small, silly ones, prove to be prophetic or symbolic.  I’ve become a master at interpreting them (although why Madonna was asking me last night whether I liked her new potpourri line wrapped in burlap is still beyond me). 

The path from not writing to being published was, contrary to everyone’s belief about such things, easy for me.  In my parlance, it was “meant to be”.  Things should be easy and effortless.  The old “blood sweat and tears” work ethic landed us in hospitals and early graves (The Japanese even have a term, Karoshi, for working yourself to death, mostly because they do it a lot.  I learned about this in the incredibly uplifting documentary HAPPY which explores the true sources of happiness.) 

I’m not against hard work, but it should be for something you love.  And if you don’t believe that’s possible, consider that it could be possible.  If you don’t believe in the value of joy, you’ll never open yourself to it.  Sometimes you have to believe to see. 

One synchronistic event led to the next, and within (relatively) short order, I became a published author.  My first book, Raving Violet, came out in January and my second book is coming out later this year.  I finally stand to earn a living at what I love.

But with no idea whether my first royalty check would be for $80, $800, or $8, the question glowed neon in front of my nose, would I really be able to support myself?

I brought my new book to my tax meeting because I was proud to show my accountant and his son my product.  It’s tangible!  It has potential to produce a real income for me, possibly even a delicious one.   But he burst my bubble by asking me a sensible question.  “Are you in any national publications?”  Silence on my part. “You need to get into a national publication.”

That sentence hit me with the force of a sucker punch, and was as helpful as saying “You need to get married.  You need to lose weight.  You need to…” Fill in the blank.  I hate that kind of hollow, useless talk (otherwise known as “unsolicited advice”).  Since I've not yet been featured in a national publication I took the bait and sunk slowly like a battleship.  

I gave in to fear.  No, abject terror.  What if I never make a go of it? 

I’ve been reading about stimulating the amygdalae recently.  You should know this is a new age exploration, not a medical one since I’m a mystic, not an M.D.  The two almond sized amygdalae on either side of the brain are involved in the limbic system, which pertains to emotion. When they are metaphorically (I’m not confident they shift physically) focused toward the back, they activate the reptilian brain, or ye olde "flight or fight" center.  I’ve been doing mental/spiritual exercises to stimulate (or “tickle”) the amygdalae with the intention of focusing them forward, toward the pre-frontal cortex, which ties in with higher brain functions including the capacity for joy and pleasure. 

Amma, channeled by Cathy Chapman says:  “Spend a few minutes tickling your amygdalae with a feather.  As a reminder, this is to "click forward" the amygdalae so it activates the power of the pre-frontal cortex.   When you are able to control whether the amygdalae are "clicked forward" or "clicked backward" you have mastery over a critical part of your brain. You want your amygdalae clicked backward when you need to have the power, energy and focus during times of danger.  Soldiers, police and fire department personnel benefit greatly from this skill. Those of you who drive will also greatly benefit.”

Now, for those intrigued by this concept we are talking “metaphoric” tickling with “metaphoric” feathers.  Please do not shove a plume in your ear.  Personally, I prefer the imagery of a silken scarf wafting through the cranial quadrants in question.  The concept I like best is that of “clicking the switch” forward just like a light switch, a concept that is satisfyingly tactile.  The end result is that the amygdalae metaphorically “face forward”.  Like flicking switches on the control panel of a cockpit in preparation for takeoff, I’m preparing to get happier. 

Most of the time I generate incredible faith in my self and what I am doing, by trusting my intuition, honoring my feelings (even if they’re negative), and keeping the rational mind at bay (if necessary, beating it back with a stick, “down boy!”).  The rational mind will keep you at a job you hate until you die of…Karoshi.

When I went to music camp in northern Michigan we had magical trips on our day off.  (The place was so regimented we called it The Musical Army.)  We went to The Cherry Stand.  The Rock Shop.  The Music Box.  Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes.  And then there was Gwen Frostic.  Gwen was a little gnome of the woods.  Afflicted by cerebral palsy, she had bifocals, hearing ads, and orthopedic shoes.  This gal was not a looker.  And she was old.  But she was lovely.  She adored nature, as did I, and she did it great justice with her block prints.  She had a printing press right there in the woods (Still active, Presscraft Papers in Benzonia Michigan.  You can order online.) 

She drew animals and plants and produced stationery and stickers.  She also gave a talk to us kids.  We weren’t allowed to just shop.  We had to listen to her first.  The thing was, I really loved what she had to say in her slow, quavering voice.  Everything was labored for her, including moving and talking.  Here was this single, old, “Helen Keller” of Michigan.  To think of all the beauty she created despite those challenges.  Gwen opened her mouth and uttered pearls of wisdom, “Always reach for a star.  When you get to that star, you will see other stars that you never could have seen before.  Keep reaching”.  I was deeply moved by her.  Another pearl that stayed with me was, “Work without dreams is drudgery.  But dreams without work is fantasy”.  We got lemonade and brownies afterwards.  But the real treat was Gwen’s Pearls.  I have a whole string of them.

I will now reconstruct the mechanics of how I crawled out of my latest emotional cesspool.

When I’m exhausted, spiritually “off-duty”, or troubled for some reason, I give in to the muck and cry, pace, worry, pray, journal, quarantine myself, meditate, color, read, nap, or mope.  I accept my distress.  Acknowledge it.  It’s there for a reason and I put it there (based on my thoughts and beliefs).  I’m the only one who can crack the codes to reverse the mayhem.   

After acknowledging my post-tax session hysteria, I took action, making a phone call which allayed one of my financial concerns.  This is most important.  If there is something to be done regarding your situation, do it.  It might be finding out more information.  It might be fixing something.  Eliminating something (like when I got rid of cable TV 4 years ago).  Take action if action is to be had.  Next, I had a glass of white wine with my dinner. This loosened me up.  I made a phone call to a friend (acknowledging my desire for help).  She did not pick up.  I emailed another friend.  He didn’t respond.  My anxiety amplified.  It was obvious I was meant to deal with this by my self.  

I did not have a rental movie to watch that night. I did, however, have a book to read, and not a calming one, which was just as well, because trying to be calm when you’re not just doesn’t work.  Try meditating when you’re angry.  You have to actively untwist yourself from the pretzel you’re in, not ignore it or wish it away.  I was still in a pretzel.  Exercise would have helped but I don’t have a regimen right now.  I was confronted with silence.  I finally stopped struggling and settled into it. 

Very active dreams ensued that night.  I remained on edge when I woke up.  There were no two ways about it.  I felt as if something terrible had actually happened.  I experienced dread, and that I was “waiting for the other shoe to drop”.  In fact, I had just dreamt that while I was flying (sans plane, which is astral travel) I dropped both shoes.  When I went back down to get them I woke up.

As I sorted through my thoughts and feelings I blubbered and blurted, “I’m scared” to my breakfast.  I cried to my dead parents. Then I wiped my tears and read inspirational material.  I clung to my lifeline even as I was spinning it. 

While thinking about what I was truly afraid of (destitution, poverty, dying alone, being alone, being a failure, am I missing anything?)  I realized what the root fear underlying all those other fears was.  DEATH!  I was not afraid of dying per se (I believe in life beyond the physical), but of being put to death. I decided this had to do with deep-seated fears from other lifetimes when I perhaps said the wrong thing, and whoops, off with my head!  Someone knows I’m good with herbs and incantations; suddenly I’m the entrée at the local witch roast.  Get on the wrong side of people politically and open your mouth… that’s ME!  A little guillotine with your tea?  All my primordial sludge from this lifetime and others was coming to the surface to be identified and dispensed with.  Like the BP Gulf Disaster, except I spilled all by myself. 

Now, this is a massive period of emotional and mental clearing for Planet Earth and all her inhabitants (this includes me).  All that December 21, 2012 stuff was real.  A paradigm shift occurred.  Did the world change overnight?  Nope, it never does, unless there’s a little Pompeii or Pearl Harbor in the forecast.  Most change is incremental. Despite the apparent mess of failing economies, governments, and banks (or perhaps because of it) people are starting to generate community consciousness, to take personal responsibility for their brothers and sisters, and the planet herself.  People are more active and proactive, taking their power back from the governments they willingly gave it to.   What is planetary is also personal. We are confronted with spring-cleaning, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.  The times demand it. 

Another point to consider amidst all this emotional turmoil is that if we wish to invite more happiness into our lives, something must be displaced.  Out with the dead fish, in with the fresh air.  Our bodies and minds are being upgraded by spiritual ascension energies (whether we're conscious of it or not). The old gloom and despair that used to dominate my life continued to come up and out for absolution.  Just when I think I'm "purged", I have to run to the "vomitorium" again.  Add to that the fact that I was playing “the amygdalae game”, consciously making the switch from fear to love, and it’s no surprise that fear came raging forth since I was trying to cut off its air supply.  It's “The Last Battle".  Evil never goes down without a fight.  What it doesn't understand is that in its death, joy and freedom is born, like a Phoenix from the ashes.  Joy is a lot more fun than fear. 

Eventually, I connected with a friend on the phone, and that helped my mood a little.  Despite the cold, I embraced the sun and took my dog (my Official Happiness Coach) out for a nice walk in the park.  We played catch.  Or rather, I threw the ball at her, and I retrieved it.  Somewhere in there, she got some exercise.  The sun and fresh air helped revive me.  So did the chirping birds.  It may not have looked or felt like spring completely, but the signs of it were there. 

My mood was continuing to lift slowly.  I was on an upward trajectory.  I stopped to talk to Jose, a very sassy doorman down the block whose extreme positions I’ve come to love.  He claimed he would be a fantastic dictator, and described his Seven Point Plan To Fix The World.  It wasn’t half bad.  A Vietnam vet, he’s on top of current events, and is a history buff.  He's a cynic with a heart of gold who lives with a feral cat that he claims, “meows me to death”.  I laughed with him and released more stress by changing my focus from un-fun stuff (worries) to fun stuff (Jose!).  

Next came lunch (a meal is always reason to celebrate). And there was a DVD in the mail, so I had entertainment to look forward to.    

A second walk with my Happiness Coach enabled me to connect with more people, and be inspired by more wags of tail (my dog is a social butterfly).  My happiness index was continuing to rise. I was determined to continue my upward trajectory.  My dire case of miserable “what if’’s” yesterday was being wiped out with continued shots of positivity and irreverence (drinking, hanging with Jose, feeding my inner grouch).  I was a sunflower slowly turning toward warmth and light. 

I could now “what if “ in a new direction.  “What if I die of happiness?  What if all my dreams come true?  What if I become rich as Croesus, and overnight?  What if I exceed all expectations for love, joy and happiness?”  Why aren’t those the things we ask ourselves?  We meow ourselves to death with all the wrong questions. 

Mark Twain wisely mused, “I’ve worried about a lot of things in my life.  Most of which never happened.”  

We must maintain a delicate balance between what must be done (like, ahem, filing taxes) and what can be done (focusing on your dreams and releasing things that don’t contribute to them).  Due diligence is imperative.  Do certain people make you feel good? Yes?  Then stick with ‘em!  No?  Assess whether their asses get the boot.

Listen to your feelings.  They will never let you down.   I’m not talking about a desire to eat ice cream all the time.  That’s not a feeling.  That’s a habit.  When you get wise, when you start to trust yourself, you become more intuitive. The head and the heart were designed to work in concert.  Mix things up for a change.  Think with your heart and feel with your head.

During this week of despair I dreamt of a large, mottled, pale beige and white Monkey Mama with a tiny infant at her left breast and an older baby to her right.  She pulled me to her and said, “Come.  Nurse.”  Well, the fact was I wasn’t particularly hungry and the thought of drinking from her dairy was not appealing.  She clutched me to her chest as if I was her young and I hugged her.  I felt comforted.  My dream provided primal nurturing to combat primordial fears. 

Within seconds of waking I received the message:  “You must learn to tame the monkey mind.”  Ah yes, the infamous monkey mind that dogs those of us who meditate (or attempt to meditate).  It races and bounds across the room.  I don’t battle wild monkey.  Could have rabies. 

I thought about the message:  “Control the monkey mind.”  Was that it?  No, it was not control, it was tame, and there is a world of difference between the two.  Control implies force.  Taming implies cooperation brought about by wisdom and compassion.  At least it does to me, and I’m the one who matters here since it’s my dream, my story, my fears and my freaking monkey mind.

I meditated after my monkey dream and got the additional message “mountain out of molehill”.  So, Spirit was telling me to calm the heck down, flip my happy switch forward and start flying.  Wheels up.  

I eventually pulled myself out of the quicksand, though I wallowed in it for a good week.  Make no mistake; I’m not blaming the government, taxes, the world at large, or my accountant for bringing me down.  I did that all myself by inviting doubts into my head.  They were crappy guests.   

Let it be duly noted, I have been up, down and around the block before and since recovering from this bout of the blues.  Life is not a straight line.  It is a rollercoaster, by design.  It is a sophisticated maze, with many layers.  Think 3D chess and you’ll start to get the picture.  It should give you more appreciation for how challenging it is to survive in this matrix.  Give yourself credit.  Lots of it.  No one said it was easy to be here.  But the rewards are great if you have resilience, faith, persistence, patience, a sense of humor, and a glass of wine.  My ability to pull myself out of the abyss, by figuring out what works for me (and we all have different, ever-changing instruction manuals) is what is most important.  Not staying clean, pristine and stable.  But figuring out how to scale the Everest that is my life.  Even if I don’t leave the house.

Inflammation plus information and inspiration can produce illumination (results not guaranteed).  You too can scale the mountain.  Even if it is a molehill.

Color your world boldly. 

©2013

Raving Violet the book is available in print, e-book and audio from Amazon, Barnes&Noble, iTunes, Audible.com, SmashWords, KOBO, AllRomance.com and Black Opal Books.