God gives me the words to write; they are not mine. I know this because they flow effortlessly onto the screen. Thought has little or nothing to do with what appears here.
Thanksgiving morning finds me quiet. I know nothing about celebration. All I know is the everyday, which is quite enough for me.
The streaked sliding glass doors, the noise of a leaf blower somewhere in the neighborhood, the hidden stream of sorrow that powers my life. Yes, I said it. It is not joy that helps me to grow, but the sorrow. Jesus was a man of sorrows. I know this is my life pattern that must be played out.
But I have done my best with it, all things considered. My work arises from it. Resurrections of the heart happen because of it.
Take this for what it is worth, for you may or may not resonate. This is not about depression, but the very real sorrow of this world.
It is a good thing that Jesus said His Kingdom was not here.
We find ourselves when we lose ourselves to this earth and rise into our eternal state.
The best things in life are wordless, leave you wordless. Most of the time our dreams are about frustrations of one kind or another. With me, I am always getting lost, losing my purse, having emotional difficulties. It’s been a long time since I had a dream with any sort of meaning.
Last night began with the usual theme. I needed to floss my teeth, couldn’t get in my hotel room, took the wrong bus, etc. But then a woman in an old green sports car drove me to the restaurant I had been trying to find.
A man was there with his young daughter. She was wearing a silver charm bracelet and I asked to look at it. Their backstory was that his wife had died when his daughter was a baby. He was interacting with quite a few people there. He had a magical effect on them because he was loving them and giving them what they wanted. Perhaps what their hearts wanted.
I gave him a dented baking pan because I felt he needed it and he did. And right before I woke up he kissed me full on the mouth and I was sorry it woke me up so abruptly. It was a very groovy dream.
And I said to the Oneness,
I don’t feel at one with
much of anything right this minute.
And the Oneness wrapped me in it.
And I said to the Infinite,
I don’t feel so infinite right now
and the Infinite said to me playfully,
“Oh, go on.”
And I said to myself,
I don’t feel like myself right now.
And then I knew I was really onto
something because this was a new
And I said to the Mystery,
I think I know what you are all about.
And the Mystery winked me right
back into existence.
And I said to Forgiveness,
I am not sure I am worthy of
forgiveness and Forgiveness
stroked my hair and wiped
away my tears.
And I said to myself.
I may not know myself
but at least I know that
I don’t know anything at all.
And then God Himself
took me onto His lap
and said that everything
would be okay.
Consciousness is our way of being God; we are inescapably one with Him. This should solve all of our problems, but sometimes it even seems to exacerbate them. Why? Because instead of being God, we think of Him as something to aspire to be. How can you aspire to be yourself?
I have been telling my story online for way too long. Anyone who doesn’t know it can find it in lots of different places. And that is how the mind works. It is a seeking instrument, the original search engine. But it is the Little Engine That Couldn’t. The mind, in its frantic dance for answers, finally falls silent.
Many religious or spiritual schools teach and practice silence, but that is a sort of joke. How can you teach or learn what you inescapably are? I love attending kirtan, because at the end of every chant, the proper response of the listeners is total silence. And you can cut it with a knife. Except you can’t, because it is pure consciousness.
I feel differently these days about a lot of things. Bold enough to fall silent. In enough awe to fall silent. In love with silence enough to fall silent. In other words, to be myself more and more and more. Try it; you’ll like it.
I am grateful for my lifelong social anxiety.
I am grateful for the bunion on my right toe.
I am grateful that holidays drain me.
I am grateful that I am aging right on schedule.
I am grateful that I have bad dreams and trouble sleeping.
I am grateful that no matter how hard I try, there is a wall I can’t tear down.
I am grateful that chocolate is a part of my daily diet.
I am grateful that I am a poor driver and can never measure things correctly.
I am grateful that my writing only reaches a few people.
I am grateful that I fear the future.
I am grateful that I regret the past.
I am grateful that I fear change.
I am grateful that I never quite get the picture.
I could go on and on, but this is my first attempt to be grateful for the things I rue.
Because rue is ruinous. Daring to be grateful for the potholes may simply mean you are still on the road.
In our culture, grief and loss are often ignored, particularly in online nonduality. I became a writer while in the process of losing my husband to a fatal cancer. I, apparently, was the only one going through such an ordeal that was willing to write about it. It was considered poor form by many whose main goal was to rise above all personal identification.
But these days I notice that more and more nonduality proponents are undergoing necessary losses and being more open about it. That is a good thing, for awareness of grief is the same as awareness of not-grief. The witness does its job and the personal self, although essentially unreal, is in the dark night of the soul. Someone needs to notice because the veil has temporarily dropped.
We are all the characters in the greatest story ever told. When we have someone beloved in the valley of the shadow, we are personifying grief and loss. When Jesus goes into the tomb, we are Him as a person. When Mary cries for the loss of her Friend, we are her. And when she sees Him in his new body, we are both Mary and the Christ. It is all a teaching vehicle. But let us never forget that we are learning conscious compassion. It is poor form to say that Mary should have known better.
When I write about my inner life of moving through grief and beyond, sometimes I am amazed that I am still here and in a new place. It no longer feels raw and unbearable. I move through my life in an emptier way, but empty is my new fullness. Every evening as I do my stretching exercises at the foot of my bed, I gesture to the place where my husband used to sleep. I speak a word to him and a word to me, as if both of us were together in that place. I am comforted to know that we actually are. I am not sure what place we left behind, but where we are now is good enough.
I know you are already wondering what place I mean. It is hard to articulate but I will try. It is that place that has lived through the crucifixion and the resurrection of the personal. It is bittersweet and hard-won. It has gone through the valley of the shadow and become the shadow and the light. What it is now is whole and unreachable. Pure and stained with all that has touched the glory. Willing to give up dreams of perfection. Going on because every step was necessary. Every step was leading back home.
Every moment is an out-picturing of consciousness. Everyone an Etch-a-Sketch drawing of himself or herself. Feel free to shake it up a bit.
Here is who I became in the future, due to the past. I became the same. The Name never changes; only the game.
Drop what you are doing and take a Being Break.
Enter your own personal space and stay there!
Compare yourself to others and they always win. The game is rigged.
I bow down to nothing but love and so I seldom bow down.
Love is not everything, contrary to popular opinion. Love, like every other spiritual quality, can be faked. I know; I have done it. And so have you. It’s called people-pleasing. And it is an infuriating habit and one that is stronger than steel.
I hope to rile you up. And that is done in the name of the Name.
Don’t try and argue with me; you will lose every argument you enter on someone else’s terms.
Lose and you win.
I must stop now and take my wooden goose in for orthopedic surgery. The bill is high.
Do you ever feel you have been screwed over? If you don’t, you are either a liar or not paying close attention. Earth life is about being pounded down. With unconscious people, they blame it on the world, on other people, on their sorry little selves.
But as you age, you realize that life is not screwing you over—the God of Transformation is. You know Him, the one with giant hands that reach down and throw the events of your life onto the Parchesi Board of Confusion.
You cry out, “O Lord, of the little black cup that holds the dice, why don’t you throw me a winning move?” And nothing happens.
People will issue Pollyanna phrases that sicken you. They are happy; you are not. What the hell is wrong with this picture? Nothing. The world is not where we should be living. We should be living in full awareness that we are the universe.
Once we realize that, things have a chance of changing for the better. You take up your cross and follow Him. Not down the yellow brick road, either.
We can’t win in the kingdom of earth; God never told us that. But I am usually wrong.
I think you should skip over this note and right into Paradise, but evidently that ain’t the plan. Part of the problem is that we are too quick to declare our heroes. Like the cop gone bad in the news recently. You are hopelessly naive if you let the media tell you who your heroes are.
No one but God is good and even He can throw a pretty mean punch. I write this as one of His children and now I am gonna go find my mat and take an nap.
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The tide has turned,
the milk has soured.
I grow more lonely
by the hour.
The smoke is thick,
my nostrils burn,
I am awaiting
From sea and sky
the voices cry that
love is all and
none can die.
A lonely shell
upon the beach
is lying here
within my reach.
I pick it up,
and in my palm
I hold the present