Venturing Into The Void

I have a new mirror hanging over my bookcase. It is a sunburst. In the center is a beveled mirror with many small mirrors radiating outward.  So strange how life works. Someone suggested that my next book should be about the sun.  And I thought “How strange is that!” Soon afterwards, the designer who is helping me spruce up my old house “found” an accent mirror she wanted to hang over my bookcase in the great room. It is a piece that I would not have selected for myself in a million years. I am very conservative and timid in my taste, both in dress and decor.

She is coming out today to help me select a fabric for my main chair, so I thought I better get the mirror hung. The man across the street was kind enough to pop in and hang it. So there it is, a splendiferous metaphor for the Self.

Too high to see one’s face in it, it hangs there as an image of emptiness, a radiation of the void. “Rest in the void. The void takes care of its own,” is a favorite phrase of mine.

Stay tuned for my next adventure into the void. Emptiness is fullness. Fullness is emptiness. (Warning: does not apply to dieting). Meditate on that at your own risk and without adding to your waistline. Hopefully, I can get my son to take a photo of the mirror soon. In the meantime, I rather like walking past a mirror that is too high to show my physical reflection.

Here is an image of the mirror.

 

None Of My Business

What God does with me is none of my business. “I would be about my Father’s business,” says the Christ consciousness. I am here to serve awareness.

It is none of my business why God took my daughter at the age of seven or my husband at the age of sixty-three. It is none of my business why I am still here.

It is none of my business whether my book succeeds or fails. God wrote it through me and that’s the truth. God is living His life through me. Everything else is beside the point.

I wish I could believe everything I just wrote; but my unbelief is none of my business.

God knows how to grow roses and have tornadoes wipe out small towns. It is none of my business why.

“Why” is a word that says I can understand mentally why things happen like they do. It is a stupid substitute for living your life as a servant of life.

I had an awful nightmare last night and woke up feeling serene. The paradox of that is none of my business.

I am pounding this out before breakfast, using brevity to drive a point home.

Love is none of my business.

It is all His.

 

 

Alone

My heart has cracked so many times over that it is held together with duct tape and the mercy of God. I must have needed the lesson of nonattachment more than any other; nothing else could explain why I had to surrender my youngest child and husband both this lifetime. Neither death was easy, nor was my grief that followed each one. When my daughter died, I was young and strong. Not so when my beloved husband was diagnosed at the age of 58. Both died soon after their birthdays at the end of a seven-year cycle. She was 7; he was 63. Gone too soon.

I leaned on Bob; he was my other half. Now after another 7 year cycle, I am learning that broken hearts still have much to give. As I sit at the Mac each day, the words arise form emptiness. Perhaps the mercy and the duct tape are allowing it to hold together just enough for me to be of service in this way. It begins when I sit in silence as soon as I get out of bed. I am often compelled to end the meditation to come in and begin an essay, that is what I did this morning.

I woke up around two a.m. and stayed awake for a couple of hours. Once I fell back to sleep after playing two CD’s, I had a wonderful dream. I was living in a Victorian house with Bob and our son. A group of teachers came to give me a party; it must have been a housewarming. They had decorated the front yard in a beautiful way and there was dancing in the parlor.  The walls were pink and had glitter on them; I realized that a movie was being filmed. There was food and conversation, the whole works. In reality I don’t have parties and certainly don’t have many friends. But the dream was nice.

Sometimes the heart that is broken has cause to celebrate for no known reason. The wren warbles outside my window and another day begins. I celebrate the simple. I honor the loves of my life that are gone and I live by the mercy of God. I am doing quite all right.

 

An Ocean of Light

I write words caught from the ocean of light. Just when I think the ocean will run dry, a marvelous fish surfaces with words in its mouth just for me. Playfully the fish tosses them into my net. I scoop them up and an essay is written.

This morning the words “an ocean of light” were tossed into the net, and so begins this Monday morning essay. Yesterday I put it out to the universe that I was ready to begin work on a new book. I realize that I am clueless as to how to get it published. I am always clueless when it comes to such things. So I sit in my chair meditating and the phrase comes to mind. An ocean of light. I let myself free associate about such a beautiful phrase.

I am sitting here typing in my bath robe and slippers. The sun has not appeared yet and I hear the faint chirping of a bird. All this is contained in an ocean of light. Consciousness is an ocean of light. Inside the ocean is food, is sustenance. All I have to do is write down the “catch of the day.” Sometimes one splendid phrase is enough.

Inside the ocean of the All

I bob up and down with God.

Porpoises play and conceal the

depths and dangers hidden within

the arms of God.

He is an ocean of light

and we are mere messengers of

His watery whispers.

Go down, Moses, go down.

Yea, though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death

I swim in an ocean of light.

~Vicki Woodyard

 

The Still Point Agreement

Although I am a spiritual writer, I also feel that I am a spiritual healer in my essence. If you asked me how that worked, I would just have to say “I don’t know and I don’t have to know.”

As Vernon Howard said, “When you know that you don’t know, then you know.”

It is in that spirit that I am offering an invitation to anyone, no exceptions. If you would like for me to hold you at the still point for any reason whatsoever, just send me a message. Don’t say anything except, “Hold me at the still point.” It is best if I don’t know what your problem or intention is. That way it is God’s business and not mine.

This is not a gimmick because it is free. I have not done this before; perhaps the “why” of it will unfold over time. Most of you on the path know how difficult it is to be still and know that you are. I am well-constituted to do that. I have no job except listening to the voice of spirit and it doesn’t speak in words. I have to do the translation part as I sit at the keyboard.

If it doesn’t work out for you, just let me know and I will still keep you at the still point. Or if you prefer, return you to your prior state. That sounds very strange to me, just as it does to you. Or not.

Vicki Woodyard

 

Fresh

Early morning words, fresh from the subconsciousness, thrown on the dewy grass of my mind. Words that jar the reader into awakening. Smell the coffee. Smell the roses. Shit is coming down the pike. Never mind the telegenic young teachers who are selling their fresh faces and outlooks to you. Down below the demons are growling at you.

Demons that want you dead. Christ knew all about them. He spoke openly of the devil. The devil is the unconscious, the cellar of our being where they roam. Last night I had nightmares and began to pray for the safety of the light. Went back to sleep and reentered the nightmare. The only saving grace was that I saw an apparition of my grandmother and hugged her, weeping. “I am so glad to see you,” I said twice.

If I write to you only of self-realization nothing changes, not you or me or the world, for everything is within. The opposites never quit; they are always churning out worst-case scenarios for us to fight. Love seems to be the apparition in a world gone mad.

Sometimes I hesitate to post what I write; it is then that people say they like it. Such a funny situation for a writer. I want you to see the strength I got from my teacher. It is downright scary, isn’t it. I had a dream once where he called me on the phone and we put our hands palm to palm and he read me a sacred charge and I agreed to it. Days later I told a friend who is a mystic about it. She said this, “I wanted to throw the phone across the room.” When I asked her why, she said, “I got dizzy and nauseous; I couldn’t take the power coming through the phone as you told me the dream.” And that is what my words are all about, ultimately. There is a lineage that will not be denied. It keeps me private and on point, ever doing my inner work of being still.

 

 

Blessed By My Brokenness

I am blessed by my brokenness. Otherwise I would just be another plastic personality doling out the cliches and comforting phrases. I have seen too deeply for that. My first breaking was when I became agoraphobic at the age of thirteen. I didn’t know what agoraphobia was; I knew I was terrified of social occasions to the point of nausea and vomiting. I didn’t feel safe. Many, many years later, the late Betty Bethards told me that it was caused by my clairsentience—being open to everyone’s emotions. She taught me to surround myself with white light and that has worked wonders for me.

The social fears kept me alone and since I was drawn to the path, I had nothing but time to study spirituality. I took to it like a duck to water. I knew which books I wanted to read and always allowed myself the luxury of buying them. In those days there was a wonderful independent bookstore called The Oxford. It drew people from all over to sit and inhale the heady aroma of new books and have a bite in the little upstairs cafe called The Cup and Chaucer. But the Olympics came to Atlanta and the traffic put the Oxford out of business. Now there are fewer and fewer places left to browse.

When my daughter was diagnosed with cancer at age three, that threw me into total disinterest in socializing. I had one goal in mind—to do everything I could to cooperate with her healing. The regimen was strenuous. She received heavy doses of chemo that would stagger an adult. I spent many nights holding a pan while she retched into it, looking at me with pleading eyes. I really needed God big time. He was breaking me and I needed Him. What a paradox.

Her death underscored my vow to know God. I walked resolutely through each day of grieving hell. Most marriages break up after the death of a child; Bob and I were the exceptions. It is a good thing we don’t always know the future. If I had known that he would leave in the same manner that she did, I might have “cursed God and died.” But I didn’t. I kept my head down and my faith up.

Twenty plus years went by and Bob was diagnosed with his own fatal cancer. Like hers, there was no escape. My caregiving years with him were marked with anger, deep grief and giving birth to my writing voice. God had snuck in the backdoor and showed me how much writing meant to me. So I began a website to support him, as many people know. It is where I began to claim my brokenness as a path to healing.

Now each day I am blessed with the gift of writing Facebook notes and having people respond to them. This is not socializing but a new way of coming into conscious community with like-minded people. Introversion is seen to be just the same as extroversion, a way of being in the world. We are all wired in different ways, but the Self is the same in all. When I let myself be used as a scribe, what happens is an emptying out of ego and an ushering in of Presence. I don’t mind my brokenness when it yields up such a rich harvest.

You may read more of Vicki Woodyard’s journey in her book, LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT: That’s How The Light Gets In.

http://www.amazon.com/LIFE-HOLE-Thats-Wisdom-Awakened/dp/1609102770/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1300842477&sr=8-1

 

A Place Within

Toni Morrison was on Oprah today, saying that everyone needed to have a space that was totally theirs. She has lost a son and said, so wisely, so wisely, that she never expected closure on such a loss. If he could get sick and die, she could remember that and go on, but not necessarily always feeling happy.

Truth like this needs to be heard and I, for one,  am here to tell it. I have created my own space where I do my writing. It belongs to me alone and I let it change like the weather while remaining the changeless. Oh, Lord, abide with me, as I move in and out of my oh, too human, moods. This week it has been my body; next week it may be my emotions.

Losing a child changes everything for all time. At the end of this incarnation, I will not be remembered for much, but everyone knows I lost something most precious. This deepened my channel to God. I, like Toni Morrison, have claimed the space to be totally myself. It is this I share with you, for we are all alike.

We all need a sacred garden where we work the soil of our soul. After the weeding and the feeding, we may sit back and inhale the fragrance of what has flowered or digest something that we have grown that is organic. One day this mother will go beyond herself into the experience of the All, but she will also remember each part of what used to be.

Wisdom is not about preaching but about being true to oneself. For when you are true to yourself, you are true to everyone. I am a plain person with simple things left to do. I am grateful that I have a roof over my head and food to eat, just as I am grateful for my son. Husband and daughter were here for a time and then moved on, as will I.

But while I am here, I claim my space. I call the shots and do my writing work. If I have any power at all, it is the power of an honest confession. I don’t know what the next step will be. I can’t see beyond the daily drama of my one little life. Somehow we are all alike in that.

 

 

 

Harmony

 

 

My heart is a reliable instrument because God is the tuning fork. When my mind empties of thought, He is able to make music through me. I never know what the words will convey. I just allow myself to be used. Tonight seems to be about awakening to what is and forgetting what will never be.

Regret is resolutely put behind me so that I can awaken to my glory. I have planted my Morning Glory seeds and followed the instructions to take the strongest seedling and plant it. So far, so good. There are only about three leaves looking to the light at this point. If it flowers, it won’t have anything to do with thought.

The sun is totally true to its mission. It shines on the just and the unjust. Awareness is the same way. We are aware of how badly we fail when we turn to thoughts about God instead of to God Himself. And He is both within and without.

The music that God makes ranges from the sublime to the ridiculous, from gut-bucket blues to the highest harmonies. We are His instruments and listen for His direction. Sometimes we hit notes that can only be called clinkers. I have sung so many sour notes I should have been thrown out of the choir, but something has made me persevere.

I once had a seven-year-old daughter who now sings and wings in the heavenly choir. She is the one with long brown wavy hair and one dimple in her cheek. Her name is Laurie and she must be sounding awfully sweet these days. I hear tell that one day we will be reunited. For now it is enough that God makes my words shape into essays that shape into illumination for some of you.

Hark the herald angels sing and some of them are singing to me. I pass the notes on to you.

If you love what I do, consider supporting it by buying my book or making a donation.  I have the intention to continue following my heart and sharing it with my online friends. Some of us know that the connection is more than mind-deep; it is heartfelt and powerful, indeed. I am grateful.

 

What I Know Best

Writing is what I know best; it is how I access my intuition. I can’t explain my process, if there is one at all. For starters, the words arise from my lifelong study of truth, but my own style is definitely in the mix. As I begin to type, I have no idea what I am going to say; I trust the process that much. Brevity is a key component; that’s just how I roll.

I like to reach down into the compost pile and turn over some dark, rotten, mulchy stuff to add to the light that interplays among the paragraphs. “And the worms crawl in, and the worms crawl out,” and all that good fertilizer. God created earthworms and skull bones and dark shadows that play in the light.

Who is writing these warped little words? Yesterday she spent a few hours watching her designer put finishing touches on her great room and kitchen. The designer is a watercolorist with a fine eye for detail. She admired the water colors that my mother had painted, as they are hung throughout my house. My mother had a wonderful decorating sense; me, not so much. I have some beautiful things I treasure, but they aren’t worth any money. I lean toward pottery and textured surfaces. I am also a neatnik and like everything in its place.

So when cancer crashed down around my ideas of motherhood, it didn’t sit too well. I was up to my eyeballs in crisis. I was contemplating how to grieve the death of our daughter and at the same time, give our son as normal a life possible. There was no way I could live up to what I expected of myself. I remember one winter day when my son had the flu and we had a new puppy. My son was delirious with fever and the pup was in the garage eating his poop. I became hysterical with rage. No more, no more! I thought.

But here I am on a soft Mother’s Day morning. My son gave me a dozen roses, almost white, and a lovely card and chocolates. My home is now becoming a true respite for me. I sit and look out the glass doors onto tall old tulip poplars now a succulent green.

There doesn’t seem much left to do but be.