My angel out of sight
pulls at the threads of
my tattered heart
sewing it up again with
light.

Vicki Woodyard

We are seeing widespread destruction courtesy of Hurricane Sandy. A physical storm devastates the emotional landscape. Only the spirit can look on without great trembling.

Vernon Howard gave a talk once about a town with a shaky bridge. In it, he said that our psychic structures need shaking, so we can see what needs to be rebuilt on more solid ground. There is a lesson in everything.

Our private devastations seem unimportant but they are not. They arrive in the form of disease, divorce, rape, murder; in short, a catalog of all human sufferings.

In another talk, Vernon said that as you climb the mountain of God, ask Him to pour on the lightning strikes. “More, give me more,” should be one’s shout.

The hard way becomes the easy way. The easy way becomes the hard way.

I have spent much of this lifetime in emotional devastation. I have climbed many mountains where the lightning strikes knocked me down time and time again.

In Daughter of Fire, Irina Tweedie says this, “And a journey which has no return is always terrifying. The personality is afraid, because it knows that the “I” will go, that it has to go.” There comes a time in our life when we have to burn all the bridges behind us, or they are burned for us, which is the same thing. Because the little self will be afraid, it will put up a terrific fight for its life.”

As we watch the nonstop reporting of Sandy’s destructive path, let us take hope in our own inner powers of witnessing. Life goes on. I heard from BB this morning that she had been dreaming of singing with Taylor Swift. “That’s funny,” I wrote back, “I dreamt that I was going to do a tap dancing routine with my old class. I struggled to fit into a tight red costume.”

The show must go on.

There are things about myself that cannot be fixed. Wounds made by God Himself, if you get right down to it. Introverted to the point of isolation, I turned to the spiritual path when my daughter was diagnosed with cancer at age seven. I already had agoraphobia, but that seemed unimportant in the bigger scheme of things. I had to play the game of life anyway. Being a perfectionist, I have always tried to do my best and it has never been good enough–for me anyway.

For many years I studied truth with great passion. That passion has never dimmed. I now understand better the concept of the wounded healer. I have had several dreams of being a shaman. Me, an introverted, panic-driven perfectionist who wears lipstick even when she is at home. Yes, me. Who else but me–someone who lives on the Great Edge of Enlightenment, fearing to take the final leap.

Buffy Ste. Marie sings in “Angel”

Come now and now my love,
And leave your dying desert to the rain.
Give up your treasured wounds
Let go the tempting memory of the pain.

Yes, I know. I should go ahead and do that. But now my dearly beloved husband is dying of cancer, slowly and courageously. I am being wounded by the shadow of his illness falling over my soul like a dark blanket. Me, a shaman. Who else but me? But who will I heal? Is there someone sitting in their inner darkness looking for some light. I can tell them that the darkness is where you come to God. That He will meet you there.

If I am on the edge of enlightenment, can I help you heal. No, but I can bear witness to the darkness. That is all I have to do. The light will do the rest. The wounded healer knows that grace is for the weary and the sick at heart. For them who need it most. My perfectionism would have me keep my mouth shut, but what does it know about grace. No, my flaws are what can heal me, once I let them flutter over me like birds in flight. They are wings that won’t let me go. Imagine that. Being borne aloft by sorrow. All I have to do is say the words, “I need to be set free.”

*Written and published on my old website.

Eloquence deserves our careful attention, for it is rare. I am not even sure of the meaning; I just know it when I hear it. I rarely hear it. Perhaps it is a vibratory heads up, a call to introspection. It induces silence—stops the mind in its tracks. It isn’t trite nor is it tedious. Rather, it is like water tumbling from a sacred cascade. You can bathe in its aura, tremble in its grace. The oak leaves outside are eloquent in their trembling (if you know the language of the leaf.) Likewise, the space between two weary thoughts speaks volumes. Let us learn to listen when the tree speaks truth. It says, “Shed your self-importance. Fall softly into the ground of your being.” Well-said, well-said.

“No words this time? No words. No, there are times when nothing can be done. Not this time. Is it censorship? Is it censorship? No, it’s evaporation. No, it’s evaporation. Is this leading somewhere? Yes. We’re going down the lane. Is this going somewhere? Into the garden. Into the backyard. We’re walking down the driveway. Are we moving towards…. We’re in the backyard….some transcendental moment? It’s almost light. That’s right. That’s it. Are we moving towards some transcendental moment? That’s right. That’s it. Do you think you’ll be able to pull it off? Yes. Do you think you can pull it off? Yes, it might happen. I’m all ears. I’m all ears. Oh the morning glory”

From Leonard Cohen’s song, Morning Glory

Perfection trickles in, seeps in around the cracks. Saturates the brokenness. Pushes us up and down at the same time. Exerts pressure. Coaxes surrender. Ah….a perfect mess at last. At last. I am a perfect mess. I don’t have to share this. People know 🙂

Vicki Woodyard
Author, Life With A Hole In It: That’s How The Light Gets In

Surrender is a great flowering. I now know the secret of life. It is found only when no one wants to know a secret but has become the secret. Out of that mystery the flowering shoots up tall, bends down low.

I cannot tell you how I have come to peace, only that I have. I took all of the templates across my knee and cracked them, one by one. Each pattern I had tried to impose on life had only made deeper grooves in my brain, made me fall into darker and darker pits of despair.

In total darkness I sat amidst the rubble. No human love wanted to approach me. I had no desire to be loved or love on my own terms. This was it.

Now what? Any door that would open would have to pull me in, embrace me deeply without any strings attached. And all I knew were strings.

My husband Bob had come and gone. I suddenly didn’t think it mattered. Nothing mattered but this new-found peace. There is no more story to tell. It has been given back to the earth. I suspect new roots are forming around old ones. One day there will be a massive upheaval of the elements. Perhaps then the flowering will be complete.

Don’t read anything into this story for it is only a random grouping of words and phrases. Google has taken over. Earth has been Googled, but is love something you can Google? I leave you with a laugh. Always keep ‘em laughing.

*This is a painting by popular artist Reggie Sultan
Title: Aboriginal People Sitting Around Campfire

I knew it would happen someday. Sitting around the fire with the dead come back to life. Celebrating the reunion as if sickness had not struck our family like a lightning bolt in slow motion. From now on it would be different! God had resurrected the dead and now what a tale they would have to tell. What emanated from the fire was not heat but love so strong I wept. If I didn’t stop, the fire would be in danger of being put out.

There was something different, though. We had no power of speech. Everything was instantly felt, or perceived. The knowing was so clear that we had become One. I don’t have to tell you how perfect it all was. The faces around the fire with me were a blend of past, present and future, for Time had been restored to its default setting—eternity. Not only that, but all sins had been forgiven. I knew this because I had become the Knowing.

The silence was alive and perpetual, as was the love. It’s not that there were no deer or trees in the forest where we gathered; we just knew they were one with the cosmos. The dance of Everything created what it needed in each moment.

I had my family back! The youngest had left when she was seven and I had carried a grief in my heart so deep it could not be conveyed. Now she was right there holding my hand. Not only that, she had angels banked around her like clouds. And my husband was not dead but young and healthy. As we gazed into each other’s eyes, we were inhaling the ecstasy of pure bliss. This caused us to rise above the ground with each inhale. We would come gently down on the exhale and smile at the scene of this blessed reunion. Our joy had been made full.

Our son, who had suffered the loss of his sister and father, now was the happiest of us all. For his journey had been severe. He had been cast into darkness time and time again as he struggled to move forward in his life. Now he was seeing through the eyes of self-unity. I could see he was the strongest in the family. How could I have missed that before the Reunion? How did I know it now? This was not hard; the love and healing emanating from him was the biggest wave of all. A rabbit ran past the camp fire; it was clearly wounded. My son gazed upon it and immediately, the rabbit was healed. Such love penetrates the deepest sins.

If you want to know how to get to the this reunion, the directions are not complicated. Look within. The dead have been waiting to be reborn to sit around your heart’s fire. Not only that, the dead parts of you will be brought back to life. I tell you, this love has its own unfolding story to tell. Sublime is the spirit that returns whole to a broken world. Sublime.

Vicki Woodyard