Me and Bobby McGee and Jeff Belyea

I am not some candy-assed philosopher but a bereaved parent, orphan and widow. That is like the full house of awakening. You wake up whether you are ready to or not. Choiceless in it all, I slog through the mud of my emotional back forty more and more consciously at this point.

Who is anyone to tell me that I am lacking a certain cheerfulness? I may not be the perkiest person on the planet, but I am committed to my inner work. And there are not that many of us around. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I had a real teacher who dealt wisdom in spades. And if you didn’t like it, you were welcome to leave.

I never thought about leaving until my husband’s illness forced me to. By then my teacher was dead and so was his secretary. Now it is just good old me and my keyboard cranking out the copy. It usually is peppery enough to keep people with no stomach for truth away. That’s fine; I don’t mind.

Separating the sheep from the goats is part of the true way. And a master kicks you right back onto the path. Those that linger get the finger. No, no, no! I am just being silly. They get the finger that points at the moon. And who doesn’t want one of those?

I heard that I was criticized recently for not being happy enough. Screw happy; I prefer conscious sorrow any day. I am friends with quite a few people that have buried their children and find everything in their lives is now upside-down. Why would I tell them that enlightenment means bliss when it clearly doesn’t in everyone’s case?

The late Jeff Belyea and I used to be fast friends, and we came from opposite ends of the spectrum. He wrote of bliss and I of sorrow but we ended up in the same place, in the arms of the Lord. And he got there before me, so he is looking down on me and smiling. Word up, Jeff!

Vicki Woodyard


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