Silliness is good for the soul. I learned that when my daughter was dying. She had just turned four, was a patient at St. Jude’s. A broken heart needs laughter, a tourniquet of giggles, a cascade of courageous chuckles. Children know this.

My Laurie needed laughter; she lay in bed facing chemo, facing being bald, facing three years of radical attempts to save her life. Some of the strongest chemo available; it left her vomiting for hours in the middle of the night. Three surgeries, two years of chemo and a final round of radiation.

When she was bald, I told her I hoped her hair didn’t grow back in like Phyllis Diller’s. We told riddles and jokes. We watched The Brady Bunch. She sat on my lap and we rocked and rocked and rocked. This is not easy to write. She is with me, though. Lately people are intent on telling me that. She is brave and strong now; she was then.

I kept writing jokes the whole time she was ill. I heard Joan Rivers and Phyllis Diller use them on the air. They paid me next to nothing. It didn’t matter; I knew I must be good for them to be buying my material.

She has been gone for many years, but not really. I am sure she loves Swami Z and the gang. She always wants me to be happy and I really try. But some days I fall down on the job. I always get back up, though. I learned that from her.

Vicki Woodyard

Consider ordering LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT. Her spirit is in it. We need to give it the wings to fly. Just click on the book image to the right of the page. Or donate to keep the site going in her memory and her father’s. They are the wind beneath MY wings.

I am waiting to rise from my January rut. Currently I am experiencing low energy and the blahs. I took a long walk, but found myself eating way too much chocolate all during the day. Last night I had a typical “lost in life” dream. I am sure you have them as well; you find yourself trying to get back home and running into obstacle after obstacle. In other words, the story of awakening to one’s true nature.

I have spent much of my life healing from grief; I know the terrain. Can trace it in my sleep and sometimes do. There is the crucifixion road, Calvary and the stone in front of the tomb. As Maya Angelou says, “And still I rise.” That’s me. Up each morning in spite of it all. Knowing without a shadow of a doubt that nothing changes until consciousness changes. Knowing that Rome was not built in a day and I prefer it to be.

I think my sense of hurry arises because of a father with an explosive temper. I failed to work a combination lock and he unleashed a torrent of words on me. I forgot to bring the milk in (in those days milk was delivered.) I had minor surgery and forgot to tell him I had prescriptions to pick up before he drove me home. He blew up in my pale and shaking face. All my life I have done things rapidly. Inwardly there is freedom, just out of reach of him. I have forgiven him. I also stand in need of forgiveness as a parent. We are all flawed. As someone said as she was folding pants at a New Life yard sale, “We are the fallen people.” If we do not know that, we will never come to self-forgiveness.

As I work my way through my life lessons, if I am lucky I stop and remember myself. For this I owe Mr. Gurdjieff a debt of gratitude. “Remember yourself always and everywhere.” I owe a bigger one to Vernon Howard, who came to me in dreams, as he did to his other students. He said to me in one, “Don’t be so accommodating. Act a little tough.” That is a puzzlement and a life plan. Why? Because it brings a good deal of guilt with it. And as he said, “Guilt is a useless emotion.” So I continue to work on myself. Watching my fall into the rut, my attempts to climb out, my failure to remember myself and the accompanying guilt. We are all in the same boat. We might as paddle in the same direction. The Jesus prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me, a sinner.” We owe those who have gone before us. We stand on the shoulders of other people. That is how it works.

I think I will post some essays that didn’t make it into LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT. I made an editorial decision to end the book at the time of Bob’s death. But you know me; I kept writing. Here is a look back to 2009:

Five Years Later

It’s been ten years since Bob’s diagnosis. Five years of caregiving, five years of grief and rebirth. I love him more now than ever, because personalities get in the way of love. How do you irritate me? Let me count the ways. Before we made love, he would take a hot, soaking bath and I would lie there in bed with smoke coming out of my ears. And that’s the only time he told me I was beautiful. But he loved me with an everlasting love—one that would make him prolong his suffering to care for me for just another day. He chewed ice, snored and was late for dinner. In spite of that, he always adored and protected me.

I was a neat freak, a nag, and inclined to jealousy. In spite of that, I looked up to him, thought he smelled nice and realized that he was brave beyond measure. Our marriage was a seesaw, a predicament and a beautiful transcendent journey. If you have read all the essays in this book, you have also read between the lines. If you can’t do that, you will never come to love.

How did I provoke him? The ways are legion. I nagged him incessantly, used him as a chauffeur instead of learning to navigate the freeways myself, assured him he was the worst gift giver that ever took birth. He went to Puerto Rico and brought me back a huge, leather seal of the state. He once gave me a see-through nightie for my birthday that I opened in front of the kids. I went ballistic about that for some reason.

And then cancer came and he had a port installed in his chest for the chemo and I got a to-do list that was a yard long. He went crazy and I fell headlong into hell. And still we loved each other and grieved every single day. He wouldn’t talk about his approaching death and I wanted him to. I finally forced him to cry because until he did, nothing seemed real. His tears were proof that we were not above the law of life and death. They proved that we were love incarnate. Both proofs were necessary.

Consider ordering LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT. Bob Woodyard would be so proud. Just click on the book icon to the right.

As I wind up the last days of 2011 I get more and more honest. This Christmas season has left everyone “screwed, blued and tattooed.” There is nothing merry about having to endure the endless ads and commercials for weeks. Being on the path is Christmas every day. We have to get up out of the manger and begin our mission again every morning. Sharon Annable has a great essay on that on her Facebook Page today.

Birth and rebirth require cleaning up the afterbirth. That sounds gross, doesn’t it? No one talks about that. Women are bred to let the baby come into the world and cover up the evidence that more is required. My first child had colic for two and a half months. Nothing beatific about that vision. I wore curdled clothes for months.

Oh, well, I am over any fantasies about anything, including enlightenment.

Join me in 2012 as I cast aside the swaddling clothes, walk on the water of what is and get stoned on a regular basis. (No, not THAT kind of stoned 😉 Everyone has a good juicy plot to live. Why not get a journal and begin making notes?

This business of honest communication can only be done on paper. Don’t try this at home! If I cast the pearls of truth among those at an Open House, they would cast me out. I just drink punch and stuff dessert in my mouth so not too much honesty will leak out. But here, I am among friends. I can trot out Swami Z in all his glory and not be called a nutcase. He just wandered in fingering his few strands of hair. He said to tell you “Pfffffffft.” I told him to take a number. I just love fantasy. It’s almost as good as Christmas.

I woke up this morning after a nightmare, the third one in a row. Many of you sent me love last night. Thank you. Love has a way of pushing its way in through the ego’s defenses, just as fear and negativity do. None of us are safe in our flimsy little structures of separation. We will be loved and hated no matter what we do.

As I said, I do not write for money. It is only my ego that wants my book to sell. I do not need donations; I really don’t. My ego tries to tell me that other writers get paid, why not me. Don’t listen to it, I say. Just keep writing. And I am choiceless in this matter.

I love getting comments, as all writers do. I especially like the honest ones; the ones where you say how human you are. For all of this neoadvaita crap is like eating piles of sugar with no salt. It has no savor. The savior arrives when we see this. “There is none good, no, not one.”

I wish you could see me. Sitting here in my black robe with its leopard collar. Furry slippers and my aging face. I ordered some Oil of Olay Definity from Amazon because I vowed to take better care of myself. I use Pond’s as a moisturizer. I wear no eye makeup and refuse to give up my bifocals. However, I do need to get trifocals for the computer screen. Ah, the wonders of being 69, such a rude age to be 🙂

I am one powerful old broad, all things considered. I have bent remarkably but never broken. Never made it to the funny farm stage. There is such an overwhelming sense of loss with me that it gives my readers hope that they, too, can overcome anything. The tears behind these eyes are real. Lately I know my daughter is desperate to reassure me that she is always with me.

What matters to me is these hints of heaven that are coming in through the grace of others. They are bent on helping me through this part of my life. A life that looks like one of increasing solitude; it is this I have chosen and therefore must embrace. For I have no interest in cultivating a social life. Never have, never will. I find myself the happiest when I am doing what I am doing now. Letting the light shine through fingers that know they are about their Father’s business.

“The Son of Man hath no place to lay His Head.” Matthew 8:19. Truer words were never spoken. I woke up this morning having had a corker of a nightmare. In it I said bitter, accusatory words to someone. Words I had been repressing in order to keep on being “a good girl.” But in dreams the truth will out. And then the scripture I quoted came to me. And with it came a sudden intake of pure air. An aha moment. I saw for the millionth time what all true teachers are saying. There is nothing that can be done on this earthly mental level. We simply have to remember that.

The Great I Am is not accessible to the ego.

The bread of life cannot be eaten by the unreal.

We live on the level of the devil when we dwell amongst our thoughts, our bifurcated minds.

All we have to do is know this. “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.” John 8:32.

And so I will go and eat a bowl of cereal and begin my day. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Matthew 6:34. Yes, I have evils to transform, but it is not I that do this. I allow the truth to enter into my state of sleep and awaken me to what Is.

I am not a Bible-thumping fundamentalist, neither am I without the Christ Consciousness. Esoteric Christianity is about the discovery of the I am within. It is about the Law of Levels and the absolute separation of truth and falsehood. Choose this day which you will serve.

There is a definite place for conscious suffering. This is spoken of in the Work of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky. I have been rereading a book by Ravi Ravendra in which he writes of his work with Madame De Salzmann. As I read, I gain energy because the truth is leaping off the page. That is one way to know if a book is helpful to you.

I know from direct experience that I gain nothing from watching Youtube videos of so-called awakened teachers. That is not my path. My path is esoteric Christianity. It includes the I am awareness but also focuses the student on the pairs of opposites and how we are caught within them. Only awareness can transcend this painful dilemma.

As I have said, I lose a great deal of energy during the holidays. My introversion and body type do not enjoy jubilation but rather a quiet and methodical life. I gain energy by going about my business and then resting at the still point. The world needs this kind of energy focus; if not for it, everyone would be quite mad.

Madame de Salzmann suggests that rather than force myself to “brighten up,” I would be better served by simply seeing my actual state. Seeing is the highest solution to any problem.

I was quite gratified to see that my daughter’s spirit is flying around and giving me lots of proof that she is wanting me to let go, to fly myself. If this sounds fanciful, that is as it should be. Only a mother who lost a child might find meaning in such statements.

I am meant for inner exploration, not outer. If something is needed, it will arrive quite on time. In the meantime, I am rocking the babe.

If you enjoy my words, consider donating the price of an annual magazine subscription.
It would be greatly appreciated. DONATE button is to the right of the page.

Vicki Woodyard

Being a sensitive, December 26 is a difficult day. All of the fatigue and depression of the planet comes down like a blanket of heavy wet snow. I have felt this since I was a child. Everyone is creeping around feeling the inevitable affects of the post-Christmas letdown. There is nothing to do but let it pass.

I have so much to do, but today is not the day to do it. I long to clean up every last shred of evidence, but that would feel too Grinchy. So on the counter are goodies galore; there is an old wooden bread board filled to the brim with stocking chocolates waiting to be transported directly to my hips. They won’t have long to wait. My resolution now is to eat them slowly, but I am not of that disposition.

Where is spirituality in all of this excess? It is in the knowing what excess is and how one ultimately knows the uselessness of it. I told my son not to get me candy this year and so it seems to be raining from the sky! Kisses, peanut butter cups, marzipan, boxed chocolates, sugared pecans, candied popcorn….My own buddha belly is inevitable. The buddha is certain to have cavities.

I hope all of you take some time today to remember yourself. Feel free to come to terms with your own excess and the affects it has on you. Feel the guilt that you didn’t get someone “enough.” Grieve your losses consciously. Know that January is a p—-er of a month and you need to begin gathering energy to bear it. I would say Happy New Year, but Merry Christmas is still pressing on my cortex. Ouch.

I know someone who has two autistic children. They do not speak; she calls them her strange angels. That phrase comes to mind this Christmas morning. It is raining and I just had a cup of coffee and some goodies from last night. Who, I pondered, are our “strange angels” and how do they bless us?

I am learning that there is a far different world out there than the everyday rational one crammed with ego nonsense. This year I am having that confirmed. In the first part of 2011 an online friend dreamed something that would happen in my future; I have never met her in person. What she dreamed of was my meeting with David, the handyman with the ability to see spirits. I also dreamt of him. And when he walked through my kitchen door, he knew at the first look into my face that something powerful was happening.

This same online friend found me the perfect masseuse by Googling up someone in my part of the metro area. She didn’t have my street address but found someone about five or six minutes from my house. This woman is able to sense spirits and told me that my daughter and husband were both there as she worked on me. “They want you to know they are alive and happy and they want you to be happy,” she said.

That is just two examples of how linked up we all are on a higher plane. When I count my blessings, those are my greatest ones, the ones that prove I can let go and let God.

All I have to give is my ability to receive. And gratitude pours out effortlessly when such connections are made. I didn’t contrive or arrange them. They just fell into place. My strange angel was my little girl, Laurie, who left the earth plane at the age of seven. Her brief sojourn blessed many people and this year there is evidence that she wants me to drop any heavy load I may be carrying. She is saying that it is all good.

Some of us are burdened in order to let in more light. It makes no sense. I had a nightmare last night where my late husband was going to be returned home after being in a facility of some kind. He was having mental problems and I dreaded having to do this. I woke up feeling anxious and stressed. There is subconscious material that arises in dreams when we are overtired or in dread. That always happens to me during the holidays. I am ready for a holiday from the holidays. In the meantime I look forward to more strange unfoldings in 2012. I hope you have some, too. Pax.