The Journey that Launched a Bazillion Spiral Galaxies

They told me before I came here that I’d want to quit.They told me I’d kick and scream at subtle levels, most of the time.I just beamed in luminous anticipation of this crucial and gracious mission.That was when my body was unbounded light, when I could move like winged fire beyond the constraints of time and space.

I dunno if that is true, but that’s how I imagine it.I imagine pre-birth to be this back stage holding tank.And my soul like a race car driver, or a kamikaze pilot, strapping on my helmet and my hip little space suit, all covered in reflector tape.I see my innocent little soul all hopped up on the sensationalism that can accompany one embarking on a hero’s journey.Love becomes larger than life, and good becomes magnified a gazillion times.Anything is possible.And then I have to laugh, because here I am, on planet earth, all splayed out in a tangled wreck.Here I am stumbling and fumbling, and for the most part, totally oblivious to the fact that (uh-oh, there’s that awful and literarily void phrase again… what are we gonna do with me?Wash my figurative mouth out with figurative and despicable soap?The fact that… )Totally oblivious to being a Heroine on the journey that launched a bazillion spiral galaxies.

Karen just had reconstructive spinal surgery a couple of weeks ago.Today, when I was at her house, she told me that she spends her spare thoughts considering how it’s gonna be when she dies and is cremated… her former body will be a pile of ash, with a few large, cumbersome metal bits, that the cremators will have to pull out and dispose of separately before they fill the urn with the rest of the dusty ex-human existence.She was in a dramatic swirl of devestation at those thoughts.I thought it sounded exciting. Exciting to consider death.I imagined that with the vast magnitude of suffering that she’s been up to for this past year, (not to mention the good majority of her life… She was dealt a pretty poor hand as far as her physical wellbeing is concerned.I think of Autobiograpy of a Yogi, and the examples of karmic debt described by Yogananda, and i can’t help but think she is paying some pretty expensive bills…) she should be an absolute expert at dying.Isn’t that how they roll in the Tibetan Book of the Dead?Life to “them” (whoever practices those teachings) is all one grandiose practice for dying.

I told Karen that when the windstorms rip thru my world and relentlessly tear at everything, I mostly remember that what is more important to me than anything else is self mastery.Self realization.Direct experience of God.She wanted to argue and tell me that I am already THERE… which I equally and paradoxically believe and spit in the face of… Yes.God is looking out of my eyes.Right now.Typing thru my fingers.Who ELSE would it be?And, I have a lot more unlearning, shedding, unfurling to do before I am embodied freedom.I am far from peaceful.

I confessed to her that yesterday I was at Tennessee Valley Beach with Mykael, and the sun was scheduled to set in not too much time, and I was only stir crazy to LEAVE. I felt so unenlightened that I wanted to run screaming off the beach in the face of an impending winter sunset. And I’m supposed to be some kind of fucking POET. A poet who was writhing in torturous agony at the thought of sitting quietly in the wintery sand and witnessing the sun as he sinks out of view for some time. Watching the sky streak with psychadelia and ornamental chaos for just long enough to knock ones socks all the way off, and then the world is swallowed by darkness and chill. Once darkness seeps in, how would I even know I was AT the beach, save the ceaseless roaring song of waves… Can you imagine? Being engulfed in blackness, and knowing only the frigid, delicate sand that yields to your body under gravity’s force, the bracing, wet air flooding your lungs with each in breath, and the music of surf and simmering sea foam. If that was eternity, would it be heaven or hell?

I asked Mykael if we had to stay at the beach clear thru the sunset, and he said yes.But he said it in a fake, booming authoritarian voice, and so I wasn’t sure if he was serious, but I assumed that he was, because clearly I was a freak for not wanting to drink of and applaud natures miracles… As I sat there in the prison of my self, I was forced to notice the way the setting sun reflected on the modestly waving surf.It created this shimmering trail clear from the horizon line to the water’s edge.I imagined it was the road to enlightenmemt.I wanted to stand up from my over privileged perch in the sand and put one foot in front of the other~ again and again and again, until I “out-walked” (instead of “out-ran”) my ignorance… I wanted to walk across this effulgent liquid path, trembling with perpetual change, until I came to the place inside me that I know is there.The place of peace and trust in the face of the unwieldy bucking bronco that is All Of It.

The weird thing about this imagination of mine, is that I can envision something that far fetched as walking on glistening water until I make contact with the core of my knowing and the peace of Being, Herself, and the child inside me actually sees that as a valid option.I guess that’s why people on acid jump off of sky scrapers.The line between imagination and reality can be so artfully smeared.Anyway, then Mykael said that we didn’t really have to stay to suffer thru the sunset, and in the face of all that freedom, I became feverish with a new tap root of possibility, and I announced that I had to do a couple of sun salutes before we left.Question~ When have you EVER done “a couple of sun salutes”?I never can.So I did a “baker’s couple” sun salutes, and by then the sun had just finished its decadent, pastel decent under the sea for the night, and we made our merry way the two miles back to the car.

Although that is the official END to that miniature story, I do want to add this one final snippet~I “enrolled” Mykael in jogging with me, for the last one point two miles.It was wholly exhilarating.Really.But the best was the dusk was getting thicker by the moment, and my lungs were gluttenous in their sucking of breath.There is something about that smoky, slow deepening of evening that is viscous.Space becomes so tangible.Every breath, I felt like I was sucking dusk into my body.Have you ever wondered if there is such a thing as “magic”?True magic, not the kind where you hide things up your sleeve… Well, if you want to know magic, I suggest you jog home from Tennessee Valley Beach at dusk on a perfectly crisp, clear, winter evening.

Shit. Here I am trying to prove that my head is irredeemably lodged up my ass, and I am condemned to a life of bordom, listlessness and the inability to sip beauty from God’s cup, and then I go and leak the news that I am still able to perceive SOME scraps of the magnificent… I think it helps that I was jogging. Running. Running is a metaphorical savoir. Think about it. Running. It’s the perfect activity for one who feels condemned by the prospect of sitting still thru an arduous, grueling sunset. As I was jogging down the dirt path, flooded in dusk, I basked in the realization of the substantial mental challenge that it is to run. It’s like being locked in a claustrophobic closet with your mind. Oh, maybe that’s Life, actually… But the thing about running is that it feels like an intense physical edge. It hurts. I want to stop, but I can choose thoughts that empower the experience, or thoughts that bludgeon me. I can be strong, and come back to my breath, and focus on the strength and fluidity of my body… or I can collapse into the difficulty and suffering of the experience. I LOVE that challenge. I love the invitation to rise and meet myself, moment to moment, to moment, to moment. At least SOMEtimes… when I’m jogging. Not ALL the time, and not as life in general is concerned. There I go, glorifying reality again. Life is so much more fun to write about than it is to live…

But I recounted that sunset story as an illustration to counter Karen’s stance that I am already an awakened divine experience.She said that because I am so willing and able to feel my storms and spin them into linguistic silk, that I have arrived.But I don’t agree.Yes, this IS It… but I have by no means made it to the top of the Mountain.I am still at base camp, which, granted, is further than most of us “heirloom monkeys” have made it, but Karen, baby, I still have a L-O-N-G, arduous climb ahead…and it’s gonna take every last drop of my infinite strength and patience.

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