Alone in Forsaken Scapes.

I am alone.  It is a strange sensation… to be alone in my house on a rainy sunday.  Serena will come home soon, which has me “writing with one eye open”… but this is better than nothing.  Forest is with his dad for the day.  The rain falling outside looks like sifted powdered sugar, but it is not snow.  Thank God. 

I am alone.  Last night Shanti-ma came over and “counseled me”.  She’s a good counselor because she is able to stay rooted in a neutral and honest plot of reality.  And she is attuned to divine love and wisdom.  I was expressing the recent torrential gales of need I feel related to love from man/men.  I guess it’s always been in me… this need… of daddy’s adoring love.  But since things fell apart with Giordano, it has been deafening in moments.  I watch this desperate part of me grasping for an externalized sense of masculine presence and love.  I know there must be something IN ME… that I have lost touch with.  My inner masculine, my inner marriage.  And meanwhile this wounded female predator stalks prey.  A man to seduce and conquer.  Make him SEE ME.  Make him LOVE ME.  

Thankfully at this point I am able to remain rooted in the consciousness of witness.  Plus, I don’t have the “luxury” of acting it out, because I am too busy being mom and anyway there aren’t any compelling men around.  Praise the Lord.  The LAST thing I need right now is more man trouble.  My unwieldy husband is plenty!  

Anyway, when I confessed this “ugly shadow” to Shanti-ma, she said, “You are alone.” Then a brazen pause, which formed a chasm and the words and their meaning bled into the soil of silence within. “I am alone. Everyone is alone. And sometimes it is lonely. And anyone who pretends it isn’t is deluding themself and others. But you can call Him up. When you are feeling alone. And He will be with you.”

Or something like that.  If my life were to be made into a feature film, this scene would definitely make the cut.  It would even make the TRAILER.  It was such a sober, slicing moment.  A moment of intimacy from one glorious and bleeding holy soldier to another.  Like “let’s not waste anymore time with pretense.  Your asshole does NOT need anymore smoke up in it, my Friend.

And now for my latest reflection on vulnerability.  This exquisite “Italian Sister” gave me an astrology/numerology reading to help me elucidate the passage I am making now.  She mentioned that I struggle with true vulnerability.  This assertion snagged my curiosity.  I perceive myself as one who values and has some amount of fluency in the realm of vulnerability.  But is this just an ego-stained overlay?  Maybe, I mused, I am savvy in “controlled vulnerability”… I share “vulnerably” in my writing… yet I am always in control of what I show you, and what I keep for myself, and even from myself.  

Not that there’s anything wrong with what I do.  I see beauty and grace in what and how I share… but I am still wondering… what is TRUE VULNERABILITY.  Heart to heart, soul to soul.  No filters.  Groundless.  Free-falling.  Have I EVER fully experienced such a phenomenon?  

She said that in the face of this quintessential terror of my true vulnerability, I rely on a false sense of strength.  And my work is to dismantle this knee-jerk shadow boxing match with myself.  Ok, that’s not exactly how she said it…    😉

My energy healer said that my tumors are all the pain that I have been through… consolidated into four precise points.  And that in order to heal them, I MUST tune IN to them and write.  Write it all through my system.  Write them into annihilation.  This is simultaneously daunting and thrilling.  Like there’s NOTHING I’d rather do than enter into the deepest reaches of my being and write it down in the name of Healing For All… and yet… I doubt my capacity to reach this far IN.  

Shanti-ma said I have anger issues.  Because I reach out to her when I am triggered as fuck by Darling Giordano.  And it’s pretty easy for me to go up in flames these days.  Which may indeed indicate “anger issues”.  She said Giordano is just a catalyst for the deep stuff that’s ready to come up and out… That the one who is angry is so young.  

Perhaps even vulnerable. 

I know I have “inner child issues”… Because I have a hard time connecting with “Dawnie-Cakes”.  (my nickname as a child)  When I look inside for her… radio silence.  Where is she hiding?  And meanwhile I butt heads with Serena too often.  She mostly feels that I don’t give her enough attention, so she acts out and pisses me off in order to get more of me.  But her demands and sass and stubbornness trigger the shit out of me.  Hello anger issues. She cries.  My nervous system cringes and explodes.  I demand she STOP.  She goes harder.  I shout.  LOUD.  I feel sick.  This is a pattern of sickness.  It must be healed.

Shanti-ma says that Serena is my Inner Child.  And when one of these episodes commences, the most healing choice is to dive beneath the waves and “go to her”, hug her.  It is ME.  This sounds so simple, right?  It’s not.  When I am triggered, heated, angry, it is SO HARD to let go and hold her.  Practice will make me perfect.  I have some work to do.   I’m talkin deeep ancestral healing.  I know this is what I am here for.

Remember- we have the power to set so many free when we bring love to the forsaken scapes within.

The Day that Turned to Go(l)d.

I left the house this morning without saying goodbye to Mykael.  I woke up today under enormous pressure.  Remember, I had declared that I would march myself and my typewriter* down to the Lake Merrit farmer’s market to offer my services as a Poetry Muse.  But then the morning arrived and I let the fear strangle me, dominate my choices.  Holy failure!  What can I say?  I failed.  But I justified my failure because I just started bleeding, and going out in public during this vulnerable window in my cycle is asking for trouble.  It’s like kicking life in the shins and calling it gratuitous names like “fat, “ugly” and “unwholesome”.  Naturally I am exaggerating, but really, a woman oughtn’t be too ambitious on her moon days.  It is a sacred time for inner reflection, self care and rest.  I’ll conquer the world next week when I burst out of this chrysalis and spread my massive, psychedelic wings of light!  Mark my words…

This period has been particularly intense.  Being myself is hard enough, but I can’t even imagine being my partner.  I CRAVE attention.  I want Mykael to stop everything and drown me in adoration.  (Synchronistically, he looked up at me as I typed that…I guess he read my vibe… then he snickered… What a mystery.  Yes, I am at HIS café again… I just need “nearness”.  I love that term, “nearness”… I find it very useful in expressing one of my more prevalent emotional needs.)  This morning, in the shower, suddenly my feelings became hurt that Mykael had not been appreciating my breasts since they have been menstrually plumped.  Remember the old Ball Park Franks ad campaign?  Plumps when you cook ‘em?  On TV they’d show the skinny little unmentionable animal parts meat stick, and then they’d show it radically expanding, as it is guaranteed to do when you cook it.  That’s my breasts.  They got so nice and plump this time around.  How could Mykael not notice or care?  I trip over them.  A fantastic opportunity to feel the hurt in me bubble up and become the most consuming aspect of my reality!  He came into the bathroom while I was getting out of the shower and I confessed my grievance.  God bless ‘im, he tried to generate appreciation for my bouncy twins, on the spot… But of course it seemed fake to me… I was more curious about what could have possibly been more interesting and consuming in his private world than my breasts, but that, he would not divulge.  Probably his dumb old carvings… That’s mostly all he thinks about.  Not that they’re dumb, but the little girl in me who has been in the driver’s seat frequently in recent days, has no qualms about calling them dumb as she plummets through a bottomless field of need.

But I did NOT mean to spend so much time talking about my breasts.  I have so many more triumphant things to tell you!  First of all, I want to apologize to you.  Yesterday, in a fit of premenstrual angst, I made a comment about why bother blogging when I only have  twenty-ish visitors to my site per day… I was reflecting on that in the sauna at the gym yesterday afternoon… realizing how dishonoring that is of each of you who DOES read my words.  You are NOT chopped liver.  No way!  Though you do HAVE a liver… I remembered to be grateful for every single pair of eyes that drink my words.  Every single heart that widens as it takes in my vantage point of human beingness.  And probably simultaneously, Kurt, over on the east coast sent me a comment addressing this very topic.  He said he may be one in twenty, but he digs my prose.  Talk about affirmation!  Thank you, Kurt!   And while I’m on the subject, Kurt, I invite you to reconsider your stance on milk maids.  They are a SPICY breed.  Demure and dangerous…

Thank each of you who simultaneously give and receive blessings by imbibing in my linguistic caricature of a world.

So I wandered out of the house this morning, into a day that promised much intoxicating beauty.  Clarity, warmth, subtle cool breeze… But I wanted to cry.  I felt so alone.  Self inflicted aloneness.  Self inflicted tragedy.  I guess that’s home for me… But shhhh, let’s pretend I didn’t admit that.  Ahem.  I decided to put on an extra special Course in Miracles lesson.  A practical application lesson on true PROSPERITY.  Immediately my spirits began to lift.  Not overtly, by any means, just those little tremors that start at the core and softly tickle as they spread through the infinite layers of my being.  Reverend Deb’s reading spoke to me of how anything I want to have for myself, I must GIVE.  Right at that moment, a disheveled, woman with desperate, tragic eyes approached me.  “Happy Saturday,” she said.  I turned off my Course in Miracles lesson and she proceeded to tell me that she needed six dollars for a room for her and her kids because they had been sleeping in the park and being harassed.  Was this the truth?  Probably.  But honestly, who cares.  The truth of her need was apparent.  And God had just told me that whatever I want, I must give.

ATHENA KNOWS NEED.  I know that god-forsaken place in the human heart.  The place of tragic, imagined aloneness.  I looked in her luminous though weary eyes as she gushed her troubles.  Then I have her two dollars.  “Thank you,” she exclaimed.  “Only four dollars left.”  I imagined her standing out on Grand Avenue, digging around inside for the humility to continue to approach more guarded, self important middle class Oakland folk, begging for money.  Screw that.  I had a twenty in my wallet and it practically dove out into her open palm without consulting me.  She lit up.  I felt relieved.  I shared my perspective, that it’s hard to be constantly approached by those in need.  That I know there is a deeper issue than our need for dollars… and I wish I knew how to address that… but it feels so tangled, complicated.  I started to cry.  Then she started to cry.  She opened her arms and I accepted her embrace.  We stood on the sidewalk, feeling the pain of humanity and blessing the concrete with our sacred tears.  Then I invited her to church with me tomorrow morning.  I’m gonna pick her up in front of the Grand Lake Theater tomorrow at seven thirty.  We’ll go back to the East Bay Church of Religious Science.  What better to share with a woman in need than the All Pervading Light!?!?!

And I’ll testify that in giving the blessing of comfort, care and prosperity to a fellow woman, I became full, when just moments before I had been empty.  It works.  Give what you most want to receive and it becomes YOURS.  Naturally, this remembrance comes with responsibility.  Because it does not only apply to homeless people.  Imagine our surprise, but it also applies to spouses and the like.  So I’m considering giving Mykael the rest of the day off from having to work so hard.  Maybe I will stretch so far as to give him what I most want to receive… God, why is it so much easier to be generous with strangers?  Grrrrrrr.

*Typewriter.  Remember the asterisk from the first paragraph?  Well, I must divulge that mine is no “ordinary typewriter”.  It belonged to Mykael’s grandmother.  She was a minister of the Church of Religious Science, head of the ministry of prayer.  She bought the typewriter to reply to prayer requests.  I do NOT take this lightly.  The keys are imbued with prayer.  This is the perfect typewriter for a chick like me.