Backstroking Through Vivid Forgiveness

Before I got in the pool this morning, I was ridden with anxiety and fear.  But I knew that even just seeing my life guard James’s kind, smiling face would put my quivering heart at ease.  James.  He is such a good person.  So is Jason, the other half of the dynamic life guard duo.  Even just writing about them right now makes my heart want to explode like the mother of all fireworks.  Because come on… life guards do NOT get paid that much.  It’s not a high profile, glamour job.  I used to consider being a life guard from time to time when I felt desperate and confused about my path… All of the other life guards that work at my pool are way less generous of heart.  They are generally younger and look like they are bored out of their minds and actually resent me for the fact that they are “forced” to be sitting there climbing their own hidden walls for ten dollars an hour.  But not James and Jason.  It’s obvious that they give a flying fuck, a fuck that flies courtesy of a pair of over the top, gossamer wings~ if you saw them you’d wonder if someone slipped some acid in your cappuccino when you had your back turned… I love those kind of winged fucks!

Ahem.  Flying fucks.  James and Jason are some kind of saints or angels in disguise as highly normal men.  But I feel so loved and loving every time I take a morning swim.  Jason and I have this secret hello we exchange, usually as I make my goose bumpy mad dash, fresh and wet from the shower, out into the frigid morning air (that’s right, who’s alive?!?!) in my little two piece athletic swimmy (term of endearment for “swim suit”) and flail into the not quite warm water.  We exchange a modest “wave”, involving the repeated bending and straightening of our right index fingers.  (Goodbye is the pinky).  James is an older black man.  He wears clean, crisp, brand name athletic jumpsuits.  I think he’s missing a tooth or two, and the ones still hanging on to their gums look like they could use some TLC from a dentist.  His finger nails are usually extra long and dirty.  His laugh is deep and resonant.  Rich, slow and gurgling with authentic joy.  It reminds me of a negro spiritual… Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, or Wade in the Water.  Jason… I’m pretty sure he’s hot for me.  For being a pretty average guy, he makes fantastic eye contact.  I know my lifeguards got my back.  And I don’t take it lightly… usually.  God, please give back to Jason and James a thousand fold of what they give to us devoted swimmers…

James greeted me this morning and I tasted that delicious, hoped for hope.  The water felt extra warm, which was so soothing to me.  It felt sensuous, tropical and womb-esque.  I swam with the intention of being at peace.  I thought of Amma.  She will be here next week.  Thank GOD.  I am so ready to fold into the safety and divine comfort that waft from her like an inherent fragrance.  Many times I begin to cry, inexplicably, from the depths of my being when she enters the temple.  I love watching her sit in meditation.  Her obvious absorption in the folds of holy peace is so soothing and inspiring to me.  So I swam through tropical waters, fixing my mind on this embodiment of unconditional love.  This mother of the universe.  Except my mind kept slipping back into its well-worn groove of fear.

I realized that I am like an infant on my path to God.  Except way more self loathing than your garden variety infant.  It would serve me to be more infantish… in the way of innocence, presence, forgiveness.  How many times does an infant fall down when they are learning to walk?  A gazillion.  They may or may not cry… but they certainly don’t beat themselves up.  And here I am… learning to live in deep trust and alliance with the All Pervading Love of the universe and beyond… but forgetting so often that I am not alone, that I am loved and held and deeply precious.  And every time I wake up and remember that I have forgotten~ A-GAIN, I feel disappointed in myself.  I feel hopeless and frustrated.  I just want to wake up already.  I want to perceive the light inside, already…  I want to feel a love that has no reason, no beginning and certainly no end.  I guess an apropos word for my experience is impatience.  As I moved through the warm, buoyant, aqua heaven, I thought I’d like to be more like an infant.  When I fall from remembrance, I will simply forgive the fall, the hard ground, my lack of coordination and just pick myself up and merge right back into my natural state of presence induced wonder.  If I’m not as perfected yet as I wish I was, the next best thing to be is humble and patient, I suppose.

What IS this world?  I want to look upon the multiplicity of forms with such unapologetic severity that I penetrate the illusion and see the underlying something that lives in everything.  Today I want not just to see, but to SEE.  Do you know what I mean?  I mean that I want to dive beneath the waves of my ever fluctuating mind and experience a quiet presence.  Right here.  Right now.  I want to be deafened by the roaring sound of OM, that singings everything into holy existence.  This lonely, single syllable.  I want to merge with this lonely, single syllable, so that I am proactively singing as the entire choir of creation.

That reminds me… I keep having dreams about playing my harmonium.  I yearned to have one… so that I could paint invisible, inner space with “sonic lotuses”… So my very divine, very biological mother gave me one for my birthday last year… And like many of my heart’s dreams and desires, it sits, neglected, collecting tragic dust as I procrastinate and flounder in fear of the arduously slow unfolding of the lotus otherwise known as my Destiny.  But it has been calling to me so loud and clear from the nocturnal folds of my psyche.  I must play my harmonium.  I don’t know how.  But who cares!  I know I could just BE with it, and it would tell me a lot about who it is and who I am, and how we can form a divinely inspired alliance and create sonic lotuses to grace to this world, who perpetually thirsts for offerings of sacred beauty.

I forgive.  I forgive.  I forgive.  I forgive.  I forgive.  I forgive.

Amen.

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Waiting For a Holy Sign

The quote from the movie One that impacted me the most deeply was spoken by Robert Thurman. He said that we are all IN Nirvana… we’re just really bad at enjoying it. He didn’t even say, “we’re not very good at enjoying it,” he flat out said we’re really BAD at enjoying it. This almost knocked the wind out of me, because it rang SO TRUE.

If left to my own devices, I’d just spend the day in a wretched crumple of salty sobbery. Oh, fiddle, I guess I’m being dramatic, since left to my own devices, I AM doing what I love most~ blogging. I guess what I mean is that it is taking some self discipline not to crumple into a quivering puddle of fear. I may still be standing, but not without an indulgent helping of self pity. I know, I know, it’s such a waste of time, life, energy~ however you want to classify deluded concepts and false investments.

Mykael got the official letter yesterday that he failed his nursing exam …again. What does this mean? Intrinsically, nothing. But if I had to assign it meaning, I’d say that it means that I’m done paying our exorbitant rent and we must let go of our beloved home base and go god knows where and do god knows what. Probably separately. Not that we’re breaking up… I’m sorry. This is probably boring. My fearful mind on loud speaker. Zzzzzz. What I should really be doing right now is having a good cry and then stepping back onto the page cleansed and ready to face my God-given gift of using language to shape reality with a renewed sense of devotional responsibility. But here I am… Seated on a hard wooden bench in the heart of Nirvana, fingers eagerly outstretched on the bouncy, silver keys of my laptop, so I’m just gonna do the next best thing. Write and cry, cry and write, write and write and cry… Strictly as an ecstatic expression of Nirvana, of course…

God? Please send me an explicit sign that you got my back right now. I know, I know, that’s greedy… You give me nothing BUT blessings and signs. But I’d love to just have a nice racy one right now. One that I could share with all of my readers, and they’d be as superlatively stunned as I am, and unwaveringly certain of the humbling benevolence with which Life holds us all. Why is it so hard to believe that life is kind? WHY??? I refuse to buy into this unexamined pathetic strain of fear any more.

Mykael was snuggling me to sleep last night… I was in that sweet nether world infused with blissful oblivion, when THUD! He dropped his stone carving right on my face! My mouth, to be precise. Ouch. It hit my front tooth and my upper lip, which is still mildly swollen this morning. I was so stunned, I began to cry like a child, which felt embarrassing, but I was in such a vulnerable state, that I didn’t have a chance to edit my response. Somehow this incident feels symbolic. He is ultimately more enamored with his carvings than he is with me, (it seems…) and there he was, turning it over and over, stroking it with his adoring gaze in the flickering candle light, when his hands slipped. Woops! Oh well, it’s only Athena’s face.

(I’m still waiting for my sign of your incessant, loving embrace around my life… We’re ready any time, right ladies and gents?) Sometimes it blows to be partners with an artist. He reveres his creations with an obsessive infatuation, which can feel very exclusive to me. (the equivalent would be me reading and rereading my blogs all day long) It reminds me of this children’s book I used to own when I was a kid. It was called Narcissus, and it was about this gorgeous, chestnut horse who was so obsessed with his own beauty that he never made friends with any of the other horses in his pasture. He never learned to play or to love, because he was too busy fixating on the perfection of his physical appearance. Then one fateful day, he was gazing into a still pond at his enchanting reflection when two foals frolicked by and in a flurry of galloping and snorts, they accidentally bumped into Narcissus and knocked him into the pond. Narcissus was bereft when he realized he was soaking wet and covered in unsightly pond scum. But, low and behold, something did free up in him as a result and he learned to play and let go of his self-referential fixation.

No, I suppose Mykael is not Narcissus. If anyone, it is me… sitting here writing up a storm of perpetual self indulgence. In Nirvana, no less. My writing is boring me to tears this morning. Dare I publish this? Sure, why not. I will publish it to show you that even the most BRILLIANT writers have bad days. But you know what? We keep stepping up to the plate, regardless. Because writers write. And that’s all. And you know what else? I shall remain ever vigilant in my commitment to letting go. There is nothing to fear. And everything to let go of. I release yesterday and earlier this morning, and later this afternoon. I request ALL OF ME, here and now, front and center. Athena, listen, Sweetie, Life REALLY does ALWAYS have your best interest in mind. Always.

I still remember like ten years ago, when I was getting coaching from Jerry and he asked me, “What if your only job is to open your heart?” Hearing this tickled me, because at the time, I heard this like I was getting let of the hook from the rest of this real world junk. But now, ten years later, it sounds like Mission-Nearly-Impossible. Can I just open my heart, right here, right now, on cue? And if I COULD, would that be “enough”? Or would it just lead me to another hurdle, like in that children’s book, “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie”… If you give a mouse a cookie, then he’ll want a glass of milk, then he’ll get sleepy and ask for a nap in your comfy bed, but first he’ll challenge you to a pillow fight… etc. If Athena opens her heart… Then she’ll be called to volunteer at the homeless shelter and then someone will ask her to teach them some yoga and then she’ll start teaching yoga to the homeless and then she’ll be called to open an international yoga center for homeless folks… (Athena wishes that if she opened her heart, she’d be called to keep writing, and eventually become a minister…)

I’m yours, God. Use me as you see fit. Do I really mean that? I think so… I’m just afraid that God will make me do something really boring. But why would a God who loves me more than any limping human ever possibly could, condemn me like that? It just doesn’t make sense. Humans condemn, not that which is pure, perfect, universal love and unabashed auspiciousness…

I’m still waiting for my sign… How will I know when it arrives? Because I will feel a surge of awe that nourishes my mind and sweeps my heart with a fresh breeze of peace. Peace. I need not wait to feel peace. Peace has already arrived. But still, I wait for my beneficent sign…

Break Me Free, Finally



I am so in the mood to write something brilliant today.  I love that inspired feeling.  It lifts me up and out of hell long enough for me to catch my breath…(Oh, this is ironic.  I just got distracted on facebook for like fifteen minutes.  Hopefully I am all the brillianter for it…) Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying life is “hell”… and yet it is.  It is hell when we live our lives ruled by fear.  Which I am trying not to do… but it feels so ingrained in me.  I am so used to putting limits on myself, being “realistic”.  You’re probably thinking that that’s such an “adult” thing to do, being “realistic”.  We’ve all been taught that.  But listen, OUR BELIEFS ARE ONLY TRUE BECAUSE WE BELIEVE THEY ARE.  There is not some intrinsic law that says I can’t make hella bank doing what I love, which is writing.  That I must just squeak by doing whatever it is that I do, which I wish to no end that I could talk about… but it’s technically illegal.  So I guess I’ll just shut up about it.  Which sucks because I yearn to be a fully transparent human being… except for a few little select secrets, maybe, but just for the sheer pleasure of it.

Anyway, any liberated spiritual teachings will agree that the very stuff we are made of is unbounded creativity.  We are made from overflowing, unlimited supply.  The “outer world” as we perceive it is nothing more than a reflection of our minds, our beliefs, our self imposed limitations based on past experiences (ours and our ancestors).  These are very popular teachings these days.  Which makes me wonder… if we all have access to so much enlightenment, to so many expansive beliefs, then why the fuck do we struggle so hard?  I used to be so gun ho about practicing the bloody law of attraction and all that, and mostly it just felt like exhausting, fruitless work.  Why?  I have contemplated that question for an impressively long time.  From my vantage point in the universe, it is because my motivations are lacking the deep alignment with Spirit, with Self.  My ego keeps attaching its self to desires that it thinks will make it happy, but guess what?  It has no blasted clue about the nature of lasting happiness or peace.  The ego is constructed by the very mechanism that is perpetual dissatisfaction.  Scarcity.  The ego is upheld by the core belief that love is something outside our very Self.  Which, of course leads us to all kinds of manipulative reindeer games in order to GET LOVE from others, ceaselessly strive and achieve and pretend we are the image of the person that we have been conditioned to believe is worthy of a few meager but essential crumbs of love.

Raise your hand if you think these limiting beliefs, stifling thought forms are ridiculous…

Woops.  But wait?  Does that mean that I oughtn’t strive to make a solid living as a writer?  Now I’m on the brink of tears.  My vision is blurring because, WELCOME TO THE TANGLISH TRAP OF MY MIND.  I want to hold fast to this vision.  But at the same time I do not want to be bound by a false belief that when I am a well known writer, earning an abundant living doing what I love and serving as a source of awakening, freedom and inspiration for others, that I will suddenly be vastly different from what I am right now.  Nope.  I can be happy, peaceful and fulfilled right friggin now.  God, I just want to cry.  It all seems like it should be so simple.  How come it doesn’t feel simple?

I feel so vulnerable, sharing my tangles with you.  I keep thinking that I should shut up and just be poetic.  Then you’ll be more interested in what I have to say, and then I’ll be worthy of love and a good life.  These human mechanisms.  I was cruising along pretty nicely in my life for the last year… Doing sensual massage, being beaten to a holy pulp by the beloved, weighty planet, Saturn (I’m in my Saturn return) and having plenty of time left over to WRITE, work out, cook nourishing food and socialize a teensy bit.  Sweet.  But then I woke up one day and had absolutely zero interest in doing sensual massage.  For the first year it was awesome.  It was such an adventure into a hot, steaming slice of world that I would not otherwise have gotten to explore.  I was so curious about who these men were, who would indulge in such a service.  Honestly, I thought they’d be mostly losers and freaks.  Turns out they’re just like you and me.  They crave touch, excitement, intimacy… I want to discuss this topic at length in a later entry, but for now, suffice to say, that when you turn over a heavy stone made of calcified taboo, you might be surprised to find that underneath it, all you will find is people just like YOU, doing their best to lead happy, fulfilling lives.  SURPRISE!

Anyway, the desire to make my living this way has taken flight.  Really.   It was a majestic swan that landed in me as divine inspiration one day… swam around in the pool of my day to day life and then one day this creature of grace was gone, the pond left to rest, still and empty.  Now what, Athena?  I am trying to trust.  Something greater than myself drove me to explore this work.  And then that same something took it away.  And will that same something [PLEASE!!!] reveal my next adventure, my next mission?   I don’t want to be afraid.  I want to be guided by God.  I want to wholeheartedly believe in a God who loves me so fully.  A God who ceaselessly guides me and wishes more than anything to help me feel safe and loved, guided and provided for.  God?  Are you there?

This morning, I prayed for Grace to obliterate my habit of fear.  Fear.  It’s nothing but a frequently treaded rut in my mind.  But it’s a rut that I don’t feel I can afford right now.  I am fighting the tears again.  Why?  I guess just because I’m in public.  I’m in Mykael’s café again.  I need a change of scenery.  I wish I was in Paris or Hawaii.  Surely that would solve my probbies (a term of endearment for “problems”.  Doesn’t that make them seem so much more palatable, lovable?  Awe, my sweet little “probbies”…) Fuck.  Mykael just got here and when I saw him, I fell apart sobbing.  I am so fucking sick of the SURVIVAL conversation.  I don’t want to compromise my heart EVER again.  Is that what being a human being IS?  The demand on us to split ourselves into this prismatic multiplicity of shattered, false pretenses?  Sometimes it sure fucking feels like it.

Okay, now I am gonna write something poetic and pretty so that you’ll love me and I’ll feel justified to take up space in this deranged world.  But first, I must report that I did THREE PULL-UPS today!!!  Yeah!  Go me!

I will wait.

I will.

Fill me, please

with expectant stillness.

Mistress Love,

Mistress Auspiciousness,

let me be tickled

by your sacred kisses

Blown, Drifting

On the wind’s lips,

That I may remember

your ever-present,

Effervescent

Over-flowing presence.

Make me innocent.

Every new born day,

may I wait,

anticipate Grace’s descent,

as a child waits

in unwavering certainty

for Santa Clause on Christmas eve.

I will stay awake all night

just to sneak one single drunken, holy peak

At Her immense, iridescent,

Luminescent holy wings.

Grace, show me your face today!

I beg you,

Please!  Beat your wings and sweep me clean

of this exhausted, limping fear,

I want only to be inconceivably

Near to Love.

So near…

That it may obliterate

This frivolous, crippling fear.

Amen.

A Sweet Spring Misting of Fear

There is something about today.  Something of a twist, a shift.  As usual, I woke up before seven am.  I brewed tea, climbed back in bed and looked out the window at the gray sky, gestating with unspilled drops.  Usually the rain begins to fall in the anonymous folds of darkness.  I’m not exaggerating when I say that at least 88% of the rainstorms this year have started that way; splashing down in wet, vivid, nocturnal music, seducing me even through sleep.  But not today.  Today mother nature groaned in prolonged labor as I sat on the other side of the glass, placidly waiting for the water to break.  In the scientific language of minutes, it really didn’t take that long.  But in the language of feelings, subtlety, transcendent some-things, it seemed to be an arduous labor.  And when the gray-bellied sky broke open, it was not what I expected.  The drops were delicate as trembling spring petals, so fine, yet dense.  Sifting sugar.  Relief spilled inside me as I felt the release.

Inside me now, a light misting of fear showers down.   It is not a deluge, thank goodness.  No, just the same sugar-esque storm as the one outside.  Some days, for no tangible reason, I wake up to feelings of fear and dread.  I just do.  I don’t know if this is “normal” or not… but as I grow into myself, I am coming to understand that this is a natural facet of being a highly sensitive being in a world full of strife.  Sometimes the fear in the air is especially thick.  Like an emotional smog that builds up after too many hot days in a densely populated city.  I used to panic on these dark days.  I feel so helpless sometimes when it comes to things I don’t understand.  You know what I mean?  If I could just slap a quick label on it and scribble it onto my to do list… or swallow any number of modern day miracle pills… well wouldn’t that just be so much easier than learning to be a gracious hostess to this seemingly threatening facet of my human experience?

But I am learning to surrender and simply allow it to be, without taking it too personally.  I’m not saying I’m there… I’ve got a ways to go, before I am skillful enough to just blast it with unconditional love and acceptance.  But at least I know where I’m headed, right?  Which brings me to the topic of my Saint training.  I feel like sometimes I throw out all these lofty friggin concepts… about the light inside and forgiveness… you know, all the popular enlightenment ideas… but what do they really have to do with my moment to moment choices, actions, words?   Today I am painfully aware of the gap between my spiritual aspirations and the truth of my life in this moment.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, because God is in the gaps as much as anywhere else, and I mostly believe I am doing my best.  But in terms of saint training, let’s just say, I have a rigorous curriculum.

Yesterday I wrote a fluffy brady bunch testimonial about the goodness of friendship.  But DARE I write a twilight zone ownership of the challenges of family (and those whom I project my family issues on)?  I think many writers struggle with this place of constraint.  The fear of releasing their whole voice to the world, for fear of the condemnation of their families, or some comparable party that arises as a seeming outward force of resistance; either a hurdle to overcome, or just an excuse to remain silent and deprive the world of the totality of their unique voice.  I feel that edge inside.  Especially when I write about my sexuality.  As soon as I do, this rip tide of imagined condemnation swirls up and tries to carry me away in a sea of fear and silence.  But mostly I forge ahead anyway, because I yearn to stand unabashedly naked in my words.  Why?  Because the truth shall set us free.  Because I don’t want to live in a world where the truth of anyone’s experience is a source of ridicule or persecution.  I want to live in a world where each one of us is vibrantly alive in the divine wholeness of our experience.  I want you to hear me and remember that you are in fantastic company and there is no need to hide or pretend.

There is no need to hide or pretend?  Why does it so often feel like there IS a need to hide and pretend?  Once upon a time, I had regular coaching sessions from an exceptional woman… She was fearless in her ability to see under the stones in another and recognize the most intimate, raw truths that lie beneath.  Once she said something  to me:  “People like you…Because you’re nice; Because you don’t stand for anything.  When you take a stand for something, it is bound to turn some people off.  You have to be willing to face that.”  And I knew she was right.  It terrifies me to hallucinate a loss of love and acceptance at the hand of me taking a stand.  But it also turns me on, because at my core, I know that I am a warrior.  I know that my life is a demand for me to take a stand.  A stand for a God, a Love who is big enough, kind enough, accepting enough to include all of us.  A stand for the unabashed truth of my humanness, and your humanness.

I say all this and I feel strong… but when I think about facing this part of myself that shows up on the faces of certain women in my life… I feel like a hopeless scardy cat.  But I know this much~ As tempting as it is for me to believe that it is about the “other”, at a deep level, I know it is about myself.  How do I know this?  Because I encounter the same “enemy” in a few characters in my life.  They are all women I am intimate with.  They are all women who live deep in my heart.  But somehow, my perception takes a crooked swerve along the path of the relationship(s) and  I imagine them to be teeming with judgment and criticism of who I quintessentially am.  I am afraid of facing them because I am afraid of the feelings that I might possibly feel in the face of their disapproval.  So instead of turning toward them, I hide.  But then they haunt my mind, my heart, wafting like perpetual dancing smoke through my day to day experience… until I can take it no longer and I must face them.

I used to have a deep fascination with lucid dreaming.  I read a few books on it, and practiced it every night… Experts on the subject claim that in dreams, you can turn and face the threatening characters in order to (hey, a man here at the café just blasted a ton of NOSE DROPS into his nose!!!  He is wearing a baseball cap.) make peace with them.  The same horrible monster that might have been chasing you for years could turn out to be chasing you because you dropped something deeply important, maybe a key to the door of your heart, say…

This is a slippery slope, though, because I just noticed that I am subtly living inside the belief that once I turn and face this “monster”, then I will be happy and peaceful.  Yup, another elusive, shimmering carrot!  Carrots can be so damn sneaky!  I feel an invitation from the inside to cultivate compassion for this fearful facet of me, and to bow to the path its self.  I wish to fully surrender to the work that I must do in this life.  I wish to revere and love the jagged path, trusting that it is explicitly designed to lead me back to LOVE.  It is so tempting for me to be ruled by my deep feelings.  But there has to be another way.  What can I forgive this day?  I call on a God who stands by my side with unwavering loyalty of the quintessence of all Friends.  I call on the collective strength of every single Saint, every master of the Self that ever was, is or will be.  Amen.

PS~ I recognize that my words might seem elusive… but from over here in “the eye of the storm”, it’s hard for me to see clearly.  So if any questions arise for you, PLEASE leave a comment and ASK me to clarify!  Thanks.

How Do You Know When To Let Go?

We stood, eyes locked in a tragic gaze, at the mouth of the Metro in Paris.

“How do you know when to let go?” E* asked, his words strewn with sincere confusion and constricted love.

“How ‘bout now?” I said, knowing that it was either now or three clingy, desperate nows from now.  I turned away from this tall, devoted partner, hardening sheerly out of necessity, and climbed back up the steps into the light of Parisian day.  Half way up the steps, I turned back to make sure that he had followed my lead and allowed himself to be swept into a new current, an underground current that would lead him to Pizza, Italy, home to the bay area and then on to an outdoor training adventure.  His eyes, saturated with heavy, clear compassion spoke one final goodbye before he turned his back and disappeared into subterranean darkness.

There I was.  Alone.  On the streets of Paris.  Twenty five years old.  When this reality struck me, I flooded with dread.  It was a stronger concentration of the same feelings that flush me when the sun slips behind a cloud, and the world I see is suddenly ominous and dark.  Tears came fast, but I didn’t succumb to them.  Paris is demands much more restraint.  Instead I wandered into the health food store near the entrance to the Metro station where I killed about a half an hour in a state of less than blissful distraction.

Can you guess the moral of that autobiographical snip of a story?  It’s the letting go piece.  Letting go.  Why is it so hard?  Our illusions of scarcity, I suppose.  Well, I am pretty fucking certain that I am ready to let go of M.  But every time I look in the mirror and face the music (face the music in the mirror, I love that!) I flush with guilt, fear and denial.  Any one of those three feeling experiences on its own is enough to pickle a few livers, but when they join forces in a less than holy cocktail, LOOK OUT!  Guilt, fear, denial.  This is why I keep trying to pretend myself free from my inner knowing.  Sometimes the inner voice seems to be something to fear.

Why is that???

Anne Lamott, the writer, talks about how some writers’ writing process is reminiscent of driving through thick fog.  You can only see a few feet in front of you, but you trust that more road will be revealed if you just keep moving forward.  I would say I write this way for sure… but what I am driving at, is that this is LIFE.  Our limited perceptions can only see so much.  I believe that God can see a whole lot more and that is why trust is essential on this Holy Pilgrimage.

What I am grappling with now, is how to distinguish the voice of God from the voice of the ego.  What is this inner knowing that is compelling me to let go of my relationship with M?  Is it the voice of God, or the voice of my ego?  I could sit and deliberate on this all day long… but… what would that serve?  The bottom line is that it is what I feel, deep down.  And at this stage in my unfolding, this gut feeling is as good as it gets.  So, my question stands~ How do you know when it’s time to let go?  And my answer, too shall stand~

How ‘bout now?

Now can I get some comic relief?  Because I feel so heavy.  Where have my bejeweled wings gotten off to?  Has anybody seen my bejeweled wings?  I should make a MISSING poster and plaster it all about my neighborhood.  REWARD for any information leading to my not so suddenly missing bejeweled wings.  If I had them now, how would I be different?  Would I fly away from the human messes I’ve strewn about this life of mine?  Tempting… but no.  If I found my bejeweled wings, I would use them for only for Holy Missions.  I would use them to bless.  I would know my strength as God’s strength.  I would fly Home, to the unconditionally Loving arms of the Ultimate Dream.  But don’t misunderstand.  Flying home does not mean abandoning ship on this silly, sinking world of illusion.  No, it just means a soft though potent shift in perception… Like a frown that melts into a warm, holy smile.  And suddenly I remember.  I remember that God is always my Guide, and I am That.  I remember that the True me is never threatened, cannot die.  Cannot be broken by tragedy or dreams of fear and separation.

With my wings, I am courageous.  With my wings, I am a divine servant.  With my bejeweled angel wings, I only see as God sees.  When I fly, my wings sprinkle a wake of shimmering treasures upon this world.  Treasures born to elevate, inspire and remind.  I will find my wings.  I will find them, because I have not lost them, only forgotten.  Any second I will remember.  I can feel it.  I can almost hear my wings beating just behind the imaginary veil of darkness in which I have become accustomed to identifying with.  They sound like birds singing in bellish voices.  Or bells singing with birdish voices.  They sound like smoldering flames, like benevolent warmth.  When they beat, tropical breezes, heavily pregnant with floral scents are born to elevate the minds of the masses.  When they beat, you remember your home in Peace.

I say this to soothe all of myself.  I say this because this is the expression of sincere yearning from the heart of a saint in training.  Perhaps a saint is just One who has remembered their wings… Perhaps letting go requires trusting that it is my Destiny to fly.

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