Everything’s Turning To Jesus!

The blank page glares at me expectantly.  I gaze back at it, paralyzed by possibility and not wanting to settle for anything less than God’s will.  God?  What would you have me say tonight?  You see, All Pervading One has been SO good to little Athena Grace… all I want to do is pour myself out as a font of reverence and gratitude.  I bring my awareness to my heart.  It tingles like sweet Hawaiian limes and I say yes and invite the tart flush to spread all the way down my arms and hands and out of my ignited, buzzing finger tips (as well as through the entire core of my body).  Finally, life is great!  Sheesh, I had to trudge through the wastelands of forgetfulness and pain for so long… But I like to work for things in life… it makes them taste way better.  I can only imagine how much divine nourishment I will be able to assimilate from life at age forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, a hundred and twenty!!!  Yes, folks, I plan to live to be a hundred and twenty.  Depak Chopra said that’s the ball park life expectancy for luminous creatures such as yours truly.

God?  Is that what you wanted me to say?  How do I know?  I don’t, so I’ll just fake till I make it, which will probably be any minute now.  Where DO these words come from?  They sure come from SOMEwhere… Might as well be the All Pervading Alphabet Soup.  Alphabet soup… remember how thrilling alphabet soup was?!  At least for me it was… Though I never was able to spell anything very interesting, like I do in this blog.  I think if I could witness/participate in one chosen miracle, it would be for my bowl of alphabet soup to reveal the secrets of the universe to me.  Nah, then it would probably just be ONE single spoonful that said, “LOVE”.  Instead, God will talk to me through my alphabet soup and tell me exactly what to say in my blog.  Can you imagine, if my blog was “brought to you by” my bowl of alphabet soup?!  Then would you BELIEVE?!

Goddess Bless America!  Holy Popcorn!  There is so much I could tell you… and yet nothing is burning brighter in my mind’s eye than anything else.  And when I ask God what to say, HeSheIt just smiles at me from the heaven that explodes from everywhere at once, which is cool and all, but at the end of the day, I still have to pull something out of the hat to throw out to you hungry cyber dogs.  I guess I’ll tell you that about a week ago, I got a random email from a woman who found my blog through a search for “Caroline Myss”.  This woman recently wrote a book called, Walking Through Illusion, which she said was about how it’s not our beliefs we take with us when we pass, but the LOVE we found through having them, and she asked, if she sent me a copy, would I be willing to read it and then review it on my blog…  Shrug.  Random, right?  But I was intrigued… because I’m tired of trying to force and control my life.  It’s much more relaxing and fulfilling when I (hear this next part in an Indian accent) simply let go and let God.

So the book showed a coupla days ago up and it was very clear that God sent it to me.  No coincidence.  In her forward, the author, Betsy Otter Thompson says that in the writing of her book, she merges with Jesus’s energy.  She opens her heart, receives a feeling and lets that feeling express.  Sounds familiar… but translated feelings sure are more of a dastardly mish-mash.  When I first got the email from her, I was not cognizant of serving a divine instrument being ecstatically played as an essential part of God’s drunken symphony… I thought I was separate and finite and that it was a fluke, a dice who rolled off of someone else’s crap table (I put that in for my dad, since he deals craps… I recently invited him to read this blog, after months of skirting around the topic… I yearned to share this passionate expression of my soul with him… and yet I felt terrified of being judged and misunderstood by DADDY.  Honestly, that’s the arch angel of all stings.  But I finally got over myself and invited him deeper into my world by giving him the web address.  I don’t think he’s reading it though…But someday he will.  And maybe my craps reference will energetically seduce him to his computer, inexplicably, in the middle of the night…) and accidentally bounced into my playpen.

But when I cracked Walking Through Illusions open this morning and licked the preliminary pages with my eyeballs, it was clear that this was obviously the expert execution of one Lord and Savoir on High!  Yup.  That’d be our very own Jesus H.  In some of my past blogs, I’ve expressed my fondness for the holy dude… and defended him from the travesty of kinked up, pursed lipped, frivolously condemning Christianity.  So I guess he just thought he’d return the favor by dropping a book full of potent healing capacity in my lap.  Thanks J-daddy!  (Oh-la-la!  Here comes the rain!  Time to hop aboard the romance train and ride wildly into sexy tides of late night living liquid poetry!)  I feel to run out to Brad’s old blue diesel Mercedes, sleeping in the driveway and lay into the horn!  Because I LOVE Jesus!  And sometimes the best thing once can do is HONK about it!

Speaking of Jesus, like eighty percent of the men here on Kauai remind me of Jesus.  I swear… I have Jesus sightings everywhere I go… including out to the kitchen to make dinner!  Tonight’s Jesus du jour was Joshua.  He’s a twenty two year old Jesus who currently lives on the beach and follows the Tao.  I don’t think he ever wears a shirt.  Last week, when I met him for the first time, I immediately reduced him to left over coleslaw and packed him in a tiny box to wither and spoil.  The box was entitled, “Hippy-Dippy-Ultra-Feminine-Boy-Who’s-Too-Young-To-Really-Know-Much”.  Then I proceeded to act nice and open to him… Am I sick or what?  It’s my loss… because his heart is about as pure as expensive crystle.  Tonight he told me that all he’s really been doing with himself these days is a whole lot of watching the ocean and chanting of mantras.  When I feel into him, his energy is so clean, sweet and innocent.  He’s all kindness.  And he looks like Jesus.

I am totally out of money these days, waiting for a check that has been delayed for almost TWO WEEKS, and in the mean time, living “poem to poem” and “grace to grace” as I recently confided in you… Tonight as I was making dinner, I had the blessed opportunity to share food with this holy Jesus Pup.  At first, I felt tight, stingy and afraid, as though if I gave “mine” away, I would starve.  But then I reflected on the plethora of generosity that the universe has been spilling out on me these days… and I realized how ridiculous it would be to hoard.  Food, money, opportunities, love, kindness… they have ALL been literally falling from the sky and landing all around me.  It would be absurd not to pour back out as the very universe, Herself!  I am gonna run outside and honk Brad’s horn in revelatory gratitude for the opportunity to share my ridiculous abundance.  In gratitude for the opportunity to see my frivolous, indignant judgments of such a holy creature and toss them in the voracious flames of Truth for purification.

Dang, it’s past my bedtime!  Off I go.  If you hear someone honking, don’t fret, it’s just me, praising the Lord…

Amen!

More On Milkmaids

The milkmaids have returned!  They are adamant about stealthily climbing into my mind and pouring out of my finger tips.  This lost posse of sacred women, nestled neatly in the forgetful folds of our contemporary, technologically outrageous, complicated and way too important for its own good, world.  The more I write about them, the more I want to write about them.  I guess they have become my imaginary friends.   Recently, I have adopted a handful of imaginary friends.  Their names are Paramahansa Yogananda, Krishna and Jesus.  You see, in this recent incarnation of me and my relationship with Mykael, and my relationship to relationship, I have found myself often alone.  Don’t feel sorry for me or anything… I am practicing loving and cherishing my aloneness… But sometimes, when I go to church alone, and I feel a few shreds of bitterness that Mykael is not by my side, I just invoke one or more of my other [imaginary] boyfriends.  Honestly, the three of them are the best boyfriends a girl could ever hope to have.

But every woman knows that life does not revolve around boyfriends.  So the milkmaids have come to bathe my mind in their sacred ocean of milk.  Krishna is a cowherd.  His wife Radha is a milkmaid.  Don’t quote me on this.  I’m not a journalist who makes my livelihood by researching the trousers off everything that I write about.  I am just a plain old woman who has a mind full of all sorts of tidbits that have found their way in to my cracks and folds and vast scapes of breathtaking inner terrain.  But I’m pretty sure that our blue, heroic friend kicked it with the milkmaids and even got to bone one of them!  After they spilled out onto the page again yesterday, a curiosity arose in me.  What’s so compelling about milkmaids, Athena?

In my mind’s eye, they are nothing less than a holy vision.  Their skin is whiter than a sea of fresh milk.  Similar to the image of Sri Krishna, their features contain a certain pristine perfection.  I imagine them to be the poster children of innocence and purity.  Innocence.  Purity.  Take a moment and actually consider the resonance of those words rippling through your mind and body.  When I feel innocence and purity come to life inside me, I feel divinity.

I have no idea if I’m making any sense, because I woke up this morning feeling a strong desire to find a new cafe… a new place to write.  But I couldn’t think of one, so I just went to Café 504.  When I got there, I could not think nor settle.  So I hopped back on my bike and now I am at Mykael’s café… A-GAIN.  But it’s much better here.  Mykael is not even here yet.  I am starting to be able to hear myself think.  On the way over, I stopped at the pull-up bars by Lake Merrit.  This is a new habit of mine.  I can do TWO!  But yesterday when I stopped to get my pump on, I met a man who told me that it’s all about doing sets.  When he first started, he could only do two.  Now, months later, he can do FIVE SETS of two!  So today, I did my two… and then I rested and then did one and three quarters more!  Who’s such a bad ass?  Who’s a bone thug in harmony? (I think that was an R&B or a rap group not too long ago… Oh the things that have impressed themselves in my mind…)

Anyway, when I contemplate the essence of the milk maid, I feel a similar vibe to that wafting off of our favorite Virgin, Miss Mary!  I suppose they are different archetypes.  Maiden and Mother… but they both appear extra white in my mind’s eye… Not white like Caucasian… White like the afforementioned ocean of milk.  White like sinless.  But I like to think that these milky maids DO have a naughty streak.  In Athena’s mind, innocent does not equate to innocent in the biblical sense.   Far from it.  And anyway, Krishna’s bitches lived before the bible was even a glimmer in the twisted eyes of the would be thumpers, priests and dogmatic Jesus freaks.  The last thing about milkmaids~ though pristine and tender, like the inside of a fresh baked baguette, they DO have a tough streak.  Ceaselessly waking before the sun in order to squeeze countless udders dry takes some serious woman power.  I bet they’re pretty ripped.  And I bet they are more than comfortable basking in holy silence.  I bet they have great senses of humor.  I bet their laughter sounds like the boisterous flirtation sung by church bells reverberating inside sacred wells.

Ohmigod.  Suddenly the music they are playing in here BLOWS.  My head is pounding with a hollow, sucky beat and my heart is twisting with anger.  I wish I could vacuum seal myself in a quietude just east of all this noise and disapproval.  You know what just saved my life?  This guy sitting at the table adjacent to mine… he’s reading a little paperback, and was just moved deeply by some of the secret words in his papery universe.  I know because he rested the book on the table, hunched over, so that his face was a couple of inches from the text, and he meticulously underlined something.  Do you get it?  He is so enthralled in his little world built for one.  Now he rests his receding hair-lined forehead in one of his meaty palms, elbow propped on the table.  Such absorption.  Yoga (union) at both it’s most basic and its finest.

In other news, it’s Mykael’s birthday.  I’m feeling SO grateful to love him today.  Fuck, how guilty would I feel if I couldn’t find my love for him on his own bloody thirty ninth birthday?!

In other OTHER news, I am pleased to report that all those blessings I extended to you in yesterday’s writing boomeranged right back at me all day yesterday!  The smoothest among them occurred when Mykael and I were eating lunch on our front porch.  We have started this campaign to be “good neighbors”… What does that mean in this day in age when everyone goes about their *crucially important* business with ceaseless vigor, enclosing ourselves in our separate boxes, with our separate little family units and never-ending streams of pressing matters spilling forth in a chain of fruitless attempts of existence justification.  Sheesh, all I’m driving at is that indigenous cultures, living close to the earth were on to something.

A “good neighbor” is generous, friendly, open, connective.  Since the days have become warmer, we stocked the fridge with beer and the freezer with popsicles and neapolitan flavored tofutti cuties, so that we could offer them to passers by.  We had our first takers yesterday!  Three chattery, spirited milkmaids in disguise!  “Hello!” Mykael called to the virginal, creamy creatures, and soon enough they were devouring lime popsicles on our porch and gossiping about benign frivolities with us.  Then the very tall, slim woman wearing a purple tennis skirt invited us to come collect the eggs from her three chickens this weekend while she and her hubby (Krishna?) are away!  They live in the very red-assed house down the block.  I tell you all this, because I BELIEVE that if we all make an effort to cultivate kindness, connection and generosity among our neighbors, the world will be almost entirely healed.  Ya dig?  We all think war blows and have all these really intelligent, righteous ideas about what the world leaders “should” be doing and not doing… but what about our very own block?  Let’s create peace and goodwill on our street, inspire others to create peace and goodwill on their streets… And watch with glee the becoming of a world of profound sistah and brothah-hood.

And the other important rule to be sure and announce when you offer your neighbor a beer or a box of chilled chocolate milk, is that the recipient is NOT required to “earn” it, by sticking around and making conversation.  That is strictly a bonus if they do.  The offering is one of unconditional generosity.

Whose Dharma is it, Anyway?

I am one self united with my creator.  Salvation comes with from my one self.

Once upon a time I traversed the streets of Paris.  I really did.  And a girl’s gotta wonder…  How do all those boulangeries stay in business?  I swear there are more boulangeries in Paris than there are stars in the sky, or atoms in your body.  But I am remembering one in particular.  It was nothing special… it just happened to be en route between my studio apartment to the nearest metro stop.  Don’t misinterpret… “nothing special” does not mean that I did not stop at nearly every crystal clean window to gaze upon the prim and proper little buttery masterpieces… I did.  I stopped to soul salivate at at least forty four percent of boulangerie windows.  I was tickled and spellbound by the vast diversity of combinations of refined flour, sugar and butter that were possible, and their supernatural seductive powers never ceased to cause me to involuntarily brake.  But this particular shop shone beyond the rest because of the maiden who held court behind the counter.  Was she ordinary?  I don’t know.  But she was perfect.  Perfect like a Parisian Barbie doll, except made of real flesh instead of the usual plastic.  The first time I saw her, I was captivated.  I stood outside, peering through the pristine window, watching her ambivalently serve from behind the veneer of an evocative, poised self.

Tall, slender and curvaceous, her thick black hair was piled neatly sexy in a perfect French twist.  I was perplexed by her choice of outfits.  She looked like she was a high profile secretary, way too fancy to be slinging greasy treats on the streets of Paris.  She wore a low cut, snug fitting cotton shirt, a solid colored, curve hugging skirt and stalkings.  Her cleavage full, reminiscent of perfectly ripe fruit, youth, a wellspring of feminity and sex.  A string of large, languidly luminous pearls hugged her warm olive, swanish neck.  Her make-up was relatively heavy… Especially her eyes which on their own were large, dark and heavy with hidden meaning.  She accentuated them in the way of feline stealth, with a thick black line running along the upper lid and lashes so weighted with mascara that it was a wonder she could keep her eyes open.  Perhaps they rested at half mast…  I stood absorbing her wondrous existence for a double scoop of infinite minutes.  I wanted to touch the pulse of her humanness.  I wanted to know the unique music of her soul, but she kept it so hidden beneath her façade of deliberate, explicit beauty.  I perceived barely a trace of her inner world.  She worked with an air of seriousness and regal sophistication.  Most days, she was there, and most days, my feet involuntarily stopped their feverish traversal of the novelty of Parisian streets to pay homage to this delicious, stoic anomaly of a woman.

This was about five years ago.  But she lives inside me, timelessly.  Strange, the things that leave impressions.  I wish I could BE her.  Not literally, of course.  I could never be as cool, expressionless, tidy.  I wish I dressed to kill for my plain-assed life.  I wish I took my normalcy to the outer limits.  Ordinary people.  We are all such ordinary people on some level… you know what I mean?  Even though we are extraordinary… there is something so ordinary about the human experience.  We all wake up in the morning and must live the day, thrust ever forward by the space time continuum.  We all thirst for love and acceptance.  I could go on and on, listing the ways that we are the same, but why?  Just feel it.  Feel the core of your own humanity, right now, and it will save me a few frivolous strings of words.

In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna, “Better to do your dharma poorly than someone else’s well.”  So obviously I can’t be her.  I woke up with especially heavy questions about my path this morning, and this enigmatic boulangerista rose to the surface of my relentlessly musing mind.  Why?  Because I want to take as much meticulous care as she did as I claim my seat in the world.  No matter WHO I am, WHAT my dharma is, I want to set my table beautifully, intentionally, every day.  Sometimes I fantasize about catching the midnight flight to Paris, buying a fancy string of fat pearls and landing a job in a boulangerie… but… I’m not her.  I wonder though… Whose dharma was she performing so extraordinarily, hers?  Or someone elses?  And if I did run away to Paris with my aforementioned string of pearls, would that be HER dharma, or mine?

Krishna?  Why did you so generously shower Arjuna with Divine council, and leave me here all alone in the windowed corner of Gaylord’s café to restlessly stew in lonesome musings?  Today I woke up drowning in the color blue… but somehow I got myself to the meditation cushion… hopeful that Grace would somehow conk me over the head with blissful silence… But alas, twenty something minutes of my ego-bound life spilled through time’s treacherous cracks in a flurry of roaring chaotic chatter, emotional strife and a generous pinch of despair.  Krishna?  Can you please speak up???  Jesus?  Could you please help a sistah out? (Out of dillusion, that is…)  Paramahansa Yogananda?  Would you toss a starving heart a blessed bone?  I’d really appreciate it.  When will I learn to be quiet enough to hear?  In A Course in Miracles recently, they said that spiritual realization is not something to casually attain…only to throw aside for the next achievement or acquisition… If we are relating to it as just another fresh assed, groovy thing to have, like a new Ipad (she said with a scornfully crinkled nose…) than forget about it.  If that’s the case, better just stick with the Ipad.  Awakening is not a frivolous endevor.  It is not just another casual possession to acquire and leave on the shelf to collect dust.  That is what harmoniums and typewriters and sewing machines are for!!!  I had a good laugh when that last thought lit down in my mind.   I wanted a harmonium SO BAD.  Now I have had one for almost a year and have played it all of three times.  I have had a dream of taking an old fashioned typewriter out into the world and being a poetic muse for the masses for YEARS, literally… Recently, one finally landed in my possession, and now I am terrified to take action and embrace that dream… Mykael just bought a sewing machine at a garage sale for fifteen bucks.  Of course I would love to learn to sew, but I can’t even pretend that I will, until I muster the courage to exercise my other two dream machines.   Once I DO, maybe THEN Krishna and Jesus, Yogananda and God will bother to speak up, flood my mind with revelatory light…

Dumping Diamonds Down the Well and Let’s Cut Jesus Some Holy Slack

As I rode my bike through the driving rain to get to café 504, I marveled at the lengths I will go to for that which I love.  Coffee and writing.  Two of my most favorite parts of being a human being named Athena Grace.  Any other mission or chore could be so easily swept beneath the rug of endless excuses on a blustery day like today.  But I would walk a gazillion miles through a blizzard to arrive in the paradise that is writing and cappuccino.  Hallelujah!!!

Speaking of Hallelujah, I’m gonna dive right in and say what’s on my mind about everybody’s favorite lord and savoir, Jesus H. Christ.  (Where does the H come from anyway???)  Now that I am an official blogger, I’ve been doing a little research, testing the waters of the blogging world.  What are people saying?  What’s the linguistic climate “out there”?  So I searched wordpress on my favorite subject, GOD!  And I found this guy who was talking Styrofoam trash about my buddy Jesus.  Apparently this dude was raised catholic, which rumor has it can be a pretty damaging experience… but now he’s out there cleaning toilets in a catholic church and writing satirically hateful letters to the holy savior, J-ditty.  Reading it made my heart ache.  Thanks to organized religion, Jesus is so wickedly misunderstood!  The masses seem to think that he was this holier than thou, elitist condemning judge whose farts smelled like lilacs and jasmine.  WRONG.

Now this is my version of faith= I have faith in my unwavering intuition as to who this man really was.  First off, yes, Jesus was a man as much as you are a man or a woman.  Jesus was just like you and me. Only He happened to have an unquenchable thirst for truth, driving him to spend copious amounts of time in the Great Silence.  And ANYONE who makes the effort to spend time cultivating intimacy with the silence inside is guaranteed to find what he found.  And once you find it, you inevitably dedicate your life to helping others find this, because nothing compares to bathing in the holy light that is the truth of who we are.  None of our ego ambitions could ever DARE to stand up to the light inside.  I just know.

Jesus was a yogi.  He practiced meditation, followed the path of Self Mastery.  This is nothing outrageous, only inspiring.  So why are so many wars fought in his name?  Why are so many condemned in his name?  Unfortunately, many churches use God Realization as a hollow pretense, when their true agenda is gaining power and control of the masses.  This has very little to do with Jesus.  When I am president, I shall forbid any religious observance that condemns another.  There is no excuse for that.  If spiritual teachings and practice are not founded on the truth and celebration of our Oneness, then we have outgrown them by now.  Please people, no more infantile ideas about this beyond marvelous truth of the All Pervading Light.  Haven’t we suffered enough?

Am I trying to twist your arm off until you accept Jesus as our Lord and savior?  No way, Jose.  I could care less where, what, whom your source of inspiration is.  All that concerns me is that you have a source of inspiration that connects you with “the Highest”.  The highest meaning your heart.  The heart of the world.  Your own, personal oasis of joy and peace.  The simpler it is, the better.  Maybe it’s your dog, your Sweetie, your children, the ocean, the song of birds.  For me, it is all this and more.  It is the common denominator in all that, that moves me.  You could call it All Pervading Light.  The light dwells at the core of all that we love.  And all that we will come to love (everything!) as we open to the realization of what we are truly made of.

I know this is not the most poetic writing… I love being poetic.  Today I feel more like a preacher… but only hear these words as words of expansion, liberation.  I mean really, if I was stuck on a desert island, and I could only bring one spiritual teaching, do you know what it would BE?!

THE GOLDEN RULE.

Simple.  Do un to others as you would have others do un to you.  In modern speak, treat people the way you want to be treated.  Now, I suppose that would be pretty easy on a desert island, since traditionally, the hypothetical world of desert islands do not include the concurrent luxury and burden of other people.  But I could practice with the furry little animals, the large, iridescent, tropical bugs and the birds whose voices are portals to heaven, whose wings covertly remind us of our own, long forgotten.  Anyway, I guess now is a good time to digress… Please consider that Jesus is not out to get you or your people.  Consider that Jesus is a dude who had the unrelenting conviction to see beyond the divisions and limits born of this world of illusion… and consider that it is your Destiny to do the same… but your unfolding is a gentle, patient one.  You are blooming in your own sweet rhythm.  And regardless of the imaginary constraints of time and space, we are all the same, and just beneath the dream we simultaneously come from and remerge with the same unbounded, wholly holy enchanting placeless place.

Thank you for considering this expansive view.  And now for an orgasm report.  But first, a word from our sponsor~ the rain.  My sight keeps being seduced out the window to the saturated sidewalk.  I let my gaze soften and drink in the concentric circles doing their temporal dance about the wet pavement.  They rise and then disappear so quickly, it’s hard to believe that any single one ever existed.  Is that what a human life is?  Just a drop of ocean water, splashing on a temporary surface of individuation, only to lose its bound little self back into the universal wetness that is creation its self?  It sure seems that way.  It’s Wednesday…  Wasn’t it just Wednesday?  Wednesdays come and go quicker than each fleeting circular expression born of a single spring rainstorm.  I am thirty.  I do not know how long I will live.  I do not know when I will be blessed with Holy Sight.  I want to do my BEST at Loving.  Loving feels so challenging sometimes.

Now back to our previously programmed presentation.  Orgasm.  I feel sad to announce that it was a very anticlimactic occurrence.  Mykael and I chose to take some mushrooms in the early evening.  If I had it all to do over again, I would not have done that.  I would rather have just snuggled and bonded and made love all afternoon and into the evening.  We didn’t take enough to come unhinged from the confines of linear reality… just enough to feel sorta introspective and weird.  We both wanted to make love, but we were mildly preoccupied with the haunted whispers of non-ordinary reality.  Frown.  Plus he was experiencing some familiar though frightening aches and pains and fears (ohmy!)… so he had a lot of attention on himself.  All that said, we managed to have pretty sweet communion.  And when he finally came, it was just like I imagined.  I was totally surrendered and received his energetic offering as pure grace.  I felt like a sacred well, filled with holy water… A well of infinite depths.  When he came, it was like he poured a bucket sized chalice of diamonds into my well.  I felt them plummet through my crystalline depths, whistling with soft ecstasy as they fell into me.  But they fell up.  Imagine an upside down well, whose mouth is on earth and its bejeweled bottom could be construed as heaven.

When the diamonds rose up beyond my heart, merging with my voice, I opened my throat and sang a pure, ecstatic tone.  I didn’t sing it, it sang me.  I’m not kidding.  It was like a tsunami.  And after the maha wave broke, smaller waves lapped rapturously at my insides.  Holy fullness.  But then it was over.  And I was just me again.  And then what?  Then I took my electric, insatiable self to bed and masturbated again, because my tunnel of love was open for some serious business last night.  Hmmm, I guess it was a pretty decent night of release… but the journey of yearning far outshone the petty destination of fulfillment.

Cedar Waxwings, Ducks and More Carrots, Of Course!

I could have sworn that today was going to be an auspicious one.  First, when I was doing my kicking laps in the outdoor pool this morning, I heard a chorus of holy voices.  Immediately I knew the source of the song~ cedar waxwings, my most favorite bird.  (But let me set the record straight, I don’t use the term “favorite” as an absolute term, but only to serve as a vehicle conveying passion, enthusiasm, joy… that whole strain of shimmering feelings.)  Have you ever seen a cedar waxwing?  They always travel in flocks.  Big flocks.  They are not big birds, they are not especially small birds.  They are compact and sleek.  When I gaze upon them, I always feel like I am looking through a soft filtered lens~ you know, the kind they use in the movies when they want to illustrate that someone is falling in love?  The object of affection shows up so softened and glowing.  Cedar waxwings look like that without even needing the aid of Hollywood special effects!  Their feathers are modest shade of tawny earth.  On their cheeks they have a soft, circular spray of red, downy feathers, so that they are in perpetual blush!  They wear black feathered masks around their eyes like sexy, angelic love bandits.  They feast on berry bushes, while singing the praises of Heaven.  I don’t see them very often (though I do hear them pretty frequently.  Their voices are what birds would sound like if they purred!), so when I do, I know I am blessed.

Then, as I was getting out of the pool, a mallard couple landed gracefully on the surface of the warm, crystalline, chlorinated water.  I heard their slick landing as I walked, through the frigid, yawning air to the locker room.  Then I heard their goofy voices (Duck voices.  Is there anything sweeter???) announcing the presence of Love and I turned to prick posterity’s bubble, not believing what I heard.  Yes indeed, they paddled their beautiful, buoyant bodies along the lap lines and my heart tickled so bad it cracked open multiple times, like a whole nest full of duck eggs.  I heard myself shriek and squeal.

But now I feel lonely.  The ducks were a pair.  The cedar waxwings were a flock.  Athena is alone.  Café 504 is busy.  How do I know that I am lonely?  It’s this feeling in my heart.  A black hole comes to mind when I focus on the sensation.  This insatiable hole, from which sadness could ooze like an endless honey stream if I let it.  But maybe if I just allow it to be… maybe if I create a new story to surround the sensation.  Maybe it is a sensation of sacred vulnerability.  Maybe.  Maybe it is love.  Maybe it is not meant to be filled.  This must be what the banks of a raging river feel like.  I can just let this feeling pour through my shyly awakening heart.  It feels like raw desire.  Desire~ the reason that we keep casting our rods out into the future, hoping that a particular delicious, gracious, winged carrot will swim up and bite our line… and then this feeling of outrageous yearning will be quelled and real life will begin.

Real.

Life.

Will.

Begin.

I know I talk about this a lot, this illusion of future happiness… but I am determined to break on through to the other side.  I am determined to claim my home right here, right now, make my nest, stake my claim, own my throne.  Here.  Now.  Even with this ache in my heart and this auspicious, wishful fishing pole, perpetually on the hunt for carrots that swim with fishes.  Isn’t that a pretty image?  Inside my mind is a viscous substance, the offspring of the torrid affair between love and water.  Aqua-golden and warm as moonbeam jelly.  In it swim schools of slender, flaming orange carrots with iridescent scales and exotic, twinkling eyes.  Long, flowing fins that flow like silk scarves blowing in tropical breezes.  Who wouldn’t want to fish for carrots as beautiful as that?!?!  I bet when I finally find the heaven inside, I’ll see Jesus, Krishna and Saint Theresa chillin’ with forties (peeping out from crumpled brown paper sacs) on the end of a pier, dippin their holy poles into the viscous sea of love potion, waiting for a sacred carrot to bite their golden lines.

I have been setting the alarm on my phone to go off every hour, so that I can affirm today’s course in miracles lesson and sit in sacred silence for five minutes, inviting effulgence into the cracks between my habitual bondage thoughts.  While I was sitting in sacred invitation, my phone chimed with the revelatory news of a text message.  After five minutes of affirmation that “God, being Love, is also Happiness”, I saw that one of my most stellar (and long lost) friends, Amrita had texted me, informing me that she was in town for the day and would I like to meet up later!  I haven’t seen her in over a year.  So the cedar waxwings and the ducks did NOT lie after all!  Athena too shall be graced with auspicious company today!!!  When I am with Amrita, I feel like a shooting star.  Or maybe the ticklish blackness giggling uncontrollably as light whizzes anonymously through Her endless body of spacious something.

I said that I would tell you more about Glide Church.  But honestly, going to church is no more or less spiritual than any other experience that I have.  It is confounding to me how spirituality has become this compartmentalized, teensy patch within our glistening existence.  Or how bout those people who ardently declare, “I am not a spiritual person”?!?!  As if there is anything else to be!  I suppose this is another ingenious tactic used to bind our minds to illusion.  I am guilty.  I seem to be stuck to the concept that finding the light inside will be something that “happens to me… SOMEDAY”.  The quintessential Mother of all carrots!  How can it possibly be here now?  How can it be here now as I sit in this  moderately comfortable chair, my butt becoming flattened and stiff, my heart an empty frame hosting a vast, black hole and my mind relentlessly clawing for an understanding that saves my small fearful life, if even for a split second.

Don’t ask me how, but the Light is here, now.  Don’t ask me how, but this is IT.  There is nothing more.  No, wait, ask me.  Ask me how!!! Come on, ASK ME!!!  LOVE is how.  Mostly I hate when people tell me that.  Like my friend Dan.  He’s all bent on Love.  Like a holy obsession.  (As far as obsessions go, that one gets the thumbs up from nine point four out of ten angels… but only two out of eighty seven Popes, believe it or not)  And when love lives like an elusive concept far from available to me in any given steaming slice of Now, I feel desperate and frustrated.  LOVE?  Where?  All I feel is X, Y, Z…. What’s love got to do with THAT?  But I can feel it right now.  This feeling of brimming appreciation for all these divine dream creatures, blind as worms, wriggling about in our outrageous fantasy of separation.  Is it enough to just say YES to this feeling of reverence, this outpouring of sweetness?

Spiritual.  It does not have to be such a serious word.  Spiritual.  It is spiritual to breathe.  It is spiritual to ache.  It is spiritual to laugh, to cry, to yearn, to eat, and CERTAINLY to drink high quality cappuccinos(!!!) to pee and poop, to be a couch potato.  Ewwwe, I cringed as I wrote that last one.  I am not a fan of couch potatoes.  But you know what?  Who cares?  What I am fond of does not equate to what is spiritual.  Even the couch potatoes will eventually re-member this MAGNIFICENT light.

AMEN.

I Believe In Peace Bitch

Thirteen days without a single rapturous release.  Ladies, don’t try this at home.  Honestly.  It sucks.  I feel like an angrier, more brooding, less patient version of myself.  (For those of you new to my blog, I have taken on the self imposed challenge of not cumming for an entire month.)  Yesterday I thought, “Oh fuck this, it isn’t worth it, I’m just gonna cum.”  But then I thought, “No, I gave my word, not only to myself, but to You… and I am going to keep it.   Anyway, this is an experiment, an exploration… and I am a bold, courageous adventurer who takes all of this illusory drama with a grain of… something tiny but menacing… maybe a rebellious grain of renegade sand in my otherwise smooth pile of spinach (sautéed of course in olive oil, garlic and a dash of salt).”

Who knows… maybe it is just a coincidence that I’ve been feeling extra tangled in my shadow.  So that’s the report from orgasm central.  In other news, our modern day hero, Jesus Christ is scheduled to rise tomorrow!  Or is it just the Easter Bunny who’s gonna come and scatter a rainbow of cookies in my tulip patch?  Smirk.  Honestly, I am just beating around the bush, because I really feel tired and lonely and scared today.  I would venture to guess that a lot of it has to do with

I was gonna say my relationship… but then before I could get that typed out with a straight inner face, another, hella truer explanation swept down upon me.  It goes some’m like this~ FEELING SEPARATE FROM GOD.  In A Course In Miracles, it is said that the ONLY problem is the problem of SEPARATION, and it is already solved, because in truth, we are NOT separate in the first place, and could never be.  All other problems are delusional.  Like fever induced nightmares.  We have all been struck by a violent strain of Forgetful Fever, which causes us to fall into a comatose sleep, where we drift through seeming lifetimes, perpetual forevers, tossing and turning and imagining a whole host of “problems” and their glamorous carrot consorts (solutions), which we are more that SURE will bring us happiness and peace, SOMEDAY (hopefully sooner than later!).

Raise your hand if your peace and happiness are just around the corner.  As soon as you find the One.  As soon you own your own home.  Finish your thesis.  Make a hundred thousand dollars a year.  Me?  Oh yeah, I’ll certainly be happy once I figure out my relationship.  Once I sort out whether the “right” answer is to lean into the ugly pockets and imbue them with unconditional love, or to realize that I am done and that it is time to explore Athena sans another.  Oh, and CERTAINLY as soon as I figure out this whole getting paid a comfy living wage to write riddle…  Right answers.  Curse all these glistening answers that seduce me to scrutinize my circumstances ever fruitlessly… The only right answer is in me and I have a feeling It could give a monkey’s uncle’s ass about the temporal, swirling dream of my petty circumstances.  Love is not conditional or bounded.  Peace is not contingent upon anything.  Forgiveness is always an option.

I think this might be the most depressing leg of the journey Home.  My eyes sting.  I say depressing because I know that I don’t know, but I can’t seem to free myself from the treacherous, toothy tangles of my habitual, false perceptions.  Oh!  Here is the perfect metaphor!  Have you ever gotten snagged by a black berry bush, and the more you try to free yourself from it, the more committed its grip becomes?  Maybe it just has your clothes at first.  But then it latches on to skin in cold desperation.  Ouch!  And you become adrenylized and flustered.  Then you realize that you can just take a deep breath and patiently free yourself one angry thorn at a time.  But you soon realize that is not the solution because you untangle three thorns and are now stuck by seventeen more!  The only other solution you can see is to sacrifice your clothes and your precious skin, and RIP free.

This is how my ego clings.  Clings to what?  Clings to its self? (????)   I tell myself that only love is real, only peace is real.  Only connection is real.  But then I feel my body, and it aches here.  My heart aches.  My body constantly craves.  Food.  Sex.  Caffeine.  Touch.  Stimulation.  My mind craves understanding, reasons, stories, dramas, PLANS, futures.

Meditation.  I let go.  I breathe.  I affirm my freedom.  I ask for God’s help.  And then before I can receive the omnipotent blessings of the Light, I am off on another fear-inspired meander through illusion’s ghettos.  I feel so sad about this.  I am so close.  I am.  So.  Close.  If I am so close, why do I feel so lonely and afraid?  Is that just my ego, reacting to its own terror of annihilation?   I guess so.  But now what?  Vigilance.  And the requisite tears and sweat that that requires.

I want nothing less than to see you only in your truth.  Only as the light you are.  I am not interested in relating to your false beliefs about yourself and this twisted world.  I know, I know, that is a radical thing to declare and it doesn’t really fit with this model of “reality” in which we have invested so much… but at this point, I don’t care.  I will look inside until I find something dangerously real, and revelatorily pure and true.  And then when you stand and face yourself in my still, silent reflection, you will be stunned and relieved by what you recognize Within.  This is a promise.

As I wrote that, tears began to spill at a rather rapid and frivolous clip.  Then I got up to pee and behind the locked bathroom door, the sadness flooded in and I thought it might be time to build another arc. (But would that be appropriate to glorify Noah so close to Jesus’s special day?  I oughtn’t steal this friendly Messiah’s thunder like that…)  I sat on the toilet with my head in my hands, trying to keep my sobs silent and appropriate for this public arena. (Café 504, of course)  But it sure felt good to give myself over to this earnest ache.  Then I stood up, looked in the mirror (to assess the “damage”) and realized that I am wearing my baseball shirt that says, “I believe in peace bitch”.  I got it at the Tori Amos concert that E* won tickets to on KFOG.  I had to laugh, because it is a very apropos statement to accompany today’s internal climate.

Like I said, I will find the light inside me and stop believing in fear and darkness.  I just hope I do it sooner than later.  Jesus Christ is scheduled to rise tomorrow, but I’m afraid that He’ll pass me over, just because I am more interested in what I’m gonna eat for breakfast than I am in SEEING.  Because I can’t seem to open heart to Mykael for more than a spilt second at a time these days, before it’s big, leaden door swings shut in his face, which I fear is just a mirror of all the parts of myself that I find repulsive, worthless and unlovable.  Help!  Someone please get this harsh, condemning judge OUT of me! (It’s kinda like when you are picnicking and a greedy wasp gets all up in your shit, and you can’t seem to get rid of it and the more you try, the angrier and more aggressive it becomes and you are sure that it will not let you alone without getting a good sting or two in…)  Now can you see what I have to cry about?  But the tears will wash me clean, I hope.

Like I said, I am SO close…

Relationship, the Inner Critic’s Reign of Terror and a Visit From Jim Morrison

God is really trying to test me today.  I got to café 504 and they are playing disco music pumped up to exorbitantly high volumes. Is it the Bee Gees?  Maybe.  All I know is that the base is bouncing me like I’m a fussy infant, which ironically is making me feel like I’m a fussy infant.  I feel a lot of pressure to say cool stuff today, because yesterday I came to the café and wrote, but was not nearly brilliant enough.  My thoughts just never coalesced into much beyond dirty pond water.  So today I have to prove myself, or else I am not a writer.  Do you believe I think like this?  Cruel and almost unusual… Except that it is usual.  This is the kind of unconscious pressure I live under in every waking moment.  Do you think that’s why I’m so tired all the time?  I bet.

God, I have a bone to pick with you… Lately you have been sending your muses to fill my mind with excruciatingly brilliant ideas for writing topics at the most heinous moments.  Little gemish sentences flutter through my mind when I am trying to sleep and my linguistic butterfly net is more than hidden in the thick folds of nocturnality.  Why do you do this to me?  And then I come to the café, hoping that all these dazzling, winged strings of English will reappear the instant I call upon them, but instead you fill my head with whiny disco, a superficially bassy beat that could only be a result of black market “roids”…and I am left to fend for myself.  Well, God, I just want you to know, that this scenario is NOT ideal for me… but God?  I also want you to know that I’m gonna roll up my sleeves and muscle through it.  I don’t need your tattered, greasy “magic feathers”… No way, dude.  I can do this by myself.

Okay, that was my inner teenager, rearing her pimply, confused head.  Thank you Dear One.  Now, the truth is that I may be able to live life all by myself, write cool shit in a state of divine renunciation, but yuck!!!  Who wants to do that?  I want every single word that sprays across this virgin page to be graced by some kind of Love that would knock the socks off of socks themselves.  If it is not from love, for love, by love then why bother?  I wish they had taught me that in school.  No, not bible study class.  Don’t try to label me a god fearing Christian, just because I have a proclivity for holy names.  Jesus Christ.  School.   You know, garden variety, limping and broken, public assed, free education…

My foot tickles. (Strictly for the record…) I have been feeling the seven year itch with M.  We haven’t even made it to two years yet.  And I’ve been making ready to quit him.  But then I keep coming back to the unrelenting question which auspiciously haunts my mind.  Am I just meeting my own edge and choosing to collapse out of habit?  M has been helping me illuminate this vicious critic in me.  Yes, that would be the very same one who tries to prevent me from writing by leading me to believe that if I don’t do it perfect, than I oughtn’t even bother doing it at all.  So who am I to think that I’ll EVER be in a relationship with a man who is exempt from this merciless, fault finding beast who lives in my wounded mind?  There IS no such a man.  (I would probably even scrutinize the large pores on Jesus Christ’s nose, or become repulsed by Krishna’s luminous, blue skin over time…)

I sure have created M to be hella faulty though… Why?  Why is it so much easier for me to exist in the problems, when perfection sings out unabashedly glorious from beneath every footstep?  No, I’m not just being poetic.  Life is so generous with me.  Love blooms inside me, regardless of the season.  Not Hollywood love.  Maybe that’s the problem.  No, Athena, the “problem” is your addiction to problems.  A Course In Miracles teaches that the O-N-L-Y problem there IS, is the problem of “separation”, which is already solved, because it was an illusion in the first place.  Wow.  I know we all “know” this… It is beyond IN to preach about how separation is an illusion, right?  But have you ever just been sitting at the café, or parading your cart about the grocery store, and dared to actually look around you, feel around you and do your darnedest to just surrender into oneness?  Hmmm, doing your darnedest and surrendering seem kinda antithetical… On your marks, set, SURRENDER!!!  I said SURRENDER, damn it!!!  Then her face twisted into a soft, modest grin.  A grin that actually smoldered like a dying fire, but still it gave off plenty of heat to thaw the hearts of cynics.

Well I am sitting here imagining oneness as I scan the scene, abounding with a colorful bouquet of “others” and “things”.  It feels awkward, given all my habitual ways of perceiving “others” and “things” outside me.  But yet there is something that tingles with shy unity.  It sorta tickles like they’re all in me… Is this far fetched or overtly obvious?  Flip a coin, if you ask me…

Back to my edges in relationship.  I am waking up from this dream of co-dependence.  But then it feels so familiar and comfy that I don’t really WANT to wake up.  But then I do.  But then I don’t.  But then I DO… confusing, eh?  Totally.  All of these voices inside me, vying for the driver’s seat.  The warrioress rises to command at the surface of my mind.   She is intolerant of my stuckness, (and has a proclivity for blaming external circumstances and people I portend to love) intolerant of my habits of closure, hiding, playing small.  Her less than gracious response it to knock over tables and pillage the ancient villages built with bricks of dense repetition and plastered with calcified thought forms.  She is a revolutionary at all cost… unfortunately, though, her head is still stuck up her egoic ass hole more often than she cares to admit, which doesn’t always  make her the most trustable leader.  Then there’s the father, who is constantly scrutinizing all my actions and thoughts and telling me that I could be doing better and more and better and more and better and more.  And the child who is always just a little too empty and needs a bit more… more of anything, you name it, but at the end of the day, if you’re keeping score, it all simmers down to Love, doesn’t it?

What’s the point of all of this nattering?  The point is very clear.  There is only ONE solution to all of theses neurotic problems!!!  I MUST THROW MYSELF AT ERIC*’S FEET AND BEG HIM TO TAKE ME BACK!!!!!  Just kidding!  Did I trick you?  Even for a second?!  Sometimes that’s all I have is the ability to poke fun at my severely limping humanness.  Honestly, I do think that from time to time…to time.  That if I was back with Eric*, I would be happier.  More at peace and there would be hope that one day, I might be blessed with a single, tantalizing taste of fulfillment.  But no.  It’s find the light inside me or BUST.  And not just one, single bust, like bust and be done with it… no, it’d be like bust and bust and bust some MO’.  Maybe they call that “combustion”.  Bust until the day I die.  Bust until this illusory body is beyond exhausted from racing manically about on the hamsterish wheel of samsara.  I know it’s playing the odds, to hope for liberation anytime soon… but what is the alternative?  An unfulfilling, abuse ridden marriage to insanity.

My old landlord once told me that Jim Morrison often wore the same outfit for weeks at a time.  That was very healing for me to hear, because I only have one hoodie and I wear it every day…  Is it because I’m too poor to buy another?  Or is it because I hate shopping?  Laziness?  Unworthiness?  Could be all of those… or it could just be because I am a careless rock star at heart.  Sometimes (often) I wake up and put on the very same clothes that I peeled off and threw on my floor the night before.  Now, once upon a time that was a wholly unattractive behavior… but thanks to Jim Morrison, now it is rebel-hip and careless-creative.  You wouldn’t understand unless you were a *real* artist.  Grin.  Maybe… Maybe not.  But like I said, it’s healing for me to consider this.

Now for a quick update on the orgasm front~ It is strange… I have met so many edges and instead of spilling over them, I just hang out, like a leisurely Parisian, strolling thru the Jardin Luxumbourg on a Sunday.  Have you seen the Parisian contingency in the jardins on Sunday?  They might just sit, dressed in Sunday best, quietly drinking in the spring sunlight as it pours with passive passion on their native French faces all morning.  MAYBE they’ll read the paper.  So that’s how I have been meandering through sexual ecstasy these days.  It’s not half bad… though I do miss cumming.  Another trick I use to keep from spilling over the edge of the pounding waterfall is when I feel that “ohmigodd shoot here it cums” feeling… I totally relax.  Then I put my attention on the physical location of my heart, and naturally, the energy rises.  Jeepers, who knew it was that simple?!