Milkmaids, Blessings and a Moon Who Wouldn’t Quit!

When I woke up this morning, the dark was unusually thick.  I was sure that it couldn’t be more than one or two o’clock, so lay in bed, practically squeezing my eyes shut and lamenting that I was so wide awake.  After a few tortured, timeless moments, I checked the time on my phone and was surprised to see that it was after five!  Word on the street is that the darkest hour comes before the dawn.  I have found this to be absolutely true in the metaphorical sense.   You know, since I am on the precipice of rediscovering the [dawning] light inside me, and so far, my life has mostly felt like one, long, arduous, thirty year dark night of the soul… But last night it was absolutely true in the most basic, literal sense.  Add to that vision of an ambiance so black, it feels velveteen, like petals on a rose of death, a wholly unabashed waning half moon spilling a steady stream of beams so coy, I could hear them casting a continuous hum of carefree mantras into the deep, vivid, black mystery.  The cold light tickled me like being teased with a melting ice cube.  Soon enough the birds began to spread the word that all this wicked beauty was unfolding from God’s very mind.  Their voices were solemn and ominous like chanting Benedictine monks trying to speak in angel tongues.  Even though I hadn’t quite had a full six hours of sleep, I could only feel blessed as I nestled deeper into the warm safety of my covers.  It’s not every day that the pre-dawn screams such beautiful poetry at me.

I’m sure it was some kind of blessing spoken in a forgotten language.  Our native tongue, the language of the soul.  Strange that we feign ignorance for a language that courses through the veins of our most essential selves, and yet it can so easily slide by, unnoticed.  Well, I am starting to remember.  And I am here to remind you that you speak another language… you are speaking it all the time, but I think it’s easier to notice in the midst of a peaceful heart and a mind set on loving.

I love the things I say sometimes.  I feel so lucky that I get to sit here and type them!  Last night I stayed up past my bed time because two of my favorite friends in the world were in Mykael’s bedroom, which proved to be a very stimulating and blessed occurrence, which made it hard to renounce in the name of good night sleep.  As I was preparing, finally, to take my leave, Maha told me that he sees me as a radiant expression of the Goddess.  Holy spilt mind of the ego!  Something in me felt so relaxed and receptive as he poured this loving confession upon me.  And another part of me felt like it was enduring a rare form of torture.  That’s the ego for ya.

And as I’ve been learning in A Course in Miracles, GIVING AND RECEIVING ARE ONE.  I am really starting to recognize this on an experiential level.  Come on, it’s not that esoteric, after all.  Picture it~ there’s Maha, eyes steady, deep and pouring with light.  He fixes this auspicious gaze on me and drizzles rich, generous, heart-stained words on me like artisan hot fudge.  As I receive the deep sweetness that lies just below the linguistic communion, our hearts brush blushing cheeks and sigh in sweet relief, because we are choosing to meet in a moment alive as the spontaneous celebration of love!  I want to say that it’s analogous to a cow that aches to be milked.  If she is neglected, she will suffer, bursting at her seams with the very nectar of life.  The relief she must feel when her udders are tugged, squeezed, emptied.  And the holy milkmaid and her posse of innocent, ripe dreamers, too benefit as they imbibe in the sweet, luscious, creamy dream juice.

But that’s not the perfect metaphore… because in the moment that Maha gave the blessing of divine seeing, he claimed his own divinity.  Get it?!  This is the secret of prosperity consciousness.  Prosperity is not you or me having something that others don’t… It’s not having MORE than someone else.  It is the vigilant stance in the truth that there is enough for everyone, just by virtue of WHAT WE ARE.  It is such a radical shift for me to practice thinking like this.  But I have groomed my consciouness adequately, and I am ready to stretch myself into this revelatory, awake mental posture.

Jealousy is such a phenomenal entry point for me.  I have had such a long standing habit of feeling threatened when I recognize a woman having what she wants, feeling fulfilled, because I have been carrying around a covert sentence that I do not deserve that and am incapable of creating and allowing that in my life, and that if she has it, there is less for me. Jealousy= She has something that I want, but I can’t have, because I am not really made of Love Its Self, I am just a cheap, Walmart imposter.  (Universe, you know I am only poking fun, don’t you dare take me literally!)  Lately, when a woman tells me that she is feeling very fulfilled in her life, I widen myself so that I feel her success, her light, her joy as my own, as OURS.  I tell myself she IS me.  If she tells me that she had amazing sex, instead of feeling sorry for myself because I haven’t had amazing sex in like three days, I let myself feel what it feels like to be fucked really well!  A far superior experience.  If I see a woman flourishing in her work life, making lots of money, opening her heart and imbibing in the deliciousness serving others as she was born to do, I let myself feel the very high, holy blessing of that experience.  In witnessing that, in celebrating her fulfillment, it is also mine!

This takes practice.  But it’s not nearly as difficult a practice as say, opening my heart to Mykael in the moments when I am seized by my dream of pain, my compulsion to PUNISH… I am ready to claim true prosperity for the team!!!!  Not the kind I have to fight for, sweat for, grind my teeth in my sleep for… No, the kind I melt into, like stepping into a hot bath.  Like in Anusara yoga, when a teacher says to let your skin soften and drape on the fullness of your inner light.  It’s a radically different feeling than clenching every muscle and fighting for my right to be here now.

Think about it, life is constantly hurling blessings at you.  Every ray of sunlight that extends its self to your heavenly body… every flirtatious smile sprinkled from a fat baby’s lips… the inadvertent brushing of shoulders with a stranger… the duet modestly spun between shoe and sidewalk.

May you recognize and bathe in even a fraction of the blessings throwing themselves at your feet, begging to be received today!  And too, may you be the peaceful hurler of blessings into the sea that we are all semi-forgetfully flailing in!

PS~ Sparrows splashing in the murky gutter puddle!!!

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Psychadelic Retrospect

I slept with my window open last night, so that full moon beams could splash my vulnerable, dreaming face while I slept.  The moon looked like a flower more than a glowing marble last night.  It had a halo.  This brings me to a crucially important point.  The other day, Mykael regurgitated a scientific finding, as he tends to do every once in a so often… He said that if a memory surfaces in a human mind for the first time, years after its occurrence, it’s details are much more likely to be accurate than if it is a memory that has been revisited often since it’s original occurrence.  That totally makes sense to me, since I experience my mind’s eye as a much more psychedelic land than stiff old moment to moment reality.  When I have a memory, I see it as a projection of light, blurring at the edges and becoming surrounded, enshrouded by vast black.  Always.  And the surrounding blackness offsets the colors and the images, which makes the images more dramatic, sharp, creative.

Last night’s burgeoning full moon is a stellar example.  I went outside to put in a load of laundry shortly before bed… And the vision of the moon was stellar enough to knock me on my ass.  It seemed more colorful than usual.  You know?  Sometimes the moon looks icy, blue… Even gazing upon it can make me feel chilled.  In a good way, like chilled champagne.  There is never an unpleasant moon if you ask ME.  (And probably ninety seven percent of the population or above would agree with me.)  But this moon… in my mind’s eye, now, it glows like a mother of pearl disco ball, slowly turning to reveal its seductive spectrum of brilliance.  No, that’s not quite it… it’s more like an Easter egg hunt moon.  Feel into childhood Easter, when the verdant garden was strewn with freshly died eggs and sugary treats all winking like broken rainbows, exiled to Eden, waiting mischievously patient to be resurrected and devoured.

The moon as it lives in my mind’s eye is reminiscent of an animated flower, speaking to me on a refreshingly benevolent acid trip.  I see greens and oranges, and in the halo, live soft spoken petals.  The moon had a loose tongue last night, and she told unabashed secrets.  What kind of secrets?  I didn’t stick around in the cool spring darkness long enough to listen, because I have inexplicably become grown up and act too important to bother listening to the moon.  What good would Her secrets do me anyway???  Would they earn me worldly success?  (Probably… but at this point you must know that I am playfully stabbing at the mindset of our modern day America… and even my blood-stained hands’ participation in this wretched machine…)  If I had it all to do over again… I would have sat with a watering mouth, eagerly lapping up every single secret this enchanted moon had to offer to the ears of the universe.

Actually, she probably has a lot more interesting secrets to tell as she exists in the exalted throne of my memory.

Is it like this for most people?  Does life become poetry only when spun on the loom of retrospective nostalgia?  Or is this just the cursed blessing (blessed curse) of the poet’s heart?  I guess I can think of a few counter examples… like when I was in the pool at eight am this morning… as I made my way slowly across the length of the pool, I penetrated the curious sky with my awe.  The purple-grey clouds reverberated with an exaggerated aliveness.  Tremulous might sum it up.  As I studied them, I felt more vital and electric than normal.  Usually, grey clouds just look grey to me… unlike Mykael, who always sees rainbows in granite, ostentatious parades of color in common dirt.  So when I tell you that these clouds were PURPLE, trust me.  They were purple.  Not quite in the literal sense… more in an energetic sense.  But they trembled the way only violet can tremble.  When the world speaks this way, telling of changes in the weather and pointing coyly at hidden layers of the psyche, I usually only feel it subconsciously.  But today it touched the surface of me as if I were an innocently gaping wound.  I let myself be mystified, tickled and teased by the strange, vibrating expression of the purple morning.  As if this was not poetic enough, add to that that moving through the crystalline aqua water felt like gliding through buoyant silk and that toward the end of my swim a light mist began to sprinkle from the sky just like powdered sugar would fall from a sifter… only slightly cooler than sugar.  No, I am NOT making this up.  It REALLY happened.

But I suppose wrapping words around these already poetic moments does change their very nature…  Language versus experience.  Being versus describing being.  Not a very fair or honest comparison.

I guess it’s the same with relationships.  Like me, drenching myself with all these recent torrents of nostalgic grief about E*.  When we were together, I was just as nitpicky and perpetually unfulfilled as I am now… but in this glamorous hind sight vision, all I see is the way we used to laugh.  I would laugh until my abs were washboards and my face hurt.  He would remark between peels that my eyes had disappeared into my face, swallowed completely in the hilarity.  I remember clinging to him for dear life as we sped down large hills in golden gate park on our rollerblades.  I remember being out in the world with him and seeing a particularly quirky, facinating person and knowing that he saw what I saw, or vice versa.  I miss that shared seeing of people.  That is a rare and priceless bite of experience to share with another, if you ask me.  God, I could go on and on, spouting the nostalgic facets of memory that I shared with this long departed partner in the crime called living life… but why???  What treasures of this present moment do I miss by gluttinously digging my heals into the embellished perfection of the past?

Besides, is it EVER anyone but God who is by my side, sharing the joys and the pain of this human mess?