DatingGod

Don't Forget Why You Came To The Dance

Exit Drama

I am always so dang grateful when the drama of the latest big Vamoose is over. When the No has been transformed into Yes, or rather when the No is seen through for the Yes that it is. When things relax back into a sense of normalcy, the new normal, the normal that is now normal since the latest No is no longer. When the high pitched hum of change evens out, slows down, and I get a breather before the next round.

And so today is not yesterday. Yesterday was chock full of the fun of drugs and emails and comments and my sister checking in on me and a coworker (that I finally came out to and told her about the surgery) bringing me that grape and vanilla slushy (which turned out to be a black cherry and vanilla slushy that was divinely chock full of hunks of cherries) and flowers and organic raspberries and a sack of gala apples. Yesterday was about doing a phone interview for an amazing job at a top research facility, an interview I was high as a kite for, but which had to be done yesterday or not done at all, an interview which I apparently did okay on because they want me to come up and interview with the whole team next week, although I know that I used the words "cool" and "fun" way too many times as the head researcher described the project to me.

Today is definitely not yesterday. Today is dealing with the aching lungs of suppressed respiratory function that comes with sleeping with a nervous system full of hydr*ocodone. Not to mention the valium and the other stuff my doc gave me as parting gifts. Today is dealing with the wreckage, the strung out, the plum tuckered out. Today is about being practical and only taking a half tab of pain meds, just enough to take the edge off of pain, bring it down to discomfort, just enough to keep me from bouncing around like I did yesterday, because I was so high I felt AWESOME. It's okay not to feel AWESOME today. Today, it's enough to feel okay. Okay is good. Kitties still snuggle when I feel okay. And there's plenty to watch on sidereel.com. And a couple of books on the placebo effect, which is my latest odd little research obsession.

I'm grateful for today. For the normal. For the quiet. Life is good. And I'm grateful . . .  

So Much . . .

 . . . joy . . . so very much Yes . . . I know part of it's the drugs . . . that because of them there isn't any pain . . . just a floaty kind of sensation . . . but it's more than that . . . it's the perfection of everything . . . how Life came together to create something so beautiful that I was allowed to participate in, to show me that when instead of turning away from the fear, I enter into it, and open my eyes as wide as I can, I can see what Life wants for me next, not because it's logical or lovely, but simply because it's what Life wants. 

The point of all this isn't about whether this would have turned into invasive cancer if I hadn't have had surgery, because maybe it never would have, or maybe it still will. But this experience, this experiment in trust, of trusting the vibration of expansive for Yes and contractive for No inside of me, this watching of how Life showed me in the reflections outside of me, what was and wasn't possible based on money, and relationships, and work is the bomb. Seriously. Hilariously. 

I can't get over how lucky I feel . . . how wondrous this all is . . . how incredibly taken care of I am  . . . body, mind, spirit, heart . . . and how it all began when I followed that directive last October, after The Hoon died, and I got that directive, to take the cubicleland job, when at that time in my living, there was nothing more horrific than an 8-5 job, and in that place with hollering people, and terrible air, and where I had to face down the demon that was my ego, but how I didn't know any of that at the time, only knew that I was in Hell, and that somehow it was a hell of my mind's making. But I trusted. My heart was so broken, that I trusted the directive, and I kept trusting. And now look at it all! So much love . . . so much Yes . . . so much hilarity in it all . . . 

 . . . and maybe witnessing this story that is "Kate", maybe watching this opened up something in you guys, too. . . 

. . . as I've been going through this little experiment in the little corner of the universe that "I" inhabit, I find these periods where there is so much Yes going on that I feel it spilling out of me, out and over and toward, and I smooch kitties and send emails and write and twitter . . . so much Yes . . . for all . . .

Very Very Good Drugs

I am ridiculously high on vic*odin right now, and am heading towards to the couch and the Land of the Feline right now, but needed to write this, needed to say thank you, for all your well wishes, for your kindnesses. . . 

This whole experience has been so incredibly filled with Yes, and I want to write about the hundred little miracles that I've witnessed today, but later, after the drugs wear off a little, and I don't have to spend several long minutes trying to remember how to spell miracles, even though there is spell check, which in this moment I can't seem to rememebr how to use either. 

Life is good. So very very good. And that ain't just the vic*odin talking :) 

May this find you surrendering into the Yes in your living . . . and remembering how Life loves you and wants you to be free if for no other reason than it's so dang much fun . . . 

To the Barcalounger!

(follow the tweet pics in the righthand sidebar - and click over to my twitter feed for all of them - for some pre-op tweetpics just as them good drugs started to kick in :)

Life Wants What You Want What God Wants

I've been attempting to write this post for a week now, so forgive the disjointed nature of it. Parts of it were written from deep undercover in the Land of the Feline, others written during several of the nights this past week when I was buried inside the fear and couldn't sleep. So here goes:

***

If you're lucky, cats let you hold them. If you're very lucky, they climb up on you when you're in some sort of reclining position, and they snuggle in for a long, released sleep, complete with small prrrping sounds, and paws on your face, gentle kneading motions with their claws, or small licks with their raspy tongues to your arm, neck, cheek. And if you are very, very released, very, very surrendered, very, very quiet inside, they allow you down into their world, the Land of the Feline, a place where there is nothing to do but Be, a tide that carries you along, and informs you, of its own volition, when it's time to eat, play, sleep, watch, love, squabble, eat, play, and sleep. 

I've been in the Land of the Feline many times, but only for a moment here or there, or on occasion, an hour, or sometimes, so very rarely, the gift of several. Last weekend, I was invited in for the entire weekend, from early Saturday morning until late Sunday evening, and it was so amazing, so healing, and showed me without a doubt that there is a different way to live. 

For the first few hours I kept thinking: don't I have some appointment, a client session, a phone session, don't I have an errand to run, clean my house, prepare something for the coming week, do something on the internet? But there was nothing to do, nothing except join the kitties in their Land. And so I gave myself over to them, watched them for cues of how to surrender more deeply, and magical feline lusciousness opened its arms to me and I sighed into the Yes, and let go . . . 

***

I wonder if I'll miss the body part that's going, and in such a savage way, with knives and burning, blood and loss of this body that I associate with "me". I actually lay in bed a few minutes ago, apologizing to my cervix. I thought about some of the butt-headed men I let up there, at least one of them carting in some of that possibly-deadly HPV that he deposited around all up in my stuffs.  

I thought about how much I don't want to have the surgery, as in my mind doesn't want it. It doesn't want the pain of the surgery itself, the discomfort and pain of recovery, the enormous sum of money it costs. It's ticked that I have to use all of my sick days and vacation days. It hates the fact that I have to ask my sister to take me to the procedure, have her wait the four to five hours its all going to take til she can drive me home, and how she might be crabby that day, and I don't know if I can deal with her being crabby to me on that day, although she will probably be kind, in which case I will feel guilty for fearing that she might be anything other than kind. 

But that's the mind, isn't it? With its whining and kvetching and perpetual peeing in punchbowls. But it doesn't matter what it thinks, because it isn't the boss of me anymore. I'm not quite sure who the boss of me anymore actually is, but I know it isn't the mind, and so instead of laying in bed and perhaps trolling for more pockets of past to lance and cry over, I decided to say: f*ck the mind, and write this instead.

***

Life seems to want me to have the surgery. All signs points to having my fattish ass and my ivy-ridden cervix on that operating table come Tuesday afternoon. To back this up, I've created these handy bullet points: 

1) I have insurance. Lots and lots of health insurance. Enough health insurance to cover about $5000 worth of the bill, which is ~80%, which is amazing. I've had health insurance three times in my life. For three months in 2006. Five months in 1994. And when I was a kid on my parents' plans circa pre-1984. My current insurance kicked in September of this year. Other than that, for all of the years, the decades in between, I've been insurance-less, and blessedly, with no major illnesses, accidents, or diseases. Until now. When, in the days when so very many are uninsured, I have state-employee health insurance which is amongst the best a human can access these days.

2) I have paid vacation days, and paid sick days, two things I haven't had in decades. I have just enough to cover a day for the surgery, a day for recovery, another day to get even more recovered, and one more, just in case. 

3) It may look like I'm alone, but I'm not alone. There are just enough people around, people who love this skin bag and the lively often cranky personality that inhabits it, to help me thru this stuff. And I've discovered in the past few years how very much I love being alone, that being alone will indeed help me heal faster, alone meaning just me and the weasels. So it's all perfect that there are a half dozen people who are absolutely cool with not having to do anything, unless I need something, and then they are absolutely cool with doing something, which will most likely involve a vanilla soft serve mixed with a grape slushy which I have had a premonition that I will need on approximately Day Two of my recovery.

4) All of the weasels are currently healthy, so I don't need to do anything other than feed them and snuggle them and attend to litter duties. There will be no pilling, especially of Baby Wallace, who has learned how to balance a pill on the back of his tongue and then use his uvula as a kicking device to shoot the pill many feet into the air, effectively giving him a home run, in which he then demands to be able to run the bases to claim home, and is very cranky when I don't allow it, but instead holla "batter, batter, come on batter, batter" for another round.

5) I only have to work partial weeks for the next few weeks due to veterans day and thanksgiving and so therefor can have even more rest if I need it.

6) My coworker is hilarious and relaxed and released and never asks me about any of the doctor's visits and uses our code phrase for it -"my rotted leg that must be amputated"- because she's the only one I work with that I've told (other than my boss when I asked for time off and then I only referred to it as "a pretty serious health issue") and I don't want anyone to overhear us. She refuses to let me be serious about any of it, though the couple of times I've needed to tell her a few basics as she's going to overhear some of my phone calls she has been very serious, and then we're done and back to talking trash and chatting about "Glee" and the new Twilight movie and my adventures in New York City like when I saw a naked homeless man in a showercap taking a sponge bath on Wall Street at 6 am on a Thursday morning. Because of all this, I know that being out of work is no problem, and neither will be coming back to work when it's done.

7) I'm not afraid to die anymore. Not much anyways. But more importantly, I'm finally realizing how afraid of living I've become, and am opening into that. And by choosing the surgery I get to face this some more, and show myself how when given a "choice" I take steps toward living instead of toward death.

***

The main reason I sense that Life wants me to have the surgery is especially due to something that happened last Saturday. That if this thing had not happened, I'd most likely not go through with the surgery but put it off til January or February, or maybe not even have it all. The thing that happened is this: all of my medical bills have been paid. In advance. All of them. When the hospital billing person called midweek and said: your estimated bill will be $5000, $1000 of which your insurance won't cover and we need a deposit right now, I didn't feel my heart begin to hammer, but instead smiled with delight, because I have it, and not just that, but what I'll owe the surgeon and the anesthesiologist. How do I have it all and in advance? No, not magic. Surrender. Though actually I'm beginning to see they are pretty much the same thing . . . 

Last Saturday, after I hit the "publish" button on the Oct. 23 "Relax..." post (begun on Friday but completed Saturday morn), I began thinking about a joke I'd heard a long time ago. In it, a preacher hears on the radio that a flood is coming. He refuses to evacuate. "God will save me" he says. The waters rise, a boat comes by, and the guy in the boat begs the preacher to get in. "Nope," the preacher says, "because God is going to save me." Later on, the waters rising so high that the preacher is on the roof, a helicopter comes by, and a rope ladder is thrown down to him. The preacher refuses to get on. "God is coming for me!" he hollers up and waves them on. And so the waters rise, the preacher drowns, and when he gets to heaven he stalks up to God and hollers into his faceless face "Where the heck were you?!?!" And God says, "What the frak are you talking about? I sent a radio warning, a boat, and a helicopter!" 

And as I moved around my apartment, slowly beginning the descent into the Land of the Feline, I kept thinking about that joke, as it played and replayed in my head. Then an email arrived. A woman named Audrey who lives in Ireland, who I've never met, or spoken with, or exchanged emails with, says that she wants to send me $1000, but isn't sure how to get it to me. I'm so shocked I can't respond. Over the past few years, to get myself out of the feeling that I'm dependent on others to survive, that I'm not capable of creating what I need on my own, I've turned down most everything I've been offered. My first instinct when I read Audrey's email is awe and gratefulness, but the habit of saying "i so appreciate your kindness, but no thank you i couldn't" is still in place. But the God/Preacher joke keeps circulating inside my mind, so I decide not to act on it til the next day. 

An hour later, another email arrives, this one from Chuck, who I've met once, and who I shared gluten-free cake with at the retreat a few weeks ago. He says he has something to send, a surprise, asks for my mailing address. I send him my address, wonder what he's sending, then see clearly in my little psychic mind's eye a check for $1000, and then a book. I decide that I'm confusing Audrey's offer with Chuck, and that Chuck is sending a book, and so I just go to bed. (The following Tuesday, when a fed-ex arrives, and I open it to find a cartoon book with cat jokes in it, and an envelope containing a check for $1000 with the word "Yes" written in the memo portion, I sit down on the carpet, and laugh and cry, both at the same time.)

An hour after Chuck's Saturday email, David sends a pdf for an upcoming book, a book called "The Magic of Manifestation"  by a guy named Eddie Traversa, and as I read it, I realized that a few weeks ago, I began the process of manifestation, although I wasn't following a set of steps outside of myself, but was walking through the different things I've learned so deeply the past few years by following the breadcrumbs inside of me and am now putting solidly into place in my living. The whole of it I'll save for another post, because I'm still unravelling the details of what happened, but for now, I'll say what I know without a doubt:

I want what God wants. And a huge part of the delight I've been having with this whole "cancer" thing is that I get to see how much I want what Life wants. And as I give myself over to that, the delight increases as I get to witness that Life has brought me the very thing I wanted the most, even though I hadn't known it ahead of time! It's like cascades of Yes, filling me up, spilling over into my living, giving me so much Yes, that I'm in a near-continual state of awe at how very much Yes there is . . . 

And how I got to this was by facing each fear as it arose, looking at all aspects of it, pawing through the No until I got to the Yes, and then sitting in the joyful awe until the next No was revealed, and then moving my awareness around until the Yes was revealed and so on. 

And the very latest, the biggest of the "No"s to come down the pike was the money. My mind was using the fact that I didn't have the cash to cover what the insurance wouldn't as an excuse to put the surgery off, possibly even not have the surgery at all. The initial estimates for my portion was around $1500, of which I had about $150. And on that Saturday, as $2000 made itself known, I was so blown away that my mind couldn't even really touch it, and so I set it down until the energy could sort itself out, become less dramatic, and allowed myself to submerge down into the Land of the Feline where I remained until late, late Sunday night.. And so as the week cruised on, and more accurate estimates began to come in, and the figure showed itself as $2000, give or take a hundred bucks, the magic of what happened on Saturday made itself clearly known, beyond all doubt.

There is still a lot of No to lift up and look at, but at this stage in the game, all signs point to the surgery, and so I will have it, although I am very very afraid of it, both before, and during, and after. But I trust Life, trust the direction this is all headed, and that is how I'm turning this latest series of No into Yes, by saying yes, and continuing on. 

Onward. Further. 

And thank you Audrey and Chuck and Kitty . . . I can't wait to discover how the Yes continues to play out in your own living . . .

Good Morning . . .

Welcome to my 6 am world:

 

 

 
   

Relax. Because There's No Way To F*ck It Up. Really. No Sh*t. Word.

Massive headache. This is the down portion of the waking up. More burning of stuff. And the more "I" think it's "me" the more it burns, the more emotional smoke fills the air, the more "I" choke.

Scheduled the surgery, putting things in motion. Now deeper layers are revealed, deeper pools of fear, of hope. Dread and hopelessness, like morning mist that burns off by mid-morning. Then comes back around in different ways. Pain. Money. Death. Loss. 

Talking with different parties - folks at the doc's office doing the surgery, my various insurance companies. Craziness. Enough cancer to need surgery, but not enough for it to be called cancer by the insurance providers, and therefor though there's coverage, there is still a lot that isn't covered, despite the fact that the state health insurance plan is excellent and I have three extra forms of supplemental insurance. Because of the "in situ" situation, the estimated bills are rolling in, the massive portions that won't be covered by insurance. Or at least massive in my world. $496, $516, $794.

Talking with the insurance rep, I start laughing and say: okay, so if I can't afford to do the surgery now, because you folks won't pay for all of the $7000, but wait until it gets really serious and spreads all around in me, you will pay the $30,000 for it? I'm not laughing sarcastically, but genuinely, and so she starts laughing too, and we just sit there, our giggling going back and forth over the phone line, her "yes" only making us laugh harder.

I speak with the billing person at the doc's and she is kind, but firm. I have to at least put down $248 before the surgery, and that's just for the surgery, not for anesthesia or the surgical room, etc. And she apologizes. I tell her I understand, that they are a business after all, and things are tough for all businesses these days it seems, even the HooHah docs. As we talk back and forth, I feel like I'm bargaining, but in this very gentle way, just being honest and unemotional about lack of cash. I lay it out: I need to postpone the surgery until at least the beginning of the year, when my health savings account is replenished. And she says in the kindest voice: keep the surgery date, we'll figure the rest out, just know that you'll have to go thru this sort of thing with everyone else too - the hospital, anesthesiologist etc.

I hang up. And feel sicker than I've felt in many weeks. Head hurts. Back hurts. May I lay down and just die now, please? It feels like chemo in my veins, though I know it's just fear. That curling away from life feeling. Stress hormones released and on the move. But I don't act on any of it. Just keep plugging back into work. When I send a request for time off for the surgery, the first time I'm letting him know that something is up, my boss sends me a short, curt email with one word on it: approved. He's mad that I'm going to miss the conference I was awarded a scholarship to attend, as a delegate from our office, because the surgery is scheduled right after the conference, and there is no way I can do both. And the No, the funk, the bad swirls around and in me.

But then I remember that everything is okay, it's all okay. There is no urge to call someone to fix the problem, or fear that there won't be enough money. Panic may be trilling through my nervous system, but something deeper knows: all ya gotta do honey is go with What Is. Because Life will show me what needs to be done by what is and isn't provided. If there isn't enough money to do the surgery now, then having it done later is what is indicated, and I'm cool with that. Even if it means it turns into real cancer and I slip this mortal coil for lands yet unknown.

All is well. This fear and panic will pass. This bundle of thoughts and feelings, like the others before it, won't last longer than an hour or so. Because the truth is stronger than the delusion. That 50% line between trusting the mind or trusting Life was crossed in the past year, and now, no matter how horrendous or frightening or hopeless it may seem, it all drains out as the knowledge rises once more: you may not know how, or why, but Life has got this handled, and more will be revealed, just go with what is occurring, do the practical things you feel to do, let the rest of it go, snuggle kitties, open the windows and feel the cool night air, laugh at the absurdity of it all . . .

I still feel shitty, but I get on with work, then treat myself to a comfort lunch of a PT's burger with no bun and extra extra pickles and spicy fries. By the time I return to HiveWorld, I'm cheerful again, relaxed, and talk trash with my hilarious coworker, and again the aria sings in my system: thank you Life, thank you for such an amazing Life, thank you for taking such good care of me, what an amazing life!

And then I go home, take a shower, and head out to teach a two-hour class on Shamanic Journeying. And because of the stress of the day I'm more than a little strung out, more than a little tired, and so instead of my usual high energy teaching style, I relax, sit back, and let the participants' experiences run the class, let them talk and listen to one another, trust that I don't need to teach so much as keep saying over and over and over Yes, Yes, Yes. And every single person leaves with a profound shift inside of them, and instead of attributing it to me, they are amazed at what occurred inside of them, which really is the point of a class like this, don't you think? 

And when I get home, and lay on the couch, and snuggle kitties, I know that the real secret is to let it all go, let Life handle it, trust Life, trust Life, trust Life . . . 

Yes . . . 

Is Capsaicin Enlightenment In Oral Form?

Mmmmmmmmm, hotsauce. 

In The Life

I came home early from the retreat. It was a three-day thing, and I was there for about twenty-four hours. It just didn't make sense to stay. 

I met David and heard him speak about his waking up, heard Bruce speak about trying to get spiritual films made in Hollywood. I had conversations with both of them, got a sense of who they were. I also got to meet and hang a bit with Chuck, who lives in NC too, who reads this blog, who I've exchanged two and three line emails with for the past few months, and who is in a very similar period of withdrawing from the world.

It was an amazing retreat. 65 people in a lodge in the woods. Plenty of delicious food, available all thru the day, including gluten-free (which touched my heart more than you can possibly imagine - that these folks I'd never met took such good care of we four or five gluten-intolerant individuals). The whole vibe of the thing was so elevated, and I don't mean plush and catered and high-end. It was very rustic, very scaled down. The cost for the entire weekend, Friday 4pm to Monday 9:30am, meals and lodging included, was $52. Bunkbeds dorm style in rooms. 2 bathrooms shared by all 65 (though probably half the folks stayed in area hotels to sleep). The food was good, and simple. Lots of fresh veg and fruit, cold cuts, chili, snack foods, such an incredible abundance of nourishing foods, lots of interesting things that people brought to add to the stockpile - Ethiopian coffee, clementines, almond milk - I even brought a coop-baked gluten-free cake with the words "Open Your Eyes" written in icing as a little semi-private joke for Chuck and I. Signs for everything from bathrooms to food labels to which doors to use were written with a sharpie on torn out notebook paper, fastened with scotch tape. The lodge was well-used and smelled faintly of many adolescent campers come and gone. The bunks were thin mattresses on wooden boards. It was perfect.

All of the speakers flew in on their own dime, and for no speaking fee. There were at least four fully awake beings present, and a half dozen or more people who appeared really really close to it. There was no "teaching", no selling of method or tool or viewpoint. Folks stood up in front of the group for an hour and a half and offered something up. They talked about how they had woken up, what led to it, the flavor of it, what they believed contributed to it. They spoke about other enlightened people, people they'd lived and worked closely with for many years. They were all hilarious and warm and intelligent and present.  

The people in attendance were all grown ups. Cheerfully waiting their turn for the bathroom, being incredibly respectful and quiet in the co-ed bunkrooms. These were the sort of folks who regularly turned to people they didn't know and smiled and said Hi, my name is - - -  and shook your hand gently. At no time did I see trash left behind either outside, in the bathrooms, or in the meeting rooms. The dishes were always done, trash emptied, spills cleaned up. Everyone had a styrofoam cup that they wrote their name on with a sharpie and then reused. Everyone also reused their water bottles, filling them up with from the Brita filter. No one hogged the Q & A portions of the talks, or took the floor to tell stories about themselves. There were no big emotional scenes or catharting.

And the folks who headed up the weekend, who facilitated the food and organization of things, were utterly, completely chilled, relaxed, and cheerful. There was no anxious running around, no pushing for time, no resistance to anything, just a smiling, gentle, laughing flow from one thing to the next. 

So why in the world did I leave? Why, after years spent in a companionship desert would I walk away early from such a gathering of fine fellows?

Several things occurred to show me what the my deal was. And what I needed to do.

The first was meeting David. A few years ago, back when I was in my last semester of grad school up in New York, he invited me to come down with a dozen other people to spend the weekend with him, hear about what it was like for him to live life fully awakened. At that very time, I was going thru an intense portion of waking up, or shedding, or realization, or whatever you want to call it. In hindsight, it was most likely what is called The Dark Night of the Senses, but the label doesn't matter. What counts is that after several years of slow, methodical sloughing, the remaining bulk of "spiritual" stuff still present inside of me was being jettisoned in a stark, harsh relentless manner. There was anxiety and depression, despair, hopelessness, and suicidal darkness, but there was also rage. An incredible amount of rage. 

I now understand that the rage was a kind of emotional rocket fuel, what was needed in order to finally break free of the bullshit and waste and delusion that was my spiritual search. (You know how guys wake up with morning wood? I woke up for four years with morning rage, which wasn't nearly as fun as wood appears to be, but is a lot more productive, kinda :) 

And so David's invitation came as I was deep in the midst of raging she-devil rejection of any and all spiritual teachers trying to get me to learn their method, adopt their perspective, give them guru props via my energy, time, and cash. The trajectory I was on was driving me deep inside, to a level where the only council sought was Life, the only teaching, thru the living. So I essentially told David to stick it up his God hole, and I went back to burning my house down. He emailed me hundreds of pages of his writing, and I didn't even bother to read it, just dumped it in the trash. He sent a few polite, straightforward emails. I blew it off.

Until about a year ago, when I became weirdly obsessed with him. Not in any real way, stalking his website or sending him emails or such, but in my mind. Over and over I'd see a mental image of him. It went on for a week or two, til it finally hit me that gmail saved all emails, and I went and retrieved the documents he sent. And read them. And reread them. Then sent him an email. And he responded. Then another. And another. Nothing lengthy, nothing intricate, but what they opened up in me was the sad, sad story, that emotionally charged save-me dynamic that I'd always had with my teachers. But instead of buying in, he leveled one last email at me, then essentially disappeared. 

The email wasn't such a big deal, by all outward appearances, but in it was one line, and that line leaped off the screen, and bore a hole right through my head, where for the last year, the ego has been draining out of. It was the line in bold that did it:

You are simply trying to control things WAY too much - c'mon.  That's the first lesson out of all of this.  Finally, for chrissakes, will you just give up your illusion of control once and for all?  Anything can and will happen.  That is what is scaring the shit out of you and keeping you from proceeding.  Anything.  At all.  Especially THE thing - whatever it may be - that frightens you the most and got this whole ball of personality building/dismantleing seeking started in the first place.  You can't control anything.  You still are acting as if you can.  Let the possibility of the 'worst' coming about out of your grip and sit with the fact that YOU HAVE NO SAY IN ANY OF THIS AT ALL, and never have, and never will.

So the f*ck what.  

I haven't really had contact with him since, except for a brief exchange of emails where I was in horrible pain and begged him on several occasions to speak with me on the phone. But he said he was going out of town, or was too tired after teaching an evening class, or wanted to watch American Idol. After the last one, getting that on his food chain, my "problems" were less immediate than the latest episode of AI, I began laughing hysterically, laughing and laughing until I too was more interested in directing my attention and energy toward tv than to my "problems" after which all of my "problems" disappeared as I finally realized that there are no such things as problems, only the changing of the angle in which issues of a living are looked at. (Please take a moment to let this sink in. You have no problems. There doesn't exist such a thing. There is only an issue arising that must be dealt with in some manner, and how to deal with it, Life shows you very clearly.)

And so back to the retreat - meeting David was the reason I signed up for it, why I went. I haven't been to a spiritual meeting in almost four years, and the idea of hanging out with spiritual seekers gave me a head cramp, but I felt strongly driven to meet this guy, the guy who helpfully shot off part of my head, and then ignored the bleeding, all of which assisted in me seeing there was no head, and therefor no blood either.

And so I met him. I sat down beside him, introduced myself, said hi, and we chatted for about ten minutes. Ten long, uncomfortable, weird minutes. He barely made eye contact, and the conversation consisted of a sort of small talk - surface chat about kitties and his retreat I hadn't attended, even about the diagnosis I received a couple of weeks ago, no depth to the talking, just sentences skittering by. The couple of times he did make eye contact, his eyes were luminous, full of humor and love. I wanted to spend more time with him, but it just didn't click, and so other than "hi" a few times when our paths crossed in the small lodge, we didn't speak again.

I hung out with Chuck, and it too was a sort of brief truncated connection. There really wasn't anything to talk about so we just sat next to each other a few times, spoke a few sentences here or there. I was simply grateful for his presence. My brother. The look in his eyes alternating between crazy joy and clawing desperation. That look I know so well, but usually from the inside looking out. When we parted ways - he was leaving early too - we hugged one another, two drowning people in the middle of the ocean, surrendered to what is coming, scared here and there, the fear coming and receding in waves, but no longer panicked, and often deep inside tunnels of gorgeous wonder, awe, pointless joy. 

Mid-Saturday, one of Richard Rose's intimate students stood to speak about his time with Rose, and to read some of Rose's poetry. I cried during his whole talk. Partly because the poetry carved at my heart with it's images of the horrible luscious truth and beauty of the world. But mostly because as I listened to this gorgeous wreck of a man, in his late fifties, and in so much obvious pain in his living, I got how much he loved Rose, with all of his heart, and how much Rose loved him too, how dedicated Rose was to meeting him where he stood, how he never shut him out, or turned him away. And I got: Rose was as Awake as a person can get, and this broken man tried as hard as anyone possibly could, and if these two things didn't produce enlightenment, then what hope do I have with any of these teachers, these awake beings that roam this earth? 

You're on your own, is what I heard. And I felt it too. I got that there was nothing any of these teachers could offer me, not really, not anything that I can't get on my own.  

And then the final nail in the coffin of the retreat for me: a conversation with Bruce Rubin, this amazing dude who wrote and continues to write deep, insightful movies, and whose eyes were so kind and bright and intelligent and gentle. We talked about his different movies, themes of love and waking up, death and opening your eyes. I didn't mention that I wrote, but did say that for a few years I'd been an actress, but that I was too sensitive for the business end of it, that even the art of it wasn't worth what the business of it cost, and that I'd made spirituality the main focus of my living. And he looked at me and said: I made a decision early on that I wanted all of it - the money, the career, the art, the wife, and the spirituality - mostly people use the search for spirituality as a way to avoid having a full life - but until you have an absolutely full life, when you get that none of it really satisfies you, you don't face that moment that is unlike anything else - and there's a huge difference between having it all and setting it down, and letting go of something you've never really had in the first place. And with that he drifted off, and I stood there with a weird feeling in my heart, a feeling that grew into a realization when he mentioned it again during his talk: it's a cop out not to live the achievement-filled, successful, full life. 

And then I remembered another deep reason why I've pulled so intensely away from the world of spiritual seekers. Why I don't get the whole Enlightenment scene anymore. The popular belief is that enlightenment is a sort of cherry on the top of a successful life. Wealthy, married, surrounded by all the Yes objects of modern living, yet still not happy, and so finally, enlightenment is turned toward. All of which is absolutely radiant. And yet it isn't the only way. 

For this life, this living that "I" sit in, the turning was away from success in the world, the belief that any of it would make me happy, the letting go of the pursuit of soulmate and cash and career and even the concept of happiness. I have failed at every single thing I've attempted in this life. There has been nothing but the most brief of successes, of flows of money, of connections with soulmates, of seeing hard work and faith and inspiration and drive pay off. For this life, the turning was about giving up hope, about refusing to spend one more hour believing that a full, ripe fruit falling from a tree was any better than a dried, shriveled fruit slowly blowing away on the wind. But popular culture, especially the hardcore spiritual seeker set don't agree. 

And at this retreat, where every single speaker was male, where the audience was comprised of not more than 15 women in a crowd of 65, I, as a 43 year old fat chick, single, working a 31K social work job, surrounded by kitties, no longer interested in pursuing a Big Life as determined by modern ideas of success, understood: you will not find what you need here. And I looked around at all of the beautiful, gorgeous folks around me, their keen awareness and intelligence and depth, the group of them the likes of which I'll most likely never again encounter in this lifetime. And I went to my bunk, packed my things, walked to my car, and began the two and a half hour drive home.

Because my ashram is now whatever is around me. I don't need to go anywhere. My teachers are everyone. I don't need to find a special one, even an enlightened one, as if some of their Awake would rub itself into my skin. I don't need to seek out the company of fine fellows. The felines I find myself with are so very, very fine. There is nothing that I need that I don't have. The enlightenment will be found inside the living, where it always has been, and always will, no matter who comes for it, no matter who it chooses. 

I'm so grateful to have met so very many tall, tall folks this weekend, so very many highly evolved beings, perched on the very edge of what it means to be human and to know you are One. And I'm grateful for the folks I'll be with again come Tuesday morning, the humans who live on the sharpest edge of survival, whose energy and motivation and lifeforce is spent daily on finding food, shelter, meaning. I'm grateful for the kitties, Emmaline and Malcolm and Jacinta and Wallace who keep me simple and pure and light and awake to each moment as they play and lick and eat and poop and stretch and purrrrp and race about the house on flying paws. I'm glad for the people still taking care of me, in the small ways I can take in, who accept with open hearts the tiny crumbs of companionship I have to offer anyone anymore - my sister, Kelly, my coworker in HiveWorld, Sean, Chuck, my landlords, you lovely readers.

There is so very much ego left to burn in this living I'm in. And I may or may not become fully awakened in this life. But it doesn't matter to me anymore. Whatever slivers of wanting it that were still embedded in my brain have been pushed out. All that's left is the living, the waking up each morning and doing the next thing to be done, whether it's writing or getting a PhD or having sex or eating cake or having my cervix removed. 

Enlightenment never was and never will be up to me, in my control, or even something I can fail at. There is only the continuing surrender into life, into the Yes that removes all of the hard edges of a living, turns even cancer into the sweetest, most precious, loving act of kindness.

And it's that way for everyone. God doesn't care if you have an Oscar, or have found your soulmate, or are admired by your peers, unless these are stones that you absolutely feel to turn over, and peer under. All Life cares about is you coming home, realizing that you and Life are one and the same, and that you are already home. 

Because it's all precious. Every grain of rice. Every bent nail. Every cherry blossom. Every piece of fruit. It's all perfect. All of it . . .

Bam, Said The Lady

Yes, I'm posting from HiveWorld. I have on girl shoes, my hair is styled, and I'm wearing cute clothes. I'm drinking ginger lemon tea, though the caffeine buzz from this morning's mugs of Newman's Own caramel and vanilla coffee are still singing arias in my CNS.

Life is good.

How good is it?

I'm up every morning at 5:30 am, as I have been for several weeks now, writing. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because if I have a spiritual practice at all anymore it is writing. And dang it's luscious to be banging away on my laptop as the sky lightens, the first bird of the day says hola, and kitties purr electromagnetic rumblings from their snuggles on my lap, on my desk, and the couch two feet away.

I went back to the 8-year grad school to get the official diagnosis. I'd had an ultrasound of my nether regions and as he perused the pics he said: you have such beautiful organs! Which was so nice to hear. Then we chatted a little about cancer (I don't like to call it cancer, I prefer to call it pre-cancer, he said), and the surgery, where he tried to upsell (while I'm in there, would you like a D&C or a tubal ligation with that removal of your cervix?). When I expressed my indecision to let him up my HooHah with a torching device, he began his flattering song and dance, but I cut him off and said you'll be much more effective with me if you get right to the hard science of it, show me exactly what you'll be doing, and why. He looked down at his desk for a moment and I wondered if he was even listening. Then he stood and began to ransack his office. Several minutes later he produced a brochure from a medical device company that showed in bright digital color the cancer covered cervix, the cutting tool, the cutting of the cervix, the cervix post-cut, and the happy pink puffy partial cervix six months post-cut. Sold! (well, not entirely as I haven't scheduled the surgery yet as you know, gotta wait for the Knowing . . .) On my way out the door he said to me: two months, I give you two months tops, then I want to see you on my operating table. So Life, you're on notice, you have a deadline . . .

Baby Wallace, the enormous fire puma behemoth that he is, and ever the petri dish, has developed an abscess in his left paw. The vet shot him up with all sorts of Pharmaceutical Whatnot, but it'll take a few days to kick in. In the meantime he holds his paw up like feng shui prosperity kitty. Thanks Baby Wallace!

Baby Malcolm has decided that there is great refuge to be found on my head. While I sleep, he rides my head like a horse, and if I'm lucky, he gives me one nostril as a blowhole for oxygen. Baby Emmaline still greets the day by sticking her tongue up my nose, though she has also discovered that the corner of my eyes and my open mouth are also great ways to say I Love You with a scratchy tongue. Jacinta growls, and purrs, and growls, and prrps, and growls, and blissfully naps. It's awesome. I love it all. I wouldn't change a thing.

The "spiritual retreat" is this weekend (when you follow the link, scroll down for presenters and pics). And after a couple of months of waffling, I'm almost positive I'm going. Dare I say I actually feel excitement? Good vibes? Echoes of future hilarity careening my way? I'm not sure what I'm more swerved about: meeting David Scoma (who helpfully dropped a bomb in my bulls*t this last go round of Open Your Eyes), meeting Bruce Rubin (screenwriter for Ghost, Jacob's Ladder, and The Time Traveler's Wife), or the fact that the retreat hosts have agreed to have gluten free food at Every Single Meal.

Seriously. Life is dang skippy flippin good . . .

PS - Nathan, dear Nathan, we were Feeding the Birds back in 1986 up at SUNY Purchase, and then in NYC. It's awesome that you wish to spread the goodness, yet you must give props to its roots. . . I hold my hand up, fingers dangling, in Yes and Howdy to you as you surf the lovely wave of Yessssssss your Twitter account is generating . . . :)

Cranky Clarity

I wouldn't swear to it, but this oldster just might be enlightened, or at the very least, his ego flames sure do burn purdy . . .

http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays

My Coop Rocks Yo

October at the Hacienda of the Hazel-Eyeds

Conversation With A Friend

From:   Sean

Subject: Death and decisions

Date: September 27, 2009 3:56:34 AM EDT

To:   Kate

Hi Kate-

I don't want you to die. Seems like there's a good chance that the reason you have health insurance at this very moment is exactly so you can get your Hoohah burnt and walk around in pain oozing stuff for a while. 

Sure, I realize my preference for you remaining alive is all about me and how I fear losing other people. That's something David S. recognized a long time ago - that the main fear I had to face and surrender to was the fear of the loss of other - specific people, civilization, the environment, etc. Right now that fear is manifesting as a strong negative reaction to losing Katherine.

When I told S. about your cancer, she immediately suggested I tell you about my uncle's friend R. who took the natural route to curing his prostate cancer and ended up dying this year. He was a good guy - an Australian who loved to tell stores and take apart and reassemble airplanes. I said there was no way I would ever suggest that you do anything. I'm quite aware that you have an intimate connection with life that precludes taking advice from anyone else but your own deepest understanding of what the next step is.

Still, life does involve other people, and I have no clue about how various patterns influence the decision-making that are happening within you. So this is the best attempt by the collective patterns that make me up to influence you to make a serious effort to keep Katherine alive.

While I'm aware of the powerlessness I have over your decision-making, I'm also aware of the stupidity and arrogance in suggesting anything. Thinking that I can read one blog post, understand the situation, and make a judgment about what decision is best? Ridiculous. Even if I could make all of the cold calculations with the available facts and they pointed to "burning the Hoohah" as the correct path, no one can predict the outcome. Maybe there would be a complication in surgery and you would die right there on the operating table. Maybe a granola-head treatment will work and cure some of your other issues. Maybe on you do end up dying and that process helps me wake up (now there's a fucked up, ironically selfish thought).

Anyway, deep down I know that whatever happens will be right, and whatever you action you take will be the correct one, and somehow, Katherine having cancer is exactly what is supposed to be happening right now. But that knowledge still doesn't remove the preference for wanting you to stay alive a while longer. 

-Sean

From:   Kate

Subject: Re: Death and decisions

Date: September 27, 2009 8:45:39 AM EDT

To:   Sean

Sean . . . It's funny because I really wanted to hear from you, because for whatever it is that you think about yourself and where you are on the map, you and I seem to be at similar places. Have been for a while. Hearing from you feels like echos and reflections and I always end up clearer. I'm glad you wrote. I'm always glad when you write - emails, posts, all of it . . .

Every single thing that you said in your email, all of the points you make, are the exact same ones going through my mind the past few days. The mainstream insurance, the odds of staying alive with differing treatments. I think about that woman in Jed's book, the one with the broken neck who refused treatment at the scene of her car wreck, and it changed her life, how her quest to stay alive, but on her own terms, made her a powerful healer. And Brett and her cancer and her treks around her pond. And then I think about Christian Scientists and Amish, dying of simple bacterial infections or appendicitis.

I think that what is happening with my body is more than just the cancer, it's the lock down with my spine, the incredible back and neck pain I've been living with every day, that keeps me from sleeping, has my days be filled with so many blocks - where I can go, what I can do, how long I can do it. It's the digestive issues, not being able to digest food any denser than whole grain rice, and not being able to face my food addiction enough to only eat fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and so having to take dozens and dozens and dozens of digestive enzymes a day just to stay out of too much systemic pain. And then dealing with the pregnant belly, the weight gain of a body trying to figure out how to cope.

But the digestive issues, and the back pain, are actually beginning to get better. After trying dozens of different treatments and practitioners and exercises, I've found a guy with a machine they use in Germany and Russia, that pulses differing electrical vibrations into cells, one of those things that sound like pseudo science and very well might be. But it's working. For the past two weeks, it's been steadily getting better, and for the past five or six days, I've been sleeping and waking up pain free for the first time in many months. Of course I had to go through a whole other set of garbages in my head to be able to be treated by him, and I'm sure I'll post about it at some point, but the real point is that I'm better, that up to the place where I heard the word 'cancer' I saw that there might be a path through the pain and blocks to more movement and mobility.

Mostly though, it gets down to how this is mostly still a mental exercise, that the debate is still going on in my mind: should I go for the 90% cure mainstream savagery or should I opt for the alternative treatment that means serious diet and supplement changes? But a beauty of what is going on is that the cancer growing in me is in situ, and can take many years to become invasive, so I have time to come to the place where it's not about thinking, but about knowing.

And I've suspected, but reading your email triggered it deeper:  this whole cancer thing isn't about fear of dying, but how much I desire to die, how painful I've found being alive, how much it hurts. I have been in so much pain - physical, emotional, mental - all of my life - and I've prayed, begged for death thousands of times. In the past few months, as I've wound my way through the pain I've been dealing with, I wake up again and again in varying states of mental anguish, anguish that is gone from my days. But at night, it shows itself, comes rising out of my sleep.

It's the physical pain that wakes me, but it's the emotional and mental pain that has been shocking to witness. I wake up afraid and alone and scared. I wake up crying. I wake up with the knowledge that I am dying and there is nothing I can do. I wake up and walk around the house, knowing that at this moment, people are being murdered, raped, people are dying in alone and in pain, animals are caged, being tortured. I can feel them. Feel their pain. Feel the hopelessness. The fear running through me in those moments is a reaction away from the world. I can literally feel my cells, my muscles, my being, pulling away from the world or horrors, into itself, to collapse inwardly, like a black hole. I don't like it here, in this world, in this placed of horrors. I want out. I see the world, I feel it, and I want out. I have for a long, long time.

And so now I've been given a diagnosis. I've finally been given an out. And now I have to face: do I want to take it?

Maybe I have no choice here. Maybe the choice itself is illusion. Maybe the cancer isn't meant to grow deeper. Maybe it's on its way on a tour through my body and there isn't anything I can do about it. But it seems to me in this moment that the real fork in the road is: do I want to live? Or maybe it's even deeper: do I want to truly open myself to Life? Because the thing I've been doing with my back and my stomach and my mind is about curling in as I prepare to die. Of course I'm going to die, but when?

I'm getting pretty practiced at this whole Human Torch thing, and so I'm going to do the things I've discovered reveal the next things: keep watching - Life and my mind and body and heart. Because more will be revealed. And at some point I'll know which way to go, not because I'm afraid or because I hope, but because I'll know, because the way is clear . . .

Your pal :)

Kate

From:   Sean

Subject: Re: Death and decisions

Date: September 29, 2009 7:00:23 PM EDT

Hi Kate,

I'm glad for your clarity and grateful for these interactions. I may respond with more later after some time processing what you've written.

Wish I had something useful to offer that could make the dream better on your end. Too bad the stories of never-ending bliss aren't true. 

- S

From:   Kate

Subject: Re: Death and decisions

Date: September 30, 2009 6:49:17 AM EDT

To:   Sean

 . . . i read the last sentences of your email and thought: dude, all is well, no need to feel badly. the stories of never-ending bliss *are* true, and the whole point is to look at the things that we think, believe aren't blissful and keep looking until we see they are. and when it's done right, done true, with an unflinching gaze, it always turns up blissful. or maybe blissful isn't a word i'd choose to use for it . . . more like quietly, humorously joyful . . .  the dream i'm having is fine, it's perfect . . . more will be revealed . . . what better thing to do with a life than to find the joy that lies on the other side of cancer, of death? or at least our feelings and beliefs about them . . .

In Situ

I had a message on my voice mail today: call my doctor's nurse for results about the biopsy they did on Monday afternoon. 

It was for the biopsy that hurt like f*cking hell, where a guy with eight years of grad school went up my Hoohah with a microscope and a thin bladed knife so that I could make a $20 copay for a small robbery of tender tissue. And afterward, when the guy had left the room and it was just me and his nurse, the one with the utterly hip haircut, you know the one, the back all shaved up and the front looking like blonde frothy fern tendrils, it looked like a small homicide had been committed. And after his nurse left, and I navigated my way around tiny pools of my blood and pieces of tissue that had, not fifteen minutes ago, been attached to my body, I thought: this is some crazy, savage sh*t.

So when I got the voice mail message I knew it wouldn't be good. 

Actually I've known it wouldn't be good for while. For a couple of years. And when I got this fulltime job a few months ago, when I was signing up for the supplemental insurance, I chucked every cancer related insurance product into my enrollment package at the highest level allowed. 

I've felt the cancer growing inside of me, knowing it wasn't a huge deal yet, but feeling it nonetheless. And since I haven't been able to scare up cash any other way, and having this state employee insurance at my disposal, I've gone the western medicine route to see what the deal is in my female parts. 

I haven't taken antibiotics in close to fifteen years, and I can count the number of times I've been to an MD in the new millennium on one hand. As a hardcore granolahead I've always thought the MDs were a little narrowly focused, a little lost, and a lot cash-focused. But again, as a state employee, I have all this insurance at my disposal, and so why not take it for a test drive?

But this sh*t is just so weird. The guy who did my Hoohah expedition was so odd. He was kinda good looking, so was comfortable using a bit of charm, which to me and my hyper-removed perspective, was a little skeevy. And he'd also obviously been to a recent sensitivity training where he must have been told to keep telling the patient what a good patient they were, how well they were doing, how great they were, and so he would say: you did a great job! you're a great patient! and I would say, ummm, thanks, thanks a lot. 

It was all so f*cking bizarre for a person who has so little experience in the modern western medicine world. To my perception, it was this machine, and my Hoohah was the widget, and my brain was attached to the widget and so the medical factory worker felt he had to placate my mind in order to get paid for the Hoohah adjustment.

And so the conveyor belt has moved me on down the line. I spoke to the nurse earlier today, and it was all bidness as usual - severe dysplasia, come in for a consult, we'll need to do surgery, etc. i jumped on the net, did some searching, jumped on PubMed, saw that most likely they'll want to burn off some/most/all of my cervix with an electrified wire, and that it may or may not impact sexual enjoyment, and it most likely will have things draining out of me that I'd rather not be party to, and will most assuredly hurt like holy muthafrakkin hell, and it may or may not stop the cancer creep, but will at least remove the pre-cancerous cells that have been found in the skin that lines the cervix, the cells that have yet to permeate into the deeper levels of tissues, to spread this ivy that is abnormal cells, the cells that say: No Yes here, in this place where you have had so very much sex, so very much love going out, so very little love coming in, where you have imprinted again and again the hammer song of human existence: pass on our DNA, woman. 

Or the pre-cancer may be classified, post burn, as Real Cancer, and they will remove more parts of me, slowly chipping away, one organic chunk at a time.

But all I can think of in this moment is: f*ck this. I'm not afraid of death. Dying I'm not looking forward to, but death? Come and get me, whenever you feel like it, you big dark mysterious tunnel of Who Knows.

I'm supposed to meet with the eight year grad school dude tomorrow afternoon. But I think I'm gonna cancel. I want to let it all marinate and see what it is I really want, how I want to handle what is coming for this body I cruise around in. I don't think I want him up my Hoohah with a torching device. i don't think I want to be a part of the savagery. 

But I just found out that the cancer that grows in me is in situ, is hanging out, and the real question is: do I want to interfere?

So, I'll do the things I feel to do, which right now is collect data. I've put out phone calls to my two friends who have been doing psychic work for the past couple of decades, to see what they see. And to my landlord's girlfriend, who headed up a Planned Parenthood clinic for several years, and who can turn me on to hip, granolahead gyn eight-year grad school granolahead chicks. 

And relax. 

And laugh. 

The kitties are so snuggly these days, so incredibly sweet. My job is so filled with Yes and space and room to move and hilarity.

I had a client sit with me today. He was with his lovely girlfriend and luscious two-month old baby, and I was intensely scanning the system for cash for them, and he said: you are so lucky, you get to be in air-conditioning all day. And it took a moment to sink in, what a luxury it was for them to sit in my pink cubicle and partake of the recycled cool air. And I looked at them, how gorgeous they were, and how he was fresh out of prison, and how radiant her face was, how the baby stared at me the whole time they were there, and I thought: how lucky we are to be together right now, in this moment.

And I got that I will most likely opt out of the burning of my Hoohah, and that I will find a way to help these luminous folks, and that none of it matters, only what we feel to be Yes in the moment, and that it is all okay, and that Life is so dang good when we surrender to what it is bringing us . . . seriously . . . how good it all is . . . I am so dang grateful in this moment . . . tears and swelling heart and all . . . thank you Life for this wild f*cking ride . . . 

Dark Matter

A huge portion of what I'm processing through right now is around my physical body. The past year was about dropping a f*ckload of emotional weight, toxic fat that lived inside heart and mind. Now I face the physical Not Me, the bloat and block that the emotional and mental set into motion inside the skin and bone and nerves and in-and-out of cellular motion, the fascia that knits it all together.

I've been waking up every morning to two things: pain and kitties. Pain that roars through spinal cord, hot fire on brain stem and coccyx bone. Kitties leaping on me. Low back locked down. Kitties leaping past me, using my belly as a springboard into pre-dawn night-tinged infinity. Skull lit up with No. Kitties washing me like they do one another, sticking sticky little tongues in nose and eyes and ears. 

And this morning I realized how far I've come in the whole surrender thing, and how this shows up with both pain, and with kitties. I used to fight my kitties, saying "noooooooooo" to so many things. I used to want love from them, and would seek them out, and love grip them, until they forced me to release them. Now I just hang out with them. They come, they go, and we dance, an ongoing love dance where I let go of my ideas of human love, and learn the deeper Way of The Cat. 

And so this morning, covered in kitties, but a cramp deeping in my neck, I had a realization. As I shifted to relieve the neck pain, and the kitties didn't run away but instead shifted around me, and the love bubble grew more luscious, I saw that it really is about staying in the moment, that there is no recipe, and that no one can ever tell anyone what The Right Choice, The Correct Response is, because we ourselves never know which way is up til we orient ourselves in the moment.

And I got: this is what all the Be In The Now bullsh*t is about. It's been turned and twisted, had the Yes beaten half to death out of it, but it's true: if you make your "decisions" in the moment, based on what is truly indicated, you'll never go wrong, and you'll always do the right thing. How could it be otherwise?

So as I navigate this (seemingly) treacherous current path of physical pain, where my back goes into spasms, vertebrae pop in and out like loose beads on a string, where neck and shoulders get so tense that it hurts to hold my head up, I watch. And learn. I discover all sorts of things about how my body adapted to the rigors of grad school at 40 years old, or a state cubicleland job and it's bargain basement ergonomics, or attempts to hide the fact of double chin by lifting my face upward, or four years without making love, or lugging around just plain stoopid amounts of unresolved past trauma. 

I see that it isn't just about stretching, but about strengthening. That a body needs to be supple and strong, flexible and fierce, surrendered and ready to take flight at a moment's notice. That the tensions in my body are about the past that is stored in them, and also about how much of the present I will and won't allow in.

The only way to go through this is the same way I surfed the emotion, the thoughts: don't make any plans, just stay awake, alert, and keep noticing what is really going on. Because if I make plans, either with a food plan or an exercise regimen, something always happens to blow it, be it spasm or what's served for dinner at a friend's house or other such stuff of Life.

And so the only way to do this is let go of the recipe book, and say Yes to every last single moment. Because the truth really does set us free . . .

And may I share with you how grateful I will be to be free of my fat ass?

Looking

There have been many many times over the past few years that I've asked myself: is this holistic stuff I do genuinely assisting people or is it more of the shell game, just one more expression of New Age Pap? I still ask myself this question at least once a week, and I still don't have a confident answer.

Six years ago, when I swam away from apartment, boyfriend, teacher, career, friend, and life to go and live in a cabin on a mountain in Virginia, part of the wind chapping my ass was around this very issue. I was clear that in body, mind, and spirit I was f*ck ed, flustered, and far from home, and so therefor, what gave me the right to set myself up as "healer" to other people? If my "healing" skills were so awesome, and in fact awesome enough to ask people for cash in exchange for them, why was I myself so very not healed? 

And out of those looming questions, while I was on the mountain, and then in school, I did no real healing work beyond lending out my psychic ability to people, and then only very very part time with readings, most of them by phone to old clients who would reach out to me to look at things: their daughter was missing, they had a health issue that the docs couldn't pinpoint, things I couldn't really say no to as looking into the abyss for people is pretty straightforward when it comes to simply passing on the facts. 

Then I got out of school, moved back to the coastal NC town that I grew up in, and immediately landed a job. Within weeks of starting said job however, things went deep south as I realized that the bad feeling I'd had in the initial interview wasn't just a case of my twanging I-haven't-been-on-a-job-interview-in-years nerves, but a hardcore sign of things to come. I didn't give myself grief about it, though. Because seriously, when you're offered a job fresh out of public health grad school, for 42K plus bennies and bonuses and your own office and autonomy to add in your holistic background, how do you say no to it? I didn't, because I had no idea that it meant working 70-hour workweeks and dealing with a crazy dry drunk administrator, and two ex-drug addict, mentally ill bosses. But six weeks into the job, horrified at the ratcheting premonition-flavored nightmares and escalating anxiety and seriously bad juujuu that flowed each day from the folks I worked with, I walked into the administrator's office on a Tuesday morning and said "You know, this really isn't working out". I was released from working out a two-week notice, and suddenly, there I was, out of a job. 

And in the wake of that huge house cleaning, within hours, it was like a bountiful idea and action filled bomb of YES went off. By Friday I had advertising, office space in a local holistic center, a brochure, a business card, a To Do list, and a three-month business plan. But even more than this, it all came out of a vision of what I could offer, what I genuinely could do for people and genuinely be of service, and the whole Integral Shamanics  thing was born.  

Now, almost two years later, I'm still asking myself: are you really assisting folks? And what I get is this: it is perfectly legitimate to go see a doctor if you are ill and don't know what's causing it, don't know how to deal with the rash or the pain in your pancreas or the ache in your head. If you get a cavity, it makes very good sense to go see a dentist. If your vision is fuzzy, seeing an optometrist and getting a new pair of glasses is probably your best bet. Why not the same for emotional and mental and spiritual confusion and angst and infection and dis-ease?

Last week, I was on my massage therapist's table. We've been doing some bartering - me getting massages, he getting shamanic healing sessions - and it was my turn to receive. We were in the middle of one of his mind-bending three-hour-long extravaganzas and I was, as usual, actually howling in pain. He's a six-foot-five gladiator of a guy, with a rain-manish ability to see into a body, know exactly how to unwind the tangles with his hands, and the firm boundaries to be able to go in and do what needs to be done. It's outrageously painful, but afterwards, in the car on the way home, I'm always blown away at the mobility in my neck, how I can actually move my shoulders up and down with no pain or clicking, how my back shifts and turns and glides.

But as I lay there, his fingers buried two inches deep in my traps, I drew enough breath to be able to ask the question: hey Erik, do people actually get their bodies back because of this? does this ever really, genuinely work? And he stopped, pulled his fingers out of my traps, and was silent for a long long minute. When he spoke it was as if he were just realizing the truth of it. I'd like to say yes, he said, but I can't actually think of anyone this is true for. No one? I asked. Well, he said, there was a woman who came once a week for a really long time, but other than that, I'd say that mostly what happens is people come and for a little while it helps them feel better but they don't change anything and so it all just goes back the way it was. And then he put his fingers back into my traps and I howled some more and after the massage he spent a half hour gently massaging ginger honey sugar into my skin and I left feeling bruised and expansive and floaty and wanting to lick my own skin for dessert.

And as my body slowly but surely tightened back into place, as the neck solidified to it's small range of motion, as the right knee clicked, and the spine lit up with inflammation I realized something. Really, no healer helps in the long term, that at most what we do is assist in dousing the flames of an acute flare up. A physician can prescribe a topical steroid, or a chiropractor can crack the spine back into place, or a shamanic healer can facilitate energetic flow into a rainbow of Yes. But unless, until, the person makes genuine change in how they see the world they've created, until they jettison the belief system that set the imbalance in motion in the first place, it's all just feel-good band-aids on existential bullet holes. And we're all marching towards death anyway, so perhaps all we healers do is help keep us all more calm and comfortable as death chips away at us, one tiny chunk at a time. 

Maybe this sounds cynical or negative or hopeless, and I'd probably agree. But it's also very straightforward and as close to the truth as I can express in this moment. We're all f*cked, and in acknowledging that, that really, what we all are is compost in motion, it somehow allows me to take a deep breath, and my shoulders to release a little, and my neck feel a little less stiff.

Perhaps if I were having s*ex, and the healing energies of that male-female polarity and hormone-exchange cruising through my system were doing it's job, I might feel differently. Or maybe if I stopped stuffing cake into my face and gave my body the six-month fruit and vegetable cleanse it's begging, literally begging me for, I'd see it another way. Or maybe doing that 45-minute a night dance and weight lifting and yoga session I know without a doubt my body desperately needs would shift things. 

But can I do it? Will I do it? Does it matter if I do it? Will the chiropractor and acupuncturist and gastroenterologist help? Will the godforsaken "spiritual retreat"  I'm going on in October make a difference? I ask and re-ask, but what else can I do but take another dip into the maybe, the possible, the tiny stone left unturned?

Yesterday was the slowest day I've ever had at the holistic center that I still work out of two days a month. Not one single client from 10:30am until 3pm, when in walked a guy who wanted a half hour session. He wanted one of the "Shamanic Soul-Retrieval Half-Hour Power Sessions" I've been doing that are inexpensive and down and dirty, like shoving a person through a hole in space, catching them on the other side, and sending them on their way with a kleenex and a prayer that they open to the Almighty Yes that they just said howdy to. 

The guy was decked out in a tie-dyed shirt and granolahead shoes, and was seriously squirrelly, had just smoked an American Spirit cigarette and sucked down a huge Port City Java coffee. He had puffy dark circles around his anguished eyes, clearly in the middle of being ripped apart, tendon by tendon, from the inside out. Of course, I can't give details, but I can give metaphor. Do you remember that scene in The Matrix, where Neo wakes up in the pod to find all of the metal cables inserted into his spine, arms, legs? And how in a hot second, they blast off of his body, his eyes roll back in horrific pain, and he's jettisoned from the pod, shooting down the waste drain into the filthy sewer water? That moment of waking up in the pod was what happened in my session space, in that holistic center at approximately 3:15 yesterday afternoon. This guy woke up and felt in excruciating detail every single tube attached, every single metal clamp on nose, mouth, vertebrae, heart and mind, how he was locked down and trapped inside of the horror that is his "self". And for an hour, as he stayed with the horror, as he refused to look away, I did the only thing that could be done in such a situation: I said over and over and over and over: There Is No Spoon. 

And he got it. He saw it. He felt the untruth inside of himself, and in the face of that blew past it, jettisoned it to reveal the truth. And an hour and a half later, he sat on the holistic center porch in the sun, looking at a flower, smoking a cigarette, his eyes filled with Holy F*ck, Yes. 

And as we parted ways, I wondered if he could sense how he was just beginning, how the worst was yet to come, how eventually he'd have to burn out his own eyes, and how he would most likely turn around and ask to be reinserted into The Matrix. But instead of saying anything to him, I hugged him, because if I could get as far as I've gotten, so could he, and why not? What the f*ck else is there to do? And I got in my car and went to the movies and ate an enormous bucket of popcorn and bag of peanut m/ms and came home and didn't dance or exercise and really is that bad or good or neither or both?

I have no answers. Except to say that it isn't about More, but Less. In that we think we just need that One Perfect Ingredient to make our life right, but in truth, it is letting it all go, piece by piece, until Nothing remains.

And so I'll go to the acupuncturist, the chiropractor, the massage therapist, the physician, the retreat. Until I don't go anymore. And maybe I'll dance my way out of the prison of skin and bone, the sinew of No and the fascia cemented with Past that I'm thrashing around inside of. Or maybe that's just a euphemism for death. Maybe yesterday I offered that guy a red pill, like Jed did with his books, or that crazy wild email David sent to me back last fall did, that one particular sentence that gave me the shove I needed to leap off this latest cliff.

Who knows? Who cares? I'm just following the breadcrumbs, like anyone else, going down path after path, on and on, until I get that there is no path, or all paths lead to No Where, or death taps me on the shoulder, or I get the soulmate and the cash and fame and laugh about how I used to have a bad case of The Sour Grapes, or I wake up in a mental institution drugged and shamed, or Bill Compton walks into my bar, or I succumb to cancer of the HooHah, or some other scenario that I haven't thought of. 

The thing is, I don't care anymore about the how. Only about The Now. As in what is occurring right now? In this moment, what do I absolutely know for sure? And then I dive into it, and explore it, until it crumbles to dust and I move on to the next thing. 

Yeah, I have no answers. But I do know this: everything I need, Life has given me, has placed right in front of me, inside of me. If I feel to find mirrors or hire mirrors or use mirrors to see what is inside of me, so be it. And so I do the next thing, which in this moment is stop typing and acknowledge that Baby Emmaline is licking my eyebrow and I wish to squeeze her round belly and let her play catch with my braids, or that my home is a dirty disheveled mess and I feel to clean it, and that I am more and more comfortable and curious and excited about just how deep the rabbit hole goes, and that, yes, that, is enough . . . 

Still Life with Barcalounger

I think about writing from time to time, but not enough to actually sit down and post. Maybe it's that it's more dramatic to write when the caacaa is whirling in the turbines, or afterwards, during cleanup duty. 

Or maybe it's that I've written a few posts about this new period of neutral-middle-chill that I'm currently cruising and what more could I write about it? Except for maybe to say that Life has presented many many opportunities for drama and I just simply shrug and walk away, and if it follows me, I turn and walk another direction, and if that doesn't work, I sit and remain very, very still until it gets bored and skulks away.

So seriously, what else could I write about? Why, yes: Kitties!

But not tonight most likely. Because right now, baby Malcolm is standing in my lap, a paw on either side of my neck, breathing his love breath in my face, which is his signature "snuggle me" move. And really, what sort of human could say no to that? Not I, kind folks, not I . . . 

To the barcalounger!

Thx Brother Will

"Katherine"

Can I tell you the secret to my new found amusement? What finally popped the tidal wave of rage and ill will and Just Plain Pissed that has been building and corroding my groove for many years, especially the past two? I now know without a doubt that I am impersonating a human named Katherine. And as I do this last round (or ten) of human torching (which may take years or lifetimes or who the frak knows) she is a great disguise to wear as I go about this walking through the world, looking for ammo and intelligence, and the next vista where the ongoing war is to be waged. 

The worst parts of her, the parts that don't serve anymore, the neediness, the wounded childhood, the addiction to mildly sociopathic alpha males, the need to be seen as fabulous and cutting edge and smart, have floated away, except for some bulbous debris quickly deteriorating in the afternoon sun. 

It's all still pretty ragged and disjointed around here as the last bits get shaved off, but even the ragged bits are flapping loosely in the breeze. And even as this all sounds So Very Deep (perhaps or perhaps not) the experience of it is just . . .  free. I am never lonely, never long for the things that have been jettisoned. Whatever sadness or depression or addiction rises its head only hangs for a bit, then goes poof. It's like the renovation (this phase of it) is complete, and the cleanup is underway. Because, seriously, what is there to be sad about? Depressed about? When you've let go of love, money, career, family, health, and companionship, what is there left to get all verklempt about?

Of course this could all just be proof of my deepening mental illness, but I'm okay with that. If your mental illness came with money and muddled fruit-black cherry vanilla vodka cocktails and acupuncture with chiropractic and cute social workers who stop by your cube to chat and kittens that go "lick" on your eyelids in the night and an utter boredom with the hollerers and groove-harshers and bullsh*itters and bummers on two legs, you'd be laughing too. 

I fully expect ass kickings, know that previews are soon to come, or perhaps they'll leap out from behind bushes, or simply be more big ole chunks of "me" falling into the sea. And I welcome it, can't wait for it, am so excited to see what thing I meet with horror on Monday, weep over on Tuesday, nervously cuddle up to on Wednesday, wrassle with one last time with on Thursday, and Friday bask in the delight of it's vamoosing, only to have utterly forgotten its existence by the weekend.

Also, I am utterly enveloped in True Blood and the Sookie Stackhouse novels, because really, I am Sookie, minus the vampire sex of course, which is kinda a bummer, but then again, I don't get mauled by were-panthers which is a plus.

I am still dealing with the repercussions of the hard drive crash, which is why you haven't received any new pics in a while. This shall soon be remedied, compliments of Brother Will and his mad Mac skilz. Pics soon. Promise . . .  

May this find you smelling smoke, and happily watching the burning of the Un-Fun . . . because really, aren't you just plain sick and tired of the Un-Fun??? Torch that sh*t . . . torch it now . . . torch it by embracing it, your little arms like mighty secret fire-starters, and the Un-Fun is revealed to be something you can opt out of like, say, handing the poop croquettes in slug sauce back to the waiter and saying: yo dude, I did not order this . . . 

Time for kittie snuggling. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh :)

Luscious Yes Shucks Its No

The past week has been about settling into this new living. It isn't settled yet, but I sure am luxuriating in the Yes of the whole hilarious dang thing. 

I'm sitting here sipping vanilla and black cherry vodka, kitties sniffing and playing and squeaking and even occasionally acquiescing to a bit of love gripping, for which I am grateful.

I am happy to have kitties to squeeze and vodka to sip. And not because I'm stressed from a stressful week at a stressful job, but because I just got an incredibly fly haircut by an amazing woman with blue leopard dyed hair and full body tats, and had this pretty magical 40 hour 8-5 work week, and the Life Force Known as Libido is running, and things become even more clear and overall life, you know, is so good. 

I know I will be getting many, many, many more ass-kickings in the future, that this Onion Formerly Known As Katherine will continue to de-layer. And I also have come to so deeply appreciate the flow of freedom that comes from a huge cleaning of house, and the resulting fresh clean sunshine that lights up a perspective. 

When I ask myself: what is it exactly that I did to bring about all this glorious freedom I'm now swimming and flying and getting high quality health care in, it is this: I turned toward what Life was bringing me and said: I trust you, I give myself to what you have brought me, I will turn the emotion inside of me that says "f*ck this awful sh*t" into something that is comfortable and gentle and okay and full of Yes.

And I want to tell you: turn and face the No, make it Yes, and the Yes that wil echo off of this will be so dang skippy amazing that your jaw will drop and your belly will be filled with the burble of infinite giggling and you will finally admit that you get The Cosmic Joke.

But I don't know this for sure. Because your Next Step may be about turning towards the hellacious No and saying F*ck You! and then stalking off to go milk goats and live off the grid. Or about taking the No and translating it into something that even your mother would deem a Yes. Or about taking The Anguish that has plagued you since you were a baby and then letting go gently as you walk away from mentally ill parents and boyfriends who really aren't friends, or accepting the fact that really, instead of working, you'd rather just loll away your living on the couch staring at the clouds.

For me, it was about letting go of the whole Faux Pretend Rebel BS and simply living a simple life, even if it shows up as so very not simple to others. It was about embracing what I believed to be evilness and the ultimate loss of life: a job in cubicleland, a body closed off from men due to it's fatness, single in mind and body, poor in terms of financial freedom, and surrounded by many, many cats. 

But may I share with you: life inside of this fat body, behind the social work job, and the four cats, and the aloneness, is so incredibly rich and sweet and hilarious and full of possibility that yes, just any moment, the secret of everything and Nothing will unfold because every moment it unfolds a little more and has Nothing and everything to do with fatness and solitariness and kitties and fluorescent lighting . . . 

For you, I ask: what freaks you the most? where does the terror hit the hardest when you allow yourself to look, or when Life forces you to look? Then that is where the freedom lies. You must look. And keep looking. Keep looking and looking and looking. And at first the mind will rebel, will give you a billion reasons why you shouldn't look, because really, you are a f*ck up, and a loser, and if you look too closely, the magic curtain of pretend, the one that fools most of the people most of the time, will remain in place, because something is better than nothing, and even though the something so very seriously isn't enough, it is at least something, and that is better than nothing. 

But it's BS. Because, honey, I swear upon all that is fuzzy, Nothing is the way to go . . . 

And the Glen Campbell soundtrack that keeps playing is just so  . . . cleansing . . . like a rhinestone cowboy . . . and how the wichita lineman is still on the line . . . and how yesterday when we were young . . . and how you all are so very gentle on my mind . . . 

Holes and Wholes

I can tell you when things began to change, when this latest shift I'm in started. It was back around the time of that first big public health interview, when I blew the interview, and on the walk to the car heard, "This is the part where you trust". Since then, I've been deep inside that trust.

I got: honey, you ain't going nowhere until Life tells you to, it ain't about no "destination" anymore, so you better make yourself comfortable and settle in for what may be a very very long ride. I asked myself several times if this simply wasn't about creating another safe, warm hole to hunker down in and hide, but it was clear that this wasn't about hiding, but about facing the reality of the situation I was in, how hard I was fighting, how f*cked up my body was. 

On some levels it was very basic new choices I needed to make. My work chair was at the wrong angle and height, and was causing most of the back and wrist pain I was experiencing, so I spent a day trying different adjustments until I found one that was optimal. I was drinking the city water, so bought a small Brita filter and kept it at work, and a large one for home. I began keeping my home cleaner and threw out even more stuff. There were dozens of things like this, things that in and of themselves seemed small, but in aggregate, were hugely impactful.

On other levels it was about my body kicking in and beginning to detox, like with the digestive issues that forced me to eat cleaner, simpler, lower in animal fat foods. Or in moving away from energy that showed up as funky, not trying to change it or the person it was attached to, but simply moving left or right out of it's path.

I also stopped fighting the screaming chimps. For the past few years, a major awakening was in truly seeing the ego, the personality in humans. It made me sick. Was one of the most horrendous things I've ever been through. 

We gain a great deal of comfort and put a lot of hope in other people. And when you see what a monster everyone is, how robotic and cruel and selfish and lost, it makes you crazy, and I mean this literally. The mind becomes unhinged as it realizes that you are in a gigantic insane asylum called "the world" and that no one, literally no one can save you or help you or make you feel better or lift you up or hook you up or make the horror go away. And as you realize that not only are They monsters, You are a monster too, well, the plot of the horror film, it does thicken, and take on a new level of O Holy Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck Oh My F*cking Godddddddddddddddd.

Have you ever gotten something really foul on you? Had poop flung on you or stepped in raw sewage or had a drunk person vomit on you? What's the first thing you want to do? What if you can't clean it off? What if you have to walk around wearing it for hours, days, months, years? That's what it's like to wake up and smell the ego. To smell it on others, and on yourself. And you can't escape it. It's everywhere. 

The last portion of this awakening was very much about literally smelling the ego, as in I spent a lot of time nauseous, literally having my stomach roll when around other people. It's a big portion of why I was so dang unpleasant to people, why I disliked them so much. They were insisting that they smelled delicious and lovely and sweet and Just Like Love, but the pitch and roll of my stomach showed me otherwise, and I hated people for trying to jam their lie down my gullet. And I hated my own lies, my own self even more.

But when I began to trust, I began to see, feel how silly everyone is, how folks are asleep and therefor can't do anything about their stench. It's like being mad at a baby for pooping out the back of it's diaper, or a kitten for having a smelly bung. And it actually began to feel pretty funny, as in how ludicrous everyone is. And out of this, I began to relax, and laugh my fool head off. 

For a couple of weeks there, I became the funniest person at work. I had people peeing themselves, spitting out their diet cokes and doughnuts, tears streaming down their faces. All of the bosses and several fellow cube dwellers started stopping in my cube to joke around, or coming over to hang whenever we ran into each other in cubicleland. My horror movie changed to a high quality sit-com overnight, and it was such a relief.

And then it faded, and although I've continued to laugh at/with others, and the anger hasn't come back, I initiate the jokes less, and am settling in to something new. I have this weird sense that I'm impersonating myself, playacting the better parts of "Katherine". Although flashes of the old way still bubble up, for the greater majority of the day, I no longer want or even need anything from other people. It'll take a while to weed out what's left, but it's a heck of a lot more fun now, and of course it now comes with kittens and a new Chill Job so the party, it's a rockin on the mellow tip, and how can a gal not be grateful for that?

I never would have taken this journey if it hadn't been forced on me, if I hadn't have had any other choice. I really did sign up for the life with the soulmate and cash and the career, but on a deeper level, I was requesting something else this go around, and Life did me a solid, the breadth and reach of which I am just beginning to comprehend. 

I saw the movie "Funny People" last week, and cried and laughed hysterically through the thing. It was so real for me, this movie. And I understood that on so many levels, I was seeing the life I gave up, the one that I'll never have again, the richness and love and drama of a life lived large in the world. 

I'm glad for this living I'm in right now, so incredibly amused and engaged and full of acceptance. I'm so grateful that my cold, dead hand was pried off the tiller, and that Life now drives this ship. 

I'm never lonely anymore. How is possible to be lonely when there are kittens and sky and TrueBlood and superfood green shakes and the amazing array of high-quality health care that has been laid out for me with my new health insurance?

This dying stuff sure does pay great dividends . . . 

Paradise For The Worried

After the move from Hell job to Chill job, I wondered: what's the next layer of "me" that Life is going to peel off? And as I was fully immersed in fluffy petals of Yes, I couldn't really imagine, which is just as well, because that was the point, so that I could be blindsided, and get the full effect and benefit of The Boom of 'sploding ego.

In a period of less than 48 hours, several scenarios played out, all having to do with death and madness and loss of identity: 

Two separate clients came into cubicleland with violence on their mind, showing me how death can come and there isn't a heck of a lot I can do about it other than look into its eyes and say: I see you coming. Obviously, I didn't die, but what I saw was how afraid of dying I am. It was like getting a chance to see where on the Death Fear meter I am. My meter was smoking burnt tire rubber.

Another client came rushing into the office to tell me he had dropped his keys and that his car had been stolen, which showed me that my mode of transport could vamoose at any moment, and my mobility could be seriously curbed. I saw how so much of "me" is invested in being able to go from place to place, and how the government, and the world, have it organized so that we have to be a part of The System if we want the luxury of mobility.

Another three clients, all utterly mentally ill: one who tried several times to tell me the intense details of various atrocities that had been done to him by people in his world, another who tried to feel me up, and the other who kept walking up to people and screaming at them, waving The Finger in their faces, spilling his anger at the world on anyone he came into contact with. To all of them I dodged their energy, words, actions, until they got that they'd get nothing from me, not one speck of emotional, mental, or physical energy. There was no fight in me around any of it, just moving out of its path. I got that if death or madness is coming for me, there isn't much I can do, but if it's someone else's madness or death, I can akido the heck out of it and get on with my living with nary a speck of their fallout on my personage

My wallet went missing, I ransacked my purse, my desk, my car, and one minute after I let go, it was in my purse, where it always is. I understood that just like I'd not understood prior that huge chunks of "me" lived in my computer's hard drive, I now saw that my wallet was alive with various pieces of plastic that corresponded to vast expanses of "me". The point wasn't to lose my wallet, but to show me where more "me" lived, in credit cards, debit card, library card, video store card, in cash and receipts and etc etc etc. Consider me shown.

And for those 48 hours, I smelled and saw death all around me. Being around people was almost unbearable, the stink of decay on their breath, coming out of their pores. I saw how close madness is, wisps of it floating through brains, death showing his face, how intermingled he is with life, everywhere, everywhere.

I remembered this feeling, this sense of awfulness, of f*ckness, of how horrible and disgusting it all is. And for another couple of days, I pretty much fought it, tried to make it all Nice again. But soon enough I gave up, acknowledged that really, the only choice is to surrender, to let go of being afraid of death and all his sticky friends, the violence, the madness, the loss, and say Yes, I see you, and Yes, this is all part of it, no denying it, no way to keep it at bay, not really, not and be truthful. 

And something in me let go. 

And in Wallace, who has avoided me for a couple of months now, like a teenage boy who is embarrassed to be hugged by his mother, promptly climbed me like a tree, tucked his paws under my chin, and fell asleep on my chest for a couple of hours, waking ever so often to look into my eyes with sweetness and love. He just looked so worried, so anxious, even before the kittens got here, even after they brought him brother love like he's needed. He's in a space of softness now, glad to be the Big Red Dude he is, happy to come and ask me, please, would I stop writing and play fetch with him some more?

Malcolm, who used to be called Thor, also hasn't much been in the mood for "me", but now is very much into being all up in my stuffs, and let me clean out his eyes, and smooch his leonine little face. And Jacinta is still crabby but eats dinner with the other guys and hangs out in public instead of the closet most of the time and yes, she is okay. And Emmaline is still my little furry love barnacle, licking my eyelids, loving my garlic breath, her bung all stinky, and she too, is okay. 

And we are all okay. 

Half the battle seems to be about being okay with death. Death of money, death of identity, of comfort, of relationships, of connection and work and positive feelings. 

I need a whole lot less hulu.com these days . . . 

Time to go play fetch . . .