The Hoon got so verklempt that I even *looked* at This Webpage that I am being banished to the other side of the bed and forbidden from any snuggles Whatsoever, Don't Even Think About It, Talk To The Paw.
Jacinta said that with enough catnip and cubed chicken, she could be talked into a little orange around the neck area, ya know, like a tiger, grrrrrrrrrr . . .
This is one of my favorite passages from Ken Wilber's One Taste:
Every time I read it, it's like tripping through evolution, that crawling howling push that still sings in cell memory. As I read, I remember. And I wonder at this period of seeming flatlander I live these days (shamanic hoohahs, notwithstanding).
When you read it, do you remember?
One of the benefits of working at an holistic center is the abundance of psychics who love to barter. And because the shamanic thing is unique to this area, I've racked up a lot of brownie points the past few months. And so, with the funk I've been in the past couple of weeks, I've been cashing in some chips, in a vast swath, just to see what sort of correlates came up as the sample size increased.
And I could turn this post into all the interesting things I heard, or I could it let it be about what it really is: a vacation. Because that is one of the things they all said: Kate, a job is coming in the next few weeks, you need to trust it and let it go, because mostly what you need is a vacation from the bullshit in your head. And it took four or five of them explaining it in various ways for me to understand, but finally I got it, and so slowly, over the past few days, I've been winding down.
Lessening up on my Twitter obsession. Not spending too much time working on the novel til the editor gives her feedback. Continuing to jobhunt, but ceasing with the rampant applying for jobs I'm not qualified for just for the sake of creating motion. Creating and marketing my upcoming classes, but stopping with the banging of my head that sign up isn't brisk. Relaxing the twitchy eye that oversees my seemingly arid financial landscape. But especially, oh especially, letting go of the haranguing drumbeat in my head to Do, Always Do Something and the Stay In Motion, even if I am reclining in my recliner, at least have a Meaningful Book in my hands (Dostoevsky, anyone? How about The Midnight Disease - a neurologist's take on obsessive writing?). But it hasn't been enough. To be here in this office means that I need to be working. Doing something. And I knew what was needed was a change of scenery.
And so I've been going to the beach. Not the popular, hip Wrightsville Beach, but the fabulous, largely deserted redneck haven of Kure Beach. And it's been so quiet, so lovely.
A beach chair. A towel. A stack of books from the library, today's selection The Lady Chablis' autobiography: Hiding My Candy. A bucket sized vat of iced tea from Chik-fil-a. The sea, the gently crashing waves, the gulls and pelicans, the sand pipers and fiddlers. And the sun. Oh, the glorious sun.
The folks that I worked on that skin cancer prevention initiative with would be having a cow if they could see me. I am wearing some sun screen. But not too much. Because really, I just want the sun to bake into me, fill me with her warm, lemony goodness. Crisp me up a little from the pasty white of too much indoors. Golden up my legs to gorgeously brown instead of Casper glow sticks. And she has. She does. The past few days that's exactly the scenario. And did you know that sea air, breathed deeply into the lungs over a three hour span will cause every single cell in a body to sing arias of Yes and simultaneously exhale with luscious sonorous sighs of Ahhh?
And you know I'm going back tomorrow. Oh yes I am . . . :)
I just got off the phone from a long-distance session for a shamanic healing session. A session for someone who comes here to DG. Someone who has invited me several times to come for an all expenses (sans air fair) paid week vacation at a spa in Mexico.
And as I sit here, drinking a vast goblet of red wine, I think to myself: what sort of idiot turns down an all expenses paid vacation to an holistic spa for a whole freakin week? Oh yes, the same sort of idiot who turned down the invitation to France a while back. Because, really, what is my problem?
My problem, kind folks, is that in spite of all of my hard work the past decade, my boundaries grow thinner, not thicker. I feel the world even more, and people even more so. And there is a deep pain that comes with it, as if I'm losing skin by layers. So, yes, I see things so much more clearly. But no one told me how badly it would hurt to hold the truth so close, how it would burn off the separation between I and Other, and that I would feel it.
I spend as much time as possible here in the hacienda with the kitties. I write. I watch dvds. I read. But life is such that I do have to go out amongst other humans. (Please, can we not speak of how I am job hunting?) And the fan, it invites the caacaa to step ever forward.
My time with other humans has gotten so odd. My capacity and willingness to listen has grown so intense, my desire and need to talk has shrunk so tightly, that almost all of my interactions with other people consist of 97% them, 3% me. And it isn't that I'm not talking. I am. I'm talking about them. Asking questions, clarifying the tendrils of truths rising up out of them like smoke signals, following them down the rabbit hole where future and present meet head on with the mirror of their past. I obviously love it, this deep listening, this ocean of receiving another. But here's the problem: people eat that sh*t up.
Seriously, when's the last time you had someone sit in front of you for hours at a time, enraptured as you spilled forth your tale of Everlasting Me? I know that sh*t is heady. I know it. But I can't do it any other way. And folks end up chugging it like a spiritual beer bong on nickel beer night down at the Cosmic Cafe and Organic Lapdance Palace.
And it exhausts me in a way that you can't even imagine, in a way that makes me want to turn myself inside out and bathe myself in cabernet, make love to twenty-four year old tantric love gods, peel off all my clothes, walk off into the ocean and then keep walking.
This is what I can't figure out: if when I spend time with people I don't really want to talk about myself, and listening for hours on end to them talk about themselves exhausts me and loses it's joy about an hour and a half in, and holing up in my home for weeks on end makes me feel cranky, then what, pray tell, am I to do? Because nobody seems to like silence. Silence seems to be the thing folks run from screaming, the path behind their pounding feet dense with the flying gravel of words and words and words and more words.
And so, a lovely chica invites me to France. And a sweet sister invites me to Mexico. And I'm horrified at what a nightmare it could turn into. Because, really, what alternative do I give people? (And no, we shall not speak of that trip to Britain, oh no, we shall not.)
And so I sit here, clacking away at my iBook to you lovely folks, your shadowy faces moving back and forth in my mind's eye. I feel you. I write to you. But you're not really here, are you?
Tim Finn sings:
"Are you loveless on this cold day
You feel like you're walking on your own grave
But somehow you know it's not for always"
Gone is the intense day to day knowing of how close my own death is, the death of life as we know it. Instead I sit with not quite knowing what to do next. Waiting for a job to appear that says Yes to what I can offer in exchange for cash to help me apply dents in the great financial mountain of debt I've slowly built the past four years. Waiting for the editor to read the latest draft of my book and give me notes. Waiting for the next updraft of What's Next.
I can feel it. I can feel it coming. Have been for a while. I spend hours applying for jobs I'm only marginally qualified for, knowing they'll never even call me in for an interview.
"It's coming," I keep hearing. "It's coming. No need to flail around making motion for the sake of movement. It's coming. Have faith. It's coming."
"Yeah, f*ck you," I reply to the soft, firm vibration. "How do I know you aren't the voice of procrastination? Of anger made manifest inside of inaction? Of arrogance built inside of I'm Better Than That? Of the supreme annihilation of What's Left of Me via F*ck It All?"
(In lieu of speaking to other humans, I speak to the energies that cruise my head)
"It's coming," it says. Like it always does.
And the sexual undertones aren't lost on me. A few months ago, the switch on my Hello I'm a Woman programming got flipped to the On Position. No space to dance it, at least no space that makes sense, other than inside of me, which is fine.
Yet, all sorts of weirdness occurred within utterly inappropriate channels. Have lost my relationship with the Bee Master. (But really, what else do you do with a married man who says that he can't get within a foot of you without feeling the overwhelming desire to bend you over and Give It To You? Which is a quote, btw). And my amazing, body-saving massage therapist is about to be jettisoned. (What else to do when you get that he's setting things up for a blowj*b?)
And so, here I sit. Drinking red wine. Wondering, please, Life, isn't there a way that you can swing giving me a vacation in Mexico with the cool chick who is basically my soul sister?
So I pour another tankard of grape and listen to kt tunstall and admit that oh lordy, I so don't run this show.
Whatever you want, Life. Expansion for Yes, contraction for No. Yes, I know the drill. Thanks for the connection, the languaging. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for the new credit card. Thanks for the new found freedom from the crazy landlords. Thanks for the energy of Anger you provide me with each day to supercharge my living, even though I don't understand it and it gives me ajada.
Thanks for the freedom of Now. This freedom from ties and strings and requests and needs and demands. But could you please put a hitch in your giddyup? Please be a little clearer in what you want me to do next? (and could you please suck 30 lbs off me by next Thursday as I am so incredibly sick of looking pregnant?)
Life is good. It surely is. And really, who the frak knows what's going on? And even that is good . . .
Sorry for the dead air but I've been in a coma, or at least a coma-like twilight state. Other folks would call it "the flu", but you know how mythic I am about everything . . .
The thing is, I haven't been sick in over 12 years. I've had generic head colds and some of them have been endorsed by cement companies that specialize in head faucets, but a fever, the flu? It's been so long that it took me a day to figure it out.
I won't bore you with the details, because I'm sure you're intimately equated with all the howling, crying, sweaty-headed minutiae, but suffice it to say that it certainly changed my frame of mind. I went to bed on Friday night much like I always do: my head full of thinky thoughts, my belly full of things like sauteed turnips, tomato and basil vinaigrette salad, and roasted asparagus. I had taken a hot bath with valerian and hops and was pleasantly narcoleptic. Then at 1:30am I awoke. To this segmented thought: Something. Is. Not right. I need. To wake. Up. Go to. The bathroom. Put hair. Into ponytail. Breathe. Deeply.
What was so odd, so different, was that it wasn't an unpleasant experience. It was as I were inhabiting a being who was ill, and I coached her through it, gave her things to do to blunt the physical experience, make it less intense, and they worked. (Is this what being single for so long has finally brought to me?)
I called my sis the next morning and asked her to bring me banana/pineapple/orange juice (yum) as any sort of vertical motion had been rendered impossible beyond 2-minutes in duration. And while she was here, because she is Queen of the Sisters, she did my dishes, cleaned the bathroom, and pooperscooped for the kitties. (Seriously, queen or what?)
I ran a fever of 101-102 for two days, and all during that time, all I did was sleep, and drift. I was so weak that even holding a thought was beyond my capabilities.
Two days of no thoughts. Just simple needs arising - lip balm, juice, kitty food in bowl, change position - that then took several long, slow movements undertaken over many minutes to complete. Life in genuine slow motion. So incredibly lovely. Such quiet. Such simplicity. The phone rang, but no need to answer it. Emails can sit. No work. No talk. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Absolutely off the hook for everything to everyone.
I would awake after a couple of hours of sleep suspended in a cocoon of warmth and safety, conscious that my body was simmering, cooking itself, had turned into a self-directed cleaning mechanism, and that my job was to stay out of its way. The aching was terrible, but it was only terrible if I tried to stay awake. As long as I simply attended to simple needs, then went back to sleep, all was well.
The kitties stayed with me the entire time. And their purring was ratcheted up so intensely it was like being hooked up to fur powered love generators. And they smelled so sweet. What was that? What did it mean? I lay there in a fever haze, snuggled up to fuzzy, purring kitties, breathing in the scent of heaven and forest hybrids. How sweet to be so free of the world and so plugged into the joy of agape? Very, very sweet.
And so my body finally reached a firm understanding with the viral interlopers. My fever broke and I sweat, oh the sweat, sweaty-head, sweaty bed, kitties sliding out of my arms. And slowly, little by little the thoughts came back, and the doing, though not so much of either as before.
This morning I weighed myself to see that I'd lost two pounds (dang skippy), then did a phone interview for an amazing job (which I tanked), then watered my herb garden (which made it happy), then capped the day off with a visit to the video store where I said howdy to the clerks (who said howdy back). And I'm exhausted. And that's fine.
Because life goes, much like it does after one has had the flu have its way with you . . .
Of all the changes I've been through the past few years, it's only the return of arrogance and aggression that I regret.
I understand that they came back as protection, as walls to enable me to navigate the emotional and mental battering rams that seemed to come along with the schoolwork. But I don't understand why they don't release me, let me go back to a gentler, more surrendered way of living.
Yet, they also came along with that split or breakthrough or death I went through. I've tried several times to explain what happened to me, and each time, the person I'm speaking with looks at me like I'm insane. Which is what they say in The Waking Up Handbook, of course :), but still, it's wildly, incredibly disconcerting.
How would you act if you saw through the game? If everyone around suddenly appeared as the scripted cartoon characters they are? If you got that this thing, this time, this culture we live in is no better or further along than anything that's come before it? That it's all the same, it's all happened before, it'll happen again, just with differently colored cultural doodads and mental accessories?
And why have I come back to this world, this culture of make believe, to romance and a career-job, to weight loss and flirting, to making friends and selling novels and finding a lover and telling my story and drinking wine and Looking For More. Why, when I know better?
Because I want to. Because I stood on the edge of the abyss, saw the drop and thought: I'm not done yet. I wanted to spend more time with my sister, my brother. I wanted to finish my book. I wanted to make love again.
And I want to be slender and athletic and strong again. I want to make peace not just with my body, but with my heart, my mind. I want to reach the place where I let it all go, not in anger and defeat and sorrow, but with laughter and deep, easy breaths and that kind of all-systems-go fusion that only comes when two people both lust and love one another.
When I ask myself what is different about wanting these things, these states, when in fact it's essentially what I've wanted all my life, what we all want, what I understand is that now these things, these states are possible. It's like when I died, something in me began to bloom, continues to bloom, lush and sweet.
Which is what makes the aggression, the arrogance, so hard to hold. They are like cancers to the forming fruit. And yet I've no clue how to release them, how to get them to release me.
I can't both hate the world and love it, then expect it to meet me with full on agape.
But until I find peace inside of myself with what I've seen, genuinely stop trying to find assurance from outside of me around it, the dichotomy will continue to hammer away at my heart and mind.
How could it not . . .
Just led a five-hour workshop on psychic skills and techniques. Nine women, all feisty, all with psychic ability already streaming, though many a protective dam in place. I never fail to lose delight in how juiced they get when they discover that it's a skill like reading, like math, that with practice and guidance, is very easily doable.
As usual, somewhere in the middle it hits me: nine human beings have paid money to hear me gumflap. And I'm humbled. And I ask myself: are you giving them something useful in exchange for the money, the time they are giving? And it makes me stop and reassess, ask myself: what are we really here for?
And as with any other class/workshop I teach, the real take home message is: the answers, the power you seek is inside of you. They come because of some "skill" I will teach them. But the real message never changes. If I do my job right, I make myself obsolete. If I do my job really well, I'll never see them again.
Each class/workshop I teach, I always think: this time I'll get away with just teaching the skill, sliding a few subtle messages in about the direction to head (inward). But each class, someone innocently asks the question that turns the whole class on its ass. Today the question was:
"I get most of my clarity when I drive in my car and I sort of talk to myself. I hold these conversations, and then I get answers. But what I want to know is: is this real or is it my imagination?"
And as I stare off into space, knowing that the real answer is: "Nothing Is Real" but that it will never fly, I flail about looking for a way to comfortably answer the question. I get that, yet again, I'm trapped. But how much do I tell them? How much is too much and they run screaming back into numbness? And so I dance around the answer, attempt to bring the answer back to something true, yet still safe.
I say that they have all given money and time to come and be a part of a class. That I have been set up as teacher and they have taken on the role of student. I tell them that my job is to gumflap. And that as I do this, they sort through and create mental piles of Yes, No, and Maybe. But that no matter how much Yes goes in the pile, it is still less "real" than what occurs in her car. That what occurs in her car is more real because it is less removed. In the case of the classroom setup, the info comes from outside of her, and so is therefor less real. For it to be more real, it has to run through the filter of her experience. And yet the experience she has in her car is still fraught with b.s. because it is still being run through the experience of speaking to an "other", be it Guide or Higher Self or whatever. And that is why she asks the question, because she can still smell the b.s. The b.s., I tell her, will be gone when you simply Know, when you finally lay down the separation between you and "the problem", when you look at a situation and face the truth of it, which makes itself known in the contraction (no) or expansion (yes) you feel. There will be no more "decisions", only acknowledgment of what Is Occurring. There will be no more "problem". There will only be This, then the next This, then the next.
And I forget what I said next, something where I attempted to sidestep the whole flood of stuff which of course comes after I say these things. Somehow we end up talking about how there is no real choice with the info that comes to them when they open the psychic channels. That there is no choice of pawing through to only take in "the positive", only the clear receiving of data. I make them repeat the 3 commandments of this workshop:
1. Thou shalt not judge yourself
2. Thou shalt not judge the information you receive
3. Thou shalt not judge, just read the energy
And somehow this leads to a discussion about the current insanity that is unleashing in the world. Someone says: we are at some sort of threshold. Another says: we are at a turning point. And I say to them: the skills you are learning, the techniques of how to read energy and then turn inward for answers is going to be incredibly important as the markers outside of ourselves get even more skewed.
I talk about the movie The Matrix, how it is a very thinly veiled metaphor for what is actually occurring. I talk about how reading the truth and living it doesn't mean that others will like you for it. I talk about how I blasted open to a place last year of such awakening that it shut me down for many months, left me in a place of such utter paranoia and fear that I could barely stay in forward motion. I almost talk about how they can become the strongest, clearest readers known to earthkind, and still it won't make them any happier or saner or more well-adjusted, in fact it will make the opposite occur, but I stop myself and don't say anything, just let the ghost of almost hang there in the air.
The room got very quiet. Still. I felt the energy shift in a direction that veered radically away from the simple straightforward trajectory of a psychic skills class. So I sidestepped, said something about how my experience wasn't theirs, not to worry, just work the steps we'd gone over.
And the room stayed quiet and one woman finally spoke up and said: it's okay that you say the things that you do. We need to hear this. You are dealing with a room full of people who have been dealing with panic attacks and anxiety meds and people thinking we're crazy, and really, please just be honest with us.
And so I talked a bit more. Did my best to speak only in facts. But I still pulled back. Because do they really want to hear the truth? Really? I can barely stand it, and I've been hammering away at myself for years. Maybe I disrespect them by not telling them that everything they know isn't true. But I cannot find a firm footing and so I give them a booby prize.
I make a joke and say that we could all stand up, start screaming, tear off all our clothes, run howling into the streets, and that would be more true than the gunflapping we do as we sit in this room. And everyone laughs. And I wonder how many of them saw the truth in what I just said.
I look up to see one woman nodding vigorously, her eyes fierce. She's very young and beautiful, a red-headed artist who makes jewelry and comes to all my classes, bartering rings and earrings and necklaces made of hammered metals and huge chunks of red coral. And I know that she's game for anything at this stage in her awakening. But we don't do anything more than meet eyes, acknowledge the moment.
After the workshop, we're all burnt crispy. I announce that I'm going to go get a burger and a glass of wine and welcome company. A few of us head out. And we talk nothing more serious than Battlestar Gallactica and Grey's Anatomy. And then I go home.
Which is where I sit now. Another workshop done. Another group of people sitting in their homes, absorbing what they went through today, sorting through, asking themselves: what was real? what was my imagination?
I hope I did my job. I hope I drove them inward. I hope I never see them again . . .
My hits were up just a weeeeeeeee bit, so I went to check them out, followed a couple of hit streams and came up with this:
As best I can track it, the blog I linked to in the last post, linked to me as a site that linked to them. And then the New York Times linked to me via them.
Yep. If you look close, (click on screen capture pic to enlarge it) to the right, under the heading "Headlines Around the Web", in between links to posts from "Business Week" and "The Associated Press" you'll find the post entitled "Hot Dang" at "DatingGod".
Do those dudes know that the term "DatingGod" doesn't mean that I have intimate knowledge of That Which Animates Physics? That mostly I write about my organic red wine habit, my lack of nookie, and my rather fiesty dances with God-lubricated insanity?
(And will someone please call my mother? She'll be so pleased to know that this blog thing is finally taking off . . .)
Via Scott Adam's Blog, Israel is apparently incredibly close to a new form of
Solar Energy technology whose price per kilowatt is so low that it'll make oil obsolete. Lots of ifs in the post, not a clear shot yet, but holy guacamole does this look exciting! (even if it only partially works: yeefreakinyaw :)