I don't want to write, then I do, then I don't again. I wonder if writing ability rusts from lack of use.
The things going on don't feel important enough to write about, or important only to me, or important in a way that still doesn't have focus, stability. I'm not sure if what's going on makes sense, not sure if it's Waking Up or mental illness, not sure if the actions I'm taking will lead to healing or just more endless loops.
And I'm more reluctant to write because I know folks at work are reading - either the blog or the twitter feed which links to the blog. They don't know that I know but I do because of the fear and anger they slide between when they see me. Supposedly I'm a psychic, which is scary to them because they think it means I can read their minds, and then they get angry because I can go f*ck myself because they have nothing to hide from a wackjob like me.
They don't understand I'm not interested in the contents of their mind. They don't understand that human minds, mine included, are roiling pits full of fear and judgment and rage and pettiness and pointlessness. Looking into the minds of kitties is pretty fun actually but humans, not so much.
I got bored with it all sometime around last year. Unless someone was paying me or asking me or something in me pushed to give the info, all I did anymore became a cursory scan to see: yep, naked roiling pit, or roiling pit covered with a joyful Happy Happy tarp, or roiling pit buried under several feet of geometrically superior architecture, or . . . yeah. It's still like this, but the scans are even more surface and quick.
Why don't I use my psychic abilities for something amazing? Why don't I use them to win the lottery?
I have a friend who works for the F*BI, who asked me to help him solve a case. It was one of the most horrible experiences of my life, looking into that metallic razored shredding violence, and then not being able to give anything helpful to my friend to save someone's life, other than this person had cancer and the particular emotions and random past experiences of that member of the gang and what the neighborhood boy who was helping them was mentally experiencing. What was the point of any of it?
And I have won the lottery. Well, $100 bucks. I was walking past a convenience store and felt the energy of Now, This that kicks in when it's giving me A Download of informational truth. I walked into the store, it pointed me to one of those scratch offs, which I purchased, and found I'd won $100. I've never been able to duplicate the experience, which makes sense because I didn't create it in the first place, only followed up a directive with an action.
So it's a passive kind of skill, this psychic ability that lives inside of me. It can be pointed at things, people, situations, but it seems I have no choice in what gets seen. When clients are paying me to look, I can look at basic streams of a living - the relationships around them, the work situations, the health of the various bodily systems, organs. The probability of where these streams will end up shows up clearly, but it doesn't mean it's where they will end up.
And usually it's not what folks want to hear. That's been one of the most shocking and hardest truths to face: folks don't want the truth - they want to hear nice stories about themselves. Ironic, yes.
And so I work as a health researcher now. The money is good, the company I work for is outrageously kind and adult and respected and cutting edge. I had a two-month review last week and got "outstandings" which was nice to hear. But the job I do uses so little of me. It's like Einstein working as a cake baker. Maybe the cakes made are really yummy, but not a whole lot of deep mining occurring.
(Did I just compare myself with Einstein? I did! How can you not feel kinship with a person who envisioned quantum foam???)
But the truth is that I'm still settling in to these huge life changes. I'm having to relearn the language of science, and the folks I work for and the job to do: absolutely perfect. And the folks I work with - how could they not sense that I'm a freak? Not like the others? A threat? I'm the actor on the stage with the smirk on their face, messing with their Actor's Motivation Mojo, and we're in the middle of Act Two, with a full house.
They're fine. It's me that's the problem in this scenario. I need to just keep my mouth shut other than to say my lines. I work very hard to do just that but I'm not pulling it off very well, and the audience just thinks I'm a sh*tty actor.
I feel so apologetic these days. Seriously apologetic, walking around feeling so badly that I can't play with others any more. They take it so personally. They don't understand that I want to, but I can't. I don't know why. It just is this way. My eyes are open, and they won't close.
Or maybe I'm just a butthead with delusions of depth. Could go either way, don't you think?
I don't know what any of it means, or even if any of it is true, or if just another looping time-eating path. I don't know if I'm healing or just playing a healer on tv. I purposefully choose to live in an apartment outside of town, away from most folks, chose a cubicle tucked into a corner away from everyone, and yet then I'm left with only the sound of my own roiling mind to keep me company.
Okay, there's kitties here too, and the occasional human to have a laugh with, so it's okay to put away your tiny violins . . .
I've been this way my whole life. Interspersed with soaring leaps of fascinating side trails and bursts of amazing color. But always back to this. Sitting away from others, failing to integrate my freakness into the general population. Always with someone who is willing to pay me for some work, a place to live, access to goodness, warmth, food, kitties.
I'm so grateful for my life. In this moment, I could just weep with how fortunate I am, how grateful I am to be alive and in a living so filled with goodness.
Is this it? Is this all there is?
I can admire the folks on the stage who still want to put on the big productions - the Cirque du Soleils and Death of a Salesmens. But I know that no matter how amazing, difficult, expensive, fantastic the show, it's still something that will end when the lights go out. And off stage, behind the theater, off in the distance, the dark, something thrums, something vast, something still, something . . .
Logic says that all a person has to do is walk away, just leave everything behind, kitties, job, everything. Go live the life of a hobo, a nomad, a traveler. But I know this is a trap too.
In my heart I know that the stillness has to happen in the mind, in the actions taken out of the web of beliefs, picking them apart, letting them fall to the floor.
Yet how is this different than any other person who drops out of Life?
How am I different than the woman who lived downstairs from me - with her disability checks and diet related health issues and medications and cigarettes and crap food and isolation and incessant tv watching and anger and neediness? Am I different, better because I claim to be psychic, Waking Up, have an eight-year old blog and a master's degree, am a member of a CSA and shop at Trader Joe's?
You are now experiencing the confusion, the weirdness, the judgment going inside of me. The back and forth. The judgment and release. The expansion and contraction.
Is it Waking Up? Is it mental illness?
All I know is to keep following the the strongest push of Yes, the direction Life makes larger and more bright.
My car broke down on Thursday night and after three hours of calls on Friday morning I was still unable to find a mechanic or a rental car. And so I let go and find that without a car I can't escape to prepared foods, yoga, errands. And so I sit, and then am moved to write.
Maybe more distraction. Maybe drilling down.
All I know is that something connected inside of me that wasn't connected when I began writing an hour ago.
That pointless smiling Yes is gently pulsing inside of me now.
But mostly I see how beautiful the kitties are. Yes they are.
The rest of it? Who knows?
