October 9, 2010, 10:15a.m

I sit at the top of the steps of a beautiful wooden platform, about five feet off the ground. Behind me stands a tall painting of the Madonna and Jesus. In front of me, wooden floors, burgundy velvet curtains as well as to the left and to the right, forming a perfect hemisphere. Directly above close to the ceiling are windows where a faint light comes through. I am alone here for just a little while.

I get up and practice a sacred dance and then another. The heat rises and I begin to well up too. I sit back on the platform as though sinking back into a chair, defeated and tired but I am not defeated nor tired. I make sure to be right in the centre of room. I let out a few breaths along with some tears and then look up transfixed staring at a point above. And the words begin to roll off my tongue.

I am the magician that breathes life into my dreams.

I get up, take a few steps forward and try the dances again. I am focused. I want this. I want this more than anything else, to be present in this space where I am free and alive, nowhere and everywhere, with the forces, the elements, with beauty, with God, here, in this now. Nothing and no one can touch me here, not a hair on my head, not even the slightest of gestures. Here, I am.

I feel the power of these dances and so must sit down again. I could keep going but am aware of time, aware that I must go into another room. I wish I could let go but I can't here, not now. The words again begin to flow. I am looking up transfixed.

I summon the fluidity, the calmness, stillness, the lucidity of the waters, and of the oceans. That my cup may runneth over. That my heart may expand beyond myself. That I may love with an open heart and ask for nothing in return, nothing, not a smile, not a gift, not an act of kindness...nothing. Let love be its own reward.

I summon the strength of the earth, and of the pentacle. That my body may serve me well all the days of my life. That I may be rooted and grounded, beautiful and graceful. That I may always have what I need. That I may learn the ways of Nature, of this Mother who is bountiful and yet stern. Let me understand what I must understand.

I summon the fires of all the heavens of the worlds, and of the wand. That I may be imbued with creative spirit. That I may develop my intuition and grow essence. That I may move swiftly when I need to without harm to myself or another. That passion guide me helping me see and work with the difference between ignition and the burning of flame.

I summon the movement and the sharpness of the air, and of the sword. That it may cut away the density of thought and clear the cobwebs of my mind. That I may see truth from illusion, realness from fantasy. That I may walk direct, with purpose and aim.

And it is done.

Storm before the Calm

I am welcomed by grey and misty rain. Upon this boulder I sit high up above the ground. Hello again, Ireland, my sweet Ireland.

You don't know how peaceful it is here, how the mind quiets down, how the body surrenders to gravity, how the heart soars. My heart is always listening, always paying attention, always embracing...not fully though, not fully. I must work on this. Sometimes, it develops a mind of its own and peeks through when I'm not looking and decides it wants to do something out of the ordinary. My heart knows how I guard and protect it, like a child a mother has a hard time letting go of.

How does one let go? How, when the substances from down below, from our abyss rise up, percolate, brew and make their way to the surface? I thought I had depth of feeling. But the other day, I was caught by surprise. I did not understand what was happening to me. I was confused. I thought I knew. I know nothing. Nothing.

In the dark with the lights down low, all one sees are shadows, shadows of oneself. I wanted to unite with my shadow but to unite would have meant to acknowledge, to submit to that which I don't understand. I just stared. Love fought hard to clear away the cobwebs. From the surface, I removed some of the debris but there was too much of it. Unfortunately, most of it made its way down again. It will have to be drudged up some other time. Maybe it will be easier with practice.

I was disturbed by my feelings, the state of my body, the stirring of my thoughts. I was disturbed by Love. How can this be? To be disturbed by love? I saw that it was possible to bring aspects of a higher love down to this earthly plane. You'd think I would have been completely accepting of this. But no, something about it made it real, too real. I saw that I was not worthy just then. I saw that I could not love in this way but that I wanted to. I want to. But, my personality gets in the way. And Love is too precious for games. It demands the absolute best from us and will not be fooled under any circumstance.

Let me not guard so fiercely, I tell myself. Let me be open to possibilities. Let me be sincere in my approach. Let me not worry or hang on too tight. Let there be light. Let me be ready.

Mr. Hermit

What do you require of me Mr.Hermit? Why have you sprung up today? I can't say I am surprised. Really. Your presence is both terrifying and welcome. Terrifying because you verify much for me at this time.

How inward shall I go? How still must I be? And for how long? How quiet and deafening must my world be in order to hear you? May my lantern shine half as bright as yours, otherwise I am in serious trouble.

What advice will you give through your cloak? Through the tilting of your head? Through that downward pose? What will you whisper? Stay or go? That is the question, is it not? To stay or to go.

What would it mean to stay? You are a clue to an answer. Paradoxically, you lean towards some kind of movement--a movement towards stillness to discover truth or a revelation which has the potential of affecting the course of one's life. Is this not true? I can not take you lightly.

I know you. I am you now. I dwell in a serene place but just below there is a stirring. There is great knowledge and wisdom in your demeanor. You are gentle and kind. You understand the way of this world. You see what must be done. You question. You are unsure and so you seek because you sense there is more and you are unsatisfied with what is. You know I've been searching. You know I must ask and you see that I do but you do not respond.

Why do you not respond? Am I not worthy? Have I become selfish? Will I forever be the lonely child in the sandbox whom no one cares to ask how she is because she never makes a sound?

Elements

What are you anyway? You and those bright eyes? I don't understand you or is it that I do...too much? Is there even such a thing?

You complicate everything, you and your words. I see how your mind turns and how your heart feels. It is because of this that I stay. But what do you do? You spill and spew your insides all over me like a storm that goes on and on and on. Why must you take the magic away from this too? You don't know how much I love storms. But not your kind.

You tell me not to worry and I wonder how you know. Is it that you sense or that finally, you are able to see how irrational you've been? Your messages are confusing. I'd say you lift me up only to let me fall but that would give you too much power so instead I will say, 'You unintentionally lift me up and then tear me down because you move in circles, fast and quick, like fire burning everything in its midst.' I am mostly air with a lot more water than my Sign suggests. I am placid and still except for my heart, which sees, hears, and feels everything and so has a tendency to react. I must use water from my cup to tame you.

Why these gifts? How can I call them gifts? From the Divine? Really? To see? For what purpose? All these snapshots, what and whom do they serve? Let me move in circles too if I may. You see, my past is filled with slow movements, with unfinished stories and poems, books that were begun and then abandoned, paintings whose strokes and colours had a desire to become something but then realized suddenly they would become nothing, relationships that had promise but were left unattended. The list is long. And since I feel the gravity and urgency of time, I will end this tangent here.

Just when I had momentum and a kind of swiftness, an electrical spark that breathes life into dreams, you come and place a wall before me. You can tease like the moon. To slow down is not an adequate solution for me. But it is for you. Hence, the dilemma. So what shall we do? What can I do? I must be patient. Let this be my lesson. I must become unaffected. Let this be another lesson so that I do not repeat these mistakes again.

If I wasn't so certain, I could run from all of this. But it is useless to look back now. I only have this moment and I will seize it and make it mine and then I will let it go so as to embrace the next one and then the next one after that and so on and so forth as it should be. As it should be. I will grow and elevate and become one with this guardian that sees and knows everything. Then I will be free. Truly free. Unhindered. Uninhibited.

Thank you for helping me see what I can be. What I am.

Friction

It's been three months since my last post. So much has happened. I don't feel so purposeless, quite so aimless these days. I refuse to be a feather in the wind but sometimes, just sometimes, I must be nothing but this very feather in the wind letting this god take me anywhere, everywhere, and nowhere simultaneously. Yes, there is freedom in this kind of letting go. To want and need nothing.

Don't get me wrong, my sword is still close by. No one understands or sees what I can sense through this mighty piece of steel. No one sees what power I can tap into when it's held tightly in my grip. I sit transfixed, staring off into the distance and then I hear you. When I'm in doubt, your voice cradles me, nudges me, to hold my head up high because you understand, I'm neither here nor there. I am beyond this place and these things and yet I am less than the shoes on my feet. I sigh, and then take a deep breath. You tell me the answers will come and I wait and you do know how I wait? By this chair, this couch, this phone, this house, this person, that person. I wait and wait and sometimes you come and other times, I'm left wanting, abandoned and confused by your indifference. You'll tell me it's for my own good. You'll say it's how things should be. Or do you? No, no, this must be my voice speaking now.

Don't tell me I'm asleep. Don't tell me I'm a fool. I'm no fool. Don't tell me I'm like the others. Don't tell me that I or man cannot be more than what we are. You're the fool. He says, As above, so below. She says, As inside, so outside. What I wouldn't give for more than a glimpse of the real in others. What I wouldn't give for this kind of beauty, this kind of intimacy. But I lack lustre and so I can't expect from others what I am not for myself. It's hard traveling inward, going deep, way deep down inside where the little devils reside. Some people only touch the surface. I want the jewel and I won't get to the jewel until I cross the abyss. There is no other way.

I can play it safe though if I want but then I'll only achieve half the results and even then, it simply won't be good enough...for me. It would be false and I am true. I am true. So if you want to speak to me, then speak. Come out from under your rock. Let your tongue reflect sincerity but if it should not, then keep your mouth closed for I see what you are. I see how you hide, how you lie, how you cheat, how you believe in yourself, in a self that is not. I see your eyes, that light which remains trapped behind layers of fear and loneliness. If you could see how you control beyond your capacity to be, you would understand how pointless all of it really is, how you say one thing and do another because you are not real. But I am. I am.

The Soul of the Matter

I'm aware of greys and stones and sets of stairs going up, going down, filling everything. I sense the danger, the risk involved in following you as you lead the way along this path which is unknown.

I want to find a room upstairs to hide. I want to be alone. I feel dark. And as I walk up, I realize I'm actually going down and the further along I go, the darker this scene becomes. Suddenly, I look up. And there you are above my head, floating over me, like some guardian angel, some heavenly creature. You reach down for my arms, my hands and pull me up and away from this.

You make it across to the edge of the cliff, wearing determination and fearlessness along your chest. You sit erect and poised staring off into the distance and I wonder. I wonder. Your heart longs like a warrior pushing through the pangs and throbs.

I sense the abyss as I stand watching you. I anticipate the joy in joining you. I take a deep breath while the others calculate how they will make their move. I long to be there and here not fully comprehending there is no division. The work is overwhelming but the longing is greater so I persist, I insist. I must be.

Now, I sit behind you on this cliff. I don't know how I got here and not without your help. I see the back of your head. I smile. You're still and focused and I sense the power you radiate, your strength and courage. There is no where else I'd rather be.

Orpheus and The Lyre

Poor Orpheus. I feel for this man, this musician, this poet, the greatest there ever was of Greek Myth. He played the most beautiful music, a kind no one could resist, not a human, animal, or even a thing. Now, imagine that. That he was able to entice, attract and lure everyone and everything.

And since all greek myths are tragic, Orpheus' story is no exception. When his wife Eurydice dies from the bite of a poisonous snake, Orpheus is determined to save her from the Underworld and bring her back with him. He plays so beautifully, so convincingly that even Hades, the god of the world below could not but fulfill his one wish, his one true desire. But Hades has one condition Orpheus must meet, just one tiny insignificant request--that when Hades performs the act of bringing Eurydice to the world above, Orpheus is not to look back.

So, what does Orpheus do just when he and Eurydice are so close to reaching the surface? Just when he's so close to tasting the fruition of wish? Of presence? He looks back. And what was that thing that made him look back? Or was it a lack of some thing?

He had a moment of doubt, a doubt so strong, even Hades had to forewarn him. But, it was of no use to Orpheus. When he glances back, Eurydice is pulled down into the Underworld again, lost to the upper world...forever. Now, Orpheus is lost, truly lost. Any feelings associated with the first loss of his wife cannot come close to the bitterness and grief associated with his second loss. And why? Because he could taste freedom, he could sense union, he could see the promise of Mercy's mercy but he failed due to weakness, due to a lack of faith.

He refuses consolation from anyone. One day, while sitting under a tree singing, a group of jealous Dionysian devotees--Ciconian Maenads--who are close by, decide to attack him by throwing rocks, stones, branches, among other things, at him. But because the rocks and branches are mesmerized and moved by the music too, they, the objects refuse to strike him. Beautiful.

But how does envy move now? How does the low react? These Ciconian Maenads take matters into their own hands by tearing Orpheus to pieces. And there Orpheus' head goes down the river...still singing. His music--both a blessing and a curse.

My Three Men

These three men have been on my mind recently and something must be said of them. I must say something of them.

I'll start with Aleister Crowley, Mr.Aleister Crowley. When I first became interested in the Tarot, I stayed far away as I could from the Thoth deck. When it made its way into my home, I felt ambivalence towards it. I sensed it was too dark for me, maybe a little wicked, awakening those hidden parts within myself, you know those parts you want no one to see, and you yourself don't want to see or even admit a sort of base, swamp like, cold and muddy tendency could exist. And this is what a deck like Crowley's does, it brings me down--not emotionally, not mentally--way down into a physical place within my body I don't reside often or am not aware I even can reside but is absolutely necessary to acknowledge and even respect. With Crowley, the card Strength becomes Lust, Temperance becomes Art, Justice becomes Adjustment, Judgment becomes Aeon. When I began to understand the meaning of these cards, I started to see Crowley in a different light. I started to gravitate towards him. I could see how Strength, Temperance, Justice, and Judgment are rooted in an old testament God and how Lust, Art, Adjustment and Aeon are rooted in redemption, resurrection, forgiveness. He tells me I must accept all aspects of myself whether fragmented or whole, dark or light--they must all be studied. By denying one, you imply the other is good. By accepting one, you imply the other is bad. He says, Integrate. He was no wicked man, as some would lead you to believe. He found his way, his path and he traveled on this path without any apologies. We're only afraid of what we don't understand and how could a mere mortal understand a man like Crowley, a man as elevated as he? How could anyone possibly have understood a man who could see the world as it actually is? People would have always fallen short because Crowley operated on a higher vibrational level and people wouldn't have been able to relate to someone like this, someone who worked hard to be what he was. They didn't have the eyes to see or the ears to hear, literally. So why not tear down something we fear? He was beautiful and ugly. He was majestic and small. He was whole and broken. Crowley was a true man.

Now on to the middle man, Mr.Gurdjieff. Where does one begin when speaking of this master? Sometimes I imagine myself standing in front of the man and wonder what this could be like. When he looks at me, I know he sees me, everything, misses absolutely nothing. And I swallow hard because suddenly, I can see myself too--the fragility, the weaknesses, the hurt and anger, the naivety, the drama and stupidity. It all comes to the surface and I'm left feeling small and insignificant, meaningless and pointless. This is what Gurdjieff does to me. And you ask, Why put yourself through this? And I say, Because he sees me and I want to be seen more than anything else. I want to discover myself so that I may truly come to know myself in this world and what I'm meant to bring to it. You have to let go of the baggage, strip away the layers to find the jewel. There's no escaping this so I keep my head held high and go for the ride. I can hear Gurdjieff say, You must do the Work otherwise, you are nothing and you will remain nothing, forever. This isn't an easy thing to face but because I can hear it and I know this to be true, I understand what must be done. So in a great sense, I am blessed. Gurdjieff was a whole man.

And then there's Jesus--my sweetest friend, my beauty, my love, my everything in so so many ways. With the first two men, I feel judged, exposed, transparent. What does this say about me? It says I believe there's an ideal and that I'm not living up to it. It tells me these two men have the answers and the only way I'll find myself is to learn from them. With Jesus, there isn't the slightest inclination towards such feelings, towards self judgment. Now does this say more about me or something about Jesus? Jesus can stare at me and I may get weak in the knees but I don't feel the slightest discomfort. He accepts me, all of me. I know. He pushes but it's gentle and he doesn't have to utter one word to me. All communication is done through the heart, the mind, the body. And I hear him clearly. None of that self talk even has a chance to dominate my frame, my scene, my relationship with him. Jesus whispers, You have what it takes. He says, I'm here no matter what. He insists, You have everything you need. He tells me, Beauty comes from within. He tells me to trust my gut, to listen closely to my heart, to tame the mind. With Jesus, I sense I can love unconditionally. Jesus was a perfected man, a perfected being, a master of every plane of existence. Why wouldn't I tremble in his presence? Any trembling would come from a desire to blend with him, to melt with him, to be one with him not out of fear of what he sees.

And so with all of this, I'll continue to take what I can from each of them. Crowley and Gurdjieff are my teachers towards enlightenment, Jesus my anchor, my salvation.

Boreas

Boreas, the god of wind. Just look at this Waterhouse painting--the movement of the scarf, the clothing, how the wind travels through with force and without mercy. Look at how it displays itself, turning everything upside down or downside up, without any regrets. This may be subjective art offering nothing in the way of real knowledge but I am nonetheless left moved and touched and for this I am grateful. If my heart can open even an inch more, I welcome and embrace each emotion, each impression, each sensation with more presence, more being.

I know what a day like this tastes like, smells like. I know how each shade of colour cools or warms, how it carries me to my depths or awakens me to my heights. I see the pictures a day like this creates in the mind, how they speak to the heart, how they move the spirit. Why are we afraid of what these feelings reveal? Why do we hide when we need to see? Why do we not want more than what is, to be able to sense the realness of life?

In my lows, I find my highs and I accept them all with love, with gratitude. The woman in the painting looks quite sad, doesn't she? What can we make of this? A coin has two sides, one that is revealed to us and the other that is hidden. The feel of the painting is a reflection of her internal state. She's being tested. She's being questioned. She's alone but this too is deceiving. She's one with her environment. Her heart moves like clouds but she's still like the trunk of a tree. She's trying to find balance, trying to adjust herself so she isn't swept away by circumstance, by these occurrences that take place in our lives.

And even though this image conjures up a certain kind of sadness, I'm still able to appreciate the flowers by her side. The duality of existence--how beautiful. We must embrace it and allow it to serve us instead of the other way around. Waterhouse was obviously a romantic, using each brush stroke to relay emotion, poetry or longing. And a longing for what? For something that only exists in dream? I don't know. I can't say. I realize I may be going off on a tangent but I'm not.

I know what a painting like this stirs in me. I know what Waterhouse had in mind and he succeeded in conveying his intention. I feel the desire, the passion, how they prick the feet from the earth and make their way throughout the body. I understand what a longing like this can do, how it keeps one searching, seeking, how it opens the heart, how it wounds with just enough molasses to allow for more opening, for something tangible. And you say, Where do you see this? The message is imbued in the strokes, in the choice of colour, in the movement of the piece, in her facial gesture, her eyes, her bodily expression, the shape her body has taken to accommodate this something. And you say, But it's all imagination. And I say, Yes and no.

Put yourself in her shoes, see what she sees and you'll know what I mean.

The Beloved

I search for the Beloved in all faces but I’m left disillusioned.
I’m told I can find him but all I catch are glimpses, flashes of a man who does not exist here on this plane.
How can a light as fierce and blinding as the Beloved's be sustained by man when man is weak and fragile, nothing more than a twig off of a stunted tree?
And I’m considered the fool for dreaming?
For longing?
For seeking?
I’m considered weak for being sensitive, for being feminine.
For feeling.
I make no concessions for being receptive and intuitive like the Queen of Cups. And if I should be deemed a fool it is only because I’m being measured against false truths.

When I sit by this meadow, by these trees, with sun above, and earth below, my heart calls out to a place that remains unnoticed, untouched by others.
We all lack knowing.
But my eyes do speak and my mind does see.
I shall remain blameless because I love.
And let this heart swell far beyond this moment. Let it envelop all things, seen and unseen for I am true.

How cruel and wondrous it is to be standing between two pillars.
To be able to reach out to one while still embrace the other
without the cloak of guilt or doubt clinging tenaciously from my neck.
Be gone with you both, thieves of spirit and glory,
You are nothing but illusions which keep me chained to convention.
You are not real.
I shall stomp you all beneath my feet should you even peak out of your graves.

Make no mistake.

Let me be awake in dream
for I am now the magician who breathes life into it.
May dream continue to represent the real, the lifting of the veil, the clearing of fog and sleep
May my intuition continue to guide me.
May I be unaffected by duality but committed to doing what is True and Right.

With the power of the elements,
It is done.

Centre

I settle crouched over in the bathtub in humility as though I'm ready to receive a blessing. The water is warm on my back--the light from the flame emanating through the curtain, soothing. This alone is almost enough.

I reside in the centre of myself, present and aware. I feel single droplets of water trickling down my neck, softly, gently, like tiny kisses. My ears perk up. The sound of the water becomes music--I sense the pattern of movement, the time signature of the piece.

Then I feel a breeze, like a hiccup, coming at me from my left, my right, and above. I take a deep breath. Now, I can't stop taking deep breaths. I don't understand where he comes up with the notion that I need to get in touch with my feelings, that I need to reflect and dig deeper, to be quiet and still. He must not know me, doesn't read me correctly, is blind to what I am.

If I dig any deeper, I'll just lose myself in the pit. So he says, And then you'll find your way out... I guess I ought to feel proud, of my potential strength to overcome. He doesn't realize the pit and I have an established relationship. And I don't feel like talking so I keep my mouth shut while my mind rambles on and on and on.

Then I move to that place again and use the sword as my focal point. I've had so much practice, you'd think I would have cleared the cobwebs by now, dissected my thoughts with enough precision to allow the sun to pierce through the clouds, but no. Then it dawns on me. I can't hear what my heart is saying because it's shrouded, burdened and consumed by thought.

Now I feel like a child--young and naive, immature and stupid. I hear Mick Jagger. I want this whole thing painted black. Give me a paint brush and let me do what I will with it. Let me begin anew, to dissolve and be transformed. I want another chance. And he says, Time is now.

But I resist. I resist what I want because it's too important, because there's too much gravity in presence. I should be smiling, should be welcoming risk. You won't believe the synchronicities I've been experiencing. So I let the water do what it does best--calm the nerves and still the mind. As I settle, I remember the words of my spiritual teacher, as though they were meant just for me, When your heart is open, you will never be bored.

Morrissey

You're the only one I'll allow to hold my hand and take me down the paths you walk, to those places most people dare not go because they fear what they might find.

On my way to work, the sun just rising, I hear the words, Under slate grey Victorian sky, Here you will find, despair and I. And here I am every last inch of me is yours, Yours, For evermore. The music makes the ideal bride for the words you choose to express.

But I'm not sure Morrissey. I'm not sure I want to walk with you today. I don't know if I have what it takes. I'm empty. I doubt there's anything you're able to give that I'm able or willing to receive. But, I'm powerless. Your words have a way of filling me up and then drying me out. I know the depths you've been to. I know what words can do. I know how they can lift and tear down, how they can deliver and deceive--with or without intent.

You and I are of a different breed. We don't speak for our own amusement. There's meaning, there's purpose, there's power because word is real. We're real. We're the normal in an abnormal world. And we continue to be what we are because the voice inside won't have it any other way. But there's a risk in all of this, isn't there? Words falling on deaf ears, feeling misunderstood, experiencing a kind of loneliness others fill with the superfluous.

We allow ourselves to feel the poetry, to laugh and to cry simultaneously. We won't compromise at the expense of soul. It's simply too important.

'OK Computer'

I'm not leaving this place, not for a while.

I like being here under a navy painted sky, with accents of whites and grays. I take my brush and soften some of the lines to create more impact. But then, with some force, some acceleration, I use Pollock's drip technique. I sigh. Now, I can relax.

I have Radiohead's OK Computer with me. The music is all over me--on my skin, my hair, my clothes, my lips, in my blood. And suddenly the clouds look menacing but they keep a watchful eye which provides an eerie sort of comfort. I have no desire to paint these skies blue or pretend they can do better than what is. I know where the sun is hiding.

Let Down comes in like a gentle storm but with that mischievous east wind, I know what's lurking not too far behind. And then Yorke wails like he's in despair, like he's reaching for something too far beyond himself, like he's searching for someone who isn't there. I look up. I want that lightning to strike. Now would be a good time. I wait and I wait and I keep waiting. I yell, Just strike already. Be on purpose. Be what you are. Don't go half way. Thor, Zeus, Indra, whatever your name, roll those boulders across the sky. Fire the canons. Come on. I don't need your mercy.

I sit on a hill under my favorite tree in this open and endless field. In the far distance is a little house but there is a kind of shelter out here that no interior can provide. Now, I'm pulled back, drawn in, melting with drum. I feel Yorke's voice spiraling inside of me. Karma Police I've given all I can. It's not enough. I've given all I can... And he's howling and my hands reach out to these dark skies. And with that last climactic drum roll, I see the lightning, I feel the crashing roar, the loud burst of thunder. But the gods tease. I'm the only sound I hear.

How can these gods be asleep? Are they not moved? Do they not see? Am I the only one awake? Their lack of delivery is inexcusable. It's poetically unjust. It makes no sense. And I plea, I beg, What are you waiting for? This is my scene, my story, my way. But I'm always late, always looking for the climax, within and without. Where's the climax? And Yorke can't wait for me either. And like that first gasp for air after a long battle, he comes rushing in. For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost my...se...e...elf. Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself...

Before I know it, Exit Music has entered and filled every crevice inside me. The music plays with my emotions like they're keys on a piano, strings on a lyre or hands on a tabla. I'm calm but I'm the queen of anticipation so I can't completely enjoy this experience, these moments. Then right before Yorke's scream, his siren, the clouds fuse, creating spark, getting ready to join us mortals in this orchestra we call life. Finally, the music, the scene and I, we flow into each other becoming one, becoming whole--something I never quite fully believed was possible.

And I laugh and I cry because it's perfect. It's all so perfect.

Gravity

Nothing like 6:00am morning rain to get the juices flowing.

I'm sitting under a tree--its branches like arms arching over me, its trunk--my beloved offering support and a platform from which to dream.

I don't know where I'm going. I'm sinking way down, down, down. What if I got on that train? What if not knowing where I'm going is finally me catching up to where I need to be? What if hanging on is a form of letting go?

I've noticed references to trains these past few days, the most recent the last song off an album Dark as The North Atlantic called A Beautiful Train that sits like a temptress under another track called St.Theresa. How convenient for me. I'm full of synchronicities. In my post Wind & Waves I realize I never reveal who I'm having a conversation with. Just so you know, it's St.Theresa. I would have never thought to mention her if this album hadn't crossed my path, my atmosphere, my personal space. I'll leave it at that.

Back to the tree. I feel things. I feel too much. My mind wanders and then comes back to a point in the ground. Now I find myself sitting on the edge of a cliff cross legged looking ahead but eyes moving down, settling on insects in the grass--ants and ladybugs--and purple flowers. I take a deep breath, the deepest breath I've ever inhaled in this realm. And then slowly, I exhale the greatest heart pang I've ever felt--a wound so deep, so sweet, I find it difficult to part with.

I sob like I've never sobbed before, and the rain finally comes down, drops blending with tears, my hair all about me. My heart centre opens up in ways I had not imagined, had not thought possible and out of it pours every dream, every useless pain, every unfulfilled want, every stained river. I can't tell you how sore I am, the distances I've traveled to get here, the trains I've missed. And the breaths move deeper, filling spaces I didn't even know were there. My sounds become ancient. I'm the flute the Universe chooses to play, altering my pitch by blowing and fingering.

I'm not a warrior today. I don't even know where my sword is but I know where it's been. I feel like Lady of Shalott, like Ophelia, the same two women I keep running back to, the same two ladies I need to run away from. But I can't change what I see, what I feel, how I move especially in this dress which is too long, too heavy, too painfully beautiful. As my hands rest on my belly, I hear the first roar of the skies like a child being scolded by her mother, her father, her teacher. But I don't care. It adds to the pangs, the breaths, the beats, the highs and the lows of my spirit. I'll create an opening for it all so that I may release...And I hear two verses from Alfred Lord Tennyson's haunting poem.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

There is a beauty here I would not have known unless I allowed myself to be carried through these kind of mental and emotional storms.

Lucky me...

Train

I woke from a dream reaching for my headphones...

I was supposed to take the elevator up with a friend to the seventeenth floor of my building, my home. But it wasn't an elevator we were getting on, more like something we were getting into. It looked like a time capsule, diamond shaped and white. I recall feeling apprehensive about going inside, a fear of losing control or of being let go.

The vessel moves upward. I can feel the pull, like a magnet drawing us closer to our destination. My eyes are closed shut and I can't wait for the ride to be over. I try to distract myself with thoughts but it's no use. The pull gets stronger and I'm aware I'm trapped inside this thing in the air and suddenly it dawns on me that I can't quite figure out where this machine is suspended from. I sense there's nothing above but rope...I panic. Where does this rope lead to and how far does it go up? Who or what is doing this? I just want to reach the seventeenth floor and I realize there's just no floor to get off on.

This is taking too long and now I'm alone. Of course, I'm alone. I allow myself to look up. The diamond opens up to the sky as far and wide as the eye can see. I hear sounds but not from the outside. They're coming from within, from a place deep inside me, not even I can reach. I feel heavy. I'm worried the rope will snap and no one will be around to catch me. But I have faith, a certainty I'll be alright. So I keep my eyes open and look around me--to the west, the east, and the south. I know I'm enveloped by this structure and yet I can see through it. Below are trees, green valleys and streams--so beautiful. I really can't describe the beauty.

I hear a voice now that says, Watch the train. I notice the tracks to my right high above. I hear the clickity-clack of the wheels, and that haunting sound of the blowing whistle, the urgency of the air horn. I notice reds and rich browns. I want to be on that train. A real train. My heart is pulling me. But it's gone. My heart, the train. Too far gone. I'm late.

Steps

I had set out to change my body, from within, not anticipating the changes that would occur on the outside. I had an aim--to eat whole, clean foods, nothing less than this. I lost weight and not just of the physical kind. I started to shed heavy thoughts as well. My skin began to glow, the shape of my face and body became more refined, my hands appeared surreal to me. I felt as though layers of myself were being discarded to reveal a newer me, the real me. In this change, I began to see myself in a different light. I could see possibilities where there were none before. I could see where I had placed self-limitations. I could see where I had made agreements with myself that did not serve me but only proved to keep me bound, distracted, and oppressed. Yes, all this from food.

I'm not afraid of the mirror anymore. That's when I knew something was happening to me. Sometimes when I comb my hair and my eyes meet with the reflection, I take a sudden step back because well, because of a ...spark? How cliche is that? A sparkle of the eye shines through and I'm taken aback...I've never noticed that light before. That light was trapped, hidden behind layers of fear and doubt. I began to attract certain blessings into my life--abundance, hope, love, faith, happiness, inner peace. It's really all rather endless and infinite.

Emphasis on food has been a blessing and a curse. I started to adopt the view that if I deviated from my regimen, I would lose everything I had achieved. I had to learn the hard way that this just isn't so. Sometimes you have to let go, not by reverting to old ways or one's former self, but by coming to the understanding that a lifestyle change is exactly what it implies--a lifestyle change. When you adopt a certain way of life, the changes one experiences simply won't allow one to revert to ways that had initially brought one pain and discomfort. But one does need to come from a place of non-attachment. In other words, I can allow certain indiscretions here and there, and from time to time because overall, I'm pretty happy with my daily choices and the results I've been able to achieve and verify.

I like my shapes and curves. I feel grounded in my body. I had always wanted to belong and today, I'm everywhere and in everything. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks. I'm alive. I'm growing and reaching for the stars. I deserve that. We deserve that, you and me.

Restlessness

She sits with him along the edge of the shore.
His head fills with thoughts, spilling over
getting washed away by waves.
He reaches for one and then another but they escape him.
She asks him what he's doing
but the moment is gone and he's too busy
chasing after more thoughts.

The sun starts to set
and he can feel the chill rise up inside
from the tips of his toes
to the top of his head and out
crashing down all around them.

He's aware of lines
but his heart moves in circles
into the beyond.
She says nothing
And everything.

Dreams are good and enticing
in his mind
so he keeps her there
in silence,
still and unmoving,
because
among pink and orange skies,
green trees,
chirping birds and
diamond waters,
he can neither trust himself

Nor her.

St. Perpetua

I've been thinking about St. Perpetua. She comes and goes, moving in and out of consciousness. Like St.Theresa, she possessed great passion, a great yearning for the Beloved. That a woman, a mere mortal would give up her life for a man she had come to know as Jesus speaks to the grandeur of her heart, for that unexplainable longing to become unified and whole. She was selfless, full of compassion and let her faith and hope govern her actions. These are rare individuals who transcend time, whose centres--body, mind, heart--are in complete harmony even in the face of imminent death. That they can take a certain kind of fear and transform it into a life changing experience or in this case, a spirit altering existence should awaken us all to what we are and what we can be. But it takes a certain kind of person, doesn't it?

I can hear the sting of judgment rise up in me. I'm just human. I'm nothing but human--frail one minute, strong the next, allowing myself to be swayed to and fro from this or that. Today, I feel like this and tomorrow, who knows? But I want to be real and steady, clear and open. I have great passion too, the kind that cannot be destroyed with the passing of time or old age. It lives and breathes within each cell expanding and growing emanating from spirit, drawing the world in and I, out. There's so much beauty and a sweet residue left behind on the lips from tasting such refinement.

I have to empty myself in order to fill myself up again. This is no easy task. I'm no where close to being special. Do you know what really moves me about St. Perpetua? When they lead her and her companions into the amphitheatre to be scourged and attacked by wild animals, she found strength amidst her great suffering to get up and tend to her wounded friend Felicity. I understand she essentially died for Jesus because she wouldn't renounce her faith in Christianity but this isn't as telling of Perpetua's essence as the act of helping an other when she herself was experiencing physical harm and pain.

Lately, I have a need to want to give without forming attachments or expecting anything in return. This too is very difficult and trying. To be human is to want to be close to those we love indefinitely. Why would we want to part from those very things or people that bring us happiness? To part with them is to experience great loss. And it's this precise feeling based in fear which creates a need for control and the illusion of separation. When we understand that beginnings and endings are two faces of the same coin, we will not experience loss but truly partake of the promise that unification brings. In order to allow these relationships to be free and flowing, we must surrender to that something else.

My heart becomes filled with an immense joy when a smile surfaces on the face of someone in need, or whom I care deeply for. Sometimes, all it takes is a kind word or gesture to chase away the darkness that occupies our minds and hearts. I always remind myself that this is what I would want in my times of sorrow--to directly know, intuitively comprehend with every fibre of my being that I am not alone or separate from the Source.

The changing 'I'

Almost two weeks have passed since my last post. I can't say it wasn't intentional. I've been feeling a little reserved, somewhat bruised, a tendency towards hiding under the covers, a rock, an umbrella, anything but exposing myself, my face to the world. I consider myself true, open, and giving. And yet the idea of restraint and containment are slowly carving their niches and imprinting themselves on my mind. I'm not so free to move like a wave or the wind, the rising or setting of the sun, a bird in the sky, the turning of the earth, or the permanence of change. What a paradox, that the idea of change inherently resides in the realm of permanence.

I'm quick to judge myself. I watch her, the way she moves and interacts, the way in which she eats, the way she dresses and undresses or comes across beauty marks she knew were always there but never quite noticed until then, the way her hands cover her eyes and cheeks when feelings seem insurmountable. I notice her, the way her eyes focus on a line or color in a painting, the way she listens to music, the way she's moved by sensations lingering in her heart centre, the way she breathes and exhales. I don't always understand her. She doesn't ask for much. Intuitively she knows she has everything and needs nothing. But sometimes, just sometimes, she wonders what the other side holds. And so I'm hard on her because she's complicated, complex and yet really simple and honest. And she deserves to be happy and she is to a certain degree but she's a fool if she thinks there isn't a price to pay. She can live in dream all she wants but it won't be enough.

Then she finds me in the mirror and tells me to back off. She thinks I'm the one living in illusion. She says that I mean well but it's always at the expense of the self. She says I'm trying to be something I'm not, that I'm too busy chasing after thoughts as opposed to moving with the ebb and flow of life. She says I hold back out of fear of shame and guilt, of failure, of success, of happiness, of the consequences of living in a world of duality. She says I need to learn how to transform energy, to know and make friends with change. She says it's the only way to freedom.

My eternal life

She says I have great passion for all that I believe in. She says I am very protective of and caring to those I love and will let nothing harm them. She says I am a natural romantic and have very good taste and a great sense of beauty. She says she feels I like the finer things in life and like to surround myself with things of beauty. I realize she's made a reference to beauty twice now. Makes perfect sense. She says I am very creative and like to put my ideas into action. She says I also have great psychic intuition and should try to develop this more. As I gloss over the words, I understand she's being true and authentic.

She saw me as a young woman at about the first or second century AD. I was born into a well to do noble family. At this time I was about twenty-three years of age and a wife and a mother of a young son. I was Christian. I lived in the city of Carthage in North Africa under Roman rule. I was among five other Christians condemned to death in the arena because of my religious convictions. I had been converted to Christianity after hearing about the great teachings of the man they called Jesus. My father and husband were pagans and came often to the prison bringing my infant son with them. She says they pleaded with me to renounce my religion and save my life. But I just could not. Yes, I can see aspects of myself in this woman. I feel a pull towards her. And what of those recurring dreams I have of myself with a little boy year after year? What of those recurring dreams I have of Jesus? Yes, he and I go way way back. Welcome.

My punishment by the Romans was seen as justified by the belief that as a Christian my refusal to respect and honour Rome's pagan gods provoked their wrath. Any disaster such as flood, drought or earthquake were attributed to the Christians' lack of faith in the gods and their retribution. As a Christian I was denounced as an enemy of men and the gods and therefore needed to be punished.

I was offered a pardon if I accepted the rule and dominance of the Roman gods and could throw a few grains of incense on the altar of a pagan god. She says I could not do this and accepted my fate of death in the arena. How ironic this all is, I think to myself. Both Jesus and paganism coexist in my present. I'm amazed how I've learned to integrate them both into my life, accepting both, denying neither.

She continues on with the story. Later with my four companions, who were all female, I was lead to the arena where a massive crowd had gathered. A lion and a leopard were let loose upon me and the other women. The crowd roared loudly and cheered as the animals attacked me. Lying half dead, some gladiators came into the arena and finished me off with a sword, which ended my great pain and suffering. I'm taken aback by these words, how they're suddenly imprinted on my mind and heart. That infamous sword-- revealing, telling, and appropriate. I should want to talk about this sword but something about this is too real for me, too surreal, too strange, too synchronistic so I'd rather not. I dislike the Romans. All personality, no essence. How is it possible that I could love being Italian one day and feel completely disconnected the next? Whatever the Romans were able to achieve in the past, their offspring have nothing to show for themselves today.

Now, I must explain. I did a search on the internet and wouldn't you know...a similar event took place in Carthage to a woman by the name of Perpetua, her friend Felicity and three other campanions (male). At first when I read the story, I was so bruised, wounded, and angry. I thought, 'How can she make up a story like this and think it's okay?' Seriously, is she actually telling me I could have been who is now known as St.Perpetua? Except for a few minor details, the stories are pretty much identical. So I write to her and tell her what I think. She writes me back and says I could very well have been St.Perpetua or one of her contemporaries...And this St.Perpetua...I can only wish to possess a fraction of her courage and compassion. Her name means, continual, everlasting. I too find it oddly eerie that I would title this blog, My eternal life before I even knew who St.Perpetua was.

The second time she sees me, I am a young woman who lived at around 1640 or so in a small town in Massachusetts, America. My parents and grandparents had originally crossed over the Atlantic from England to settle in the New World. Yes, the English. I'm drawn to the English, their way of life, that feeling I can not put into words and won't even try. I like it this way.

She says my family and I lived a very simple and god fearing life as Puritans. I know full well what it feels like to be god fearing. She continues. I dressed plainly, ate simple food and worked very hard looking after younger and older members of my large family. At around 18 years of age I met and fell in love with a young man. He was not from my community but was considered an outsider. My parents had arranged for me to marry a much older man who was widowed and had four small children to look after. I did not want to marry this man. I loved the young outsider and promised him I would elope with him. But my plans were found out and both me and my young lover were punished. We both received public floggings and felt physically and emotionally hurt. Yes, it would be like me to elope, to act in the name of love and truth against others who would deny me. And here again, I can see how social upbringing, societal rules, and oppression have played a major role, how they had and continue to have power over me.

She says I went on to marry the older man and bore him a further 9 children. I cringe here. Thirteen children combined? Fuck him. My marriage was loveless so I concentrated all my efforts and love into my children. Yes, this would be me too. How else could one function in a marriage like that, to give of oneself without passion or desire? I think machine. I think function. I want to throw up. She says I never forgot my young lover and vowed that I would meet up with him again some day. Of course I would say that. Just yesterday the thought entered my mind, me in my romantic notions, that I had told a special someone (unable to see his face), that we would find each other again--in some other life, some other time... That these sort of thoughts can reverberate through time is quite astonishing. I have no words to explain these feelings and again, I'd rather not try. She goes on to say that I never did meet with him as I passed away giving birth to my last child at the age of around 40. Judas Priest! Is it any wonder I have no desire to bear children?

Finally, she says she saw me as a young woman living on a small island. She feels this was an island of what is now known as Polynesia. She sees me and my family - my mother, father, grandmother and many brothers and sisters, both younger and older than me. She sees all of us helping with large fishing nets at the waters edge. It is very hot and senses the time is around 1850 or so.

Near to me with another fishing boat and net is another family group that has a young good-looking man. He is tall, has dark twinkling eyes and a lovely smile. We smile at each other shyly. The young man and I are destined to be married as both our families have arranged it.

I am nervous about marriage and worried that my new husband will be unkind to me. This worry is soon relieved as soon after marrying we fall very much in love with each other. She says I love him so much because he loves me and always puts me first. He adores me and treats me like a princess. He brings gifts of flowers and occasionally pearls that he has found while out diving. Apparently, I am never left in any doubt that he loves me with all his heart.

Now, let me interject here. I can't relate to this story at all. I don't even really like this person who is supposed to resemble me, or I resemble her? Princess? Yes, she's sweet and all but I don't resonate with her. I may be romantic but this is not the kind of romance that speaks to me. I'm no damsel in distress. I need no saving. Flowers? Pearls? You want to show me love? Let your eyes speak. Let your eyes tell a story. Let this be your gift to me. You don't have to lay your fingers on me to touch me. She's just way too happy which isn't to say that I'm not, I just feel like there's got to be some kind of loud silence that transcends time and space, that there's got to be some kind of abyss to cross that will allow me to see what's real versus what is not, what must be shed and reborn. I need to fall in order to pick myself up and realize my own power and strength.

Then she continues. She says we share a lovely life together, with plenty of food and a simple way of life. We are very happy and healthy and I give birth to 5 children – all girls and I love motherhood. I enjoy looking after my girls and teach them many things. Both my husband and I go on to see many grandchildren born and even great grandchildren as we both live to good ages.



It doesn't matter to me whether the above is true. I'll take what I can from it and I have. This reading tells me what I already know of myself. Love, passion, kindness, beauty, creativity and personal conviction rule. To be able to stand for what I believe in even, especially in the face of opposition is how I build character and relay essence. I don't always put them first through action but I can see that my happiness, my freedom rests here among the sublime and the real. I understand, I will never be more than I am if I undermine these. And I have and sometimes do undermine these aspects of myself. I am boundless and limitless. Everything I see in the world is a reflection of me and I of the world. I won't be writing for a while...maybe a week. I've got to tend to my auto harp.

Mr. Crowley and I

How is it possible that I could feel on top of the world one minute and down the next? What is that? What have I relinquished my power too? Is it a sign that my happiness is contingent on external factors? I must change this.

It’s time to have a conversation with Mr. Crowley. I’ve been avoiding him for a month now but this morning he finally made his way in and unpacked his bags. We’ll see what happens. I’m tired.

We sit together at a picnic table, side by side, he to my far right. It’s a beautiful summer morning in Italy somewhere. I know there’s a house behind us although I don’t turn around to take a look. Directly in front of us are green grass, trees, and a little off to the right, ocean. The leaves rustle in the breeze and I’m at ease. Actually, I’m quite surprised it’s so beautiful, so green and blue out here. I half expected to be cold and the weather to be dark and brooding. But I digress…

Mr. Crowley has a pipe in his left hand and in the other, a glass of wine. He’s wearing an elegant black suit, one taken out of the 40’s. I really don’t know what to say to this man. I’m hoping he doesn’t turn his head to look at me because I know full well he’s going to see right through me--the nonsense, insecurities, fears and lies. I’m not quite prepared for that. For all he cares, I’m not even around, not real just some thing the wind blew in. And lucky for both us, I don’t want to be a distraction. Not today.

But I’m a fool and he’s the magician. He misses nothing. Thank goodness for that English accent. It’s the only thing keeping me from ending this whole thing. I’m a sucker for the English. I ought to show gratitude for all of my revelations but there’s always a price to pay. Why does there always have to be a price to pay? And I know what the answer is. That’s the problem. I always have the answer even when I pretend not to. People like me don’t make mistakes. We’re always so bloody busy keeping everything under control, doing the right thing, keeping things steady and contained.

Crowley makes me feel uneasy. I can’t hide behind religion here, not morality or ethics. With Crowley, it’s dark and necessary. I’ve got to cross the abyss, that bloody wasteland to love ALL of myself. He won’t let me bury my head in the sand no matter how badly I want to. He knows I need someone to tell me what to do. He knows I have the answers but he understands I’m unwilling to take the necessary risks to take me out on a new trajectory or keep me growing on my current path. He knows I don’t take things lightly. He knows The Emperor, The High Priestess, Temperance, and the Lovers are always looking over my shoulder. He knows I hear them but that I don’t completely understand their message. They piss me off. They’d best leave me alone.

Crowley nods his head from side to side. Shoot. Here he goes.

Let loose. Let go. Why so heavy?

Are you serious? That’s it? That’s your wisdom?

He chuckles. Your conscience is in tact. No need for worry there.

He says it with such sarcasm, it’s upsetting to me.

Get naked. Run across fields of grass. Jump in the water. Bathe in the moonlight. Give of yourself. This is where and how you will find freedom. Take the necessary risks required to attain this kind of freedom. You might actually make the right choice. And if you make a mistake, so be it. Without friction there is no growth. You’re too busy protecting yourself, too busy trying not to hurt anyone. Yes, quite noble but emotionally, very foolish. Spiritually, a waste.

Freedom is a loaded word, no? I mean, I am free.

Freedom is the ability to express openly without forming any attachments, to be boundless and limitless. You said it yourself. When you change the way you see yourself, the world changes too. We become expansive and yet grounded.

I don’t know how to be boundless. I don't know how not to form attachments.

You tell yourself you don’t know how to avoid having to make a decision without realizing that you just made one. You’re allowing yourself to be influenced by fear to the point of exhaustion. Sitting in between two pillars may be safe but that little something keeps tugging at you to go left or right, to move. Someone like you can’t make friends with denial. Your higher self won’t let you. You’re aware. Half the battle has already been won. How did it feel to carry two swords? Please do tell.

How do you know about that? I dreamed of that this morning.
Two swords, one in either hand--I felt a sense of power moving them in the air, forming a circle counterclockwise to my left and counterclockwise to my right, then with hand firmly gripped, I take the right sword over my head, again swinging it counterclockwise with speed and precision out directly in front of me to the left. These swords were an extension of me.

I take a break for two minutes...

I saw what you did. You were compelled to look up the meaning of the Two of Swords card and then realized you had just pulled it earlier this afternoon in its reverse. I saw your face when you read the last sentence. A sense of realness took over, didn’t it? Paste the description into the text here. Let yourself see it again.

"In a reversed position the Two of Swords represents being forced to make a decision, having no choice whatsoever, or leaving others to make choices for you. It also represents the act of purposefully choosing to have no say in order to avoid taking responsibility."

And all of this is a bit surreal right now considering what I just wrote a little while ago. How does this stuff happen?

Freedom, making decisions, what do...?

Does your sense of freedom rest in stability or spontaneity, worldly things or spiritual matters? Do you love unconditionally? When you see yourself in all things and all things in others, you'll never doubt what must be done, what path must be followed, what course of action must be taken.

Just before I can get a word in or ask for clarification, he continues.

Stop procrastinating. The longer you wait, the foggier your mind will become. In your dream, the two swords coexisted, no conflict. Where there is a front there is a back. Where there is light, there is dark. We have the sun and the moon, twilight and dawn, joy and sorrow. In your world, the world of duality, each sword wants dominance over the other, hence, the imbalance. What is preventing them from coexisting? This is what you have to ask yourself. Yes, you are struggling to see what the right option is and some may say, weigh this or that out. I’m telling you, you must just do. There is power in not knowing where the chips may fall but it does require some faith in uncertainty. Don't be angry with the cards you pull. They are your messengers, your allies. Be grateful.

MUSE

Muse started the concert with Uprising. When I heard that first note, my body responded--the core of me moved forward as though it was being pulled magnetically. I couldn't stop smiling and singing. It's true, with Muse I come out of myself. The music takes me infinitely outward and what a welcome change that is.

Muse knows how to capture emotion as my friend said last night. Even with all the props and lights, it's all on purpose. One could say Muse is over the top but because they know how to capture and relay emotion, one becomes a wave in the ocean of life. There's no way around it. Bellamy's voice, the way each of the band mates play their respective instruments, the lyrics, the dynamic relationship between the members--there's so much synergy and power created.

I enjoyed watching them in their element. There isn't anything more beautiful than being a witness to that, than getting lost in the to and fro of sound and movement, than watching masters of their craft in action. And isn't this what we all strive for? To be connected with something we love in order to express that which moves us? To fuse with that something that highlights our strengths, that expresses emotion, that in turn, inspires others? Listening to Muse inspires me to be better, to do better, to create, to claim what's mine and let go of what isn't.

I can travel to distant places. I can see the warrior that is me. I can feel the cold of space. I can see the nebulae, the supernovae, and all those misty pink, orange, and purple colours. I can see every star, every speck of dust and realize nothing is ever destroyed, only transformed. You can throw out a piece of paper or light a match to it, it still exists. I guess it's true when they say that change is the only constant. Change and I haven't always been friends. When I took a nice long look at my surroundings last night in the midst of sound, joy, and light, a silence began to emerge and dominate, a deep silence with such clarity of purpose that I was forced to listen to it, acknowledge it, respect it. My my, how apparent it felt to me in my present that in one hundred years, the faces in that stadium would all be different, that I, the crowd, and Muse would eventually cease to be as we know it, in some unknown time we call future. Muse's Time is Running Out never felt so poignant. But Muse will leave something behind. Each of them does already. Let's hope we all do in some way or another. This is what inspiration promises.

Thank goodness for moments of denial, for sleep, for these little blessings. I don't want to be aware all of the time, not unless I'm prepared to see and understand their role and significance in their entirety. And since I lack a certain kind of wisdom but am aware of its existence, I'm willing to settle for things as I currently perceive them to be. How does one know when to take control or to surrender? When does something become an issue of faith versus one of hopelessness? I don't want to be a feather in the wind drifting aimlessly unless I want to be a feather in the wind drifting aimlessly. I want to matter, to materialize. I want to be seen in words and heard in the spaces between them. Let the dot above the i have meaning. Please. Let me have meaning and purpose.

With Muse, I see my limitations and the possibility of transcendence. I see what I can become with persistence, patience and dedication. And I also sense resistance and how equally powerful this is if I let it occupy my space. I see that I am a culmination of pattern, a kind of pattern that needs undoing, dismantling. Who's going to give me purpose? Where will I draw inspiration from? The only purpose we are given is the one we give to ourselves. Isn't that so? Don't we essentially create our own realities? Is there not an inherent difference in the perception between a glass being half full and one being half empty?

When I change my perception, the world changes too. Everything is possible. I am possible. Fear has no hold over me. I see it for what it is--a tool for transformation. Nothing stays the same for too long, does it? I'm not fond of how something begins and inevitably metamorphosizes into something different, whether beautiful or otherwise. I dislike the disintegration of spark and momentum, how excitement and anticipation can move and uplift me only to be transmuted or taken away somewhere down the line. And yet, there needs to be a dip, a moving downwards, in order to fully experience the highs. I should find peace in this except that I'm always too aware of the lows.

I want to be master too...

Relativity

I wake up from a dream. I hear, I feel, I taste, I cringe. I twirl around and fall and pick myself up. I'm always falling and picking myself up. Sun heats up my face and the moon cools it off. I long, I dislike, I hurt. I confuse illusion with truth. And I sit, I stare into the distance. I yell. I scream. No one hears. I walk ahead but turn around. I'm distracted. I distract. I remember. I forget. Then, I remember again. I connect. I want. I need. I want nothing and need nothing. My mind contradicts. My feelings lie. My intuition tells the truth. I'm unequipped. I carry every tool. But I'm unequipped. So, I sit and I stare into the distance, the sun heating my face. And I turn again and the wind whips past. The water startles me. I take a step forward. I turn back again. Nothing but mountains and clouds, more mountains and clouds. The water speaks. I'm reminded. I move in a little closer. I'm okay. I'm not okay. This is good. This is not good. The old me laughs. The new me cries. It's unfair. I am unfair.

A muffled sound reaches me from behind. I think. I'm sure. I can't make out the sound. I don't turn around. Not this time. I keep walking forward. The water and I know each other. The sun gets jealous. I'm furious. I say, Back off, but I'm unheard. I say, Slow down, but I lack meaning. My legs feel heavy. The rain arrives painting everything grey. I smile. I frown. And smile again. I'm good. I'm bad. I sin. I don't sin. I'm kind. I give. I take. I'm weak. I look up. I look down. I ask the world what it wants. It whispers. I can't hear. The scene changes. I want more water. I'm afraid. I'm not afraid.

A little girl asks, What are you looking for? I say, The book, the book. I think of Nick Cave when he yells, The plot, the plot. She asks, What's the title? I panic, I don't know. I don't know! I see people behind a faint curtain. Turbans and garments, soft creams and whites. I'm hot. I'm cold. I'm safe. I'm floating. And he says, Don't place too much importance. It's just music. He isn't real. He lies. I let him. I see the instrument. I like. I detest. I'm drawn. I'm indifferent. It wants to be played. But I'm unequipped. I'm a fool. I'm no magus. And I stare, look ahead, think back. I analyze. I cut. I dissect. Like a sword.

I'm empty. I search. I ignore. I notice. I care. I don't care. I'm curious. I lack substance. I absorb. I saturate. My heart wells up. Like a cup. I fill. I pour. I fill. I pour. I let go. I hold on. And I remember that I've forgotten. I'm a child. I'm a woman. I'm somebody. I'm nobody. And the water comes rushing in like a river. I'm consumed. I'm swallowed. I'm small. Insignificant. I feel. I feel. I feel. I'm confused. I confuse. I see blues, greens, and purples. I think, Take me. Take me along your contours. Just do it. And then, Throw me away. Spit me out. I don't mind. Because I belong to the earth. Maybe one day, I'll belong to the realms above. Maybe. Maybe. But for now, I'll have to settle.

Fear

I don't know why I keep drawing earth cards. My head is in the clouds most of the time, or is it? Maybe I'm just not understanding something. What? I'm in a weird space right now. Information is jumping at me from every which way and for the most part, I'm standing in the center of it watching it happen. Sometimes I wish I weren't so strong. Sometimes, I find myself looking for that illusory comfort in weakness but I know I'd be reverting to an old self, one that doesn't serve me anymore, never did. I ought to feel fortunate. I've found ways of getting in touch with feelings without them negatively affecting me or taking on a self-destructive role. Maybe I'm not as emotional as I think. Maybe, I'm more of a thinker than a feeler. I don't know.

I'm sure I'll be overtaken with emotion next Monday night when I get to see Muse perform live. I'm sure I'll be so overwhelmed, I just won't be able to help myself. I used to make fun of people who showed that much interest in a band. Now, I'll get to make fun of myself. Good. Let me be lost in music, lights, and the roaring sound of people's voices and screams. Excellent. Okay, I get it. I'm a feeler...

I saw my family yesterday--noticed the way the passing of years has shaped and changed their faces and their eyes. I miss them, not who they are but what they're not, what they'll never be. This realization hits harder each time I visit with them--especially when my brother and his wife are there with their kids. I become more aware of myself. I can see how differently we've grown.

I feel like an odd ball who bounces from wall to wall, unnoticed. I've always been the strange one, the one who sought more, the one who resisted settling for anything less than the best. And of course it's this idea of best which differs in its manifestation or translation from my parents idea of what best means for them, for me. My mother is a wife to a husband that is my father. But my mother has a name and she has a voice that is drowned by tradition and rules.

Fear keeps her in her rightful place. That's what it's designed to do. She's been reduced to mother and wife and this kind of seemingly innocent association. You can tell me there's nobility in that but not if it's at the expense of her ability to choose, of her spirit or happiness, not if she is unsatisfied with her circumstances, not if she wants more and has wanted more all of her life, only to have succumbed to her lot willingly, due to a perceived lack of strength. I'm trying to see her as an individual with dreams and hopes independent of anybody else. No, surrendering to fear is just fear creating more fear, plain and simple. There's nothing honorable about that no matter how you play it. Fear becomes our master. We become slaves to it. It wins, we lose. It takes away accountability and responsibility. It places the blame on life and on others. It takes away power. I will sacrifice but not in pursuit of somebody else's ideal or vision. Sacrifice means to make sacred, not to succumb to self pity because you feel you didn't have another choice. There is always another choice. I refuse to be a victim.

And maybe I'm a little angry. Maybe I'm tired of my own insecurities. Maybe I'm tired of the games I play with myself at the expense of my self. Maybe I just don't care. But that's a lie. Maybe we should wake up to the realization that no one is going to save us. This task is reserved for us and us alone. We can not be for others what we are not for ourselves.

Intuition

There are memories I had conveniently forgotten about which now resurface. There are things I never thought I’d want to write about or even touch—just seemed pointless. Now it doesn’t matter who’s listening as long as someone is. Otherwise, what are these moments we experience for? Where do they go? How do they move? I’m interested in the movement of memories, how they make their way to the present only to bring or impart awareness and understanding about our past.

I thought of Paul this morning. I met him during my fourth year of University when I was contemplating which field placement to choose for my last year of study before graduation. He worked as a counselor in a downtown hospital in the Psychiatric Ward. I thought it would be a good and challenging experience to be a part of his team, to be his student and he, my field instructor.

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon in July when I went to the hospital for my interview. Paul was a jolly fellow, very kind, friendly, and caring. He was accompanied by his superior. The three of us sat together in his office, they in front of me, their backs to a single window in the room, and discussed some of the things I could expect by going on board with them. There are things we remember vividly and other experiences we don’t, that just seem to occur without our awareness. That’s why there are only a handful of nows that we remember as though they happened yesterday while others, when we weren’t fully present, can just slip as though they never occurred.

I should have been happy that day in my frame and eager to accept this placement. I say should because it was the perfect day in so many ways. The water near the Harbourfront was a spectacular sight against the pop blue of the sky. The sun was bright and strong beaming its light through the spaces between the leaves of the trees. And yet, while I glanced out the window during pauses in conversation, I couldn’t get this chill or a feeling of dampness to leave me. I could see and sense things in a way I couldn’t the day before. The air felt heavy yet very thin and transparent, clear, vivid, and moist. I remember thinking that Paul had a very round face and a sincere smile. I felt cold and just couldn’t find a way to get warm in my chair. I couldn't wait to leave. I couldn't wait to get outside. I couldn't wait for night. The white of the hospital, the scattered energy in the air, the unsettling feelings I was experiencing were telling me to decline the offer.

I told Paul I would think about it and let him know by mid August of my decision which I did over a phone message. I had decided I would skip a year and do my placement in 1998, unsure of where that would be. In February of 1997, I made my way to the faculty department to go over some options when the head coordinator for placing students asked me if my name was Grace. I was probably the only one left of my class to choose a placement…

Well what she said next really stopped me in my tracks.

You’re the student who turned down the placement with Paul, right? I guess you didn’t hear what happened to him in December?
He was found murdered……in a dumpster……by the hospital……cut into pieces……and decapitated……

I add these pauses because that’s how I heard what was said. Words either move up and stay there or they move down and linger. I had a pocket of feelings settling in the middle of my body. I was having a hard time conceptualizing the murdered part before the other words trailed along. I remember feeling that same chill I experienced that day in Paul’s office the moment she uttered those words to me.

I only share this because I felt something that July afternoon that I could have easily dismissed as being meaningless or unimportant. I mean I'm talking about a few moments of an hour of my life that took place fourteen years ago! And so what, right? Maybe it’s all a coincidence. But does it really matter whether it is or it isn’t? What good did it do him for me to have had those feelings? I can’t be so arrogant to think I was being spared a difficult situation had I worked with him for four months before he passed. Why wasn’t the second student spared? Why her and not me? Why no answers? Why are there never any answers we can understand? Listening to the voice, to my intuition is great but what good does it do if it only helps me? Why can’t it transcend and serve others? Because I tell you, it’s senseless, tragic, and sad if we make it all about ourselves.

Wind and Waves

I came up with the story below late last night. Actually, images and words came flooding in and wouldn't let me sleep until three a.m., until I got the story straight and right. I'm relieved it's out of me, over and done with. Right...if only life were that easy. But, at least, I'm having fun.



I open the iron doors to a castle that belongs to my forefathers. I set down my shield, remove my helmet and armor. I’m wearing an emerald green dress that hangs a few inches above my knees. My skin is as white as snow and my hair as black as night. Like outside, I feel cold in here; nothing but stone walls envelop the interior of this place. A storm is coming and not one produced by Nature.

As I walk along, I can hear faint celtic music echoing through the hall from a nearby village buried somewhere deep in the forest. It must be loud to penetrate these walls. Room after room, I find no one. The bedroom to the right of these majestic stairs, where I will surrender this night, hasn’t been slept in for what seems like days, maybe even weeks. There is a cup filled with water that sits on a table underneath the window. I’m so thirsty but I dare not drink from it…not from this cup.

I remove my clothes and set my dress to the right of the bed on a wooden chair that looks like a throne passed down from generations. I’m aware of a few scars on my body especially the one that extends from just below my rib cage down to my right hip. I also notice the nick above my left shoulder. I'm filthy from my travels, from the merciless wind whipping against my skin like tiny razors, from the galloping of sand and dust in my hair and eyes. I'm surprised there's warm water in these vessels because I can't take another drop, another inch of winter. When I'm done washing away the memory and stain of this day, I turn the sheets over and find shelter underneath. I’m a fighter, a warrior and fazed by nothing. My eyes wash over the ceiling down along the walls across the foot of my bed and over to the window. The moonlight shines bright, the stars sparkle across the midnight skies.

A vision flashes before me, a light, a warmth. His head is buried deep in my neck, his right arm outstretched across my chest. My left shoulder and arm are cradled tightly in his hand. I’m somewhat detached. I’m caught off guard. He’s every man and then, maybe…no. I know him but I can’t make out his face, can’t quite place him like a long lost dream tucked away in some dark corner of the earth. And just like that, the image dissipates. I suddenly notice my sword is lying next to me. It’s always been next to me, ever since I can remember. I may be in a fortress but one can never be too safe. I roll over to my right side with head resting in hand and walk my left fingers along the edge of the sword all the way to its tip. I feel a slight sting due to my carelessness but a drop of blood adds some splash to an otherwise dull room. It’s been nothing but blues and grays for days…

I assume my position once again, my head resting on the pillows, right hand over heart and the other over belly. A deep sleep comes over me and I’m consumed by dream. I hear a voice, the sweetest voice to ever reach my ears. And the dialogue begins.

You mustn’t use the sword at the expense of your heart.

It’s my shield, my protector, my way through this world.

Why you insist on burying one of your most beautiful and cherished qualities is mind boggling.

Well, that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You were all heart.

And fire.
I thought you liked identifying with the Princess of Cups. She’s gracious and generous, loving and giving.

So what? What good does it do to bare my heart like that? To dwell in Romance? To be a helper? What is so noble about that? I mean, really? I’m what Nick Cave refers to as those people scribbled in the margins of a story that's patently absurd. I belong nowhere.

To love, ultimately, is for the benefit of others, not for yourself.
I know you’ve been wounded and bruised but I assure you, and I know that you understand, to love is its own reward.
You make attempts to repress that which you feel, which is all encompassing, isn't it? And larger than yourself, no? Your feelings are reflective of every colour in the Universe and beyond and yet, yet you fail to see how that sword leads you right back to your heart, to that overflowing cup. In fact, it's your heart that has power over that sword and not the other way around.

Why can I not keep this sword?

You don’t have to part with it. But use it for its rightful purpose.
You reach for it when you sense your heart needs protection but I tell you, it's a waste of precious time. Your heart needs no metal, no steel. Your shelter lies in your capacity to love.
That sword is a tool you must use to cut and clear away the density of the mind, of your mind. Then you’ll be able to see truth from illusion. You can manifest all that you want but you must first decide what warrants wanting, fighting for or surrendering to. Your sword carries great power and strength but it must be used correctly.

I’m lost in nothing but wind and waves. Throw me some flames, some earth.

Take up the sword and do it yourself.

A Letter to Rocky Dennis

Dear Rocky,

Do you remember that first letter I wrote to you when I was twelve? Do you recall how I mysteriously lost it and was so upset with myself? I still have no idea where it went to. I think of you every so often and yesterday at 2:55a.m was one of those times. I’ve been staying up late these past nights listening to music. I just don’t feel the need to sleep and the music keeps me focused and dreamy. Oh, the places I’ve been to when I’m half awake and half asleep…I feel so blessed. It’s very unlike me to stay awake at night and still feel energized in the morning after only four to five hours of what’s otherwise known as this little death.

When I wrote to you back in the day, I reached out to you like a younger sister to her older brother. I imagined us in a playground in the park getting sand in our hair and clothes. I was only five when you died on October 4, 1978. Today I write to you like an older sister would to a younger brother. Time has a way of doing that. You are eternally seventeen…

I think of that telling poem you wrote and often recite it to myself.

These things are good: ice cream and cake, a ride on a harley, seeing monkeys in the trees, the rain on my tongue, and the sun shining on my face. These things are a drag: dust in my hair, holes in my shoes, no money in my pocket, and the sun shining on my face.

I’m sorry that some kids can be cruel. I’m sorry that some people know not what they do. I’m sorry you had to carry such a heavy burden. I’m sorry that you had to die so young. If you had been my brother and anyone tried to mess with you, I swear, I would have killed them with a stroke of my pen. But you were loved Rocky. I like the light in your eyes, that smile on your face, your perseverance, your strength. You were a good kid with a solid heart and a strong will.

So, why last night? Why now do you choose to enter my mind? Do you want to tell me something? Huh? If you want Rock, you can visit me in a dream and smile your smile. Maybe, just maybe, I'll even let you speak to me. But I can't make any promises. And no matter what anyone says, you were a beautiful young man with a spirit so bright, one could feel your light from miles away. Just like now. I like how you transcend time and space.

May you rest in peace forever.

Sincerely,
Graziella