Spiritual Deception

Mary wanted me to hang on so that I would learn the art of letting go. She sure showed me. I’m amazed and humbled by her patience and unwavering support, her relentless pursuit to keep me on the straight and narrow which in all cases, have lead me back to her.

I understand deceit in a whole new way and realized I'd been living in a bubble. How else could I go on for months denying what was right before my eyes knowing full well it was not in my best interest? How could I continue in spite of myself, my intuition, my guides who insisted I wake up?

There is nothing more dirty than spiritual deception, nothing more harmful than giving your all in the name of truth and beauty only to have the tables turn and be something else, something sinister, something not of light at all, but of all that is twisted and dark. The light shines on that which is hidden from us.

What is it in us to want to give the benefit of the doubt? When is that truly called for? He’s a slow moving, calculating thief, a masterful engineer, who rarely catches glimpses of his true self. When the pain becomes too much, he buries it in favour of a false self, one he believes to be real. But shall I keep making excuses for him? Well, no. That would surely make me a fool and any damage I myself incur beyond that realization will be a result of my own self-deception, not his. He remains untouched, unscathed and without blame...though, only on the surface.

When I discovered the truth about him--the kind of truth that gets into your blood and rattles the bones--and understood the nature of all that crazy making which had taken a hold on me, I knew I was free even though the next phase of my heart wrenching sorrow was just beginning. It didn’t matter how often I practiced meditation, although I can appreciate its capacity to bring peace and calmness, these alone, under the guise of something else other than what they ought to be intended for, would not see me through. The process had become tainted. All of it appeared as a cover up, an illusion, a dream of sorts. One must be careful who they give their time and energy to and what for.

It isn’t that I suffer needlessly. Truthfully, I am living proof of the Work, of the Gurdjieff Work. This is my lesson and what a beautiful and painful lesson it is! You cannot imagine the inner struggle I endured day after day after day, unable to appreciate why these feelings of disturbance and chaos seemed to persist and follow me around like a cloud, a massive cloud that would not let up. I asked, “Is this what it’s all about? Is this really the Work?”

And so with denial at my door, I made attempts to rationalize and told myself these doubts were not real and unfounded. Thank goodness for this space because I now know better as I had been given the opportunity to investigate, uncover and verify for myself. Active listening woke me up to a simple truth. When a whiff of doubt greets me, I trace the thought by taking a step back. What was the thought, the feeling, the impression that entered my being just before I began to cover up its message? In that silence is where the truth resides. It will always be there, this inherent gift called Intuition.

It is not about what we want and what we desire. It’s about what is right and true, what is permanent and not transitory or fleeting. Be weary of those who tell you they have your best interests at heart when everything they do tells you otherwise. Do not fool yourselves like I did. They are takers and nothing more. They live in fantasy and need your energy to fuel them. You become their supply and once they’ve had their fix, they discard you, without a moments notice or a heartfelt good bye, moving on as though you had never been a part of their life. That is the way of self-love and of a deep childhood pain, one we cannot understand. They are empty shells. They are not self-sufficient and need you to do for them what they cannot do for themselves.

Later when I got to know him, if one could even call it that here, no matter what I expressed to him, I always feared I would anger him, unlike anyone else I have ever known in my life. Was today a good day or a bad day, I wondered? He threw too many temper tantrums like a child when he doesn't get what he wants. And he knew my weaknesses, knew what I would do, what buttons to push. Each time I thought about what to say, I painstakingly went over the words in my head a hundred times making sure not to provoke or offend. How can that be healthy and normal? That is not The Work. That is me making excuses for his poor behaviour while he subtly convinces me I should use his baggage, lack of focus, reactivity and immaturity to work on myself. I ought to spit in his eye instead.

Master is never wrong. He is incapable of taking any responsibility for his actions. He'd rather blame man or YOU for his shortcomings. He wants to be teacher but lacks humility to walk behind student. How could I ever again put my trust in his hands after the mistakes he’s made and the shit he's pulled? I learned of his cruelty and of that underlying tendency. There is beauty in predictability and he is quite transparent to me now. Nothing he says will ever carry meaning for me again. This saddens me but I'll get over it now that the mind fucking has stopped.

I had wished it could be different but it simply cannot be. People like him do not and cannot change. Like some mathematical certainty, it’s impossible. When his world is threatened and he no longer feels safe, he will do anything to exert control and bring order back to his fantasy even if that means twisting the truth and hurting you. He will stave off depression to prevent the agonizing task of having to look at himself in the mirror. On the surface, he’ll have you believe that what he does is in the name of spiritual development, that he cares for you, but he’s a liar. He would crumble before himself if he saw who he really is because he is a wounded child who has never known love. He will forever have the emotional maturity of a three year old boy no matter how old he gets.

Do I miss him? I miss parts of him but now I’m not so sure those parts ever really existed. They were perhaps glimpses of essence but not enough to sustain a friendship, a relationship, a real exchange between equals. We were never equals which he ensured would always remain that way. He’s a magician who knows how to play tricks and needs high drama and endless crises to feel alive. Like a drug, when the effect subsides, he suffers from withdrawal. It will always be those closest to him who suffer and deteriorate and lose their sanity in the process. Make no mistake. I was losing my mind until I learned the truth. And like Dorian Gray, he'd have you believe there was something wrong with you...

He will never know of love. He doesn't know what he's missing or that he's even missing out on it. It's never been a part of his world. He cannot show you compassion or empathize in any way. He's a good actor instead. That is all. I swear to God, I looked for the real in his eyes, his gestures, his words, but nothing. It just wasn't there. I don't know how else to explain it. It wasn't there because he wasn't there. And if he didn't exist, whatever connection I thought we had or developed didn't exist either. He can dust himself off in no time and put the smooth veneer back on like everything is okay, while I on the other hand, continue to pick up the pieces of my spirituality and long for something that never was.

I wish for him to get help because I am convinced he needs it. But his ego, from which he operates and doesn't know it, which deceives him incessantly, won’t have it. And for these reasons, I had no choice but to walk away. It does not matter how I am perceived because he will always be the winner and I, the loser, the weak one, the insulted and offended, whatever he needs to tell himself to keep his false world in tact. But I know the truth--that I had something he valued, he wanted but just couldn't hold onto because he's unworthy. I pray that someday I'll never have to look back. I saw him for what he was--a manipulative and self serving individual who probably can’t help himself but that doesn’t mean I have to be a part of that world and neuroses anymore.

The Door

I will forever be the girl waiting by the door, waiting for you to let me in, to sit me down, to tell me all will be okay, that I will be okay, that I am accepted, that I am loved. But you can't always come to the door. You are too busy, too preoccupied with other matters, matters that are more important than my insecurities. You won't always catch me standing there, won't always feel this yearning, my longing to be received. Many times, you'll fail to notice that I am even around. Why bother with me? On the surface, I am strong with a tough exterior, my emotions are contained like the Queen of Swords, not giving away too much but just enough so that others know I am not bothered. But inside, the wall around my heart has already crumbled. She knows not where to go, how to move. She's forced to remain still so that I can take a good look at her. She's no fool. She's broken and she knows it.

No one fusses over me. It does not matter where you place me, whether in a pile of dirt or a bush of burrs, and for how long, I remain silent and alone never uttering a single complaint. It had always been this way. I imagine it will be this way for good. When I was a child, no one had time for kisses and caresses, for storytelling or lullabies. Parents deem themselves fortunate when their child doesn't whine or ask for anything. But when the child grows up, he has learned not to ask for help either.

I wait for you to see but my buffer is stronger than I. I am self-sufficient after all, as a result. Like a pillar, I stand tall and erect. I can't easily be swayed or manipulated. The other thinks I can be because of the way I tilt my head, the words I use, or the language my body speaks but they would be mistaken. These are the ways of the sword, my sword and I am always a step ahead even though on the surface it may appear to be the opposite. Appearances cannot be trusted. What if I allowed myself to fall? Will anyone be around to lay a rug down before me so that my fall is less bruising? I doubt that very much. How can I depend on that kind of help, the kind of help that's really and genuinely required?

You offer peanut butter and crackers. I want peaches and cream. You whisper to be strong but perhaps strength is to be found in allowing myself to be weak. I must stop pretending if only for a little while, must stop pretending that I am above all of this hurt.

Every time you leave me waiting at the door, I feel like I don't belong, like I belong no where. And for some reason, I think of Jesus and then a power comes, an electrical current runs through me and suddenly, I no longer have these feelings. I belong to myself, completely self-possessed. The help I need comes from within fueled by faith and hope. These have not failed me. Ever. I am human though, far too human, in a light I had not seen myself before and this displeases me.

I don't wish to need anything or anyone. Too many disappointments. Far too many let downs. That is the way of the human. I want to be more than human. But first I must forgive, otherwise I will simply fail to be, simply fail to become. How does one forgive with a sword in hand?

Necessity

If I should see
What I could be
I will love Thee
Honorably.

This need not be difficult. But it is. It is. I have failed in all the ways you've needed me to succeed. I am sorry. Sorry for these little interjections, these tiny hiccups that tend to create insurmountable mountains with their breath. I am sorry for my shortcomings, for this personality that hangs on for dear life.

I see what I can be when I lose--an argument, a game. I see what I can be when I persist and insist I do not need to win. You smile your little smile and I worry. I worry I will not be heard or is it that I will be? You must see beyond me and these layers. You must not listen to a word I say. I lie and do not know it. Forgive me for I know not what I say. Forgive me for I know not what I do.

How I wish to share these things that I've seen. How I wish to connect. God knows how alone I have felt on this side. But to cross this line would create a loneliness I could not bear. To go back to a life I no longer recognize. To find no comfort where there once was, you cannot fathom what this tastes like when you find yourself in this place, when you've traveled so far to get where you now stand and even so, they have only been tiny steps, just tiny steps. How much farther one must go...it is overwhelming.

But what am I to do? Tell me. Speak. It is this heart that leads. I do not know the why or the how of it, but I am certain it is my heart that leads. And I follow. Willingly. Without doubt. Blindly? No, not quite. There is a faith here I trust. It is still too early to trust myself so I must rely on something else. I see that this something else is greater than I.

Do not give up on me. I mean well even in my stupidity and insecurities, in my reactions. I'm not asleep all of the time. Sometimes I am truly awake and I can see you in the far distance above and beyond this world.

"Poor in Spirit & Crazy"

He thinks I get a hit from all of this. Then may this be the high, the tiny spark that spawns and fuels creativity. How else shall I work with this? This hit that makes me feel alive and beautiful. Pained and disgusting. He does not understand the mechanics of what is happening inside of me right now. He is like a puppet, a parrot, one who mimics his master. And he thinks he is speaking from an authentic place. He does not see how Mother Mary has my back, how she takes a silent but active stance in my life. Man and woman will always be a universe apart. He is becoming exactly that which he decided long ago, never to be. I pity him.

And master does not believe in dream. Kills it at every turn. I don't understand how one can do all that work and still lack compassion. He will use the excuse that he is just a man, full of flaws, only human. But if you point them out to him, if you hold the mirror up, he takes great offense. And why? Because he expects the other to change but does not demand the same from himself. He wants to go on living like he is teacher but lacks humility to learn from student. Let no one tell me what is acceptable or not. Let no one throw back in my face that which they do not wish to transform in themselves. That is not the game I am playing. He fails to understand that I am the real who can see. He speaks to me as though I am in need of a certain kind of guidance. He cannot help me. I see who and what he is behind the curtain.

And this is when the pain comes, so relentless and piercing. What is it in him that I gravitate towards? What is it? How can I want that which hurts me? How can I trust that which consistently lacks heart and sensitivity, that which is cold, that which does not change or transform? What does this say about me? I am trying to live in that space the Sufis speak of, to see him from another place inside of me. This must be why. But he disappoints. And I don't have any more time to give...to him. He has shown clearly what he can do with my gifts. I can no longer feel bad about how I feel, pretend that these feelings of doubt do not matter, that they do not tell a story. Feeling bad just keeps me stuck and in my place. Too much power is given away at the expense of myself.

But maybe I only see what I want to see. Maybe the real is the dream. Maybe he really is good. But how can I believe in someone who tells me to forgive him his indiscretions, time and time again, when he does not extend the same openness in return? Maybe I don't want to believe that someone can be that self serving. If he only takes that which he needs, only gives that which he does not miss, then what becomes of that person whom he takes from, whom he gives to? How is it reciprocal? How is it equal? How is it sound and true? I will forgive him his indiscretions but he does not need to be a part of my life for me to do this. What a realization. I will not in any way become like the others, not today or tomorrow. Not ever. He knows full well I will never become what he'd hoped he could get from me. I am no puppet.

I see what is required. But the dream gets in the way. You see, the dream and what is required are not the same. I don't know how to work with this when my hands are tied. I simply can't do anything. I am forced to remain still and wait patiently. For what? I do not know exactly. But I understand, it is the only way.

And let's say, I did give in. Then what? I will become like the woman in Rider Waite's, the Devil card, bound to that which does not Love, that which controls and possesses. I will lose my power and dignity. And for what? Gratification? The fulfillment of desire? I would rather lead and be silent like the High Priestess, be tied to nothing and no one. To be self-possessed. That is Freedom. Liberty. It does not matter what I want. It only matters what is right and just. What we want is transient and I cannot rely on the temporary. I am fortunate to be able to see this. Truthfully, I really must thank him for this kind of awareness.

Man is weak. He'll concoct every possible scenario to justify why his behaviour is okay, even convince himself he's doing it for the greater good. But he is asleep! He does it for himself. Only for himself. That's why it is up to each of us to uphold some kind of standard if we want to keep our self-respect, if we want to be real. He can not give me that. No one can.

I must have given the impression that I was a fool. When the opening came, I thought I had been given an opportunity to make things right, to go back to the way things were. But Mary whispered, "No, that is not it. You must look inside." And then I saw it, as clear as day, I saw what she meant. She had provided the opportunity for me to speak, for me to see the truth - as I had been asking for days and almost forgot I had asked - and with that, I saw that it was the end of a chapter. That it did not matter how I was perceived, whether I was understood. That the only way to begin again, was to turn the page. And so I did. I turned the page. My Mary, my saving Grace, how could I have ever doubted that you would come through?

Redemption

I walk down this grey hallway. I can hear my steps, the humming sound in the walls, a moan, a murmur from deep within. I am alone but I am not alone. Here, I remember. I remember who I am.

Here, I do not ask, do not pray, do not want or need. Then I feel a kind of power vibrate. And I know without any doubt, that my choice to be alone, on my own, for this little time, in this space, is right and good and true.

I am influenced by nothing and no one. There is a protective layer so thick that surrounds me, one could mistaken it for a defense mechanism. This interpretation would be incorrect, though. It is just my voice shining through. Finally, that subdued voice has had a chance to come through in all its glory with purpose and meaning. It has barreled through the density of thought and feeling and in doing so, has helped this density become lighter. It disperses right before my eyes and I can sense the lightness from the inside too.

Do you want vulnerability? Do you want me to break down and open up, so that you can help me rebuild anew? Is this what you want from me or for me? I had better trust you first. This requires that you lead by example. This requires that you walk your talk. Otherwise, this protective layer does indeed become my wall, and rightfully so. I can’t rely on anyone who won’t make attempts to catch me when I fall, he who gives only that which he does not miss...

When you’ve had enough, your body, heart and mind look for refuge. The stillness within will not betray or lead you astray. One’s former self begins to dissolve and one can see things more clearly. There is one catch, though. You may not like what you discover, what you see, not only about yourself but about the other, too. In this space, we are equal. Out there, one must be cautious, must use discernment. The people we meet on our path will always be for our own learning, although, not necessarily for our own good.

It’s just the past catching up to me, the unsaid rushing in like a river demanding to be heard. The shades are raised and the sun is shining through in all its beauty. What was I thinking? Where was my sword? Why did I doubt its power in my time of need?

I am amazed how one night under the sheets can bring so much clarity in the morning. What workings take place during sleep? I underestimate sleep’s ability to awaken. May I never doubt again. I am grateful and in awe at how my helpers come. They are kind and merciful, only merciless when they need to be, when it is imperative I see that which must not be hidden from me any longer.

I must learn to discern when guardedness is appropriate, when it is for my own protection, when it is a reflection of the voice coming through as a form of help. I see now how my voice persisted, insisted because I had been taking far too long in accepting its advice. But still it was patient and unwavering and for this, I will forever be indebted. May I never falter again.

Release

I've been avoiding this but the Muse will not have it. She demands I speak. No time for little dramas. No time for ignorance or pretend. No time for lies or dormant hurts. Yet, all must be raised and released.

When love becomes restrictive, then it is no longer love. I made it to the front of the line. When our eyes met, I saw that he had already received me. He poured into my cup and when I walked away, I saw that the cup had already been filled...with my tears. He laughed at me. No, not with me. But, at me.

My heart expanded beyond me, around me, filled every crack and crevice. But he could not see me. He does not see me, who and what I am. I speak but he does not hear. I reach for him, but he does not sense. I cry but he does not feel. It is hard to see a man who is covered under layers of debris and dirt, filth and darkness. I gave him my loyalty, my dedication, my admiration wanting nothing in return except for honesty, truth and beauty. Apparently, I had asked for too much.

He makes a fool of himself in front of the others. Behaves stupidly, cowardly, deceptively. I saw through all of that. I stood erect with my dress, a symbol of my honour but he wanted none of it. He wanted the small. I did not understand how he could want the meaningless and the insignificant. And so, with my hand, I grabbed hold of my foolish heart and placed it back within its chambers. Gently, I scolded it, told her this was not the way for he is undeserving. She acquiesced even though she did not understand.

With my hands, I rubbed my face, gently swept over my neck and breasts, along my stomach and settled upon my abdomen. With my head looking down, I could not believe the heaviness and dread one can feel in this realm. I see that I want to avoid it, to run from it, but it is no use. Because I am aware of this tendency, I stay still and frozen to experience this pain more, until it no longer consumes me, until I can see it for what it is and release it. There's so much to say, so much to make right but it is pointless. And with this realization, the hurt becomes larger. I am too weak for this. But Mary whispers and says, "No, that is untrue. You will transform this hurt until it becomes something else." I ask, "How much longer?" And she says, "You must be patient. All good things come to those who wait. But you must work on it now."

I knew this day would come, when I would have to choose. It was all over the cards. I pleaded with her. I asked if she was sure. She insisted and persisted until I could no longer ignore her. I asked why I couldn't have both. In her gentle way, she helped me see that was simply impossible. "One of them must go." I asked, "Why?" "Because, if you don't, you will eventually lose both." She added, "With sacrifice, I assure you, other gifts will come. You will see."

So, I take this pain and embrace it. I smother it with love and acceptance. What else am I supposed to do? If I do not acknowledge and appreciate it, I will become bitter. That I can not allow. It is not an option. This pain and I will become friends for a little while and she will teach me what I need to learn and then, with gratitude, I will let her go.

Merciful Suffering

I walk along a path in the forest. The trees stand tall and beautiful. They welcome and greet me every time they catch wind of me. I place my right hand over my chest, my left hand over my lower back. I like the feel of my satin dress. I admire the ruby colour, the sound of my breath in this quiet space, a home away from home. My eyes marvel at everything here, every leaf and flower. I am peculiarly intoxicated by the light shimmering through the tiny openings and spaces between the trees, the way it creates a misty golden hue over that which it touches. Ah, what heaven! Let nothing or no one take this away from me. This is my refuge. Here, I am accepted. Here, I am loved...unconditionally.

I find a tree to sit by. I'm always looking for a tree. They have seen it all, weathered every storm, witnessed the joys and sorrows of our time, our ancestors, and I pray they will continue to be after we have passed on. I hear a whisper. Tell me how you feel. I pat my hair down along the sides over my ears, down my face and neck and find that my hands have joined in prayer. I then place them on my lap. My body is tired. Well, it's questioning. The throbbing won't stop. In my legs and arms, my chest. There is pain but not the kind one dies from physically. It is spiritual in nature and so very difficult to contend with.

I feel myself. I sense my aliveness. I am everywhere. But, I am alone. How is this possible? Am I spiritually lacking? Am I longing for something that cannot be attained here? Are there holes that simply cannot be filled? And maybe this is the point. They are not meant to be filled. If I become whole, I will desire nothing. I am not ready to desire no thing. I think magic resides in wanting and not being able to satisfy this want. I don't think liberation comes from not creating attachments. That is not enough. It occurs in the active process of inaction - to desire while knowing it cannot, must not, and will not be. It is a kind of suffering that is merciful in quality. A merciful suffering.

There is tenderness in the suffering. I did not think this could be possible but it is true. This suffering does not take away. It gives. It abides by the law of reciprocation. But first, there must be a shift in perception because the heart will not understand. The mind must be gentle in its delivery or the heart will resist wanting. The heart must not be made to resist because then, another kind of pain ensues which is like a thief. When this happens, the magic is gone - and there, hope goes with it. That would be a great shame.

My heart is open. My body is ripe to receive. My mind awaits my command. I notice there is a pool of water deep in the forest. Even here, the light manages to find a way to pierce through and bounce off the water like tiny stars and sparkles. I remove my dress, my stockings, earrings, and necklace. I slide into my emotions, this sensuality - the water and I, we are one. I hear a whisper again traveling in the air. Tell me more. I move my body towards the sound, my chest rising and falling, as my breathing deepens. I respond, You will not get from me what I am not willing to give. You will not be that which sustains me. Be gone. You are not invited here.

And then I remember. I need the contrast. How else will I know myself? Contrasts are good even when they are painful, especially because they are painful. I retract. I whisper, You can stay on one condition. The wind picks up speed. My black hair feels cold against my skin. I quiver when I say, You must tempt me all day and all night so that I will resist you, not with my heart, but with my body only. In this way, you and I will both gain, but I, more than you.

LINES

It’s easy to get lost in the wilderness, easy to get lost in dream. When the ego and dream meet, life gets sticky and the line becomes blurred, the line between the real and the false. Yet, the false magnifies beyond proportion so you can never say you did not know, that you could not see. The false begins to envelop you, flow through you, swirl around you and you cannot deny what is being presented. But you dance the little dance because ego is greater than you until you are so consumed by it that suddenly the false becomes the truth, your truth. Now, you have a little problem on your hands.

One must never let the false become truth.

Now, you find yourself playing with want and need. Life used to be so much simpler when I was a child and I did not care either way, when doubt was non-existent, and I was pure. Now, I tap dance between the clouds, between the illusion of my past and future, not quite satisfied with the present. What is it that awakens here in this space? I ought to be thankful for illusion. No? It serves a purpose when we bring attention to it. How am I able to recognize illusion and still be in denial?

Back in the day, Jesus and I, we had a little talk and I shared a few things. He knew what I wished for, what I longed for, what was in my heart. I also understood quite early, that what he wished for me would not mesh with what I wished for myself, at least, not in any way that made sense to me. Jesus moves in circles. I like keeping things straight. He keeps moving the lines, keeps creating spaces and more spaces with lines in places I had not imagined. He and I, we understand each other, to a point. I don’t remember a time when he was not there. He tells me there are things I can have and things I cannot have and that this is right and one day I will understand.

But even when he speaks, I see myself playing with the lines, drawing them back to the way I think they ought to be placed. And he smiles because he knows it is the only way I’ll see what I need to see...the hard way. These lines, the more I play with them, they get heavier, harder to move, to manipulate, like I’m playing a game I cannot win because I’m playing by rules I don’t understand.

My Beloved, he is so persistent and unwavering. I cannot escape him. Not that I really want to. It’s just that, he expects me to always have an open heart, beyond myself. He keeps telling me I can contain more and more and more. I argue with him. I tell him I don’t understand how that is possible without breaking down, without getting sick, without losing my foothold, without bursting. Then he continues, "Well yes, if you don’t give it away, if you don’t share. You must let it flow..." I ask him why he has to bother with me like this. He says I’m seeing this all from the wrong place. Ugh.

Sometimes when we sit together, his eyes are fixed on a certain spot. I just stare at him. I love looking at him. With him, I do not worry or hesitate or doubt. I see all of my weaknesses and that this is okay. Through him, I can do many things. Through him, I develop strength. My tears, they flow, as though from a fountain, uncontrollably. Every now and then, he looks up and I catch a glimpse of myself. Extremely painful. His eyes move down again. I can feel his love all around. He is Love. I am obliterated in his presence.

But still, I fight with him. I wrestle. I demand he give me answers. The more I demand, the less I receive. No, no. The less I am able to see my blessings. Jesus does not withhold. He asks me why he is not enough. How can he ask this? How can he think that is fair? What does that say about me, that my Beloved is not enough? What does that mean? Doesn’t he see what I am? I am only human. He won’t let me play with conscience, won’t let me make errors. He remains stationary. In a sense, he is continually interceding in my affairs. Divine intervention, I suppose?

He protects me. He guides me. Lately, I’d like for him to take a back seat, to sit and watch from a distance, to give me some space. And so he draws closer! He sees I want to fool myself and insists this will not happen. He creates a picture around me with his finger. I am now standing barefoot in a field of grass, trees to my right, trees to my left, flowers all about, open sky, tranquil waters, unimaginable beauty and colour and scents. My face lights up. Then, he draws a snake and breathes life into it, places it by a tree near by. I stare at him perplexed. He says nothing is either good or bad. He says the snake is necessary for my development. He says I’ll learn nothing without the creature.

He says that all of these pictures he creates for me, they stem from the talk we had in the past. He says that I had asked and so he is delivering. He says that I knocked and so he opened the door. He says that I have to trust him, how he works and constructs, how he ultimately plays with the lines. When he sees that I am ready, he will let me create my own pictures.

Queen of Swords

I keep trying to extract a something from a someone which isn't there. How much longer am I going to extract that which does not exist in the other? Do you understand the work involved in extracting a single drop of oil from a rose? And this isn't even a rose. I speak of a being, a person, our fellow neighbours and friends. Why am I always left empty handed? Why are these hands always left dry? Why do I continue to look for that which is absent, obsolete, non-existent? What futility. And far worse than disappointment.

This expansion of the heart - I wish someone would have told me long ago what that entailed. I would have wiped that stupid grin from my face. What naivety. Be gone with her. Do you have any idea what it's like to mourn for the world? To feel his pain? Her loneliness? His despair? Her faithlessness? Do you understand what this is like for me? To be sitting in a tub every night for the past six months, crying for God knows who and what and why? And to receive no answers? To surrender to the idea that this expansion is simply for my own good? Do you know how utterly lonely this can feel like? I'm the only one moving on this fucking road. The rest just sit there with their useless and paralyzing thoughts, their dreams, nothing but unfulfilled memories - no flame, no fire. They all went up in smoke before they had a chance to breathe. I wish they'd fucking wake up. I wish Jesus would let me sleep a little while longer.

Be weary of folks who take you to the well but then don't know how to quench your thirst. They don't even make attempts to reach our depths because they are shallow and afraid of their own shadows. I'm so tired of this weakness, this broken heart, this isolation, this alienation. They are not becoming. Not for some idealized dream, nothing but some sand castle in the clouds. I yell to bring it down. Please, bring it down. Why can you not be real? Why must you be with me and not with them? I spit in your eye every time because you are a fake. But I am not left unscathed. When I hurt you, I hurt myself.

And I dislike very much for having trusted you/myself? I wanted you to be real. I held the mirror up every time, as Crowley said, and each time I did, I saw my own disillusionment. I saw what wasn't there. All the lack. I saw what would never be. And this was like poison in my blood. I fought hard against it, resisted its subtleties at every turn. You would have been proud but I was only fooling myself. There was no strength in the world that could stop the inevitable - the slow but sure death of illusion.

You think me a cynic? Blame the sword. It is he who speaks now. Finally. Let it cut through everything. Let it all bleed. Let me smell the stench of my own falseness. Let me wash it away with a single stroke. Let me wipe this slate clean. Fill my vessel with the pure. Let the light of every star burn that which is destructive to my nature, my essence. I beg thee. I beg thee. Let me be heard. No more of this. I can do without the drama. Drama distracts me from the real, and yet in the same breath, it draws me closer to you. How can this be? How?

THE PLEA

I am looking up, my Lord. To you, I look up and down in humility. Here you are again. You are always here even when I am unaware. I am sorry for my sleep. I am sorry for my anger. I am sorry for my disillusionment. I am sorry for my disappointment. It is not due to a lack of want that I remain distant. It is just too painful to be near you.

Do I sound like a stupid child if I ask that you not abandon me? If I plead that you be patient and strong for me? Am I asking for too much? Do I sound like a hypocrite? To want you near but not too near? How will I learn to stand on my own two feet if you catch me every time I fall? And yet, how I will stand on my own two feet, if you never catch me? What kind of a message would that bring? You would never have me believe you do not care. Ah, I must be a fool to speak with you like this.

Let me feel this pain. This depth. This Love. Let it sink way down to the roots of my being so that it is able to rise up through my veins and back into my heart. I know it is the only way. I know this is what I asked for. I know that you will deliver. I know that it is done. I know that this is mine. I worked for it, even when I was unsure of the outcome. I know Beauty is to be found in the process, in the journey. I know that Joy is to be found through the embracing of Sorrow. Now I know what Kahlil Gibran meant. Now, I understand the bitter sweet taste of Truth.

How many times have I ended up in this very spot, suspended in the air, upside down? Too many to mention, my Lord. But I recall there was a time, even if I cannot place it, when I had asked for all of this. How is it that I am certain? I must have longed to want in a particular way, in a way that ensured I would never be fully satisfied. How else would I come to know the I that is me? You knew I would not settle for less. You knew how I wished for the Real and the only way it would reach me, was through this downward spiral, this pulling down, this sweet suffering. I think of Simone Weil. She was right too.

So much heaviness for such a small heart. But do not worry. My heart will expand to make room for more. It is what you meant when you said that I would see? Right? Let my cup overflow. Please. Until my tears become my strength, my refuge, my salvation. Until I become Love itself. Do not deny me. I can take it. And when you see that it is too much, do not interfere. I only ask that you have your hands ready, just in case.

Dreaming in Shades of Grey

I open my eyes and hear the words,
"Your stripes have been picked."

I fall back asleep an hour later.

He stands in front of the mirror.
I stand in front of his side - right profile.
He begins to speak.
The sounds of the words are too thick to make out, too slow.
Then, like waves rippling in water, I hear him say,
"There has been a disturbance in the field."
He looks over and right at me.
His eyes are glossy.
He smiles but it is deceiving. He is heavy.
To the left there is a bed covered in a white embroidered spread and to its right, a small window, with a sheer white curtain.
I can see the window reflected in the mirror and the bright light shining through.
The room is shades of grey.
The wooden floor, which used to be laminated, has been stripped over time from the wear and tear of life.
He speaks again.
I smile pretending to have heard him.
But I catch a glimpse of my machine and am appalled and so I speak the truth and say, "I can't hear you."
He speaks again.
I struggle to hear. I move forward, adjust the position of my head but still I cannot hear him.
Then the screen of this dream, focuses in and out, like pixels in a photo, expanding and contracting.
I hear him say, "Did you know that I have to work twice as hard to reach that place....?"
I feel a dampness and a heaviness in my chest.
There is a deep sorrow here in this space, this place.
It is his sorrow reflected in the room. It runs deep. I am sure of it.
He speaks again.
I place my right hand on the black dresser we are both standing in front of.
I can feel the texture of the wood under my fingers.
I don't know what to do.
I sense hesitation in my left arm.
I want to place it on his right arm to console, to consider, to empathize?
But he jerks, almost in anger.
He speaks some more.
He is wearing a black hat and suit, with a white shirt.
I can see clearly the clothing, the intricate detail of the material.
I can sense the texture of it even though I do not touch it.
I am aware of my skin, of my own presence here, knowing full well my body is asleep in bed.
He has something in his hands, like he's applying something to his face...powder?
Then I feel the rippling effect of the screen again.
I look to my right and see his reflection in the mirror and focus my eyes back to him.
But now there are three of us.
There is an older woman standing between us.
I get scared. I am aware that she is not of the living and belongs to another plane. I sense that I know her or maybe he knows her? I cannot see her face.
I feel my head go numb.
This should have been enough to wake me up but no.
I fall to the floor and like a ball, roll, as if down a hill.
Everything is moving fast.
I place my hands over my ears.
I am aware of a slant in the floor, a slight indentation against my stomach and hips.
I look up. He is still standing in front of the mirror, his mouth still moving, his back to me.
And the lady is looking at herself in the mirror, her face drawn closer to it so she can see better.
She is wearing a white dress or a gown, tied at the waist, barefoot, hair in a bun.
He does not turn to see me on the floor.
He does not turn to the woman who is standing next to him, either.

The Hypocrisy of Life & Love

I wait at the back of the line with my empty cup in hand. They wait at the front of the line, but their cups are not empty. I do not even move my head from side to side to look how much longer I must wait. You see that I am patient. You see that I do not complain. You see that I am responsible. You see that I am obedient. You see that I respect. You see that I give. You see that I love. And yet you leave me here waiting at the back of the line. For days I have been waiting and you do not come. Why do you not come? Why does this line only get longer? Am I unworthy? What must I do to make me less unworthy in your eyes? You who sees all things. 

 They laugh and they smile. They smile at themselves and laugh at you. When their cups are filled and they see that they are overflowing, they laugh a little more because they're stupid and did not realize they could have quenched their thirst only a moment ago. But they are not thirsty, are they? They obey well, and out of fear. They say all the right things, withhold at the right or is it the wrong time? You keep them happy and adorned. Your favourite ones. The ones who will bring light and manifestation to your vision? They would not dare, though, would they, to take their hair to wipe down your feet? They would not bow to you out of love. They will not stay a night to sit in silence alone with you. They will not wipe down the walls of your heart or sweep the floors of your mind, not even if you asked them. Because they cannot, for they do not understand. 

I have cooked meals for you a hundred times, washed your aching feet, massaged the temples of your past, stared at your hands, at those beautiful hands. And you know I will continue to do all of these things. I sit next to you eagerly and with great joy because you are here and I am here and all is right. And from these real moments, I am pulled back into reality, into this line, where I wait because here we are all winners and all losers, all beautiful and all ugly, where our actions do not dictate what we shall get or what we deserve, where I must swallow hard the disappointment of what is and what will never be. 

 In this cup I carry, there is some water but I do not drink from it, just yet, for fear that I will not make it to the front of the line in time for you to receive me, in time for you to find me worthy. You wish for me to transform this pain, this loneliness, abandonment? So I look down, my lips and mouth dry, and tell myself to hold on for a short while longer. If I drink from this cup now, then what? I will have no more reserves. My cup will become my cross and I cannot have that. 

I will have to walk away and towards the well of my heart. Here, what you give will be enough, more than enough, eternally. But I am not you. I will not turn the other cheek. Why must you always make me better, shinier, more resilient? Why can I not be like the others? Easily amused. And me? I am too easily appeased. I'd rather my cup be empty then. At least, I would have some integrity. You nod your head in agreement. And you know this only makes me sadder. You and I both know I have everything. I lack nothing. Yet, I don't care to be a ruby. In this space between worlds, why can't the real spill over with some kind of permanence, continuity, purpose, love? Why must I find you here and not there? How can I find you in both places so that I do not feel your absence so greatly, taste the hypocrisy of this life so deeply?

The Answered Prayer

I learned something today about prayer, and from the most unexpected source. I glanced over the words by accident. It was a fluke. Or was it? All this time I've waited for an answer that I believed would not come, because it hadn't come. No matter the tears, the long showers communing with spirit, the frustration, the pain, I felt abandoned, resigned to my post for good. You do not know how I asked, how I pleaded, how I wondered why they would not hear me, see my heart, the troubles stirring in my mind, why they would not take this burden from me. And there the words were in plain sight on a page written by a woman I do not know. When the Universe does not answer, it is because It knows that you already know what the answer is. I don't think I can fully explain what this statement alone means to someone like me, who's been struggling for clarity. This fog suddenly lifted right before my tired eyes and I could see. Grace had entered. Grace had always been there but I could not see Her. When I read the words, I saw that I did know the answer. I mean, I saw all those spaces where I had known but doubted. I can't believe it but I had always known the answer. I am blessed with the rare opportunity of having the mirror be reflected back to me. I can't express my gratitude. They had faith in me when I did not. They saw through my eyes when I was blind. When I cried, they carried my tears in the chalices of their own hearts. They waited patiently because they knew this day would come. They held me in their arms like a child, with kindness, beauty and love. Real love.

Cuba

The white of this screen isn’t conducive to writing.
But, I think of Cuba.

I think of that corner table at the resort by the open window, the glass doors. I told myself then to be present, to remember, to take this snapshot back with me. I thought I had savored the moments in their entirety and now I see that I hadn’t, not fully. I still hear the midnight waves, the way they crashed, their sound like a lullaby bringing me to sleep. And I surrendered without hesitation.

I miss the sun, that warmth, that blue oceanic landscape with skies hovering over like a blanket of love.

How can one take all of that beauty inside and make it permanent? The beauty moves through – lingers in some places and leaves others as fast as it comes. How can one fully contain this?

I miss that space, that peaceful place. I miss Havana, its stones and cafes, the Cathedral, its children, mothers and fathers. I miss the elderly man on the stool, the music, the mint of the mojitos.

The heart is still there scattered along the shore, in a shell, on a wave, on the sand, imprinted in the air, along the graffiti and word Revolucion.

How does one leave such places?

Prayer

It’s getting harder Mary.

I wish I had more of Crowley in me.
He knew the art of discernment.
He could smell the black of manipulation,
the stench of fear and submission.

Do you think me weak?
Or is all of this an attempt to sharpen my senses,
to cut through the false and illusion, to polish the ruby?

Because I have to tell you, this is getting quite tiresome.

I am in the middle of a storm that is not letting up.
I do not wish to stand in its center anymore.
Maybe, I’ll just step out of it?

Would you think less of me?
Or be proud?

How much longer shall I weather this out?
Tell me.
Please.

I don’t know if this is worth it.
I don’t know if I ought to care this much.
I pity man.

Man is a dirty dog.
I don’t think Gurdjieff said this to justify man’s behaviour.
He said it so that man would take it upon himself to become more
than what he is. To try. No?

But Mary, I think he would be so disappointed to see how man twists and tangles up words to mean something else, how he gratifies his own egoism, so that he can delude himself into thinking he is not required to transform the merde that he is.

Gurdjieff saw Truth.
But I’m supposed to accept that man is weak?
So he can continue to gallivant when he knows better?
Ah, the worst kind.
Those who know and pretend that they don’t.

I will not give an inch more, when I feel myself depleting.
And I will take all that I hold to be true and real,
for my own growth.
And the rest? The nonsense, the futility, the stupidity?
I will scatter them out into the sea.
Just like that.
Not one more breath, Mary.
Not one more breath on merde.

Works, Indolence, Happiness

Three of Pentacles (Works), Eight of Cups (Indolence), Ten of Cups (Happiness)

I saw myself in Rider Waite's Eight of Cups--my back to the cups in the forefront of the card. I felt the figure's heaviness, my heaviness, disappointment, melancholy. Like a mirror, my Now was reflected back to me, with such uncanny precision, I wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold this being in the card, to reach out and hold my Self. What is s/he moving away from? Leaving behind? And what is s/he moving towards? Why is s/he moving at all? Is it necessary?

I saw myself in the Three of Pentacles too--people working together to create some kind of community. There's purpose and aim, mission and vision. This speaks to me in ways I had not imagined, ever, for myself, that I could be involved in a way that promotes change, builds foundation, creates something tangible and real. Works speaks to creativity and the manifestation of thought and will, the fruits of one's labours, the idea that we will reap what we sow.

And in the future position, I find the Ten of Cups. What a happy card, dare I say? But I notice, here too, that the couple's backs are facing me. Their arms are up in the air, and children are playing to their right. There is a rainbow as well which, I assume, they are probably marveling at. I feel that they are indeed very content and satisfied, fulfilled and uplifted. It is a good and wholesome family card. And as an outcome card, I understand, that this represents what I want and desire and not what is?

I chose to speak of Indolence first because it represents the present position, Works, the past, and again, Happiness, the future. It falls in the center between, what I perceive to be, two positive cards. It is with the present that I must work because essentially, it is bringing light to an obstacle of some sort that needs to be resolved, in order to draw, into my life, that which I want. My only reservation is why I should walk away at all, or from anything, or whatever this obstacle represents. Is there not another way? It sounds like the figure is giving up. But the card says, walking away is the resolution. Walking away is synonymous with acknowledgment, acceptance, and understanding that one's circumstances are no longer bringing one any contentment. The card says that this situation, this thing, has outgrown me.

How do I walk away when I don't understand what I'm supposed to be walking away from?

Imagination

Why do I stay?

Anyone else would have left a long time ago.

I'm so busy putting myself in other people's shoes, I've forgotten what it's like to be in my own. But even this does not sound right. No one can ever be completely selfless. I do have more than an inkling of what it is like to be me. And so what?

What was it that Nick Cave said? Jesus is Imagination brought to life. Something like that. How true this is. Life is dead without Imagination. We all know people like this, who lack a certain kind of other worldly spark. They are practical and down to earth, creating little niches for themselves, with a comfortable home and money in the bank, to such a fault, that when it comes time to talking and opening up about deeper concerns or sentiments, or contemplating one's purpose here on this planet, they become fidgety, with a blank look on their faces, because they can't relate. And you're considered the odd ball. . .because of their lack of Imagination. Interesting.

My father is this man, exactly. But behind all of this comfort, albeit illusory, there is a deep fear he will not acknowledge. He does not befriend it. He does not take it by the hand or engage it. He just pretends it is not there. He is a machine like the rest of us. I wish not to be like my father. And I see that I am not, entirely.

I see that as a child, I had always been a seeker. I had always felt very strongly. I had always seen that I was alone in this. That he and I, we were on different planes. My heart soared upward towards the heavens and his, downward towards the earth. He made endless attempts to bring me down, out of love, in the hopes that he could fix me, and sometimes, he succeeded. I had not been strong enough. But my nature would not have it or was it my Higher Self? My Spirit kept moving. The more he pushed, the more my Spirit resisted. The more resilient It became. And my father was afraid of this. The contrast was so great between he and I, that I struggled for a very long time to find my way. Even now, his influence, if not kept in check, can tip me over.

There were no books in the house except for scholarly text books. We never played music. My art work, I kept hidden downstairs in the basement, away from him. My bedside radio, which I had received as a gift, was the only piece of equipment I relished, wholeheartedly. It's what I used to dream. That which he fought so hard against was that which I ran to ever more closely. And thank goodness for this. So you'd best believe that when anyone attempts, in my adult life, to proceed to tell me what constitutes the real, to repress the vehicle which brings life to creativity and manifestation, I will spit in their eye and offer a smile. To my father, whom I love, all of this was a waste of time, impractical, made me lazy and hazy. Not entirely untrue but, fortunately for me, I have no regrets.

Let no one kill that voice inside, that voice which says there is more, that voice which tells you to keep going, to keep creating. It is the Muse, the Daemon. Let IT flow through you. Let it be this that USES you for the greater good. We are instruments. Nothing more. Nothing less. But we must choose. And I have chosen.

Me and Mr.Crowley again

Aleister Crowley is back. He won't leave until I get this right. I've been pondering about what to write, anything other than what is required of me now, but it is no use. I must stay with this.

He says,

It has returned. You thought you had overcome and now you see that you had not, have not. You are at a crossroads. The two of swords. You do not like this card. It speaks of choices to be made, of indecision. Do you remember our little talk?

How can I forget?

What do you not understand? What can you not see? I see that you see. You cannot hide. Wake up.

He continues.

Dry those tears. They will not help you here. I've seen your Magick but you deny. Be not what you are but become who you are. Now is the time.

Mr.Crowley, with all due respect, you are speaking to a mere mortal who does not understand the ways of this world, let alone the ways of the others. I am small and insignificant.

And so you shall remain if you should not become what the Chariot offers. Your heart fluttered when you read what I had said of faith and doubt. How faith is like a corpse and doubt, like a virgin.

I do not fully comprehend what you mean of this but yes, my heart did respond with great intrigue. I felt an opening then, like someone had rewired parts of me which allowed me to see and feel something different. Truthfully, it was like honey in my mouth.

You speak when it would be wise to remain quiet and...

Are we not conversing, you and I? Would you not deem it disrespectful for me to ignore you?

Ah, and you do not listen long enough to hear me. You misunderstand. You speak when it would be wise to remain quiet and because of this, you give everything away. Your job is to hold up the mirror to the other, only after you have held it up to yourself. By speaking, you fog up the mirror which prevents the other from seeing, which prevents you from seeing. You must develop your ability to see. Do you understand?

I'm tired Mr. Crowley.

Tired? You have not even begun yet and you are tired? Head up high. There is no time to waste. Hear me when I say this to you. There is always a price to pay for the gifts you receive. Do not be foolish. Nothing is for free. You must work for it all. The tougher it becomes, the greater opportunity for you. Then, the sun will shine but remember, the rain is not too far behind. Soon, you will see that the sun and the rain, they are the same. You say that you understand this but you do not, for if you did, you'd find no need to speak with me.

Now what? (He laughs a crazy laugh)

Take both swords, as I have said time and time again, and blend them.

Blend the swords?

Mock me all you want. It is you who are seeking help, not I. Blend the swords. You must see that they are one. You must see that there is no separation. This division you create in your mind is the root of your dilemma. Your heart sees the truth. Do not give either sword more importance over the other. Each wants dominance. You are not of this world but you must play by its rules and then transcend. It is the only way. Place these swords over the flame of life and let them melt into each other. Let them become something else, something new, like Art.

I am...

Stuck?

No. This is not it. You choose to be stuck. Because you want control. You will never overcome like this.

The Chariot is all about control.

No, the Chariot is about applied force and will, one who is certain of what must be done. You'd like for Life to decide for you. You give all of your power away. Your need to control and keep everything neat and tidy is your weakness and one that you must transform. Control leads to a place of stagnation. Applied force is something entirely different. Sometimes, one must submit to see their own strengths. You do not need to submit for you already see but pretend not to. Wake up, I say. Wake up.

Dear Mary

Tell me Mary. What am I to do? It’s you and I, every night, whether in the bath or on my bed, my sofa, in the kitchen. You speak but I do not hear you. No, no. This is incorrect. I do hear you. It’s just that I don’t understand what you mean by what you say, what you communicate. You do not speak like us mortals. And I hear like one.

You know that I long. You know that this is not enough. You know that I dream. You know that for some of us, this dream is an impetus for more. You do not judge me although I fear your gaze. I fear the unknown and what is.

When the water comes down up from these pipes and through these walls, I am reminded of my wholeness and my nothingness. I did not know how water could be my refuge. When I close my eyes, I pretend, I imagine what your voice sounds like in the spaces between and in drops. You know that I increase the pressure in the hopes I will hear you better. When the water comes down hard against my skin, I remember myself. I remember you.

I must admit, the water is also a form of distraction, a distraction from mindless chatter. It is not a form of escapism, I assure you. If anything, I’m drawn ever more close to you. Better you than anything or anyone else. This is for certain. I do not want to waste a single second, not a breath on anything other than what is real. . .for me. Should anyone tell me what I am best to set my mind on, what I am to do to be, what is worthy of my time and my heart, they will be ignored especially when wisdom and advice appear to be accompanied by insincerity and hypocrisy. No, no, no. The taste is heavy with metal in my mouth. Yes, they will continue to be ignored. And because of this, I shall become stronger.

I feel the blue that is you. You and I haven’t always been close. You had never been my first choice. It was He I went to, I prayed to, I spoke to, like friends, like family. Now, it is you. It is a feminine thing, I’m sure. You represent strength and beauty. You carry the sword and the wand, the cup and the pentacle. You are gentle when you need to be and stern as well. Good for the soul.

Thank you my Mother for being patient, kind and true. I am learning to hear with my heart, my beautiful heart. God Willing, and with time, I hope to perfect, to make use of this gift, so that I may serve you better, for we both know, I have not served you enough and not from the right place. May I, too be true. And when you see that I have gone astray, when you see that I am about to make a grave mistake, may you intersect, intercede, may you present yourself in all your glory, as a form of grace, of mercy.

I thank you kindly in advance.

With love and humility,
Grace