Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Change is afoot

While in most areas of my life I feel like things are moving precisely where I want them to be, even more so, in other areas I am slightly amused at how things don't necessarily remain the same, but just stand still, like being frozen in time.  It's not circumstances around us that make it that way, but simply a choice, somewhere in the atmosphere, to remain still.  It's not a stillness of stagnation per se, though in one area I am labeling it as such, but rather a stillness of curiosity.  I'm curious where the road is, yet I'm not properly packed or prepared for it, but just waiting for it to come to me, like those walkway escalators, bizarre, but humorous.

I was emailing my spiritual mother tonight, thinking about art, thinking about painting the body once more with spiritual ink to mark the next passage in my life.  It had me look back for a moment, not deeply stuck in a time machine, but this smile of where time goes.  The days spent doing laundry and washing dishes have mindful gratitude (most of the time), then others I wonder why bother, because the larger picture beckons while the dishes and laundry can wait until later, or better, for someone else to take over.  The bigger picture comes forth in small fractions, like incomplete puzzle pieces because I've decided to shake the box up, pour out half, then put the rest away.  If a puzzle can't be made out of what's there then damn the whole thing, it wasn't meant to be put together.  I laugh at that side of myself, the eager and easily annoyed parts that want instant gratification instead of enjoying the process of true, absolute completion.  Blasted goats, we're not so great at patience, are we?

Time has been too fast lately.  It speeds when I need it to slow down, it stands still when I want it hurry up, though that's typical of our human psyches, I suppose. 

I've been taking some time this week for the more "mundane" activities while I figure out what the rest of my year is going to look like.  Some changes are afoot and while I've anticipated them for quite some time, it's in many ways, another death, though not of the human variety, but of the land, of the spirit, it's a spiritual death of release and letting go.  A theme the past year has brought to my feet.

It doesn't 'directly' affect me, but it affects the reality of my memories, of being able to access them as a physical trigger as I once was able to, or have easily taken for granted.  It's a ripping off of the bandaid, a sadness for the land, but a growth forward like all obstacles present.  Again, not 'directly' my obstacle, but I feel it, and that counts for something.

So, the hour glass moves, the sand either slow or fast, but the environment remains the same: contemplative and quiet.  I've been desperate for the quiet, but I've been enjoying the connections that keep me presently aware.  The once-Hermit status seems to be melting a bit.  It's choice, after all, and to find myself on the other side of the wall of being social is strange in this skin that hid from it easily. 

In this timeless/time-full moment(s), I am feeling the need to create.  Spider has come on more than one occasion to remind me of creation.  The weaving of the web is underway, it's birthing and spinning, I am the Web, the Web is me.  Old patterns present themselves, like teachers reminding you to do your homework, but the patterns aren't dysfunctional or stagnant, even beyond "lessons", they're just patterns.  Quilted, placed together intricately, it is its own web, it's own formation of continuity of life.  The web is flowing, the creation follows suit, the canvas beckons from miles away, sitting on a shelf, near restlessness if I don't obey, and I feel my fingers and hands getting dirty in anticipation.  When was the last time I painted?  I mean really painted?  It's not a creation of masterpiece that calls to me, but a creation of energy.  It's been painted in my mind for quite some time.  It's a project of channeling and being channeled.  I sense this is what Spider is trying to tell me...


Monday, July 12, 2010

On the table

"I throw my cards on your table" -- the inner committee is doing all of that, taking the collective cards of movement, of stagnation, of production, and throwing them, eagerly and tenderly, but mindfully, on the table... they tell me it's time to look at them, not even to put them in order, but to look at them and decide which 10 cards will I carry with me for the darker half of the year.  I'm not meant to carry the entire deck -- the deck has grown over the years, a spiritual pack rat unable to let go to sentimentality, it is looking at each of them, despite the mental exhaustion of how long it may take, and sorting. 

It's a mix of cards, varied in form and meaning from the deeply contemplative aspect to the fun, child-like innocence of purity.  This is the first time at this time of year that I'm not actually thinking of "balance".  How strange.  It's as though I came to the core of equal breath, and now, having breathed it and tasted (or rather, sampled), I don't need to swim in that ocean just yet, not this half of the year.

Tomorrow marks a month since my grandmother's crossing.  It's familiar in my heart and mind this past week, the ocean of tears opening and the permission gently granted to release has been honored, her smell familiar in my minds eye in a way that I didn't know you could have familiarity with scent without an actual, physical remembrance.  Such an interesting space to be in.

I'm feeling quite enamored with the work we're doing with the womyn's circles for the CM.  It's a purification in movement -- movement of all the subtle bodies as well as movement in the spiritual waters.  We have a great rapport, the three of us who work together in this ministry, as well as those who come and share of themselves and share with us.  It's a dream come true, this beautiful presence of being able to not only hold space for the deeper connection of self, but be part of that space, to be loving and loved, to be nurturer and nourished, to be the supporter and be supported.  Perhaps that's why I don't feel the need to consume myself with questions and endless discussions of inner balance -- I am experiencing it on this level which has profound effects. 

Last week, in an attempt to keep my insanely organized self happy, I decided to go through my old journals.  It consisted of pulling them all out of the bookshelf, dusting them off, looking at the covers, then putting them back in... I didn't know if I wanted to go "there".  One of the things I like to do as a journal is coming to an end is look at the prior journal, specifically a year later to see where I was at this time.  Somehow, it didn't seem important, not yet at least, to see where I was then, so much as where I was before then.  There was one journal in particular calling me, and I held it in my hand, wondering what treasures I filled inside, all the while being pulled in the direction of one particular entry towards the beginning... it's an entry I'm not comfortable sharing with the outside world -- not yet at least.  It's a verbal painting of my dark self, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't even know I was in that state at that time.  I hadn't realized how deep I went into that cavern of depression, because I wasn't fully immersed in it, I simply checked in for a short visit, but seeing, in retrospect, the actual pain I was in... I really don't know why it surprises me.

It is by far one of the best pieces of my writing to date.  It is completely raw, completely.  I didn't know I could get that honest with myself in that state of mind.  I could taste the pain, I could feel the fear, I could smell the shame... words are incredibly powerful, yes, but when you're not actually in that state of mind or that energy field, it's eye-opening.  That dark side, the "depression" (it's not a word I like much, and my choice to not use it often isn't fear-based, but rather out of the distaste it tends to, inaccurately, represent), is a constant juggling act.  I find that I am naturally in tune with my shadow side, sometimes too eager to jump in and allow myself to be consumed because I forgot basic safety measures like anchoring or utilizing the assistance of my guides because some parties in the inner committee wish to be absorbed in those waves.  Each day the layers make sense; the older I get the natural hue of innocence changes form and my ability to see things more clearly adapt as a result.  Sometimes they're clearer, other times masked by resistance. 

It's shocking, to some degree, to see that, then, who I was, that pain, the pain that is a familiar memory, but not the story of my Now.  I stare at a blank canvas, instead of the block that stands in fear, I sense the colors emerging onto the board before hands can touch... incredibly cool!