Here Come Da Judge

I have so many things to write about my head is full of gallimaufry, a hodgepodge, a jumble, a confused medley that my fingers can’t type fast enough to keep up. I have no idea how many words will actually end up on the cutting room floor versus which will survive. I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, wondering how this will all turn out.

If it reads like I’m catharting, you’re right. Well, that’s curious. I just looked up cathartic and it means to evacuate the bowels. I was using the word in its purging sense, but I always thought it meant emotionally.

I can tell you right up front that judgment has been the theme of the week. In the last few days:

1) I’ve been accused of judging someone.

2) I’ve been apologized to because someone else judged me.

3) I’ve imagined that other people were judging me and

4) I’ve been paid some righteous compliments.

That being said, I feel like I’m in the middle of a big judge sandwich.

Similar to Howie Mandell and his infectious fist-bump, there’s a new little virus making the circuit. I don’t know its progenitor, but the catch phrase is “let’s put a pin in that.” In context, it seems to get used when something is said that another person doesn’t want to deal with on the one hand, but doesn’t want to appear as though disregarding it on the other.

Acknowledging it on some level , they’ll say, “I hear you, but let’s put a pin in that.” I guess we are to imagine a giant floating cork board and whatever words have been spoken are to be impaled with a large pin “to be dealt with later.”

Phew! I drove you around that little cul de sac just to say I’m going to stick a pin in all that judgment stuff for a moment and introduce a little Hebrew action into my current situation. Can you guess my favorite Old Testament character? If you said the talking Donkey in Numbers 22, you’d be close, as she’s my second choice.

However, for the purpose of sorting out all this judgment energy, I’m calling out Solomon.

Solomon lived a most fascinating life, starting with his movie star parents. Most little boys think of their daddies as heroes, but in Solomon‘s case, his father, King David, was a hero of mythic proportions even in his own lifetime. Not only did he take out Goliath with one fell swoop of his slingshot, but he killed lions with his bare hands and was an epic murderer, “Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands,” (I Samuel 18:7).

In fact, Solomon wouldn’t have drawn a breath if his father hadn’t been driven by lust, both blood and sex. King David satisfied his dual appetites by ravaging a rooftop bather and then killing her husband. Apparently God was none too thrilled with that last detail, so took His revenge on the little love bastard by smiting it. Don’t you judge me.

The second child born of this fornicating couple, although by this time I think they might have exchanged vows, was Solomon. As an aside, wouldn’t you love to be married to a man who “took” you, murdered your husband and then because God was angry at him, caused you to lose your first born?

Anywho, as if growing up under the shadow of the Celebrity King, the stuff of which legends are made wasn’t enough, Solomon had to live with the fact that papa was a man after God’s own heart (1 Samuel 13:14.

How was such a child supposed to grow up and become a man in his own right? Well, he managed somehow, and became known as the wisest person ever to live, “No one before you was your equal, nor shall any arise after you equal to you.”

Receiving many sermons from the pulpit, my little antennae would tune in when Solomon was discussed for his world was lavish, extreme, filled with wine, women, song and plenty of perks. When I heard he had “700 wives, princesses, and 300 concubines,” I actually sat in the pew and worked it out mathematically. Hey, he could make love every day to a different woman for almost three years without repetition.

I sighed over all the booty he was getting, oh wait, I don’t mean all the booty calls, I meant all the treasure troves (like pirate booty) he received for his wisdom. Not only did he have access to all the secrets of the Universe, but he was wealthy beyond measure and was a rock star.

I admit it, that story impressed me in my younger years. Okay, it still does, but my thirst for Wisdom started at a very early age. Hey, just because I like the idea of being connected to God AND financially rewarded for it, don’t you judge me.

Here comes a little personal reveal: I secretly wish to be that wise. I know, the position has already been taken, but a girl can dream, right? I’ve set out to learn the difference between judgment, discernment, tolerance and acceptance since they are all intertwined.

So that we’re on the same page, I’m going briefly define: “Judgment – the ability to judge, make a decision, or form an opinion objectively, authoritatively and wisely.”
“Discernment – acuteness of judgment and understanding.”

“Tolerance – a fair and objective attitude toward those whose opinions, practices, race, religion, nationality differ from one’s own: freedom from bigotry.”

“Acceptance – the act of receiving something offered, favorable reception, approval.”

Now it’s time to take the pin out and address things directly, although not in order. I’m going to begin with #3 — that I’ve imagined other people judging me — and #4, receiving righteous compliments. And by other people, in this case, I’m specifically talking about old high school ghosts.

Suddenly, this week, by the powers vested in FaceBook, I’ve been contacted by a number of high school chums and what they’ve told me has differed wildly than what I had going on in my head. I attended a private Christian high school and graduated with about a dozen kids. It was a very small pond. The school was more of a preacher or preacher’s wife- in- training camp, and as I was not going to become either, I did not fit into the box.

And there was a lot of pressure to fit into the box. I neither rebelled nor conformed, but approached getting into the box with more of a, “No, but thanks for asking,” kind of attitude. I knew at an early age that being myself was more valuable than becoming what they wanted. I was arty then, I’m arty now. I knew I didn’t want to be a baby factory then and I didn’t become one now. I stood up for myself when required, but picked my battles strategically.

This unnerved some. An open rebel was a cause they could understand, or living a life with the lid closed was another familiar path, but choosing to be oneself in the midst of heavy duty conforming pressure without wildly rebelling was something altogether alarming.

The upshot is that several of those I’ve communicated with told me that my path seems like the better option with 20-20 hindsight. In the intervening years, they buckled under so completely, that they’ve had to literally destroy the box — their lives, in order to get out and start living an authentic life.

Even though I had a few early detractors, that only served to reinforce my resolve. Although it’s had a few thorns, my path now holds a new sparkle that I didn’t see before.

I’m not living with a secret. I don’t long to break out and finally live my true self, as I have already committed to that.

Now for a glimpse into this week’s righteous compliments… “I give you props for knowing who you are and being comfortable in your own skin. In a world of conformists, it’s refreshing to know those people who can say ‘This is who I am. I’m not afraid to be a little less conventional and it’s okay.”

From somebody else, “I have so much more respect for you now. I can see that you are comfortable in your own skin.” (Whoa, two different people, two different conversations!)

And another, “You seem like a person who does not go to grouping once a week to get fed, but is constantly connected to God. You don’t seem to compartmentalize your life, but instead approach your art with spirituality, your spirituality with art, your creativity just flows into everything you do.”

Can you stomach one more? “Judgment is simply having an opinion about something, and while you may have your opinions, you are very tolerant and accepting.”

Okay, before you gag, I tell you this to process it, and for your own sakes. Seriously. I had all this judgy stuff built up in my head and as it turns out, it was mostly my imagination. Perhaps there are some of you who feel burdened by judgment. It’s so refreshing to simply ask instead of assume, the answer might surprise you.

How often do we build a case against ourselves and use other people to support it? I had not had contact with these school mates in over twenty years, yet I was accusing them in my head of being judgmental. Turns out I was wrong.

In this week, two other people volunteered heartfelt apologies for judging me. Wow, I told you there was a lot of judgment energy to suss out.

Those apologies were so empowering, I would also like to practice forgiveness. To anyone, past or present, that I have hurt by my words, by less-than-flattering images I’ve carried in my head, for releasing negative thoughts, for unkind words, for energy that made you feel less-than, and for anything that I’ve done to cause you pain, I am truly sorry.

I’d like to leave you with something Oscar Wilde taught me. “Be yourself. Everybody else is already taken.”

Say "Cheese"

I remember the first time I heard it. Well, heard may not be entirely the correct word, as that image conjures up voices in the head. Perhaps memo is a more accurate term.

Okay, let’s start again. I remember the first time I got the memo. It contained three words and no explanation. “Stop Drinking Wine.”

I promptly ignored it and booted said message to the recycle bin.

A few weeks later, those three words reappeared in my mental “in box.” This dance went on for about a year with the same memo coming in and me ignoring it. In August of 2007, the message doubled in size to six words, “Stop drinking wine for thirty days.”

In that moment, I let loose a victimy sigh and said with great melodra-martyr flair, “Fiiiiine.”

As I was walking with Groom at the time and my dramatic exhalation came out of nowhere, he looked at me with appropriate puzzlement. I did not have a chance to utter a word before our cell phone rang. It was my dermatologist calling and she said, “I want you to stop drinking wine for 30 days.”

Are you kidding me??

My face is often rutilant and Doc suggested cutting back on the vino as a last ditch effort to minimize the ruddiness.

Before you picture me as a lush, you should know that my fermented grape juice consumption was limited to a glass a day. No, not day, per evening with dinner. I admit it, I indulged in an hour of pleasurable ritual every night. These 60 minutes comprised a special trinity: a glass of cabernet, a television show and delicious food.

As Groom and I broke bread, we relaxed, allowing the stress of the day to disappear with each sip of mirthy grapes. We tuned out, the television performing an hour of mental dialysis.

I did not want to give it up.

When I folded the phone after talking with my skin doctor (darmnit, I can’t hang up anymore), having committed to my version of Lent, I had the task of informing Groom of my impetuous decision to forgoo the happy juice.

Now I knew better than to announce to Groom that WE were temporarily abandoning one of our pleasures, so I simply shared the interesting timing of my intuitive guidance with the dermatologist’s request.

Groom decided (on his own) to join me. Phew!

I will not regurgitate the list of doo-doo that hit the fan, but trust me when I say all manner of mierde leapt from the woodwork and challenged us to see if we were serious in our commitment.

People reacted in a variety of ways to our month long wine-fast. One couple, prior to our decision, had made the proclamation that if we ever stopped drinking they would NOT be amused. They were true to their word. The invitations to dine became less frequent until they were non-existent.

It was a long 30 days.

The surprise was that by the end of it, we’d lost both our taste and desire for Bacchus’ titty.

A year of abstinence later (okay, not quite, but one glass per month as opposed to 31 felt like abstinence), I received another memo. Uh-oh. This one also contained six words, scarier than the first. “Stop watching television for 30 days.” What???

If we thought people reacted strongly to us eliminating wine from our diet, we were thoroughly unprepared for the hostility that came forth because we turned off our boob-tube. In hindsight, wine was an easier addiction to see, but television? Well now we were stepping on people’s toes just by making that decision for ourselves. Yikes!

Another unexpected result was that we tasted our food and noticed when we got full much quicker than when we were hypnotizing ourselves with the magic box. I was accustomed to stretching out my dinner for a full hour and without the digital entertainment, I pushed my plate away in less than half the time.

We also ate half as much.

Without the wine calories and then naturally cutting our dinner proportions by half, Groom managed to lose around 65 pounds. I wish I could cluck about any figure improvements for myself, but I just wrote about my clothes not fitting last week, so I’ll say nothing more about it…

The wine-fast led to the television diet, which led to the weight loss. Each contained a surprise benefit that I didn’t know about ahead of time when I decided to follow my guidance. You’re right, I guess that’s why it’s called a “surprise.”

For a small excrement of time without my wine, I mean increment, I felt antsy. But without my television, I felt downright itchy. It provoked existential angst, “Who am I without the relationship to my T.V.?” Until I stopped watching, I had no idea the dependency I had created and I was not enjoying the withdrawal symptoms.

One morning during my DT’s, while traveling north along the coast from California to Oregon, I was taking pictures with my pocket camera in Arcata. A third memo fluttered into my awareness, this time in the form of a question.

“What would happen if you developed a relationship with your camera?”

In that moment, I decided to take pictures of anything and everything. After a few months of pursuing this, I knew I was outgrowing my pocket-size Olympus, yet a relevant quote from a camera magazine pointed out, “The best camera is the one you actually take with you.”

I was actually taking my little camera with me everywhere as it fit conveniently in my purse. Would I really haul around a larger one? I’m not inclined to research a bunch of statistics online, reviewing which camera merits the best rating. Techni-babble makes me verrrry sleepy. No, I decided to do my study in the field.

This research included knowing what kind of photography I wanted to pursue and then discovering which camera would be the best tool for the job. Anytime I saw a person carrying a serious looking camera, I’d ask them about it. What kind, how did they like it, what was the shutter response time, could I hold it, etc.?

I was pleasantly delighted to discover how friendly people with cameras were and how much information they were willing to offer. I kept notes and yet could not seem to make a decision. What if I chose the wrong one? What if a better one came out as soon as I did make up my mind? What if I outgrew it? What if what if what if???

Apparently the photography Muse became exasperated with my indefinite deliberations and made the decision for me. At a family BBQ a few weeks ago, Brother-In-Law arrived with his brand new camera. I gravitated toward it instantly and he was very generous in letting me play with it during the evening.

Naturally, I asked him all kinds of questions and he answered that he liked it just fine except for…Except that he discovered too late that an even newer model had been introduced to the public with an HD video feature that he was salivating over. Ah, my fear being played out…what if I plunked down the pennies from the piggy bank and then an even better camera vied for my affections??? Now he was in existential angst.

The next day I received an email from Brother-In-Law, offering the camera, a case, two batteries, chargers and four lenses for an amazing price. If I said yes, then he would go High Def.

Ah, what to do?? I consulted Kimmm, Bee Bugg and Goat Mama, all photographers. Kimmm had the funniest, least technical answer. She said, “Why are you even questioning this? Of course this is your camera. It so fits your story arc.”

Huh? I have a story arc?

“Yes,” she affirmed. “You do. Of course a camera would be delivered to your house at a next-to-nothing price.” She just laughed and shrugged like she was talking to a simpleton.

On Saturday, I was holding my new acquisition, wondering a few things about it when a man appeared in my booth. With no introduction or preambles, he said, “What would you like to know about your camera? What would you like to know about photography?”

I was stunned. An inner prompting told me I had manifested a tutor and there he was, showing up. Groom watched the booth as I wandered around the outdoor marche with Kimmm and Richard, having a fun photography lesson.

There are many more words I could use to describe the experience, but I’m going to save you about 1,000 of them, as that is what the current market value of a picture is worth.

The Empress' New Clothes

Baby’s got back. She’s got junk in her trunk. And by “she” I mean me.

I love manifesting. That is, having an idea, putting it out there, releasing my attachment to the outcome and then discovering the delightful way in which it comes to me. For instance, the other day I was quite bored with my wardrobe. I wanted new clothes. That afternoon I went for a walk with Groom and we stopped by the Post Office.

Turning the key and opening the metal door of our postbox is always a thrill as I anticipate it to be full of goodies, surprises, cool cards, fat checks, affectionate notes, missives from far away lands, invitations to dine and miscellaneous greetings.

I was not disappointed. Inside was a notification that I had a package. Standing in line, I felt like a kid at Christmas. What might it be?? When it was finally my turn, a postal worker sporting a jazzy comb-over handed me a box. I made myself wait until we were back at the homestead to open it.

Slicing through the packing tape with a lime green box-knife and lifting away the tissue paper finally revealed several layers of beautiful fabric. Wait a minute, not fabric, clothes! Accompanied by a card, the handwritten note from my cousin in California (named Frida Maria) explained that she had been inspired to design new outfits for me.

I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to try them all on.

Uh-oh.

My backside is much bigger than either of us realized. There’s a big gap where the clothes don’t fit. When I thanked her profusely, I admitted the size discrepancy as she was telling me about some more designing ideas.

Her solution? She made herself a fake bottom for a more accurate fit. A faux bottom, imagine!

Shall we take a peek at the junk in my trunk? Yes, I’ve been dragging baggage around with me and also working deliberately to let it go.

On Saturday, a vendor I’d never noticed before stopped me as I walked past his booth. He engaged me in conversation and made an observation saying, “You look like a very happy person.”

Admittedly, this is still a fresh, new feeling and his comment took me by surprise. I don’t know why I confessed this (little vestiges of my story still clinging perhaps?), but I replied that until recently, I had been a very angry person (Okay, before you mention it, yes, I just now realize I need to stop saying that. You are witnessing the last trace of something no longer in existence disappearing into this moment. Thank you).

His candor took me to the next level of surprise. “For you to be so angry, you must have been victimized.”

His words struck like an arrow to the center of my heart. We’re not talking sweet, valentine cupidy arrows with red fluff, but sharp, hitting-the-target with accuracy poisoned tips. I felt the wind knocked out of me. His face was so kind and because he was speaking with such compassion, I had a moment of clarity, seeing the bigger picture.

“That’s an old story,” I said, “stuff I’m leaving behind.”

Or was it? His use of the word “victimized” set my teeth on edge. Recognition can be humbling because this next part is humiliating to admit. I’ve been victimizing myself and blaming others for it. Until this weekend, I’ve been using other people and what they say, don’t say, do or don’t do as excuses for my moods.

I carry gigantic, nay, colossal, mammoth, grandiose expectations. Expectations that other people will behave in certain ways in order to make me feel good, and darmnit, if they don’t keep letting me down.

I have put my emotional well being in the hands of other people and then feel victimized by the smallest of things. No really, they are ridiculous. In fact, the smaller the “slight,” the more pain they seem to inflict. A glance I can’t interpret, someone choosing to sit in a chair across from me rather than immediately next to me, a thank you I feel warranted that does not come, someone taking longer to answer via email that I think is appropriate.

This is how I am victimized. Can you believe it? When I write this out loud, I am cringing. Why stop there? I look for rejection everywhere. As a friend says, “You go where you look.”

When I look for rejection, I find it. Evidence is everywhere to support my belief, whether it is a useful one or not. I also get plenty of praise, but as that does not fit the old program of Rejection I’ve been running, why pay as much attention to that?

When I feel rejected, it is because I am attending and nurturing my ego, the smaller, undeveloped part of myself composed of a thousand little hurts.

When I am attending and nurturing my spirit, things look very different to me. When I reframe my view through the eyes of Love, I see others as individual reflections of the Divine, each unique and beautiful, doing the best he or she can.

I carry my weight around my belly and bum, second chakra: Money, self-worth, sexuality, and creativity. As the clothing attests, I have a gap. Not everything fits anymore.

I could look at the ill-fitting clothes as an excuse to feel bad. In fact, it’s so tempting to allow just about anything as my excuse to get out of the flow. I’m not sure why my ego’s favorite flavor of mood is to feel like mierde?

However, I could also consider the gap as a signpost that I’m expanding and that it’s all behind me now. As I look in the mirror, it’s more empowering to understand it’s simply a reflection of where I am rather than making up a story about what anybody else is doing to me.

And with that, I shall bid you adieu.

Instant Messaging

Due to record-breaking temperatures in the Emerald Valley, Groom and I jumped in our chariot and headed for the beach to get a whiff of sea air and to cool these hot bodies down.

Remember the olden days when you could toss a blanket and some snacks in the horseless carriage and get out of Dodge within minutes of deciding?

Now, of course, I have to remember to pack the cell phone, the iPod, the digital camera, the laptop computer along with all their cords, battery packs and chargers. Yes, technology has certainly lightened my load.

I.M. stands for instant messaging and “I am” are the two most powerful words in the English language, releasing creative energy from the Divine. Pulling on the thread from last week, the Universe is actually the real Instant Messenger, providing us with continuous feedback and updates second by second if we are “plugged in.”

Imagine if you will, that whatever you are looking at is one gigantic screen and everything happening around you is simply your energy projected onto that screen to watch like a movie.

For the sake of clarification, let me give you an example from Sunday. A friend called and asked me to meet him in the park to talk (Groom was cool with it as my absence provided him with open play time on the computer!).

As Friend and I both live in the same neighborhood, the walk to the park was easy and the two of us were the first people there, unusual for a sunny day.

This friend was pretty distraught and while expressing his feelings, people started arriving at the park one by one. I was intent on giving him my undivided attention, but I couldn’t quite achieve it as I became aware of just how accurate that movie screen description was.

While Friend narrated his story it was as if the people in the park were actors sent to play it out. Right on cue, when he said how sad he felt, a very dejected man entered the park stage left, slumped on a bench, and sighed heartfelt sighs worthy of Shakespeare.

I have to back up for a moment, well actually rewind about 24 hours earlier. On Saturday morning, while asking Wisdom to guide me, the name Violet immediately entered my head. As I don’t know a Violet, I considered the flower and the color. Violet is the color of the crown chakra, the connecting energy center in our bodies to aligning with God.

Now, back to the park. A woman in a green dress began flitting from person to person, arresting people with her eyes and unusual style of initiating conversation. It didn’t take long to realize she was higher than a kite, but that didn’t lessen the amusement.

The first time she skittered past the two of us, Friend was outlining the complicated plot of his soap opera. She was not close enough to hear about the tangled web he wove, but as she approached, she mumbled something under her breath. I caught it though and when she passed, laughed and shared her insight.

“Kiss, kiss,” she had said, and then proceeded to spell it out. “K*I*S*S. Keep It Simple, Stupid.”

We were hooked and took her advice. He paused his story while we watched her zig-zag all over the park, each person she approached looking around for the camera to see if they were being punk’d.

She finally came around again and told us “they were trying to get rid of half of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Just then, a man from India came from the other direction and she gasped, announcing most sincerely that he was “a saint.” Her demeanor shifted as she became reverent and honored to be in his presence.

The Indian Saint blushed from being outed by the acid-trip princess, gave us the Namaste bow along with a benevolent smile and continued on his way.

The movie at the park was about to get even more interesting...

The green dress lady said a few more unintelligible things about Uncle Tom and then resumed what appeared to be a heated conversation with an invisible man (at least to us) on our right. She tried to introduce us, but perhaps the guy she was talking to (Uncle Tom?) couldn’t see us and thought she was a bit of a wackadoodle.

It would have been easy to dismiss her ramblings, except for the last part. She started to move on, then backed up, looked directly at me and said…are you ready? She said, “Oh, and by the way, I’m Violet. Stay in love.”

I almost peed my pants.

I told Friend about the name Violet entering my head in a gentle, breezy manner the day before. His ears perked up and the direction of our conversation shifted. I mentioned the immediacy of Energetic Messages and his curiosity piqued. We leaned back and decided to watch.

He quickly observed that his story was being played out in the park. As I shared my celestial instant messaging beliefs, he decided to join in and pointed out the two side-by-side blue doors that had just grabbed his attention. The one to the right had “Hold It” scrawled across and the other said “poo.”

Friend had been tempted to crawl back into his dark hole of depression, but reading the sign to “Hold it” made him realize he was at choice. To have a door actually marked “poo” made him laugh and he told me he didn’t want to open the “poo door.”

Many more things continued to unfold and as we sat there, he saw his own energy reflected back to him and he began to learn the art of interpretation.

Later that night I received a telephone call from him. He had gone home and shared the experience with a friend, including our encounter with our “guide” Violet. His friend was amazed because his old nickname had been Violet.

Then, as if that weren’t enough, they had gone out for a burger and their waiter told them his wife had recently given birth. Any guesses what they named their daughter???

Sparked by all the Violet references, he told me he had looked up the meaning of the word and the color is often used to enhance creativity and dissolve barriers.

Did you think the Violet connections ended there? Of course not. This very afternoon, while sitting in our favorite spot on our favorite beach, Groom is reading Alice in Wonderland and who shows up on the page but the talking flowers. One, apparently, had never spoken before and startled Alice. Would it startle you to learn this communicative blossom was a Violet?

What’s the big deal, you might ask, so what if we encountered several references to a particular purple flower?

If something happens one time, that’s enough to notice, but two times becomes a pattern. Here’s a simple rule for interpreting energy: If it gets your attention, PAY attention.

The point is that Friend felt confused and a bit lost. By introducing the idea that he was capable of reading his own energy, I passed along a map. If you know how to find where you are then you can get to where you want to be.

Most of us dwell in the past on Memory Lane or reside in future-Tripsville. Regardless of the population explosion, the Present is not very crowded, because few people actually live here.

The present is often new territory and having a way to read the landmarks is not only beneficial but amazingly fun.

Speaking of fun, our day at the beach was a grand one. I hope all of you are enjoying your summer. Namaste.

The Telephone Pole

A Nun, a Pastor and a teacher from Denmark walked into our booth. Yes, I know, it sounds like the opening line of a joke, but it really happened this weekend during an Art Festival. The full force of what came out my mouth did not strike me until the late drive home. Punchy and tired, the conversation replayed in my mind and I started laughing.

Les très femmes were amusing and there was something about their demeanor that sparked my curiosity. I asked what they did in their professional lives. They said to guess and in fact, suggested that I’d never get it right.

After rising to the challenge and selecting ideas from left field, they were correct, I did not manage to guess they were women of the cloth. However, it hit me later that I asked a Nun if she was a stripper, a sniper or a pro-wrestler. Wow, another taste of my size 10 shoes.

What does this have to do with today’s theme? As I clack at the keys, I’m not sure yet, but hopefully by the time I wrap it up, something will have tickled my inspiration.

I’m currently in the car. The first thing I notice is a sign proclaiming the “Enchanted Way.” If you haven’t noticed, I’m a firm believer in signs, symbols and shiny reflective surfaces. My faith includes the notion that God, through the language of the Universe, communicates with us every day, 24/7.

Don’t worry; whether a person communicates via Klingon, text message-shorthand, or ig-Pay atin-Lay, the Universe understands all native tongues. What’s important is if we’re fluent in speaking Universe.

Messages are everywhere if we pay attention. Some are subtle and others are hard to miss. I offer a recent example. Groom and I were out for a walk this week and we were in the midst of a lively conversation about self-love when a newspaper littering the ground caught my eye. The print was small and the only word large enough to read from that distance was “PATH.”

This is my gauge of a subtle communiqué. It would have been easy enough to miss. At first blush, the newspaper appeared to be trash, but I looked anyway and saw the “PATH” ahead of me.

This well-timed word reinforced the understanding that self-love is the gateway to our path. A warm feeling came over us and our conversation sparked even more ideas. We were animatedly discussing the moment self-love gives permission to our darker, squirrelier parts and they finally feel safe enough to come out of the shadows and into the light to be healed.

Although this sounds good in theory, in practice, deformed aspects hiding in the dark tend to get blinded by the love-light when emerging. The emotions they provoke range from skittery to belligerent. Anything coming to life hurts and things that need to be healed aren’t always pretty. In other words, it can be darmn uncomfortable (Yes, darn feels too weak and damn too strong).

There is a time period when the pain is no longer hiding in the dark but it has not yet acclimated to the light. This is a freaky, shaky moment. It helps to have support and be around people who recognize what is taking place. This is exactly where we were in our conversation, so imagine our delight when we walked past a telephone pole with a white plastic window-blind hanging from it.

This is my gauge of a message that’s hard to miss. Especially when it’s hanging from a pole that was wearing a red bra last season. I’ll skip interpreting the lingerie and concentrate on the “blind.”

Whoa, hold the phone. This began with a true story about me asking a Nun if she was a stripper and a few paragraphs later I’m talking about a pole wearing nothing but a red bra. Is there a connection? My inspiration is being tickled…

Red is the color of the root chakra: The beginning, the family, the tribe, and the origin of all the stuff that needs to emerge for healing in the first place. Stripping is the peeling away of layers to get to the fleshy good stuff.

A bra holds the girls up. It is supportive. Sometimes functional, sometimes sensual. Breasts represent nurturing, mothering, nourishment and pleasure.

A pole? Well, let’s just gloss right over that and go straight for the telephone part. Fifth chakra: The throat. It’s our avenue of expression, a channel of creativity, the ability to speak up for one’s self. And full circle, we’re back to self-love.

When we don’t speak up for ourselves, we swallow anger, stifle our creativity, get sore throats and worse.

A white blind was suspended from a symbol for communication and self-care. We were talking (using our voices to communicate) about feeling blinded while healing. Um, do you suppose the Universe was communicating with us??

In stopping to look at the art installation God set in our path, we understood it was multi-layered. One of them was about moderation and control. Again, we were thinking either/or. Either hurt stays in the dark or hurt comes out into the bright light, which we already described as darmn painful.

White is the color of purity, of perfection and holiness. The white blind was showing us that we could have more control of how much we let in. We can adjust the window blind to allow our disabled subconscious critters room to adapt to the light.

We could see how we were treating the unhealed parts of ourselves like criminals, bringing them up from the holding tank and shoving bright lights into their eyes during the interrogation phase.

Like the color white, a Nun and a Pastor also represent holiness. A teacher stands for the dynamic of teaching and learning. Yes, I know, kinda obvious, but I still had to say it.

The fact that I was joking around with a trinity without self-consciousness tells me God has a sense of humor and loves it when we are simply ourselves.

Can we have a sense of humor about it all and simply love being ourselves?

Warm and Fuzzy

An American Southwest Medicine Woman once said, “First, let’s interpret your morning. Tell me how it was getting here, and I will tell you about yourself.”

Uh-oh.

I woke up at 5am with a rogue wisdom tooth trying to push its way out of my upper right gum. It was swollen and painful as little chunks of cementum, enamel, dentin (or whatever teeth are made from) emerged amidst blood and an odd tasting liquid. Of course I was spitting up and feeling ookey.

When I flipped the switch to the coffee maker, the grounds backed up and overflowed, creating quite the mess on the kitchen counter.

Then at Market, the first person to bless our booth was a woman with a large, noticeable scab right below her left nostril. She was momentarily infatuated with our line of jewelry and requested to look through every single piece, including our secret stash. Her enthusiasm wilted mine as she proceeded to pick at her scab then touch everything in the booth.

She collected a pile of jewelry she was interested in purchasing and my repulsion to her was slightly offset by the hope of a sizable sale. But then she switched from picking her scab to picking apart the jewelry. Nothing suited her after all. “Do you have the silver one in gold? I’d prefer the blue in red, this is too big, that one’s too small,” etc. and on it went.

After spreading her germy, crusty bits she lamented that she just couldn’t find anything and that maybe she’d “be back.”

Okay, Ms. Medicine woman, I told you about my morning, so bring on the woo-woo.

Now I get to quote her… “There’s little difference between the sleeping and the waking dreams of everyday life, with all their mystery and drama. To begin crafting your vision, you must become aware of your waking dreams and their symbolism. Symbols are everywhere and everything that you experience mirrors a part of you – so when you can perceive reality in this way, you understand how you’re already dreaming your world.”

Please bear with me. The next part may be a skosh confusing as we look at the symbols and interpret the “waking dreams” of my morning. Then, if we figure it out, hopefully all will make sense. I’m too embarrassed to mention that I failed to look before sitting down to tinkle and didn’t notice that the toilet seat was up…so I think I’ll leave that part out and concentrate on these five.

1. Wisdom. 2. Teeth. 3. Breaking through. 4. Coffee grounds overflowing. 5. A scab below the nose.

According to the experts, wisdom is the ability to recognize truth coupled with good judgment. Teeth in general represent decisions. Trouble with wisdom teeth specifically, indicates not giving oneself enough mental space to create a firm foundation.

Ha, speaking of foundations, coffee grounds overflowing could represent grounding and being a little backed up, not allowing the energy to flow out. In other words, an imbalance.

A scab is a healing wound. The nose of all things (and oh boy, have there been several references to noses lately!) represents self-recognition.

I’ve told you about my morning, we’ve interpreted the symbols, now what does this reveal about me?

Wisdom is emerging, accompanied by some pain. I have a decision to make, yet I am keeping myself too busy and not allowing enough quiet time to go inward and create a firm foundation to support it. I tend to hold onto things past their expiration dates, perhaps a little fearful of letting things go lest there be no more. Scarcity thinking. This creates a back up in my system, both in terms of prunes on the shopping list and energetic clogs.

A wound regarding self-recognition is healing.

And now I must digress for a moment and summon once again the topic of the dude at the Japanese tea ceremony who plucked a strawberry from his nose. I wrote about it because it was so weird and curiously provoking.

When I was a youngster, I was in love with strawberries. I’d save my coins until I had enough to buy some delectable scarlet berries of my own. J'adore manger des fraises, but I was too afraid to ever eat them, because if I ate them, there wouldn’t be any left. So the strawberries would sit in their little green basket on the shelf in the refrigerator until they were covered in moldy fur, bruised and squishy, and had to be thrown out. Need I say more?

Strawberries have always reminded me of how I hold on to things but don’t allow myself the experience of enjoying them. It’s a sad trait, a waste really.

Now that I understand that the nose represents self-recognition, having someone pull a strawberry out of one like a rabbit from a hat suddenly makes sense. First of all, it captured my attention and I’ve been ruminating.

Secondly, putting the waking dreams together, as I watched the guy pull a strawberry from his nose, I witnessed an old habit of hoarding being birthed through the nostril canal of self-recognition. Is this woo-woo enough for you? Are you following me so far? Okay, I’m laughing even if you aren’t.

Here’s what I’ve come up with so far: Wisdom breaking through, making a decision, a need for quiet mediation, letting things go with faith there will always be more, and a healing wound. Really, all that from a sketchy morning?

Taking the time to examine the symbols in my environment created a release. When Groom showed up at the Market, I decided to walk around and see the new vendors who finally had an opportunity to sell at Market since most of the regulars were at the Oregon Country Fair.

I made it but a few steps from my booth when a man came straight up to me and began talking as though we had been in the middle of a conversation. His eye contact was direct and intense, his style of speech so deliberate, that I had to tell him I was a vendor down the row in case he thought he was spilling his guts to somebody else.

He told me he knew perfectly well who I was and proceeded to tell me his “story.” As he spun his tale, I was in awe and had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Why? Because he was using my words to describe his situation. I must have been having a sort of out-of-body experience because I was me watching him act just like me. I peered into the looking glass.

His stuff was my stuff. His mystery and drama had been mine earlier in the day. It was the very thing I had let go in the wisdom teeth, coffee ground, scabby nose scenario. Was I being punked?
Out of the hundreds of people at Market, how did this guy zero in on me and mirror back what I had been just a few hours earlier? What I told him in response shocked him. I described his pain and all that went with it and how he was dreaming his world. He was stunned, how did I know?

I revealed that I had let all of that go by mid-morning and had stepped into a new place. He told me he wanted to talk to me because I looked so peaceful. He could not believe I had been living in anger as recently as a week ago.

As we stood there reflecting each other, he showed me why I had been so angry. I had always thought my anger was rooted in the details, family mierde and whatsuch, but turns out, not exactly the case.

He was attributing his feelings of frustration and imbalance to somebody else’s behavior. In that instant, I saw how I felt like a victim of everybody else’s whims and moods, trying hard to please, appease or assuage so that I could be okay. But since that never worked, I was angry.

The essence of my struggle appeared. I had sought myself “out there.” If only they would do such and such, then I could feel alright. If only they would smile at me, like me, validate me, approve of me…” Oh good Lord, how sickening. Here’s a fitting quote by Thaddeus Golas, “Egotism is proving you are worthwhile after you have sunk into hating yourself.” Damn and ouch!

No wonder I was angry so often. At the first signs of anybody else’s bad mood or disapproval, I dissolved into anger, wondering what I did to cause it and trying in vain to uncause it.

Self-recognition. Not ego, not out there, but in here. I’ve heard that the “Kingdom of God is within,” and all the other sayings relating to going within, but I never really understood it. Mentally, I got the concept, but like the strawberries, I never experienced it. My Self may be a little enshrined in fuzzy mold, be squishy in parts and bruised, but I’m not going to throw It out.

The wound is healing.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me! Officially I’m 102, but I don’t feel a day over 80. I celebrated with friends throughout the weekend (thanks for all the loot) and had a slice of jalepeno cake frosted with an habenaro-chocolate ganache.

It would be prudent of me to avoid mentioning the double-dipped ice cream invitations or the delicious organic blueberry and raspberry dessert with homemade whip cream that was delivered with affection at Market.

Crikey, now that I’m propped here at the computer, I didn’t realize how much I’ve been noshing lately. Which also conjures the delicious memory of the dark chocolate candy bar with lime zest and black pepper that Kimmm brought back from Harvey Nichols in jolly ol’ England. Delish.

Uh-oh, this seems to be digressing into confessions of a sugar junkie. Dang! No wonder the photo taken of me Sunday at the Aprovecho Stove Party makes me look pregnant. Supposedly the camera adds 10 pounds, but me thinks I’ve just done that to myself.

I’ve had a curious week post-Seminar. While in seclusion, having my thoughts reprogrammed and my brain washed (no, I did not join a cult, hmmm, at least I don’t think I did. I simply signed over my house and life savings…) part of the process was agreeing to “the rules.”

One rule was to refrain from telling stories, which translated into meeting 30 strangers without asking or divulging any details beyond our names such as marital status, job title, where we lived, if we had children or not, and especially no victim stories.

It was quite entertaining to participate in this social experiment. At first, what to say? Sputtering and stammering replaced the fact-finding dance that usually occurs early on in the acquaintance phase.

Not knowing whether someone was a doctor, lawyer, merchant or Indian chief executive officer provided a more level playground. Beyond fancy or scruffy shoes, hair flowers or belt buckle bling, we had only the present moment to draw our conclusions, formulate our first impressions and be with each other’s energy.

Oh yes, it was quite uncomfortable at first. But one of the seminar’s mottos is “Something do different,” or “Different something do,” or even more shocking, “Do something different.” So we sat with our discomfort and observed how often we were tempted to fall into story.

Back in January, I wrote about God’s Minion reminding me that while I might have slowed down my storytelling and complaining in general, I had not yet stopped telling the stories to myself.

“When you stop the drama in your head, then you’re home free,” she wisely counseled.

Intending to “something different do,” I practiced interacting with this group and made a firm decision not to tell any stories. The only one I got busted for was mentioning I had recently encountered a woman sporting a soul patch. My learning partner thought that might qualify as a “story,” but later we found out that particular observation did not qualify because I wasn’t turning myself into a victim over it (although, I easily could have done).

So I was feeling self-satisfied that I had the “no story” protocol down tight. Then, as mentioned last week, I bumped up against my own anger and boy did I want to discuss it with Groom! However, because I had made an agreement, I could not. Part of the learning process had me stewing in my own juices without jumping back into an old pattern of airing my grievances.

For a set period of time, I was not allowed to fall into explanation, share my viewpoint, or indulge my tendency to party with my pity. I could, however, express my thoughts in a journal. Phew! My pen was on fire.

This brand new way of owning my feelings instead of using the auto-escape valve by letting off steam to my partner (to him, not at him) revealed just how much I thrust off my emotions via turning myself into a victim. I needed him to validate my position.

As I sat scribbling in stream of consciousness writing, I wondered why I needed an outside voice to confirm that what I was feeling was legitimate. Like right now, I want to tell you how bad my cramps are, that I’m hot with chills, that I have the shakes accompanied by nausea, but what’s the point?

If I want to be home free, I’ve got to stop the drama in my head. Which as God’s Minion told me this morning, “That’s the work!”

By not telling Groom my discomfort and forgooing the expectation he’d do something about it, I had to figure a way to climb up the emotional ladder on my own. I spent the entire night telling myself how right I was, but even that old trick didn’t make me feel one jibbety-dot better.

That’s what garnered my attention. If hours of whining to myself in the dark did not yield a scant bit of improvement, what would? Letting it go, I discovered.

I already mentioned that when I aligned my head, heart and body, the anger was free to go. But the week following has been filled with volumes of silence. If I was going to stay in process, using the new tools I paid good money for, then I had to continue the agreement of no story telling.

What I discovered was without it, I don’t have much to say. The shocking realization of how much my inner and outer dialogue revolves around being offended, affronted and victimized in some way, large or small, has apparently left me eating lots of dessert.

When I mentioned this to God’s Minion, she asked a provocative question, “What are you going to replace it with?” I hope she meant the whinging, not the sugar.

Uh-oh, a quiz. My mouth opened and closed like a fish. Here I was, pleased to have outed my inner storyteller and she’s already prodding me forward.

As I write this, I notice myself taking a positive encounter (God’s Minion asking me what my next step is) and sprinkling it with my secret seven herbs and victimy spices for a more palatable and familiar flavor.

Okay, I’m going to say it again, but this time, please say the next sentence in the most childish, whiney tone you can muster. “Here I was, pleased to have outed my inner storyteller and she’s already prodding me forward.” Did you hear it? Wow, I sure did. Waa, here I was, content to rest on my laurels and my friend in a loving and supportive way, asked a question to keep me moving forward instead of getting stuck. Waa.

My God, I am good. I can turn myself into a victim with very little to work with.

What is my next step? As luck would have it, an answer immediately appeared in a book I’m currently reading, Spiritual Growth by Sanaya Roman:

“Love all your thoughts, even those that are limited or fearful. Think of them as small children needing your love and reassurance. If you catch a negative thought, don’t make yourself wrong for having it. Love all your negative thoughts and they will have far less power over you. If you are imagining things you want to stop thinking about, love yourself for thinking them and it will be easier to stop. Put a positive thought along side your negative thought; one positive thought can cancel out hundreds of negative ones.”

I am letting go of victimy storytelling and creating a new song for myself today. And speaking of today, it is 7/8/9. At 12:34 and 56 seconds it is 12:34:56 7/8/9. Wow, what a way to celebrate alignment and inner-Independence Day!