The Queen hiked up the mountain with Prince Pepe today. She has been very tired with all her preparations for her big journey. Being out in nature is the healing salve, as is spending time with friends. And the Queen realizes, because of her High Priestess nature, that she must rest. Rest indeed. Rest a long time. Even though it’s spring, it says to rest on a different level. Resting within her own kingdom and family.
Of course my father is the original and most serious wounding. That invisible vampire hiding from the mirror. And each time I go for it, the sucker of my own self doubts- returning to the filth of the house, why is it so tempting? I was going to store some of my things at my father’s. My bookcases and bed, so I’d have a place to stay if need be. Ultimately I was thinking, I’m crazy, it’s so filthy, I’d rather sleep on a friend’s couch. He was going to take Pepe and Esme. I was going to build a fence. Then he went to his therapist, Marsha, whom I used to go to and recommended to him. He said it would kill him to empty out the ham radio room to put my bed there. All his pack rat stuff. He’s right, and that’s fine. Perhaps Marsha is this invisible hand preventing our disastrous unconscious drives of doom.
Of course that realizes my inability to have somebody to depend on. They say one thing, but ultimately back out their support, just leave you hanging mid air. You thought you were secure to take the leap; they said they would be there. But then they are not.
That is always the challenge. How do you trust anybody? What they say? Always keep a back door open, make plans on your own to fall back on. Never give yourself away again? Is there always some boundary that is necessary in order for true love to exist? Love for yourself and love for the other?
Gilbert had Lance clean out the garage and all the mouse poop. It looks great, reorganized. I’m always horrified how I just lump and throw things in the garage. Like my mother, a mess. But I just have the help now to get it cleaned up. We artists are eccentric; anyway, that’s where the genius comes from. Where Gilbert complains my upstairs is a mess and the art area in the garage is a mess, Lance says it looks great and cool. ‘You’re an artist.” And so the Queen is! (And also the High Priestess in secret.) But it is relieving to get rid of things. It’s liberating. It’s that packrat that’s been on my back, holding on to loss. I used to be so free in my youth. Then lots of adult loss builds up on your back and pulls you down. But getting rid of it frees you.
I know the cycle well. Stir things up, move, chaos, stress and worry and too many things to do. But the monotony of otherwise would kill me. The monotony of my living situation, the lack of community, the dying for a need to grow plants that I cook and eat, the intense desire to teach my own children, to practice yoga, to live as simply as possible. I am more compelled from something deep within. It’s the world, it’s the mother or the pulse or libido of the universe that makes me do it, so I just surrender. I saw the coloring book of Siddhartha that I had given my kids. I looked through the half colored pages, rummaging for some to salvage. But there was the start black-and-white picture of the Buddha EXHAUSTED, crawling up from the river bank, to sit under the Bodhi Tree. Giving up. To release and let go.
It is like a mission of mine. To go out there in faith. To know I am supported by not only the divine but my own positive and powerful thoughts. To feel in my body when I do warrior pose, that I am DURGA, I am that which is hard to access, that nothingness that is everything, and I only need to remain there. Meditation is my tool. That regular practice to get up. To sit. To reside someplace else than my terrified thoughts.
But the thought of returning to the place of healing, the place before the wounding. Like the Oklahoma City Bombing. How it was like 11:59 a.m. before the bombing struck. To get back to that place. To clean out all the stuff in the middle. To return to mothering, teaching, simplicity, the home arts. That is where my heart is. That is all I want to do. My children mean that much to me. It’s to precious to lose. It has so much meaning and love for me in it. And it will set us all free.
The house has a new feel about it. Lighter, less cluttered. There is a sense of freedom. To really narrow down all your possessions to a little bit. It is easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than a rich man to get to heaven. Because it’s all spirit. It just lights up in front of you on a regular moment, and all you can do is enjoy its rapture and depth, blazing in the sunlight.
Of course my father is the original and most serious wounding. That invisible vampire hiding from the mirror. And each time I go for it, the sucker of my own self doubts- returning to the filth of the house, why is it so tempting? I was going to store some of my things at my father’s. My bookcases and bed, so I’d have a place to stay if need be. Ultimately I was thinking, I’m crazy, it’s so filthy, I’d rather sleep on a friend’s couch. He was going to take Pepe and Esme. I was going to build a fence. Then he went to his therapist, Marsha, whom I used to go to and recommended to him. He said it would kill him to empty out the ham radio room to put my bed there. All his pack rat stuff. He’s right, and that’s fine. Perhaps Marsha is this invisible hand preventing our disastrous unconscious drives of doom.
Of course that realizes my inability to have somebody to depend on. They say one thing, but ultimately back out their support, just leave you hanging mid air. You thought you were secure to take the leap; they said they would be there. But then they are not.
That is always the challenge. How do you trust anybody? What they say? Always keep a back door open, make plans on your own to fall back on. Never give yourself away again? Is there always some boundary that is necessary in order for true love to exist? Love for yourself and love for the other?
Gilbert had Lance clean out the garage and all the mouse poop. It looks great, reorganized. I’m always horrified how I just lump and throw things in the garage. Like my mother, a mess. But I just have the help now to get it cleaned up. We artists are eccentric; anyway, that’s where the genius comes from. Where Gilbert complains my upstairs is a mess and the art area in the garage is a mess, Lance says it looks great and cool. ‘You’re an artist.” And so the Queen is! (And also the High Priestess in secret.) But it is relieving to get rid of things. It’s liberating. It’s that packrat that’s been on my back, holding on to loss. I used to be so free in my youth. Then lots of adult loss builds up on your back and pulls you down. But getting rid of it frees you.
I know the cycle well. Stir things up, move, chaos, stress and worry and too many things to do. But the monotony of otherwise would kill me. The monotony of my living situation, the lack of community, the dying for a need to grow plants that I cook and eat, the intense desire to teach my own children, to practice yoga, to live as simply as possible. I am more compelled from something deep within. It’s the world, it’s the mother or the pulse or libido of the universe that makes me do it, so I just surrender. I saw the coloring book of Siddhartha that I had given my kids. I looked through the half colored pages, rummaging for some to salvage. But there was the start black-and-white picture of the Buddha EXHAUSTED, crawling up from the river bank, to sit under the Bodhi Tree. Giving up. To release and let go.
It is like a mission of mine. To go out there in faith. To know I am supported by not only the divine but my own positive and powerful thoughts. To feel in my body when I do warrior pose, that I am DURGA, I am that which is hard to access, that nothingness that is everything, and I only need to remain there. Meditation is my tool. That regular practice to get up. To sit. To reside someplace else than my terrified thoughts.
But the thought of returning to the place of healing, the place before the wounding. Like the Oklahoma City Bombing. How it was like 11:59 a.m. before the bombing struck. To get back to that place. To clean out all the stuff in the middle. To return to mothering, teaching, simplicity, the home arts. That is where my heart is. That is all I want to do. My children mean that much to me. It’s to precious to lose. It has so much meaning and love for me in it. And it will set us all free.
The house has a new feel about it. Lighter, less cluttered. There is a sense of freedom. To really narrow down all your possessions to a little bit. It is easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than a rich man to get to heaven. Because it’s all spirit. It just lights up in front of you on a regular moment, and all you can do is enjoy its rapture and depth, blazing in the sunlight.
No comments:
Post a Comment