How Little Choice I Had

This is a journal entry I posted here in 2009. I took it down a couple of years ago when I completed the first edit of "Through the Tiger's Door." Last night, I completely another edit, cutting about ten thousand words to make it more marketable.

Mostly, that was done by tightening it up, but there were a few things I cut that really gave me a twinge. This journal entry is one of those things. Because most of what's in it is said in other ways within the book, I decided this rather long and poetic piece was not really necessary.

Journal, September 17^th 2008

Sixteen and cold, waiting for a bus
Accepting a ride
Glad for any attention
“I’ll be careful, I promise”
How little I understood about the world
Getting high on the bus
Getting my period on my 17th birthday

Relief
“I’ll be careful this time”
The next month coming and going
The counselor at school I almost told

His words:

“I was hoping this would happen.”
Did I drop that acid after I got pregnant?
A few boxes carrying all my life
Writing that note
Taking a last look around
Being very quiet
Closing the front door
Waiting
Waiting on the porch
Waiting
The apartment
So much promise

Him leaving for work
Alone
Promises
I’ll keep you safe
We’ll get married

Thinking of names
Alone
Painting a rainbow in the little room
“We’ll lose our security deposit”
Alone
Holding the phone in my hand
Knowing I had to call
Dialing twice and hanging up
Mom’s voice
What they wanted me to be
“I would have liked to have been at your wedding”

What I felt I was
“We never got married.”
What would never be
“Then there’s still hope.”
Blame
My father’s face

What he said:
“We are not going to help you raise your bastard child”

Shame
My brother telling me it was okay
Wishing he didn’t know
Pleading with Mom, but only with my eyes
I wasn’t okay
Wishing my sister would take me to California
Wishing I was invisible

“You still have options.”
The ugly word I still can’t say
“Do you want me to come in with you?”
Not wanting them to see

Now wanting to know
Pain
The nurse holding my hand
Loss
“We’re almost finished”
Anger and helplessness

Sadness and hopelessness
Not crying out so Mom wouldn’t hear
Wanting to die
Throwing up on the sidewalk
My sister sleeping next to me
“It’s all over now.”
Waking up empty
It would never be over
My sister's words:

“I’m expecting.”
My pain at her joy

Intensified guilt
Her taking me to school
Hugging me in the hall

Alone
Looking at the money I’d stolen from her purse
Knowing I was awful

Unforgivable
Knowing it didn’t matter 

Unfixable
Knowing there was nothing worse I could do

Unbearable
Buying as much coke as I could
Doing it all in the bathroom
Alone
The girl in the bathroom who asked if I was okay
“I don’t think I’ve ever been okay”
Lying in the grass at the park

Wishing I could

Just
Die
Throwing up the pills I took
Failing even at dying
So

Much

Emptiness

Billboards with unborn children
“A beating heart is a life”
A perfect baby that never was

My perfect daughter, when she was born

So many choices we have to make
How little choice I really had

All is in order.

Let go of your vanity.

You do not have the power you think you have.

If the creator of the universe does not want the world destroyed, 

do you have the power to destroy it? 

Does anyone?

If the world is meant to exist as it is, it will.

If it is not, it will evolve into what it is meant to become.

Others may choose to live in anger, greed and fear. 

They create their own hell, but you don’t have to live in it.

Trust.

Choose love and know all is in order.

All is always in order.

Nothing to Lose

            Not for the first time, I'm putting myself out in full sight, for your scrutiny. Here's a strange fact of my life.

Sometimes words, ideas and even whole passages appear in my mind. They don't seem to come from me. They come from somewhere else. 

I know. 

It's kind of hard to accept. 

It wasn't easy for me, either. For a long time I saw this as somewhere between odd and crazy. Even when a prophetic message undeniably came true in my life, I called it coincidence. But  after numerous signs and a whole lot of coincidences, I couldn't deny it any more. 
Sometimes I have thoughts that are not my own. Often, these are concepts that are new to me and sometimes they're difficult for me to grasp. I call them Universal Truth. 

I’ve come across some wonderful teachers in my life, including some who have also professed to have received knowledge that came from beyond their physical being. I'm very grateful to be privy to the gift of Universal Truth in their words. And, at times, I've also been disheartened when I've witnessed a shift in them. Some seem to move from, “I’m offering a possibility” to “I have the answer” and finally to “I am the answer.” 

But I don't believe hearing these truths makes one special. Universal Truth is there for the taking. It's there for anyone who’s listening. 
Sometimes, I’m listening. 
Sometimes the words pass through me, from somewhere beyond to my mind to my fingertips to the keys of my laptop and finally to the world’s shared brain which we refer to as the internet. When this happens, the sensations inside me— tingling awakeness, vibrant flowing energy—carry a potent rightness. Sharing these thoughts brings a rewarding sense of purpose and what seems to me to be a tangible intimate closeness with the Divine. I feel grateful for the messages and share them wherever there’s a willing ear—

Sometimes.

Other times I'm resistant and unwilling to listen.
Doesn't that seem strange? 

For a moment, accept with me the possibility that I actually hear messages that are... divinely given. Shouldn’t I be clamoring to write them down? Wouldn’t you think I’d be putting everything else aside to make certain I don’t lose a syllable?

Why do I find it so hard to stay with something that seems so important?
And even when I do become aware of a bit of this Universal Truth, and then choose to write it out, I sometimes feel the need to add something of my own. I mean, I'm doing it right now! 

Why? 

Why, when I wrote “Water Girl,” didn't I just write the conversation between Ella and her alter-ego - words which came to me in one whole piece - without first writing a thousand words to get there? And when I heard from two sources that the story was a little long, my human ego pulled up rage and grief and blame and fear—a clear sign that I was not on the right track. 

I can see that my human self wants to be able to take the credit. I want the story to be mine.  When someone says, “Wow,” I want to believe that their enthusiasm is directed at me. If I don't add anything to the pieces that seem to come from outside of me, how can I call them mine?

Isn't this the same trap I've seen others fall into? 

I know that's not what I want... but still I feel as if I deserve some recognition. If I write something and give it to the world, I should get something in return. Right? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? 

Something does not seem right, but I don't know what it is... so, in a clear voice I ask the Universe,
"Am I really supposed to give something for nothing?"

And I hear an answer.

You can’t own anything in this physical universe—including approval. Accountability is written on two sides of an archaic coin—acclaim on one side and blame on the other. When you understand there is only one being, you no longer need either.

Okay. I know. I've heard this before. But it's hard to imagine that I can't possess anything... When I try, I feel a great sadness... hopelessness... an intense feeling of emptiness. 

Emptiness is an illusion.

But if I have nothing... isn’t that emptiness? 

If you give someone money, or the shirt off your back, do you still have those things?

No! See... if I give someone what I have then I have less… 

What about when you give someone love?

This stops me. I put down my vigilant, confrontational ego and listen. 

You can’t possess anything in the physical world because you are already completely full of the only thing you need. 

You are made of love. 

You have believed that if you give something to another you have lost something of your own. 

But there is no other and every gift is love. 

Listen. 

Trust. 

Let it flow through you. 

You truly have nothing to lose. 

Seeds

I want to become

Who I’m meant to be

But the seed knows not the flower

So I must be open

To new understandings

To all possible notions

And even what I can’t imagine

Without hesitation

Uncertainty

Or distrust

I want to become

All I’m meant to be

But the seed knows not the flower

So I must be willing

To let go of everything

Every truth I think I know

Everything I think I own

Illusions of scarcity

Security

And control

I want to become

The ultimate me

But the seed knows not the flower

So I must be ready

To break free of this tiny shell

To push through life’s heavy burdens

Trusting that beyond their darkness

A life-giving light

With everything I need
Awaits

Home

I created this image today from a drawing I did last night, which I reworked in photoshop. I call it "Home."
For six years I've been working towards integration. An odd thing was happening, and I was somewhat aware of it but also somehow oblivious.

The pieces I've integrated that were eight years old or younger joined one aspect of me--an aspect I've been calling "the eight-year-old."
The piece I've integrated that were older have all joined another aspect of me--the one I simply think of as "me."

I say simply... but it is anything but.

These two remaining aspects of me have been battling recently--vying for the rights to all of me. I have really struggled recently, dissociating frequently when there has been almost no dissociation in my life for the last two years. I have felt a constant swarm of emotions and feel close to tears a good deal of the time.

I am responsible for myself. I am responsible for my happiness. If I'm unhappy than I am the one who needs to do something about it.

But who the hell am I??
One side blamed the other. Every bit of anxiety was proof that the other side was wrong. It's been approaching the ugliness and brutality of a presidential election...

Last night I finally gave in. When I say that, I mean both sides of me--all of me. I gave in to the fact that I have done all the right things to survive, and that without every part of who I've been I wouldn't have made it this far. The image above came into my mind. I closed my eyes and held up my hand--from both sides--and I felt the energy of the other
both sides of me felt the energy of the other.

I am moving towards that very uncomfortable part of integration in which I will feel two separate sets of emotions at the same time, in which I will think two separate stands of thoughts at once, in which the very confusing double motives and desires, likes and dislikes, will pull me in two ways at once. I've done it before. Both sides of me have lived through it before.

This time I think is the last. Accepting each other now is the final thing I have to do to become whole. I'm scared. I'm still fighting it just a little. From both sides, I feel a strong need to be in control. But... I don't really see any other way to move on with my life. We've shared this body all this time, so I guess it's time to share our mind, too. For a time I think it will be co-consciousness rather than true integration. Maybe it will always be that way. I can't really know from this side of the bridge what I'll find on the other side... but whatever happens, whatever this is... it feels like coming home.

What Does "Christ Consciousness" Mean to You?

Imagine you're a child in a schoolyard. You’re standing with a boy and a girl. The girl says, “This boy has a birthmark.”

“I do not!” the boy exclaims.

“Yes you do!” the girl throws back.

Maybe you say, “I don’t see a birthmark.”

The girl tells you, “That’s because it’s hidden under his clothes.”

What do you do now? Do you ask the boy yourself? Do you ask for proof that it isn’t there? Do you ask the girl how she knows about a hidden birthmark? Do you express indifference, saying what does it matter if someone has a birthmark?

No matter how you react to this situation, the possibility now exists for you that the boy may have a birthmark. It’s unlikely you ever considered the idea before, but now it is linked inside your head and this boy may pop up in your thoughts anytime you see someone with a birthmark.

It’s how our brains work. The more knowledge and experience we have, the better equipped we are to assimilate new information—BUT—the first thing we heard and learned carries a great deal more weight than those things that come later. If someone later told you the girl on the schoolyard was a liar, you might consider what she said to be false, but it’s likely you would have to hear from two or three people that the girl was prone to story-telling before you actually wrote the idea of the birthmark out of your mind.

If you grew up with Christ in your home, then you have a very distinct idea of what the word “Christ” symbolizes.

If you grew up without the word Christ in your home, but knew it to be a word others felt strongly about, then you may still have a very distinct—but different—idea of what the word symbolizes.

What if you (somehow) had never heard the word and had no idea what the religious or spiritual connotations might be? What if someone spoke to you of Christ Consciousness, and you could make it mean for you exactly what it meant for them?

For just this moment, try this experiment: Unravel the millions of times you’ve previously come across the word Christ. If you were hearing it for the first time, uttered in this phrase, “Christ Consciousness,” if the speaker had no power or intent to manipulate you, if your entire goal was to understand what the speaker actually meant by this term, what might it mean to you then?

To see this question on the original page and answer it, please visit Common-Voice - Expressing-The-Global-Awakening-Heart

Summer-Blue

Small and new to the world, she looked up and found that the sky was summer-blue. The brilliance of it took her breath away. 

Such a vibrant, living sky! 

She stared at it with wonder, knowing this was where she was meant to be. All day she played in the azure glow.

And then it was night and the sky grew cold and black. 

She went inside and closed the door against the longing, mourning the summer-blue.

A little bigger and a little less new, she opened the door. She took just one step beyond the door, but nowhere was the summer-blue. A vast storm covered the world, horizon to horizon.

Gray and swirling.

Anger rumbling.

A flash of terror!

She slammed the door.

But she remembered the summer-blue.

In dreams and reverie, the warm memory of the azure glow ached inside her.  She pushed it aside, aside, aside and then, one day, she opened the door again. She wasn't so brave as to step outside, but even from the doorway she saw no summer-blue. Instead, the sky was dressed in white, attended by a frigid wind. Snow swirled and blew so hard she could barely close the door to its frantic appeal.

This time she shuttered the windows, closing herself more securely in her safe little room. She painted the ceiling blue. This is the sky, she told herself. Here, it will never change. I will always be safe.

She closed her eyes and waited for the warmth of that still-remembered glow. When it didn't come, she became one with the ache and told herself there was nothing beyond the door.

She became an adult within the shuttered windows and a closed door. Even as the seasons passed, she was safe. Even as her inner sky yellowed and pealed around the edges, she was safe. Even as the longing grew, she was safe.

And desperately miserable.

And wondered why?

Wasn't her inner sky every bit as good as that distant memory?
Didn't she have everything she required to survive?

Wasn't this room with its perfectly shuttered windows and impenetrable door exactly what she needed?

“Outside isn’t safe,” she told herself. “I have blue right here. Right here in my safe little room.”

She scowled at the dull and lifeless ceiling and then at her own reflection growing 

Anger

Longing

Despair

And it filled her up and her misery grew and finally she said, “Fine!" She flung the door wide and stepped through her fear, through her gritted teeth, through her resolve. She walked through the cold and through the darkness and through the constant barrage of her own misleading mind and then she saw it.
Had it been there all along?
The sky was summer-blue. And she remembered 

Light

Warmth

Life

And fear.
Fear was the illusion that kept her safe and she was so afraid to see. Too afraid to know know the summer-blue. For knowing it was to risk a return of the cold and the dark and the painful wind.

She returned to her safe little room and closed the door, falling deep into her delusion of safety in the one place where nothing would ever truly be safe... in her own private and unidentified hell. 

Christmas Mourning

Painful growth... as I go through the past a piece at a time, I'm coming to finally release the last of my denial and see my mother's part in all of it. It's hard. She has always been the "good" parent. Yet, where was she when I needed her most?

I twisted my ankle Saturday night. When I mentioned this to my mother - a fall down the deck stairs and a sprained ankle - what do you suppose her response was?

She told me of her dinner plans with my brother.
That's it.
And the thing is, while I felt hurt, dismissed, unheard... I wasn't surprised. It was the catalyst for the grief I'm entering into.

I know - I've always known on some level - that her concern is really only with herself. Even her constant support of my father is selfish in that it is fed by her fear of abandonment.

When given a choice between my father and me, well... there's never been a choice. No matter what he was doing, she stood by as if the world was a perfect place and never said a word.

It is what she has not done that cuts the deepest, and her lack of compassion this weekend was the straw that broke the back of a camel called denial.


Christmas Mourning


The child wants
The child needs
And so the child must believe

Anticipated fancy’s flight
Pledges of a daybreak bright
Hope, a beacon in the night
That never sees the morning light

Hurt and fear and sorrow fade
Promises divert the pain
Longed-for wishes softly prayed
This time let it be okay

The child wants
The child needs
And so the child lives the dream

Words of comfort, Mother’s touch
Doesn’t really hurt so much
Her back is turned, her smile a bluff
It’s what she doesn’t do that’s rough

Keep dreaming child, suckling malaise
While mother seems to proffer grace
With offerings prepared in haste
To keep the world’s eyes from your face

The child wants
The child needs
Watch closely and you’ll see her bleed

Cold as wintry blizzard drifts
Are Christmas morning’s promised gifts
And foiled and failed family trips
Bring about another shift

Mother’s eyes are vacant holes
As empty as the child’s soul
As the fractured walls explode
What does she have; what can she hold?

The child wants
The child needs
The child is grown and she is me

The pretty ribbon’s ripped and cut
The wrapping paper's torn apart
The open box, my fissured heart
At hope's end I must learn to start

Like storefront gifts on Christmas morn
Disguised, empty, and timeworn
True concern and care, stillborn
So sad there’s nothing there to mourn

An Awareness Award

I received an award from Katie at Sharing Our Spaces. This is an Awareness Award, which makes it very special to me. If there is one word that could sum up all that I’ve achieved in the last few years, awareness would be it. Along with the award, Katie created this lovely image:

And asked this question:
What does awareness mean to you?

Here is my answer:

Awareness is what is needed to be active in my life.

In the past, there was a bubbling undercurrent of feelings and lost memories that swayed every stroke of my brush as I painted my life. If I was asked what I wanted, felt, thought, preferred, I would be stuck for an answer. A blank space would appear on my canvas and I would quickly cover it with the black. I didn’t want anyone to know about the blankness inside me. I didn’t want to know it, myself.

By facing that darkness, by seeing the roiling feelings and thoughts and pulling those memories out of the black hole inside me, I have learned who I am. I have learned that those things that happened to me as a child do not have to define who I am today. I have begun to understand why I have been who I’ve been, behaved as I have, and how to move forward in an active way.

Without awareness, I lived reactively. Everything I did was a reaction to the past. By living reactively, there really was nothing of me in my life. My focus was still on people from the past. My entire life revolved around the powerful and passionate desires left by a childhood in which I didn’t get what I needed most.

Awareness is knowing where I’ve been, who I am and what I am capable of in the future.
I don’t want to live my life reacting to the past. I want to smile when I’m asked for my opinion and actually have an opinion to express. I want the portrait of my life to look like me, the real me, and I want to be able to love what I see on that canvas.
I want to be active in my own life and today, I am.

Thank you Katie, for the award and for being you.

I would like to pass this award on to Gail at Know Your Its
And Middle Child at Anybody Listening?

Congratulations!

Here is the award:

Please paste it on your website to accept the award and then answer the question, “What does awareness mean to me?”