The light is on in the corner, blinking rhythmically. The light in front of me is steady; it keeps the blinking light from becoming irritating. I would change the bulb, but that would require a trip to the grocery store and for the moment, I am ill prepared to walk out of my house. I have yet to brush my teeth and I fear the sunshine would sting. Sunshine and I have a weird relationship. I know it is beautiful and fresh, but I don’t care for it soaking into my skin. I prefer the warmth coming from the concrete, waking my soles.
As a kid, I loved the sun. I spent a great amount of time outside and bare foot, running in the grass just for the sake of motion. I am white, but I was so tan that I looked either Hispanic or Native American, my features tentative, but with a ready smile. I climbed trees, picked their leaves creating fall as I let them slip through my fingers. I brought pans from the kitchen and made mud with water from the hose and dirt. From the mud, I shaped little mud men and women, placed them on chairs I created from grass and let them dry in the sun. Once dry, I dressed them in strips of white cotton that had been torn from an old sheet.
Light then seemed always outside of myself. I didn’t mind because I unconsciously radiated. Now, as I am fifty-two, I am glad I sense the light within, the light that holds fast to my soul allowing me to breathe in love and exhale love. Spirit is good to me. Spirit allows me to stand tall in the warmth of the world, recognizing that all is not violent outside of my body. The world is a violent place, but not always. There are always moments of bright light even in a dim hall. Eventually, I will walk out of the house today, knowing the sun won’t burn me, knowing that light is lighter than dark, but not fearing the depth that dark might play. I shine; for this I am grateful
I had a friend pick a Cala Lily from a stranger’s garden. The stranger, a woman with short spiky hair, opened her door as if she had been waiting for someone to do just that. She screamed at my friend; her voice bouncing off my friend’s blouse. My friend and I took off running. We didn’t stop until we got to the porch of her home. The Cala Lily remained intact. She put it into a beautiful, single flower, blue vase. I thought, bad karma. This flower is going to bring the he-be-jeebies to my friend. Her dog sniffed the air and knew this to be fact. She might burn her dinner, or worse yet, have a stinky man in plaid knock on her door begging money. If this be the case, I urged her to pay the man his asking price. This would right her karma.
I get paranoid–I’ll admit it. And filled with worries. Upon leaving the library’s parking lot, I cut off a woman who wanted to walk in from of my 4-runner. Bad karma. She knows where I park and could easily do damage to my vehicle. I imagined leaving work to find my truck’s tires slashed. Since then, I have allowed several pedestrians to walk in front of my truck, not having to break their stride in an attempt to right my karma.
True paranoia is me thinking the government has picked my ticket and are on their way to get me. They will use me rather than a rat to experiment with different kinds of shampoos and cosmetics. They will keep me in a cell, water me down when I smell, and feed me apricots. Only after watering me down, will they test deodorant on my skin. I will be released and return home after my teeth have rotted from unmarketable toothpaste.
I think the docs refer to this as delusional thinking. It doesn’t make what I think any less real. A delusion is a false belief I believe to be true to the core of my being. My medications work so well that I do have reprieves from this kind of thinking. Worry will leave me if I deep breath and allow Spirit to attach herself to God. Shadow bickers with Spirit at times, but Spirit is the stronger of the two.
You know when you’re sitting on the toilet in a stall in the ladies room how you can see the feet of the person in the adjoining stall? Yesterday, I saw the feet and they were dangling. Adult size feet, in glittery sandals with frosted toes; an adult dangling.
I’ve been six feet tall ever since the age of thirteen. I don’t remember my feet ever dangling, although they must have when I was five. How does one feel grounded while using the restroom if their feet are swinging free? A restroom can be a very private place. Sacred even. The hand washing at the end seals the experience.
My daily life is filled with sacred moments. I simply need to pay attention. I need to have the desire to know the sacred. The air conditioning shuts off. It is silent in my home. This is sacred. My cats sleep butt up against me. Sacred. Water springs from the tap. Sacred. I have no wants today. Sacred.
Armed with a keyboard, I can say anything I want. There must be something sacred about this. Certainly, the keyboard can be used to abuse. I could be one to write hate. To write vile. To write evil. I am capable of presenting those things. I choose not too. My spirit trumps my shadow.
How do I go from dangling feet to spirit and shadow? I have no real idea. This is the magic of writing; seeing what pops up or doesn’t. And this fact has been stated over and over again. I am one of many. I like thinking of the company I keep. I appear isolated in my endeavor. This is false. Millions of people around the world are writing right now. I tap into that energy and soar. It has been good to sit in this chair of mine. I am kept from my chair because of procrastination and fear. What bad things can happen? I write something boring or over write my welcome. Small price to pay for effort.
Looking out the window, the bushes are still. No wind today. I am vulnerable because of no drapes. This I don’t mind. I am vulnerable in my writing. This I don’t mind either.
I am the only living, breathing presence in my home. Guy and the two little dogs are in Venice Beach, California. It feels quite strange; a frame that has lost its picture of a moon settling low in the sky. There is a pocket of lift to see by, but the pocket is diminished. Only a still mind seeking the present will carry a person through to the next morning of brilliant light.
All things considered, I am faring well. It has been a long time since I’ve lived alone. I am living alone for a month. I am five days into the month and it won’t surprise me if Guy stays longer. He will be there as long as work keeps him there.
So today, as a woman alone in her home, I will seek comfort from the blue walls that surround me and the ever present feeling of Spirit. The truth is that I am only alone as I want to be. I can either set aside time to meet a friend or more importantly, marvel in the sense that all is right with my life. A bird just hit the window outside my study and bounced off. I too, can be that resilient. There are many ways to be in the world–four quarters make a dollar as does one hundred pennies, ten dimes, or twenty nickels. Currently, I am the paper dollar–a little frayed around the edges but still capable of buying two chocolate eggs.
I have no idea what to blog today. But isn’t it true that being nowhere is a great place to start? The light is on in the corner, blinking to a rhythm not even the little dogs can hear. The light in front of me is steady; it keeps the blinking light from becoming irritating. I would change the bulb, but that would require a trip to the grocery store and for the moment, I am ill prepared to walk out of my house. I have yet to brush my teeth and I fear the sunshine would sting. Sunshine and I have a weird relationship. I know it is beautiful and fresh, but I don’t care for it soaking into my skin. I prefer the warmth coming from the concrete, waking my soles; my shoes the only thing preventing me from acquiring blisters.
As a kid, I loved the sun. I spent a great amount of time outside and bare foot running in the grass just for the sake of motion. I am white, but I was so tan that I looked either hispanic or native american, my features tentative, but with a ready smile. Light then seemed always outside of myself. I didn’t mind because I unconsciously radiated. Now, as I near fifty, I am glad to sense the light within in, the light that holds fast to my soul allowing me to breath in love and exhale love. As I write this I think, how corny. But Spirit is so good to me. Spirit allows me to stand tall in the warmth of the world, recognizing that all is not violent outside of my body. The world is a violent place but not always; there is always moments of light even in a dim hall when one door opens. I will walk out of the house today, knowing that the sun won’t burn me, knowing that light is lighter than dark, but not fearing the depth that dark might play. I shine; for this I am grateful.
Thank you for your readership.
I just finished a book called Waiting, by Marya Hornbacher. It is a Nonbeliever’s higher power. In other words, Marya is an atheist with an amazing belief in the spiritual. I am not an atheist, but I found the book to be really engaging, and as I said, spiritual. It helped me understand my atheist friend a little more, and my friend is absolutely one of the most spiritual people I know.
Excerpt from book 2, currently untitled–
The gray is slipping from my mind. I have yet to jump into the pool in my dream. My sleep is disturbed by the call of the psych tech announcing medication time. It is morning. The Haldol caused me to sleep through the night. I wake as if there are dimes on my eyeballs and gravel in my mouth. The gravel tastes of mint. I have no idea why. Mouth wash is not allowed on the unit because of its alcohol content. I wish to go back to the pantry of my mind. Instead, I am forced to stand. Spirit pushes me out of bed. All days to Spirit are moments of possibility to meet God. Spirit promises to take me with her. We will one day meet God together. In the meantime, I can pray for vision.
Thank you for your readership.