Category Archives: spiritual realm

Pioneers of Change

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are not my beautiful words but those of Sophie Bashford; intuitive, spiritual writer and blogger.  

You may find her at her website, Facebook and Twitter

 

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Pioneers of Change

Carving out new ways of being, of living, of loving, of creating, of working – this is what pioneers do.

Pioneers of change are rare because at some point, they always have to stop caring about what others think of them. They have to risk possible disapproval from others, because a part of creating freedom is being free to follow your own inner guidance, regardless of what it brings up for other people.

As you bring in new consciousness, you reach down deep – deeper than you ever believed was possible – and haul out the ancient treasure, the old wisdom, the cosmic truths, the wild and untamed instinct. This may sound easy, but many who have eschewed the familiar, domesticated, soul-restrained, heart-numbed paths will tell you that it is not.

It takes enormous, usually daily or even hourly, courage to stand apart from the herd and assert the newness, the shining fresh-air, the less-understood rhythms of Life and Universe.

Make no mistake, every single pioneer that you look up to, have learned from, take spiritual succour from, recognise as having blazed a trail for you to follow: every single person who changes vibration and consciousness has had to endure sometimes agonising inner and outer transformations and dark nights of the soul.

They wouldn’t be able to hold the energy they do if this was not the case.

If you wish to rise up and grow into your Soul’s Light, realise your spiritual destiny and make a difference here, you must know that the darker times are vital in order to build your sacred muscles.

When you look back on all your times of loneliness and alienation, confusion, insecurity, lostness, and intense fear at bringing the spiritual light of you out to be seen, and used as the Universe desires – you will come to see that this is the process of a pioneer.

When you are waking up to the truth of your destiny, you have to be plunged into the sacred fires of purification and oceanic depths of the Unknown. Many, many people will not understand why you are changing so much, why you are choosing this path, why you are speaking out, and why you have to stand alone in many ways in order to purify yourself from the mass conditioned mind.

True pioneers have to make hard choices about their lives.

No-one else can do it for them.

If this is you, then you have what it takes. You were designed for it. Not everyone will like, or approve of it. In many ways, that is a sign that you are doing it perfectly.

No-one who ever created the New, did so without determination, perseverance, patience, and extreme – though perhaps hidden – levels of courage.

They were all scared. They just carried on and did it in spite of the fear.

They didn’t wait for another day.

They did something that their Souls craved and yearned for – even if it terrified them, especially if it did – they did it today.

And thus they were lifted, deeply supported and touched the hearts and souls of the world.

 

 


she is meeting herself in unknown ways….

Losing herself more often...These are not my words, although they represent me well.  A wisewoman wrote them, one I’ve recently stumbled upon quite serendipitiously, describing my mystic journey this summer.  As I read this passage, I felt she must have been present in some way to know that I’ve been losing track of time, losing my ability to remain grounded.

My absorption in the knowing of myself stretched out through most of the summer.  It was during this time that I had few words outside of my mind and heart.  My need for solitude became greater than before and I sought it for nourishment and enlightenment.

Thank you to the universe for bringing these words to me during a time when I needed them the most.  Thank you for allowing me to use your words when I had no words present.  Thank you for manifesting this healing concept in my world.

At some point during my summer of secret travels, they appeared with this image and I give credit to Sukhvinder Sircar for their origination.  For more of her beautiful writings and images, visit her blog, Joyous Woman! and find her on Facebook.

Nowadays, she is often losing track of time, day, week and month. Her absorption in the moment, in her work, her art, her prayer is getting deeper. She is beginning to ‘lose time’.  When she arrives back from her secret travels, she says ~ ‘I don’t know where I went’.  Yet she knows she was in a zone where everything already exists.

Some day, when you chance upon such a woman who is deeply absorbed and ask her ‘who are you?’, chances are you may see a knowing coupled with a blank expression. There are no words yet to her knowing.

Sometimes she worries about going missing. Yet loves the sweetness of loosing herself. The more absent she is, the more present she gets. 

She’s meeting herself in unknown ways.

*Sukhvinder Sircar*


would i still be a part of your world…

There is a huge conflict going on inside of me, one that I’ve been denying on many levels for months now.

The anxiety is so huge that there isn’t enough medication, alcohol, or busyness to tame it.  There is a world that beckons me, one that I can’t/won’t/don’t know how to become one with.  Its there in my dreams, its there in my waking thoughts and with me throughout my day, no matter who I’m talking to or what activity I’m attempting  to do.  I smell things when no one else does.  I see shadows out of my periphery constantly.  Any random person’s energy can send me all over the place, reducing me to tears in minutes or set my heart singing with joy.  There are times when I am certain that I am going crazy or are at least partly there already.

Phrases keep cycling through my mind and shadowing my daily activities.  Undoubtedly put there by my higher power, a scrolling ticker-tape message…                           “you are afraid of your spiritual gifts“….“let go and receive”  

Does one really hear sentences from the divine?  Do messages come through like that really?  Complete sentences plopped into your thinking?  Does the divine feel a relentless yet benevolent desire to alert a person to their gifts or journey in a way that they won’t let up for anything?  And more importantly, does a physical body become ill when you don’t live according to your true destiny and path?

The messages coming through the natural world are increasing too.  More hawks swooping over me. Deer peeking out of the bushes when I’m in silent meditation.  Hummingbirds hovering in front of me and looking me in the eye.  Coyotes howling… all grab my attention immediately but what are they saying?  What is with this barrage of information?  I get that its the cosmic “Hey, look at me” but to what?  What am I supposed to get that I’m NOT getting?

I’ve accepted the label of “emotionally sensitive” given to me by therapists, immediate family, friends and those in the healing and mystical arts.  I can live with that.  But even that label is seriously understated.

I now know and acknowledge that I feel things 1000 percent harder than most, maybe more.  It can be a wonderful yet paralyzing gift if there is no one to show or explain to you about the enormity of the feeling you are having.  My world rocks like I’m on a ship being cast about at sea.  I seek answers from those around me and my closest friends get weird questions from me all the time.  Did you feel that person’s sadness/fear/joy?  Do you smell a campfire/skunk/Old Spice/beauty salon smell/cigars, etc?  Or, we need to leave this place, the energy is choking/suffocating/heavy with sadness.  My poor husband and daughter are used to it but frankly, we’ve all thought I’m about to teeter over the edge at times.

But the thought that brings one of my biggest sense of fear and can immediately send me into an anxiety attack of epic proportion is…Will I be totally ostracized when I allow myself to succumb to this beautiful, alternative, spiritual world?

Our media driven-pop culture-capitalist worshipping world we live in is dictated by norms….outward appearance, job, which church one attends(not if), the house one lives in.  I don’t find our world to be a place where our gentleness is admired, where one looks at your heart first, a greeting to inquire of whether you have a spiritual practice or how do you find your peace.

Apparently, I am looking for that place as much as it is looking for me.  But I know I’m still blocking it somehow, wondering and feeling deep anguish over this one central thought.

Would I still be a part of your world if I allowed myself to be fully who I am?   Authentically, beautifully and blissfully weird?

Recommended Links:  Let your freak flag fly….http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ruthless-Compassion-Institute/121541431101


PAY ATTENTION

she is lost again.

and i’m the only one she can speak through.  i am her voice and her vessel.  i carry her and speak for her.

hurled into the swirling spiral by the Dreamtime, no earthly choice just the mystical presence that puts her in that place between worlds.

the animals were there again: bear, turtle, owl, wolf, skunk.  each bringing a forceful message of  PAY ATTENTION! to the signs we give you.

she frantically hurled herself through the streets of this in-between world, trying to speak to strangers but her words weren’t understood, her language was foreign to each passerby, she couldn’t hear them either no matter how hard she concentrated and tried, though their mouths moved, the roaring in her head didn’t let their sound in.

the bear appeared growling, reared up on its hind legs and she quickly changed her path.

the skunk met her at another intersection to quickly alert her of its reputation and she turned and fled again.

she flopped in a grassy spot under a tree to rest, to find herself, wanting the path toward home. she felt her body relax until the wolf’s howl pierced the night and snapped her back into alertness.  PAY ATTENTION!

next to her she sees the spotted arc of turtle’s back and reached for her.  to her horror, the turtle shell cracked in half revealing the soft underbelly of the creature inside.  the girl knew instantly that she hadn’t been protecting herself.  she wept for her and blessed the turtle for its gift, sending her home to the Mother.

the cracked shell…a message…from the in-between….PAY ATTENTION!

leaning against the tree, she closed her eyes and was transported to the sacred spiral again. this time landing on a beautiful, gilded carousel.  eyes wide shut, she feels the hard, unyielding exterior that she had wrapped her small arms around.  she feels its slow, mechanical bobbing, resting her head upon its plastic mane willing herself to open her eyes.

finding courage to peer out through the spinning of the carousel, she spotted familiar faces in the surrounding crowd .  her sister, her mother, her husband and daughter.  each of them slightly turned so as to not meet her eyes, almost with their back to her.  they know her but wish they didn’t. they don’t like her when she’s in-between worlds.

spinning. swirling. bobbing.

then…all noise stopped in her head. silence. purposeful quiet. so the sounds coming through can be heard clearly and distinctly.

first a faint groan, followed by the slightest pop.  then picking up speed, the cascade of

splintering

SPLINTERING

SPLINTERING  the air.

the tree that stands alone in the forest, heavy with age and stress, fulfilling its time and finally surrendering to gravity.  the crescendo ending in a deafening thud as it has just split itself in half.

PAY ATTENTION!

she snaps back again. back to the carousel.

under her she feels the surface turn warm and pliable. energy radiating, coming to life.

living

breathing

snorting horse breaks the shackles around its legs and she grabs on tight.  unsteady at first, she synchronizes to its rhythm.

fear turns to joy.  heartbreak falls away. 

she feels the wind on her face as horse gallops her through the people, through the fields, to the ocean.

free. alive. wild. joy.

leaving all the people behind, leaving the in-between, she doesn’t look back.


changing love…

Like running water, changing love finds its way past obstacles. Freezing it in place makes it fragile, rigid, and all too likely to shatter.

 –Martha Beck, How to Know It’s Real Love

I’m gonna keep this simple today.

I like to think  that being grateful for the vast array of coping tools has created a fortuitous space for another tool to come my way.  I’ve subscribed to Martha Beck‘s daily quotes for a while now, but have just in the last month taken the time to read her books.  I’m barely 50 pages in to the first one and I can already tell I’ve found a new friend.  Her books will be on my bookshelf and her tools will be in my purple tool bag in addition to the many fabulous people, animals, resources, books and music that have so serendipitously plopped in my lap.

My own emotions are tough enough to manage but when I smack against someone else’s confused and erratic energy, that is the ultimate challenge.  Especially if its someone I dearly love.

The complexity of my past and present propel me into an instant state of frozen terror. I’d barely read her quote, as in minutes before, when my daughter arrived, confused and frustrated. So keeping the focus on myself, the DBT  kicked in and immediately sensing the tension in my body, the frozen stance, I frantically begin to observe, describe and participate….3 biggies from the DBT world.  It worked or at least its working.  I’m not frozen, perhaps a bit off center but not too far gone that I won’t recover soon.

I sit in awe of the masters that surround me and say a quick prayer with gratitude in my heart.  It feels so good to know that love can find its way past obstacles.  We aren’t static, we aren’t frozen, we aren’t shackled to the patterns of the past.

Relief washes over me as I realize for a brief and fleeting moment what true hope feels like.



drowning kittens

Kitten Love

i scare myself alot when i remember too hard or too much.  i would prefer that i see tapes of waltons mountain or disney movies played across the insides of my eyelids but instead i see roaches crawling out my skin or shadows of a fiendish demon child.  this particular one drowns kittens.  so removed from her beautiful gentle soul, she finds a litter of kittens recently swept away from their mother by a powerful rain storm and attempts to hold them under the water until their eyes pop out and they stop struggling.

i watch myself as i fade back and forth from me to the one watching me.  the ground is soggy and full as i walk across the yard, puddles everywhere, my shoes are already full and the water up to my mid calf.  i hear the kittens before i see them and make gestures toward saving them, plodding toward them, hearing their tiny mewing, no mother in sight.  i’m suddenly impacted with what they feel; lost, too small to make it on their own, disoriented from recent events.  i gather them up in my dress holding them close and think about starting back toward the farmhouse.

i stop and look back over my shoulder for several reasons.

i couldn’t be more than 4 and yet i’m out here far from the house and no one notices.  for a brief moment i’m wondering if i am in trouble for being gone too long or too far.  yet i remind myself again that i am invisible.  its not a new feeling; one that will continue through adulthood;  i will always remain invisible to my family.  for one to be noticed, one would have to see or have vision, and neither of those characteristics my family possesses.  to put it another way, more accurately, children are simply livestock; at least in my world they were.

stripped of any unique characteristics of our personhood ,we got fed and clothed.  then the adults waited for us to grow up to become worthwhile in terms of our service to them.  time couldn’t be wasted on companionship, reading, learning, talking; our worth was determined by the chores we do, meals we prepare, amount of vegetables picked from the garden, or for our bodies given to the men for their lowly and despicable gratification.  for generations, this family has failed to make any movement from even the base level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs; its been this way always.

the shadow clouds my memory here, the heaviness spreading across my eyes leaving me with the quick, kick in the gut feeling of a memory so painful that my conscious just erases it.  selectively my brain intuits the bad information and the door slams shut. i suspect the little girl feels the kittens have no future without their mother and death seems the humane option.  the child’s reasoning is black and white only; no mother for love and protection equals pain.  death is preferred over that fate.  as an adult, it is so difficult to hold and speak for this tortured child whose brain has been forced to cope more in the dark side than the light and cannot see options other than provided by the ignorant.  her act of drowning the animals was a merciful one meant to relieve the inevitable suffering.  and even though her sweet gentle soul has already been splintered into a million tiny shards, she is unyielding.  she won’t stop sending messages through the mundane or the divine to get the help she needs to achieve grace for her broken soul; this lifetime or the next twenty, it doesn’t matter.  and that’s what i’m here for; to put us back together and stop this insane cycle.

i snap back and i’m holding a kitten under the water in the deep puddle.  it struggles with all its might, scratching my small hands and writhing for air.  i watch myself bear down on it harder and push down further, seeing small red lines appear on the backs of my hands, listening to the other kittens mewing hysterically.  i feel nothing.  absolutely nothing.  i should but i don’t.  i want to vomit while i write this because it isn’t me, not really me but yet it is and this is my attempt to let her tell her most awful secrets.  now she gets to say that things happened to her that made her do awful things that she so desperately wants forgiveness for, to be entirely heard and understood.  i will let her tell her story to me and i’ll repeat it for you.  i was and still am her host.  she lives within me.  her hands are my hands and we did this together, we tried to drown kittens. she must say it over and over because to know what it would take for a little girl to be so spiritually devoid of feeling, because the men continue to leave her in such intense pain that her brain splits only to return to take the tiny innocent creature to its death, making it part of the cycle of pain and relief.   i’m gone again.

my sister slaps me across the face and grabs the kitten from my hands.  i’m glad.  i look up at her with my face burning but am still glad, the hot pain of the slap is so insignificant.  the kitten is saved and for this one moment there is a presence out there who is monitoring us.  my sister in on guard and taking action.  not sure how she got there, but feel that i can rely on her for the moment to carry us through this.  she is so angry and annoyed with me but i don’t care, it doesn’t matter what she feels toward me as long as she continues stay present as i attempt to make sense out of me coming and going in the hellish existence of my brain.  i realize that my clothes are soaked and i’m shivering from the cold but still no one notices. my small shaking body are of no consequence but i do have the presence of mind to consider that i might be yelled at for adding to the laundry pile should i decide to change from my wet clothes.

my sister has the kittens wrapped in a blanket and is attempting to feed them some milk.  she will do this for weeks until they grow strong and able to make it on their own.  i join her in warming them and feel a strange spark of compassion that keeps me present while i nurture the feeling of wanting them to live.  i’m shaken to the core at the gigantic swing of my emotions; from dead and unfeeling to sobbing for them to live.  my actions are coming back to me, washing over me in hot waves and i begin the familiar routine of hating myself.  the heaviness is here, the type that comes from emotion so exhaustingly polar that i feel the sudden need for sleep.


where are you God?

August 8, 2011….This is the thing about recovering memories from a past trauma, a secret life buried so deep that you not only fail to recognize its existence, you remain unaware of its power;  that it manipulates and deceives you, seducing, coaxing until it seizes your being and pulls you into a blackness that you think must be insanity.  There are no explanations, your family, doctors or even God doesn’t respond with any help.

At least that’s what I thought for a very long time.  All the while, my angels were diligently hovering, singing, sending animals and people and love to help crack away the hardened evil shell that covered my soul and eventually after many years of desperate prayer and sitting with my soul contemplating whether to end the pain today or try to find hope for one more hour, one more afternoon, one more night…the memories and my past started to come back.

I wanted a full length, epic movie complete with sequels.  What I got was a dark room with a split second pop of a old fashioned camera with a flash cube.  What I saw during that moment of  illumination was what I had to work with for the next few weeks or months until the next illumination was given to me.  This pace is determined by the benevolent goddesses who have lovingly gotten me this far in this journey, their divine energy knowing when to present more information and when to withhold, leaving no room for the earthly human impatience and grandiose demands.

Then soon I was given the dimension of feeling.  If I paid close enough attention, sensations and feelings would wash over me at different times, with different people, in various types of lighting and times of day.  In the most humbling of ways, I became aware that the information was there for me to gather and interpret and as soon as I ceased to think that it would only come to me in one way, the sooner I could take a step closer to the truth.


surviving is my life’s work…

march 7, 2011

surviving is my life’s work.  thriving is my life’s goal.

it is what i do, my day, my life is spent in every way possible to rid my body and my psyche of the wounds of of violence, betrayal and daily torture. imminent death was always around the corner, three times that i recollect right now. i didn’t know that kids didn’t grow up like i did until i was older and actually had contact with the outside world.  i’m thinking probably high school at some random athletic event where our dump of a town would meet up with another small town to match our team against theirs.  i’m comparing notes the entire time, assessing and noting the behaviors of their best and brightest so i can compare against myself and my peers.  once i had concluded the fact that my growing up wasn’t the healthiest way around and that my environment sucked,  it became my mission to change that.  it gave me a goal, a drive, something to work toward instead of stagnating in that cesspool of a town.

i was born in ignorance, poverty, rampant incest.  after spent a good part of my adolescence and beyond being pissed for even being put there which i did, i spent a lot of time medicating my anger with alcohol, pot and white cross cursing the universe and god and the goddess and whoever else was responsible for putting me in this hellhole.  obstacles were everywhere, relief was nowhere…my beautiful, insightful thoughts could be interrupted in a flash by me walking outside for some sun to find my 300 pound brother, flipping out his partial plate of dentures for inspection and swatting flies.  oh yeah, he had a cigarette in the ashtray on the picnic table where he parked his fat ass with a cup of coffee that my mother made him.  oh yeah, he’s almost forty years old.  what the hell is he doing here?  why isn’t he working or living somewhere else, that is a whole nother chapter.

i craved intelligent life forms, people who read, who thought, who did the right thing, those who made a life around taking care of their bodies and health and families, i willed them to come to me, relying on the sheer desperate hope that life had to be better and there was something out there that could show me what better looked like.  i searched everywhere for the new life forms and while it took me a while to find them, i finally did.

i spent every minute like a hypervigiliant animal protecting its nest, with my eyes catching every behavior, every response, down the littlest detail so that i could review it later and file it away in its proper category.  i was margaret mead, i was jane goodall, i studied the apes and their idiosyncracies but it just so happens that they were my parents and siblings, not monkeys. i knew that i was tense and unhappy but so was everyone.  i modeled and lived my life like i  watched the elders live theirs, in a state of blank, empty dudgery.  they walked in their sleep through chores that had to be done, animals that had to be fed, social obligations that needed a covered dish.  we would all attend, stay our allotted time, eat, clean up and start packing up.  it was almost customary in my family to know when you were leaving an event before you even got there.  it was like a rote, mindless church service, the minister opens the doors, pray, sermon, sing, pray, leave.  quick, no frills, no room for creativity, just done, check it off the list and trudge to the next thing. the rare exception to the blankness was the occasional and poorly disguised sexual innuendo, reference to getting drunk or having been drunk, or a piece of gossip that encompassed both.  it was then that i saw some flicker of personality, albeit freaky and unhealthy, but it it blipped off the radar when it happened and certainly got my attention.

unfortunately because i wasn’t a seasoned researcher, my data was accurate but my conclusions erroneous.  i came to believe that engaging in drinking, carousing, sexual activity, getting high was the answer, the outlet, my salvation.  for it provided an opposite and polar action to the numb, blankness of the holy and meek.  acting out became my religion, and rightfully so, it provided an outlet, i could be noisy and rowdy,  spewing all the angst that i felt from years of torture and assault on my soul.  now i know it wasn’t healing but it was at least movement.


singing

It wasn’t until I was in my 50’s that I realized the devastating and insidious effects that my family’s incest and sexual abuse had on me.  I know that sounds obvious but it isn’t always. When the trauma is there from the beginning, one can’t differentiate.  Perhaps an adult with perspective and knowledge can but a child can’t.  I do, however remember always having an innate connection to myself, a survival mechanism of sorts, a way to cope. Going inside myself so deep was the safest place that I had.  I spent hours talking to myself and my imaginary friends, making up stories and acting them out.

Sometimes I sang.  Singing wasn’t at all my first choice of coping because it drew attention and my goal was to be invisible, to stay in the safety of my self.  Even at 5 years old, I knew this.

In the evening, our black and white television flickered images of  the homeless people of our generation called hobos.  In my mind, they were sad, unattached folks who hopped trains and ate out of cans beside campfires. I found  their trademark stick tied with cloth as well as their lives, fascinating. Secretly I would practice the hobo knots, planning my escape, devising what belongings I would fit into my stick suitcase to look like the ones the hobos carried on TV.

With stick in hand, I would take my blanket to the front yard to sit and wait for a family, any family, to come and get me.  I have made the decision that I  am willing to leave my own for something better and  quickly dismiss the sharp pang of separation I feel for my mother. I will sit here for hours if necessary, my dog sits with me while we wait.  She too, hopes that I am successful.

The words echo in my head of the men telling me how pretty I am.  If this is true, then the new family that drives by and rescues me will see this instead of the despicable creature that I feel I am.  I will use my prettiness to make myself desirable enough for someone to take me away.  I am packed and prepared to leave.

I am ready to call attention to myself and be noticed. I clear my throat, swallow my fear and start singing.


divorced from my family

Just like any living breathing  organism, our relationship has suffered the ill effects of neglect and deep wounds.  There is so much history that no one wants to really look at it, it is a disease process so entrenched and progressed that my family would rather resign to its death than to fight for eventual health.

It is so sad for me to look at this, it tears at my heart.  Most members have given up completely, trudging through their days looking desperately for someone to fill them or give them a moments joy.  This is how I have lived most of my life until I stepped out of the dance.  Until finally I am free of the cult.  That thinking doesn’t rule me anymore. It wants to though, it taunts me daily until I almost am admitted as a psychiatric patient.

But so far, I have won.  My soul that has persisted this long still glows in there somewhere, sometimes faint, sometimes singing and strong.  Today is better than yesterday.  Do I miss my family?  You bet.  I have missed them for years, crying distantly for them, wishing they cared enough to call during my 7 year illness.  The only calls come as updates to their daily affairs.  New baby’s here. Coming to the wedding?  Saw an old friend at the market and they said hi.  Someone I am supposed to have remembered from the old, dying town has died.  These are the things to which our relationship is based.  It is shallow, empty, superficial and hollow.  Its hollowness echoes deep and resounding within me, absolutely unnerving me.  Am I the only one who hears it?  I guess I am.  Sometimes I think that they hear, it flashed across their face as a sign of life and hope and then its gone.  I am family but not the kind of  daily reminder that they want around.  Too strong. Too intense. Too knowing.

I will leave them in their denial, it is a good place for them and a bad place for me.  I will stop going to the proverbial dried up well for water.  I will stop hoping for change. But these are my people, our blood is the same, they were my first memories, they are imprinted on my psyche so deep. They inhabit my dreams of the past but I will not let them inhabit my recovery and future.  How I wish one of them would join me, learn my language, ease my pain of being without a family, let me see what it is like to have a loved one choose life.  But I have resigned myself otherwise, found the beginnings of a sense of peace. Just like the woman who finally realizes that her wayward husband doesn’t look at her directly anymore, doesn’t smile when she enters the room, who is distracted when she speaks.  Just like that woman, I know when done is done.


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