Okay … let’s do this thing… Shouldn’t be hard right… just write and write and write and get it done. Heh. Yah. Right. Still the I don’t wanna do anything tune. Though I allowed myself to stay in bed as long as I want and by 10 I was up. Funny how that works. Funny funny. Ha ha. Yah. I wish we had a beach here. A real long sandy beach that I can swim on. A beach I can spend all day at if I want to. That’s what I really need. A tropical beach. I want to go to a tropical beach.
When we were at the sea lions cave there was a huge dolphin made out of drift wood at the door. It was so beautiful and it was life size. I held on to it and pretended to swim with it. It was a great great feeling. The smoothness of the wood which reminded me of what the soft velvety dolphin skin would feel like. I ‘ve never touched a dolphin but I know what they feel like. Swimming with dolphins is freedom. It is the recapturing of my childhood. It is the reclaiming of my ocean body. The ritual of water against human with fish. Motherhood. Salt water flowing. Wet suits. Like tears. What am I saying ? Why does it feel like so much work to begin things ? In beginnings, there is the dawn of possibility, anything is possible. Creation. Completion. Transition.
Beginnings are fresh and furious. In beginning things, I create myself. The very thing I have been rejecting. No wonder. But it doesn’t have to feel like work. It doesn’t have to be judged, criticized, scrutinized. It doesn’t have to be a constant battle this life. It doesn’t have to. To feel safe no matter what, where and with whoever. That is freedom. Yesterday during therapy , Jeanette said : “freedom, freedom, FREEDOM –my name here- !!! That’s what you want !!!” and I began to cry. I knew she was right. To be a child on the beach. A dancing soul. An acrobat of life. A singer of all that moves and breathes. A tune of my own. A voice of all the voiceless ones. How can I give voice to others when I do not hear and listen and trust my own ? So I continue on. Every moment is a beginning. If I don’t give myself every beginning, I choke. I resist my own breath. My own desires. My own flow. Whatever you want to call it. The chackles that hold our thoughts and hearts and limbs, we , children of the West, put them on ourselves. We who are in all actuality free. Freer than any other human beings. We , lock ourselves inside a prison of our own making. We shock ourselves into despair and fear and made up stories. We create our own traps and jump with both feet inside of them. The gossips. The cynicism. The stories.
I am this. I am that. I fit here. I don’t fit there.
What does it all mean ?
Not a thing.
Not a single thing.
If I sit here all day , inside, not doing a thing. No one cares. No one cares at all.
It won’t make a difference but if it makes a difference to me on this day , then it will matter. If I sit and see. That a beginning is just a beginning for something which has already begun in someone else’s world. What occurs as a beginning to me can occur as a middle or an end to someone else. There is no master plan. There is no place to get to. No better. No bigger. No more… Only the mere satisfactions. The subtle movement which keeps me moving. For myself. And if I move and speak and do for other people. I am then, their instrument. Theirs for the the taking. I am dancing to someone else’s tune then. And haven’t I done that long enough ?
It is only me who believes that when I begin dancing to my own tune, everyone will turn away or push me away or criticize me. And even if they do… so what ? I will be dancing to my own tune and the music will be so sweet and so true that none of it will matter. It won’t matter who is here to witness it. We want to have our lives be about other people. It isn’t. It is about us. Always.
The communion. The sharing. The communicating of our true deepest selves to others. That is where life continues. That is where we begin to take shape. To grow. To see our hidden sides. Our shadow sides . Our deepest dreams. And yet, it doesn’t mean anything. And yet, when someone tells you something about you, you must look inside for the answer and see. Listen. Hear. Pay attention to see what you can get from what they are saying. Give up being right. Give up trying to be right or wrong.
I am not after a coupling. A two by two. A squaring , a quandry of the soul.
I am after partnership, community, creating. Creating who we are. Always. Ever changing. Letting go . Accepting, letting in, opening out . That is true letting go.
To deny, to protect , to ignore, to shut down, to refuse, to say no. That is not trusting yourself. Say yes and see what happens. Say yes I will. Yes I will try it. Yes I can. Sorry I didn’t. Say yes and. Yes yes yes and . I must come first. No hiding from the telephone, the mailman, the bills, the hands filled of goodness overflowing wanting to share. To trust is to let everything in and know that nowhere will you betray yourself. That never you can let in too much because you will know when there is a no inside your yes. You will say no and not even experience it as a negative thing or a rejection or a pushing out. Your no will still be a yes, because it wil be a yes to yourself. A yes to a place somewhere deep inside you which knows that no to one thing means yes to another. A no out of fear is a no to everything. A no to yourself.
Why do you need to wait to be perfect , to be together , to be ready to let others in. Why ? Because of fear. In case, they catch you off guard and you do not notice. Danger is immediate. If there is danger you will see it. You will know. You will then act in the moment. We create danger where there is none. We create fear where there is none. We create a monster out of the newborn baby.
Our stories are not us. Our stories are the shape of us. They are the house in which we live in. Not the living. The living happens once we let go of our stories as we live them. Once we let go of the “I am this. I am that. I am this way. I am that way. I don’t do this. I am not like this. I refuse that”, we can then be free. Once we allow our shapes to shift , our minds to change, our hearts to soften and widen. Once we allow our limbs to move, our liquids to pour out, our feet to feel the ground, we can then be free. We can be what we are meant to be as we come into being every moment of our lives. Why do we look at children for hours and hours and smile ? We are looking for that freedom. We are looking to see how they do it ? The secret to their being. The way we were. The way we want to be more. Again. There is no such thing. Children look to us to see how to become us. We look to death for freedom. Deep down we look to death for the end of our despair. We look to certainty. The only certainty . When we can look to life. Possibility . Openings. Clearings. We trust the mind. The ego. The places that give us the worst advice. Always. We seek to find value in external values. Values we know are not us. Money, degrees, clothes. And in turn, we deny ourselves the very essence of our being. The very heart which jumps up and down, the heart which knows to beat faster and slow down in order to compensate for the life we live. The intelligent heart, we doubt and bury in doubt and buildings made of glass and concrete. We lock ourselves up far away from the source. The trees that speak . The leaves that flutter sounds. The birds that sing our songs. Do I mean I when I say we ? Who am I to think I speak for all of us. But don’t I ? Aren’t I just like you ? Just like them ? Just like everything else that walks on two legs and speaks with words .
Who am I to say I ? When do we learn to finish things without putting an end to it. When do we learn to begin , middle and end in one long flow of infinite love and patience ? When do we learn that linear isn’t us. That logical isn’t us. That there is no pretty way to end. In the end we all die and they put us in a box and throw dirt on our face. That’s how it ends ? Maybe. Maybe not. In the mean time can we live without creating that box and dumping the dirt all over ourselves and every one else all day long ? Can we live as if in the end our death was a slow underwater dance with a smiling dolphin ? Can we live as if we our death lifted us from the ground in a slow transparent spiral – tornado like , blood turning into a long red crimson ribbon , flesh turned glass , spinning into the clouds and disappearing with a pfft ? An imagined death where pain is no beginning or ending. Where suffering isn’t a place to end up in. Where despair isn’t the end. Can we live and have that be enough ? This threading of the earth, this liquid body expression of what is. What has been. What will be. All here right now, in this instant. This perfect moment. What would you be if you weren’t who you are now ? Who would you chose to be if you hadn’t locked yourself inside the choices you made long ago. Who would you be if your stories where not yours?
I would be a buddhist nun. I would be a dancer. I would be a fairy in celtic lands , with two butterflies at my side, fluttering above the flowers, gorging myself with sweet pollen. I would be an oceanographer , out to see, listening to the sounds of whales . I would be a painter. Van Gogh by my side, teaching me how to master the perfection of blues and golds. I would be all of these things. Which I am. Which I have always been.
Mash-up girl they call me. But isn’t mash-up a made up word for being you. For being all of the things you want to be.
“So many things, so little time” they say. That is their plan. Their plan to keep you down and keep you hidden. Their plan. Because the threat is you. You are the threat. We are all the threat. That’s the joke you see. The joke is that we are all so busy telling stories that we forget to be. We forget to see. To listen. To taste. To touch.
We talk every thing out. Our senses have become buried inside the talk. The talk inside our heads. The talk inside our wrists. The talk inside our books. The talk.
“Walk the talk” they say.
Me, I am going to :
Taste the walk.
Touch the walk.
Hear the walk.
Smell the walk.
See the walk.
