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Sometimes when I pray, I wonder who or what is listening to my words whether said silently or aloud. Where do they go? These words. My words. Do the words arrive to the intended recipient or are they sometimes returned to sender in an empty envelope?
Garth Brooks sings that some of ‘life’s greatest gifts’ are Unanswered Prayers. Meaning, I suppose, that another entity, in Garth’s case, God, knows better than humans. I don’t know.
I do know that I pray regularly. Having turned my back on organized religion moons ago, I continue to pledge allegiance to a spirituality which runs deep in my core or soul some might say. I turn to this faith or trust in something bigger than myself frequently & consistently. The fact that there’s a chance my prayers go no where, are undelivered to the correct address or denied out of hand, does not seem to stop my returning to this well of faith that someone something is listening, receiving, hearing, considering my words my meaning.
Prayer is a cornerstone of my life. An anchor. A comfort. A strength. A connection. A touchstone. A conduit to the all-things-are-possible, if I believe.
So whether my words are, indeed, unanswered unheard denied out-of-hand or temporarily lost in translation sometimes makes no difference. At least in the overall scheme of life. Mine.
The benefits I receive daily the solace & needed anchor that keeps me from being continually adrift in a too large an ocean of too-much, is worth any angst or temporary lapses in faith.
Peace be in my heart on this most sunny morning, I pray.
Oh my gosh, I have been absent for far too long from my beloved blog. My absence has not been due to laziness, lack of interest on my part, being in a pissed off mood at the blogging community or a churlish attitude in general. Here is the true unvarnished, un-spun, authentic deal ~ I have been ill, very ill, for a very long time. For over two years now. I have shared about my Unwanted and Un-invited Bastard Buddy Vertigo (BBV) who swooped in for an extended visit and decided not to depart, right? Well, nine months ago a new uninvited health hazard Bastard arrived on my doorstep and the BBV invited him into my home and my body.
All of this is to say, that I have been fighting, literally, for my ability to remain in my physical self on this Earth plane. However, when I finally hit the lowest of my low a couple of months ago, I chose to re-claim my healing and to stop looking outward to supposed “experts” such as Western medicine and naturopaths, etc., who were not helping, to say the very least. I also made the decision to place the focus of my energies on my spiritual practices and return to my creative writing and visual art, both of which spark my will to live and make the most meaning in my life. Throughout this entire journey, I have continued to work and provide psychotherapy services to adolescent youth and their families.
I have missed my little blog. I have missed being a part of the blogging community and the connections I have made here. I maintain a Facebook account using my legal name, however, due to the nature of my professional life, am not comfortable co-mingling the two worlds. What I am hoping is that now that I have taken this step of writing a post today that I will be more active once again with my little blog. Most likely not daily but more frequently than once every quarter.
I am thrilled to report that my creative writing is on fire and there is much movement in that area. There is goodness in this world and even though my faith and spirits come and go and I am a fickle creature, I do believe that my struggles are not in vain. Sending out love, compassionate caring and peaceful energy in these early morning hours this Saturday morning.
I was asked yesterday by a brand new acquaintance what my relationship status was. Meaning, I gathered, was I involved, taken, belonging to another, tied up, tied down, bogged down, in a rut, newly wedded, deliriously happy, passionately satieted, or barren, bereft, afloat, alone, blissfully single, between partners, or simply untethered from the demands of another human being in an ongoing relationship. Out of the multitude of responses at my disposal, here were the words which sprang from my lips ~ my heart is wide open.
For anyone who has been a follower of this blog for any length of time, you might get it like in, right away, that this was an atypical response for me given my life’s journey this past couple of years. But there it was. The words said, passed from and over my lips.
And what is more, as I have had time to ponder, which obviously I have taken the time to do, I realize that the words are a true reflection of said heart. The said heart ~ my heart ~ the one that is, indeed, open ~ much to my surprise and actual delight.
Hearts, spirits, beliefs, values ~ all have a funny little way of making changes, often times profound, sometimes in small ways, sometimes in big leaps and bounds ~ stealthily, silently, quietly, slowly, or just plain simply ~ and then our mind’s get a great big old WTF awakening. And then we adjust, metabolize the alterations and carry on.
To the edge of the ocean, that is. Yes. I am fleeing to the ocean’s edge seeking solace, seashells, wind and waves. Rainy forecast be damned, I am still heading out so I can arrive there, where the ocean meets the rocky shore.
Fingers crossed that my V (as in my Bastard Buddy Vertigo) will allow me a grace period for the 4+ hour drive. I typically relish driving the many miles as it is a beautiful drive, rain or shine, and this road and I are very well acquainted. We know each other’s twists and turns, pot holes and all. So please Universe above and within, please keep the green light lit and a Pink Bubble of safety around yours truly and Buster Blue (aka my trusty car companion) as we escape this city life.
Because it is true. The edge is where the good stuff often hangs out. An ever tempting adventure of discovery. So to the edge it is.
Somewhere and sometime along the way on this journey of mine on this particular circuitous path that I tread called my life, I let go of the hope of finding my first mother, my omma. In the beginning as a child, I barely dared even think of her even when I was sleeping ~ dreaming about this most precious woman in the whole wide world. And then in adulthood, I defied all that I had been taught and brainwashed to believe by my adoptive mother, and took the lid off the hole in my heart where this yearning for my birth mother lived. This hope was faint but thrumming with the rhythm of my heartbeat and sprang fully alive with urgings from my thoughts, dreams and fantasies of this mystery woman’s face, touch and fragrance.
So today the realization that the hope is reduced, once again, to barely a flutter now and again, is startling.
Hope and hunger, however, are two separate states of being. For I still long for this woman, my creator. Longing that aches to my very soul. Even with my dim hope that I will ever find her on this planet, in the form of my first omma, the yearning is still present. She is somewhere. Perhaps over the proverbial rainbow. Maybe existing on another plane in a different form. But, somewhere there exists is at least a remnant of this one whom I have gone without for ever so long.
Happy Mother’s Day Omma from your daughter aka Korean adoptee, junemoon.
In order to be here, one must go there but the going there, requires no physical departure; at least for today.
My thoughts and inner visioning have been hijacked. A few days before now, my eyes drank in the images of temples ~ hanging cliff temples. And ever since that first viewing when my soul leapt with recognition, my core began a slow drumming. The beat of this internal drum, thrumming through me; my body responds with a re-awakening and yearning to return to mountain peak, where I surely have lived in some yesteryear. Forgotten, until now.
This drumming back to consciousness, caused my limiting thoughts and jailhouse rules and boundaries to spring into action; to speak out loud their automatic chastisement. You cannot go, you would surely perish. Only the fit of body and the most holy of spirits belong on that journey above the clouds. Remember your fear of heights. You would most certainly slip and fall, causing great disaster and inconvenience to others. You cannot go, you would surely perish.
So in preparation for this journey, which I must surely embark upon, the first steps are to soothe my protector’s fears and to loosen my jailer’s clawlike hold. For my journey, you see, has most certainly already begun and I have not yet perished.
Yesterday I sat in my friend’s car and visited for about 3-1/2 hours, give and not take an hour or so. That’s after we had sat across from one another in a restaurant booth, eating breakfast and visiting for about an hour and eleven minutes. We had not seen one another for a goodly amount of time and when we do get together, we talk. For a long time, we talk. Our best conversations have taken place in one or the other of our vehicles throughout the years. And our friendship spans multiple years and encompass umpteen life changes and choices of both the minor and the major variety.
So it was not uncommon that our tete-a-tete included the revisiting of past romantic relationships. For me, one love affair in particular still has a hold in my heart. A flame, if you will, that has not gone dark and cold. My little meander down memory lane seems to have knocked some emotional debris loose and onto my path or into my heart like little sparkling diamonds swirling around in a gold pan mixed all in with the fool’s gold. I think in this scenario, I may be the fool and that all that sparkles is definitely not diamonds but instead perhaps a woman-made synthetic imposter.
Nonetheless. My heart is a bit blue. A bit bruised from the memories of the long ago infidelity, deceit and not enough love. The saying that time heals all wounds is not really true. What is true in this narrative is that time has softened the heart pain and there is distance even in the nearness of the flame.
The unmistakable trumpet of Canadian geese pierced through the early morning airwaves and were received by my welcoming ears. In the spring, these first honkings validate with assurance and confidence that winter is surely on the wane because there are new feathered sherrifs in town. We know when the geese head south, so do our hopes of continued late summer and autumn joys. Their departing audio conversations sound sad to those of us left behind. Left behind to face a cold and icy future.
But today, the Canadians are back and my heart jumped with joy for surely on their strong wings my prayers for winter’s end are answered.
It is true.
Prayers and wishes can, indeed, come true.
These past few weeks have been an exercise in cravings, delayed satisfaction, impulsive choice making, setting aside, procrastination, misplacing my mojo, re-discovering my mojo, percolating, marinading, and popcorning ideas, thoughts, theories, plain silliness, deep convoluted thinking meanderings and missing my blog.
What I have been up to and the revolving re-occuring topics in my head have included, but have not been limited, to:
the hour and minute combination of 11:11 and the significance I have ascribed to this time
Spring Fever, which morphed into Sunshine Fever, which changed to Restless Life Syndrome
loving my job, total dissatisfication with the same job, searching for new job, applying for new jobs
retirement preparedness, freaking out that I have failed, as in utterly, to formulate any such plan,
vesting, vacillating between commitment to stay for 3+ years to wear this retirement vest, back
to freaking out at the thought of such a long term commitment
health issues, tipping over, milestones in sleeping upright, off low sodium plan, back on,
yo-yo eating plan
poor body image, hating, shameful feelings, attempts to embrace my physical self
vacations, destinations, monetary commitment toward vacations, gratitude for abundance
Setting aside, walking through, moving around, navigating life’s detritus, waking up, being amazed,
feeling flummoxed, groaning disappointment, side-splitting hilarity, tears of pain and surrender,
loving and receiving affection
Man alive! No wonder I have been absent. That there is whole hella lot of living.
Do you remember those little label guns? The kind with the revolving alphabet and the colorful strips of label tape? You would spin the alphabet to the desired letter and then press the trigger, which would cause the letter to be stamped onto the tape. The letters would be raised and felt all bumpy when running your fingers over the finished product. Once you had spun and punched out the desired word or words, you would pump the trigger a couple of times to make the tape long enough to cut without spoiling your last letter.
Then came another part, the part of peeling the backing from the tape, leaving the adhesive so you could then position the label wherever your heart desired and then press it into place where the label would live happily ever after. Or until you decided to replace it with another label or somebody rubbed the bumpy little ridges too much and dislodged the brightly colored identifier.
That is when the fun would come to a screeching halt or if that sounds a little too dramatic when discussing the life of a label, that’s when the adhesive hell would begin. The hell of removing the sticky white-ish adhesive residue crap that the once merry and useful label left behind. You see that is when the polish remover would come galloping in to the rescue to make the world right again or at least less sticky.
This morning I was thinking about labels. That human need to categorize most anything and everything that comes down the pike, around the bend, over the hill and in our dales. I think naming, labeling and categorizing serves to help make sense of our lives, our worlds so to speak and in making sense then we feel safer, less vulnerable to the largeness of life.
What I am pondering today is whether the labels I have chosen ~ spelled, punched and stuck to the walls of my psyche ~ whether they are helpful or harmful, clarifying or stigmatizing. What labels might need to be re-named, revised or simply done away with. The worst that could happen would be some sticky residue left behind, right? And I know where I keep my polish remover. Truth be known, I always had a little crush on the label gun and those bumpy little letters so even if the revised label ends up not fitting, there can be as many do-overs as needed.