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Talk with me

and share with me

those things that you hold dear. 

Let us exchange the delight in our respective lives.  Tell of the beauty I behold when I look deeply into your eyes.  Let us build on the excitement of the spark that ignites when two minds meet and mine the gold of their hearts. 

Yes.

Let us talk and talk

and we will build castles in the sky and in the sand, complete with bridges

traversing our hearts our minds our souls.

Let us go deep

into the valleys the interior landscape and the shadowed unknown.

Exploring plumbing searching

We will be amazed

over and over

again, with treasures discovered.  Long lost and sort of forgotten

until now.

Talk with me.

@junemoon 2012

I do believe my region of the planet has taken its snowy place in the weather history books as the snowiest winter on record.  Fantabulous for winter enthusiasts I suppose.  But even those rosy cheeked ones must be getting just a teeny weeny tiny bit tired of the endless dumps gifts of snow. 

As for me, there’s the matter of roof leaks in my kitchen and limited vision from my windows as the snow deepens, rising up past the window casings.  There’s the growing craving for natural greenery.  There’s the daily shuffling and changing of outerwear to inside attire ~ the continual on-and-off of the boots, the hat, the scarf, the gloves and coat. 

Fatiguing of mind, body, heart and spirit for this particular Earth dweller. 

Ready for spring.  Ready for summer. 

Meanwhile, I suppose I’ll go help chisel the icy news of our snowy achievement into our frozen history books.

Morning prayer.

Please help me

shed my ego

for today.

So that I may be

present in the moment.

The real me

not the puffed up ego driven me.

Please help me

be of service to my

earthly counterparts

through the gift of being

present and teachable

with my ear to the hearts of others.

@junemoon 02/2012

Get ready

Get set

Not ready, yet.

Just the other day, which at this stage of my life can mean a couple of weeks or months ago, I realized that if I were to die in that moment I would not feel ready to take my leave of this life time.  This realization arrived with no small surprise.  You see, I have spent big chunks of energy, time, effort, imagination and sheer will power to keep my precarious hold to this earthly planet.  And that is not to speak of my multiple beseechings of the Universal Powers to alternately open my eyes to the wonders that this life has to offer or to take me quickly to another place, another planet, another existence or to simply extinguish my flickering flame altogether. 

I have struggled with varying gradations of melancholy and depression as far back as my memories travel.  Years of spiritual searching and guidance seeking ~frequent findings and losings of faith ~ years worth of various therapies ~ book after book of helping myself books read, re-read, dog-eared and cursed ~ multiple sundry eating plans, herbs and self-medication, followed by much self castigation with equal amounts of guilt for being so un-grateful for life’s abundance.  

Scattered amongst this turmoiled angst, moments and sometimes days of brightened mood.  Such a welcome respite in a choppy sea of deep blue and inky black depths.  

A certain thought has cropped up now and then of ‘if I were to die right now… .”  The thought  followed by a variation of ‘it wouldn’t be a moment too soon’  or ‘a perfect moment to leave.’  So one might understand a bit more the surprise, the startle if you will, that I felt with that initial response of ‘no, I am not ready.’  Not ready to leave this life, my life, in this moment.  As I have mulled over this new response, which has remained, I have come to understand that my life feels more precious to me than in the past.  Many other realizations have crystallized as the marinading of this new experience continues. 

Today though I wanted to share that I am here.  I am alive.  I am not ready to leave.  I am living.

It appears that a simple function termed threading of film onto a projector eludes me.  Baffles me even after some time and effort spent cleaning the very old equipment and online searching for helpful how-to instructions.  Not surprising I suppose ~ this road block of sorts.  After all, this is no ordinary antique projector.  This is my adoptive parent’s projector and the 8mm and super 8mm film reels housed in their bright yellow Kodak cardboard boxes hold family history  family secrets  family surprises.  This film plays silently with only the loud thrum of the machinery accompanying the grainy color images. 

At least that is how I remember the viewings as a child and young adult when after much pleading, my mother would finally acquiesce, giving my father permission to haul out the projector and the film.  As adopted daughters, my sister and I, yearned even more than the average kid to see again and again the evidence of our belonging, of our history.  A history that only went back to when we arrived in America, bought by these White American parents.  I was a Korean adoptee and so was my sister, arriving from different backgrounds and first families to form our very own little tribe of two in a land where no one looked like us ~ to a land where for all of our childhoods we were known as The Adopted Korean Girls. 

Fast forward many years and here you will find me.  Finally pushing through my myriad of fears, resistance and ambivalence to allow myself to figure out another piece of my foundation.  Sounds heavy for such a simple task of figuring out an old projector and watching a few canisters of film.  Simple or not, these actions have been many years in the making. 

It seems that the gathering of our lives lived through memories, yearnings, wishes and dreams is a life long journey.  A journey which offers experiences of joy, sadness, grief, longing, laughter, anger, tears, breath taking ah-ha’s, rage and acceptance.  I figure that I am somewhere a little past mid-way of this journey of this life time and it is looking more possible than naught that there will be future viewings of these little films.  Where those particular pieces of the puzzle will fit is not quite clear, yet.  Thankfully there is a focusing mechanism on this antiquated projector. 

 

Reflecting back to a year ago as I read through previous posts, private journal entries and summoned memories, I concluded that I am better off in my current moments than in the past already lived times. Better. More. Good progress.

And then the devil’s advocate side of me chimes in, challenging the notion of words such as better and more. Judgment calls, really. Getting my attention, this wily provocateur continues with growing insistence stating that all experiences are just that ~ experiences.  Life lessons if you will.  Or maybe even simpler yet, life in any given moment.  Why, this slightly miffed one asks, do we mere mortals insist upon grading life’s happenings as if only happy contentment is the holy grail.  Life is not meant to be a jazzed up cabaret, my dear, this ruffian extols. 

Growing weary of my now ranting inner nemesis I say, not so kindly, Shut Up.  Shut the F up and get out of my inner sanctuary ~ at least for this moment.  Because in this moment Mister Insister of Multifaceted Existence, you are bringing me down.  Muddying the waters.  You see, I agree with what I believe to be your basic premise ~ all experiences hold value.  I further agree with your assertion that… 

Yada yada yada.

Blah Blah Blah.

You see this morning, Mister Advocate, I am not into deep philosophical preponderances.  I was going another route of simple reflection and simpler yet gratitude.  So back to the beginning of my thoughts I go where I was saying that every aspect of my life is better than 12 months ago. 

  • The vertigo condition, although still with me, is more manageable and being treated;
  • I am working in my chosen professional field and making a financial living;
  • My living space is 200% improved;
  • There’s major progress made in sorting out an “it’s complicated” relationship;
  • An easing and deepening of familial ties;
  • Closer and more meaningful friendships with local friends;
  • New friendships that enhance my life;
  • A renewed spiritual awakening and daily practice;
  • A change in diet, while difficult, is much healthier and life sustaining;

~ more ~ better ~

~ much progress ~

This past Monday we celebrated the Lunar New Year, which is commonly known in the United States as Chinese New Year. Since, however, other Asian cultures observe the lunar calendar, Lunar New Year, seems more appropriate. This particular new year is known as the Year of the Dragon and horoscopes based on the lunar new years further denotes it as the Year of the Black Water Dragon. The colors and the element signifiers are linked and this year’s Dragon is tempered by the sensitivity and fluidity of water.

I was born in the year of the Fire Rooster. I am told, anyway.
Being an adoptee, a First Generation Korean Adoptee to be precise, I have never known my true birth date much less the time and the positions of the moon, sun and stars.

After reading about the usual characteristics, strengths and foibles of Fire Rooster individuals, I can’t help but wonder if I was really born in the year that I have been told that I made my appearance on this planet. This birth date, after all, was merely assigned to me somewhere along the way in one of the orphanages and/or foster homes I dwelled in for varying lengths of short time periods. Sound vague, do I? Well guess what, this birth date mystery business has all felt a little or a lot vague, shrouded in fog and dimly lit. Throughout my life I have felt incomplete and more than a wee bit off center not knowing a simple date.

But it is never a simple anything… Along with the not knowing my birth date comes the ignorance about my first family. No true memories of my omma’s face, her scent or touch. A void where my life’s beginning would have been. Unrooted. At times unanchored and unhinged.

So somehow this celebration of the year of the Black Water Dragon got me going down the familiar but not recently walked path of wondering wishing and yearning for hints and knowledge of my past. There aren’t any pretty bows to tie on this particular piece of sharing ~ only a heart and spirit that feel incomplete, sometimes.

A few weeks ago I wrote about the idea of creating time in a box. My post today includes additional notes I jotted down in my personal journal to help me toward creating my very own time in a box ~

On Joy the Baker’s blog, she posted about her time in a capsule project that she and a friend undertook. They each placed several mementos in a box with attached notes about the item and then wrapped the box and tied it with twine to be opened 7 years in the future. I like this idea. And have been thinking about it for a couple of days.

What is keeping me from creating my time in a box? For it is clear that something is preventing me from doing so. I get excited; feel the excitement viscerally and then… nothing. I put on the brakes. Get stuck. Glued in place. Paralysis sets in.

A very familiar process that has been repeated multiple times in multiple ways throughout my life but with the same result ~ a stymied creative spirit, a damming of creative juices and subsequently a pervasive depressed soul.

So what can I do that can move me toward action, if only a baby step or two?

Time Box Items

1. A lock of my purple hair to remind me that even in my 50’s I still have a sense of stylish fun;

2. A copy of my paystub so I can remember where I was working in 2011;

3. A photograph of my living room or a portion thereof to help me remember where I called home;

4. A photograph of my art supplies on my long birch art table to help me remember that I was an artist even when I was not producing any tangible pieces;

5. My adoptive Mama’s salt shaker, the clear glass one with blue paint circles and metal cap to remind me that this was the year in which I made a major major change in my diet and went super low sodium;

6. A self taken photograph of me so I can see how I have changed in the ensuing 7 years;

7. A photograph of me with my daughter, the grandkiddos, and the rest of my clan to keep safe in a box for 7 years even though I cannot guarantee their safety in the world outside.

So here is proof of artistic life.
One baby step at a time.

Daydreaming, in the dark. Not to be confused with dark daydreams.

No. That would be the wrong interpretation.

This morning I was literally daydreaming in the dark. The dark both inside my dwelling and outside of my four walls as I was waking.

Here is the content of my daydreams today ~

summer time warmth ~ beachwalks ~ sleeping in the horizontal position ~

It could happen.
And it already did ~ in my mind’s eye.

Today is set aside for quiet tasks and introspective thoughts.
A perfect plan for a frosty cold day.

The view from my many windows reveals a wintry landscape of white crystalled trees and mounds of snow. While inside my warm abode I am toasty and content. This period of grace has been with me for a while now and I am soaking it up and into my physical spiritual and emotional pores.

Today, I am thinking of the items to include in my time in a box project.

I am also gathering my many trinkets baubles and shiny pieces with which I adorn myself daily. Beads, silver, crystals, semi-precious stones ~ all my lovelies. Gathering them and hopefully fashioning a system of easy viewing and selection for those early morning gotta-get-to-work scenarios.

Human doings, while my mind sifts through memories of this past year and begins laying a foundation for the current one. Reflecting ~ considering ~ a few good-byes and more than a few budding interests ~ hopes and dreams.

Quietly living my life today in this warm home on this wintery second day of the new year.

September 2019
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