back, forth, back again

In and among all the dizzying occurrences of late, some actual exciting news happened:  We now have internet in the yurt, Gentle Reader.  Yes.  No longer do I have to trek to coffee and tire repair shops, nor engage in armed struggle with my landlady’s cat while freezing in the dark.   Never mind that the wi-fi doesn’t extend to my tablet, upon which I have the perhaps fantastic notion of posting pictures of the things I make (tonics, tinctures, potions and the occasional tamale) on Instagram.  Since it requires a wireless phone connection I still get to go to town for those truly modern communiques, but.  Running my little non-profit on line as I do just got a bit easier.  And blogging.  Who’d a thunk? Six years at the mast and at long, long last I don’t have to go anywhere else to write.   Thinking of it, i.e. content, all remains elusive, as per usual.

Interestingly it is just as hard to get anything done at home as it was anywhere else.  There must be something about having your laptop lid flipped up while your fingers clatter across the keyboard.  It must make people think: Why, I should TALK to/at this person! They’re obviously not doing anything!  The Dog also feels entitled to put paw to keyboard for some Dog of Mysterious Origin Musings.  Still, it’s to learn from.  Scheduling, GR, that’s what it’s about.  Maybe.

It’s kind of the classic conundrum.  When I was elsewhere, I had specific blocks of time in which to get things done.  It didn’t lend itself to thoroughness, or backing up the hard drive, but the distinct boundaries helped.  At home, there’s always something that needs to be done and jeesh, woman! You’re just SITTING there STARING at that screen.  A revisit to the ongoing challenges of being a woman, trying to do anything that, being largely personal, has no importance to anyone else.  What interests me about this is how the issues morph and come along with you as you morph and go along yourself.  It’s largely about keeping up with the cleaning and honesty, so that when these questionable patches come up there’s no internal static about what is what.  And having clarity which one can express without pettiness, irritation, victimization or aggrandizement of any sort.  Which means on some level that you yourself value what you are doing, just for itself.

This seems to be rather key for all sorts of stuff.  I had some interesting conversations about motivation in healing work lately.  It kind of boils down to you do it because it’s what you ARE and there’s really nothing else to do.  Even if it doesn’t lend itself to monetization.  Doing it because you THINK you should do it, or you want something out of it, or for any kind of power or influence, really doesn’t work. Moreover, it still has to be balanced out with the necessity of making a living, and it seems to me that people often take a rather superior attitude of you-shouldn’t-charge-for-This, or else charge really rather a lot of money because This is So Special.  Perhaps our world is not set up for right livelihood but it still seems to be something worth striving for.  We all need help at times and it shouldn’t be all about the money or the idea that You are Important because You Do X, Y or Z.

Maybe it boils down to our old friend Doubt.  Many teach what they need to know themselves-which may or may not be what you need.  Others are unsure of their own worth and thus tentative about what they offer.  In both cases doubt exists, and the fundamental doubt is about whether there is anything other than oneself to accomplish things with, to be helped and supported by, to provide guidance and acknowledgement.  And, there is, of course, but it takes some time to really be able to rest in that awareness.  Then you have to forget all about it, and just BE.   So much of everything is about just that: BEING.  Funny that it’s so hard to do. Like listening.

Anyway mysteries abound, especially here.  Lettuces are coming up in the garden, and my fennel has become a perennial, even in all this climatic weirdness.  There’s a sign, (which has been up since we came here)  on the road coming home that always catches my eye.  A crudely hand lettered sign on wood, exactly like the many other crudely hand lettered wood signs all over the place here, it says this:

CALLMENOW

IAM

HOME

So.  Is, or is not, the truth out there?  This sign’s a perfect example, to my mind, of the many levels to every single thing.  Or perhaps just a small monument to the lack of awareness thereof.  It leaves a mark, this stuff.

 

 

 

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