Posts Tagged ‘nature of reality’

yonder: wild and blue

It’s hard to say what’s been occupying my mind of late.  There were a lot of “things” that happened and required a long, taxing slog through what I actually “think”.

Sometimes, it really is true, we hold beliefs about ourselves that are inimical to growth.  Or peace of mind.  Then we have to actually just look at those beliefs and put them in context.  Things really are dependent upon each other and try as you may, finding an exact individual starting point for anything is not generally doable.  Therefore, limiting beliefs are the result of a CONTEXT that had a lot of things in it which were aimed at being limiting: aimed at controlling us for one reason or another.  Aimed, also, at being the authority we’d accept.

When the Partner remarked to me the other evening that, given my history, the only way I ever really had to go psychologically  was UP, it made me think about how many of those limiting, destructive beliefs I’d adopted as reality.  And about how much they cut me off from what I am as a person.  (Whatever, uhm, that may be)  And then?

I had an experience of something that even still I had difficulty believing could be true.  It kind of dovetailed with becoming aware of how much not being able to take certain things seriously, largely relating to self worth, had held me back.   It also related to the ambivalence I saw in myself about my sense of reality- which is that everything is alive and moving and we CAN, if we choose, heal ourselves- maybe even cure.  A constant back and forth I didn’t even know was happening.   Anyway, I met another person who works in related arts, who “worked” on me, and helped me in the most profound way I can remember.

So.  I am here to tell you for absolutely dead bang certain that you CAN change the things in your life that don’t work.  Obviously this involves some distance from the capitalist model of money equaling success, and movement toward understanding that success is no more, or less, than LIVING and ENJOYING your life.    We’ve had, for example, the ongoing crap shoot of life here which has involved several largish unexpected expenditures- which is usually right up there on the disaster scale around here. ( A rock hit and shattered the back window of our car, for one thing.  With all the hilarity that ensues.)  But this time? It didn’t stress me out.  Earlier that day I’d spoken with a friend who has recently been diagnosed with leukemia.  We agreed that actually the diagnosis didn’t make a bit of difference- what mattered was still the quality of each moment and what this person DOES in those moments.  And that quality is something that we can influence, unlike most other things.  Something about the healing work I received finally really sank in and the actual joy I felt upon realizing I wasn’t upset about all the crap that just happened…was beyond words.

This helped also with the Dog.  He dashed through a foxtail forest getting one lodged in his ear.  Vet bills ensued.  But even though I was worried about him, I didn’t lose it.  Instead I was able to marvel at how GOOD he was at the Vet’s even though they were pulling something out of his ear.  He was with one of his “girlfriends” and watching through the window, I saw him resting calmly against her.  She had her arms around him and was scratching his head.  The Vet was in the affected ear with Something Official Looking.  And he? was smiling radiantly.   There is a light in the world, Gentle Reader, and we can see it more often that we think.  Sometimes all it takes is a friend and a 70 pound Dog.

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slippery streams

There’s something about blogging that is, naturally, just like real life.  The important thing is to do it, be it, not overthink or overreact, and to be, as Einstein suggested, free of the opinions of others- all without becoming an asshat in the process.

Of course that brings up the pernicious influences and backsliding sorts of things, like wow, people like this! I’m OK! or, oh no! no one likes this and I’m not OK!  Perfectionism creeps in, elongating into procrastination and nothing doing.  Like it all is so important on the opinion level.

I’m coming to the realization that the opinion level is where we get sick, get stuck, get distracted and removed from purpose.  It’s kind of like the monetization of your hopes and dreams, wherein for the most part they get crushed and you forget what time it really is.  This can be in the form of working at a job you hate, or becoming overly focused on “being successful” in whatever thing you’re doing and turning it into a carrot on stick scenario.  It can be about sticking to a paradigm or mindset, and insisting others do as well,  because you’re too afraid to step outside of what you think your safety level is.  In any event, all of this tends to separate you from your true self.  Without connection to your true self, what can you really do?

The use of one’s will is an interesting thing.  Too much focus on that and you’re stuck in an egoic quagmire, not enough and you’re without boundaries.  Religion, and actually? advertising, both attempt to define what will is and how it is to be used, but that’s just more of the imposition of external authority we’re all so used to, instead of doing the thinking for ourselves.  Life could be a whole lot easier if one were able to drop the opinions and external controls and just get in the flow of what is actually going on, respond to it, and go from there.  It changes the nature of pain completely, for one thing.  You’re not clinging to it like a burning spar in a shipwreck.  You feel the pain, for sure.  But if you’re moving in harmony with what is around you- and however inharmonious it may be you can do this- the overall field of energy can be seen for what it is, which is? LOVE.  With that awareness one is, somehow, able to continue, to go on, to proceed and succeed.

It is probably no mystery that this precise issue has been turning me into a bit of a couch potato of late. ( The weeds in the garden think they’ve won the battle, hands down. But.) There’s something to do, but it’s raining.  I have an idea, but I just forgot it.  How much energy is there to use today? What the heck was I doing before now? I almost feel like someone who’s been brought back to life as I look at the tools of my existence, realize I’m quite able to use them but don’t necessarily connect any more with the steps that got me to technical proficiency.  The big thing is ALWAYS not to run away from feeling.  Not to wallow in it either, but to simply look and experience and see it as truthfully as possible.   This process is leaving me with an interior that feels scrubbed and empty and ready for the next life to come in.  It is leaving me with the ability to focus more on what IS and not what I think I may have LOST.  The pain is still there; sometimes I feel my heart literally contract and bleed when things pass across my mind’s eye, as well as when I just look at what is happening right in front of me.  But the important thing is that our isolation from each other is an illusion.  Our thoughts do create tangible results.  The rest of it is, actually, pretty straightforward. If it is challenging in terms of implementation when we think of things like, say, Trump,  or Syria, or the gas leak in southern California, or bees or plant seeds, that is the point where we step back, take a breath, and apply ourselves to how we can cooperatively re-do our reality, shaping it in balance, not in fear.  The challenge is to find a substitute for violence and constriction, isn’t it?  That certainly seems like it might well start with observing our own, true, inner spaciousness.

Meanwhile, I was gently lured into the day by the Dog, who woke me up by first belching quietly in my ear, then beginning to hiccup into my neck.  Reminder, if one were needed, of how much I have to be grateful for, not the least of which are YOU, Gentle Readers!  I am always humbled and surprised and happy that you are out there.  Let us go forth, yes?

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.

 

 

 

what the heck is time, anyway?

It’s starting to seem like either a huge load of unset jello being poured over me constantly or else? Something that contains everything in it and must be sorted through moment to moment for relevant clues.

Which is to say I haven’t been getting too much accomplished.  Storms, mud, power outages, dog walking and making pasta have been about the apex of late.  It’s all fueled by a massive pressure system of indecision which sooner or later will…burst? Probably.  We just hope for some clarity, as always.

There has always been an equal push pull for me between staying in and going out.  This may mean I am by nature a hermit, or it may mean that I’m just a scaredy cat about showing myself at all, anywhere, any time.   Balancing the demands of world/self, “career”/home- this is challenging stuff, Gentle Reader.  I used to handle it before by functioning at top speed all the time, go go go, do do do, perform perform perform.  Moving so fast I was perhaps just a blip on people’s screens.  This of course resulted in a blown out nervous system and necessary adjustments in the daily trajectory.  As my teacher said, we are human beings, not human doings.  That was one memo I certainly didn’t get in a timely manner, thinking as I did that doing equaled being accepted.

Now that we’re, clearly, living in a manner we might call off the grid remote, I’m finding that the whole prospect of “going outside” is even more challenging that it was before.  I mean, going out for long walks is one thing even if it now is completely tick laden and thus somewhat anxiety provoking.  But what about going out into the WORLD? I *think* I want my writing to be read, my work to be useful to many- but that may mean recognizing myself as something I never saw before, in a good way for once. Not telling people what to expect before they even get to that point. Just…putting it out there.  Quite the endeavor, GR, even if undertaken a bit late in the day.

Meanwhile, Mt. Shasta looks astounding with the top above the clouds, everything sparkling and luminous.  Wild flowers are breaking through the wet earth with their shoots, and the wild pigs are back en masse, eating all the chanterelles before we can get to them.  The stream has only flooded once so far in all these storms, our road here hasn’t collapsed, and the power did indeed come back on, after I found the candles.  It’s all good, in a strange way, especially since I now have the Dog to bounce things off- he’s remarkably perceptive and I now understand “best friend” in a whole new way.  Perhaps progress IS being made, after all.

 

thank you, peter tosh

The morning after I came home from the hospital, I woke up with Tosh’s voice in my head, singing “the mighty God is a living man/now you’ve seen the light/stand up for your rights.”

This gave me a bit of pause, Gentle Reader, as you might imagine.  Why then?  Who even knew I remembered that song? Or, more importantly, how incisive and “right” Marley’s lyrics always were?  Anyway, I thought about it to the limited extent available to me at that point.

For one thing.  Stand up for your rights.  I realized that this does NOT mean those ego based rights people think of so often- when I was Slave Girl to the Divorce and Bankruptcy Courts there appeared to be an almost endless stream of people coming in to the attorney’s office clutching soft drinks with gnats in them, waving them in my face and in loud voices asking what their “rights” were in such egregious situations.  (I was not altogether sweetness and light at such times.  Often I said, well, you have the right to party! paraphrasing yet another song.)  So, no.  Not those sorts of rights.  What it seemed to mean to me was that once that larger awareness dawns, you see what is actually “right”, and that is what you must stand up for.  Not so much just your place in line, but everyone’s place in that line.

Then there’s the thing of the mighty God being a living man.  I’m starting to think the Greeks probably had it pretty correctly viewed: THEIR Gods were all over the place and far from incorruptible even if for the most part infallible.  In this perspective, divinity itself has foibles.  Those foibles result in things that we as humans don’t understand and as a result resist.  Which leads to all the hilarity that normally ensues in the course of a day.

And more, if the mighty God IS a living man, then that means that EVERYTHING is divine since we have seen the divine and he is us.  All of us.  Foibles and all.  I contrasted this with the Christian, Catholic setting I had just been released from.  In that paradigm, pain, fear and suffering are the tools of the trade.  You are to believe that a “loving God” sends his son to earth to be pulled to pieces, in essence. You yourself are punished constantly for some amorphous and unknown “sin” (which with a bit of research seems to largely involve sex and poverty- check out Martin Luther’s screed on who was possessed by devils, for example) of which you probably have no concrete memory but for which you must atone 24/7.  In all of this, only God is divine.  I’ve always had problems with this paradigm because it seems to smack, perhaps even stink, of hierarchical, top down, patriarchal process.  The good things are at the top, and where are all of us?  Not, Gentle Reader, at the top.  Nature is, of course, deeply suspect and right there? We should all be very suspicious indeed.  How can the very source of our beings, what feeds and nourishes us and regales us with beauty,  be evil and require such religious scouring as to be death defying?

So.  Even though I fell into a pretty deep pothole post-hospital, I think it did provide clarification of a sort- or perhaps just proof of how far around and beyond the bend one is.  I think, no, really I’m sure, that “religion” is a means of control, plain and simple.  The realization of what is truly divine is something available to us all, and it IS what we all are.  We are all pieces of a mighty divinity and it would certainly be nice if we could remember that a bit oftener than we do.  The fact that there ARE foibles and places we don’t get it doesn’t mean anything except there’s more to see and learn and we shouldn’t bog ourselves down with opinions. ( In that vein, I’m almost over my screaming meemees about the anesthesiologist.  We live in hope and progress is always possible.  I may yet be reunited with the garden shears! ) But I am still wondering what is to be done about the complete insanity we see all around us, and how much longer we’ll really survive as a species if we don’t start putting the truly divine before the clearly profane. I think polar bears and clean water and the Arctic and the people of Syria and Baltimore- ALL OF US- are a HELL of a lot more important and divine than the profanity of profits those at the top derive from the suffering they are inflicting on us all.  Doesn’t it seem as though if we all just stopped collaborating with this paradigm it might make a difference?

good fun and well worth it

Well, Gentle Reader, when last we put paw to keyboard there wasn’t enough time to tell the story.  I must say my recent experiences have plunged me into an angry despair unlike anything I’ve ever experienced which is saying quite a bit.

Part the first.  So, it turns out I’ve had chronic gallbladder problems which were always diagnosed by my regular doctor as being in my head.  Strange, since that isn’t where the gallbladder is located.

Part the second.  Finally the long suffering Partner takes me to the ER in the only hospital we can use, being poor and all.  After a lot of fun in the waiting room, saying over and over between pukes that no, I have not been to West Africa,  continuously vomiting and mostly missing the opening of the tiny bag they grudgingly gave me, I went in to the treatment area.  My veins were apparently collapsed from dehydration and in their efforts to get a line in me I ended up looking like someone beat the snot out of me, as my ex-Marine postman remarked in horror.  Amazingly a diagnosis was quickly made.  I was told this procedure is essentially outpatient, laparoscopic surgery, no big deal.  This is, of course, true if you have what is referred to as “good insurance”, something I now think of as being in the same category as “good hair” if you know what I mean.  Since I did not have good insurance I instead was put in a bed, no food or water, for 48 hours.  The surgeon’s instructions were that I was to get pain meds every two hours.  The nurses decided that they didn’t really need to bother with being timely with that, with the result that I found myself screaming at one point and being roundly chastised by said nurse.  Lucky for her that by that time I couldn’t speak.  The extra fun part of all this is that I’m allergic to opiates and two days of them put me on Mars.  Plus all the other unknown substances they were pumping into me via IV.

Part the WTF.  At long last I get wheeled into surgery.  I told the anesthesiologist from hell that I’d never been in the hospital, never had surgery, never took drugs, and also have a heck of a gag reflex.  He made a few sexist remarks which he capped off with “I’ll make you fall in love with me- I’m going to give you that stuff Michael Jackson took!”.  Knowing that it was in his power to kill me with this concoction I imagine I attempted a smile.   That was at about 3:30 p.m. on,I think, Tuesday.

Part the way beyond WTF.  I woke up at 1 am, I guess on Wednesday.  Restrained and catheterized and staring into a bright light with three people in the room looking at me like avenging angels.  When at last they removed the restraints and yanked out the catheter I noticed that both hands looked like chopped liver and I couldn’t move my legs due to the tender mercy with which they’d inserted the catheter. They’d pulled the 20 gauge needles out of one hand and jammed a 40 gauge into the other which felt as though it was in a state of permanent crucifixion.  There was  a large divot missing from my lip which was both numb and painful.  They had also hooked me up to a portable heart monitor (with a special sticky right under my boob which developed an infected scratch therefrom.  Extra fun.) and I was literally entombed in wires and tubes.  “You had to be restrained” they said, looking at me like I was Charles Manson.  WHY, I said.  Then even in my miserable state I realized they weren’t about to fess up to giving me a massive drug overdose so I said I had to call my husband.  This being a Catholic hospital there’s just a lot they don’t get so it was easier.  I wasn’t really aware of what time it was, but he answered on the second ring.  He was crying.  He briefly told me what happened, cried some more, told me he loved me and this had been too awful to talk about but nonetheless he was glad I wasn’t dead and he didn’t have to come and blow the damn place to smithereens. We hung up.

In which the fun continues.  So, OK.  I was relieved to see they had indeed done laparoscopy and not a major gutting and tried to content myself with that.  An endless stream of respiratory therapists and people thrusting potassium on me to drink- my heart stopped during all the fun, apparently, and hourly further blood draws ensued.  The first phlebotomist decided it was just too hard to figure out how to get my blood out so she jabbed a needle on the inside of my wrist- right where you’d slit it if you wanted to sit in a warm bath and kiss it all goodbye.  I said, please use a butterfly.  She said, I never use those.   Another huge glass of potassium in plain water which tastes like drano.  Orange juice makes it palatable but I guess since I was a bad dog having to be restrained and all I didn’t merit that consideration.  And let us not forget that by this time I had had neither food nor water for five days.  The drano concoction was the first liquid I’d had.  So, so great. Delicioso indeed.  There was also a veritable endless stream of people coming in to stare at the Person Who’d Had to Be Restrained, as though I’d developed 86 heads.

The Afternoon of the Morning After.  The Partner appeared, we were both sobbing and whatnot. A bitch from hell Valkyrie Nurse’s Assistant appeared, yanked my blanket off, yanked my hospital gown up, and said- No dwainage.  Gut, in a ruminating sort of way.  Still a bit out of my mind I made it all even better by asking her if the thing next to her non-existent nametag was a charm to avert the evil eye: It definitely looked like one of those blue eyeball things you see all over the…oh, dear.  Middle East.  She reared back and made what came to be a consistent theme of hissing and furtive sign of the cross.  No, she said.  At least she finally, at about 3:oo pm, brought me some WATER.  Thank you, Jesus, I said.  Then the osteopath came in.  That went well too, because I said, Oh, you’re an osteopath.  Not an MD but who cares at this point.  Have you read that text Palpatory Literacy?  Literacy, he said???? I said, it’s a basic text for osteopaths and involves training your hands to “read” musculature for dysfunction.  I do it, I said.  Oh, he said, with a minimal hiss and cross making. NO. I DON’T DO THAT ANYMORE.  He did at least partially cop to the fact that they’d almost killed me with the saline/dilaudid combo, saturating my tissues to the point of serious problem.  Next up was a cheery Hospital Administrator, who told us that one of the Great Things About this Hospital is it’s part of a network, so patients who can’t get what they need at one can be taken to another for treatment.  I wondered why they hadn’t done that with me.  (Further notes of interest on this were at the “post op” visit with the surgeon where I had to remove my own bandages and clean my own wounds. His nurse told me when she’d had the same situation he’d worked her into the schedule on the same day.)  Next up another respiratory therapist who I was, at this point, able to ask as to whether or not what they were fuming into my lungs was a steroid.  I’m allergic to steroids.  He said this wasn’t a steroid of course.  Let’s just say that I haven’t been able to breathe for several days and my lungs are just now uncrunching ten days later.  Apparently I’d aspirated a lot of blood as well, so it was just an overall….disaster.

The last two nurses.  OMG.  Honestly I don’t think you should be a med/surg nurse if you don’t understand what pain is.  In any event, Nurse from Hell Ms. S., the one who told me she wasn’t giving me the pain meds because they didn’t seem to help me and I was crying, turned the wheel over to another Nurse S, whom she told about my having to be restrained and nothing else.  So, FINE.  JUST HISS AND GET IT OVER WITH- YOU’LL FEEL BETTER.  After three blood draws, four vital checks and four respiratory therapies, I fall asleep at 3:45 am.  At 4 am?  New Nurse S comes in, shakes me awake, and says, your guard rail is down! That’s against hospital policy!  You’ll have to sign a release form! Put it up yourself, I said. She of course couldn’t do that, and also said she had to put compression hose back on me.  Well, that didn’t happen because the former compression hose came to a grisly end after the combo of stool softener and IV Lasix hit me like a ton of bricks.  Lasix, you may remember, is that stuff they can’t give to race horses anymore to avoid drug detection.  Anyway, I said I’d sign the release when the sun came up.  Ha ha I am so funny that way.  I’d just closed my eyes when back she came, triumphant, waving a release form around.  I found it! So, fine.  I couldn’t even see it but signed it, whereupon she looked at me and said, wow.  That’s pretty good.  Don’t you use your right hand?  Given that it had the ginormous IV needle in it, not right now but I am left handed I said.  Throwing caution to the wind what with the 86 head reputation I was maintaining, I said to her, if there’s nothing else? GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME.

Finally after five days they let me out.  The nurse of the last day who’d been ignoring me came in and handed me a scrip for MORE OPIATES.  No, I said, NO.  I don’t take this stuff even if all my neighbors do and I could sell this shit and take a vacation.  I don’t want it.  Well, she said.  You HAVE TO TAKE IT.  I HAVE TO GIVE IT TO YOU.  It’s the LAW.  You don’t have to get it filled if you don’t want to.  We’ve phoned in the stool softener prescription for you too.  I’m sorry, I said, but I’m really confused.  If you smoke marijuana they’ll arrest you and the light of day will be a dim memory.  If you sell heroin, same thing.  But the entire thrust of the medical industry seems to be getting you addicted to these bloody pills.  She clucked and backed out hastily.

In the end.  In the end, this experience connected me with an anger and rage I’d never experienced.  I have pretty much dedicated my life to helping others and doing no harm, and to be veritably mutilated in this manner…well.  It made me think about all the prisoners who are thrown in the SHU, all those who are subject to Rendition, all the people in Africa who are sick and dying, and the incredible, monstrous greed of a system where money is all that matters.  They can pretend they care, pretend they’re doing something, but unless there’s a stream of money in it for them- and often even then- it’s all a big, fat lie.  Whether you live or die is simply the luck of the draw once you get into such clutches.  The good part about it is this anger has liberated me from a great deal of fear.  There really, in fact, is no room for fear in our minds.  Especially now when it is largely an implant geared to keeping people powerless.  It has been really challenging to attempt to reconcile my desire to perform an orchidectomy on the anesthesiologist with dirty garden shears in a busy intersection, and leave him there after kicking in his ribs, with the reality of who I am, which is still someone who apologizes to the moths for swatting them.  I’ve read Buddhist texts, I’ve read Elaine Pagels, I’ve prayed and breathed deeply.  The Partner assures me that just because I have these thoughts doesn’t change who I am.   I’m just trying to figure out how to proceed now, knowing what I know.

Back in the real world. Meanwhile, in just a few days! I’ve gotten overdue on all my bills and found that I can no longer do online banking because my 2008 laptop doesn’t have the “right OS” and thus the browsers suggested cannot be downloaded.   I’ve told the Partner to keep the gardening shears away from me for a while.

life with flowers

I have always been someone who would spend their last dollar on flowers, so it’s not all that surprising that they are the tools, in essence, of my trade.  Right now the camellia is starting to bloom and the roses are all ready to perfume the garden air.  There’ll be toothache plant, chinese roses, jasmine, rosemary and gardenias, not to mention all the vegetable and citrus flowers, all the flowers on the herbs, and the passion flower.

Sometimes it looks as though we don’t see what we’ve made of our lives.  But I saw it pretty clearly the other night.  Walking back from feeding our landlady’s horses, I saw inky dark rain clouds in the east, and in front of them an incredible huge rainbow.  It arced over the garden and the budding plants and I thought, perhaps tritely, that if I hadn’t had to come outside I wouldn’t have seen any of that splendor.  And it was a splendor both innate and created and powerful, and that splendor? is really where the Partner and I live now, even and perhaps especially when things are challenging.   So perhaps I haven’t made such a hash of things as it might seem.  Hope springs eternal, Gentle Reader, and that’s a good thing.  None of it would have happened without flowers and an ever growing reliance on all the things in life that we cannot necessarily see with our eyes, but with our hearts.