Looking Back: Chapter 12 Healing the Amnesiac

2020 was the year of many heroes. There were holes everywhere in the thinning amnesic membrane. The the human species had lathered it on thick this time. What a mess we were making. It was not a pretty time. It was an exciting time. There, whether seen through the translucent thinning membrane or through rawness of direct vision from the holes, all potential for the bright cohesive collective that was to be, gathered. It was a grand and uneasy time. I joined the doormaker to help ease the light coming through the holes and give choice to the apertures openings. I say this was an exciting time because humanity was regaining their sight back. We were growing the 2020 eyesight with 360 degree vision once again. The Doormaker Guild was able to help bring the chaos into a focused Beauty. Slowly the people of this time stopped calling themselves crazy. The simple act of writing this history in my room in the library has me feeling that quivering. It is goosebumps everywhen. They shake and ripple along the river of my many lives. 

Slowly we the people of this time, stopped calling ourselves crazy. Many helping spirits whispered the most Beautiful songs to help us. It was this wash of song that held us in a sanity while this thick unsightly membrane broke and we birthed. Again a ripple. I am quivering at the sightly Beauty growing in this period. I forgot what the elders called this phase?  My life in this time during it's later years came to know the excitement of resistance. Montana would take it as a cue into action. She knew through fire and I knew because of her, that one step action dissipated the dread. She knew helping attractors would come in to birth multiple paths of growth. It was a difficult birth for the collective soul. Perhaps because of our stubborn resistance to letting go of the wrapping of ignorance to the many realities, we gained a trumpeting song to the helpers of heaven. The doormakers were not the only style of hero to step humanity into seeing the deepening light. There's a place of light that dances with color and affords us stability in the expansion of our collective heart. I say it was a time of heroes because that's what it took for those who had already lived lives in heaven to not only return, but step out with sovereign feet.

The word door is a common symbol to give individuals an action into their own Souls light. It is a path so each may unwrapped from their membrane of amnesia. On the side past death, it is really not so much a door but that which holds ease. I love the last half of Montana's life. It strengthens my other lives. She is a gentle power for the whole of us to smooth the edges of our lives. As she worked from her bright Soul beyond the dark night of this collective shock, she walked in a sovereign ease.

Oh sweet Jesus it was not easy to open my door. When I did is when I started to sleep with an image of the Elephant under my pillow. I imagine from an amnesiac looking in, my life looks simple and mundane. I find that to be a good mask to wear when working with any life thickly coated in unsightfulness. Several days ago I walked to the mulberry tree to shake it's berries onto a cloth. I did not connect then that I was singing a songline across the heart expanse into this action, into this space where I pray with the three sisters and radishes I am gardening. Bees like I have never seen on this farmland before come in to buzz around my feet in the clover as I shook the tree. Perhaps I did not look so mundane in the eyes of those unseeing ones of the many realities. I imagine I looked like some simpleton sitting in her PJ's laughing in the middle of the flowering clovers. I knew then that the soil from the farming lands here would be healthy again.

Let me tell you this short story of a ritual of pulling up weeds and taking down a fence in the horses field...

Aspiring Attitude

As I go through my writings, I am astonished at how many I weed out.  I found a jewel today that gave me much needed inspiration to overcome my piss poor attitude. I've been wallowing in a belief I am just too mushy and dorky a person to ever write like Neil Gaiman. Why even write? Then this piece and I had to double check to make sure it was mine. Then a mirror for my ego and I am strutting a new attitude.

The Gentle Power That Heals

It has been less than two years that I have been living on this farm in Sky Country. The green of the summer is spectacular. It ignites with sky blue into a strength of broad horizons. It invites me into it's embrace, waking up my memory so I stand at ease into broad horizons with strength to soar. I get to work with this amazing boy riddled with speech and language disorder and intense sensory sensitivities and defensiveness. He also has a desire to be apart of the language of his family. We had this break through together where he was able to use words in a joke, to tease me. The energy was delightful ease. On my way home from work the sun was dipping into twilight and a deer was in the corn field. I stopped diagonal on the dirt road to signal to the other car that a deer was about to bound across the rode. We sat there watching it's delightful ease bounding from field to creek bed and trees. I could not tell if she knew we were watching. It was the same energy I felt with the little boy earlier, no fear, ease and a delight risen up in my heart.

I started thinking how I no longer claim to be a christian. I refuse to let the dogma, the mental mandates of the church taint a long time relationship with christ that is this stir of delight into Beauty rising. I am more connected to the stories of a christ called Jesus in my experiences with Deer and with this little boy I work with, then a church. I talked with the mother the other day about my belief of healing. I said I can write and talk all the details of sensory motor integration and modulation, how they feed attention, reciprocity and language, but they are secondary. This bonding of family and community is the spark, it's the juice that makes it happen. So we both agreed Love rules his healing path. I felt like a dorky hippie saying it's all about Love and sang a few Beatles lines in my head. I also mentioned the story of the Roseto Mystery and offered her the reference from Malcolm Gladwell's book, Outliers. It is a story about how the community of Roseto, Pennsylvania have most of it's people dying from old age. It talks about a physician named Wolf and Bruhn, a sociologist, who brought their findings to the medical establishment to convince them to think about health and heart attacks in a entirely new way. They had to look beyond the individual and stop analyzing their choices and actions in isolation of their community. There is a magic in community in this small town for this little boy. As we go to the grocery store, or donut shop or city park I receive the most marvelous stories of this little boy. Each person we met gets in rhythm with him. There is no therapeutic modalities between him and them. It's fantastic. Lips turn upward and eyes widen and that gentle power that heals washes over both of us.

Otherworld Wild

I blur the line you draw for me
And take on the misty veil
And see beyond your tired god
I know myself of fire and water, earth and air.

I am more of Lilith, than Eve
I am myself known
I am the Wild of you
The veil is not danced for your delight

Drawing lines of your authority
Does not hold me
Come out from your crumbling temple
You lonely god

Beyond the mystic veil
There is a wonderment
For all you call Wild in this world
It is lit up with the voice of heart and change

Image: by Josephine Wall

Vision

"Among the racing stars,
Upon the arms of light,
The path of sprouting green is made…"

The Silver Eye
Unlocking the Pyramid Texts
Susan Brind Morrow

I am Becoming. Folding inward. Unfolding and pulsing back again. I abandon the process of cultural lock and key.  The River knows no directional flow with Source to the Becoming.

I am Being and do not abandon the play of keys. Holding to my nature I sense. Holding to my nature I grow voice in the fertile silence. The River knows coming and going with Source in the Being.

This world sensual, Being and Becoming. For you, I will not abandon my nature. I drape myself in my robe of stars. Walking bare foot on Earth, often I fall to my knees.

Unbinding the clinging mind, cultural Becoming and Being will cease to be a prison.

In great times of strife and darkness, the brightest of stars are born. In great times of strife and darkness, each family, each nation a bright star. New constellations pattern the skies.

Where Does My Anger Go?

Where are our memorials to the Women Warriors?

It is not only men of war that overcome flashbacks.

How many raped come home and thrive, how many do not?

My anger rises within the silencing of women.

My anger rises in the unsafe spaces of intolerance of speech.

Who can listen to an angry woman talking about being raped?

The victims voice we feed and then,

We go no further to the heroic welcoming home parties.

We stay ignorant and stupid.

She's exaggerating. She wanted him to play rough. She's making it up.

And what of the platform from childhood rape, when we push correctness of memory?

Where is the broader understanding of the truth of flashbacks?

My anger bends away from Fuck You!

My anger turns into determination.

I have made it home and whole,

I am an open and safe space for you.

I have a vision.

One step at a time, 

Into the creative flow,

Gathering energy as I go into community, We are

there beyond the anger and victim games.
We are a safe community toward wholeness, whispering

If you need to say Fuck You, say it .

We will hold that hand and nurture you home.

Being

Quit some years ago I met a man because I wanted to learn from him. Several years before I met him I slid into being a lucid dreamer. In those days I went from Beauty to horror to mundane through out the night. I reached out into community and discovered a dream group. It was a style that helped some. I went to yoga, learned about nutrition, mediatated, became a Nia instructor, expanded my religious understandings, drummed, danced, went to sweat lodges, studied science, read poetry, drank tequila, and play wrote. I say play wrote because I never could get past the overshadowing of my own thought that I was not capable of becoming a writer. All I did before I met this teacher helped some.

Now because I was befriended. Because the intentional community he organized and facilitated did not crumble under my chaos, but held as I did the work. Because his words were so humanly flawed, not perfect, and so brilliant and perfect. Because I know I don't know all the
Be- Causes, language and writing are as equally awake in me as my dreaming. I have a few other people in my life whose Being holds safe brillant lit spaces for my growth. On my walk this morning in a fit of gratitude and humbleness, I flicked away the dull thought, "How can I ever pay this teacher back"?

Now I take my Being into play with all the luscious sensations, chores and synchronicities of the day. I have the greatest initiation to bring into play for when I drift awake into the night. I can say it's prayer at the altar of dreaming. I feel anticipation like a child before she is able to unwrap her christmas presents. Oh how I love to play!