Anger

Sometimes when people feel strong feelings, they might choose to react with anger—the easiest , seemingly face-saving, seemingly justifiable reaction. Sadly, there’s usually an unmet need behind most bad behavior. Just under the anger might be a whole lot of sadness, or disappointment, or some other issue that keeps coming up in their lives. Allowing themselves to feel what might be under the anger makes them feel vulnerable. So, in a nanosecond, mind diverts them from feeling that pain.

It takes a pause to consider what they’re feeling and consider the range of reactions they might choose. So, especially if alcohol is involved, they reach for the lowest vibrating energy, like a weapon; not thinking it through that this won’t get their very vulnerable, human needs met in the long run. But reacting in anger only hurts everyone involved. There’s always a better choice.

More and more I’m trying to be the observer of my journey through humanness, and trying for more compassion and understanding of myself and others . . . a work in progress! (And sometimes, it’s entirely right to release someone from our lives, when they are repeatedly disrespectful.)

I am the lightning's hand. Sacred/Profane.

The opposite of sacred is not mundane, but profane. How do we craft our lives to embrace more sacredness? And less profanity to our soul?

An HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) living in LA, I've been wanting to read the book on how to navigate the electric currents here without short-circuiting. An urban shaman (ha!), I seek the still point within, so that I can do the work I moved here to do.

I realize my either/or thinking is at work here, and that we live in a world colored by shades of gray. But when do we give ourselves permission to relax into our vastness? (Not often enough!)

Perhaps one must be the observer. This highly charged field enhances journeying and shamanic work exponentially. Isn't the wild ride amazing? Spirit wanted to soar Saturday, and look where the magic carpet took us, during the soul retrieval. It's powerful. It's frightening. It didn't let up for hours. Perhaps Kundalini was awakening? We are so far beyond the days of drawing fire up from the core of the earth and being scared to death of what to do with it. We know what to do with fire now. Playing with it. Using it as a tool. Letting the fire mold, meld, and rework us into exquisite tools of transformation, to share with those who wish to take our hand, this little gift, this little assist.

Be the lightning's hand.

Balance

Tight left hammie running this morning, from intense, but amazing Power Yoga with Anaswara last night. It reminded me of the tight (read nonexistent) amount of time I have for being creative these days, as I spend 40 hours a week in a gray cube. Not a complaint, just a Vipassana observation. I wonder if we are ever truly in balance as humans for more than just a heartbeat. Or if the point of it all is to savor those times when we ARE in balance (or maybe one aspect of our life is REALLY working), give thanks, then just let go. Because being human seems to be about being in motion more often than stillness (for me lately, at least). About moving through change and growth, experience after experience, and not taking anything for granted anymore.

Stoplight Journaling

The stories I pass, each run on the bluff, speak volumes with their body language. My undefended heart faces them as I pass. Open to the homeless, the hopeless, the humanity through whose bedroom I guiltily tread, light as I can, so as not to wake them.

The abuella who I passed on my last two runs, who had sat on the same bench at the end of Idaho, overlooking the Pacific, head in hands—today she is reading a tiny book. A bible? I feel hope for her.

MJ’s Earth Song crashes through my head just as the ceiba tree in his music video crashes to the ground. Axis Mundi. Beloved magical tree. And then lifts back up, as tearful Aymara faces break into huge smiles. That’s how I feel lately. A lifting, a reversing . . . lightningbolt glimpses of recovery. Of me, of the Earth, of all of us.

This was the right time to move here. I couldn’t have experienced this expansiveness earlier in my life.

What a far cry from when I first lived in Boston in the bitter winter of 1981, where I stepped over frozen, homeless bodies in the Combat Zone on my walk to work in the morning. I’d never even seen homelessness before. Much less death. My heart shrunk into a tiny fist in that setting at that time. The armor began forming. I thought that by separating myself from the suffering of the world, I would be safe.

Safety only exists in opening to the Mystery. Can our pure essence truly be hurt?

Right Here. Right Now.

Is it possible to cry while running? Yes - if you swallow the ocean and breathe through the throat chakra block. The poignancy of being right here, right now on Planet Earth struck me like a cannonball this morning. I passed SO many homeless people as I ran along Santa Monica’s bluff. Then a cannon pointing to the Pacific. Revered weapon of mass destruction. The impact of its shot blasted my 3rd chakra as I passed it. What is time? I fell into a time warp, and felt its unfriendly fire. Just like at Circus Maximus in Rome, where I fell into the thunder of horses’ hooves and racing chariots. The cannonball woke me up. Such violence. Such beauty. Welcome to Planet Earth. I passed a youngish, particularly muddy, sandy-haired man sleeping on the ground. Someone had placed a full take out box of food in front of him. That’s what got me. Violence. Compassion. Beauty. Here we are, at this amazing time during the shift from former to latter. Lucky us.

A win!

Today I met with Lenny, the wonderful manager of the Mill Valley Depot Bookstore, and introduced him to Body of Work. He was delighted to take a copy to sell on consignment in the store. As a matter of fact, he said someone was asking about it the other day. Wow! Word travels fast. With luck, I'll be giving an Author Reading there . . .

On the down side, I discovered North Point Coffee in Sausalito out of business. Sad that the indy cafes are suffering so . . . It would have been a lovely place for a book launch party.

Also, at the Depot, I found out that Body of Work is not yet up in the Ingram database. Yikes! My distributor needs to fix that ASAP! Bookstores need to be able to order it.

Monday night, I visit Left Coast Writers' salon at Book Passage, to introduce my baby and network into an Author Reading there. Love that place. The buzz is growing!

Run's End

Nearly back at my car, I listened to Spirit and retraced my steps to the Haypress Camp trail; seeking the absolute stillness and quiet that’s always nestled there.

A short way up the trail I stood still. I heard a sound—soft and moist—like the exhale of quahogs under the mud, on a steamy summer day on the Westport River. Spirit felt wonder and pleasure.

Mind translated this, a heartbeat later, as a scattering of tiny raindrops plashing on the dust of the trail at my feet.

After the numbness and misery of Monster Cold, pleasure is back.

Maybe there will be enough of me back soon, to promote the book . . .