My Descent

I've been trying to step into a different way of thinking. 

  I catch glimpses of a place from which I will draw my power.

  I feel the words on my tongue, but before my fingers hit the keyboard,

  they are gone, and the revelation igniting my heart disappears into the mist.

I believe that I am creating the mist. I am blocking the Divine.

  The mist arises from my inability to grasp the conditions of my life.

  I am incredulous at the seemingly immutable fact of my circumstances. 

  The absurdity parks my mind in a perpetual state of unconsummated analysis.

'What stone sits unturned?  What misperceptions await clearing?
  What silence have I not held?  What lessons remain unlearned?'

  Dancing with lessons, steeping myself in each, gathering its gifts,

  looking to see if it is the one offering my release from purgatory.

I find a landscape unchanged, except the hemorrhaging of my resources.

I list the strategies, silences and lessons alongside the one hundred jobs.

  They share in common big, bold, red letters stamped across their face, 'DENIED', 

  and the concomitant silence in response to my appeals to understand.

The brain is overtaxed by investigations that never resolve in answers.

  My heart is gripped by fear of impending disaster, by deeper fears

  that I am unworthy, have failed once again, don't have what it takes, OR

  that I am superfluous to this economy, a resource sink, expendable.

This all strikes fear in my heart, further perplexes my befuddled brain.

  The brain and heart collude, inciting a riot of unanswerable questions, 

  manic analyses, desperate conclusions. They paint a bizarre backdrop

  on the canvas portraying my life, fear tinted with drunken irrationality.

All my life is superimposed on this backdrop.

  Incidents and people are seen, not as presented, 

  but as scenarios and characters in a predestined plot;

  one written and produced by me; one leading to my demise.

I cannot celebrate other's lives or their fortunes.

  No, I feel envy at their fortune; contempt when I find

  my expertise eclipses theirs; chagrin and humiliation that

  they have the jobs for which I can not even get an interview.

High on this toxic cocktail of jealousy, resentment and swelling bitterness,

  I act foolishly with a foul mix of self-disgust and bombastic showmanship.

  My behavior leaves a bile in my mouth that eats its way to my stomach, 

  turns to acid, feasts on tender flesh and nourishes the burgeoning despair.

All folds in on itself, creates a lethal quagmire out of which

  I cannot climb, or see, or feel, or act, or breath, or believe...
  I can't find the bottom of this pit, can't stop from digging.

  And, amid the chaos, the quiet solace offered by Spirit is lost.

There is a natural resistance to seeing oneself as deplorable or expendable. 

  There is an instinct to protect oneself in any way to avoid this possibility.
  Finding fault and placing blame on an other relieves me of responsibility.
  So, I forge villains out of strangers, those I envy, those I don't understand.

This is one path from fear to hate.
  There are many paths from fear to hate.
  But, they all end in destruction of the soul.
  The journey on this path, I believe, is ever so common.

Do you recognize this story?

  Can you name the actors?
  Can you describe the plot?

This is the rotting, fetid cesspool, the primordial sludge,
  the undifferentiated mass out of which we must climb.

  Like an unstoppable landslide, fear begets anger which
  sires contempt, jealousy, loathing, resentment, hate...

This is what holds us back from seeing our potential,

  from recognizing our connection and our ONENESS,

  from stepping back from the brink of our extinction.

  

The answer that Spirit calls to me through my insanity

  is love, simply love, incomprehensible, indisputable,
  love.

Résistance

The world is turned upside down for a reason.
  Messages to 'Let go. Stop pushing.'
  all met with bold résistance.

An epiphany this morn.
  The defeat of my plan is absolute.
  All the universe answers me as one, 'NO.'

I see the utter collapse of my résistance.
  No false hopes have been shared.
  Only an abiding, patient 'NO.'

Something else awaits.
  Concealed until I acquiesce.
  Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

The Desk

The desk.
  There was a desk
  and I was sitting in it.

It was old-style,
  desk and chair all-one,
  a basin under the desktop.

All white,
  no floor or sky,
  just the desk and me.

Desktop raised,
  swirling dark vapor,
  wonderous mystery alive.

Nascent promise.
  Spirit awaiting expression.
  Creation from intention and release.

Kriya

Kriya
  That's the word for what happens
  to my body since the Kundalini emergence.

The Kundalini has been gentle this year.

It rises through my crown chakra and
  sparkles around my head with epiphanies.

It puts pressure on my throat chakra
  when creation is stirring and wants form.

It burns in my root chakra in
  anticipation of new growth or awakenings.

And sometimes, it captures my body
  in a storm of chaotic, exploding energy.

It happened again, quite unexpectedly,
  as my friend did reflexology massage on my feet.

Awakened once again, the energy sparked
  and danced through all the muscles of my body.

The energy cascaded from one twitching muscle to
  the next, inciting a riot of chaotic, uproarious potential.

I could feel each of the thousand muscles in my body,
  the individual explosions, and the bed quaking beneath me.

I was happy that the Kundalini is still alive in me.
  I was fascinated by the work of Spirit in my body.

As the Kriya subsided, I fell into a deep peace.
  I felt at One with Spirit and fully alive in this body.

I was reassured that my work is not complete,
  and that Spirit is here, now, for us all, always.

I AM Caring for You

Last night, I gave Spirit an ultimatum.
  'Show me my work!' I entreated.
  'Or, I shall take matters into my own hands.'

I trusted that the strength of my resolve
  shone through my words and demeanor.
  I hoped God was paying heed to my petition.

'I have designed a path forward,' I think.
  'I am walking that path.  I will continue.'
  But, I don't know that it's the path God desires.

A whisper, a friend, a stranger, a teacher
  all tell me this is not the path I am asked to walk.
  It is merely a step toward that path, and a gift for me.

I hear, over and again, that my reach for security is
  misdirected, is not how I am to use my energy.
  I am to follow my heart's (God's) desire.

So, I awaken in prayer,
  'Please God, gift me with my work.'
  'I am wasting time, every day, losing time.'

I remember a friend recently asking me if the
  possibility of financial collapse is my greatest fear.
  My response was, and is, 'No.  It is not my greatest fear.'

My greatest fear is that I will not find a way
  to give back to life, to gift my self and my talents
  to make this life a joy and a blessing for all, everyone.

I feel the press of time against my bones,
  and in the depths of my feminine physique.
  Time passes ever more quickly toward my demise.

And yet, I wait.

This morning, relinquishing my demand on Spirit,
  I tried to quiet my mind to receive wisdom and council.
  And, despite my partial success at quieting my self, Spirit spoke.

I was told to not 'take a definite position', and
  to 'refrain from criticizing the process that
  is occuring within me'. Wait...Within Me?

I hadn't considered the fact that the delay
  is because of a ripening that is occuring within me.
  Or that it isn't, in fact, a delay.  It is a process led by Spirit.

I was advised to have faith, to relax into the process,
  to gift myself with the  freedom to allow the unfolding,
  to follow Spirit's call and trust God to provide my security.

Moments later, I received a note from a loved one
  to whom I owe a debt.  He released me from the debt.
  Amid tears of gratitude and surprise, I heard Spirit remind me,

  'I AM caring for you.  Face forward.'

A New Spirit Guide

There is a spirit whom I met just recently.
  She is foreboding and forbidding and strange,
  so very strange.

She calls me to give her voice,
  to announce her presence,
  to share her audacious spirit with the world.

Yet, her very strangeness challenges me
  so I have cowered, prefering instead
  something, someone more 'normal'.

And still, she lingers, waiting...
  So, I will try to share her with you.

the Crone

She has been coming to me in visions.
  She is a spirit guide, but not just for me.
  She is here for us all.

In the first journey, I was taken to a dark place.
  Standing in the dark, I saw a tear in the fabric of reality.
  I was invited to pull open the fabric, to step into the beyond.

So, I took hold of that vaporous tear and pulled it apart.
  Stepping inside, I found myself enveloped again in dark.
  I was in a dense forest, but not one of material substance.

I stood alone, yet sensed beings all about me, watching.

  Then, I saw flickering lights of many colors, everywhere.

  And, I saw the lights were fairies, brilliant, beautiful, dancing.

Though I have traveled far in spirit world, I have not
  allowed for interaction with this aspect of the mystic.
  I have judged it harshly as unworthy, childish, superficial.

Yet, there I was.  So, I watched as the fairies danced,
  lighting up the dark with color, creating beauty as they flew.
  Then, it became too much for me so I left, and all became silent.

The other day, I joined with a circle of friends to journey.
  I intended to journey to see the next chapter in my new book.
  Yet, as I sat in circle, I sensed the presence of a new spirit guide.

So, I opened my self to meet this new spirit guide in journey.
  I was taken back to the portal between the two realities.
  Stepping inside, I saw the brilliant colors lighting up the dark.

And, I sensed a presence.
  Turning, I saw her floating just above the ground.
  And what I saw next bewildered and flummoxed me.

She was wearing a Steampunk Ball Gown, a hoop dress.
  All white, many layers of ruffles folded one upon the other,
  climbing over the massive expanse between her feet and waist.
  A lace and satin bodice sat atop this most peculiar costume.

Looking to the figure it framed, I saw a very old woman.
  Her face was gaunt and, well, ugly.  Her nose protruded
  above stern lips and shielded the eyes set back in her skull.

Her hair, scant and disheveled, was tucked awkwardly
  into a regal Juliette Cap sitting askance on her balding head.
  Her hands bore long, bony fingers, and she was barefoot?!

Stunned, I gazed at this bizarre figure even as she stared down at me.
  I emerged from the journey astonished at the incredulity of it all.
  I understood that she is the Crone, and these words came to me,

Extravagant, effusive, lavish, audacious, regal,
  gaudy, daring, bold, laughing, 'Do not cross me.',
  powerful, adventure, play, a theater in which to create.

She is here.  She has announced her garish self to me and the world.
  Her purpose, I am almost afraid to ask.  But, I'm sure she has
  something to say.  How could one so audacious not?

So, I will await her next visit and endeavor to hear her words
  so that I may pass them on for any interested to hear.