Tuesday, June 28, 2011


I walk down this grey hallway. I can hear my steps, the humming sound in the walls, a moan, a murmur from deep within. I am alone but I am not alone. Here, I remember. I remember who I am.

Here, I do not ask, do not pray, do not want or need. Then I feel a kind of power vibrate. And I know without any doubt, that my choice to be alone, on my own, for this little time, in this space, is right and good and true.

I am influenced by nothing and no one. There is a protective layer so thick that surrounds me, one could mistaken it for a defense mechanism. This interpretation would be incorrect, though. It is just my voice shining through. Finally, that subdued voice has had a chance to come through in all its glory with purpose and meaning. It has barreled through the density of thought and feeling and in doing so, has helped this density become lighter. It disperses right before my eyes and I can sense the lightness from the inside too.

Do you want vulnerability? Do you want me to break down and open up, so that you can help me rebuild anew? Is this what you want from me or for me? I had better trust you first. This requires that you lead by example. This requires that you walk your talk. Otherwise, this protective layer does indeed become my wall, and rightfully so. I can’t rely on anyone who won’t make attempts to catch me when I fall, he who gives only that which he does not miss...

When you’ve had enough, your body, heart and mind look for refuge. The stillness within will not betray or lead you astray. One’s former self begins to dissolve and one can see things more clearly. There is one catch, though. You may not like what you discover, what you see, not only about yourself but about the other, too. In this space, we are equal. Out there, one must be cautious, must use discernment. The people we meet on our path will always be for our own learning, although, not necessarily for our own good.

It’s just the past catching up to me, the unsaid rushing in like a river demanding to be heard. The shades are raised and the sun is shining through in all its beauty. What was I thinking? Where was my sword? Why did I doubt its power in my time of need?

I am amazed how one night under the sheets can bring so much clarity in the morning. What workings take place during sleep? I underestimate sleep’s ability to awaken. May I never doubt again. I am grateful and in awe at how my helpers come. They are kind and merciful, only merciless when they need to be, when it is imperative I see that which must not be hidden from me any longer.

I must learn to discern when guardedness is appropriate, when it is for my own protection, when it is a reflection of the voice coming through as a form of help. I see now how my voice persisted, insisted because I had been taking far too long in accepting its advice. But still it was patient and unwavering and for this, I will forever be indebted. May I never falter again.

Sunday, June 26, 2011


I've been avoiding this but the Muse will not have it. She demands I speak. No time for little dramas. No time for ignorance or pretend. No time for lies or dormant hurts. Yet, all must be raised and released.

When love becomes restrictive, then it is no longer love. I made it to the front of the line. When our eyes met, I saw that he had already received me. He poured into my cup and when I walked away, I saw that the cup had already been filled...with my tears. He laughed at me. No, not with me. But, at me.

My heart expanded beyond me, around me, filled every crack and crevice. But he could not see me. He does not see me, who and what I am. I speak but he does not hear. I reach for him, but he does not sense. I cry but he does not feel. It is hard to see a man who is covered under layers of debris and dirt, filth and darkness. I gave him my loyalty, my dedication, my admiration wanting nothing in return except for honesty, truth and beauty. Apparently, I had asked for too much.

He makes a fool of himself in front of the others. Behaves stupidly, cowardly, deceptively. I saw through all of that. I stood erect with my dress, a symbol of my honour but he wanted none of it. He wanted the small. I did not understand how he could want the meaningless and the insignificant. And so, with my hand, I grabbed hold of my foolish heart and placed it back within its chambers. Gently, I scolded it, told her this was not the way for he is undeserving. She acquiesced even though she did not understand.

With my hands, I rubbed my face, gently swept over my neck and breasts, along my stomach and settled upon my abdomen. With my head looking down, I could not believe the heaviness and dread one can feel in this realm. I see that I want to avoid it, to run from it, but it is no use. Because I am aware of this tendency, I stay still and frozen to experience this pain more, until it no longer consumes me, until I can see it for what it is and release it. There's so much to say, so much to make right but it is pointless. And with this realization, the hurt becomes larger. I am too weak for this. But Mary whispers and says, "No, that is untrue. You will transform this hurt until it becomes something else." I ask, "How much longer?" And she says, "You must be patient. All good things come to those who wait. But you must work on it now."

I knew this day would come, when I would have to choose. It was all over the cards. I pleaded with her. I asked if she was sure. She insisted and persisted until I could no longer ignore her. I asked why I couldn't have both. In her gentle way, she helped me see that was simply impossible. "One of them must go." I asked, "Why?" "Because, if you don't, you will eventually lose both." She added, "With sacrifice, I assure you, other gifts will come. You will see."

So, I take this pain and embrace it. I smother it with love and acceptance. What else am I supposed to do? If I do not acknowledge and appreciate it, I will become bitter. That I can not allow. It is not an option. This pain and I will become friends for a little while and she will teach me what I need to learn and then, with gratitude, I will let her go.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Merciful Suffering

I walk along a path in the forest. The trees stand tall and beautiful. They welcome and greet me every time they catch wind of me. I place my right hand over my chest, my left hand over my lower back. I like the feel of my satin dress. I admire the ruby colour, the sound of my breath in this quiet space, a home away from home. My eyes marvel at everything here, every leaf and flower. I am peculiarly intoxicated by the light shimmering through the tiny openings and spaces between the trees, the way it creates a misty golden hue over that which it touches. Ah, what heaven! Let nothing or no one take this away from me. This is my refuge. Here, I am accepted. Here, I am loved...unconditionally.

I find a tree to sit by. I'm always looking for a tree. They have seen it all, weathered every storm, witnessed the joys and sorrows of our time, our ancestors, and I pray they will continue to be after we have passed on. I hear a whisper. Tell me how you feel. I pat my hair down along the sides over my ears, down my face and neck and find that my hands have joined in prayer. I then place them on my lap. My body is tired. Well, it's questioning. The throbbing won't stop. In my legs and arms, my chest. There is pain but not the kind one dies from physically. It is spiritual in nature and so very difficult to contend with.

I feel myself. I sense my aliveness. I am everywhere. But, I am alone. How is this possible? Am I spiritually lacking? Am I longing for something that cannot be attained here? Are there holes that simply cannot be filled? And maybe this is the point. They are not meant to be filled. If I become whole, I will desire nothing. I am not ready to desire no thing. I think magic resides in wanting and not being able to satisfy this want. I don't think liberation comes from not creating attachments. That is not enough. It occurs in the active process of inaction - to desire while knowing it cannot, must not, and will not be. It is a kind of suffering that is merciful in quality. A merciful suffering.

There is tenderness in the suffering. I did not think this could be possible but it is true. This suffering does not take away. It gives. It abides by the law of reciprocation. But first, there must be a shift in perception because the heart will not understand. The mind must be gentle in its delivery or the heart will resist wanting. The heart must not be made to resist because then, another kind of pain ensues which is like a thief. When this happens, the magic is gone - and there, hope goes with it. That would be a great shame.

My heart is open. My body is ripe to receive. My mind awaits my command. I notice there is a pool of water deep in the forest. Even here, the light manages to find a way to pierce through and bounce off the water like tiny stars and sparkles. I remove my dress, my stockings, earrings, and necklace. I slide into my emotions, this sensuality - the water and I, we are one. I hear a whisper again traveling in the air. Tell me more. I move my body towards the sound, my chest rising and falling, as my breathing deepens. I respond, You will not get from me what I am not willing to give. You will not be that which sustains me. Be gone. You are not invited here.

And then I remember. I need the contrast. How else will I know myself? Contrasts are good even when they are painful, especially because they are painful. I retract. I whisper, You can stay on one condition. The wind picks up speed. My black hair feels cold against my skin. I quiver when I say, You must tempt me all day and all night so that I will resist you, not with my heart, but with my body only. In this way, you and I will both gain, but I, more than you.

Monday, June 6, 2011


It’s easy to get lost in the wilderness, easy to get lost in dream. When the ego and dream meet, life gets sticky and the line becomes blurred, the line between the real and the false. Yet, the false magnifies beyond proportion so you can never say you did not know, that you could not see. The false begins to envelop you, flow through you, swirl around you and you cannot deny what is being presented. But you dance the little dance because ego is greater than you until you are so consumed by it that suddenly the false becomes the truth, your truth. Now, you have a little problem on your hands.

One must never let the false become truth.

Now, you find yourself playing with want and need. Life used to be so much simpler when I was a child and I did not care either way, when doubt was non-existent, and I was pure. Now, I tap dance between the clouds, between the illusion of my past and future, not quite satisfied with the present. What is it that awakens here in this space? I ought to be thankful for illusion. No? It serves a purpose when we bring attention to it. How am I able to recognize illusion and still be in denial?

Back in the day, Jesus and I, we had a little talk and I shared a few things. He knew what I wished for, what I longed for, what was in my heart. I also understood quite early, that what he wished for me would not mesh with what I wished for myself, at least, not in any way that made sense to me. Jesus moves in circles. I like keeping things straight. He keeps moving the lines, keeps creating spaces and more spaces with lines in places I had not imagined. He and I, we understand each other, to a point. I don’t remember a time when he was not there. He tells me there are things I can have and things I cannot have and that this is right and one day I will understand.

But even when he speaks, I see myself playing with the lines, drawing them back to the way I think they ought to be placed. And he smiles because he knows it is the only way I’ll see what I need to see...the hard way. These lines, the more I play with them, they get heavier, harder to move, to manipulate, like I’m playing a game I cannot win because I’m playing by rules I don’t understand.

My Beloved, he is so persistent and unwavering. I cannot escape him. Not that I really want to. It’s just that, he expects me to always have an open heart, beyond myself. He keeps telling me I can contain more and more and more. I argue with him. I tell him I don’t understand how that is possible without breaking down, without getting sick, without losing my foothold, without bursting. Then he continues, "Well yes, if you don’t give it away, if you don’t share. You must let it flow..." I ask him why he has to bother with me like this. He says I’m seeing this all from the wrong place. Ugh.

Sometimes when we sit together, his eyes are fixed on a certain spot. I just stare at him. I love looking at him. With him, I do not worry or hesitate or doubt. I see all of my weaknesses and that this is okay. Through him, I can do many things. Through him, I develop strength. My tears, they flow, as though from a fountain, uncontrollably. Every now and then, he looks up and I catch a glimpse of myself. Extremely painful. His eyes move down again. I can feel his love all around. He is Love. I am obliterated in his presence.

But still, I fight with him. I wrestle. I demand he give me answers. The more I demand, the less I receive. No, no. The less I am able to see my blessings. Jesus does not withhold. He asks me why he is not enough. How can he ask this? How can he think that is fair? What does that say about me, that my Beloved is not enough? What does that mean? Doesn’t he see what I am? I am only human. He won’t let me play with conscience, won’t let me make errors. He remains stationary. In a sense, he is continually interceding in my affairs. Divine intervention, I suppose?

He protects me. He guides me. Lately, I’d like for him to take a back seat, to sit and watch from a distance, to give me some space. And so he draws closer! He sees I want to fool myself and insists this will not happen. He creates a picture around me with his finger. I am now standing barefoot in a field of grass, trees to my right, trees to my left, flowers all about, open sky, tranquil waters, unimaginable beauty and colour and scents. My face lights up. Then, he draws a snake and breathes life into it, places it by a tree near by. I stare at him perplexed. He says nothing is either good or bad. He says the snake is necessary for my development. He says I’ll learn nothing without the creature.

He says that all of these pictures he creates for me, they stem from the talk we had in the past. He says that I had asked and so he is delivering. He says that I knocked and so he opened the door. He says that I have to trust him, how he works and constructs, how he ultimately plays with the lines. When he sees that I am ready, he will let me create my own pictures.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Queen of Swords

I keep trying to extract a something from a someone which isn't there. How much longer am I going to extract that which does not exist in the other? Do you understand the work involved in extracting a single drop of oil from a rose? And this isn't even a rose. I speak of a being, a person, our fellow neighbours and friends. Why am I always left empty handed? Why are these hands always left dry? Why do I continue to look for that which is absent, obsolete, non-existent? What futility. And far worse than disappointment.

This expansion of the heart - I wish someone would have told me long ago what that entailed. I would have wiped that stupid grin from my face. What naivety. Be gone with her. Do you have any idea what it's like to mourn for the world? To feel his pain? Her loneliness? His despair? Her faithlessness? Do you understand what this is like for me? To be sitting in a tub every night for the past six months, crying for God knows who and what and why? And to receive no answers? To surrender to the idea that this expansion is simply for my own good? Do you know how utterly lonely this can feel like? I'm the only one moving on this fucking road. The rest just sit there with their useless and paralyzing thoughts, their dreams, nothing but unfulfilled memories - no flame, no fire. They all went up in smoke before they had a chance to breathe. I wish they'd fucking wake up. I wish Jesus would let me sleep a little while longer.

Be weary of folks who take you to the well but then don't know how to quench your thirst. They don't even make attempts to reach our depths because they are shallow and afraid of their own shadows. I'm so tired of this weakness, this broken heart, this isolation, this alienation. They are not becoming. Not for some idealized dream, nothing but some sand castle in the clouds. I yell to bring it down. Please, bring it down. Why can you not be real? Why must you be with me and not with them? I spit in your eye every time because you are a fake. But I am not left unscathed. When I hurt you, I hurt myself.

And I dislike very much for having trusted you/myself? I wanted you to be real. I held the mirror up every time, as Crowley said, and each time I did, I saw my own disillusionment. I saw what wasn't there. All the lack. I saw what would never be. And this was like poison in my blood. I fought hard against it, resisted its subtleties at every turn. You would have been proud but I was only fooling myself. There was no strength in the world that could stop the inevitable - the slow but sure death of illusion.

You think me a cynic? Blame the sword. It is he who speaks now. Finally. Let it cut through everything. Let it all bleed. Let me smell the stench of my own falseness. Let me wash it away with a single stroke. Let me wipe this slate clean. Fill my vessel with the pure. Let the light of every star burn that which is destructive to my nature, my essence. I beg thee. I beg thee. Let me be heard. No more of this. I can do without the drama. Drama distracts me from the real, and yet in the same breath, it draws me closer to you. How can this be? How?