I saw a very sad movie last night and woke up very disappointed in me today. Why did I throw a fit of anger at myself? What part took me over and turned it all into black & white? Judgment?
Regression and lost remission seem often to accompany each other. A chaotic mind is a chaotic body. My mind was manifesting only remnants of thoughts and feelings, memories and sensations. And though I was looking at fragments, I could see the whole behind the shattered glass. The fragmentation no longer prevented me from seeing the picture behind the broken glass. Though at any moment, I felt like one could slit my wrist if I let it overtake me. I look for resilience in silence.
But forty years ago I could not see behind the fragmented glass. “I could not feel you feeling me,” says Thomas. Our inter-reactions were not responses, they were reactions. We spoke to ourselves in front of each other but mutual understanding did not show up to enhance intimacy.
Oh, how it does berate me? I deserve to regret, to shame because my lack of feeling competent crawled through my family and infected everyone. Love was replaced with longing. I am not so much afraid anymore, of the shame that I carried as my exiled Self. Tucked away in the far reaches of my awareness, I desire to get through any encounter without one of my flame throwers showing up and burning my emotions in heat or freezing them to numbness.
Since starting this journal work, the tightness in my chest subsided by 70%. Sincerely, I have reached a 3rd dimension. Even my pencil drawing expresses more than 2tones.
Quiet the Night, Soft is the breeze, and Dim is the light of the faraway Moon
Quiet enters through my ears first.
Light tries to become internal.
I close my eyes and witness my awareness
working against the furthest perimeter of my horizon.
My senses have lost their individuality, they operate as a community.
and parts become easier to find with practice?
The Self is not the ego. The ego is a part that builds alongside the growth of the Self. It wants very badly to be the Agency of Identity but alas, poor ego; you only play a developmental role, then you are pruned, sculptured in a matrix of inter and outer connections. You hated being pruned. But such are the laws of neuronal evolution.
Happiness or healing occurs in the state of awareness of consciousness. It is not an object obtained, though it can briefly seem that way. It is a paradigm shift in perception, a sudden knowing, not forced, that there is more than meets the eye.
“The mind is distributed through the whole body; it is not located in the brain.” We are the psyche/soma oneness that we have stood by for the last half-century. Thomas writes we are weaving a double helix between ancient wisdom and contemporary understanding.” There is source material here for doing ancestral healing work. Manifesting and shape-shifting are internal processes that mix with the eternal coherence of the universe.
The only magic here is meditation and sacred plant medicine, either will suffice to clear the fog of war within.
I land at a location in my landscape that I frequent often. I am familiar with the long stone stairs that circles downward like in Dante’s Divine Comedia. At the base of the descent, I see the lake and the shore at the end of the pond closest to me. It is overcast with deep grey storm cloud. It is various shades of brown and dark tan, maybe small streaks of purple.
Last time I was here there was color, the lake shimmered with sunlight and the trees were a lush summer green and there was a strong Native Indian figure gazing over the pond. He has long black hair and a raw-hide band holds two eagle feathers pointing downward. (I’ll me regarde pas). It is murky and muddy and very damp.
A globe of phosforeessence nodes connected an invisible web locking the entire landscape beneath it.
There is only me and the lioness and we have a respectful stranger-distance between us. We are comfortable that the distance is safe. But I back up to the grid of nodes and as I attempt to lean my back against it, I become disjointed, confused and I begin to panic, feeling as if I need a way out. I do find a place and I remove two pegs out of hundreds of them holding down the canopy over the vision. I see that I can crawl under the dome and back into the forest. But I don't want to do that. I don't want to abandon the lioness. I feel that she knows this and her tail swishes and whips side to side like a cat resting on a window sill watching a chipmunk in the shrubs.
At one point I notice that within the dome it is much brighter. There seems to be a white-yellowish sheen to everything, yet it is still muddy and damp like when I first entered this space after passing through two temple-like portals-Old, ancient temple walls crawling with vines and plants that grow against this massive stone structure. I see these as plant medicine vines, hairy and clinging to the trees.
The Indian that is often in this location in my shamanic landscape, he is not here. But his absence is present like the lack of fire in the stone fire pit.
The tone of the sound journey transitions from rhythmic drumming to a gentle pulsing pan drum, crystal bowls and a variety of singing bowls.
The vision disappears. Thecrystal sound clears away all memory of the vision.
I want the vision back. But the sound has its way with me and I wrap up in a blanket making myself into a quiet solo tee-pee. I wait, my body folds into a yogic forward bend. Various singing bowls take turns softening or hardening the sound and soon I forget I am listening, and I am hearing from my body, feeling the vibrations before hearing the sound.
I am back in the arena with the lioness. This time she is pacing as if caged. I no longer feel safe. I find the area where I had removed the pegs but again I can not abandon the lioness.
Now the vision is once again stronger than the sound and I want to walk with the lion but I do not have her permission to approach. I hear her roaring but I don't move and she stops and lays down in tall soft golden grass.
I sit by the opening I have created in the web of nodes and I fall into a restful trance where I am floating on a very crude raft in the pond. I am in a poetic vivid archetype of my life. I am living with my fear. The drum beat begins to merge with the pan drum and the gong. The pitch is higher and the color strikes a deep vivid red and for a moment it glows like a summer sunset and I awake back into the valley with the pond, and I find my way to the circular stairway holding the palm of my hand against the moist stones as I ascend into my everyday realm.