To Not Fall Down

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The cat is over by the wood stove regurgitating again. The sound no longer alarms me, as I know I will come across the small, liquid mess she has spewed out of her throat and I will clean it up off the wood floor or off the fire shield that is underneath the stove, which is now cold.

It is finally past, the winter I’d wondered if I’d get through, carrying into the cabin armloads of wood off of the porch to stack in the vicinity of the stove in order for it to dry enough to burn. I am amazed at how the freezing cold days seemed interminable, too aware of all the cold drafts in this cabin, how 15 degrees outside made my cabin’s indoor temperature of 32 degrees seem warm, and at how I notice a change.

It is Spring, seemingly all of a sudden. Propane burns for a bit of warmth this early morning of March 23, 2019.

The time warp in which I find myself is just that: time warped. I know I have experienced each day, night, and all the moments, and when I stop to reflect I ask myself, “Where did it go? What did I do? Why did I sit here alone so much, sometimes peaceful, at times active, mostly out of necessity, a lot of the time just raging within, my thoughts triggering the reaction of rage?”

It’s a pattern, I’ve noticed, usually triggered by my sister’s voice over the telephone, or the sound of my son’s voice, he who can play me like his guitar. Or, I can have just one melancholy thought and within five minutes I’m thinking I could just kill myself. And then comes the depression. Chalk it up to all these years I’ve been living alone with no one to hold or talk to in person. I did it and still do it to myself.

I will not go to a medical professional to allow him or her to “diagnose” me. I am not interested in being labeled, put in a box, then manipulated with pharmaceuticals. The most I allow myself are coffee and cigarettes, which may or may not do me harm.

No, instead, I rage aloud sometimes-slamming shut the front door, which is a multi-panes “French” door that does not always close properly; thus the urge to slam it shut.

The unseen spirits hovering around nudged me; while in the midst of a two-week-long self-torture session, I was prompted, at five A.M., to put on my boots and go outside to put the tin back on top of the lumber I’ve been saving for years, before the rain that was due in came. I went out onto the porch and went down the steps to the ground. I was making my way up the slight incline toward the stack of lumber when suddenly I tripped on something. It was quick. I hit the ground with my left knee, then my right knee, then I was falling forward, my head, my forehead slamming down against a flat rock. I screamed and cursed loudly, truly raging, aware that the neighbors within a mile of me may or may not be able to hear me. The fact that I could still hear my own thoughts along with the sounds of distress and anger pouring out of my chest through my throat and mouth helped me know I was still intact-no brains leaking forth from a cracked skull.

I had the thought: “OKAY! I GET IT! I am always on the verge of eliminating myself but I obviously have no clue as to how close I am to dying at any time. I have to live. Okay..Just slam my head against a rock to get through to me!”

I got up and decided I did not care anymore about the lumber getting covered. It had only been sitting there the last twenty years; so what if it gets wet? I went back inside, made a cup of coffee and went upstairs. I sat on my bed, looking at the shoes on the shelf across from me, thinking: “I need to sell those shoes I never wear, but who would buy them?” I felt my forehead. Several raised bumps had formed, and tiny granules of dirt were embedded in the skin. Eventually I’d wash my face; now, I just wanted to sit.

That was at least a week ago. Since the fall to the ground I’ve noticed my entire body is trying to recoup. The taut muscles in my shoulders, the bruised upper torso from the weight of my fall are taking a while to heal. I now move more slowly and realize I bend forward slightly when I walk.

Damn! I suppose I finally have to admit I am getting old.

So..I have been reading a lot. I get through one book, put it on the stack of the ones I’ve read, then find another.

The book called Lazaris. The Sirius Connection talks about how History has ended, that a vortex that had been closed for 90,000 years fully opened on April 23, 1994. Through this vortex flows the God/Goddess/All That Is energy, full force, which affects each and everyone of us here on Earth, our universe. Some may have been aware of this when it happened, and many of us were not, but this does not mean only some of us were given the option to be a part of this energy to create our future. Everyone has been given the choice to live and create or just keep on keeping on, merely surviving. (I would quote some of the words from this book had I written permission to so do. However, I do not have that. I have the book, if anyone wishes to borrow it; come for a visit and you can sit and read it in peace.)

But Holy Moly! When I look back over all I’ve written over the years, I see how stuck in a rut I have been. The rut has deepened over the years, seems like, and it has felt difficult to get up out of it. But it takes just one thought, one moment of surrender to experience release, or one shocking encounter with a rock to reset.

Unplug; plug back in.

Lazaris suggests imagining our futures, choosing the one we would like to see come into being instead of dwelling on the past and allowing our history, our conditioning influence what is. With the Sirius Connection, this Source of power, we are encouraged to do this: to create something beautiful, to manifest that which has always been within each of us, to know ourselves and LIVE, along with the awareness that ultimately, all is illusory, like a hologram of energy, with its fluctuating, changing Light- Creation.

If All That Is is merely an illusion, how does anything matter, and what is the point? Given that All That Is includes Everything and Nothing, as well as infinite universes and dimensions of which we may or may not even be aware, we nonetheless affect, with our choices, collectively and individually, all that happens, here and elsewhere. Choosing love and creativity, knowing and embracing our True Selves is likened to the pebble tossed into the pond with its rippling waters moving outward, never ending. We are one with the Source, the Infinite. Doom and gloom is not the Way; doom and gloom is the absence of this Light, this energy.

Why do I feel compelled to write? Ordinarily I would think any writing I do would be based on my life story. That story is a lot of history; do I really want to delve into my past? It seems better to think on whatever I wish to do today and thus bring nearer the future I wish to experience, to feel and see. Granted, the past has its place as a possible explanation for all the failed relationships, dead-in-the-water endeavors, and abandoned dreams.

Perusing my past, it all seems a blur of emotional turmoil, pain, and conditioning, leading to now, a failed present-and for what? Does pulling up the past give me leave to beat up on myself, or point my finger at my parent, my siblings, or my lover and say, “Yeah, you are the reason my life has blitzed by and now I sit here alone, growing older, with my old dog asleep at my feet, letting smelly farts, my fingers numbing as I hold this pen, aware that the dawn is changing to a light-filled day. And I think I want to write? About you? And all that you did to damage my trust, my innocence, my faith in myself and others? You betcha!”

But that would be dwelling on the past, reliving all the pain of delusion and disillusionment. Can I not, instead, imagine something better, something more lovely, more real than the dead past?

Working with what I’ve got, which is actually quite a lot, perhaps I can allow my deepest initial dream to come into being.

Before anyone messed with me when I was a little child, I was a pure soul/spirit, a clean slate, not hindered by memory. I was trusting, intuitively certain I was loved which eventually expressed as having a giving nature. Seventy-one years later I know this is still who I am. I have simply stuffed all down into a mire of lack in sharing, communication, and love.

I stand alone, keep my own counsel, and try to not invade the privacy or autonomy of another. I am responsible for my own joy or sorrow. I cry alone; sometimes I chuckle or even laugh out loud alone. When I leave this body I will still be alone, or, as Eia Von der Flur said: “All One.”

The connotations of being alone are usually negative. However, in my case, I cannot see myself any other way. It isn’t that I am selfish. Ask almost anything of me and I will come through, except when another thinks they can manipulate me and blatantly or subtly try. What I wish for is a shared spirit of communication, generosity, cooperation, and love-not the romantic sort of love but the universal, impersonal kind that might come to be unconditional.

First things first, however: I must be the person with whom I wish to align.

I have much to do, things I can still do alone. I can call on the unseen energy that is Reality and greet the new day. “Amazing Grace,” that old hymn comes to mind. Noticing the budding trees, the blooming forsythia, feeding the animals, digging in the soil, watching the peas sprout out of the ground, talking to the deer who graze near the garden, tripping over cats at my feet, greeting the loyal, loving dogs, calling a dear friend, having a dream, singing a song, sending out encouraging and healing thoughts towards those who are elsewhere in need: this is where I live. I just need to watch where I step and not fall down.

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