Shaken and Stirred, One Rebel Soul, Please

Wind torments this lonely valley
Exhales and rattles tender bones
And creaks the timber, tree, and soul

Moan low the howl of wildness
Catch fire and spread the fever high
Burn these bones to dust


I miss the passion of my soul. I miss the need to call out to the wind, to let my voice mix and mingle with its force and travel far through canyon walls, echoes heard in foreign lands that bear seed and sun and pools of life. I miss the need to reach out and touch, to trigger tempests in seas of tranquility; of mediocrity; of stagnant, barnacled slumber. I want to stir the ground beneath, and feel the swell of storms of dirt as lightning sparks from finger tips. I want to create the revolution; through me, new life is borne.

I have been watching a documentary on the history of jazz. Though I am not a big jazz fan myself, I enjoy learning about how different forms of music have unfolded, as well as who were the channels who brought in paradigms of thought and expression previously unheard of. I admire the beings who are brave enough to hear and heed the creative voices others would deem as crazy. I admire the artists who are brave enough to stand alone, and through sheer gravity of will they bend the fabric of time and space around them.

I am blown away by Miles Davis. This was a cat who, drowning so deep in the love affair with heroine, sold his horn and became a pimp to bankroll his addiction. And yet, in a moment of clarity, he decided to break the affair off. Alone, he went to his father's house, locked himself in a room, and for seven days danced with the demon of addiction until he came out clean. No help, no meds to temper the rage. Just a cold turkey decision and an empty room away from all who could derail his train. And then, much later in his career, he was offered a recording contract at Columbia...a major move that sent him mainstream. The problem? He was stuck in a contract with a lesser label for four more records. His solution? He went into the studio and cranked out four albums in two days. TWO DAYS. His mind made up, his force of spirit on fire, he pulled out of his head and heart a stream of brilliance that filled the depths of four albums. No retakes, no corrections. Who does that?

That is what I want for myself. I want to bite so deep into the flesh of life that its blood transforms my essence. I want to call out and be heard, to shake the ground with a power that sets all squeally vermin of night and shadow running for the rocks they crawled out from. I want to be the revolution, to grow my toes into the earth and, thus rooted, let reality know that I am here to stay.

Rattle my bones in winds of fierceness; the chimes, deafening, will call and sing forever.

The Search Continues...

It has been well over a year since I've written anything for this blog.

I have been in a rut, to say the least. I think I gave up on the thought that I had anything left to say. It certainly hasn't been that I've not felt passion, nor has it been that I've had no new ideas stewing within this head of mine. And yet, the inkwell has been dry. Even now, I struggle to put words on this page, struggle to see my expression as anything more than a forced exercise meant to coax out some form of creativity from my silenced soul.

But coax it out, I must. I have lost myself, dear readers...lost myself to an inadequate perception of who I was and who I am, lost myself to a disease that keeps me in constant pain. I gave all my power away to belief systems too small for me and also to individuals, whom I love dearly, yet who do not know or, sadly, are too selfish to care about who I am. It's my fault; I made them, the people and the beliefs, my world. I loved them and clung to them as a child does her favorite doll...problem is, I made them bigger than I am, which is silly, since this is MY world and I am Goddess here. And now, upon awakening from this dark dream, I am weary of self destructive doubt. My blog, originally called "The Search" to document my search for the man of my dreams, has turned into a bigger, and more juicy, search. It is time to reclaim myself.

So, who am I? You know, I've shut down so fully that I've lost interest in so many things. As a child I loved drawing, and writing, and astronomy, and psychic phenomenon, and magic. I spent a summer, when I was nineteen, working at a small airport and snagging a few flying lessons. I was, for a time, a "healer", and got involved as a massage therapist and colon hydrotherapist. I was interested in psychology and dream work. I pondered different dimensions and realms of reality. I did estate planning, machine shop work, fix-n-flips when the housing market was good...I laid a mean tile, baby! I sold retail, had my own businesses, studied medieval history in college, pondered going to seminary...as a matter of fact, as a girl in my late teens, I could go through the college course book and had a hard time picking a major because I wanted to do and be EVERYTHING. And now I sit on a couch and play Candy Crush for hours. What happened to me?

So, its time for a new search. I DID find a lovely man to enjoy time with, but I fear that I have grown old and boring and I am, still, terribly unfulfilled. Its time to rediscover life, to tell this stupid disease of Rheumatoid Arthritis that it can no longer have me, and to plunge back into the daylight, one hobbled footfall at a time. I'm not dead yet; a little rougher around the seams, perhaps. But I am still here and still breathing. Let's see what happens.

The Healing Faith

(Authors Note: I wrote this for a class I took back in February of this year. I am posting it now and dedicating it to the subject of my essay, a beautiful woman who finally surrendered to her disease after holding out long enough to welcome her grandson, Marty, into the world. Faye, a.k.a. "Faith", was a beautiful spirit and will be greatly missed.)

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Faith looked up at me, her ocean blue eyes full of tears. Both of her hands cradled my arthritic one, palm up, held fast in her lap. She ran her fingers over my open palm, stroked it as one would a precious, delicate animal. 

"I've always liked you." She whispered softly, intensely. "You're like me, a wounded healer."

I groaned internally. There's that word again: "Healer". I tried to make a joke, tried to push the word away from me discretely, gently, unable to unify the concepts of "wounded" and "healer" within my being in a way that made sense. How do I fix others when I can't even fix myself?

"We're all wounded, Faith. That's why we get into this business." 

She gazed at me, liquid eyes holding back a storm of grief, if only for a moment. And then it broke through, raged through her and shook her body with its torrents. She collapsed against my shoulder, and I held her, my hand firmly against her back, right where her lungs would be. Right where, at this very moment, the cancer was devouring her alive. 

"I love you." She choked out the words, through tears and decades of pain, in the voice of a little girl who was badly abused by those who should have protected her. I couldn't heal her, couldn't take away all the horror she had experienced in her life. All I could do was be present, be silent, and be in a space that allowed me to honor the spirit trapped inside this quivering, fragile body. All I could do was provide the safety that she should have gotten fifty years ago when she was just as terrified as she was now. But that's where my capabilities stopped abruptly, a revved car that brakes just in time to avoid sailing off a canyon cliff. I could be a comfort to someone, maybe; a healer, I definitely was not.

For the past fifteen years I have had a love/hate relationship with this odd title of "healer". I remember graduating from massage school in 1996; I was strong, knowledgeable, and very good at what I did. I had learned my trade well, and I naively strode out into the world believing that I had the power to fix any chronic ailment that came my way. Within three years I was depressed and disillusioned. My clientele loved my work, but their problems continued long after I had first laid hands upon them. On occasion I had a brilliant success story, but that was more the exception to the rule; the rule itself was that chronic pain usually stayed as chronic pain, and the relief I was able to give was merely a temporary solution. 

I grappled with this new knowledge, this ugly blow to my tender ego. What was I missing? Did I not learn as well as I thought I did? I sought out other massage therapists, chiropractors, movement therapists and naturopaths. I learned different modalities in energy work and became a Reikki Master. I entered the world of the healer and I consulted many gurus who turned out to be wannabes with less education than me. They were broken people hiding behind professional masks, tripping out on the concepts of "peace and love heals all". If I could just raise my vibration, man...if I could just embrace the world in a giant love-hug, then I, too, would see the rainbow crystal healing begin. 

Disgusted, I walked away from massage therapy and became an office manager for a legal firm. A few years later I was running a business with my now ex-husband in real estate investing. Though I had continued to have a side interest in the healing arts, I had realized that healing wasn't my main talent and that I had to push it into a back closet somewhere and focus on other things. However, the original calling wouldn't go away; the siren kept singing to me in an ever louder voice, until finally that voice crescendoed into a diagnosis of Rheumatoid Arthritis when I was only thirty-five. As someone who never smoked, drank, did drugs or abused my body, I was blown away. How did I get an "old person's" disease at so young an age?

I was on the quest again, like it or not. I studied detoxification, food additives and GMOs, dietary changes, and how the digestive tract works. I became a colon hydrotherapist and fluent in the language of supplements, digestive enzymes, parasites and anti-aging products. I opened my own wellness center and studied more fecal matter than one person ever should. All this, and three years and many clients later, I was back again where had I started; I had one or two miracle stories here and there, but the chronic conditions stayed chronic. As far as my R.A. was concerned, not only wasn't it better, but it had progressed significantly. Due both to a bad economy and a frustrated soul, I closed my doors and tried to find a steady paycheck somewhere else. How many times did I need to be told that a healer, I wasn't? 

Against my will, my journey has continued. The body is far more complex than we can imagine. As the now office manager and technician of a wellness center that uses light, sound, frequency and vibration to realign the Autonomic Nervous System back into a relaxed state, I have learned quite a bit about trauma and how that trauma lodges itself into the wiring of a being, creating the way that being senses the world and interprets their place within it. 

What I am coming to find is that so without, then so within. Trauma will program a person to see the outside world as threatening; their cells will then mirror this belief, and while a person perceives that they are being attacked on the outside, the cells will begin attacking things on the inside. This then creates autoimmune diseases, food allergies, cancers and other system breakdowns. Trauma creates belief, and belief creates biology. We become our own sickness generators; the good news is that if we can create it, then we can heal it, as well. 

I am back to where I started, but this time, I am here with more compassion and ease. I cannot possibly be the healer of someone else; I no longer need to take that stress and responsibility on. I can only heal myself through changing the belief systems that hold me fast, as Faith did my hand on the day of her visit. I can only move forward if I am courageous enough to see my world as safe, see myself as carrying a special gift worthy of giving to others. All I can be for others is a teacher, guide, mentor, or companion. I can only remind people of the light that they themselves hold, and of the possibilities and potential that they themselves possess. 

As Faith got ready to leave that day, I hugged her goodbye. I looked deep into those ocean eyes.

"You're beautiful, Faith. You have much to give. The world needs your love, and the gifts that you'll be bringing back from this experience will blow us all away."

Those eyes watered again, and she hugged me, hard. Faith still has a lot of life and power left in that petite body of hers. She left, her husband wheeling her tethered oxygen tank out behind her. I had to notice that she's already stronger than she was when she first came in to see us months ago. She decided that she's going to make it, and so she will. Her own personal healer is working overtime, and I believe, with incredible joy. With some people, I worry, but I have no such feelings with Faith. She's beginning to understand that she's loved, and that one thought alone will make all the difference. 

Of Sea and Mist

I have discovered, over my vast forty-three years, that I am an exceedingly passionate woman.

What I mean by this is that I willing surrender my stark, logical will to the preying beast of my emotional nature in most situations. It's just who I am, who I've always been. My mother considered me hopeless, and rightly so.

I know of many others who fight hard against their emotions, fight to maintain a cold, mechanical look of the world in order to conquer it and make it their own. I understand this view of life completely; these are the people who succeed in life, hold down proper jobs, accomplish the required educational commitments and socially are graceful and accepted into the fold. If life is dull or boring, or if they should find, in mid-life, that a roaring tiger of great hunger and rage resides within, they are at least already established and can either chose to act upon that tiger bite or simply shoot the beast, once and for all, with a silver bullet of rational thinking that puts the matter at rest for good.

Although I understand it, and although the world around me is consistently working within the safety of this framework, I am clearly not in alignment with the philosophy nor caught within it's open arms of comfort. I, dear readers, am not safe at all. I am, instead, out to sea, my tiny vessel rocked and slammed against the waves, the colors of sky and ocean becoming one until I've no way of knowing if I have capsized or am still afloat. And when I master a rolling hill of water and mist, laugh at it in my arrogance and triumph, I am tapped upon the shoulder to witness an even bigger mountain forming behind me.

I am amazed that those watery heights have not killed me yet. My boat, however, is pretty beat-up, and I'm not sure how resilient she still is.

I love the heat of the emotions, though. They create a chemical rush of the most exquisite drug on earth, my brain being my personal dealer, and so it is really no wonder why I live the spent life of an addict. The only emotion I run from is fear, and fear is a nasty, stiletto fanged monster that enjoys every rip, tear and suck of blood, flesh and soul it can get. I will do anything to avoid it, distract it, hide from it in open light and loud music...do anything to escape its clutches as it lunges for me from the darkest corners of my psyche. Out of all of my menagerie of emotions, fear is the hunter child, the wild one who needs not rest nor shelter, the stalker with the iron traps and the torturous imprisonments to satisfy his morbid leanings. He will not be caged, but cages me, instead, and makes his prey wish that they had never been born.

This is the one I battle most, the one who rocks my boat to timbers. Harpoons pass through it as arrows through fog, and there is no way to plead with it. It laughs at logic, at bargaining, at promises to make new choices tomorrow if only I can get through the night with a few hours of peaceful sleep. It knows better, sees through the attempted grift, clamps down harder and shakes me in its jaws until I am raw and weary. There is no escape when it calls, and I am its favorite game.

The other emotions have, at least, something useful to offer. Love is always thrilling, lofty, fun in its sexuality, humbling in its divine grace, and usually always makes me feel and be a better human on this earth than I was being previously. Anger fuels me, gives me energy, edge and spark; it triggers a snarky sense of humor and a definite sense of superiority. Depression, while hollow in its depths and wrought with an external inertia that seems impossible to rouse out of, also presents the gift of creativity and the strength of voice to demand attention; I write less when I'm stable and comfortable, because nothing is leaking out of me, begging to be put to paper or blog, and bursting my seams into near explosion. Grief can be a painful road to walk, bare feet upon glass for miles and endless miles, but it can then produce the most beautiful and loving spiritual insights I have ever experienced. They are my friends, this lovely watery whirlpool of sensations, and they woo me and make love to my spirit as would any ardent lover. No cold steel logic can even attempt to come close.

But the life destroyer is fear, hands-down. As an artist, as a human, I can survive and thrive with the others quite nicely. But fear...that demon grotesque and evil beyond words, is and has always been the reason why I long to leave this life for the sweet freedom that lies behind the Veil. It is the one emotion that I wish logic could work against; I have tried it before, when I was very young. It worked for a time, but I found that once I shut down the one, ending my panic attacks and actually putting me into the most successful time in my life, I had also shut down the others, and all I felt was numb and mechanical. I couldn't love anybody, I couldn't enjoy my successes, I couldn't have fun anymore. It was all gone, and I was stone cold within. I did what I was supposed to do...got married, dressed for success, began a business with my husband and learned all about investing and real estate. I ignored the fact that I hated my life. But the spirit has other ways of exploding those emotional seams when one is desperate to shut it all down in quiet compliance.

Within a year and a half I had Rheumatoid Arthritis. The center couldn't hold. I landed in the hospital severely anemic, with pulmonary embolisms and heart palpitations. For three days my doctors kept me there and considered giving me a blood transfusion. It didn't happen, but my husband was scared that I was on my way out.

And I was. I made the decision to stay. That's a whole other story for another post.

In order to stay I wanted to live again, wanted to feel again. I needed to find my way back to my authentic self. I ditched the husband, got out of investments and real estate, and fell in love hard with a strapping red-headed mountain man. All was good for only a year. It became 2008. The economy crashed. The man liked me, but didn't love me. And I lost my wellness center. My RA progressed. I ended up alone and on food stamps. So much for authenticity.

So, I appear to be stuck. The logical choices leave me numb and compromised. The passionate life leaves me poor, heartbroken and unloved. And fear is always crouched in the corner, throwing me pictures of my mortality with scenes of infirmity and disease. Death is not the problem; it's wasting away, piece by piece, and all alone.

I have bizarre thoughts: will I have a heart attack in my sleep? Will my landlord find my body before it smells up the house? Will a hazmat team flick maggots off of my flesh when they find me rotting in the basement? And lastly, will my landlord have to pack up my stuff and what will he think of me while he goes through it? The sheer stupidity of my fearful thoughts drives me insane.

So, to feel, or not to feel? How do I change? Do I even want to?

I think I will stay at sea. Sometimes, there is a full moon, and the stars shine so bright against the darkness of the ocean waves that I see diamonds all around me. Sometimes, I look out at the horizon, and I can see forever, rainbows drawn within the misty haze and foaming rolls. Sometimes, the waves rock me gently, and I am precious in the womb of the Great Mother, held and loved in her sea-salty breath. But I am always here alone, with no one to share such beauty and magic with, and I am sad for that. If only I could show someone what I see, have them understand enough to appreciate the gifts I have to offer. My world can be so amazing.

And if only fish gave foot rubs.

A Jumble of Words

Winter's chill
Has come again
Hand in hand
With evening's shade
Icy daggers
In spinal walks
Torment me well
Into midnight black
Each turn I make
Every breath inhaled
Brings cold pin pricks
To my frosty heart
I am worn out
By such bitter cold
By icicles piercing
My wounded flesh
These barren lands
Of stillness and grief
Overwhelm all sense
Of direction home


Moonlit altar
Deserted wood
Lying still
On marble stone
The aching quiet
Thunders loud
In deathlike space
Of empty echos
Haunting murmurs
Of paths not taken
And regrets
As loud
As the sea

On Being An Artist

I have begun to read The English Patient. I really need to read excellent literature more often. With great hubris I read my work, and with puffed feathers I declare...to myself, as if I were god...that it is good. Upon reflection, after reading the work of a true master, I realize that I am merely a fool and, maybe, if I am very lucky, I might have a raw talent that (with copious amounts of training) I can eventually make use of and even sing the songs of angels. Hell, I'd just settle for a damn good choir, at this point. But for now, I guess I just need to keep reading the masters and train myself thusly; perhaps their ghosts will whisper to me through the pages and transform my pea brain into something truly magnificent. It's worth a shot, at least.

Where do the greats get such amazing images? All of my metaphors are borrowed and used up like the worn, dirty carpet in front of a well walked-through door. I admire beautiful imagery, sensual and speaking volumes of story within a scant few lines, and I gaze at the words in utter awe and amazement. I read them over and over again to myself, and listen to the flow of the words as I watch the perfection unfold in my mind. How did the artist think of this? How did the brain meld such images together in harmony so perfect that I know exactly what he means, can smell and taste every facet of the object or scene, and yet, I know that my mind would never yield the same interpretation, would feel foolish even making such comparisons and I wouldn't, in sheer cowardice, even dare to write such words. I am convinced that I am nothing more than an idiot, sometimes, without one single ounce of creativity within. 

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Have you ever noticed that the best stories seem to be about hopelessly broken people? Why is this? What is it about pain and limitation that, within the ugliness of dark situations, make something tremendously beautiful appear? It is in that moment of sublime humility when the soul seems to peek out of the shadows and shows itself head-on. Before that, when all is perfect, it is nothing more than the mask of the meat-suit, the gruesome grin of the empty-brained hedonist who is so disassociated from his frailty that he thinks he is invincible. This is what the mythologies of old have come to tell us; naive ignorance is comical, while invincible power becomes boring. The Christ, as GOD, would send us apathetic; the real story instead comes from the vulnerability of the anguish, the ability to be ripped apart by thorns, nails and spear. Even Superman needs kryptonite to be worthy of our tales, and Sampson is a dolt until he buckles after his hair is shaved away. Our heroes need to prove to us that they can rise up from the ashes, can carry their shame and wounded bodies forth to not only stand tall in the sunrise, but to also save the world from imminent disaster and demise. To be weak, yet to overcome, saves us all in the long run. It gives us the hope that we desperately crave, the sense that maybe we, too, can reach out of our private hell and redeem not only ourselves, but also those who were brave enough to believe in us with every step of our tortured journey. 

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Is this what it means to be an artist? To delve into the muck of our existence, to rage against the chains that bind us to flesh and blood, just so we can write, or paint, or create something that evokes a response within others that moves, stirs, and ignites the spirit into the experience of feeling alive? If I never wrote another word, could I still see myself as an artist if I at least provoked emotion in those around me? Is my life a work of art that can inspire, or enrage, or at least invite discussion from those close to me? And their lives, in turn, would also be a work of art that moves me just as much. 

Dear readers, thank you for your beautiful creations. I am honored to witness them all. 

Letter To A Friend

Sometimes I channel things in letters that I just need to share. The follow excerpt is one such example:

I had a client yesterday in Westminster who is a very deep, insightful woman. She's a psychologist and trauma therapist, and the sharing of her thoughts after her session in 'the box' provoked a lovely discussion on how the human spirit chooses to create it's experiences here within the duality of three dimensional reality. I love profound discussions such as this...they are magical, fruitful, full of gossamer epiphanies that carry levels of daily experience to a higher realm of comprehension.

We spoke of dreams, trauma, the autonomic nervous system, out of body experiences, past lives...I shared many of my thoughts and insights with her, and her feedback was pretty enlightening. In a nutshell, my reluctance to create my reality in a 'positive' way is simply because my spirit has something to figure out in the darkness. I am searching for something in the scraps of pain that I dig up, rooting in the dirt like a bird searching for grubs. There must be something delicious in those fat, slimy worms, otherwise, I would fly off in search of more tender morsels elsewhere. When I have had my fill, belly big and bloated, feathers smelling earthy and sweet, I will raise my sights to the clouds above and touch them easily with one or two solid wing strokes against the solid air. Please keep in mind, I have the power to do and be anything I wish. 

So, dearest, worry not about my projected dismal future. All may not be lost, after all. I DO know that I create my reality, and I know for a fact that once I truly focus on an object, I can usually manifest it fairly quickly. I have seen miracles in my life that amaze even me. 

I have a fascination with the darkness. Although I never chose to dabble in drugs or alcohol, I do explore my own addictions regularly. I give in to my fears, my desires, my emotional turmoil. The observer within me finds all this drama fascinating; she sits above me, watching in non-judgment, as I fumble through this life, this body, chained to a device of my own making and crying out as, she notices, I hold the keys. I am learning something, finding pleasure somewhere in the abyss. As a spirit having a human experience, I am playing with forces unknown to my higher self, crashing through walls of illusion and polarity as I search for what this life is, what makes it beautiful, what really matters about all this sticky, tricky webbing that holds the mortal coil firmly in place. 

I want to know passion. I want to know what it means to be alive. Can you do this through logic and reason? Can you truly know love, exquisite pain, despair, intense joy, the experience of losing yourself to a person or situation if you coldly, logically, set up your future in happy little rows of safety and security? Without risk, there is no real play. Without abandon, the experience is lost. Creating safety is not living; it is helpful to survival, no doubt, but it is not being alive. Some of the most beautiful memories I have are from drowning in the depths of lonely anguish. I am alive then. I am whole, complete in the waves that pull me into the sea, suckled by the tides as I float down to the watery graves below.

I know I can change my fate. Despite your observation that I am vulnerable, it is only a vulnerability that results from my desiring it. I am stronger than you give me credit for. I can feel that power flow through me; quietly, within the recesses of my mind, I am well aware of the fact that, the moment I chose something different, it will manifest in magnificent splendor. Worry not. I can part the sea, and call forth fire from my fingertips. All will be righted in time.