Yankee Doodle Zombies

What mumbles Independence Day and enthusiastic celebrants more than Zombies? Groom and I were confronted with this question last Sunday on the Fourth of July. You know how we all have life lessons to master? Well, one of these fine summer days, perhaps I’ll figure mine out. Don’t hold your breath, though.

Some people walk their talk, but I need to mind my talk. As I’ve been discovering over the past few years, one of the languages the Universe speaks fluently is symbolic. When a person asks a question, places a request or makes a statement, the reflective qualities of the answer comes quickly… if we’re paying attention.

Let me provide a most recent example. As most of you know, Groom and I travel around the Pacific Northwest with our booth - what we affectionately call our “mobile gallery” – and sell our bricolage jewelry.

Yep, discovered a new word: Bricolage. Comes from the French and means a piece of art that was created from whatever resources were at hand: An impromptu construction from diverse materials. Hey, this describes exactly what we do.

It’s root word, collage, is mainly (but not limited to) paper, ephemera and glue, dominating the two-dimensional realm while bricolage is often three-dimensional and incorporates both created and found objects. The people who do this type of artwork are called bricoleurs.

So, as bricoleurs, while displaying at art fairs and festivals, it is impossible not to people watch. On the other hand, we sometimes feel like monkeys in a zoo as the crowd ambles past, staring at the creatures (us) in our boxy cage (the booth). They often point, laugh and make comments to each other and I want to say, “I can hear you,” but it’s mostly good-natured banter they toss back and forth. The crowd is there for entertainment purposes after all, and our jewelry provides many opportunities for just that.

“Oh, these earrings would be perfect for my sister-in-law… if I liked her,” one might say, with fits of laughter following, a private joke of family dynamics at play. Or maybe, “I’ve got stamps in a drawer at home, I could make these.” Or even, “Who would wear these?!” (I can heeeaaar you). At this point, I want to pull out a Mc-sign that says, “Over 100,000 served.”

But as much as we are stared at or commented upon, the procession of people flowing past our booth, week after week, provides equal entertainment for us, as we are a bit of a captive audience. But what’s worse than being stared at and overhearing customer jibber jabber at our expense? Being ignored!!!! Eek, not good at all.

This is why vendors sometimes report back to each other that a crowd at a particular show “walked by like Zombies.” Which translates into meaning the hordes of people that could have been looking and buying art, stared straight ahead without looking to the left or right as though under the influence of a lower power with no will of their own. There’s a certain dazed look that crawls into their eyes and they begin to breathe with their mouths hanging open. Kinda spooky. It’s like they’re under a spell.

Speaking of spells, we all cast them every day with the words we speak. Since our words create our reality, we weave our future experiences by making declarations and reinforcing patterns such as “I’m always forgetting to (fill in the blank)” instead of “I’m remembering to (again, fill blank).”

The speed at which my words are being reflected back to me by the symbolic language of the Universe is uncanny. On Sunday, while in our booth at a 4th of July celebration in central Oregon, I noticed the crowd just walking by without even glancing in our direction. Eeek, not good at all! “They’re like Zombies,” I said, setting down my words like traps to ensnare me later.

Later came sooner than expected as you’ll note in the photographs toward the end of this entry. Here, I’d like to pause for a station identification and suggest that the photos will be more enjoyable when you enlarge them because there are details I’ll point out momentarily. In the meantime, simply click on the picture I’m describing and then hit the back button to return to the blog.

In the first photo of “Uncle Sam,” ha ha, please note his footwear. Is the personification of our country wearing governmental issued flip-flops? In photo number two, you can see the “purple mountain’s majesty” taking on more patriotic hues for the day.

As important as it is to make certain enough fresh stock has been created for a show, that our booth is in tip-top condition, that we’ve gotten enough rest and are ready to interact with a crowd, it is also vital that we understand the ambiance and context of the event where we have contracted to sell. Just because there are people out and about does not mean they are in the mood to shop for arty jewelry.

Lesson number one: If there is a pet parade and your neighbor is selling doggie visors, be advised.

Lesson number two: If there is a Freedom Ride with approximately 1,500 bicyclists yelling and whooping, be advised.

Lesson number three: If there are activities for families such as a watermelon eating contest, be advised.

Lesson number four: If the wind kicks up and is knocking over booths, be advised.

Lesson number five: If you set up a booth, you might as well enjoy the show. And there was certainly a lot to behold, such as painted doggies (photo #11) and painted peoples, kids in their cars and kids with their pets. In the 15th picture, note the goldfish the boy is holding up in a rubbermaidish type of container. While it is certainly a creative parade entry, I wonder if the sun heated the water transforming the square bowl into a hot tub?

Sidebar. The day before, on Saturday at the Market, Kimmm and I coordinated our psychic fashion network and decided to dress up a little to pay homage to the great Frida Kahlo for her 103rd birthday which was July 6th. Instead of going whole hog and filling in the unibrow, I simply added a heavier brow and a single flower to my pulled back hair.

While I was attempting a simple nod to the Frida style, it wasn’t until I got home and looked in the mirror that I realized I need to either fully commit and do the entire Frida ensemble or avoid it entirely. Why? Because the look I inadvertently created was far more Bride of Frankenstein than Frida. Oi! Don’t I have any friends? No wonder I got a few raised (single) brows and am hanging out with blueberries.

I tell you this as a warning that I am certainly not one to talk, but I can’t help but note the other colorful people out there and what they choose to wear. In public. Yes, I am a hypocrite.

Okay, the 4th has come and gone, Frida would have turned 103 and I’ll close this week’s ramblings with a delightful experience I had yesterday. Z0L0 King stopped in Albany to search through a metal graveyard for wire to turn into our spiral necklaces (I’m wearing one in the Bride of Fridastein/blueberry photo). He called me from his cell phone while climbing into a barrel full of sharp remnants and even though he scraped his elbow in the process, he read me a poem. While I thoroughly enjoyed this thought-provoking piece from Arnold Bennett

You wake up in the morning, and lo! your purse if magically filled with twenty-four hours of the magic tissue of the universe of your life. No one can take it from you. No one receives either more or less than you receive. Waste your infinitely precious commodity as much as you will, and the supply will never be withheld from you. Moreover, you cannot draw on the future. Impossible to get into debt. You can only waste the passing moment. You cannot waste tomorrow; it is kept for you.

I was equally impressed that Z0L0 King read me a poem from a scrap yard. A scrap yard. He didn’t need a cooperative, lovely backdrop to create beauty, he brought it in with him. Who carries a poetry book under one arm while looking through shards of metal? Z0L0 King is simply who he is no matter where he happens to be and the delightful energy and beauty goes with him. He cast a beautiful spell with his words.

Comparing that experience with mine over the weekend, I am humbled. Here I was, in the most beautiful lush green park, facing a pond laced with weeping willows, a brilliant blue sky, and I say outloud, casting a spell of my own, “The crowd is walking by like Zombies.” Sure enough, the Universe answered me. A group of the undead passed by and I see how I created an experience filled with barely animated corpses in search of human flesh to devour.

And in the other scene, a friend was not deterred by the metal cemetery, but breathed life and beauty into his words and into my world.

When will I learn?

Two For The Money

A couple of entries ago, in “Say Cheese,” I wrote about a miracle. Instead of turning water into wine like Jesus did at his mother’s request during that famous wedding in Galilee, I turned wine into photography.

If you remember, Groom and I recently purchased a new camera for our anniversary after weaning ourselves off the bottled grapes. I was thrilled about our new acquisition for almost two days before malcontent and displeasure grabbed me by the ankles and started playing tug-o-war with me as the rope.

Never flexible enough for the splits, I didn’t enjoy the sensation. Here’s the deal. I thought I could share, but each time I got my hands on our new camera and slipped into my “artiste” mode, Groom would see a shot he wanted to take, and folks, he just kept interrupting my mojo.

I would inwardly sigh with exasperation, but hand the camera over anyway. After all, it was an anniversary gift, which came with the implied agreement that we could both use it. The generous, loving, wifely side of me wanted Groom to blossom in his photography skills and I loved seeing the shots he took.

Afterward.

But not while we were in the middle of stalking light.

Bottom line? I wanted to share the hobby of photography with him, but not the camera. I quickly discovered it was like trying to write, but having somebody borrow my pen every third word, ruining my flow.

Now, what to do? My energy is not subtle. Groom knows me too well and he figured something was up about 15 seconds into my frustration. How do I tell the man I love to keep his grubby mitts off our anniversary present?

I have a couple skills in my toolkit, but lying isn’t one of them. I suck at it, which is why I don’t bother. I could tell you my honesty comes from a pure place of integrity, but that would be a lie. It comes from not being clever enough to keep my stories straight. If I tell a lie, I bust myself instantly. The aggro’s just not worth it, so my ineptitude as a liar keeps me honest.

When Groom asked me point blank why I was being snotty, I had to admit I was struggling with either being “nice” or telling him I could no longer share our anniversary camera.

He just laughed. Here I was, hesitant to speak my true feelings yet after I did, he said my energy is much more pleasant when my words and actions line up instead of tap dancing around an issue. Apparently I emit a funky vibe when I am not speaking my truth, which bugs the heckles out of him.

With the truth buck-naked and on somebody’s front lawn (he asked me while I was taking a photo of a neighbor’s flower garden), he said it was no problem, he would wait to take photographs until he could get his own camera.

Oh noooooo. While that sounds lovely on the surface, I knew that would be trouble with a capital T. One, I would not be able to enjoy taking pictures alone, knowing I was being a selfish biyatch while Groom waited patiently as I focused here and zoomed there. For-geddaboutit.

Two, by the time he got his own camera, I divined it would be a bigger, better fancier version of mine and that would simply open a can of one-upmanship worms. To compensate, I would have to upgrade and that would motivate He to outdo She. Nope, I put the ix-nay on the ait-way.

As his birthday falls on our anniversary, or is it the other way around, I suggested that we pool our generous gifts into a fund and get a second, identical camera for him. That way, we could share lenses, batteries, cords, etc., but more importantly, we would be playing on an even shooting field.

In less than a week, funds rearranged themselves to provide Groom with a twin to mine. I was thrilled.

For one day.

Groom managed to find yet another way to vex me. As we roamed our neighborhood, each interpreting light, color and texture to our heart’s content, I was a happy woman until he emptied the memory cards onto the computer and we had a slide show.

Aaaargh, his photos were turning out better than mine. Oh no, I don’t want to leave you with an impression that I’m competitive or anything (of course not), but it irked me that he was already surpassing me.

Let me submit to the jury a recent example. Take a look at the two photos of the red fence. Do you see how straight the wrought iron pickets stand for him? And do you notice how drunk and disorganized they become for me? How does that happen???

My mother has a theory that many inanimate objects with moving mechanical parts are designed with the express purpose to work for men and break down for women. I want to argue that her idea is sexist, but…

Okay, now on to the Fair. On Thursday last, we woke up to the idea of attending the County Fair for pitchur takin’ (fancy talk for the art of producing images of objects on sensitized surfaces by the chemical action of light), but were both feeling reluctant to plunk down the price of admission.

A few minutes later, via email, Kimmm informed us that she had two extra free tickets to the fair and told us “folks with new cameras neeeed to go to the fair at dusk to get frustrated and amazed by taking photos of lights and sunsets.”

What? Free tickets just like that? So off we go that evening and between us, can you guess how many shots we fired off in less than three hours? If you said 500, you’d be right. Although we each took some amazing shots (not presented here yet), I noticed that Groom still did better in certain situations. Take a gander at the carrousel horses and the clowns. Crikey!

I’m delighted to report that I am not really in competition with Groom. He inspires me and I am determined to become the best photographer I can become. This sounds cliché, but I am in competition with myself.

I am also noticing that I am an emotional photographer, my camera reflecting sundry moods. When I am tired, the images blur. When I am nervous, the photos are shy. There is a magic that happens when I am focused and my heart is open.

Discovery is an enchanting process. My eye follows faces, while Groom’s traces places, buildings and flowers with bees. I like urban portraits - tattoos, piercings, street fashion and haunting bone structure.

Some of our photos overlap, as we think from very similar angles. Yet we are constantly surprising each other with a glimpse into larger views or a detailed world that the other didn’t notice. It is stoking the already kindled embers, as you can see by this last photo of the fire dancer. Passion caught as our initials are danced into flame.

Here Come Da Judge

I have so many things to write about my head is full of gallimaufry, a hodgepodge, a jumble, a confused medley that my fingers can’t type fast enough to keep up. I have no idea how many words will actually end up on the cutting room floor versus which will survive. I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, wondering how this will all turn out.

If it reads like I’m catharting, you’re right. Well, that’s curious. I just looked up cathartic and it means to evacuate the bowels. I was using the word in its purging sense, but I always thought it meant emotionally.

I can tell you right up front that judgment has been the theme of the week. In the last few days:

1) I’ve been accused of judging someone.

2) I’ve been apologized to because someone else judged me.

3) I’ve imagined that other people were judging me and

4) I’ve been paid some righteous compliments.

That being said, I feel like I’m in the middle of a big judge sandwich.

Similar to Howie Mandell and his infectious fist-bump, there’s a new little virus making the circuit. I don’t know its progenitor, but the catch phrase is “let’s put a pin in that.” In context, it seems to get used when something is said that another person doesn’t want to deal with on the one hand, but doesn’t want to appear as though disregarding it on the other.

Acknowledging it on some level , they’ll say, “I hear you, but let’s put a pin in that.” I guess we are to imagine a giant floating cork board and whatever words have been spoken are to be impaled with a large pin “to be dealt with later.”

Phew! I drove you around that little cul de sac just to say I’m going to stick a pin in all that judgment stuff for a moment and introduce a little Hebrew action into my current situation. Can you guess my favorite Old Testament character? If you said the talking Donkey in Numbers 22, you’d be close, as she’s my second choice.

However, for the purpose of sorting out all this judgment energy, I’m calling out Solomon.

Solomon lived a most fascinating life, starting with his movie star parents. Most little boys think of their daddies as heroes, but in Solomon‘s case, his father, King David, was a hero of mythic proportions even in his own lifetime. Not only did he take out Goliath with one fell swoop of his slingshot, but he killed lions with his bare hands and was an epic murderer, “Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands,” (I Samuel 18:7).

In fact, Solomon wouldn’t have drawn a breath if his father hadn’t been driven by lust, both blood and sex. King David satisfied his dual appetites by ravaging a rooftop bather and then killing her husband. Apparently God was none too thrilled with that last detail, so took His revenge on the little love bastard by smiting it. Don’t you judge me.

The second child born of this fornicating couple, although by this time I think they might have exchanged vows, was Solomon. As an aside, wouldn’t you love to be married to a man who “took” you, murdered your husband and then because God was angry at him, caused you to lose your first born?

Anywho, as if growing up under the shadow of the Celebrity King, the stuff of which legends are made wasn’t enough, Solomon had to live with the fact that papa was a man after God’s own heart (1 Samuel 13:14.

How was such a child supposed to grow up and become a man in his own right? Well, he managed somehow, and became known as the wisest person ever to live, “No one before you was your equal, nor shall any arise after you equal to you.”

Receiving many sermons from the pulpit, my little antennae would tune in when Solomon was discussed for his world was lavish, extreme, filled with wine, women, song and plenty of perks. When I heard he had “700 wives, princesses, and 300 concubines,” I actually sat in the pew and worked it out mathematically. Hey, he could make love every day to a different woman for almost three years without repetition.

I sighed over all the booty he was getting, oh wait, I don’t mean all the booty calls, I meant all the treasure troves (like pirate booty) he received for his wisdom. Not only did he have access to all the secrets of the Universe, but he was wealthy beyond measure and was a rock star.

I admit it, that story impressed me in my younger years. Okay, it still does, but my thirst for Wisdom started at a very early age. Hey, just because I like the idea of being connected to God AND financially rewarded for it, don’t you judge me.

Here comes a little personal reveal: I secretly wish to be that wise. I know, the position has already been taken, but a girl can dream, right? I’ve set out to learn the difference between judgment, discernment, tolerance and acceptance since they are all intertwined.

So that we’re on the same page, I’m going briefly define: “Judgment – the ability to judge, make a decision, or form an opinion objectively, authoritatively and wisely.”
“Discernment – acuteness of judgment and understanding.”

“Tolerance – a fair and objective attitude toward those whose opinions, practices, race, religion, nationality differ from one’s own: freedom from bigotry.”

“Acceptance – the act of receiving something offered, favorable reception, approval.”

Now it’s time to take the pin out and address things directly, although not in order. I’m going to begin with #3 — that I’ve imagined other people judging me — and #4, receiving righteous compliments. And by other people, in this case, I’m specifically talking about old high school ghosts.

Suddenly, this week, by the powers vested in FaceBook, I’ve been contacted by a number of high school chums and what they’ve told me has differed wildly than what I had going on in my head. I attended a private Christian high school and graduated with about a dozen kids. It was a very small pond. The school was more of a preacher or preacher’s wife- in- training camp, and as I was not going to become either, I did not fit into the box.

And there was a lot of pressure to fit into the box. I neither rebelled nor conformed, but approached getting into the box with more of a, “No, but thanks for asking,” kind of attitude. I knew at an early age that being myself was more valuable than becoming what they wanted. I was arty then, I’m arty now. I knew I didn’t want to be a baby factory then and I didn’t become one now. I stood up for myself when required, but picked my battles strategically.

This unnerved some. An open rebel was a cause they could understand, or living a life with the lid closed was another familiar path, but choosing to be oneself in the midst of heavy duty conforming pressure without wildly rebelling was something altogether alarming.

The upshot is that several of those I’ve communicated with told me that my path seems like the better option with 20-20 hindsight. In the intervening years, they buckled under so completely, that they’ve had to literally destroy the box — their lives, in order to get out and start living an authentic life.

Even though I had a few early detractors, that only served to reinforce my resolve. Although it’s had a few thorns, my path now holds a new sparkle that I didn’t see before.

I’m not living with a secret. I don’t long to break out and finally live my true self, as I have already committed to that.

Now for a glimpse into this week’s righteous compliments… “I give you props for knowing who you are and being comfortable in your own skin. In a world of conformists, it’s refreshing to know those people who can say ‘This is who I am. I’m not afraid to be a little less conventional and it’s okay.”

From somebody else, “I have so much more respect for you now. I can see that you are comfortable in your own skin.” (Whoa, two different people, two different conversations!)

And another, “You seem like a person who does not go to grouping once a week to get fed, but is constantly connected to God. You don’t seem to compartmentalize your life, but instead approach your art with spirituality, your spirituality with art, your creativity just flows into everything you do.”

Can you stomach one more? “Judgment is simply having an opinion about something, and while you may have your opinions, you are very tolerant and accepting.”

Okay, before you gag, I tell you this to process it, and for your own sakes. Seriously. I had all this judgy stuff built up in my head and as it turns out, it was mostly my imagination. Perhaps there are some of you who feel burdened by judgment. It’s so refreshing to simply ask instead of assume, the answer might surprise you.

How often do we build a case against ourselves and use other people to support it? I had not had contact with these school mates in over twenty years, yet I was accusing them in my head of being judgmental. Turns out I was wrong.

In this week, two other people volunteered heartfelt apologies for judging me. Wow, I told you there was a lot of judgment energy to suss out.

Those apologies were so empowering, I would also like to practice forgiveness. To anyone, past or present, that I have hurt by my words, by less-than-flattering images I’ve carried in my head, for releasing negative thoughts, for unkind words, for energy that made you feel less-than, and for anything that I’ve done to cause you pain, I am truly sorry.

I’d like to leave you with something Oscar Wilde taught me. “Be yourself. Everybody else is already taken.”

Let Your Fingers do the Talking...

Have I mentioned the pattern that has emerged since writing The Everyday Anthropologist? I begin writing on Monday, save Tuesday for the cooling period, and then edit and post on Wednesday. Bam! Something new arrives on Wednesday evening or Thursday morning and I’m given several days to process the new, usually painful experience by Monday, when the whole process starts again.

Phew! This can be exhausting. Perhaps if I stop writing about energy and healing I can stop inviting it in and having to learn these lessons firsthand. The idea was to write about healing and forgiving, not have to live it and discover how it works on a personal level. Sheesh.

Oh, so you want an example? Fine, I’ll tell you. I woke up Thursday morning and the middle finger on my right hand was covered in red, angry bumps. Hmmm, you’ve heard the expression, “a little bird told me?” Well, what is my little birdy finger trying to tell me? Let’s see if we can suss this one out. Skin, the largest organ in the body, is expressing itself with inflamed, red, swollen bumps.

The right side of the body is said to represent the giving, masculine side compared to the receptive, feminine left side. We hold onto things with our hands, we pick them up, let them go, grasp, clutch, caress. We count with our digits, focusing on details. We gesture, sign, point fingers, make a fist; there’s all kinds of things to do with our hands.

Apparently I’m holding onto something in my energy field that needs releasing. If I had paid closer attention to my feelings, I would have had the opportunity to preview coming attractions, because what goes on inside our heads and hearts is a precursor to what we’ll soon see in the physical realm. I might have been able to express the energy in a healthy manner instead of having it stuck at my fingertips. Well, I suppose that is for me to figure out, but I did learn of a treatment that might fall under the category of “old wives tale.”

Rumor has it if you get a potato (and no, I don’t think it matters if it is a russet, a Yukon gold or a shiny new one), and cut it in half, you can rub what ails you and then bury it in the backyard under a full moon. I told this to somebody on Saturday and she asked if it would work on her mother-in-law? Ha, very funny. It’s a full moon right now, I wonder if she’ll try it!

If she does decide to approach her “loved one” with a half-potato and rub it on her, I hope she has a good excuse handy for her experimental behavior. I was simply mentioning the use of this organic method of healing for something irritating on one’s own body, but as a friend says, who has her own share of charming relatives, “Family, you can’t live with them, you can’t kill ‘em.”

Red is the color of anger, of passion, of the first chakra, otherwise known as the root or Tribal chakra. This is where our family-of-origin stuff hides, I mean resides.

Last night, as the full moon appeared on the night stage, I washed a potato, offered thanks for the situation, gestured fully with my red, bumpy, inflamed middle finger, then rubbed the freshly sliced potato all over it and buried it in the back yard. Uh, the potato, not my finger.

Speaking of red, February is all about red and pink and hearts and candy. Love is in the air. I know this to be true because the Greeting Card Guild and the Chocolate Factory tells us so. But the love I’m interested in riffing about is the much neglected topic of self-love. Group think tells us it’s selfish. But, to quote a local fishwife, “What’s so wrong with being Ish about one’s self?”

When I broached this subject with someone recently, they immediately told me I was vain enough. Wow, ouch. Okay, let’s get that elephant out of the room… Considering how awesome I am and how much I have to work with, I’m actually pretty humble. Wait, that was funny. C’mon, I was joking (was not).

Kidding aside, having genuine love for one’s self is NOT vanity. It occurred to me awhile back, if what the everlasting forecast says is true, then no matter where we go, there we are. According to spiritual traditions, whether you believe in reincarnation, the eternal barbeque or the sweet hereafter, we are the only ones we’re guaranteed to be with for all time. Shiver.

If we are our own perpetual companion, then why all the internal conflict? As much as you might love your sister, sweetheart or Uncle Floyd, there’s no promise that you’ll end up in the same place at the same time. It might happen, but when it all shakes down, we’re stuck with ourselves, so we might as well deal with it and come to terms with ourselves.

We can divorce, fire, ignore, or move away from people who bug us, but what happens when we tire of ourselves? I’m going out on a limb here, but is it possible that the number one cause of health-risking obesity, addictions, illness and other forms of misery is self-abuse? Yes, people have caused other people mountains of hurt, but once that pain stick has been dropped, do we pick it up and continue to beat ourselves? I’ve heard it said that we do not allow anyone to treat us worse than we treat ourselves. Shocking.

In this light, perhaps that bottle of liquid courage, chocolate overdose or layer of belly fat isn’t a barrier protecting us from other people as much as they’re a barrier from ourselves. What do we whisper to ourselves in the dead of night? And what about our pathetic quest for the approval of others? Why do we even need approval from others if we’re cool with who we are? Since we have access to ourselves 24/7, we have the most influence. What’s our self-talk? How do we really treat ourselves when no one is looking? With contempt, disappointment, abuse? It’s written all over us, our secret is out.

Our bodies belong to Mother Earth. When we die, she gets them. But in the meantime, they are the only possession we have that’s guaranteed for a lifetime.

We’re told that our bodies are “temples” for our spirit. What if we substituted the word sanctuary for “temple?” Our bodies were designed to be a safe refuge for our spirits, not a mound of flesh we’re ashamed of and abuse.

Wisdom tells us to love God and others as we love OURSELVES. We are the vessel, the channel through which love flows. If Love is a drug, then what are we cutting ours with? When we are blocked by guilt, fears of not being “good enough,” general disregard, then how genuine will our love be toward the Creator or how good will our love feel to others?

Well, I’ve been on my soapbox long enough. My legs are tired from standing and my voice is going hoarse from trying to convince me. We all know by now, that whatever I’m preaching about, I get to live and experience for myself.

As this week contains Valentine’s Day, how about joining me in a moment of vanity, oops, I mean self-appreciation? Yep, I think that’s what my little birdy is trying to say.

"When the Rubberband Starts to Jam"

I didn’t pay much attention to the first one. Nor the second, third or fourth because my early morning brain had only one thought – me want coffee. By the fifth time in a row, however, I did start to wonder… a single rubber band would be waiting for me on the kitchen counter. Each morning, I’d stare at the thing, shrug and stick it in a drawer. Pretty soon I had enough to make a rubber band ball.

It didn’t stop. Snapped to attention by their materialization on the kitchen counter, I noticed they began to multiply, appearing everywhere. I’d find rubber bands in the shower, on the nightstand table, in the bed, on the washing machine, hanging from a door handle, in the refrigerator! No one in the house claimed responsibility and pretty soon we all were discovering them in the funniest places. The rubber band ball was expanding.

We deduced a most logical explanation: We have a rubber band faerie. Fine, how would you explain it then? As soon as I confided this reasonable theory to a girlfriend, which seemed to make her happy, she also began discovering rubber bands in the unlikeliest places.

Happy Friend, eager to investigate our supernatural hypothesis, asked me what I’d been reading, learning, doing when all of these rubber bands started showing up? Well, come to think of it, I was studying energy, learning how to follow intuition and listening to my gut.

“What do rubber bands represent to you?” she asked. I felt like I should be reclining on a couch while she took notes. “Um, they’re stretchy?”

“What else?” she guided. Fearful I would flunk her mental Rorschach rubber band test and reveal some dark personal secret I didn’t even know I had, I hesitated.

“Prosperity,” she said matter of factly.

Rubber bands equal prosperity?? Uh-oh, I was glad I hadn’t said what I was thinking.

“Why did you say that?” Ah-ha, now it was my turn to ask the deep and probing questions.

“Because you keep finding so many of them.” Duh, didn’t see that one coming. Think woman, what do rubber bands mean symbolically? Hmmm, I already said they were stretchy. Oh, I got one!

“They’re elastic.” I felt smug.

“So you’ve got the image of prosperity and flexibility. Anything else?” Man, how many do I need? In spite of my squirming, an answer sprang to mind. Last June, during a teleconference about listening to Intuition, I took notes. Finding them, I quickly scanned the paper until I saw the words scribbled in the corner, “put a rubber band around your wrist, check in with yourself, snap it to retrain yourself, breathe.”

This discovery led me to reread all the notes from the teleconference and it was precisely the information of which I needed reminding. What I had learned earlier dovetailed with what I was studying now. Synchronicity.

I put a rubber band on my wrist and set the intention to breathe and to listen to my intuition. Not just listen, but follow where it was leading. “Rubber bands represent prosperity, flexibility, breathing and following intuition.” Got it.

The rubber band faerie was so happy.

Now that she had my attention, the sightings increased. Rubber bands continued to be everywhere. When I took a walk, many appeared on the ground. Wherever I went, rubber bands were sure to be. In addition to the frequency, I began to consider if their timing was important? On the alert, I discovered that finding a rubber band was consistently paired with an important statement. They are like exclamation points, italics, or bold font underscoring whatever point I’m meant to grasp.

(I’m going to whisper now.) It was like I was receiving messages. Dee de dee de -- here comes the implied crazy Twilight Zone music.

I casually mentioned this particular little insight to Happy Friend and instead of thinking I was riding the bullet train to Cuckoo Land, she displayed enthusiasm. “Yes, you are receiving messages. God - through the language of the Universe - is communicating with us 24/7 but most of us don’t notice.”

Hmmm, the language of the Universe. Uni-verse. One song. University, advanced place for learning. What is the language of the Universe? My friend had a ready answer. Energy. Life is a mirror, reflecting back to us what we’re putting out there. If we don’t like what we’re getting, change the channel, whistle a new tune.

This thought provoked a recent memory. While at a writer’s meeting, I had the opportunity to hear the author Shannon Applegate speak about inheriting a family cemetery and the book she wrote about the experience called, Living Among Headstones. Intrigued, I read it and found myself taking a trip to Yoncalla, Oregon to walk among those headstones in the Applegate Pioneer Cemetery.

While strolling under the old shady trees, I saw a tombstone simply marked, “Sing a new song unto the Lord.” In that instant, I got it. How tired God must get at times with our incessant complaining. Perhaps one circle of hell is getting stuck in an endless loop of a worn out story. Honestly, I just bore the ca-ca out of myself with my own witless droning. Maybe many of us are boring ourselves to death.

If we don't like what life is reflecting back to us what would happen if we released our stale, musty stories? Since I loathe the results, do I possess the courage to stop telling the constricting stories that “identify” me?

I heard a great quote from Sonia Choquette, “Hearing the music of Spirit is learning to dance with the Divine.”

Hey, I want to understand the music, the languageof Spirit. I want to dance with the Divine. We can replace our song with one that matches the Uni-verse. Eureka! That’s what it means to be “in harmony!” I’ve been walking around this planet out of tune, complaining how bad everybody else sounds.

I’ve gotta get me a new song.