Wings 'n' Things

Last week I had just re-entered the atmosphere of PST (Pacific Standard Time) and pondered if there was much difference between PST and PTS (post-traumatic stress disorder)? The day I returned home in 1983 was probably the most traumatic event of my life to date, and everything that came after sprang from that moment, so you can understand if I might be a little twitchy upon landing.

I was looking for signs and omens. The first one came as soon as we claimed our luggage. Sister, who kindly volunteered to pick us up from the airport, locked her keys in the car so we had to wait outside while her husband took time off from work and drove to the outskirts of the city to offer his key. Hmmm, what is it I’m being “locked out of?” Yes, it was the car, but I’m talking metaphorically. I was hypersensitive to the meaning behind everything.

We finally made it back to our sweet home and the first thing I did was say hello to my kitty, who was not moving and could barely lift his head. This was not normal, so while checking him out, I saw the blood smeared all over the white pillow case. NOT OKAY! Turns out he had been in a fight that morning and his adrenalin bravado had fooled the kind housesitter, so while she bid him adieu, he smiled, waved back and then collapsed into a furry heap upon the bed until we found him a few hours later.

Locked out and a bloody fight. Dang! Both in the first few minutes of being home. What did this portend?

Next, I had all kinds of expectations. Expectations that people would actually be interested in our trip to Japan and ask questions, like, “did you get to see everybody that you wanted to?” or “What did you eat, where did you go, what did you see?”

Mother-in-law, when she called to see if we were home safe, played the offensive. “I’ll allow you to show me one, maybe two pictures.” Wow.

Other people immediately launched into everything that had happened in their worlds during the two weeks we were gone, without a single question cast in our direction. I heard about shopping lists and weather updates and blow-by-blow conversations betwixt them and people I didn’t even know.

One girlfriend, after two hours of non-stop conversation about her job, kids and boyfriend, said, “Oh yeah, did you have a good trip?” I told her yes and asked if there was anything in particular she was interested in? “No,” she said, “I just wanted to know if you had a good time.”

While receiving calls from family members, I heard recycled stories. “I know I’ve already told you this, but so and so said such and such…” Um, hello? We’ve just traveled 10,000 miles and 25 years into history for a very deep, personal healing journey and nobody has a single question??? Does this trip not compare to the bargain you found on paper towels and the pizza you eat every Tuesday night??

I’m not suggesting that I should have had all the talking time and wouldn’t be interested in hearing about how they changed garbage day from Monday to Thursday, but I am saying that I had expectations that somebody would have expressed interest in what occurred during the fourteen day pilgrimage.

And then there was the very large expectation that whatever ailed me would be cured by this return to my heartland. Much of it was, but there were leftovers. Now what? I was locked out, had a bloody cat on my hands, and those closest to me were acting as if nothing had changed for me. Not exactly the re-entry I was looking for. Much like I’ve whined here, I complained to Chakra Girl. She advised well.

“You’ve gone to Japan. You’ve seen who you’ve needed to see. Anything that is still unresolved is up to you. There’s nobody left out there who can fix it but you. And (this was really painful to hear), why do you need for people to ask you about your trip? Why are you waiting for an invitation? Seems like if there was anything interesting to share, you’d be so excited about it you’d just spit it out instead of waiting politely for anyone to stop thinking about their own selves and ask you.

“I’m afraid most people are totally self-absorbed and have a television show playing in their heads with them as the star and you come along expecting them to switch channels and plug into your show. They don’t want to, just as you don’t really want to switch from your Japan channel to the paper towel channel.”

Ouch.

Changing conversations from Chakra Girl to GlowGirl (yes, they are two different people), she told us about this amazing four day intensive personal work seminar that she had just attended and uttered the magic words – they were currently offering a “two for one” special. I’d heard about this event for years and was interested in going, but the affordability for Companion and I made the difference.

Believing (or wishing) the dates to be in the sometime near future, I was surprised the seminar was scheduled three days hence. In a jetlag hangover, we registered and showed up on time. I walked through the doors of this mysterious process with my own television channel playing in my head and the left-over things that ailed me in the pocket of my heart.

Over the next four days I was able look at what plagued me and in Chakra Girl’s words, “It was up to me to fix it,” and guess what? I did! I’d like to thank GlowGirl for extending the invitation in the first place, to Chakra Girl and God’s Minion for their flexibility in rearranging schedules so that we could attend, and to the participants for creating a safe and loving place to do the work.

The moment we stepped off the plane, we were locked out, but then we were given a key which is opening many doors. My precious cat, resting on a bloody pillow, mirrored the bruised and battered condition of my heart which was healed. The expectation of others transformed into what I could do for myself. Now that’s what I call a good entry.

I flew on a plane to get me to Japan, but upon my return, I found my wings. Fitting, for as Kobi Yamada once said, “Sometimes you just have to take the leap, and build your wings on the way down.”

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.