Moving With No Movement At All

 

I haven’t been writing lately.

I’ve wanted to write.

I’ve wanted to write because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Write. I’m a writer. I should be writing. I want to write. I miss writing. I miss feeling words flow through me on a walk or during yoga. I miss rushing to get to my journal to write them down. I want to mush words together between my fingers, to mold them and shape and form them into a pose and put it in the kiln to finish.

I’ve wanted to write but since the picture I haven’t. I mean a journal entry here or there, but that’s the extent of my pen.

I’ve thought about writing. I’ve thought a lot about how I’m not writing. I’ve thought a lot about the light bulbs that puffy cloud through my mind but don’t seem to make their way through my fingers onto the ring.

I’ve been reading more than writing. Good thing writers read. Phew! I’ve been reading articles and books, poetry and blogs. I’ve been reading the news. I even read the back of my husband’s Morning O’s cereal box. (A quick read indeed).

The other day I read Cindy Yantis’ Thought Changer blog. She wrote about winding roads and beating your own drum.  

Let me paraphrase. I do that. I paraphrase. I’ll take someone else’s light bulb and ingest it, process it and make it my own. It’s not plagiarism, I promise. I give credit where credit is due. It’s more like digestion. Then I can share the light bulb and spread the love. Isn’t this what we writer’s want? To make a difference in the world with our words and let our light bulbs enlighten.

Cindy described that feeling of moving through molasses, that idea of things not happening fast enough. I know this place, I know this judgement of speed and how things should look. I know this gavel well.labryinth

My path has brought me here–to this forest. I’m not producing right now. It’s not my time. It’s my time to clock. Instead of writing, I’ll sneak off to a dark cool theatre and watch someone else’s creativity unfurl. Instead of writing, I’ll explore my own popcorn. I’ll listen to it hum and vibrate. I’ll feel it and feed it a bit of patience and respect and ocean air. It has been quite a practice, putting  my judgment aside and letting my popcorn dolphin on it’s own.

When I sit back and breathe I feel my gratitude. I’m grateful for the picture–that huge bump in my own coiling trail. I am grateful for the wrench that jammed up my labyrinth and the skillful hands of builder who yanked it out. All that digging and stirring about, although quite tunneling, turned out to be a blessing. I am different. I am more grounded. I am even somehow more whole.

It’s a funny thought. To find myself here, in a place of acceptance after that picture and the tunnel and my inability to grasp at my light bulbs and put them to pen. After all that, I’m okay.

Still, in this place of moving within no movement at all.

 

I’m Keeping on Keeping on…

I’ve been feeling a bit stuck lately, in my writing, in my work, in general—stuck.  I hold my breath and hold myself back. There is something I’m not seeing, something I’m missing, some door that isn’t opening.  On the outside, I appear cool and confident and on the inside I’m a bundle of nerves.

It’s funny, people will tell me I’m courageous and that I’m a risk taker and I’ll be quaking in my boots or wondering if I’m making the ‘right’ life choices.

When I was waiting tables at Old Venice in Manhattan Beach back in the 90’s a gal that I knew from high school came in and I had to wait on her.  I wasn’t exactly embarrassed, even though it was Halloween weekend and I was in cat makeup. I was more uncomfortable, worried about what she would think.

After I brought them their drinks, while taking their order, we caught up a bit.  She went to college, law school and got married. “What about you?” She asked.

My cat ears were twitching. I’d rather chase a rat than tell the story of my life up to that point to someone that together.

“After UCLA I worked on some features, then, after my Dad died, I worked for Camden Artists, then Triad.” I said.  She was leaning toward me, looking up; she seemed interested in what I had to say. “Then I went to Europe for 6 months and I found a job at a patisserie…” I said.

It went on from there.  How could I tell her every detail? I didn’t. I didn’t tell her about my move back home, the garage sale where I sold all just about all my stuff—including that fabulous orange flowered print skirt and matching shoes and ribbed mid-drift pullover I bought in some crazy expensive store in Santa Monica.

I didn’t tell her the details of how I found my first apartment and my first job and all the other jobs when I moved to Santa Barbara where I worked as a waitress – at The Jolly Tiger coffee shop, at the San Yisidro Ranch, at a bowling alley, at Pascual’s Mexican restaurant, then there was the Turkish company, Telanav, they were doing something shady and they wouldn’t let us leave for lunch, then there was Market Place Media—that’s where I learned how to use PageMaker.

I didn’t tell her that after Santa Barbara there was Venice and Value Health Sciences, Inc.(VHS) and that the reason I left Venice and moved to Redondo Beach was because my roommate was a psychopath who delivered a bag of garbage to my office with a note that said: ATTN: CAROLYN, because he was mad I was moving.

I didn’t tell her that only way for me to get promoted at VHS was to leave and move to Phoenix.  I didn’t tell her that I worked in the marketing department at  Eye Care Plan of America—they turned the storage closet into my office—ahhhh my first office.

I told her that I hated Phoenix because I tell everyone that mentions Phoenix that I hate Phoenix—when you’re wearing jeans and cowboy boots on a 90-degree day, side-stepping cockroaches the size of my dying Mustang convertible,  it’s time to head back to the beach.

“So, I moved back to Redondo Beach and I also work at Gold’s Gym in Redondo.” I said, summarizing best I could. “I want to be a personal trainer.”

“Wow.” Her smile seemed to go from ear to ear.  Her husband was smiling too.  “I envy you.” She said.

“Why?” I asked. She was the grown-up here.  She had a career, she had a husband, she had a house.  She was a real person.

“You’re so courageous,” She said. “You didn’t just do what you were supposed to do like I did.”

There have been quite a few more lefts and rights and even some U-turns since that conversation 20 years ago.

curvy path

twist and turns ahead

I am still zigzagging along on my path.

It seems these days that I’m not the only one, there are others. The world has changed and the straight and narrow isn’t as straight and narrow as it used to be–we are explorers all of us.

Still, at times, I find myself gasping for air.

I sometimes have to remind myself to breathe.  I have to remind myself that I have courage, that I am brave, that I am in the right place at the right time, and that if history does indeed repeat itself, well, I’ll be just fine…actually, I’ll be much better than fine.

Has the Universe Left Me?

 

My note from the universe didn’t come this morning.

My note may be lost.  It might have slipped under the doormat with the other bills that the mailman drops through our door.  Maybe it was pushed or kicked or blown under the sofa, under my pillow, under the bed.  Maybe the cat got to it, crumpled and left in the corner with his favorite green mouse; the one that jingles as he carries it in his teeth, jingle jingle stomp stomp stomp jingle jingle jingle through the house.

My note wasn’t in any of those places.

My note didn’t appear.

I went to the site searching for my daily inspiration, and there was no note, no message.  No reason, no explanation.  Has the universe gone?  Am I alone?

IMG00259-20100711-1617_2

one of many hats

Am I alone? A question I used to ask myself a lot, especially when I was dating Brian.  He would disappear on the weekends, “Babe, just calling to say goodnight, so if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry, I’m turning my phone off.” By Sunday I’d have to speak out loud, ask myself, “Can I hear me?” Checking to see if the chords still plucked.  My girlfriends vanished too. Not fans of the Brian-Carolyn connection.  I went to movies alone, went to dinners alone, had a drink at the local bar alone. I walked many beach fairs alone.  I would buy a hat. “Am I alone?” I said to the girl in the mirror as I adjusted a new black and white hat with with a wide brim.

I own a lot of hats.

fullmoondance

no full moon ecstatic dance

Has the universe left me on the Winter Solstice? Is the internet down, connection fried? I know, maybe it’s because I won’t be shredding, burning, dancing under a full moon, Stonehenge chanting, crop circle tracing, meditation candlelight walking, praying through labyrinths. I won’t be saging, Ayahuasca trip sitting or tea journeying.  They say the universe likes ceremony.  They say the universe wants me to have more pomp, circumstance, leather fringe, drum circle, ecstatic dance, hot coal fire walking in my life. They say, the universe likes when you ritual with others not alone.  They say I don’t live up to the standards. Maybe that’s why, because the only thing I’ve planned is writing, reading, American Hustle love making and a bit of red wine.

I don’t go to parades. I eat gluten, dairy and meat. I leave before the fireworks. I don’t eat eggs or tofu and I will eat bacon. I don’t like women’s groups or meditation groups, or girls night out, I prefer the men join.   Sometimes I’ll skip the party all together. I believe in attraction, not The Secret. I’m not a fan of yes yes crocodile tearing gurus that oversell and over-tell.  I like the real deal. Someone once told me I was the spiritual anti-christ.  I get it, I said to her, I am contrary to popular belief.

I’m surprised when I find myself in the middle of the picture, the women grouping, forming, molding themselves around me, even though I choose a seat in the back closest to the aisle.   I’m happy on the fringe.  Don’t push, stop pulling, it’s time for me to go, I’m ready, I whisper to them to myself and slip out the emergency exit.

Boyfriends and girlfriends have come and gone.  I’ve moved through women’s gestalt wine goddess Tuesday’s relations.  I’ve felt the rope burn from untying knots. It leaves a mark, a tale to tell around the fire; full moon hanging low evening at the beach.  Feet dig in cold winter sand, toes wriggle for warmth.  Fire pits glow along the coast as cars whiz by above.

I am my own ritual.

Two hearts link themselves in a dark bar on a smoke filled night.  The smell of schnapps and beer, voices of drinkers and smokers scratch above the click of pool cues scratch and the scrape scrape scrape of  blue chalk on felt tip. Hazel eyes, black lash, a smile, some words.

History unfolds in a moment and the Universe might not work weekends.

 

 

doors close…

 

All that worry
All that comparison
All that fear
Turn it out
Let it move through
Let it leave
Open the door and
Let it out
Dance it away
Sing it away
Write it away

Let it
Be gone

When God shuts a doorclosed door
some where he opens a window …

wait for the breeze
let it kiss my cheek
let it wrap itself in me
let it lead me to what’s next

Let go of the closing door
Let it close
Let it be
Let it

Allow

Let it close

Let it slam shut
If it has to
Let it

Allow

Lots of closed doors
Lots of open windows
Lots of attachment
And the practice

Let it close
Let it slam shut
If it has to
Let it

Allow

I can hear the crumble
Echos
Tumble and fall
Echos
Of a dream
Echos
As it rams head on
Into that iron door
Ahhhh but my dreams
will stand up
back away
maybe examine a wound
treat it
or not
let the breeze from the open window
heal mend strengthen fortify

breath
Let it open wide
Let it enter
it will
Let it

Allow

begin from this placeopen window

I’ve done this
Over and again

Let the magic
Blow in through that open window

The magic of unknown
The magic of letting go
The magic of trust
of knowing and desire and bliss
of miracles

all I have to do is
breathe

 

 

Trying Too Hard

 

I’ve tried too hard
only to watch
everything I’ve tried too hard for
fall apart.
Each brick I’ve tried too hardbrick wall
to lay just so
on the brick
Before it,
falls.
Topples to the ground
in a cloud of dust
which I then
try too hard to clean up
so as not to leave
evidence of my crime.

 

footprints in sandBut there is always evidence
a foot print left
in the soft sand
a wave can’t wash away
a streak of dirt on a window
an over-worked rag will smear
a dried leaf
dropped from a dying plant
left ignored in the corner
of a room.

 

I’ve tried too hard
to be right,
to hide my truth
clenched in my fist.
I watch her
push against
the bars
trying to wriggle
herself free
as she gulps
for air.

Until one day
I remember
to stopsoft focus
to listen
to open
and welcome
the whisper
before she
has to scream.

Now, when I look out and
watch others trying too hard,
I can see me.
My lens is more focused
and less accurate,
I know, it’s what,
an oxymoron,
like a hard pillow or
a tender arrow.

It’s true though,
I am more focused,
just softer.

Fairy Dust

 

I’m finishing the last chapter in a book today. It’s not a book of poetry, although that will follow soon.

It’s a book about intention. It’s a book about writing. It’s a book.

Intention, desire, trust, letting go.

This is the time of year for letting go, for desiring to receive more and more good in our lives and shaping these desires into something tangible, memorable and, dare I say, cinematic. Then we have to let go and trust that we’ll receive what we’ve asked for.

Oh, you want more on cinematic do you? Well, the more visual, the more visceral, the more vivid, raw, real, energetic, the more real we make our intentions the easier it is to spot them in the real world.

It’s a creative way of acting as if.

Act as if you’re already where you want to be.
You’ve already received what you desire.
You’ve already met him, her, them.
You’ve already …

Act as if you’re grateful 
Because you are

Act as if you’re happy
Because you are

Act as if you’re a singer, dancer, writer, actress, actor
Because you are

Act as if you trust
Because you must
Let go

Oh isn’t that letting go part challenging? I think it is.  I want to hold my intentions lightly, let them float above my open palm and breathe.  For me it’s a balancing act between doing too much and not doing enough. When am I doing too much? Usually when I’m so stressed out that I sit at my desk for hours without a bathroom break. That’s when I get in my own way and I trip over my own two feet.

I want flow
I want peace
I want magic
I want happy, blissed out days filled with light and love and the electric twinkle of fairy dust.

Her blue spun silk hair glows in the moon’s light, her dress is spun from fabric blessed by Diana, Vesta, Venus and Terra Mater, and her fairy dust is distilled from more stars than I could count.    She waves her translucent wand  above my head and sprinkles her magic into all the nooks and crannies of my life.

Ahhhhhhh

What are your feelings on intention, desire, trust, letting go and fairy dust? What’s easy?  What’s hard? What is it you desire…deep down, in your bones?
Please share…let’s start a dialogue.