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Twenty years after fathering Carrie's son, Ozlo choicefully surrendered to his inner demons. Despite living in a quaint cottage that Carrie had graciously given him, one that was nestled in the rolling hills of the South African landscape, and despite all the support that she offered year after year, Ozlo could not quell his inner turmoil. The vibrant wildflowers and not-so-distant calls of wildlife stood in stark contrast to his inner desolation. A short and direct letter, penned with his very own hands, bid farewell, leaving his son and ex-wife adrift in a sea of unanswered questions. Those who knew him had silently feared this outcome, their unspoken worries now a sad reality.
Carrie's body became a battlefield of emotions—throat constricted as if grasping for words never spoken, belly churning with guilt and regret, sacrum aflame with a pain that defied physicality. For two decades, she had feared this outcome while desperately trying to prevent it. Now, her perceived failure to keep Ozlo tethered to the sacredness of life consumed her as her heart ached for her son who had lost his father long before that day. Anger had been her silent and constant companion—at Ozlo for his weakness, at herself for choosing a man incapable of bearing life. This fury was buried even as she spent years offering him anything, everything that he might have needed to choose life - for the sake of her son. As she crumpled onto the bed, her body finally yielded to the weight of it all. A strange mix of rage and grief coursed through her veins, no longer restrained by will or propriety. He. Was. Gone. In the moments following her episode of complete surrender, Carrie found an unexpected fullness, a quiet power that surprisingly needed no voice or action. She witnessed dawn rising that next morning, casting long shadows across her room. Blame dissolved along with the morning mist and she could finally recognize their shared innocence—hers and Ozlo's—two souls entangled in life's complex dance. Peace began to settle in, no longer crushed by the weight of her youthful choices. Carrie could now honor Ozlo as the one, the only one who could be her son's father while simultaneously acknowledging her inability to share her own life with him. She gave him his dignity by embracing him in the silence of her heart and returned the guilt and shame she carried for him in her dire attempts to heal his soul. She whispered a bittersweet farewell, releasing him and herself from the bonds of long-lost desire and finally found her freedom.
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In a house that seemed to have sprouted from the ground like a magical mushroom, gifted by fairies disguised as parents, lived Valeria - a whirlwind of creativity in human form. On this particular day, when the sun decided to throw a steamy tantrum, Valeria's AC waved its cool, invisible wand, keeping the air crisp and pleasant.
Valeria, the mistress of a thousand talents, had pirouetted through life collecting skills like others collect stamps. She was a chef who could make broccoli taste like candy, a musician who could make spoons sing symphonies, an artist who painted with moonbeams, and a furniture whisperer who could make a rickety chair feel like a throne. As she lounged on her sofa, Valeria pondered the curious spell of adulthood that demanded something called "bills." She hoped her creative cauldron would soon bubble over with golden opportunities, sparing her parents' piggy banks from further raids. In truth, Valeria danced on a tightrope made of rainbows, balancing between chasing her dreams and adult responsibilities. Sometimes, she'd take naps on that tightrope, much to the chagrin of Responsibility, who kept tapping its foot impatiently below. Her name, meaning "strong, healthy, and worthy," played hide-and-seek with her true nature. "What is worthy?" she'd ask the mirror, which would only wink in response. These ponderings often transformed into artwork that looked suspiciously like doodles, or lyrics that sounded eerily similar to her cat's meows. Valeria's mom was a curious mix of a cheerleader and a fortune-teller, waving pom-poms of support while crystal-gazing into worst-case scenarios. She saw traces of Valeria's father in her daughter's obsessions, a man who had treated her heart like a hand-me-down sweater. The women in Valeria's family tree had weathered storms that would make hurricanes seem like gentle breezes. Their strength flowed through Valeria's veins like liquid starlight, urging her to rewrite their story with a more colorful pen. Valeria's own path hadn't been a skip through a daisy field either. She'd wrestled with wobbly self-esteem, danced with many a temptation, and played hide-and-seek with love (though love seemed to be winning). But she had her art - a magic wand that turned her troubles into rainbows - and her cat, Rummy, who moonlighted as her therapist. And so, Valeria decided to check in with her heart's compass on a daily basis, making sure she didn't wander too far into the forest of self-doubt or get lost in the maze of creative obsession. Her mother, her namesake, stood by like a protective tree, roots deep and branches wide, hoping her daughter would grow taller and stronger than she ever could. Little Savannah, with eyes as wide as saucers, was on a grand adventure with her parents to Osaka in the far-off land of Japan. Savannah would discover that their destination offered wonders of all types at every turn. On their first day, Savannah felt as if she'd been awake for a thousand years, her tiny body yearning for sleep. But her wise mother insisted on one last quest before they could retreat to their new, favorite hotel - a visit to the mystical chamber known as the "public restroom." As the door to this curious place swung open, Savannah found herself face-to-face with a sight most peculiar - a gleaming white throne that seemed to have a mind of its own! It was no ordinary toilet, but a marvel of technology and enchantment combined. Savannah froze in her tracks, her heart fluttering with panic. "Oh, Mama!" she cried, her voice echoing through the cavernous room. "Is it loud? Will it flush while I sit on it, or after I’m done, or way after?” Her words tumbled out in a rush of worry. But the surprises didn't end there. This mystical throne boasted an array of mysterious buttons and levers, each promising a different kind of magic. There was a wand that could summon warm water and adjust its pressure, another that could conjure a gentle breeze, and even one that could heat the very seat itself! Most curiously of all, there was no sign of the familiar scrolls of soft paper Savannah was accustomed to. As if sensing her presence, the lid of the throne lifted on its own, bowing in greeting. Savannah gasped, torn between fascination and trepidation. "But Mama," she whispered, "can the outside world see me inside this scary room?" Her mother, a seasoned traveler of these lands, assured her that once the door was sealed, they would be hidden from all eyes. Yet doubt still lingered in Savannah's heart. Just when Savannah thought she'd understood all her options, another mysterious device caught her eye. "What does this one do, mama?" she asked, pointing with a trembling finger. With a wave of her hand, as if casting a spell, Savannah's mother awakened the Otohime - a mystical sound-maker that filled the air with a soothing melody. The chamber came alive with the soft notes of jazz, transforming the once-daunting space into a cozy musical chamber. Enchanted by the music, Savannah began to sway to the beat of the music finding her courage, so she turned to sit and thus experienced a symphony of warmth, water, and wonder. When she stood, bracing herself for the roar of the flush, she was met with only silence - the final bit of magic in this extraordinary place. As they left the chamber, Savannah tugged at her mother's sleeve, her eyes sparkling with newfound delight. "Oh, Mama," she exclaimed, "can we please, please return to this magical place?” And so, with the scary toilet mystery now a delightful memory in her heart, Savannah skipped back to the hotel, eager for more Japanese adventures and maybe, just maybe, another visit to her new favorite enchanted throne. The modest mink named Maya stood on the mossy bank of the raging river, her sleek fur ruffled by the cool breeze. The river raged, a tumultuous symphony of rushing water and clashing currents, but she had learned to stand high enough on the bank to observe from a healthy distance. Her keen eyes surveyed the scene, giving her a panoramic view up and down the river's winding path.
From this vantage point of neutral noticing, Maya could see the river's ever-changing nature. Sunlight danced on the water's surface, creating a dazzling display of light and shadow. The occasional fish leaped from the depths, a fleeting silver flash against the blue-green backdrop. Maya's whiskers twitched as she took in the moment: Earthy scents, wet stones, and fresh, cool water. She knew with every fiber of her being, that if she were pulled into the river of chaos, she would lose her higher consciousness to the relentless grip of fear and the suffocating embrace of victimhood. This would inevitably lead her back to merely managing her life and surviving the tumultuous events that came her way. For Maya, this was no longer an option. In her younger days, Maya had lived many years giving her power to the emotional pull of the river of duality. She had been pulled into one side or the other, tossed between conflicting views like a leaf in the current. Her mind had been a constant whirlpool of past and future, polarizing people and places while succumbing to avoidance and exclusion. The river, she saw, was full of both beauty and brutality in many shapes and forms – from the gentle caress of a calm eddy to the violent crash of a waterfall. It had been all too easy to blame, project, and suppress, but Maya could now recognize the internal mind construct that in and of itself had the power to defy contentment and joy. She had become accustomed to blaming those people and events in the river for pulling her in, until she realized that she indeed had a choice. And with that choice came power. Maya first began to see the polarity by coining the term 'brutiful,' her clever portmanteau that encompassed the bothness of life's polarized expressions and events. The word rolled off her tongue with a purr, a sound that vibrated through her chest and brought a sense of comfort. As time passed, Maya became increasingly committed and loyal to the unified consciousness that allowed her to take delight in the magnificent display of earth-bound opposites. This newfound perspective filled her with empathy, her heart expanding to embrace all the experiences she witnessed from her perch. In truth, Maya loved to purr when feeling happy! The soft rumble would start deep in her throat and spread warmth throughout her body. Sometimes she would purr even while surrendering to the river of emotions and story, taking delight in the experiences of being body-bound. This too was easy for her, her lithe form moving with grace whether on land or in water. But nothing gave her heart more joy than surrendering to a higher love, an unconditional and divine love she accessed by opening to that which is greater than her little mink heart. The fur along her spine would tingle with energy as she connected to this higher plane of existence. Maya knew that this was exclusively possible from the banks of the river, as opening when in the crisis of surviving the movement and momentum most often came from the heart of bargaining and wishful thinking. This higher love held her embodied experience in a way that softened her inside and out, bringing comfort and perspective. Her muscles relaxed, and her breathing deepened. While in this perspective, everything that made up this river of life could be seen, held, and loved as a part of the play in the phenomenal world for which she was named. And even in chaos, her heart opened toward life and death, crisis and ease, lack and abundance. She had transcended her given name and instead, in her devotion, was given the name Unity by her playful friends – the ones who preferred to stay immersed in the game of managing and surviving the inner tumult of river life. Maybe they were making fun of her, their chittering laughter echoing along the riverbank, but she knew that her friends loved her. Maya's whiskers would twitch with amusement at their antics, even as she maintained her loving composure. Maya's devotion to experiencing presence and perspective gave rise to a still and silent nothingness too. In this state, her senses seemed to expand beyond the physical realm. Where no movement moved, and no ripples rippled, and she discovered an innate and profound peace. In the true nothingness of space, she rose above duality, infused with clarity and perspective, a God-sent awareness and Love – a consciousness she found fully capable of infusing throughout her experiences of all things of the Earth dimension – in it, but not of it. As she sat on her perch, Maya's eyes gleamed with wisdom and compassion. The sun began to set, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink, reflected in the ever-moving surface of the river. Maya took a deep breath, her chest expanding with gratitude for the insights she had gained. No hooks. No dams. No kidding. Just a mink at peace, watching the eternal dance of the river of life. |
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October 2024
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