|
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.
0 Comments
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. In the cosmic dance of consciousness,
Stella rose, a luminous star, Her inner realms a canvas of polarity, Viewed through eyes of mastered neutrality. Within her vessel of flesh and spirit, She observed the ebb and flow, Of ancient reptilian whispers, Neurochemical tides, high and low. Grasping, pushing, seeking, fearing, A primal ballet of survival's art, Protest and fawning, an age-old drama, Played out in mind, body, and heart. With awareness vast as galaxies, And support from realms above, She held the agony of potential loss, In a crucible of unconditional love. The greatest hijack she dared to face, Fear of loss, attachment's bitter sting, Stella stood firm, a neutral beacon, In the storm of emotion's wild swing. Her higher Self, a radiant guide, Poured love and care into her soul, In this divine alchemy, she found the key, To unlock fear's grip and be whole. From the ashes of attachment's chains, A phoenix of freedom took flight, Stella learned to love without grasping, Her heart bathed in celestial light. Reflecting on protective shields of old, Family, tribe, and lovers' embrace, She saw through the veils of belonging, To the truth of her eternal grace. A new relationship blossomed within, With Source and Self in harmony divine, The rest, a mystery yet unwritten, As Stella's spirit began to shine. In this newfound liberation's glow, She dances with the cosmos, wild and free, A testament to inner transformation, And the power of spiritual alchemy. In the hushed moments before dawn, Midnight, a sleek black cat with eyes like sapphires perched on the doorstep of her owner's house.
Midnight's night had been a whirlwind of activity, driven by an ancient survival instinct inherited from her mother, Luna. It was a pattern etched into her very being: Rise with unstoppable force, then collapse into oblivion. But this cycle, once a shield against a world she perceived as cruel and dangerous, now felt like a prison. In her 'rise' state, Midnight was nothing short of miraculous. She could accomplish feats that would make even Peggy Lee's famous lyrics seem understated: "I can dance on moonbeams, chase starlight, And bottle the essence of night. I can whisper to winds, command the tides, All before the first ray of light." Yet, for all her extraordinary abilities, Midnight yearned for something more profound: inner peace, true contentment, and the ability to receive love without the armor of demands or arrogance. But her trauma response, honed by years of perceived threats, kept her locked in a cycle of hyper-vigilance and exhaustion. On this particular morning, as Midnight teetered on the edge of collapse, the universe conspired in her favor. A parade of unexpected allies emerged from the early morning mist. Some were old friends; others were creatures she had previously regarded with suspicion or disdain. A wise owl swooped down, offering not just a plump mouse but also a pearl of wisdom about letting go of control. A mischievous squirrel, whom Midnight had often chased with annoyance, presented her with an acorn filled with magical healing nectar. Even the neighborhood dog, once her sworn enemy, approached with a soft blanket in its mouth, offering a safe haven for rest. At first, Midnight's instincts screamed to reject these offerings. Her pride, her fear, her deeply ingrained belief in her own unworthiness all rose up like a bristling fur coat. But as each gift was presented with genuine care, something within her began to shift. In a moment of profound clarity, Midnight saw the pattern that had defined her existence. She recognized the exhausting pendulum swing between frantic activity and total collapse. And in that recognition, she glimpsed a new possibility – a path of balance, of give and take, of ebb and flow. So, with trembling paws, Midnight accepted the gifts. As she did, a warmth spread from her heart, spreading and radiating outward. It was as if the very magic that had always resided within her was transforming, aligning with a greater cosmic harmony. The air around Midnight began to shimmer with an ethereal light. Her midnight fur took on a celestial sheen, and her sapphire blue eyes glowed with newfound wisdom. The gathered animals, dogs, cats, owls, squirrels, roosters and horses, all watched in awe as Midnight underwent a magical metamorphosis. When the transformation was complete, Midnight stood tall, her presence both regal and serene. She turned to her assembled friends, her voice resonating with a new timbre of confidence and compassion: "My dear friends, old and new, I see now that true magic lies not in doing everything alone, but in the connections we forge and the love we share. Each of you has given me a piece of yourself, and in doing so, you've helped me become whole. From this day forward, let us walk together in balance and light." As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, they illuminated not just a magical black cat, but a community bound by love, compassion, and the transformative power of acceptance. Midnight's journey from frantic survival to serene balance became a legend whispered among the creatures of the night, a testament to the magic that occurs when we open our hearts to help and be helped. 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. Julia, the little snapping turtle, felt indebted to the bigger one for saving her from chaos. Like a tiny boat tethered to an oversized anchor, she found herself bound by gratitude and guilt. Even though these aquatic turtles typically preferred slow-moving, shallow bodies of water with muddy bottoms for places to hide, Julia was scared, so when Julio saved her, she felt a multitude of emotions – two parts gratitude, one part obligation, shaken, not stirred, all for a life of good enough.
Things were made worse for Julia when her savior's mother, sharp-tongued and protective, blamed her for trapping her son by having his child, his baby. It was as if Julia had committed the cardinal sin of turtle-dom – falling in love and reproducing, something so ordinary and obvious. Julia rested solidly on a big enough rock in the middle of the slow-moving stream, her very own turtle throne in the watery kingdom. She had a good enough view realizing that Julio had saved her from a life of utter insecurity – like upgrading from a leaky rowboat to a modest yacht. She now held a young one for whom she too wanted to provide a sacred form of safety and a life beyond just good enough – a turtle version of the American Dream, if you will. As she bathed in the sun on that rock, soaking up rays like a solar panel with a shell, she relaxed enough to feel her helplessness. Helpless to the nature of water, weather, and wind and all other things over which she had absolutely no control – including Julios’ mother. Helpless to her smallness, social stature, and lack of significance too. It all amounted to extreme insecurity and a fight to protect her life and yet, it was not enough, just good enough. Feeling helpless was okay now. It was real and true, but indebted? Therein lay the real obstacle to her happiness, like a stubborn piece of lettuce stuck between her beaks. It lived in her tiny throat and kept her from speaking tiny gems of truth that could have created intimacy and fun, but instead lay like hundreds of diamonds in the rough forming a mine field of potential explosions. She gulped. Not once, or twice, but hundreds of times, swallowing her fear of rupturing her security, all the while becoming more and more insecure and frozen – a turtle-shaped ice cube in the flow of life. Her contemplations allowed her to question her deep and archaic sense of being indebted to Julio for saving her from a life of not good enough which had come with the awful feeling of impending doom, poverty, and chaos. And her reflections allowed her to question believing his mother's false accusations too. Julia had lived with these feelings for decades, realizing that her blind loyalty to Julio came with enormous restrictions on her inner freedom and her ability to move fluidly through the waters of life. As she made peace with helplessness, her whole turtle body relaxed into a natural state of esteem. She didn't feel sticky anymore, to Julio or his mother – no longer a turtle-shaped piece of emotional flypaper. She was ready now for the unfamiliar even though she did not know what that meant! She had no plan to leave Julio or his family, only to live without the binds of obligation. This was truly unfamiliar, so she announced her readiness to the stream and the sun who both reflected her enthusiasm with an eternal brightness that warmed her tiny, perfect heart – a cosmic round of applause for one small turtle's big revelation. The little girl stood nervously at the foot of her father's imposing golden-red throne. Despite its grandeur, the throne seemed to loom over her, a towering symbol of his power and authority. She claimed her short stature with a lifted spine and steady eyes, yet her heart raced with apprehension. She breathed as deeply as her tiny lungs could manage, gathering enough courage to pose a small question - one that burned within her, a query of monumental importance. She so desperately wanted to understand her world, this strange place she found herself in, and so she spoke, slowly and deliberately, for she had already felt the horrid sting when her father's response had snapped any trace of connection from her heart, severing their fragile bond.
She craved connection while so deeply needing to avoid the loss and abandonment that had already carved a wound within her - this polarity played out in the very consciousness of her nervous system, as deep and primal as the two, tiny sits bones that bore her weight. There was a pregnant pause before he spoke during which she felt the familiar dance of both hope and despair. Her father's brow furrowed just before he finally opened his mouth only to express his eternal impatience in short, thick words that instantly negated her power, her existence, her very right to seek understanding. Her courage fell, along with her tiny eyelids, and in these fleeting moments, the lifelong critic within her was born and bonified - a harsh voice that would forever question her own worth. As the little girl grew into an adult, she was acutely aware of this deep loss, this breach in attachment that showed itself in striking ways, especially in her relationships with lovers. Her ability to disconnect from the grief that still resided in her little body was remarkable, in fact, a kind of genius - and this made the pursuit of power enticing in equally striking ways. She became aware that this dance of polarity, so deeply ingrained in her nervous system and infused with the consciousness of abandonment, might always be something she would have to live with. A vibration, a buzz, a cycle of grasping and running away. In her deep internal practices, however, she had evolved into a state that lifted her above the dance of polarity, into a spacious, empty, nothingness without disconnecting or becoming dysregulated at all. In fact, it was a level of consciousness that offered peace and ultimately a wellspring of light and love. She learned to connect with this energy, this luminous source that held and healed the wound that had been lodged deep within her hips. And so, in those later years, she was finally able to visit her father free of judgment or protective strategies to hide her vulnerability. She was his daughter, yet able to honor his limitations as she had learned to honor her own. And in the masterful holding and healing of her own despair she had also experienced the true meaning of forgiveness. Abbey was certain of at least six past lives—five male, one female. In each, she recognized a pattern of failure, rendering her predecessors impotent, gullible, and incapable. The lone female, Kat, had been a slave worker turned potential entrepreneur. She had been utterly oppressed by the patriarchy of her time, which condemned her to a long, lonely life filled with waste, regret, and shame.
In this lifetime, Abbey enjoyed a charmed life of privilege, higher education, and countless possibilities. Yet, despite her efforts, she felt unworthy and incapable in financial matters. She called it the "wounded masculine," a part of her existence she had come to despise. Dark thoughts of ending her life to escape these lifetimes of despair haunted her, but she knew that would only perpetuate the cycle. Determined to honor each of these lifetimes—one soul, one lesson—Abbey clearly saw them all: a Roman Empire citizen, a Venetian merchant, a 1920s shyster, a successful financier murdered after losing everything, and an arms dealer who lost his inventory to warring armies. Overwhelmed by this knowledge, Abbey felt alarmed yet compelled to acknowledge their struggles. Her enthusiasm spent, her nervous system fried, and her vitality low, she had just emerged from a week in bed, immobilized by a deep despair associated with a loss of respect. Rising from her malaise, Abbey gathered seven small, special rocks from her collection—six to represent her past lives, and one for herself. She added an eighth to symbolize failure. Arranging the six "souls" in a circle with herself and failure in the center, she stepped back to reflect. In this moment of clarity, Abbey realized she was doing the right thing. She honored each person for carrying this familiar archetype of failure, assuring them they would no longer be forgotten or judged. Then, she had the courage to ask which one would offer a blessing for her future. The Roman Empire stone called to her. Moving it before her own, Abbey heard his message: "You are the one, Abbey. You see us for what we were and what we tried to do. You know our castrated efforts, yet you have a future. I give you my blessing and permission to do it differently. Succeed where we could not, for us and for yourself." Abbey placed all six stones behind her own, feeling their presence supporting her with appreciation, love, and enthusiasm for the unfamiliar path ahead. Looking forward, she felt both supported and lighter, beginning to sense what life might be like if she could attune to her higher self and leave the past behind with grace. With renewed purpose, Abbey dressed and began her day, embracing a freshness she had never known before. |
AuthorWords are beautiful - they give shape to experience in a playful and meaningful way!! Archives
October 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed