Oh My Goddess

I recently returned from a profound journey to Nepal.  I was overwhelmed with new sights, sounds, tastes, smells and a host of other exotic sensory experiences.  It was so intense I was glad to come home and start to assimilate all that happened in one short month far, far away.  And to be still for a while.  Despite a lot of meditation and yoga, true stillness and quiet eluded me because I wasn't there long enough to shake off the innocence and naivete of being a stranger in a strange land.  I felt like The Fool, the first card of the tarot deck, beginning a spiritual and physical journey through the many stations of life.

After recounting a few things I did in Nepal to a couple of people much younger than I, their response was "I bet you didn't want to come back."  Not true at all.  I was glad to come home - if where I live is truly my home.  (But I've discussed that in a previous blurb - "Cosmopolitanism," April 29/12.)
Yes indeed, I was glad to come back to something familiar.  Familiarity gives me a sense that I have some control.  So many times while in Nepal I felt as if I had no control over anything, least of all my emotions.  I was hoping and even expecting something like that - you know - to have my heart bursting wide open with magic, miracles, and mystical experiences.  It's my thing.  The masthead of this little web doesn't read The Magical Musings of Gossamer Penwcyhe for nothing.  But every time I go somewhere new, one of the first things I learn is just how naive I am.
The most powerful lessons are usually the hardest, and I got a big, whopping dose of it as soon as I landed in Kathmandu.  Almost immediately upon arriving in Nepal my heart was ripped open by what I saw.  I wept openly on a daily basis for seeing the suffering of animals.  Hundreds of homeless, sick, malnourished dogs roam the narrow, crowded streets of Kathmandu.  There are also many forlorn and abandoned cows that wander the same dusty streets seeking sustenance, only to find a few dregs in plastic bags that lie in huge piles on the sides of roads and river banks.  Eventually those plastic bags make their way to the cows' intestines, where they block their digestive system, causing a slow and painful death.  I constantly hurt for these creatures, and was ashamed and resentful that I was powerless to help them.
I also completely lost my voice for the first few days I was there.  Normally my voice is strong, and I frequently use it to opine as loudly and passionately as I'm able.  (I admit that's a dubious gift, as I'm often irritating and ineffective.)  So my loss of voice rendered me physically unable to be heard or forceful.  I couldn't speak up or out, because I was silenced with laryngitis.  It came from the realisation that all the things I believed and held dear, all the convictions that I considered just, responsible and "politically correct" were totally useless to help or change anything.  I can talk the talk, but walking the walk is another thing.
I know all this doesn't sound like a very promising start for a journey to a land where I was hoping to experience magic and spiritual renewal.  But that's how it happened, and I don't regret a moment of it.  In the Fool's journey through the major arcana of the tarot, my shock and awe upon arriving in Nepal could be likened to The Tower.  (The Tower is depicted as a tall, crumbling, brick and mortar structure struck by lightning, while the people who stand on top are sent hurtling to the ground.)  My first tour of Kathmandu was the taxi ride from the airport to my hotel, a route which looked as if it went straight through a war zone.  The driver informed me that many of Kathmandu's roads were being widened, which explained the bumpy, dusty streets lined with rubble, but not the numerous abandoned, half-built edifices.  Not all of Kathmandu looks like that, but that particular part of the city happened to be en route to the Vajra Hotel where I was staying.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, the name of the hotel, Vajra, is the Sanskrit word for thunderbolt or lightning, a powerful and ubiquitous symbol throughout Nepal.  Beginning my sojourn at the aptly named Vajra Hotel was only the first of many portents whose significance I didn't recognise until well into my stay.  Considering my penchant for sign-seeking, my inability to keep up with the messages all around me was unusual.  That's probably because Nepal is replete with signs and symbols.  Everything is a metaphor.  It's how the Nepali regard their world.  (Maybe I was Nepali in one of my more significant previous lifetimes.)  Anyway, it's weeks later and some of the signs I encountered continue to be revealed to me, and every time it's as if lightning has struck.  The powerful magic of Nepal calls upon me still.

I frequently mention on this little web of mine how I sometimes feel as if I'm a reflection of Earth herself, taking on all the joys and ills of my immediate surroundings.  In Nepal I felt it big time, all the time.  It's a tiny country dominated by the Himalayas, the highest mountains in the world, and home to the mother of all mountains, Everest herself, or Chomolungma, which means "Goddess Mother of the World" in the language of the Sherpas, the native peoples of eastern Nepal.  Nature rules this small and ancient land, and has shaped its beliefs and faiths as only Nature can.  No wonder the vast Kathmandu valley, and indeed all of Nepal, is considered a place of power.  That's probably why my emotions were so raw and close to the surface for most of the time I was there.
Spending some time so close to the Mother Goddess's greatest natural monument was a constant reminder of the divine feminine.  In fact, that's what I was seeking on my pilgrimage there.  My personal guide was a lovely, smart, western woman named Yana, who has visited Nepal numerous times.  Yana converted to Tibetan Buddhism when she was fourteen years old, and is faithful still.  Clearly it was no adolescent fad.  Nor is her reverence for female deities.  She knows her stuff and led me on a magical journey to Hindu and Buddhist temples and power spots richly endowed with goddess-worship and lore.
My first ten days in Kathmandu were during the festival of Dasain, which pays homage to the various manifestations of the fierce and heroic Goddess Durga.  Families get together and celebrate the Great Goddess Durga in her many forms through feasting and animal sacrifice, the latter ritual being a sad irony that didn't escape me.  But I remained silent and respectful, which was a much better place from which to observe and learn.  The silence imposed upon me by illness prepared me for what would turn out to be the most profound experience I was to have in Nepal.

Yana took me to meet Kusali Devi, a Newari Buddhist teacher and shaman.  Newari is a uniquely Nepali combination of Tibetan Buddhism, Shaktism, which focuses on Hindu worship of the divine feminine, and Bon, the ancient, indigenous religion of Tibet.  Kusali Devi is considered to be a "living goddess," embodying Ajima, the goddess who is both mother and grandmother in the Newari pantheon, and a fierce protector of children.  Kusali is a beloved spiritual leader in the Kathmandu valley, and is consulted by her many followers for spiritual and physical healing.  My first visit with her was the day after the 48th anniversary of Kusali's possession by Ajima, an auspicious time for sure.
Yana and I arrived at Kusali's apartment shortly after she had performed a puja (prayer) for dozens of her followers who were there for blessings of the festival.  After all the visitors had left, Yana and I, along with our translator, Basant, entered a small flat which was simply adorned with religious objects and icons of the Newari tradition.  Kusali sat cross-legged on a large, brass throne, dressed in a vivid red and gold sari.  Her expression was warm and open.  Almost as soon as I laid eyes on this serene and mature woman I began to relax.  I found a spot on the floor against the wall, sat down and watched the proceedings unfold.  After Yana and Kusali exchanged words and news through Basant, Kusali blessed Yana as she kneeled before her.  Two attendants, a man and a woman, assisted Kusali by tying a red ribbon around Yana's neck, (red is Durga's favourite colour) and applied a tika - a large red dot made of thick paste - unto Yana's forehead directly over the third eye.  It was all so fascinating that I just sat there with a silly grin on my face.  Yana then turned to me and asked if I'd like to be blessed as well.  I replied in the affirmative and knelt before Kusali. 
After an eye-opening week and a half in Nepal I no longer expected to be enraptured.  I had no more delusions of being "touched by the divine."  Or so I thought. When Kusali had finished her blessing she asked if there was anything else she could do for me.  I dismissed the idea of asking her to pray for my career - it seemed so materialistic and mundane - so I requested a puja for my home.  I wanted a good night's sleep, which had been eluding me for months.  She assured me she would perform the puja as requested, and told me to come back in a week to pick up an offering for my altar.  (I liked the simple fact that she assumed, or perhaps actually knew, that I had an altar, because I do.)
Before taking my leave, I had one more small request.  I asked Basant if it would be alright to have my picture taken with her.  He looked very slightly taken aback for only a moment, and then translated what I'd asked.  Kusali gave her consent.  I handed my camera to Basant who took a picture of Kusali on her throne, and me sitting on the floor beside her.  After thanking her and bidding our farewells, Yana, Basant and I went to the rooftop of the apartment building to eat some prasad, food that is sanctified by a deity or holy person, in this case Kusali Devi herself.
As we ate our prasad, Basant told me he was very surprised that Kusali consented to have her picture taken.  Although he didn't say it in so many words, I got the feeling it was one of those things that "just isn't done."  Yana confirmed that as well.  She'd met Kusali Devi on a number of occasions, and had never been given permission to take a photograph.  I suddenly realized something unusual had taken place.  What I originally thought was a very pleasant and interesting occasion turned out to be extraordinary, even sacred.  A frisson of recognition coursed through me.  In that moment I felt special.

For days after meeting Kusali Devi I kept checking my camera to make sure the photograph was still safely stored.  I loved looking at the poised, self-possessed woman who gazed directly into the lens as if to say "I see you. I know you."  Those feelings and impressions were still with me when Yana and I visited Kusali less than a week later to get the offerings she had made for us. 
Kusali gave Yana offerings for her upcoming wedding, and some medicine for one of her clients.  (Yana is a registered hypnotherapist.)  Then it was my turn to receive the gift for my altar, which was an earthy, hemp-like incense made for cleansing my home.  Kusali then unexpectedly offered me some medicine to "make me happy."  She instructed me to add a bit of the fine powder to some water before meditation, and my spirits would be lifted.  Thinking our audience was over, I thanked her again, but she continued to speak.  I didn't understand anything except for the word "psychology," which she said twice during her discourse on me and my situation.  The translator, who was a young woman this time, informed me that Kusali had referred to my "psychological problems," and that both the incense and medicine would help me to find some peace.  My curiosity turned to astonishment.  I hadn't come to Kusali for healing of any kind, but she chose to address that anyway.
I have a long history of garden-variety depression that has plagued me most of my adult life.  In its less intense forms I sometimes refer to it as the "wobblies."  But I haven't been wobbly, at least not in any serious way, for a long time now.  My life is on an upswing and my path is clearer than it's ever been.  Okay, sure -  my introduction to Nepal was highly charged with emotion, but both times I was in Kusali's presence I was courteous, quiet, and completely at peace.  Yet she saw through that.  A living goddess looked right into me and saw my soul.
Everyone wants some form of recognition or acknowledgement, and I have an embarrassing history of needing a lot of it, probably more than most.  I'm an actress and writer, so of course recognition is important and necessary if I want to actually make a living at it, but my excessive need for attention goes all the way back to childhood.  It was as if Kusali Devi had read a map of my inner journey, and then gave me exactly what I've wanted and needed all my life.  Nothing could have been more appropriate than allowing a vain, self-absorbed actress to have a picture taken with a goddess, and she knew it.  Like most of the gifts I received in Nepal, I didn't even know how exceptional it was until later.  The photograph she allowed me to take, which I've had printed and framed, will always be one of my most prized possessions.

Kusali Devi's glimpse into my soul validated me.  I guess I had to fall from The Tower in order to be lifted out of the rubble by her divine, guiding hand.  The card after the Tower in the tarot happens to be the Star, a symbol for hope, renewal, spiritual love, and the healing of old wounds.  All of that is exactly what I got from meeting a living goddess face to face.
I suppose all this sounds about as airy-fairy as I get on this web of mine, and I guess it is, because nothing has really changed except for the way I feel.  My material circumstances are the same as they were before I went to Nepal.  The mundane problems of life and living, both big and small, continue.  The only difference is within me.  I'm sleeping better, feeling calmer and more self-assured than I have in a long, long time.  I'm not afraid of an uncertain future anymore.  That doesn't mean I'll magically overcome disaster or death, nor do I want to.  I just want to be able to deal with whatever comes my way with grace and dignity.  I want to look good with egg on my face.
Kusali got right into my head, and she's there still.  A day doesn't go by when I don't think about her and the effect she's had on me.  I have only to look at the picture of her staring me straight in the eye and I feel like a worthy person.
It's a small, imperceptible thing, because it's so very personal and could easily be ascribed to wishful thinking or a vivid imagination.  But make no mistake, it's a minor miracle to me.
No doubt about it - I met a goddess in Nepal.
- G.P.

A Grain of Sand

Travel is for people with no imagination.  That's an outrageous statement, I know.  I can't take credit for it, either, and that's probably a good thing, because on the few occasions I've said it aloud, mostly in jest, no one has been amused.  I read that anonymous quote somewhere many years ago, and it's stuck with me ever since.  Until very recently, I hadn't met anyone who thought it was even remotely funny.  (Kudos to my friend Lin, who gets it.  Also to my sister, along with apologies for not remembering that she laughed heartily many years ago when we first shared this joke.)  In fact, the one consistent reaction I get to that comment is defensiveness.  That's probably because I know a lot of well-travelled types.  I guess they don't like the suggestion that they might be lacking in imagination.
I'm well aware that not many people share my point of view.  They must sit in the company of good story-tellers and conversationalists much more than I do.  Or maybe it's me.  Yeah, it's me.  I don't enjoy listening to people talk about their travels.  For many years, when I was broke and bitter, I didn't want to hear other people chatter about where they'd been, what they'd done and who they'd met, etc.  I was stuck in the same place for a long time, and it wasn't for lack of curiosity or a sense of adventure that I didn't just get up and go somewhere to satisfy those longings.  My material circumstances prevented it.  That was the reason, plain and simple.
I admit that my disinterest in people's travelogues is a personal issue and colours my point of view, but I've done some travelling  in the recent past, and I still feel the same way.  I do my best to keep my stories to myself, and save them for venues like this little web of mine, but sometimes I find myself saying something because I'm an actor and writer who wants to be heard.  I open my mouth just to say Hey, look at me!  I've got a tale to tell, too.  That's when I've succumbed to my bad habit of comparing myself to other people.  Covert one-upmanship is not my idea of pleasant chat.

For those fortunate enough to be able to satisfy their wanderlust, how can they not feel humbled by the grandeur, beauty, joys and perils of our diverse world?  And what about gratitude?  Maybe they are humble and grateful, but it doesn't always show.  Arrogance and gratitude don't happen together.
If someone illustrates a point of conversation by relating a story of what happened to them in an exotic location, I enjoy listening, because it's about what they think and feel, and not where they've been or what they've done.  Those sort of worldly conversationalists are employing the writer's rule of show, don't tell.  But sure enough, someone else will always come up with a supposedly related anecdote about some banal event set in a far-away land, as if the location should render their lack of original thought more notable.
Of course travel expands a person's horizons. Travel is a very effective, in-your-face shortcut to profound experience and knowledge.  A person would have to be quite dull and stupid not to learn from vastly different situations and surroundings.  That's probably one of the main reasons people travel.  But just because someone has the wherewithal to go abroad, it doesn't mean they're especially deep or introspective.  I've met some deadly-dull, superficial people who travel a great deal.  Or maybe they don't know how to tell a story well, or haven't got a handle on the art of conversation.
Plain facts bore me.  I prefer to talk about insights and observations.  Great minds talk about ideas, average minds talk about events, and small minds talk about people.  (I'm not quoting Eleanor Roosevelt to suggest that I have a great mind.  In case you haven't noticed, I like to talk about other people a lot.  But I'm trying to change that.  Really I am.)
So how about all the people with rich inner lives who haven't had access to the fast lane of meaningful and fascinating experiences in travel?  Isn't it possible for smart, sensitive individuals to have a mind and soul as wide as the sky without the expeditious advantage of travel?  I sure hope so.  For many years the only place I could tour was my imagination.  My imagination has most surely saved my life at times.  It's almost done me in, as well.  Travelling through inner space can be lots of fun, or a total bummer - just like real life.
When I've had the good fortune to stand in awe before some spectacular scene in a foreign land, I'm reaping  the rewards for having nurtured my imagination at home, in good times and bad.  Let's face it, it's a lot easier to be wonderstruck in a strange land, simply because it's unfamiliar.  A truer measure of someone's sensibilities would be if they felt that same sense of wonder while shopping for groceries.  That's a tough call for anybody, no matter how much they love the world and themselves in it.  But a person who's capable of that interests me far more than someone who's been to New York twenty-two times and seen at least 3 Broadway plays each time and then tells me all about it as if I should be gob-smacked with their accomplishments.  Aargh!

My friend, Doe, who has a special gift for paranormal experiences, recently discovered she could fall into a trance on the subway and end up travelling through inner space within minutes of boarding the train.  Listening to her describe the visions that appear to her fascinates me more than someone telling me they've been to Chartres Cathedral.  Unless someone who's visited Chartres has had a deep, personal experience they wish to share with me, I don't need to hear anything I don't already know or can easily google. With enough time and money anyone can hop a plane and/or train and visit Chartres, but few people can fly the subway the way Doe does.  (Doe thinks it's the steady rhythm and vibrations of the train moving along the tracks that induce her trance-state.  I agree, especially after recently learning how to listen with my entire body.  So I've been trying to fly the subway myself.  I'm not there yet.  I guess my body still needs some fine-tuning.)
Some people are just plain luckier than others, karma notwithstanding.  That's why I've learned to appreciate the poor and the sick, mad men and women, loners, fools, and clowns, the very old and very young, and any other marginalized or disenfranchised folks who, by virtue of living on the fringes, are unable to fulfill their cherished dreams.  Thoreau referred to this as living a life of "quiet desperation."  (Although for truly marginalized individuals, it's not always quiet.)  But if one digs deep enough, beneath the despair and longing is a personal treasure trove of imagination.  Sometimes that's all a person has.  Those are the people that truly fascinate me the most.  Although it's very sad that they can't live out their dreams, I am moved and beguiled by the way they live in them.
- G. P.

Natural Hearing Aid

My ability to hear isn't what it used to be, mostly due to advancing years.  Loss of hearing doesn't happen to the same degree for everybody as they age, but if you live long enough, your hearing will deteriorate.  I suspect that I might be a bit ahead of some people my age in regards to loss of hearing.  And I don't say that casually, believe me.

Listening is one of my favourite pastimes, and the thought that one day I might not be hearing things as well as I do now really bugs me.  A lot.  However, I have a plan to retard the process.  I'm going to talk less, and listen more.  Sound familiar?  Of course it does, because I say that all the time, right here on my little web.  And I have no intention to stop thinking or writing about it because I want to save myself from becoming completely deaf.  I honestly believe that I can do that by listening more and by paying more attention.
I learned very recently that listening can be done with the whole body (refer to previous blurb), and that stillness and quiet, both within and without, are important in the practise of deep listening. Deep listening isn't just done with your ears; it's done with your mind, your heart, and your entire body.  Our posture, facial expressions, and intentions are aids to good listening.
Over the years I've observed that older people who have a history of talking a lot, or too much, or who don't listen, or find ways to make any conversation about themselves, no matter how unrelated (and that's a real talent, believe me), develop hearing loss sooner and to a greater degree than their more taciturn, attentive peers.  Funny how that works.  So imagine my dismay when I realised I'm already experiencing hearing loss.  Yikes!  That's why I've made a vow to ramp up the listening, and to ease up on the talking even more than I already have.  I figure it'll be easier to keep it up now that I'm trying to save my auditory senses.  If anything will shut me up fast, it'll be the thought that one day I might be severely hearing impaired if I don't.  And if you don't understand how I can possibly think that listening more attentively will improve my hearing, then you must be new to my little web.  So welcome.
Anyway, thanks for listening, and blessed be.
- G. P.

When the Pupil is Ready

I recently spent five days deep in the woods with a brave and remarkable group of people, most of whom I'd never met before.  We were all there to learn and heal from the spirit of the ayahuasca plant.  Ayahuasca is native to the the Amazon rainforest, and has been used as potent medicine by the indigenous peoples of the region for over 5,000 years.  The ingestion of the ayahusaca brew is done in ceremony, led by a shaman, or ayahuascero.  The plant is regarded as the mother of all the tens of thousands of plant species of Amazonia.  She is the most powerful teacher I have ever known.
(Henceforth I shall refer to Grandmother Ayahuasca as Grandam A, a variation of Grandma, and changed for ease of pronunciation.  Grandam A. scans better than Grandma, and I'm all about sounding words out loud when I write.  Besides, she truly is a Grand Dame.)
Anyway...

Meeting with Grandam A. requires true courage.  She is a strong hallucinogen, and can bring the psychic traveller face to face with their deepest fears and inner demons.  In fact, the more messed up you are, the tougher the trip is likely to be.  Grandma A. is mighty medicine.
I knew all this going into my most recent journeys, because I had drunk her brew twice last year in Peru.  And it wasn't easy going, let me tell you.  But when I learned that the fabulous female shaman I worked with in Peru was visiting my part of the world to perform three more ceremonies, I jumped at the chance to invite Grandma A. into my home again.  I had unfinished business to do.
A more recent term applied to hallucinogenic plants is entheogen, derived from the Greek, meaning the god within.  Unfortunately, hallucinogens have long been associated with hippies tripping on LSD for recreational purposes.  Ha! Some recreation.  Ayahuasca's primary purpose is to heal.  Only after some good and proper healing is done can the participant hope to experience communion with other realms.  Well, okay...  that's my personal take on it, otherwise I can't explain why I chose to drink ayahuasca again after two harrowing, nauseating experiences with her in Peru.  Unless, of course, I'm some kind of a masochist, and get my jollies from self-abuse and physical torment.  The scary part is, that's a distinct possibility, and something I've known all my adult life.
I'm not unfamiliar with self-abuse, conscious or otherwise, and have scars on my body to prove it.  Years of self-reflection and western-style therapy have helped me overcome these dreadful behavioural patterns - well, almost - but haven't completely eradicated the lingering emotional crap that goes with them.  The childhood trauma that led to these destructive habits was a very long time ago, yet all these years later I still lay blame on the past for recurring problems in the present.  I fancy myself a relatively aware and sensitive person, so rehashing past injuries aggravates my ancient hurt with guilt and shame for not being able to let it go.  I mean, how many times do I have to make the same bloody mistakes before I finally get it?  I thought I was smarter and wiser than that.  It's not that I'm opening old wounds - the worst is long over for sure - but I'm still scratching and cursing at the scars that remain.  And that's precisely why I invited Grandma A. to pay me another visit.
When I was in Peru I participated in the ceremony hoping to commune with all that is - Mother Earth and the Universe.  To put it as prosaically as possible, I was looking for a mystical experience.  I've sought beauty and magic all my life, and was hoping for one big, whopping dose of it with Grandam A.  But Grandam A. had her own agenda, and taking a trip to paradise wasn't part of it.  She is a teacher and healer, first and foremost.  She showed me who was boss right from the get-go.  She told me in no uncertain terms that I can't have it both ways, and what's more, that I didn't deserve it yet.
Grandam A. addressed first things first - my self-destructive habits and deliberate self-abuse.  In the past I've indulged in this gross behaviour for two reasons: 1.) to punish myself, and 2.) to escape myself.  A journey with ayahuasca is about revelation, not escape, but I still had hopes that I'd have glimpses of Grandam A's magnificent, magical world of flora and fauna.  But no such luck.  Grandam A. went to the very heart of the matter and sent me reeling through hours of nausea that even frequent purging was unable to quell. (There's often a lot of purging going on throughout the ceremonies.  A vomit-bucket is standard equipment for the ride.)

So why on Gaia's green earth, you may well ask, would I choose to go through that again?  Am I really a hard-core masochist?  The answer to the latter question is no, I'm not.  Nausea sucks.  Big time.  But I guess I needed the physical hardship to realise what I had to do first.  Stop hurting yourself, Grandam A. shouted at me, There's no moving forward until you reckon with that.  The ball's in your court, baby. 
The morning after my first ceremony in Peru, I was sitting in the garden of the hostel where we were staying, contemplating the previous night.  I was disappointed not to have had a mystical experience, and wondered what I was supposed to have learned from the whole thing.  I did have some lovely, light and colourful visions, but they seemed random and purposeless to me.  As I entertained these thoughts, I heard a deep, growly, non-threatening hrmmph hrmmph a short distance from me, and looked up to see a big, black German shepherd trotting straight towards me.  He lived at the hostel with one of the employees, but tended to ignore the guests and their benign attentions.  So I was a little surprised when I saw him very deliberately approaching me, as if on a mission.  He stopped directly in front of me, just a few feet from where I sat.  After staring me in the eye, he lowered his head and proceeded to vomit on the grass.  Once he was done, he walked in a large circle all around the swing where I sat, right back to where he started, and puked again.  When he was finished, he looked up at me once more, then turned and loped away.  There's no way this little incident was just a random, meaningless occurrence.  It was a sign!  (You knew that was coming, right?) And I had a pretty good idea what it meant.

Winston Churchill suffered from dark bouts of depression all his life, and referred to them as "the black dogs."  So when that big, black dog decided to pay me a visit that morning, I knew exactly what he and Grandam A. were telling me.  I'm pretty sure she sent him as a messenger, in case I hadn't gotten the message the night before.  She also decided to teach me exactly the same lesson the second time I drank her elixir, which was the day after the episode with the dog.
Our shaman had told us that no two journeys with the plant are the same.  Unfortunately, that rule of thumb did not seem to apply to me, because the second visit with Grandam was as nauseating as the first.  For some reason, and it's probably my penchant for self-flagellation, I don't learn lessons the first time, or even the second, or third... as if I were stupid or something.  It seems Grandam A. decided to give me a taste of my own medicine.  She's obviously not without a wicked sense of irony.  As a writer I suppose I should appreciate that, but it's not so easy to do when the laugh's on me.  Sheesh.
On my most recent journeys with ayahuasca, and closer to home, I knew early during the second ceremony that I wouldn't be drinking the potion a third time.  I didn't like the body I was stuck in, and Grandam refused to lift me out of it.  So I breathed as deeply as I could through the rough spots.  While thus engaged, I noticed a dark, shadowy figure hovering in the the far end of the ceremonial room.  I could barely make it out, because the room was so dark, but I could see that it was making its way towards me.  It inched along very slowly, constantly stopping and starting, as if deciding what to do.  As it got closer I could see that it was the figure of a young child, probably a girl of no more than ten. The faint, indistinct form finally stopped a few feet in front of me, and stood there briefly, until it evaporated into the surrounding blackness.  I attended the last ceremony the next night, but did not drink.  She appeared to me again, and this time I realised who she was.  She was that ubiquitous, New Age wunderkind, my "inner child."  She seemed friendlier this time, and not as tentative.  I had the distinct feeling she was there for healing as well.  I was face-face with my shadow-self.  Talk about your shades of Carl Jung.
Last year in Peru I attended three ceremonies, without drinking at the third, and felt nothing the last time.  Eventually I got bored and sleepy; so I left before I disrupted things with my snoring.  Not so this time.  Our shaman had mentioned that there are people who participate in the ceremonies without drinking that feel the effects of the plant anyway.  Perhaps they feel the energy of the people around them.  Whatever the case, I was glad to be one of those people, because I hate feeling left out.
I stayed in the circle for two hours, and felt every sigh, burp, yawn, bump and rustle of movement course through my body with corresponding intensity.  Sometimes I was certain I could feel other people's heart beats.  My body felt like a finely tuned instrument, or a tuning fork.  I vibrated in synchrony with every sound and movement.  Sharp sounds snapped and shot through me.  Soft ones felt like a massage or gentle breeze.  Even if I hadn't been able to actually hear the sounds, I could have described them nonetheless.  Okay, so I didn't "see god," nor did I meet the devil.  But at least I didn't feel left out or separate.  I felt truly connected, in tune with everything around me.  As within, so without.
Grandam's hard lesson has become more clear to me the longer I think about it.  She's a plant spirit, and a mighty potent one, so I'd been hoping for visions of flora and fauna, totems and spirit guides.  (These were my hopes, not my expectations.  Our shaman had repeatedly advised us not to expect anything.)  In retrospect I can see that Grandam had, indeed, addressed my longing to be in tune with her world, but not in the way I was expecting.  (It's hard not expect something.)  I often think of my body as a microcosm of Earth herself, and imagine that my physical condition is a reflection of what's happening in my environment.  My legion of followers will recognize that last statement as a recurring theme on this web of mine.  
Grandam A. didn't show me visions of lush vines and tropical jungle, populated with exotic birds and beasts, nor did she send me flying through the starry Cosmos.  But she did show me just how similar I am to  Mother Earth herself.  Grandam made me whirl.  And whirl.  And whirl.  You see, Mother Earth does the same thing, too.  She's always revolving on her axis, spinning through space.
I can hear Grandam laughing right now.  Like Earth herself, Grandam A. always has the last word.

The point is, I think I've finally heard what she's been telling me for so long, even before I ever invited her into my home.  I've always learned the hard way, but sooner or later (mostly later) I do learn.  Grandam A. rewarded me with the knowledge that when I truly pay attention, I'll be sensitive enough to feel what's happening at a deep, physical, vibrational level.  Once the body's clean and clear, it can serve as a vessel, and an open channel to the unseen world.  It can be a host for magic and divinity.
I now understand why Grandam told me I didn't need to drink her medicine a third time.  She told me to listen to my body, which I did, and wouldn't you know, my body was in complete accord with the wise old plant.  I was disappointed at first, and felt like a spiritual neophyte, despite being the oldest participant.  So not only did I feel physically battered, my ego was bruised, too.  Fortunately, my faith was restored at the final ceremony.  By listening to my body, and Grandam, I was able to listen with my body, all of it.  My entire body became a receiver.  It was awesome.
I'm running out of things to say now, but not because I don't have more thoughts on the matter.  I do.  But some things are best kept to oneself.  As it is, this blurb has rendered me as vulnerable as I've ever been on my little web.  I like to think it's a safe place, even though it's available for the whole world to read.  I also like to think that what I write is at least amusing, and maybe, just maybe, offers useful insights.  You know, something helpful.  Otherwise I haven't learned a thing.  Because when it's just about me, spinning New Age bafflegab in my little, but hopefully expanding universe, I'm not doing anyone any good, least of all myself.
I can't stop the wheel of fortune from turning, but I won't be a victim any more, either.  Riding the rim of that wheel is treacherous.  It's not stable, and can make you sick, or prone to injury.  That's why I'm climbing down from the that rim and putting myself smack dab in the middle of the wheel, where I can find some balance and be still for a while.  It's a lot easier there.
Many thanks to Grandam A. for her ancient, earthly wisdom - and to my wonderful shaman and brave, beautiful, fellow participants for their kindness and support. 
- G. P.

A Burning Issue

I snarled at a colleague, who's also a friend, in the bookstore where I work last week.  It wasn't so much what I said, as the way I said it.  I "put it right out there" just about as angrily as I know how.  I don't know if saying I was vicious would be overstating it, but the delivery of my comment surprised the few people who heard it, and no doubt rattled the cage of the colleague I was addressing.  Had my delivery been more sedate, the fact that it was slightly clever might have been noticed, and no doubt more effective in getting the message across.  But I was angry - very angry - and suddenly emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted.

I didn't feel sorry for my outburst right away.  If anything, I felt smug and self- satisfied.  But soon afterwards I realized that I had not presented myself in the best light, even though I knew my anger was justified.  What ever happened to taking a deep breath before responding?  But this was a perfect case of spontaneous combustion.  My colleague had made a comment that sparked my pent-up, fiery feelings.  There was no room or time for slowing down to breathe, let alone think about what I was doing.
After I had time to consider my sudden outburst, I realized I owed my friend an apology.  She graciously accepted it.  That was over a week ago.  Although I still believe that my anger wasn't entirely unjustified, I'm still shocked and sorry by my response.  And that brings me to the whole point of this particular little blurb...
I got burned a few days ago, literally.  I was cooking and got a nasty little oil burn on my thumb.  It's still quite ugly, but finally starting to heal.  Can you see where I'm going with this?  Yup.  It's the old what goes around comes around thing.  You know what I mean - karma.  It's also Freud and his there are no accidents theory.  Some people might say karma and Freud aren't related in any way.  The Universe sends around karma, but we make our own accidents.  I tend to agree with that, but in this case the two are inextricably entwined.
I've observed that sooner or later I'll suffer consequences that fit my little crimes, e.g., if something's "bugging" me, I'll get bitten by an insect, or some creepy little infestation will occur.  Well, I "burned" a hole in a relationship with an inflammatory remark, and I subsequently got burned myself.  Big time.  Sounds like karma to me, and fits the pattern of my life perfectly.  But I also helped karma along, because I couldn't let go of my guilt.  It plagued me, and there was nothing I could do to let it go.  I'd apologized, but it wasn't enough.  Enter Freud.  I "accidentally" burned myself.  I found a way to punish myself for my misdemeamour.
Now that my self-inflicted injury has finally stopped hurting so much, I feel better about the whole sordid little incident with my friend.  I figure balance has been restored.  And my belief in karma has been reaffirmed - yet again.  Many people would call this sort of reasoning sheer bunk.  It's all random, they say - accidents do happen. To which I say of course they do.  My Universe includes everything, including randomness.  But if paying attention to how and why things seem to happen to me keeps me responsible for my actions, then I'll stick with that.  Call it flaky if you must, but it works for me.
- G.P.

My Gita Tante

I'm back after a long spell, and what a "spell" it's been.  It's conjured sadness, grief, some joy, and lots and lots of love.  My beloved Gita Tante, my most ardent and consistent follower, has died.  She was my biggest fan.  It hurts me to think that she'll never be sending me her thoughts about my most recent blurb, whether via email or speaking to me personally.
Gita Tante really listened to me.  She  truly heard what I had to say.  Mind you, for the last year or so, as her health declined, she wasn't visiting my little web as often.  But every once in a while, when she was strong enough to visit me online, she'd read about me right here, and I could always count on her to acknowledge my presence.  Her interest and responses to my musings was one of the reasons I have a little web at all.   Most writers, or artists or any discipline, express themselves in order to be heard.  I could always count on Gita Tante to pay attention to me.
Gita Tante was an exemplary listener.  And if you`ve been following me at all in this space, you`ll know by now that listeners are my favourite kind of people.  Her listening validated me, and her genuine interest in what I was doing and how I was feeling gave me a sense of self-worth I seldom feel so consistently from anyone else.  I suppose this sounds as if this blurb is all about me, even as I'm writing about a profound loss.  Well, that pretty much describes how Gita Tante made me feel whenever we shared time together.  She managed to make to make me feel as if, yes indeed, it was all about me, but without making me feel selfish or thoughtless.  It was strange how I could spend all my time talking about my joys and woes with Gita Tante, and still feel like a better, kinder, more considerate person for it.  How's that for casting a spell?
Time spent with her lifted my spirits.  She admired and respected me even when I hadn't done anything to deserve it.  And if I did accomplish something, no matter how big or small, she heaped an embarrassment of praises upon me.  Sure, sometimes she was over the top, but hey!  Who doesn't like being loved and appreciated once in a while?  Who doesn`t like being adored?  And I saw her do this time and again with the many people she loved, especially her children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews - the younger generations of the extended family.
Gita Tante was not only my maternal aunt, she was my Goddess Mother as well.  I can`t think of anyone who deserved that title more.  She was highly intelligent, knowledgeable, and above all, wise.  She believed that all the people she cared for - and she cared deeply for so many - were worthy of respect and admiration.  I feel truly blessed to have been one of those people.  She championed my work as a writer and actor even when I was paralyzed with doubt and despair.  She offered me respect when I had none for myself.  She believed in me, and told me so, many times.  Her love made me a stronger, better person.
I shall miss her.
- G.P.

Cleaning House

I'm checking in just because I haven't been here in a while.  It hasn't been easy for me lately.  In fact, things have been rather chaotic.  Emotional and domestic turmoil.  Stress.  Crap that clutters the mind and heart.
But it's gone now.  It's passed.  I rode out the storm.  It took a lot of will and effort to do it.  It required forgiveness on my part.  That wasn't easy, either, but I knew it was the only way to rid myself of the psychic garbage that was proliferating my life. 
I spent a couple of weeks clearing and cleaning out more stuff, both physically and metaphysically, yet again.  The longer I live, the less "stuff" I have.  I live in a clearer, cleaner space, and feel better for it.  As within, so without. 
Why don't more people get that?  Shouldn't it be obvious that the environment you create for yourself reflects who you are?  So to clean up the mess that was my life for a while, I went on a purging rampage.  (Although sometimes I still acquire new clothes.  I'm vain.  I'm an actress.  I like to change the way I look.  I can't do everything all at once.  First things first...)
If I'd been any more stressed I might have been paralyzed with fear of everything I had to do in order to fix what was wrong.  But I had no choice.  When there's a flood, you have to clean it up.  Flat tires have to be changed in order to keep moving.  So in a way, I suppose I was blessed with misfortune that forced me to get rid of what was bugging me.  But boy oh boy am I glad it's over.
So what's left?  Well, I feel a lot more free, that's for sure, and not just because I got rid of the material stuff.  As my living space gradually cleared out, so did my mind.  That's working from the outside in.  But inner work was necessary, too.  I had to forgive - big time.  That was the hardest part, but it was worth the effort, because it's made me stronger and better.
Nothing clears out anger and pain the way compassion and forgiveness do.  If you don't believe me, maybe you'll harken to the words of a great human being I quote frequently, Mahatma Gandhi.  The weak can never forgive.  Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.
Namaste.
- G.P.

Extreme Listening

Listening is much harder than talking. At least it is for me.  It's also a lot safer than talking, despite the title of this blurb.  I've never gotten into trouble for listening too well or too much, but I sure as hell have put my foot into it for talking, more times than I care to remember.

There are occasions, of course, when speaking is good and necessary, especially if it's to speak out against cruelty or injustice, or speaking up when a considered opinion helps to solve a problem, ease suffering, or just plain entertain and amuse.  But for all the times when speaking up or out is good and right, there are just as many situations, if not more, when talking is a real bummer, both for the person speaking and those who may or may not be listening.
There's all kinds of bad talking.  There's talking too much, or too loud, or so quietly that you can't be heard.  Then there's rude and obnoxious talking such as excessive, unnecessary profanity, talking out of turn, interrupting, mumbling, malicious gossiping, and talking for the purpose of insulting someone and hurting their feelings.  And surely the worst sort of speech is the kind that incites hatred and fear against individuals or whole groups of people.  Yes, there are so many ways to be rude and disagreeable when we talk.  But I can't think of a single way in which listening is rude or harmful. 
So why should listening be so much more difficult to do than talking?  You don't have to exert yourself in any way, unless you consider paying attention an onerous task.  You can do it while doing almost anything else - except talking, of course - or you can listen doing absolutely nothing but.  Sure, sometimes it's hard to pay attention to someone who's really boring and full of themselves, but listening is still a good thing.
Talking too much is a sign of deep-seated insecurity.  It's usually a need for attention.  The problem is that incessant babblers usually get the wrong kind of attention - the exact opposite sort of attention they seek.  Even when I'm not speaking too much, if I speak too quickly and without thinking, I invariably regret it.  That's because I'm not listening to myself.  When that happens, I open myself up to ridicule.  Talking about anything, whether it's personal, political, or philosophical, exposes the person who's speaking.  It reveals something about the speaker, however slight.  Opening that door means someone is sure to walk through it.  There will always be somebody who grabs any opportunity to slip in a clever, callous comment.
Yup.  Listening is a lot safer.
When a person who talks more than they listen is finally quiet and appearing to pay attention, they're usually trying to find a way to turn the conversation around and make it about them.  No matter what topic is being discussed, they're probably wondering how does this affect me?  And once they find a way to speak again - and they always do - they've managed to turn the conversation back to themselves.  I've seen it time and time again, and it always serves as a cautionary tale for a reformed talkaholic like me.  It's taught me how to listen, even if it means having to tolerate narcissistic, non-stop blabber-mouths.

Deep listening has not only helped me to help others - people who need to be heard - it's been healing for me as well.  Deep listening is about focus and attention.  It's a discipline.  It's a form of meditation that forces me to be still and quiet, and truly hear what's going on.  When I genuinely pay attention to someone, I'm able to hear what they're trying to say, even if they don't say it well.  Listening is the first step to learning.
The other day I listened to a good friend of mine go on and on and on about her plans for redoing her kitchen.  It was deadly dull, but I smiled and listened to her.  I missed a lot of the tedious details because I zoned out, i.e., stopped listening for a bit, but I patiently sat it out and stayed with her need to express herself.  She was excited about her new project, and I didn't want to take that away from her.  I paid attention to her need to be heard, rather than what sort of faucet and sink she was planning to install.  Otherwise I might have been short and cut her off.  But I didn't; I listened instead.  It was good for both of us.
I recently read an essay about deep listening by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Tibetan Buddhist monk. Deep listening, he says, teaches us patience, and patience is an expression of love, of compassion.  That means I must frequently behave compassionately towards people I really don't like at all, simply because I'm forced, by circumstance, to listen to them.  I hear their rudeness and know how wrong they are about whatever it is they're going on about, but I listen to keep the peace - and to keep my job.
I shall continue to practise talking less and listening more - and listening deeply.  Listening deeply is also about listening to my deepest self.  When I listen to myself, I do things more carefully, more thoughtfully.  I make fewer mistakes.  I get into less trouble.
The way I see it, being bored once in a while is a small price to pay for peace.
- G. P.

Be Love

The title of this blurb sucks.  I know that.  But that's what this blurb is about, so I'm going to stick with it.
A couple of days ago in yoga class the instructor was guiding us through a meditation.  As we lay on our backs, the teacher asked us to breathe the energy from our heart chakra into our entire bodies.  She asked us to imagine that every part of our body was infused with soft, loving, heart-energy.  "Don't just feel the energy in your body," she said, "be the energy.  Be the love."  Normally, when I hear new-agey stuff like the over-used, ill-defined "be love," I roll my eyes.  I mean, how the hell does someone "be love?"  But when my yoga teacher told us to be loving energy, rather than feel it, I was in such a relaxed, blissful state, I thought "Hey, I'm already there."  My body felt like a big, mushy blob of love, and it felt fabulous.
This morning I repeated the same exercise in a restorative yoga class.  Restorative yoga consists of gentle poses held for long periods of time, supported by props (cushions, blocks, straps etc.), so that the only thing exerting any effort is gravity.  So I had lots of time to imagine myself as Love.  Our instructor kept reminding us to breathe, deeply and fully, which I did.  But I was also filling myself up with love.  Or so I imagined.  After all, I'm an actress, and I can act or be anything I imagine.  Kids do it all the time when they "pretend."  If you've ever watched children as they play, you'll see some of the most committed "pretending" there is. 
Student actors perform numerous exercises for developing the imagination.  They'll be asked to pose as if  they're all sorts of things they're not: other people, animals,  inanimate objects, and a host of things in nature such as trees, flowers, mountains, winds and seas.  (Come to think of it, it happens a lot in yoga, too - upward and downward dogs, eagles, trees, mountains etc.)  So if we can act as if we're a seed growing into a flower, why can't we play at being an emotion?  And if I'm going to meditate on being an emotion, I figure love is a good one.
So that's what I did.  It was especially easy to do when I was lying on my back, arms outstretched, exposing my heart.  It's an open, vulnerable position, and all sorts of emotions can come up, and they frequently do.  To make the exercise more effective, I focussed on being an actor, which I am, who was practising yoga, which I do.  I looked as if I were in a yoga class, but I felt like I was doing a "magic as if" exercise in an actor's workshop.  It was Acting 101 all over again.
It was the best acting-cum-yoga class ever.  I took a feather-light, airy-fairy journey in my mind to find out what it is to Be Love, whilst sustaining a pose to realign my spine and stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system.  Focussing on my breathing didn't distract me from my intention to Be Love.  In fact, it made it easier.  I've taken many acting classes in my day, done a lot of exercises, and performed a number of different roles (but not as many as I would have liked), and I can't remember when I've enjoyed being something else so much.
Being love, rather than being in love, or loving, is an act of the imagination.  Humans aren't emotions.  We have emotions, and we feel emotions.  You can't see them, and you can't see the imagination, either, but that's where you go to be anything you want.  Playing with the imagination, the way actors do, allows a person to be anything.  So I've decided to spend more time pretending to be Love, just like an allegorical character in a Medieval morality play.  It's lots of fun, and it feels good - really, really good.
- G.P.

Living and Learning

We learn far more from our mistakes than our successes, in which case I should be very wise indeed, given that I've had a lot more misses than hits in my life.  But I figure on the acquired wisdom and knowledge scale, I'm just about where I should be.  So I'll just keep breathing and walking through it all and see what comes up to upgrade my status.  Maybe nothing ever will.  Maybe I'll never have that pivotal moment, that flash of deep insight where everything comes together and I'll finally "get it."  Such revelations usually come only when one spends their whole life dedicated to finding peace and enlightenment, a state of consciousness Buddhists refer to as samadhi.  I guess I'll have to settle for the lay-person's version of wisdom.

I keep this online journal of mine to check in on myself every once in a while, to see how I'm doing.  Sharing my thoughts forces me to be very aware of what I'm saying.  I have to think twice before I write something down for all the world to read.  (That's a relative notion, of course.)
I write about my own world to create more "successes" in my life - to accomplish something, small though it may be.  Just finishing one little blurb is a small achievement for me.  It doesn't give me fame, or glory, or riches.  All I get is a little satisfaction for briefly and lightly expressing myself, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, someone out there will hear me.  If not, at least I can come back here, weeks or months or even years later, and read how I was doing, and what mattered to me at this time in my life.  (I just hope nothing will embarrass me the way some of the entries in my old-fashioned paper-bound journals do.  Oh well, there's always "delete.")
In the vast scheme of things, my little web is inconsequential, and I don't really care, because I don't aspire to changing the world, or making a difference.  My schemes and dreams aren't that grand.  In fact, if I could leave things at least the way I found them, with as little evidence that I came by this way, I'd be fine with that.  But it's too late.  I'm taking up space, consuming, and polluting, all the time, just by the mere fact that I'm alive.  So I'm trying to do less of those things these days, too.  I'm doing my best to rid my life of excess, both physically and psychologically.  The less I consume and acquire, the less space I take up, and the less I pollute.  But I fail on a daily basis, and most of the time for the most selfish reasons.  But geez, sometimes a cold beer on a hot day is a great way to celebrate something, or just plain chill out.  And as long as I do it consciously and gratefully, I like to think that I'm still part of the solution, and not part of the problem.
Most of the time conscious living is as simple as making the right choice.  Granted, making the right choice may be a simple solution, but it's not always easy.  Choices aren't always just black or white; life includes many shades of grey, too.  (And I don't mean that dreadful, smutty book that's getting so much undeserved attention these days.)
I'm not an activist, nor am I a true contemplative.  But I can actively live out my beliefs and values, which are, I hope, aligned with the greater good.  Every day I'm more aware of the consequences of my actions.  That's a full-time, life-long practise.  Following that path doesn't have to be onerous; in fact, it can be a joyous pursuit, and like any discipline, it gets easier to achieve the more one practises. 
Every moment I feel well and enjoy the simple act of breathing and being alive is a "success."   I've come to realise those moments are happening more and more for me. That's when I'm not dwelling on my past, or mired in memories of all the mistakes I've made, or worrying that I'm not making a difference.  All I have to do to feel good about who I am is to pay attention, to listen to other people and to myself, i.e. my body, and then attend to what I hear and see.  I'm no good to anyone else if I'm not good to myself.  No doubt I'll keep making mistakes, but as long as I keep learning from them, I'll be a wiser woman.  There's nothing wrong with that. 
- G.P.

Beautiful Beltane

It's May Day - the first day of May and the rest of my life.  (Pardon the cliche, but I suspect there will be a few more before I finish this particular blurb.)  Anyway, I'm writing in my online journal to set the tone for the rest of my life - as today goes, so goes the month, year, etc...  So I have to get some writing in today.
Come to think of it, that's an awful lot of pressure to put on this silly, insignificant little piece of wordsmithery.  But I just can't shake the magical thinking habit.  I've been thinking that way as long as I can remember, so I know only too well how it can lead one down the path of disappointment and delusion.  I shouldn't be writing with any expectation or hope that indulging in such superstitious activities will have an effect on an unknown future.  I guess I'll just have to settle for enjoying how the words seem to magically appear on the screen as I move my fingers over the keyboard.  That's awesome enough as it is.  No really.  I'm having fun.  And when I finish writing this bit of nonsense and find the perfect picture to illustrate it, and then hit "publish" on the dashboard to view the finished entry, it'll be even more awesome. 

Enough said.  I've done my occasional first-of-the-month ritual and feel better for it.  Besides, my sister's bugging me to write more, so here it is.  If writing a few words about absolutely nothing on this very fine and first day of May is all I need to make myself feel good, I guess I must be okay.  Would that every day went so well.
There I go again, worrying about what's to come when what's here and now isn't too bad at all.   But is it okay if I look forward to going for a walk as soon as I'm finished here?  Sure it is.  Anticipation is a very in-the-moment way to feel.  Looking forward to something real sweetens the present.  Wow.  I just wrote myself into a really good mood.  Goddess, I love my little web.
Thanks for dropping by, and have a beautiful, blessed, blissful day.
- G.P.

Cosmopolitanism

I'm home again.  Yes, I do think of this little web of mine as a home of sorts.  I come here to be quiet, alone, and muse.  That's a rather odd notion, considering that I share my thoughts with the wired world. How ironic.  Anyway, I haven't visited this special place of mine for a while.  It's nice to be back.
For a long time the idea of "home" was important to me.  Not so much anymore, because I've finally figured out just exactly where and what my true home is.  But for many years I wondered where I felt most at home; where I wanted my ashes to be scattered.  That's not as morbid as it seems.  Many people like to leave their remains in the place where they felt they truly belonged, or a place that was deeply a part of them.  I've discussed this topic a few times in the past with friends who knew exactly where they wanted their remains to be scattered or buried.
Places in nature, such as forests, fields, hills, mountains, rivers and streams have been favoured locations with the people I've spoken to on the topic.  I was always envious of the people who knew so well where they wanted their last resting place to be.  For some reason it was important to me to determine where mine was.  I always longed to be able to name it.
That particular issue of mine has finally been resolved.  At long last I'm able to name my true home.  It's not that I haven't loved or appreciated where I grew up, or the various places I've spent happy times throughout my life.  I have revelled in a number of beautiful, natural settings, and think of them fondly.  The woods I played in as a child meant much to me, and it still matters to me that they remain preserved for generations to come.  But that was a long time ago, and putting myself to rest there doesn't work for me anymore.  My world has expanded since then.  And that's exactly what I've come to realise - that the whole world is my home.
Planet Earth is my true home.  Even pictures of places I've never been move me deeply, and remind me of how much I revere Nature.  That is why Earth is also my religion, and my temple.  So whenever I take my leave of this beautiful home in the stars, I don't have to worry about where my remains will remain.  Not that I ever really worried about it.  After all, dead is dead, and I won't be fretting about it then.  Nevertheless, the search for home has certainly engaged my imagination.
I'm rather pleased with my realization.  I've often fancied myself a "worldly" person, even when I wasn't going anywhere for long stretches at a time.  In fact, I like to think of myself as cosmopolitan, in the true sense of the word.  And now that I've identified my true home as planet Earth, I figure cosmopolitan is an apt description after all.  Earth is part of the cosmos, a part of this great Universe, and what's more, she harbours Life.  It makes me proud and glad to know that I'm a part of all creation.  So maybe I am cosmopolitan.
Long live Mother Earth, my home and native world.
- G. P.

Tuned In and Turned On

I was so wired I was buzzing. I had just started an opening shift at the bookstore where I work, and feeling hyper-charged with supressed emotion. Although keeping my feelings to myself was hard, I thought I was doing a good job of it until things started messing up.
We have high-end, touch screen kiosks in our store, and the two that are in the Kids' section were being temperamental and refusing to power up. It just so happens I work in Kids', and of course all the other kiosks were working just fine. Sheesh and surprise. So, technopeasant that I am, I had to call the manager to come and save me from blowing up the tools of my trade. Within minutes of arriving, my manager had both kiosks up and running. As she worked I did my best to maintain a professional demeanour and not reveal the tightly wound inner workings of my mind. But my boss isn't just smart and computer savvy, she's also an enlightened, sensitive human being. Whilst fiddling about with the kiosks, she remarked that perhaps there was something about my energy that was affecting the systems. It was as if she were reading my mind, or at least feeling the great surges of my barely contained frustration. How cool is that? Here's a boss who talks my language in the foreign land of retail and materialism.
Anyway, I confirmed that I was indeed feeling stretched tight and wired. "It's a good thing you don't work on cash," she joked. She also suggested that perhaps I should release my energy on the Buddha board. And what's a Buddha board you may well ask? Turns out that Buddha boards are blank slates on which you paint an image of whatever you want released, and within minutes the image dissolves and disappears. It can be a negative influence you want to get rid of, or a wish or prayer you'd like answered. Either way, whatever you want, or don't want, is released and dispersed into the ether. It's a lovely, simple gift, and appeals to my minimalist sensibilities.
The store had a demo model on display, and I knew exactly what I wanted to release and let go. I painted a picture of a tower being struck by lightning, as in the dreaded Tower card of the tarot. That was pretty much the way I felt at the time - zapped by lightning. Drawing those emotions on a blank slate was liberating and fun, and an effective, creative way to rid myself of negative energy. I managed to enjoy the rest of my shift, feeling calmer than I had in several days.
I got home that evening, tired but relieved that I'd dispersed all the tension I'd been holding. I checked my emails and was happy to see one from my sister. She informed me that she had logged unto my little web that very morning, and lo and behold it had been tagged as a "malicious" website. Yikes! Normally I would have gone berserk, but the not-so-coincidental timing of my sister trying to access my "malicious" blog while I was feeling as if I were plugged into a light socket fascinated me. I checked my dear little web right away, and fortunately all was well. Thank goddess for that, because I wouldn't have been able to do anything about it except agitate myself and everything around me even more.
Now that things have settled down, I'm left to wonder, yet again and forever, about the nature of existence and our connection to everyone and everything. I've offered this quote here before, and it bears repeating now: Mens agitat molem - the mind moves matter. The longer I live the more I believe.
- G. P.

Mad about March

Happy first day of March! I made it. February is over, and the month that holds the first day of spring is here at last. And I managed to mark it with this little blurb in this little web of mine. If you've been keeping up to speed with the mundane little details of my life, you're probably aware that I've been in a bit of a funk lately, which is also why I haven't done my traditional first day of the month or year blurb for the last two months. But all that's coming to an end now, and a new cycle begins, which includes this little tribute to a month that holds so much promise.
I'm 22,022 days old today. That's special to me because I'm very fond of the number 22. It's stable and balanced, something I'd like to be. So naturally I'm not going to ignore the fact that today, on the Kalends of March, I'm 22,022 days old. Talk about stability and symmetry. It's a good foundation from which to build the rest of my life.
That's all I have to say for now. I just wanted to check in on my little web on this very special day, setting the tone for the month, and the rest of my life. So far so good.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the yellow roses. They were my mother's favourite flower.
- G.P.

Saving Grace

I've had the wobblies lately. That's why I haven't made many appearances on my little web. It was bound to happen, because until just over a couple of months ago I was on a real high. It was a fabulous year. But life and nature are all about cycles. All things pass, both good times and bad. There is an ebb and flow, and I've been experiencing a bit of an ebb lately.
I've had a bunch of little "accidents," have lost or misplaced things almost daily, and suffered a number of disappointments that just piled one on top of the other, with barely time enough to recover from one before I was assaulted by another. The long nights and dreary, grey days of winter haven't helped, either.
But I'm better now, because I have a plan - a plan for pulling myself out of the doldrums. It's a totally practical and practicable course of action, even though my little dose of depression has left me fatigued and uninspired. The string of rejections I've been through lately is certainly one of the more salient reasons for my recent funk. My self-esteem has taken a real beating. But my wise, compassionate friend and spiritual counsellor, Barbara, pointed out to me that I've got to start giving to others what I'd like to get for myself, things like acknowledgment and appreciation. Suddenly, when Barbara spoke those words - words and ideas that I write about all the time in this little web of mine, and chant to myself like a mantra - the light of reason came back on.
I frequently and consciously practise appreciation of others. I make a point of routinely complimenting friends or colleagues, especially if they seem to need some cheering-up. People like to be noticed for something they've done well. It's human nature. So now that I find myself feeling rejected and ignored, it's clear I've got to start paying a little more attention to the people around me.
The problem with even the mildest melancholia is that it can render a person very self-absorbed, which is why I'd lost sight of one of my more beneficial habits. But my eyes have been opened again and I'll resume taking just a tiny moment every now and then to notice something good or attractive in the world and people around me, and verbally acknowledge it. The ball's in my court and it's up to me to get it rolling. (Sorry for the mixed metaphor.) My sagacious friend Barbara had to remind me of what I'm always going on about - karma - the old what-goes-around-comes-around thing. So I'm going to make an honest effort to redress the recent imbalance in my life, which is why I'm making a vow right here and now for my legion of followers to witness - Every time I suffer another disappointment or rejection, I shall pull myself together at least long enough to express appreciation for someone else.
Concurrent with my recent spate of the wobblies has been my fixation on grace. I've been googling and reading about grace a lot these days, and my research has brought up numerous articles and books on breathing and the breath. What's the connection, you may ask? 
It's your spirit, your soul.
Breath and breathing are at the core of almost every belief system on the planet. It is the basis of meditation, where one can find grace, if just for a moment. The literal meaning for feeling inspired is being filled with breath. (Spiritus is the Latin word for breath). And wouldn't you know it, breathing happens to be one of my absolute most favourite pastimes! So I'm breathing deeper and longer than ever lately, and making room for grace to enter into my life. (It's no coincidence that Barbara is also a big fan of deep breathing.) Conscious breathing helps speed up the healing process, both physically and psychologically. Maybe that's why this most recent bout of ennui hasn't been as long or intense as usual.
Breathing has helped sustain my flickering faith. My faith has been truly tested recently, but I'm strong enough now to go out into the world and practise what I preach. I'm going to breathe deeply and make someone smile every day. I truly believe that if I continue to make this a constant, daily practise, sooner or later I will be rewarded for my efforts. That is my faith, and yes it's been shaken, but not destroyed. So I guess I must be stronger.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention noticing some sort of sign in the wake of my recent garden-variety depression. So here it is... A few days ago, after cutting up and disposing of my two tarot decks (I told you my faith was really shaken), and thumbing through an old journal before it made its way into the same place as the tarot cards, I noticed an abandoned Chinese fortune I'd found on a sidewalk somewhere. At the time, I remember thinking it was quite a boring message, but in keeping with my everything-happens-for-a-reason philosophy, I decided to keep it and taped it into my journal. Finding it again just a couple of days ago meant a lot more to me than it did the first time. The message read: Being kind to others will bring rewards. Is that a sign or what? Anyway, now I know the reason I kept that silly piece of paper. It came back to me just exactly when I needed my faith restored.
I'm on the rise now, like a phoenix rising out of her own ashes, reborn and renewed. Another cycle of life has begun. I'm ready for it, and grateful, too.
To my loyal followers, thank you. You rock, each and every one of you, whoever and wherever you may be. Just thought you should know.
- G.P.

Unfinished Business

I'm living out the rest of my life for two people, me and my mother. Ma died almost 13 years ago, but I can't help thinking that her spiritual journey while on this earth wasn't quite finished when she passed. I'm not talking about her journey in the next life, if there is one; I'm talking about me, her daughter. I'm part of her journey. I'm a little bit of what she left behind, and I'm going to do my best to leave this world having played my role in my mother's story as best I can.
When my mother died I wasn't exactly the sort of daughter my mother could brag about. I was broke, unemployed, and depressed. I know it was very painful for my mother to reply to questions from well-meaning people who asked about me and how I was doing. It's not that she was embarrassed or ashamed of me. Not at all. She was worried about me, and hated to see me hurting. She was my mother and wanted the best for me. But by the time she died, six months after being diagnosed with cancer, she was too sick to fret about me and my future. But that's how I was when my mother passed.
I'm a lot better now. If Ma were alive today she wouldn't worry about me as much. (I'm feeling so good these days partly due to a small inheritance left to my sister and me after Dad died over a year ago. I still have to earn a living, but lately things have been a lot easier for me, thanks to my parents' estate.) So yes, I might still be struggling financially if Ma were still alive, but I'm pretty sure I'd be dealing with difficult circumstances a whole lot better. I've changed because I've deliberately worked at it. I took responsibility for my life and took steps to change what needed changing. Now I'm in better physical, emotional, and spiritual shape than ever.
When Ma gave birth to me she started something. She started me. She begat a new life. No mother wants to leave her children until they know they're happy and well and able to take care of themselves. That wasn't the case with me. Fortunately, my sister was doing well. When Ma passed my sister had a beautiful young girl who is now a beautiful young woman, preparing to study medicine. So at least some of what Ma left behind was clearly good and right, and I'm sure she knew that. Not so much with me.
My sister and my niece are continuing part of Ma's journey, and they're doing a really fine job of it, too. However, I don't have any children. My part of Ma's legacy ends with me. That's not sad; it just is what it is. It was my choice and I have no regrets. But I'm still, and shall be for the rest of my life, an important chapter in the story of Ma's life, and I'll be damned if I don't give it a happy ending. I missed my chance to fulfill that role when she died, but I'm not making that mistake again.
Sometimes I feel my mother moving through me. I don't know how else to describe it. Maybe it's just memories of her surfacing when my emotions are most keenly felt. The deeper my feelings, about almost anything, the more likely I am to think of Ma. When I've accomplished something that makes me proud, I always talk to my mother about it. "Are you happy now, Ma? Are you proud of me?" My questions are typical of a child seeking approval from her mother, but that's not what motivates me. I just want to finish my chapter of Ma's life with grace and peace. Sometimes living a good life purely for my own sake isn't enough. Sometimes I need to make something or someone better. I'm not suggesting I'm making my mother better; after all, she's dead. Besides, she might be absolutely perfect wherever and in whatever state she is - if she's anywhere or anything at all. But I know I can make my part in Ma's story better. I am a living legacy, as all children are. So to honour the memory of my mother, and to fulfill my role in her legacy, I am living for both of us.
Blessed be, Ma. I love you still.
- G. P.