Golden Olden Days

There's an old, familiar face working as seasonal help at the store where I'm employed.  The face belongs to Pat, a fellow Crone and dinosaur, who quit working there a few years ago and has returned for a short while to make some extra coin.  She's a poet who devours books, and has brains to spare.  But what matters most to me is that she is a quiet reminder of earlier days at the bookstore when we were working together.  It was a time, not really that long ago, when I realised I was a no-longer-young person in the last "straight" job I'm likely to have, a.k.a. jobs between gigs that hardly ever happen.

Anyway, it's nice to see a recognizable face dressing up a place that's becoming stranger to me all the time.  (That's not necessarily a bad thing.  Change keeps me on my toes.) I was really happy to hear that Pat would be coming back for the Christmas season, although I knew we'd have very little time to actually do anything that resembled socializing or catch-up conversation, because it's just too busy to stand around and gab.  But I enjoy  seeing her at the store, even though it's just in passing.  It feels familiar and even a bit nostalgic (a sure sign I'm not young anymore), especially at this time of year.  So thanks, Pat, for being there.  In fact, thanks for just being.
Anyway, that's all I had to say.  I haven't any profound revelations or new discoveries to share - just the warm and fuzzy feelings that seem to magically surface this time of year.  So here's to a Happy Solstice, Merry Christmas and a healthy, prosperous New Year to all my family and friends who delicately tint the present moments with the warm, sepia glow of the past. 
Blessed be.
- G. P.

Earthbound

The last time I wept was as I was leaving the Galapagos Islands.  I was there a month ago for a yoga retreat, and the tears flowed freely as I sat in the back seat of the bus headed for the island airport to go home.  I had spent only a week on those enchanted isles, so the depth of my emotions surprised me. Over the last two and a half years I've had extraordinary experiences in some spectacular places, but this was the first time I cried when I left.

I've wanted to visit the Galapagos ever since I first learned about Charles Darwin's five year
voyage of discovery on the  HMS Beagle, which set sail from England in 1831.  It was on these volcanic islands, with their distinct and unusual fauna, that Darwin began to formulate his theory of evolution.  The pristine and wild nature of those islands has always fascinated me, so I booked myself a yoga retreat on the island of Santa Cruz.
My travels to other lands in the last few years have been to discover the civilisation and culture as much as the strange and magnificent geography.  This was not the case on the Galapagos.  My desire to visit those islands was all about Nature; raw, pure, and unadorned by humanity.  I had two wishes for myself for this journey, and one of them was to connect with Mother Nature and some of her most extraordinary creatures on a profound level; to touch and be touched by the place I call my true home, Mother Earth.  I had imagined it would be easier to do in a land where I could watch animals just being themselves, unconcerned by the strange bipedal hominids who gawked at them in wonder.  I wanted to go to a place that has remained (mostly) free of human influence, where animals behaved just as they do when humans aren't around hunting, herding, eating, petting, or exploiting them in any way.  The Galapagos gave me exactly what I wanted - big time.  And that's why I cried.  I was leaving a place where I'd felt the purest connection to the natural world that I'd ever had.  But it took me a while to realise it.
As my legion of followers know by now, I'm always looking out for signs and messages from the Universe, especially when I'm visiting new lands and seeing new things.  I did the same in the Galapagos, as well as Ecuador, where I spent a few days before and after my stay on the islands.  The signs came fast and furious, as they always do.  The most furious of all signs appeared the day before I left the mainland for the islands.  An annual storm which lasts only a few hours but blasts the capital city of Quito every year in mid October caused a mud slide that created a traffic pile-up for miles.  I was caught in that traffic jam with my very patient driver and guide, Edu, a native Quitoker.  While we sat in the car and watched the streets fill up with mud and water, Edu informed me that the storm is known as the Belt of Saint Francis, after the patron saint of the city.  Saint Francis, who's also the patron saint of animals and the environment, had whipped up a storm on the day before I left for the Galapagos, telling me I was about to get just exactly what I wished for - a big, wet, wild, whopping dose of Nature.
Every day on the Galapagos was filled with wonder and happenstance.  My first big sign came from a mighty messenger during a snorkelling expedition on the rocky shoreline of South Plazas Island.  Shortly after my fellow yogis and I began swimming, our guide spotted a white-tipped shark.  Suddenly everyone was very excited.  Oh wow! A shark!  How thrilling!  Since everyone else seemed enthusiastic about having a shark nearby, I was too.  And since no one else seemed to think that their health or safety was threatened, neither did I.  I couldn't see much anyway.  I'm very myopic and without my glasses I don't just miss detail, I usually miss the big picture as well.  So I just let the shark cruise by or underneath or wherever she was going while I minded my own business up on the surface. (And yes - I've decided she was a she.)

Sharks have a history of really bad PR, thanks to Hollywood and urban myth, so I simply went with the flow established by my fellow yogis, which was relaxed and inquisitive.  At the end of our little swimming expedition we found ourselves in a small, shallow cove.  People stopped swimming and stood in water that came up to mid-thigh.  Someone spotted the shark again, hunkered up against a rocky overhang in the shallows.  I heard cries of "Oh look!  It's the shark!  There it is! There it is!"  Everyone expressed their enthusiasm without creating a ruckus; no point in upsetting a large fish with sharp teeth.  At that point I was the closest person to the shark, mostly because I had been blundering about trying to see her. Being blind renders me stupid as well.  Meanwhile, everyone kept pointing to the shark and saying  "Over there!  Over there! Can't you see the fin?"  Well, no, I couldn't see the fin.  So I put my mask back on and dunked under the water to get a better look, because a thick layer of water has some kind of magnifying or vision-improving effect.  (Forgive me for not having done the research and offering a brief explanation for it.)  I looked again for the shark, this time underwater, but I was facing the wrong direction.  I was barely underwater a few seconds when I felt the firm but gentle push of hands on my upper back.  Julie, one of my fellow yogis and a seasoned snorkeller, had turned me in the right direction, which propelled me a few feet closer to the shark as well.  That's when I finally saw her; sleek, long and lean.
She must have been about twenty feet or so away, and I had a good side-long view of her.  I remember thinking "Yup.  It sure looks like a shark."  At that moment the shark turned to face me and began swimming right to me (or so I thought), giving me a full, head-on view, at which point I observed "Sure looks like a shark from this angle, too."  Fortunately, thoughts flash by in nano-seconds, and I quickly realised that the shark probably wasn't too happy about my proximity, and was telling me to back off.  So I did, right away and very carefully.
I didn't thrash about or lose my cool.  I simply swam backwards, still looking at the shark, whose eyes sure looked as if they were fixed on me.  As soon as I moved away, so did the shark.  When she finally disappeared from view, I stood up out of the water.  Julie was apologetic; I was wonder-struck and just a tad puzzled.  How was it that I felt absolutely no fear?  I've seen and read enough scary stuff about sharks (much of it scare-tactics and misinformation) that I thought I would have had some sort of adverse reaction to seeing a shark swimming directly at me.  Instead, I felt only curiosity and awe.  But boy oh boy, did I pay attention.
I connected with that magnificent creature on a primal level.  I felt as if we understood each other.  Well, at least I understood her, that's for sure.  But whatever mysterious communication happened between us has left me with a fascination for sharks and shark medicine - and I don't mean the kind of medicine that requires killing an animal.  I'm referring to the lessons one learns when encountering a fellow creature of Mother Earth.  They're the spirit guides, or totems, of the native peoples of the Americas, and that big, beautiful totem taught me about protecting the sacred, i.e. protecting Life.  The shark as spirit guide also teaches us to meet life head-on and master our emotions.  Encountering that elegant animal has made me less fearful of an uncertain future, and encourages me to keep moving forward, despite my fears.  (Sharks must remain in continual movement, or they die.  Google it if you want to know why.)
I certainly didn't have to worry about drowning in my emotions during my stay on the Galapagos.  (That particular lesson was meant to be applied when I went back to work in a large, noisy store at the busiest time of year upon my return home.)  But for the entire retreat I felt only wonder, joy, and lots and lots of gratitude.  It was oh so easy to do, because I was in the company of gifted, generous, soulful people.  Whenever I'm "emotional," it's usually because there are too many of the wrong kind people around sucking  the life out of me.  This was so not the case on the retreat.  Despite the fact that we were all such different people, we found common ground on the Galapagos, and we felt communally blessed to be a part of it.

I was as grateful for my companions as I was for the time and place we shared together.  In fact, I have never expressed my gratitude as much as I did on this vacation.  I silently said grace to myself before every single meal, three times a day.
A couple of years ago I had made a New Year's resolution to do just that; I even wrote about it on this little web of mine.  I'm still doing my best to say grace every day, but I don't remember to do it all the time.  But for my entire time away, both on the mainland and the islands, it came as naturally as breathing itself.  I didn't have to make an effort to remember, because I was living completely in the moment, thanks to the exotic beauty that surrounded me.
Living in the present is much harder to do as we go through our day-to-day lives, where most things are habitual and familiar.  Going to a strange land  provides the opportunity to see through the eyes of a child again, fresh and new - which brings me to the other wish I had for my vacation - I wanted to present the best possible version of myself  to whomever I met, which was a lot easier to do with strangers who had no preconceptions of me.  So that's what I did, and I guess it must have worked, because I was validated and appreciated over and over again every day I was there. I received an embarrassment of emotional riches.  The giving and thoughtful folk I met and grew to love shared kind words and deeds with me daily.
At the first yoga class, Jenniferlyn, the lovely lady who was our yoga instructor, spoke about one of yoga's many benefits.  "Yoga," she said, "helps us to be the best possible version of ourselves."  I can't remember what pose I had assumed when she said those words in almost exactly the same way I'd been chanting to myself, but it was all I could do to not jump up and shout It's a Sign!  Aside from the fact I would have disrupted the class had I followed my impulse, I figured not broadcasting the inner workings of my mind all the time and all over the place would be good thing.  Mystery can be attractive, so I pretty much kept the signage business to myself all week.  I still marvel at my restraint.
There were signs aplenty for the whole time I was away, and it's been difficult deciding which ones I should mention here, lest this blurb become an unwieldy, not-so-magnum opus. Nevertheless, I'll describe just one more...
It's about my feet, and what I wore on them.  I'm very fond of my feet, because I use them to walk, and as my long-time followers know, walking is one of my all-time favourite pastimes, right up there with breathing, eating and sleeping.  (It makes me wonder why I've ever been depressed, because I've been doing all my favourite things almost every day of my life.  But I digress...)

Preparations for my trip included buying a sturdy pair of waterproof shoes.  I left that particular task to the last minute and ended up with a pair of bright orange sandals.  Orange has never been a favourite colour of mine, but they were the only shoes that fit perfectly, and even made me feel like dancing - so orange shoes it was.  I wore them home from the store, and by the time I reached my front door, I was, indeed, dancing for joy, although I wasn't entirely sure why.  But I had great hopes for my orange shoes, and they didn't let me down.
Orange is the colour of the second chakra, which is located at the navel.  The navel lies at the root of the umbilical cord, which provides nourishment to the unborn child in the mother's womb.  The second chakra, therefore, represents our connection to Mother Earth and all her plants and creatures.  I had hoped there was a deeper, more magical reason for ending up with orange shoes than the fact that they were the only ones that fit, and the Universe didn't let me down.  I'd been making direct contact with Galapagonian earth in my orange shoes. However, like much of the magic I experience, I didn't unravel the meaning of that bit of synchronicity until later, when I was leaving those enchanted isles.  No wonder I wept.
But the foot business doesn't end there.  On our last excursion, which was on Bartolomé Island, we were joined by a couple of lovely ladies from the Czech Republic.  One of them, Vladimira by name, wore a fabulous pair of socks adorned with spiders.  The spider happens to be my primary totem, and not coincidentally is known to be the writer's totem.  As we climbed up the steps to a lookout on one of the volcanic hills of the island, I commented on her awesome socks.  Without skipping a beat, Vladimira said she'd give them to me.  I demurred at first, because it certainly wasn't my intention to ask for them.  But she insisted, assuring me she wouldn't miss them.  A while later, back on the boat, Vladimira presented me with the socks, informing me that they were durable and well-travelled, having trekked all over the world with her.  Need I mention how moved I was?  Or that this was yet another signpost on my journey through life?
Receiving those socks, which look fabulously dorky when worn with my orange sandals, was a sign telling me that I was on the right path.  They'd already travelled far, and now I was taking up the torch.  Chances are I'll wear those socks to far away lands myself, but they also tell me that it's my journey as a writer, actor and yogi that's far from over, and that matters to me even more.  Self-expression is deeply important to me.  You wouldn't be reading this now if it weren't.
My journey to full and satisfying self-expression is far from over - well, at least I hope so - and I have the symbolic footwear to prove it.  Spiders and the colour orange represent creation and creativity, which is why I made a point of wearing my spider socks and orange sandals on my journey home.  I was still wearing them when I finally set foot on my home and native land.  It bodes well.
My time away was replete with wonder and joy, and all the signs that punctuate those feelings.  I learned more about the world and even more about myself.  My inner journey was greater than the marvellous trip I had the good fortune to take, and for that I'm deeply grateful. 
My Galapagonian adventure has made me more sensitive to goodness, joy, nature and beauty; that's the good news.  The bad news is I'm equally sensitive to rudeness, impatience and antagonism.  My job at the store can be stressful when I'm dealing with impatient, demanding, materialistic people, and the closer we get to Christmas, the busier and more stressful the job becomes.  Enter the She-Shark.  Her appearance taught me to protect myself and master my emotions.  That doesn't mean I should be devoid of emotion; far from it.  But if I need to express myself - and I frequently do for sanity's sake - I'll walk the magical path mapped out by my orange sandals and spider socks.  I'm following my bliss, and I won't stop spinning and weaving the big and little stories of my life whenever and wherever I can, including on this little web of mine.  The signs have always been there, showing me the way.  All I have to do is pay attention, and above all, be grateful to belong to the living miracle that is our glorious planet Earth. 
Viva Pachamama.
- G. P.

and the winner is...

Kevin was the first to read my contest blurb.  He's a winner in my books, and my blog.  (Sheesh.  I've got to stop calling this little web of mine a blog, but it scanned nicely just now.)  Kevin's prize was a bottle of chardonnay, and I was happy to give it to him.  I always figured he was smart - after all, he's a geek - but now I know him to be courteous and thoughtful of his colleagues. 
On my first day back at work after I posted the previous blog I trotted right on up to the tech section of the store and pulled up my little web on one of the demo ipads.  Kevin happened to be there, so I told him what I was doing.  I didn't say anything more than I'd ever said to anyone else about having a blog.  No one else had expressed too much interest before - which is why I set up the contest - but Kevin, goddess bless him, walked on over and asked me "What's it about?"  I left quickly without further word, wondering if he'd bother to read it to find out the answer to his question.  Sure enough, he did.  Thanks, Kevin.
And since I'm discussing retail detail here, on the same day Kevin made my day I saw something in the "creative department store" where I work that amused me, so I thought I'd share it with my legion of followers.  Anyone who's read my little web a few times knows that I fancy myself a minimalist, even though it doesn't always show.  That's why it's  rather ironic that part of my job requires me to help other people acquire more stuff.
So there I was, listening to one of the managers giving us a pep talk about all the fabulous new renovations in the store and how it will help increase sales.  The meeting was in the "home" department of the store, and the manager stood right next to a pillow for sale that had the words Collect moments, not things written on it.  Well, I chuckled aloud and shared that particular moment with my manager.  To his credit, he was amused as well.  Now I'm sharing the moment with you, dear reader.
It just goes to show the Universe has a sense of irony, too.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Apples for Sale

This blurb is a contest.  I'm writing this little bit of silliness to see if any of my colleagues at the store where I work are interested enough in my little web to read it in their spare moments between customers.  We have a new section in our "creative department store," (formerly known as a "cultural department store," and preceded once upon a time by the moniker "bookstore") which sells geeky Apple products, including fabulous, not-so-little but oh-so-sleek ipads.

Every so often I'll trot on over to the geek section of the store and pull up the front page of this little web of mine on a demo and leave it on display for any customers and workers to view.  I'm not doing it because I think I'm suddenly going to become an Internet sensation, but because I love looking at my pretty little web displayed on a sleek, sophisticated techno-tool that plays no part in my prehistoric world.  (I freely admit that I'm a dinosaur - quite old and possessing a puny little brain, digitally speaking.)
Anyway, the test part of this shallow, self-centred blurb you're reading now is specifically addressed to my colleagues at the store.  It will necessitate my visiting the tech section of the store and putting my little web on display a few times a day, but since I do that anyway, it's no big deal.
As for my legion of followers, I beg your indulgence.  Thank you.
The contest is easy:  be the first of my colleagues who read this current blurb (my faithful followers will have noted that I haven't posted anything new for over a month now) and I will buy you a bottle of wine or a six-pack of beer, whichever you prefer.  All you have to do is approach me at work, or write a comment in the space provided to tell me you've read this nonsense, and the modest prize I offer is yours.  That's a promise.  And since I've made this such a public declaration, I won't be breaking my word because that's super-bad karma.  Anyone who knows me even slightly knows that I'm all about karma.  Besides, head office and management are always offering contests to customers and employees, so this is my contribution to promoting good collegial relations.
But why, you may well ask, am I putting on this absurd little contest?  Well, mostly because I'm curious to know how often and how many people at my place of employment bother to read my piffle.  I've shown my shining little web on the demo ipads to a number of my co-workers a number of times, and observed that they don't bother to read it.  And if anyone has, they haven't said anything about it, which is probably worse.  So what I say.  It's all about me, and I don't mind admitting it, because let's face it, a blog is basically about the person who writes it.  (There!  I've said it.  I've called my little web a blog.  Yech.)
So there you have it.  I'm putting this inflated bit of wordpuffery out there just to see what happens.
I'll keep you posted.
- G. P.

Spinsters and Snails

After a night of serious rain last week I walked into the front garden and noticed two large, beautiful snails escaping the water-logged earth on low-lying branches of a bush.  Although we've had a lot of rain recently in my part of the world, they were the first snails I've seen all summer.  They reminded me of an obsession of mine - wondering where my true home is, because snails carry their home on their back.  Their home is wherever they go.

When I speak of "home," I'm not just referring to the edifice that I live in.  I'm talking about the place on the planet that makes me feel as if this is where I belong.  I've written about this issue on this little web of mine in the past, and the appearance of those two snails has got me thinking long and hard about it again.  I've lived in the same city for my entire adult life, and am certainly comfortable here because I'm so familiar with it, but I still don't feel as if it's my spiritual home.  I've visited other places that strike chords within me and make me feel as if I may have lived there before.  Unfortunately it's an experience that I can enjoy only momentarily because I've never been in a position to just up and move to what I thought was a perfect place for me.  Besides, much of what constitutes home is where I have ties to family and friends.  I can think of places I could be happy to live in right now were it not for the fact that I would be completely alone.  I love being alone, but only when I choose.  If I were to go someplace where I didn't know a soul, it would be very difficult for me to make meaningful, lasting friendships, mostly due to my deepening sense of privacy as I grow older.
Those snails helped me to come to terms with my sense of home.  I very much want to live alone, and I eventually I will again, but in the meantime, for financial reasons, I share a lovely home in a genteel part of a big city.  Although my living circumstances aren't perfect, I've noticed it gets easier for me to feel at home where I am the more I make adjustments.  Most of the adjustments are about me and my inner life, and not about where, how, and with whom I live.  The outer trappings of my life have been increasingly easier to accommodate as I feel more at peace with myself.
I don't think in terms of my city or my country.  But please don't get me wrong.  I'm blessed to live in a city and a country that are peaceful and prosperous relative to most of the inhabited world.  Oh yes, I'm deeply grateful for that.  News of world events and situations reminds me of my good fortune on a daily basis.  But I just don't feel I belong to a single person, place or thing, although sometimes I wish I did.  But that happens less and less as I learn to love myself.  And I'm grateful for that,too.
I know quite a few single women of around my vintage who still seek partners.  Let's face it, the older one gets, the harder it is to find a compatible partner, let alone a soul mate.  I've been pretty much alone most of my life, and the constant ache and longing ceased once I entered cronehood.  My libido dropped off the radar with the end of menopause - and with it my need for a mate.  That's probably what makes me most grateful.
When I was hormonal my perpetual search for a partner led me to some of the saddest and most pathetic places I've ever been, which is why I'm very glad to be post-menopausal.  No wonder many post-menopausal women with male partners take hormone replacement therapy.  It must present a real problem when they "don't feel like it."  Sorry, honey, I've got a headache for the rest of my life.  Yikes.  Anyway, I'm glad it's not my problem.
I'm a spinster, and proud of it.
The longer I live the more I feel at home with myself and my world, the whole world.
I'm not just getting older, I'm growing older.
And I'm going home.
- G.P.

Scroll-by Blurb

I've got to make this fast.  I don't have time to write a serious blurb, nor do I have anything to say right now, but I want to put something out there just to see what happens.  How am I doing so far?  Nothing's coming to mind and still I keep clicking away at the keyboard. 
I come here to stay in touch with myself and my place in the world - whatever that is.  I know there are others out there who read these words from time to time, but I have this little web mostly for me.  I'm not trying to change the world.  No delusions there.
If I can get through life on this beautiful planet, leaving her none the worse for wear, I figure I've done something.  But it might be too late for that.  Maybe I've hurt her and some of creatures more than I realise.  So I come here to ponder these thoughts and enjoy Earth as much as I can without doing any more damage to her or any of her children.  Sitting here and writing is quiet and unobtrusive.  That's good enough for now. 
So I'm off to yoga.  Didn't say much at all.  I didn't change anything, either.  No matter.  It's my little web and I won't change a thing if I don't want to.  I also sincerely apologise to anyone who's bothered to read this blather and feels I've wasted your time.  But I'll leave a quote, attributed to John Lennon, which makes me feel better about this silliness.  I hope it does the same for you.

Have a great day.
 - G. P.

Enchantment

I tune my body by practising yoga.  And when I say tune, as one would a musical instrument, I mean it literally.  At the end of a yoga class, when I lie on my back, arms at my side and palms facing up, in the final meditative pose called savasana  (corpse pose), I'm able to feel the vibrations of all the sounds around me.  I especially enjoy it when the instructor plays some meditative music or chant.  The deeper the notes, the more my body vibrates.  It's utterly blissful.
The practise of yoga has fine-tuned my body to the point that now I enjoy physically feeling music as much as I do listening to it.  I feel as if I'm a radio receiver or a tuning fork.
The human body is made to be sensitive to sound.  Hearing is one of the first senses to develop in utero, and the last one to go before we die.  Our skin is the largest organ of our body.  Because it's all over us and completely exposed, it's also one of the most sensitive, which is why we're able to feel waves of sound (vibrations) on our skin.  Water conducts sound 4 times faster than air; and humans, depending on their weight and age, are about 65% water.  Little wonder sounds affect our moods.
Earlier this year I began chanting with a few different groups as a way to satisfy my desire to sing.  Until a few years ago, I sang in a women's choir for fourteen years.  I didn't miss all the work involved in preparing for 2 major concerts a year, but I missed the simple joy of singing.  I felt that chanting with like-minded people would fulfill that need, and I was right.  I also got a lot more than I bargained for.
Chanting in any cultural or religious tradition is a deeply meditative practise.  For slaves and agrarian peoples who worked at hard, repetitive, back-breaking labour, it eased tedium and tension, briefly freeing them of mundane burdens.  For religious devotees, the purpose of chant is to clear and quiet the mind, thus entering into a state of peace and transcendence.

The rhythmic, repetitive practises of chanting, drumming and dancing are trance-inducing.  It's easy to see how one might become enchanted listening to deep drones (think om) or shamanic drumming.
When people chant, drum or dance together, a sense of community and unity is created. Boundaries between the worlds and each other break down.  The same goes for soldiers marching and chanting in unison.  The rhythmic, rhyming chants called out by soldiers while training on long hikes and marches keep them in step with each other.  Just watching a parade of large groups of people marching in perfect synchronization can be quite stirring for the observer as well.  Observers can feel the pulse almost as much as the participants.  That's what parades are for - to celebrate community.  And feeling the beat of drums and feet is the primary way it's achieved.
Vibrations can both stir and soothe one's spirit.  But not all sounds heal.  Loud, irritating noise can do considerable damage to our eardrums, which are very sensitive, delicate membranes.  Most people can tell when noise is damaging them, because if it's too loud or high-pitched, it actually hurts.  Feeling the healing effects of sound isn't as obvious, however.

The parasympathetic nervous system, which is the part of the body that calms the nerves, is stimulated by yoga.  As a result of my practise, I experience deep sympathetic resonance.  Everyone resonates with sound to some degree, because everything in the Universe vibrates.  We are connected to everyone and everything on a quantum, vibratory level.  And for those brief, blissful moments when I feel sounds of peace wash over me as I resonate in kind, I know I'm a part of All That Is.
- G. P.

Do No Harm

It's not always easy being good.  It seems to me it should be, but there are times when I find it hard to not to offend or hurt someone.  This morning is an example whereof I speak, and the reason I write this now.  I had an appointment for a haircut, even though I had it cut just over a week ago, when I went purple.  The fact that I had my hair coloured is obvious, but the cut was not.  I didn't get my money's worth, because it wasn't what I wanted, and honestly, I didn't really want all that much, just a haircut.  Maybe the guy who cut my hair was afraid of cutting all the purple out, but the final results looked as if he hadn't cut my hair at all.  So after a week and a half of being angry about it, I went back to the hair salon and asked for a proper cut.

I know this is a problem only a person living in a developed nation complains about. (It's real hell, let me tell you.)  It certainly isn't the sort of thing I like to dwell on because it's such a consumer-based issue, but it presented a very real moral dilemma for me this morning.  Nick, the nice, older chap who cut my hair, was working there today, and that was the problem.  The manager of the salon had booked me with another younger, hipper hairstylist.  I fretted that Nick would see me getting it cut again with somebody else so soon after he'd done it.  I mentioned my concerns to the manager when he booked my appointment, but he told me not to worry, it happens all the time.  It's part of the business.  Nonetheless, I had misgivings.  I simply didn't want to hurt Nick's feelings.
As I walked to the salon I kept praying that Nick wouldn't be anywhere around to see me.  But of course he was.  I wore a hat (purple hair is easy to spot) and kept my head low.  When I arrived at reception the manager was there and greeted me.  I told him I felt awkward about Nick seeing me.  The manager told me to chill and keep my hat on.  So I did, keeping my head buried deep in a book.  Joanna, who was the replacement hair cutter, arrived shortly afterwards, fully apprised that she was there to reshape the cut of a dissatisfied customer.  Joanna is young, funky, and urban.  I knew she'd give me the cut I wanted the first time around, and I got it.  But I had to leave the premises walking right by Nick.  By that time he'd seen me, even though I hadn't made eye contact with him.  I left in a hurry, whizzing by his chair as if I had no idea he was there.
I know he was hurt and offended.  And that really bothers me.  I also realise the situation didn't look good with his employers.  Dissatisfied customers don't go over well with businesses trying to meet the bottom line, and in a consumer, capitalistic system I have every right to ask for my money's worth.  But I felt crappy anyway.  Aye me.
So what does this have to do with the opening statement of this little blurb?  It means I really do have a modicum of compassion.  It means that I'm aware I might be hurting people's feelings, even when I don't want to.  And even though I feel really bad about what happened, I'm glad to have learned something good about myself.  I guess that proves that valuable lessons are similar to being good - they aren't always easy.
- G.P.

Purple Power

I've gone purple - not all of me, just my hair.  I know that's not unique or original any more - like you know, it's so last week - but this is my first foray into purpledom.  I spent three and a half hours at the hair dresser's, and a scary amount of money to do it.  But it was worth it, because I really like it.  And it seems other people do, too.

The day after my dip into the purple pool I was taking a stroll in my neighbourhood.  As I passed a couple of women who looked to be about my vintage, one of them raised a friendly fist in solidarity and shouted "I love your hair!"  A few hours later I was walking by a high school where numerous adolescents lay strewn across the school yard, and suddenly one of the the guys hailed me with "You've got cool hair, random lady."  Random, indeed.
The longer I live the more I'm attracted to the colour purple, and consequently, the more purple things I acquire.  (N.B.  To keep what I own to a minimum, I always liberate at least two items for every new one I acquire.)  Anyway, this purple habit of mine is not happening consciously just to play out a popular poem from the sixties that begins When I am an old woman I shall wear purple.  But I can't help noticing that it's happening, consciously or not.
Purple is the colour associated with the top of the head - the crown chakra.  (Each of the seven chakras has a corresponding colour of the spectrum.)  It's the most spiritual of the colours and associated with wisdom, insight, creativity, and clairvoyance.  It's also regarded as a colour of royalty, whose members supposedly have the wisdom and insight to rule.  (hmm...)  As a result of the aforementioned attributes, purple is seen worn by the Crone in numerous images, which is a nice departure from her more traditional black.
Now that I'm officially ensconced in cronehood, both chronologically and physically, I find it very curious that purple has now supplanted green as my favourite colour.  It's happened gradually and I swear I didn't do it on purpose to join some fashionable trend.  If anything, that would be a reason for me to avoid it.  All I know for sure is that purple makes me happy these days.  It's a small, silly pleasure.  When I'm feeling a little blue, I google "purple" and look at the images that come up. It lifts my spirits.
So for my legion of lovely, faithful followers - purple is also associated with loyalty - I've included a couple of cool images that evoke the power of purple.  Enjoy.
- G.P.

The Road Home

At last I can say I'm a traveller.  I came to this realisation very recently, and only after a lot of thought on the matter.  However, my definition of "traveller" isn't what most people mean when they use the word to describe themselves.  I define myself as a traveller in the sense that we're all travellers - journeying down the road of life.  (Now that's a cliché if there ever was one! I should be embarrassed to use it, but it's exactly what I mean to say.)
I've written about my views on travel before ("A Grain of Sand," 9/5/12), and I still feel pretty much the same way.  Travel is a privilege much more than a choice.  Sure, there are people who have the wherewithal to travel and choose not to, but they are greatly outnumbered by the vast global majority who are unable to do so due to personal and/or political circumstances.  Travel is a privilege enjoyed by a fortunate few.
I've been reluctant to think of myself as a traveller because there were many years I was unable to get out and around due to financial constraints.  I felt imprisoned by my physical and monetary conditions, and was jealous of my successful, well-travelled friends and acquaintances, which only engendered more bitterness.  My life was in stasis, both physically and spiritually.  And the longer I stayed still, the more l was left behind, which made me feel as if I were moving backwards.  
Most of the movement I experienced was inward, and it wasn't always to a good place - full and diverse, maybe - but not where I'd deliberately choose to visit.  Eventually, in one of my more misanthropic moments (and there were many) it dawned on me that everyone's inner journey ultimately leads to the same destination - Death.  That came as a comfort to me, and not just because I thought like a depressed person.   I realised that even the happiest, most successful people end up dead, just the way I will.  Death is the Great Leveller.
My penetrating glimpse into the obvious still didn't compensate for my lack-lustre personal journey to meet the Grim Reaper, but it gave me moments of sadistic pleasure when I was forced to endure mean, disagreeable people by reminding myself that one day they'd be dead, too.
What can I say?  I was just as miserable and mean in my own way as they were.  But not anymore.  I'm still glad that we all die - natural cycles and all that - but I don't dwell on it with the same bitter relish that I used to.  Now I focus on living a large life, rather than a petty, small one.  And getting to this point has been the longest, toughest part of my path.
Now I feel as if I've travelled a fair distance, but it's neither the route nor the destination I had imagined for myself when I first began.  Finally I can say that's okay with me, and it's probably the best thing about what I once would have thought was failure.  Although I still have the bad habit of comparing myself to others, I understand that just because I may not have travelled as far and wide, maybe I've travelled just as deep.
- G. P.

Wear Purple and Walk Tall

I was addressed as "Miss" this morning.  That's unusual these days, because I've been hearing "Ma'am" for many years now.  On the odd occasion, as happened this morning, I do get Miss, and it always makes my day.  I consider myself a feminist (and yes, despite the fact that it's out of fashion, I still like and use the word), so I ought not to be concerned with appearances, especially in regards to my gender.  At my age I'm supposed to be above and beyond all that.  But I'm not.
I know this makes me sound shallow and vain, but right now I don't care, and what's more, I admit to feeling that way more and more as I get older.  However, my vanity does serve to keep me looking as good as I can, which isn't such a bad thing.  My obsession with my looks keeps me healthy by practising yoga and eating well, balanced by frequent indulgences in things that aren't so good for me.
I also become conscious of my looks when I see people carrying themselves poorly (read unattractively) or being unaware of how their deportment doesn't just look bad, it's bad for them.  So what's that to do with me?  Well, it makes me aware of how I'm looking.  Am I slouching? Schlepping?  Dragging my feet?  Picking my nose?  You get the picture, and so does anybody else who happens to be looking.  Fortunately for me, but unfortunately for the person I'm observing, when I see someone who's moving, standing or sitting in a way that's detrimental to their health, I'm pulled right back into my own body and make an internal check on how I'm looking.  It happens a lot, because there are a lot of people out there who don't seem to notice their bad physical habits.  As a result, I'm constantly realigning myself, which, as I've already mentioned, is good for me.
Look at the people around you, especially older ones.  Their youthfulness, or lack thereof, isn't determined so much by their wrinkles or loss of muscle tone, but their carriage.  In yoga, the measure of a person's age is determined by the condition of their spine.  So if I'm feeling and looking with-it enough to elicit a "Miss" from someone, rather than the usual "ma'am," I'm flattered, not offended.  I don't immediately assume I'm not commanding the respect of a mature, experienced woman, but have given the impression of being youthful rather than young.  It usually happens when I'm wearing vivid colours or prints, which might be considered slightly eccentric or cute.  Even old people can be cute without being gaga or in their second childhood.
So yes, this blurb is about something as ostensibly superficial as appearances and obsession with youth.  But I wanted to have my say on this topic because I couldn't help noticing how a one-syllable word changed my mood.  It proved to me that even when my energy's low, I can still walk tall. 
When it comes to lifting one's spirits, artifice isn't always superficial.
- G.P.

Mother's Day

I'm mothering myself today.
I'm being kind and gentle to my body and my soul.  I'm taking care of myself.  It's Mother's Day, so I'm nurturing me and my precious little Lulu, my feline baby.
I'm doing this to honour my late, lamented mother, as well as my late, great goddess-mother, Gita Tante, because they loved me and wanted the best for me.
I'm doing it to honour All Mothers Everywhere and for All Time.
I do it for the Divine Feminine in all of us.
I do it for Mother Earth.
Blessed be.
- G. P. 

Gravitas

Yippee!  I'm a goddess!  Yesterday at the bookstore where I work there were some university science students and instructors demonstrating experiments for the public.  At first the whole thing looked rather Mickey Mouse to me, but then, thanks to a couple of earnest, young astronomy and physics geeks, I finally got a handle on how gravity works.

I always knew that the greater the mass, the greater the force of gravity it exerts.  But I didn't know that anything with mass, including light, bends space and time.  Hence the spacetime continuum.  It's the curvature of the contimuum that pulls other, smaller masses towards the larger object.  The geeks demonstrated this by placing a heavy ball in the middle of a small trampoline-like device, then threw ping pong balls onto the trampoline, which naturally fell towards the weighted ball on the sloping curve.  But the ping pong balls didn't fall straight in, they orbited around the central ball several times, getting closer with each orbit before joining it in the middle.  Suddenly a little bit more of the Universe made sense to me.  Science rocks.
(It seems the Quechua peoples of South America have always understood this.  Their grand and mighty earth goddess, Pachamama, doesn't just embody space, but time as well.  Pacha is usually translated as "world," but the the concept of time is implicit in the word, too.)
The best discovery of all, however, was that due to my mass, little old me bends space and time and has a gravitational field, infinitesimal as it is.  So when someone is drawn or pulled to another person, in other words gravitates towards the object of their attraction, it truly is a physical attraction, in every sense of the word.  Now that's truly awesome. 
With that understanding came the realisation I must be a goddess because I bend time and space.  Humans can bend physical mass, but who knew we bend time and space by our mere existence?  (Well, obviously much smarter, more scientific minds than I, but you know what I mean.)  I'd always thought that physical feats of bending the immaterial was the purview of the gods, not mere mortals.  But now I know I have those properties, too.  I must be a goddess! Wow!

Okay, I know what you're thinking - given that logic, it means we're all gods and goddesses.  But give me a break, eh?  Don't burst my bubble.  Right now I'm riding the high of discovering a little bit more about myself and my place in this vast, infinite, and awe-inspiring Universe.  And it's sure a hell of a lot better place to be than when I used to think that my existence was defined by nothing more than consuming, polluting and taking up space, which of course we all do as well.  It's a matter of perspective.  And I much prefer the perspective I have now.
So please indulge me as I repeat my new mantra one more time - I am a goddess!
- G. P.

First Person Imperfect

Sometimes my friends really bug me.  Now that isn't a very nice thing to say about my friends, is it?  But I thought I'd get it out there and get your attention.  Now that I have, I will add that I know full well that I am quite irritating at times as well.  But all of that doesn't mean I don't care for my friends very much, and I am blessed with more than a few.  True friends still care for each other despite their imperfections.  Nobody is perfect.  If there were such a person, they wouldn't be human or of this world.
I've been thinking about human frailty a lot recently, and was dwelling on that very subject when I bumped into my dear friend Margaret on the street the other day.  Margaret is a highly intelligent, aware person of high ethical and moral standards whom I deeply respect and admire.  (She'd also be the first person to say she's not perfect.)  When I met Margaret she was with her loyal partner of many years, Patrick.  Margaret and I spoke very briefly about a local hot issue regarding the cutting down of ancient oaks in the

neighbourhood, which led very quickly to the mention of Gandhi on my part.  (I can't remember the context, but it was something to do with Margaret's activism.)  Patrick, who is a history buff and well-informed on many subjects, made a point of mentioning that Gandhi was a deeply flawed person.  I knew that already, and said so.  In fact, I'm accustomed to highly politicised, well-informed people responding in that manner to my high regard for Gandhi.  Patrick is by no means the first person I've heard say that.  (I've also noticed that people who are quick to point out that human heroes often have clay feet tend not to have heroes, although I don't know Patrick well enough to say that's true about him.)  Nonetheless, his comment set me to thinking  yet again about hero-worship, saints, and all the good and great people who are flawed because they're not descended from the gods.
Someone like Gandhi, whose achievements are monumental, is indeed well known for his failings.  (I won't go into them here because that's not what this blurb is about, but some careful reading and googling will reveal the good and the bad.)  I've also noticed that individuals who achieve greatness after overcoming enormous obstacles and opposition tend to have flaws that are decidedly deeper and certainly more scrutinised, which is probably a good thing.
Many years ago, when I was in graduate school I directed a production of Murder in the Cathedral.  I had to keep reminding the talented young actor playing the principal role of Thomas Beckett not to look as if he were Jesus walking on water - careful, slow, and not quite in touch with solid earth.  But I understood why the young actor chose to portray Beckett in that manner.  After all, he was a saint.  He was a martyr.  Saints and martyrs who die for or because of their beliefs aren't mere and lowly humans, right?  Wrong.  They eat, belch and shit just like the rest of us.  And they make mistakes - usually much bigger mistakes than ordinary humans do.  In fact, it's often their mistakes that make them martyrs.  So I had to keep reminding my leading actor to portray Beckett as a real human being, subject to all the feelings and faults the rest of us are.
My late brother Norman, who died very young a long time ago now, was Hare Krishna.  (Hare Krishna is a sect of Hinduism introduced to the west by Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada in the sixties.)  Whenever I mentioned my brother to his fellow devotees while he was alive and for a long time after his death, the response was always the same; he was highly regarded and considered to be a deeply pious and virtuous person.  But Norman's deep virtue wasn't unblemished.  Although his zealousness softened considerably by the time he died, I was troubled to see a gentle soul become so rigid in his beliefs, which for all intents and purposes were the same as Gandhi's - Hindu.
I remember Norman's attitude towards our sweet, galumphing dog, Oberon, who my brother had trained and loved, changed completely after he joined the movement.  After the first two isolating years at the temple, Norman began to have contact with our family again, but it was obvious he regarded Oberon as a

lesser being and refused to touch him, even though Oberon was overjoyed at seeing his beloved master again.  Despite his strict vegetarian diet and austere life, all in the name of not harming fellow creatures, Norman's beliefs weren't entirely inclusive and accepting.  Even before his conversion, Norman was placid and moderate, but his frailties became even more pronounced as he became more devoted to his path.  In a sense, Norman was a martyr to his beliefs, too.  If he'd had the melanoma that killed him diagnosed early enough, he could have saved his own life.  The early symptoms were clearly there, but Norman didn't recognise them because his beliefs blinded him from so much of the real world.
Norman may not have been a great man in the true sense of the word, but he was certainly a very good one.  His flaws and mistakes were proportionate to his goodness.  And he's still a hero to me.
I like to think my hero-worship is reasonable and objective.  So yes, I have friends who sometimes annoy me, as I do them.  I also admire and respect some people who others consider to be freaks and weirdos.  (Norman was one of those.)  It's a lot harder to love and revere real people, warts and all, than it is a goddess or god.  I once met a living goddess (see "Oh My Goddess, " 12/12/12) and the reason I venerate her as I do is not just because of her divinity, but because of her very real, imperfect, and deeply passionate humanity.  May we all wear our failings so well.
Namaste.
- G.P.

Spring Robins Rock

It's a grey spring day, my kitty is sick, I couldn't sleep last night, and the news of the Boston Marathon bombings does nothing to lift me out of the doldrums.  But Mother Nature comes to the rescue.  Thank goddess I saw my first robin of spring this morning.  I spotted him on the roof of the house next door

as I stared out onto the back yard from my study window.  Within moments of seeing him he was joined by his partner.  They were clearly scouting the territory for a place to build a nest.  As I watched them another robin flew by with a long, thin twig.  That sweet, uplifting scene was just the spring tonic I needed.  Life is renewing itself all the time, despite all the shit that humans do to end it.
This is not the happiest of blurbs, but it's honest.  To make amends I've included a lovely, joyous picture.
Long live Pachamama.
- G. P.  

Not for the Magically Challenged

It's happened again.  Just now, as I was keeping a lid on my extreme agitation while powering up my computer, it acted up and refused to work - this time in a way I've never seen before.  It basically wouldn't allow me to log on.  And I couldn't reboot or shut down because absolutely no icons appeared on my desktop.  I had to hit the power button instead.  Wrong way out, but that's all that was available to me.
Being the technopeasant that I am, my only solution was to calm down and breathe deeply.  It worked, which is why I'm able to sit here and write this now.

I know what most of you are thinking... Yeah, right.  It has nothing to do with the fact that you know squat about computers.  Maybe it's because you're a computer idiot!  Okay.  I understand your point of view.  But it doesn't explain why this never fails to happen when I'm  hyper-tense and twitchy.  And now your'e probably thinking But don't you think that your distraction might be causing you to make mistakes or hit a wrong key?  Well, actually, no, I don't.  Because I'm not capable of doing anything more sophisticated on a computer than turn off and on, point and click.  The problem this morning started after I turned the computer on.  And I've got the "turn on" function down pat.  Really I do.
I know I'm right about this when-I'm-twitchy-so-is-my-computer thing.  More accurately, I feel I'm right.  I feel it in my body.  Maybe it's a chemical thing.  Or some crazy kind of wiring in my brain.  I don't know and I don't get it.  But as soon as I returned to normal heart rate, deep breathing and cleared my brain of excess anger - as opposed to the normal level of irritation involved when I'm dealing with computer glitches - things went back to normal.  And this wasn't the first time, either.
So what have I learned from all this?  Well, now I know not to use a computer when I'm keeping a lot of stuff in my head that's messing me up.  I'll clear it away by breathing, meditating or taking a brisk walk before I sit down at my laptop, or any other computer for that matter - because it's happened at work, too.  (see "Tuned In and Turned On," 3/3/12)
The body is a bio-chemical machine run by a sophisticated computer called the brain.  If the chemistry or wiring gets messed up, why shouldn't it effect other systems it might be interfacing with, or at least in close proximity to?  (sorry for ending two clauses with prepositions)  My mother once told me that when she was going to meet up with an old flame of hers after 35 years, her watch didn't work for the entire three days she was in the city where he lived.  Once she left town, her watch started to work again.  I can't explain it.  But there is an explanation.  I'm not smart enough to come up with it, and most of the people who are, i.e. scientists, are afraid to try.  Kudos to those brave, exiled, scientific souls who do.
All I know for sure is that my body is smarter than my brain.  And it's not giving away its secrets - for now.  That's the mysterious part of this whole technological, scientific conundrum.  And that's the one and only thing, but it's a BIG thing, that I've enjoyed about all this fuss.  And until somebody gives me a better explanation for it, I'll call it magic.
- G. P.

Flaky

Today I'm 22,422 days old.  There are 224 days left until my next birthday.  2 and 22 are my favourite numbers. 2 + 2 = 4, and 2 X 2  = 4.  I like the symmetry and synchronicity of this day, numerically speaking.
Have a great day.  I know I will.
- G.P.

April Aargh

Whew.  I survived yesterday.  And just as I said I would be, I'm healed today.  My sister-the-minister left voice mail for me saying that my Easter Sunday blurb was rather cryptic.  I didn't mean it to be, but when I'm feeling dazed and confused and still want to say something meaningful about bad hair days that could be of some help to others and not just me, I don't like to get too personal.  This little web of mine is supposed to have broader appeal than that.  I want it to resonate with every one of my legion of followers on some level.
So let me elaborate ...
I was calling upon the wisdom of the Zen koan that advises us to make medicine from suffering.  It means that we shouldn't avoid pain or suffering because it's an opportunity to awaken spiritually, and reminds us of our common humanity.  In perfect physical and psychological health there is greed and want.
That's what I meant to say.  Koans can be tricky. 
But I pushed through a really crappy day by facing it head on.  And let me tell you, it went from bad to worse after I posted my blurb.  But just as I'd predicted, I'm recovering nicely today and things are back in order.
I guess the real April Fool's day was yesterday.  That's a good thing, because I like the first day of every month, or year, to be a fresh start.  Posting a bit of wisdom from ancient Zen masters on April 1st is a good way to begin.  If there are any hidden messages in this one, it's the koan, not me.
Namaste.
- G.P.

Constant Craving

Something went wrong.  It happened yesterday, and changed the course of what is today, and what I had hoped it would be.

Today is the 14th anniversary of my mother's death.  She died on a full moon - a blue moon, in fact.  There's no full moon today, but it's Easter Sunday - an equivalent of sorts.
I wanted to resurrect my mother by feeling her near.   But that's not how it is.  Far from it.
The mirror cracked.  I'm hurting from the curse of a thin grin.  I wanted to feel my mother with me today.  Instead I feel only the distance between us.  I'm paying the price for all the magic I've conjured lately.  There's always a price.  There has to be.  Magic is not a middle path.  Balance needs to be restored. 
I've been looking forward to this day for weeks, and all for nothing.  Thank goddess it's only one day.  One dismal day is a small price to pay for months on solid ground and the last few days of airy anticipation.  And all because I was greedy for magic.  I've had more than my fair share lately, so now I sting because I tipped the scales by craving more.
I forgot to be grateful for all that I have.  That's why I'm hurting.  And that's why I'm making medicine out of my misery.
Today I'm hurt.  Tomorrow I'm healed.
- G.P.

The Magic of Silence

Keeping silent.  I write about it on this little web of mine all the time because it matters to me.  To be truly silent is to be quiet without struggling to suppress your deepest urges to speak or be noticed.  Genuine silence comes from deep stillness, not the effort of restraint.  "To keep silent" is one of the four corner-stones in the practise of magic.  (Google it if you want to know the other three.) 

There are things happening in my life right now, matters of my own creation, that I would love to talk about with my friends.  But I choose not to because it gives away the power of materialization - bringing creative energy into form.  Talk dissipates that energy.
There are many people, however, for whom speaking openly about their plans and ideas is helpful and energizing.  But that's not true for the person who practises magic.  Magic is about focussed action - using the pent-up energy of unspoken words and plans to manifest them in the material world.
Lately I've been spending a lot of time being creative and productive.  I'm paying attention to the process, but not the outcome, which is a good thing, because so far there aren't any quantifiable results.  Yet my projects and plans excite me, and I want oh-so-badly to share them with my friends.  But I've noticed that prattling on about my dreams, desires, goals and wishes causes people to grind their teeth or roll their eyes.  I've been making up stories and filling in the blanks with empty rhetoric all my life, and then end up feeling like a failure when it all comes to naught.
So now I'm keeping quiet about what I'm doing and planning.  The bonus of this strategy is that it forces me to talk about topics other than myself, which makes me stop and think before I speak.  And if I can't improve upon silence, I shouldn't speak at all.
Thank goddess for this little web of mine.  I can share my thoughts - well, some of them - in complete silence.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

The Promise of Spring

I'm here to wish you a joyous and meaningful Vernal Equinox, and to set the tone for Spring, 2013.  As today goes, so will the entire season, which is why I'm posting something here, even though I haven't anything worldly-wise to impart to my legion of followers.  The content of this boring blurb does not portend banal babble for the entire spring season, it simply means that I will be publishing blurbs with a little more regularity.  I'm planting a seed.
Now I'm going to find a lovely picture to illustrate this little bit of nothing.  Enjoy.
- G. P.

Memory as Medicine

Being quiet keeps me out of trouble, but it also exposes me to sensitive people who can see through my silence.  Stripped of the emotional clutter that comes with talk, laughter, tears, or anger, a quiet person is more transparent to eyes that can see beyond the surface.  That was demonstrated to me quite vividly when I was in Nepal last fall and met a goddess face to face.  (see "Oh My Goddess," 12/12/12)  The fact that a living goddess is able to see into a person's soul is no great surprise, but it can come as a bit of a shock when a seemingly ordinary human being does it.  Many years ago, when I was going through a very dark period in my life, I met just such a person.
She was a child of no more than five.  I was at a pleasant, intimate patio party on a sultry summer's eve.  Despite my despair, I had mustered the courage to get out of the house and try to come out of myself for a few hours.  The group of us sat in a circle, enjoying conversation and wine.  Beneath my loose, cotton frock I was hiding long, red, angry cuts on my inner left thigh, which I had inscribed there with a razor earlier that day.  I was emotional mincemeat, but I kept my mouth shut and watched quietly from the sidelines.  I was doing my best to disappear, and succeeding, because no one paid any attention to me. 
A little girl, who was the daughter of a young couple at the party, ran excitedly around the gathered adults, being cute and winsome all the while.  On one of her rounds she stopped directly in front of me.  Without addressing anyone in particular, she pointed straight at me and blurted out "I like her," and then quickly resumed her party circuit.
It happened so fast I thought I might have imagined it.  Suddenly my mood changed from despondent to bewildered.  What was that all about?  And what did she see?  When I finally ceased puzzling over the incident - because I knew my questions weren't going to be readily answered - I felt brief but intense elation.  An innocent child had seen something in me that she liked, and announced it for everyone to hear.
Like the Devi I met in Nepal, the little girl saw through the thin veil of my silence.  I was quiet and completely at peace when I met Kusali Devi, but she recognized my years of pain and emotional upheaval.  I was meek and withdrawn when the little girl noticed me, but she could see a light shine.  I can't imagine what motivated her to speak out like that, but I'm glad she did.  It's a memory I cherish, and makes me feel good all these years later.
The very young and the very old are more attuned to the unseen world, probably because they're on the way in or out; crossing the bridge between the world of the spirit and the world of matter.  The little girl spoke to me from that place.  She was an angel in disguise.
This meaningful memory came back to me just recently, after many years of being filed away in the recesses of my mind.  I won't let that happen again, especially now that I've written about it.  But the remembrance of it is enough, and is salve for my soul.
- G. P.

Just Breathe

I've been waiting a long while for inspiration.  That's why I haven't written anything here for so long - I haven't been inspired to do so.  Nothing that seemed worth sharing has come to mind.  My reasons for having this little web include imparting at least a little wisdom from what I've lived and learned.  But just because I haven't blurbed for a while doesn't mean I haven't been living and learning.  It's just that nothing I've learned has amused me enough to write about it.

At least that's what I thought.  But it finally occurred to me a short while ago, just before sitting down to write this, that as long as I live and breathe I'm inspired.  That's right - to live is to breathe, and to breathe means to be inspired, literally.  The word inspire is derived from the Latin word inspirare, which means "to breathe in."  And the English word spirit comes from the Latin spiritus, meaning "breath."  So as long as I'm breathing I'm being inspired.  I'm filling myself up with the breath of life.
The first breath we ever take is an inhalation, and our very last breath is an exhalation.  When we die we release our last breath.  We let go of our spirit.
Whenever I'm bored or my muse seems to be napping, I take a few slow, deep breaths and appreciate the mere act of breathing.  In my books that's pretty much the same as appreciating life. Now that's inspiring.
- G. P.

Vocal Training

My friend was regaling me with another anecdote from her many-storied life.  My storytelling friend's enthusiasm knew no bounds, and it was contagious.  I found myself responding in kind - loudly and louder still.  When I finally noticed how much noise the two of us were making, I shut up completely, but my friend was still on a roll.  My body shook with the vibrations that rolled over me like a tsunami.  If we'd been in public, I would have been embarrassed.  Hey, who am I kidding?  I was embarrassed, and there was no one else around except for my boisterous friend, who was enjoying herself too much to notice.

I've always had a strong voice, and it's served me well as an actress.  But that's not necessarily true for the rest of the time, which is most of the time.  If I get excited about something I automatically shift into high gear.  My forceful voice is largely due to the fact that all my life I've wanted to be noticed and heard.  (A recurring theme on this little web of mine.)  The unconscious, attention-seeking habit of talking too loudly, which is usually concurrent with talking too much, doesn't always attract the kind of attention it's meant to do.  It frequently does just the opposite.
I caught myself in just such a situation not long ago, and just shortly after the aforementioned incident with my vociferous friend.  I had invited another friend over for lunch at my place.  Margaret and I were chatting and once again I realised I was showing my enthusiasm by talking at at least 4 times the volume as she was.  Although I made a point of talking and listening equally, I couldn't help noticing I took up more time and space by sheer volume alone.  I lowered the decibels before Margaret noticed.  Or maybe she did, but was too polite to say anything.  I was also aware that I had to lean forward to hear everything Margaret was saying, not just because I'm a little hard of hearing, but because she's soft-spoken.  As I leaned into her words it occurred to me that her hushed tones were more powerful than my rambunctious ramblings.  Now that's true power.  To quote Starhawk, a major magical influence in my life, it's power from within, rather than power over. 
Margaret's ability to fully engage me in her subdued tones reminded me of something I'd heard in an interview with the Great Goddess of Acting, Meryl Streep, as she spoke about her performance in The Devil Wears Prada.  She chose to voice the role of a bitchy fashion editor very quietly, because she'd observed that the most powerful people she'd worked with  - mostly men, heavy sigh - never raised their voices.  That was a profound revelation for me, but it obviously didn't stick.  Maybe now it will.
And whilst we're on the subject of great actors and voices, I recently saw another interview with Daniel Day-Lewis about his role as Lincoln in the film of the same name.  He spoke at length about his choice of voice for the legendary president, observing that "the voice is such a deep, personal reflection of character."  As an actress I've known this for a very long time, and in light of my recent epiphany regarding my own voice, I felt as if I'd had personal vocal coaching and life lessons from the great actor himself.

A while ago I  was complaining to another soft-spoken friend of mine, Gael, about  mousy, timid people who speak so quietly and inaudibly that I want to slap them.  She remarked that "maybe they don't want to be heard."  Ding!  Gael struck another chord.  Her astute comment helped me to finally understand what Meryl and Daniel were talking about.
I've strung it all together and figured out that I can't make other people listen to me by being loud and obnoxious.  That only turns them off.  I'm still talking less and listening more, and sure, that's a good thing, but I must learn to listen to myself as much as I do to other people.  Paying attention to how I speak is as important as what I say.  It's all about intention, and delivery.  So I'll just pretend there's a movie camera following me around wherever I go.  It'll keep me on my toes.  Reality t.v. - here I come.
- G. P.