Soap Flakes, Part II

The year is fast drawing to a close, so I'm writing this because I want to jack up the number of blurbs I've written in 2014. The piffle you read now is blurb number 23, which means the previous one is - drum roll, please - number 22!  

I've written numerous times that 22 is my favourite number, and after writing my most recent blurb, I noticed that it was the twenty-second one this year. Post #22 included a link to my interview on BathTub Bran.  Being interviewed by my friend Bran is a smart career move if ever there was one, at least for my kitty Lulu, and holds the promise of building a foundation for future endeavours. (In numerology 22 is the Master Builder number.)
I didn't know the previous blurb was the twenty-second one this year while I was writing it.  Imagine my unmitigated glee when I made the discovery. And imagine the pleasure I feel right now as I have another reason to shout aloud (figuratively speaking) on this little web of mine, once more and with great gusto, It's a Sign!
Another reason for writing this sudsy bit of nothing was so that I could introduce my legion of followers to Bran's YouTube interview site a 2nd time, therefore widening his audience by at least 2 viewers.  One hand washes the other. 
But enough of the flaky observations.  I think I`ll have a bath, with lots and lots of lavender bubbles.
- G.P.

Soap Flakes

Bran is a charming and gifted young artist who's a colleague of mine at the store where I work.  One of his numerous creative pursuits is a YouTube interview show called BathTub Bran.  He interviews local artists of different disciplines - many of them are dancers, because that's his background - and he interviews them in a bathtub. Yes, you've read that correctly, he and the interviewee sit in a bathtub full of suds.

Well, wouldn't you know, Bran asked me if I'd care to be interviewed.  Since bathtubs are one of my favourite places to relax and unwind, I said "yes" right away.  I also crave the attention (so what else is new?), and figured it couldn't do my non-career any harm.
Bran arrived at my home for the interview bearing gifts from the sponsors.  He had beer - always welcome - and some lovely bath products, which included a bar of hand made soap, a luscious bath bomb, and a candle.  All of them were scented with lavender.
If you're wondering why I mention such seemingly banal details about the gifts Bran bore, you aren't a regular reader, otherwise you'd know that almost nothing in my universe happens randomly.  The lavender-scented products Bran gave me fit my little world and web perfectly, because the soap and candles I regularly use at home are lavender-scented as well.  And don't try to tell me that it's just a coincidence, or not really strange because lavender is one of the most popular fragrances, and that I'm taking off again on one of my flaky, new-age, magical-thinking flights of fancy. Because you'd be wrong, and not in-tune enough to know that it's a sign!  Oh yes it is.  And consider this a big fat lavender-scented raspberry to any nay-sayers who disagree.
Anyway, sharing the tub with Bran was oodles of fun and having it recently posted on the Winter Solstice, which also coincided with a new moon (and the signs just keep on coming!) was the best solstice present I could receive.  I now have my fifteen-minus-ten minutes of fame.  I'm also delighted to add that Lulu, my inept but cute-as-a-button feline familiar, also makes an appearance in the interview.  And if she steals the show, I forgive her, because she takes after me.
So if you're interested in watching and hearing me, rather than just reading about me, or would like to see Bran's terrific YouTube site, click here...  (By the way, this is the first time I've ever used a link on this little web of mine, because I didn't know how.  Now I do.  I'm grateful to Bran for giving me a reason to learn another techno-tidbit of know-how in the wired world of social media and people under 12,000 days old.)
And while I'm here, let me wish all my faithful, fervid followers the happiest and most hyperbolic Season's Greetings, whatever festive season that is for you.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

No News is Good News

This morning I changed my routine on the web. (I refer to the world-wide-web, not the one you read now.) Instead of checking the weather forecast, reading a poem or two for the day, finding out how the stars will be configured tonight and learning about any astronomical events I probably won't be able to see, and then checking out some metaphysical correspondences with the physical ones I've just mentioned, (I love my signs!) I perused some news and current affairs sites.  I don't feel any smarter or well-informed, just depressed.  
That's all I had to say.
I think you get the picture.
Have a good day anyway.
- G. P. 
p.s.  Happy Hanukkah to Cheryl, Gael and Shlomo

Yech

Today is a black day for the soul.  In the material world this day is called Black Friday, when a deadly virus infects millions of willing victims.  I will not be infected because I have purposely immunized myself against the pernicious virus that is wantonly spread by carriers known as "shoppers."  The virus is called greed, a.k.a. consumerism.
This horrible affliction, which is actually celebrated on this day, began in the land to the south, and about five years ago made its way north to these here parts.  Unfortunately, I don't think it can be stopped.  And worse than that, I must work in a business called retail (gotta pay the rent!) that forces me to encourage the spread of the virus.  I forgot to book the day off in advance, and now I must participate in a pastime that is against my religion.  (That's the reason I would use if I'd remembered to request the day off.  If anyone asked me what religion that was, I'd probably reply with something like minimalism.  And why not?  After all, infected people religiously beat down the doors of retail outlets every year on this darkest of all days.)
There is a reactionary movement to this day that asks people to buy nothing; hence its name - Buy Nothing Day.  I've been marking that day for my entire adult life on the equivalent of Black Friday in this part of the world.  It's the day after Christmas and it's called Boxing Day.  I have already requested the day off, as I have every year, citing reasons already mentioned.
I'm worried I will come down with something today, but it won't be the insatiable urge to shop 'til I drop.  It will most likely be a combination of shattered nerves and despair for humanity.  Fortunately, at the end of what will no doubt be an interminably long, loud, frantic day, I will self-medicate by consuming a little too much wine.  Okay.  So I'm not perfect.  I'm going to consume today, too.  But it's my way of making the end of a dark day just a little brighter, for just a little while.
- G. P.

Milestones

I am 23,000 days old today.  I started to measure my life in days rather than years when I turned 22,000 days old, because 22 is my favourite number.  

I had a good run during my 22s.  I'm hoping for the same in my 23s, even though number 23 has never really had any special significance for me, until today that is.  
I'm creating my true self and measuring my progress day by day, rather than yearly.  Doing it daily keeps me focussed on the present instead of the future.  It's good to have goals and dreams, but now I detach myself from the outcome, and concentrate on the journey.  So here I go... one day at a time.
As for today, I'm having a good one.  I wish you the same.
Namaste.
- G.P.

Not for the Magically-Challenged

I like Halloween.  That's not such an unusual statement coming from an earth-worshipping, Goddess-loving, pagan writer and storyteller.  Or so it seems, because being all that could also mean that I don't like Halloween as it is celebrated these days.  But I appreciate the fact it's celebrated increasingly more every year, and by more people.  Of course there are a lot of adults (not so many children, I'm glad to say) who scoff and complain about the rampant consumerism and comidification of Halloween.  Most of the people who complain, however, have never seriously observed it at all and know nothing about its ancient pagan, sacred origins.  So it shouldn't really bother them that Halloween has become a cash cow for candy and costume retailers.  What holiday hasn't?  Christmas, of course, is the best example of that, because its serious religious significance is obvious to anyone of any faith, or lack thereof.

Halloween is a contraction for the words All Hallow's Eve, which is the Christianised name for Samhain Eve, the eve of the new year for the ancient Celts.  Therefore November 1st is Samhain proper, or New Year's Day, which was renamed All Saints Day by the church.
Halloween, for the vast majority of people who observe it, is a secular occasion.  (I hesitate to say holiday, because the word holiday, as in holy day, originally referred to days marking a religious event.  So the expression "secular holiday" is actually an oxymoron.)  Suffice it to say, very few people know or care about the historic, religious and cultural origins of Halloween, and yet more people than ever, of diverse religions and backgrounds, celebrate it every year.
When I was a child growing up in WASPy, newly-formed, open suburbs (it was a long time ago when there was some space between houses) nothing indicated that Halloween was happening until the very night, with a simple jack o' lantern placed on the porch to show that trick-or-treaters were welcome.  Nowadays the decorations are often quite elaborate, and are put up weeks before the special night.  I think that's okay.  After all, what's wrong with erecting a pseudo-graveyard on the front lawn?  Sure, it's silly, but it's fun, and could be construed as creative.  Though it may be tacky, it's still someone expressing themselves.  I don't see that as a problem.  The same goes for all the costumes.  I've observed people I usually consider dull and unimaginative don a mask or disguise of some sort and get into  the spirit of things for just one giddy, raucous night of make-believe.
It doesn't matter that they don't know that the costumes they wear were originally worn to conceal their human form.  It was a way of protecting mortals from the myriad spirits that crossed between the worlds on that most magical of nights.
Samhain Eve, and its spring counterpart, May Eve (April 30), were the two nights of the Celtic calendar when the veil between the worlds was at its finest, allowing for spirits to pass freely between this world and the Otherworld.  Hence the ghosts and goblins of Halloween, when the nights grow longer and colder.  By contrast, May Eve is a time when spirits of a lighter, more benign nature roam around, although they are still capable of great mischief and mayhem.  Spirits, whether light or dark, can trick or treat better than any mortal.  It's this rich and magical folklore I see when I watch the secularized Samhain celebrations on city streets.  Call me weird, but I much prefer large groups of people pretending to be scary and fierce to angry hordes engaged in street fights and riots.  Halloween is a unifying occasion for the many cultures and faiths represented in large, multicultural cities.  If it were seriously considered to be a religious holiday there wouldn't be the great numbers of revellers of diverse backgrounds dressing up and partying down.
Halloween is largely a North American festival, derived from the Samhain celebrations brought over by the early Irish and Scottish settlers.  The carving of pumpkins to make jack o' lanterns is one of the most

 ubiquitous and well-known of North American features of Halloween.  And it's another way that regular folk can be creative and express themselves. So what if Halloween is a diluted, popularized vestige of its former, Old World self?  That's what happens with time and adapting to a new land.  It's called change, and it's a part of life.
Halloween is a festival where people spend creative energy in "pretending" and leaving their ordinary, everyday selves behind.  For at least one night of the year they feel free to live in their imagination, and play like kids again.  So let the nay-sayers scoff all they want; they're missing out on all the fun. 
There are, however, and thanks be to Goddess, those who celebrate Halloween more seriously, by honouring the ancient, earth-based traditions of Samhain Eve.  They are the folk who follow the Old Ways, and conjure Magic all year 'round.  But present day Halloween is for everyone.  It has become a night when even Muggles* can make Magic.  And from what I've seen, they do, and have a blast doing it.   
So mote it be.
-G.P.
* non-witches and wizards, and other magically-challenged folk - from Harry Potter and Co.

Ordinary Miracles

The humble sparrow has been in my thoughts a lot lately.  No doubt that's because there has been a host of them in my backyard for a while.  I put up a bird feeder towards the end of last winter, and naturally it's attracted a lot of birds over the last several seasons.  A number of blue jays pay frequent visits, as do a pair of cardinals I've named Prince and Queenie.  I've also seen a couple of rose-breasted grosbeaks, a goldfinch or two, and even a Baltimore oriole drop by.  But the little brown jobs known as sparrows are certainly the most numerous.
The presence of so many sparrows gives me great joy.  I love watching all of them jockeying for one of the four perches on the feeder, or scratching about for seeds that have fallen to the ground.  Their constant chitter-chatter is soft, sweet music to my ears.  Recently they've become quite bold and hop about the patio directly adjacent to the feeder, perching and pooping all over the outdoor furniture.  I've also seen several fatally injured and dead sparrows on the streets in my neighbourhood of late.  On a more mundane, yet weirdly ironic level, a new upscale restaurant called Sparrow opened up in the 'hood early this past summer.  Unfortunately, it's not doing well at all, and looks as if it may be going the way of the aforementioned birds. 
The proliferation of sparrows in my life these days, real and symbolic, has left me wondering what it all means.  I need to know why and how they're connected to me.  Sparrows represent humility and the appreciation of the simple things in life.  Sparrow teaches us to accept ourselves as we are.  And the biggest lesson my new totem has taught me is that we all have our own special purpose, thanks to the joy I get from the ubiquity of sparrows that visit my backyard.  As I watch them through my study window it never occurs to me that they are the most common and ordinary of birds, because they make me smile.  What a gift.  If I feel that way about an unassuming little bird, I can surely feel that way about myself.

Although it saddens me to have seen dead and dying sparrows placed on my path of late, it's a reminder that these supposedly lowly creatures are very special to me now.  It reminds me that these small, seemingly insignificant birds truly matter, because they bring me precious moments of quiet joy.  I shall never underestimate the unique qualities of an ostensibly ordinary animal or person again - at least that's my hope.
Despite its diminutive size and plain colour, Sparrow has taught me an important lesson in humility.  I'm now able to see the abundance of small delights that fill my life, and for that I'm deeply grateful.
That's a lot of power for something so small.    
Blessed be.
- G.P. 

Now is a Good Time

The furnace in the house where I live was turned on today.  Autumn has truly arrived, both inside and out.

When people ask me how are you? I say very well, thank you.  And I am.  I still worry about our Earth, which is my true home, and I still shed tears thinking about the suffering and abuse of innocent animals.  (Not so much people, and don't bug me about it!)  I also feel guilty when I miss yoga practice, or don't give a needy street-person a small handout, or complain about one of the many things there are to complain about.  Sometimes I obsess about my aging, sagging body and skin-tone.  And I don't always keep abreast of the news, because it's usually more bad than good - really depressing in fact - which means I'm deliberately remaining ignorant of things well-informed, involved people are supposed to know.  But for all that, I'm really, truly well.  Better than I've been in a long time.  (I think that Grandma might have something to do with that - see previous blurb.  My yoga practice helps, too.)
The lingering feeling that I should be living an exciting, passionate, productive life doesn't bother me as much as it used to.  My life is pretty ordinary lately, and I'm okay with that, because currently I've got nothing to complain about compared to most of the people on the planet.
Old habits die hard, and replacing them with new ones - habits that benefit me rather than hurt me - is the most interesting thing happening in my life right now.  It takes up all my time, but doesn't interfere with whatever else I'm doing.  In fact, being fully present and aware makes everything I do easier.
I live in the present more than ever these days, and it's taken me almost 23,000 of them to get to this point.  But now that I'm getting the hang of it, whatever I'm going through - good, bad, or "formerly known as boring," doesn't seem so bad or boring at all, because I'm managing it in the moment.  Finally.

I am, by the standards I set for myself when I was young and stupid, living an "ordinary" life, and making an "ordinary" living.  But I'm learning to place the emphasis of that self-observation on living and life, rather than ordinary.  And being fully present endows a person with presence.  There's nothing ordinary about that.
The furnace in the house where I live was turned on today.  Autumn has truly arrived.  Observing that simple fact began this blurb.  A mundane bit of minutiae led me to muse on how rich and full an ordinary morning can be.  And right now, in this very moment, I feel the same way.
Blessed be.
- G. P.

Tabula Rasa

Grandma and I met for tea last month.  It was my seventh visit with her, and the fifth time I drank her potent tea.  Drinking Grandma's tea  is one of the bravest things I've ever done, because she's not my paternal or maternal grandmother - both long gone - but the spirit plant known as  ayahuasca.
 Ayahuasca is indigenous to the Amazon rainforests, and is considered to be the grandmother spirit of the hundreds of thousands of plants that grow there.  Brewed along with her companion plant, chacruna, it makes an elixir used for healing and spiritual growth.  It has been drunk in ceremony by Amazonian healers and participants for thousands of years.  I've written previously about my earlier experiences with ayahuasca (ref. 9/11/12), and believe me, none of them was a walk in the park, but my most recent visit with Grandma was the hardest and deepest of them all.  And the most healing.
Grandma is sometimes called la purga, because of the intense vomiting she induces.  When I first went to Peru three years ago to participate in ayahuasca ceremonies, I naively thought that I'd have beautiful visions of Grandma's spirit world, and commune with Nature, the Cosmos, and All That Is.  Grandma does indeed bring such visions and knowledge to the seeker, but she's first and foremost about healing, which is the purpose of the vomiting.  It's meant to cleanse and purge the body and soul.
I've always been a magical thinker - tempered with an understanding of the basic physical laws of nature - so I initially thought that Grandma would bring me straight into the heart of all Creation, visions and all.  Boy oh boy was I wrong.  Instead, every time I drank her brew, Grandma took me on a ride that had me reeling from the worst motion sickness I've ever felt.  The ups and downs of a gigantic roller coaster are nothing compared to drinking Grandma's tea.  Each time I drank her elixir I ended up heaving and whirling, and silently vowing that I'd never do it again.  Obviously, I changed my mind.

Ayahuasca changes the body on a cellular level, and I must have unconsciously felt it, otherwise I can't explain why I kept coming back for more - more healing, that is.  Because I sure wasn't coming back for the nausea.  The day after the ceremony participants experience an afterglow that's akin to feeling reborn. At least that's the way it feels to me.  Once the afterglow wears off, there are insights and revelations that come to light for weeks afterwards.  It's magical.
Grandma's magic sought me out this last time.  I was riding the subway in the large city where I live, when lo and behold, I saw Jessica, the ayahuascera, a.k.a. shaman, who works specifically with Grandma A., sitting and riding on the same train.  I had first met Jessica in Peru a few years ago when I participated in some ceremonies, and then a year later at a retreat in the boreal forest of my home and native land.  But bumping into her on a subway train many miles from her haunts was truly uncanny.  Jessica informed me she was back in my neck of the woods for another retreat, and had arrived in town just that morning.  The chances of my running into her were slim, but as Jessica pointed out, Grandma had most surely arranged our meeting.*  Thus began my recent magical, devastating, nauseating, enlightening journey with Grandma.
*(One of the more notable indications of Grandma's presence is synchronicity, which is the lay person's term for magic.  Credit for that apt and clever description of magic goes to the author O.R Melling, as described in her fantastic book People of the Great Journey.) 
I couldn't go on the retreat in the northern woods, but fortunately I was able to attend a ceremony for one night in the city the following week.  Not surprisingly, I vomited numerous times throughout my visit with Grandma, but it was the penultimate purge that was the most memorable.  The others that preceded it were hard, of course, but the second to last one was truly scary.  Hellish, in fact.
Just as I was beginning to think the nausea was finally coming to an end, I felt my stomach turn over again, warning me to pick up the bucket I was keeping at my side.  Before heaving, I emitted a sound deep from within my solar plexus. It sounded utterly chthonic and fiendish.  It came from me, but it wasn't me.  I couldn't recreate that sinister voice if I tried.  Nor would I.

Ceremonies are done in complete darkness, and the bucket I happened to grab that time wasn't mine, because I could feel that it was empty and unused.  I wondered at the time how that could be, but didn't dwell on it because I was too nauseated to care.  It's a good thing it was empty, too, because it collected the largest volume of yucky stuff I had brought up all night.  I was surprised at how much I threw up because there was nothing left inside me, nor had there ever been, since I'd eaten next to nothing for twenty-four hours before the ceremony.  But the contents of one's stomach aren't the only things that Grandma's brew eliminates.  She also cleanses the soul.  Although I couldn't see the crap I was vomiting, I knew instinctively it was blacker-than-black.  When I finished my business I returned the full bucket to where I'd originally found it.
A while later, although I have no idea how much later - time has no meaning during ceremony - I had my final purge.  Within moments of spinning and heaving up almost nothing, I felt a cool, refreshing breeze waft across my face.  Afterwards I sat in pure physical bliss for several minutes, somehow grateful to know that the purging was over.
In the morning I found only my own bucket.  The bucket I'd "borrowed" for my subterranean purge was nowhere to be seen.  For weeks afterwards I obsessed over not finding any evidence of  the deepest experience I'd ever had during ceremony.  I even wondered why no one had been alarmed by the guttural voice that came out of me before purging.  It sounded like something out of The Exorcist.  But none of the brave women who were in ceremony with me said a word about it later.  It seems that the most vivid, substantial purge I'd had all night happened in my imagination, and yet it felt even more physical, and just as real as all the others.  Despite visions and altered consciousness, ayahuasca renders one hyper-aware.  I always knew exactly what was going on.
So what was going on?  The purge that finally rid me my inner demons may have happened in my imagination, but as Jessica reminded me, everything that happens in ceremony is real, imagined or not.  I was beset with knowing for sure that what I experienced was real because I'd forgotten something Harry Potter taught me - Just because something isn't real, doesn't mean it isn't True.
The Truth of all that transpired is still with me, and shall be for the rest of my life.  I expelled the last of the bitterness and anger from old wounds and trauma from the long past, mostly manifested as a history of depression.  And although I haven't been clinically depressed for a number of years now - wobbly maybe, but not in deep despair - I still harboured bitterness about my life not turning out the way I'd always dreamed. (A recurring theme on my little web.)  That bitterness, which I sometimes refer to as bile in my soul, has gone.  I spewed it into the "phantom" bucket during ceremony.  It's more than six weeks after I met with Grandma, and I'm still learning and growing, and free of the loathsome comparisons and envy that heretofore had been holding me back from complete healing.

Forgiving any persons who may have inflicted pain or trauma is one of the most powerful ways to begin the healing process.  Although I'd done my forgiving and made peace with my past a number of years ago, there was still a vestige of resentment that hung around like a pesky mosquito.  Despite years of therapy, self-reflection, and antidepressants - which alleviated the symptoms but did nothing to get rid of the cause - I wasn't able to completely let go.  It was Grandma who made me realise that the one person I hadn't forgiven was me.  I wasn't able to forgive myself for not being a better person.  I figured I was old enough, smart enough, and wise enough to peel off the worn-out "victim" label I'd been wearing all my life.  I could talk the talk, but I couldn't walk the walk.  I was my own worst enemy, and it was that lingering, embittered part of my self that finally spewed out of me during ceremony.  
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Grandma didn't heal me overnight, and I know I have more learning and growing to do, but she cleared the slate for me to begin anew.  And she taught me how to heal myself.  I know I'm not to blame for my faulty wiring, but I've still got a perfectly good brain that can be reprogrammed.  So I'm rewiring this and wiping out that - laying down new neural pathways with new habits and routines.  It's a discipline that requires constant attention and awareness.  Sometimes I slip up, but I immediately forgive myself for being human, do some quick re-framing, and then move on.  It's what yogis call practising yoga off the mat.

Earlier in this blurb I mentioned how my life hasn't turned out to be what I'd hoped or planned since childhood, and within a few minutes of writing those words, I received an email from a website that sends me daily quotes.  The message was so timely and magical it sent delicious shivers up my spine.  I knew Grandma had a hand in that, and was showing me her approval.  It also fits the theme of this particular blurb perfectly, so I shall use it... 
We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
- Joseph Campbell.
Thanks to two changes of residence in the last nine years, I regularly purge physical "stuff" I don't use or need.  (Another favourite topic of mine.)  I always feel lighter and freer after I've cleared stuff out of the house, and out of my sight.  Grandma's brew does the same thing, but on a deeper, more intimate level.  She's opened me up to a new life, and it sure as hell wasn't easy.  But real, true change never is.  During the last ceremony, as I reeled and rolled, I kept chanting to myself, ad nauseum - I get it. I get it. I get it.  I'd forgotten about that until this very moment, when I was trying to find a way to end this not-so-magnum blurb.  It seems so obvious now, and it's really quite simple... 
I get it, Grandma.  I get it.
- G.P.

The Bottom of the Garden

Lately I'm seeing sweet, little things I haven't taken much notice of before.  They've always been around, some of them right in my own backyard, but I wasn't looking very closely.  Although my glasses are a stronger prescription, my vision has improved.  That's a fair trade.  And here's a fair sight of some of the daily delights that grace my wondering, wandering eyes...

There's more to her than meets the eye.
- G.P.

Love is Blue

My cousin Laura, daughter of my late, great, goddess-mother, Gita Tante, recently sent the extended family a remarkable photograph.  It was a picture of Gita Tante, who had come back from the great beyond to say hello to her daughter, and by extension, the many people she loved and called family and friends.  But only Laura would have recognized her mother at the time she miraculously captured the picture, because Gita Tante did not look the way she did when she lived on this earthly plane.  Gita Tante had taken the form of a vivid, blue bird, an Indigo Bunting to be exact, that was perched on a branch overlooking her own shrine.  Laura had erected the shrine in the expansive garden Gita had lovingly created on the property of their country home.  When Laura emailed the pictures of this extraordinary sight, it was accompanied with a note that told of a time when she had asked her mother, "If you were a bird, what bird would you be?"  Gita Tante's reply was, "The bluebird of happiness."
I'm pretty sure Gita Tante didn't just mean that she'd like to come back as a happy bird, because she most certainly knew how to get joy out of life, but that she wanted to be a harbinger of happiness for anyone who encountered her.  I also suspect that Gita Tante was thinking specifically of Laura at the time.  Of course the love between mothers and their children is profound, perhaps the deepest connection a person can have, and Laura and Gita Tante had it in spades.  But my belief that Gita Tante meant she wanted to make sure her daughter was happy is derived from another story in their lives, which happened several years earlier.
A number of years ago Laura suffered a debilitating depression.  Although Gita was no stranger to dealing with depression in close family members, Laura's illness struck her harder than most, and Gita's concern for her daughter's despair was felt by the entire family.  Like many members of the family, I sent out my best thoughts and prayers to both my aunt and cousin, which included a silly note to help lighten a grave situation.  It was was a hilarious cartoon from the twisted, creative genius of Gary Larson of Far Side fame.  I first came upon it many years before when I, too, was in a very dark place.
At the time I was completely bereft of any sense of humour, not unusual for a depressed state of mind, but I clearly remember that this particular cartoon made me laugh out loud for the first time in many weeks.  Indeed, I still chuckle whenever I think of it.  Hoping that it would evoke the same reaction in both Laura and Gita Tante, I sent it to them.  Gita later told me how much the cartoon had amused her, and deeply appreciated that I had sent it along to Laura.  So, copyright laws notwithstanding, I'm including it here.  (I'm assuming my loyal legion of followers won't rat me out.)

Time passed, Laura recovered, and I didn't give that small exchange another thought until recently, when Laura emailed the photograph of a rare and stunning bird, sitting serenely above the shrine dedicated to my dear aunt, who was a rare and beautiful soul. 
There is communal headstone in a lovely, secluded, hilltop   graveyard marking the lives of six members of our family, including Gita Tante and her sister, my mother.  The epitaph reads Love Is Greater Than Death.  Gita Tante had chosen that epitaph herself, and the arrival of that bluer-than-blue bird reaffirmed the profound truth of those words.  Laura got the message loud and clear; her mother loves her still, and always will.  Like all messages from beyond, it had a ripple effect, reaching outward to touch numerous other people, including Gita's two sons, Edmund and Andris.  Thanks to Laura's timely photograph, one of the other people Gita's message reached was me, her goddess-daughter.
It was Gita Tante, and not me, who coined the terms goddess-mother and goddess-daughter.  She knew just how much those monikers would mean to me.  Gita Tante was also well aware of my obsession with signs, messages, and messengers from other worlds, which is why I can't help thinking that her bluebird of happiness stint, rich with meaning for Laura, was partly a wink in my direction, too.

I'm always searching for stories that fit the mandate of my little web, and this happy tale is a tailor-made fit.  In fact, Gita Tante was my most devoted follower on this web of mine when she lived in this realm.  By manifesting as a blue bird (not to be confused with a bluebird), she has not only validated my beliefs, but given me the gift of a magical story to remember, and write.  My wise and wonderful aunt has proved to me, from beyond the grave, that magic and miracles surround us everyday, if only we have eyes to see.
Thank you, Gita Tante, for the gift of joy you continue to share with your dear ones.  And thanks for showing me once again that the Goddess is alive and magic is afoot.
- G.P.

*    photographs and floral arrangements by cousin Laura
**  flowers grown by Gita Tante

Consider the Lilies

This morning I went for a walk in the park with my friend Margaret.  It lifted my spirits.  I felt brown when I met her.  I didn't feel that way when we parted.  Then I took pictures of happy flowers in the garden that fairly shouted at me to lighten up.  As you can see, they weren't brown.  So, in remembrance of this slow, moody, wistful, summer's day, I'm sharing some of the cheer and light that greet me in my own backyard.

Namaste.
- G.P.

July 1st

I've come back to my little web today because I want my most recent blurb to be a happy one.  (The one before this is about a bad habit of mine.)  And since I don't have anything really profound or newsworthy to say (so what else is new?) I'll just wish everyone who passes this way a Happy Day!
As I write this it also happens to be the national holiday of my home and native land.  But even if you're not celebrating a national holiday, celebrate life.  Love your family, love your friends - human and other - and love this beautiful Earth that still sustains us, despite all our efforts to thwart her.
I'm posting some pictures of my mini- holiday this past weekend, spent at a lakeside cottage with a couple of friends.  I'm glad the national holiday happens in the summer, because swimming, canoeing, and drinking beer are just some of the things denizens of this land do to celebrate it, and I always take great pleasure in joining them.  I certainly wouldn't be nearly so enthusiastic if the holiday happened in winter.
I'm also going to leave a couple more hints about just exactly what country it is I call home.  Of course it's no surprise to my legion of followers, because most of them hail from these here parts as well, but I enjoy the delusion of appearing cosmopolitan, in the hopes that my little web has broader appeal.  Or maybe I'm just being modest and self-effacing in not broadcasting whatever patriotism I may possess, which is apparently a trait of this country's citizenry.  I hope that's true, because I consider that to be a good point.  Or maybe it's just a reaction to our huge neighbours to the south, who are really in-your-face with their displays of patriotism.

But please, no matter where you're from, or when you happen to read this little bit of nothing, have a great day, eh?
- G.P. 

The Importance of Being Imperfect

I've been bad lately.  That's right, I've been doing things that a good person shouldn't do - specifically gossiping.  Gossip, by definition, is simply talking about other people.  Talking about events or ideas does not constitute gossip; that's discussion.  But once you talk about the affairs of other people of your acquaintance, you're entering the territory of gossip, even if you're speaking highly of the gossippee.   

Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.  That's a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt.  I've cited it before on this little web of mine, but it makes perfect sense to quote it now, so I am.
Unfortunately, I've been small-minded and mean, because I've been maligning someone I just plain don't like.  She's a colleague at the store where I work, and has been more in-your-face than usual lately.  And it's not just my face, it's everyone's, so my guilt about my uncharitable behaviour has been assuaged, but only slightly.
I'm fully aware of what I'm doing when I'm saying unkind things about her, which I prefer to think of as "observations."  Although there is some truth to my "observations," it still doesn't excuse my behaviour.  The people I gossip with are my friends, and they are good and sensitive people.  They wouldn't be my friends if they weren't.  And yet we still engage in hurtful chatter about our irritating colleague, all the while laughing it off and saying things like "We're going to hell for this," or "karma's coming back to bite us in the butt," as if that somehow mitigates our callous conduct.
I take responsibility for my role in all this.  That's the good news.  The bad news is I actually enjoy slamming my annoying co-worker.  Yes, it's true - I have fun at her unsuspecting expense; it helps to relieve some of my mounting frustration and anger with her.  And that's what bothers me the most - getting pleasure out of exchanging cruel words about a fellow human being.  Geez, I'm kinder and more tolerant of vicious animals.
The only way I can forgive myself for the recent emergence of my dark side is to admit I'm only human, with all the flaws and weaknesses that that entails.  I make mistakes and have regrets, which means I'm sometimes impatient and intolerant.  Maybe if I learn to embrace my imperfect humanity, and forgive myself for occasional lapses in decency, I'll be able to forgive my flawed, human colleague as well.
The next time I'm working with her, which only happens in passing at our busy store (thank goddess!), I shall breathe deeply and remember the words I've just written.
I think it's going to take me some time to pardon myself and my irksome co-worker for our mortal imperfections.  In the meantime, I'll regard her presence in my life as a challenge to get out there and walk my talk on the path towards being a patient, compassionate, and forgiving human being.
- G.P.

Apples and Oranges

I have OCD - Obsessive Comparison Disorder.  My habit of comparing myself to other people is a source of discontent.  It renders me feeling either lesser than or better than, and never simply good with who I am.  When I see truly unfortunate folks in unfortunate situations, I realise just how lucky I am, but that's not a result of comparing myself to them.  That sort of gratitude kicks in when life shows me what real misery and misfortune is like.  On those occasions I am glad to say I feel genuine compassion, and say a small prayer of thanks for the blessings I have.  Unfortunately, those reality checks aren't as frequent as my bouts of OCD.
Recently I read a quote, attributed to Theodore Roosevelt, that put things into perspective for me.  Suddenly I knew how to deal with my OCD.  Now, whenever I compare myself to others, I remember this quote.  It's an instant fix.  I just keep repeating the words when needed, and voilà, I`m in a better headspace.  So without further ado, here are words of wisdom that make me feel a whole lot better about who I am, without comparison to anyone but the person I used to be...
Comparison is the thief of joy.
- G. P.

Upside of Down

Today is a quiet one.  It's damp, mild, and grey outside.  But I don't feel the same, which pleases and surprises me, because I'm laid low with a bum foot, and my sciatica has flared up again.  Lying and sitting down hurt me much more than standing on my feet, so I haven't been able to do some of  things I enjoy, like sleeping, reading, and writing long enough to get some much-needed rest, or get into a productive groove.  Thanks to my smashed tootsie, I can't take a joy-walk, either.  Yoga's out of the question for the same reason.  But for all that, I'm feeling at peace.  The gentle, grey day has muffled the sounds of a big city and makes me feel as if I'm encased in a cocoon.
I have nowhere to go, no one to see, and no commitments to meet.  It's truly a day off and away  from busy-ness and activity.  And I'm okay with that, too.  I want to do less these days anyway, even when I'm healthy and fit.  But right now I don't feel guilty that I haven't been out for many weeks to take in a movie, or an art exhibit, or anything that supposedly vibrant, interesting people do.  Until this morning, when I awoke feeling strangely at peace, I lamented my flagging interest in interesting things, even before my recurring and recent injuries forced my present seclusion.  Today I don't feel remorse for my acquiescence, nor do I envy keener, busier people. Today is a gift.  And that is at it should be.
I'm making do with writing a few sentences at a time, then rising up out of my chair to alleviate the discomfort of sitting for too long.  Like most people who work at a desk, hunched over a computer, I spend too long in the same unhealthy position.  Now my body is making sure I don't.  In fact, I'm almost grateful for my current indisposition.  When I'm hale and hearty I feel as if I have to be doing something all the time, and then end up feeling like a loser if I'm not.
It's taken me a while to find a sense of stillness with my present circumstances.  At first, apart from the physical pain, I was resentful and bored.  I lost some hours and wages at work, as well as the required hours of practice for the yoga teacher's certificate I'm pursuing.  Eventually I got tired of feeling crappy, and realised there was no rush to do anything anyway.  It finally occurred to me that I'm fortunate that my life isn't rigidly structured or scheduled.  If my situation had happened to someone who's always out and about, doing things because they must or choose to, it would disrupt their lives far more than it has mine.  I'm not a type A personality.
I think and talk a lot about living a simple, mindful life, but don't really practise it.  A fall and a twist of fate have changed that, at least for now, and maybe for good.  It's a lesson learned the hard way, because it seems I wasn't able to learn it otherwise.
There are no accidents.  With my recent losses I now can see what I have left.  My instincts for living more deliberately, slowly, and simply have always been right, but I've always felt pressure to do more in order to appear worldly.  How shallow is that?  But I'm grateful for that unflattering realisation as well.
Quiet, self-contained people have always fascinated me.  I admire and respect such individuals, but seldom envy them, which makes me hold them in even higher regard.  They are invariably the humblest people I know.
My current situation has humbled me.  I'm forced to live with myself and ostensibly do nothing now that I've been laid low.  I don't look or feel my best, but somehow a little bit of the best of me has emerged. Changing the landscape is a privilege a fortunate few can afford, but with enough desire, anyone can change their soul.*
Namaste.
- G. P.
*  with thanks to Emerson and Thoreau.

Flaky, Part 2

I am 22,822 days old today.  Twenty-two is my favourite number.  I also love the perfect symmetry and balance of 22,822.  The number 8 is beautifully framed by 22 on either side, creating a solid foundation for the 8 in the centre, which is totally awesome because 22 represents "master builder" in numerology.  All four 2s in 22,822 add up to the number 8, which turned on its side is the infinity symbol.
Sometimes I'm glad I'm a new age flake.  This is one of those times.  
It's a great day to be alive.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Really Really Reaching

I haven't been here for a while so I'm taking a few minutes to write something just for the sake of writing something.  So now, dear reader, you have my permission to log off, because I have nothing to say, even though I'm still moving my fingers across the keyboard just to see what comes up.  I've done this before and the result is always the same.  It ends up being a silly blurb and a waste of my faithful followers' time.  I'll lose all two of you if I keep this up. 
To complete this blurb I have to find some picture on the big Web to put on this little web o'mine.  That's usually fun, but it means I have to find the right image for what I'm saying, and so far I'm not saying anything.  Instead of this tomfoolery I could be using my time to write my most personal thoughts, the kind I don't share with anyone (yes, I actually have those, contrary to all appearances) in my hand-written journal, but I'm here now and am curious to see what happens...
                          Uh, so far - nothing.
Sheesh.
If you've stuck with me this far, loyal readership, I salute you.

Now we'll take a short break to enjoy a couple of deep breaths...
                                                                           
I'm back.
               Are you?
                               Thanks.
I'm still desperately hitting the keys, hoping and waiting for some wise and wonderful bit of wordsmithery to come out of what so far appears to be a pointless exercise.
It's taking me a lot longer to write this business down than it is for you to read it, and still I blunder on.
I'm fully aware that this is now becoming repetitive and tedious.  But let me assure you, if that's how you readers are feeling, I'm feeling it even more so.  And what makes all this even more embarrassing is that I'm determined to post whatever shit I write anyway, because I'm conducting a very serious, writerly experiment, with every intention of publishing the results, for the edification of all and sundry who pass this way, and no matter how much I may humiliate myself and ruin my reputation as a blooger.
(Heavy sigh.)

Well, I've been at this for thirty-five minutes and nothing noteworthy has emerged, except for my willingness to make a fool of myself.  Hmm... That's the first half-decent observation I've made during this drivel.  Writers, or artists of any discipline, risk making fools of themselves when they express their thoughts in the public forum, just as I've done now.
But I'm bringing this bit of blurbishness to a halt now, and not because I haven't got more to not say.  I'm simply out of time.  I knew I had a limited amount of time when I began this blurb, which was also part of the experiment.
I've managed to get this posted before leaving for yoga class, which is right now, so this exercise hasn't been a complete failure, although I can't say I haven't appeared like a complete fool. 
The End.
- G.P.

First Days and Fresh Starts

Happy Vernal Equinox!  I'm writing these few words hoping  that doing something productive at this auspicious time will set the tone for the whole season.  It doesn't matter that I've nothing of real interest or importance to say, it's the effort that matters.  And believe me, it's taking a lot of effort for me to do this, because I'm still feeling the effects of a long, hard winter that refuses to go away.

Almost two weeks ago we had a day that held the promise of spring, and I felt like a completely different person - happy, hopeful, and spirited.  I still have hope that I'll be that way again, because spring is surely coming, despite the dull, grey skies and lingering, winter chill in the air.  The earth continues to tilt on its axis towards the sun, and shall continue to do so until the summer solstice.  And the closer it leans towards the sun, the warmer the weather will be.  Thank Goddess for these constants.
Writing on this little web of mine isn't the only thing that I'm doing to establish a pattern for better days.  Today I've thrown out garbage, refilled the bird feeder, watered my jade plant (it didn't need it, but it's a symbolic gesture), and filled out an application for another performance project I'd like to do.  I've done all these things with the intention that this spring, like all springs, is about clearing out and letting go, rejuvenation and rebirth, growth and productivity.
Now I'm going to soak in a hot, soapy, lavender-scented tub.  That will remind me of the warmest and most peaceful nine months I've spent on this plane of existence.  I won't have to do anything but breathe and feel my heart beat.  For the brief time I spend in the bathtub, doing nothing but feeling soft and safe in warm water, nothing on the outside affects me.  
There.  I've done it.  I've written a few words about the symbolic little acts I'm performing to mark this day.  Okay, I know, it's a pretty ordinary day and nothing to really write about, let alone read, but it's a start, and spring is all about fresh starts.
Blessed be.
- G. P.