Post Haste

I always post my blurbs too soon. I get really excited about finishing a blurb and then I publish it right away because I want to see what it looks like and when I check it out a little while later I'll notice all kinds of little typos and editing errors scattered nilly-willy and thither and yon and then I feel like some sort of illiterate boob and of course I'm mortified and so I spend the next few days constantly revisiting my most recent blurb and frantically fixing & tweaking & hoping & praying that none of my followers - ha! that's a laugh - have read it yet but someone always has and then I want to die of embarrassment.  That's why I'm writing this particular little bit of blurbishness because I really couldn't bear the thought that some people only read my blurbs when I first  post them because I worry that oh my goddess people must think I can't write worth a poop but of course if anyone really thought that they wouldn't keep coming back to my little web so I guess I'm okay.  So I'm probably making a big fuss for nothing but I just wanted everyone to know that I'm on top of it and know what I'm doing most of the time.  Whew that's all as you were.
-G.P.

That Was Then

I sometimes exorcise my demons when I write on this little web of mine.  And that's exactly what I'm doing this time around.  I don't know if it's the time of year, or my time of life, but I'm experiencing a bit of an existential crisis.  It's nothing that's going to send me around the bend or over a cliff, but it begs my attention.  My usual New Year's life-assessment has brought up the dreams of my youth, and how none of them have been fulfilled.  Although I've been paying a great deal of attention to my material and spiritual progress for the last few years, I was saddened to realise that nothing in my life has gone the way I'd hoped and planned since I was a very young girl.  That's right - nothing.  I've been an actress and writer all my life, even when no one was watching or reading my attempts at expressing myself.  Sometimes, however, my work was acknowledged when I was in a school play, or when I received compliments or high marks for a well-written bit of wordsmithery in English class.
When I eventually understood that some people do those things all their lives, and make a living at it no less, my path suddenly became clear.  "Yes," I thought, "I'm an artist, and one day I'll be recognised and paid well for what I love to do, for what I have to do."  All at once I knew that it wasn't just far-away, untouchable, unreal people who starred in plays or movies.  I came to the realisation that I, too, could be a working artist; that I could play and write for the rest of my life, and declare myself an actor/writer on my income tax form.  After all, other people did it, why couldn't I?  So I dreamed and planned, then studied and focussed on making a career for myself.
Ah - what dreams I had.  And how naive I was.  When I think back on how I imagined myself by this time in my life - an accomplished, successful actor/writer surrounded by fellow artists who respected and admired me as I did them, I understand better than ever the meaning of "young and foolish."  But those were my dreams; they weren't real life. The real life I ended up with could easily be interpreted as failure - just a bunch of crazy, defunct plans dreamt up by a loser.  I'm not suggesting that's the way I feel about myself right now, but that insight into myself is still not an easy pill to swallow.
I have to face the facts - my life is not what I'd hoped it would be when I was a callow youth.  I'm not so self-absorbed to think I'm the only one who's realised at a certain age that they've missed the boat that's sailed off to the land of their dreams.  I just never thought that I would be one of those people  Aye me.
I suppose I could spend more time trying to figure out just exactly how and why I fell off my chosen path, but what's the point?  Although I've done plenty of self-analysis and self-flagellation over the years and come up with some reasonable explanations, it hasn't changed a thing.  I could attribute my ostensible failure to not working hard enough, bad luck, or worst of all, just plain not being good enough, which would mean I've been deluded all these years, too.  Sheesh.  But I honestly don't feel as if I've been deluded.  In the hard, competitive life of an artist in any discipline, there are lesser and greater talents, and just like any business, the arts accommodates them all to varying degrees of success, and not always according to their worth.

My idea of success has changed over the years.  When I was young and stupid I aspired to being "rich and famous."  Eventually I developed a much more realistic attitude about my non-career, and would have been happy to simply make a decent living at following my bliss - you know - pay for the necessities of life with something left over for pleasant pastimes and the future.  That didn't happen.  In order to get by I must work for pittance at a bookstore where I'm neither challenged nor impassioned, and which gets increasingly harder on these weary bones.
I hope this doesn't sound as if I'm complaining, because I don't intend that at all.  I'm simply outlining the bare facts of my current situation.  I've come to the harsh realisation that I need to change my game plan at this late juncture, and that really sucks.  I mean, how does a person just up and alter their life-long dreams and aspirations?  They've been with me for so long they're encoded in my DNA.  Since it's obvious that scheming and dreaming hasn't worked for me, I've decided to just undertake each enterprise in the game of life as it comes along - doing what has to be done from one moment to the next, and to hell with devising a new plan.  Fully engaging in the present moment will propel me into the future.  I've got to travel through life without attachment to the outcome.  Easier said than done, I know.  Once again, at this late stage, I'm playing the Fool in the hero's journey of the tarot.  That's been happening a lot to me lately.

I wrote at length about how I felt as if I were the Fool in the tarot deck while I was in Nepal this past fall.  (see Dec. 12/12 blurb)  By now my readers know how often I come upon signs and portents on my journey through life, and my time in Nepal was thick with them.  On my many perambulations up and down the roads and paths of Nepalese towns and countryside, I noticed lots of abandoned playing cards.  (To while away the hours Nepalese men like to play cards in the great outdoors.)  I usually ignored these bits of detritus, but twice I decided to heed my inner voice and picked up a single card which I spied lying face-up and directly in my path.  When I find random playing cards lying around - and it's happened numerous times over the years - I pay attention to what appears to be a message just for me.  (I'm able to interpret playing cards because of my familiarity with the tarot, which is derived from the regular players' deck.  The four suits, the number cards from aces to tens, and court cards etc. are the minor arcana - lesser secrets.  The tarot deck, however, has an extra 22 cards which comprise the major arcana, beginning with the The Fool, number 0.)  Well, wouldn't you know, on the two separate occasions the lone card I decided to look at turned out to be the Joker.  The Joker is the only card in the playing deck which has an equivalent in the major arcana of the tarot.  Maybe you've guessed where I'm going with this... The Joker corresponds to none other than The Fool in the tarot.  Weird, eh?  But it gets even weirder.  The Fool signifies beginnings of a journey, both physical and metaphysical.  The first time I found the Joker/Fool was a few days after I began my Nepalese sojourn.  The second time was just before I returned home.
Now that I've been home for a couple of months I understand the message from those cards more and more every day.  It's finally time to abandon my life-long, cherished dreams - but only as an outcome, not as a path.  I'm still following my bliss every moment of my life and with every breath I take, and whenever an opportunity presents itself, I execute my plans for a better, more fulfilling life as an artist.
The rejections haven't stopped, and that's the hardest part of all.  Sometimes my heart breaks.  At my age and with my sketchy resume that happens more frequently than not, and it won't get easier.  I know that.  I also know that clinging to a goal that hasn't manifested has caused me more pain than joy, and prevented me from engaging in the moment - from being totally present.
As an actress I know all about presence.  An actor must be completely committed to the present moment.  An actor has to listen and pay attention to what's right here and right now.  It's the most basic rule of the craft.  The same rules that apply to acting apply to life, and I've somehow never thought to transfer those skills.  Go figure.  In my non-career I've focussed more on what's  to come and what I don't have but will one day.  No wonder I am where I am.   
I shall be is I am not.   

Those profound, poetic words are quoted from the chapter on The Fool in Tarot of the Spirit by Pamela Eakins, a book I'd been seeking and ended up finding in Nepal the day after I found the first Joker card.  (Coincidence?  I think not.)  Reading those words the first time was a moment of illumination.  I shall be is I am not.  I get it, I finally do.  Living in an uncertain future has robbed me of the present.  It's always been about where I'm going and not where I am.  That's tantamount to saying that if I'm not who or what I'll be someday, then I'm no one at all. 
No more "I shall."  I am begins right now.
I began this blurb by confessing that writing is a way of exorcising my personal demons.  So now it's done - I've expressed some of my recent issues.  It's one way this writer releases them and puts them out there for all the wired world to see.  I've said my piece to find some peace.  I may or may not be heard, and I'm glad to say I honestly don't care.  I've detached myself from that particular result.  Yet the possibility that someone will hear is always there - now, and in all the here-and-nows to come .  That's good enough for me.   That's good enough for Now.
- G. P.

Nonsense for the New Year

It's the second day of the New Year, 2013. (That means it's January 2nd for those of you who are calendrically challenged.)  I ought not to be offending any readers this early in the year - or ever, for that matter - but I'm feeling a bit stupid and uninspired right now, so I'm writing whatever nonsense comes into my head.  I haven't much to say about anything, but I feel I have to say it anyway.  I know that makes no sense whatsoever, but I'll just keep moving my fingers over the keyboard and see what happens...

Nothing.
Nothing's happening.  No thoughts are coming to me apart from the drivel you're reading right now.  So my New Year's gift to you is to cease and desist writing this twaddle right after I wish you a happy, healthy and prosperous 2013, and leave you with a quote that makes me feel better about being a writer, actor, and storyteller whom many people might deem a failure because I'm not rich or famous. (I found the quote on Facebook, posted on one of my "friends" pages where it's misattributed to the Dalai Lama.  But more on getting misinformation from online sources coming soon to a blog near you ...) 
The planet does not need more successful people.  The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers and lovers of all kind.
- David Orr
Well said, Mr. Orr.  And good on you for having your wise words attributed to none other than His Holiness the Dalai Lama.
- G. P. 

Oh My Goddess

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Grain of Sand

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

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

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

Natural Hearing Aid

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

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

When the Pupil is Ready

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

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

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

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

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