The Priestess II

 
Greta the Great

  
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The Moon XVIII

Imagining the Worst

"Born into misery, gruesomely injured, and violently killed."
A Subject in the inbox assaults my morning eyes.
I open the message and find an empty page.
No pictures or words tell the story of a wretched life.
No petition to sign.
No link for donations.
Just a fill-in-the-blank screen. 
I'm glad for the glitch,
but sorry for the picture painted in my mind.   

-g.p.

The Tower XVI

Riding the Night Mare

Someone help me put out the fire!
Flames shoot across the furtive reaches of my mind,
       landing in a forest of forgetting.
Bugs in the brain erupt on my skin.

Darkness enfolds me,
        save for rapid bursts of crooked light.
Lightning strikes once, twice,
        then many times more,
                        on the very same spot.
Another myth shattered.

Somewhere inside & out there, an inferno rages.
       The price of a lie.
                      The cost of delusion.

Words spill onto the page, 
       then crackle and pop on screen.
                      Enter "Save."
    
The mind smolders, but my body is safe.
Until the next time.

- g.p.

Blue is Beautiful

Sadness and depression aren't the same thing.  Ever since I came back from Peru where I had my demons of depression purged, I've still had moments of real sadness.  But it's okay, because sadness and grief, as painful as they may be, aren't bad.  Depression is.  I learned that distinction in the Amazon rainforest drinking ayahuasca.
I've never been much of a news hound, although I like to stay relatively informed.  But since my return home, I'm deliberately more out of touch than ever.  Now that I'm back in my home and native land, I pay less attention to the news because it's so bloody depressing.  I do my best to avoid distressing pictures and stories, but the Internet is in my face and every day I'll see something that saddens me.

I get requests and exhortations for signatures and money from various agencies because I donate regularly to animal rights and environmental groups, so my name and email are "out there."  One morning last week my mood took a nosedive when I checked my email. I was assaulted with a horrific picture of a dead elephant with its trunk and half its face cut off.  This abomination was done in order to "harvest" its ivory tusks.  So I did the right thing and signed the petition to stop the slaughter, but it didn't make me feel any better.
I felt true grief for what we are doing to these magnificent animals in the name of greed.  But as genuine as my concern and sadness is, it's still not bad.  In fact, it's good that I feel that way.  Even deep grief for the loss of a loved one isn't bad.  It's painfully hard, but it's right and it's necessary. 
When I  railed against the hardship of drinking ayahuasca at the retreat in Peru, the ayahuascera told me not to judge an extremely difficult experience as "bad." 
Healing is difficult.  The more severe the injury or illness is, the longer and more painful the healing process will be.  Realising the difference between something that's bad, which implies judgement, and something that's arduous, which is a descriptive term, was a revelation for me. 

I am saddened by "bad" things, such as animal abuse and environmental destruction.  In fact, they may even depress me.  But they don't make me feel worthless and ashamed.  They aren't a reflection of who I am.  The things I deem "bad" reflect what I believe is right and wrong.  When I'm saddened or even horrified by what humanity is capable of doing, it means I care, and that's a good thing.  Rock bottom depression means the sufferer is beyond caring.  Depression renders a person self-absorbed. 
Nowadays, if I shed tears for the suffering of others, and that includes all living beings, it's because I'm no longer trapped in a morass of self-centred gloom.  I've been liberated from the prison of self-pity so that I can feel genuine sorrow for someone or something else, and perhaps do something about it, even if it's just showing some compassion.
Although grief and sadness usually happen because of a significant loss, love is at the very core of these  undesirable but necessary emotions.  Depression, however, is a result of a lack of love, whether it's for the self or another.  Andrew Solomon, author of The Noonday Demon, a brilliant, biographical tome about his depression, says that the opposite of depression isn't happiness, but vitality.  And William Faulkner famously said that "given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain."  Depression immobilises and atrophies the soul.  Grief and sadness, however, move the spirit, even though it may hurt like hell.  There's a stirring in the soul that allows for emotional clearance and eventual healing.
Although genuine sorrow makes the heart and soul vulnerable to more of the same, it also exposes the goodness and beauty that lie within.  It's a sign that life and love still matter.  And that's a good thing.
- g.p.

It's the Little Things

I recently saved the life of a butterfly.  I was leaving the local liquor emporium with my purchase when I noticed a red admiral butterfly stuck inside the store.  It was desperately  fluttering up and down the picture windows trying to find a way to escape. I knew there was no way the butterfly could survive in a sterile, indoor environment, so I took it upon myself to release it outdoors.
Normally I would have had two free hands to capture the butterfly, because I rarely leave the house without my knapsack to carry my goods.  But not this time.  Since I was holding a bottle of wine, I was forced to perform the capture and release operation with only one hand.  I suppose I could have put the bottle down on the floor, but I didn't think that was good idea with all the people walking around.
After a couple of failed attempts to cup the panicky little creature in my free hand, I finally managed to scoop it off the window. Two hands would have made it much easier to catch and then enclose the butterfly between my palms, so capturing it with only one hand was a very delicate procedure.  I'm glad that my slow, careful movements proved to be successful. 
Fortunately, I was very close to the sliding doors, which made it possible for me to make a quick exit.  As I burst out the doors holding a bottle in a paper bag in one hand (I know how that sounds - but too bad) and a butterfly cupped in the other, I nervously announced to a couple of customers entering the store to make way for a woman on a butterfly rescue mission.  They seemed rather amused as they politely complied with my request.  As soon as I was outside, I opened my hand and watched the butterfly take off.  I'd been able to contain it without damaging its wings at all. 
I was very grateful for a happy ending to a sweet little bit of drama.  Helping that butterfly made my day.  And I bet the butterfly was glad, too.
- g.p.

Distant Waves

A picture is a secret about a secret.  The more it tells you, the less you know.

- Diane Arbus

I have an old photograph of a young girl and her mother, their temples pressed lightly against each other as they face the camera, artfully posing for the picture.  The photograph was taken by my grandfather, and my mother and grandmother are the models.  Grandma is all smiles, clearly enjoying the moment.  My mother, however, is not as enthusiastic.  She looks sad and world weary far beyond her five years.  Her eyes have a distant look, and the corners of her mouth are turned down.  The first time I saw this photograph I was a young girl myself, just a few years older than my mother was when she posed for the picture.

Ma had hundreds of photographs depicting her life growing up in Latvia.  Most of them were taken by Grandpa, who was a gifted amateur photographer.  Many years later my mother expertly pasted some of them into albums, either thematically or chronologically. The rest were kept in large, shallow boxes.
I loved riffling through the pictures and looking at the childhood and adolescent versions of my mother’s side of the family.  In the two decades before the Second World War photography wasn’t the digital point-and-press hobby it is now. The photos Grandpa took were almost always carefully set up, so that everyone had lots of time to smile and look camera-ready before the shutter finally clicked and whirred.  My aunt and uncle, who were my mother’s younger siblings, and my drama queen grandmother invariably seemed fine with having their picture taken.  My mother - not so much.  Even when she was all dolled up especially for the occasion, she didn’t smile.  She usually bore the look of someone who couldn’t smile on demand because she didn’t smile much at all.
I spent a lot of time trying to find pictures of my mother with a smile on her face; even the Latvian equivalent of a “say cheese” grin would have done.  There were a few of her as an adolescent that looked as if she was making an attempt at it.  I guess by then she’d noticed that people tend to look better when they look happy.  She eventually improved at smiling for the camera as an adult, perhaps because she was a beautiful woman and knew how to work it to her advantage in pictures. 

It may be true that the camera never lies, but it also hints at untold stories and secrets.  I intuitively knew that as I searched to understand my mother’s reluctance to put on a happy face.  I wanted to unearth the story beneath the photograph’s glossy surface.  Those photographs taught me how to make connections between the past and the present, the seen and the unseen.  What I felt in my bones fascinated me far more than anything I could plainly comprehend with my ordinary senses.  Pictures may show what happened, and even how something happened, but they seldom reveal why.
Over the years I eventually realized that the photograph of my mother and grandmother was the proverbial picture that’s worth a thousand words.  Although that significant picture isn’t typically defined as synchronicity, it was a sign that pointed to a future my mother would one day share with me.
That photo speaks to me now more than ever.  It’s a constant reminder that I can’t change the past, and if I want some control over what happens in the future, I must pay attention to the present.  That’s strong advice from an old photograph that whispers secrets I’ll never know.  But I'm still listening. 
-g.p.

Jungle Love

Grandmother Ayahuasca has taught me well.  She continues to do so - and shall do forever, I hope.  Three weeks ago I returned from a powerful, difficult, devastating, uplifting, transformative, and healing retreat in the Amazon rainforest of Peru.  But for all the excruciatingly difficult hours I've spent under Grandmother's spell, I've come to know her as a healer and teacher, and above all - a loving spirit.  This grand lady of the Amazon plant world showed me how to love, and that's a tall order for someone as misanthropic as I've been.

My purpose for going there was to heal myself of the tenacious bouts of depression that have plagued me for much of my adult life.  I did so at  Grandmother's bidding, which I've written about a couple  of times in recent posts.  She called me to finish the healing process which began over seven years ago, when I first went to Peru to have her tea.  Since then I've visited her twice more at her jungle retreat, aptly named Parign Hak, which means "Grandmother's Home" in Harakbut, one of the languages of the many native peoples of the Amazon.
If I'd known then how long and hard the process would be, I'm not sure I would have begun.  But I was naïve and curious, so I unwittingly began a healing journey I didn't know I needed to take.  I'm not able to describe all that happened spending time with Grandmother, both in and out of ceremony, in a single post on this web of mine.  That's a book-length story for another time. 
As for my recent visit to the jungle retreat, the deepest and most abiding lesson began as soon as I arrived there, although I didn't realise it at the time.  My first time at the retreat was a year and half ago, when I met the lovely extended family who own and operate the retreat, under the leadership of married couple Victoria and Alberto, as well as Jessica, the resident ayahuascera.  I was really  looking forward to seeing them all again because everyone had been so generous and kind to me my first time there.  And it seems they were looking forward to seeing me as well, because I was received with so much love and joy I momentarily thought they must have mistaken me for someone else.  My reception was an embarrassment of emotional riches filled with all kinds of aw shucks moments.  
I was overwhelmed with an outflowing of love from open, trusting, and trustworthy people, who made me feel completely safe and at home in a strange and exotic place.  Indeed, it was all that love and support that gave me the strength to drink Grandmother's jungle juice when I did.  That's what love does.  It gives you courage to do things you otherwise wouldn't be able to do. 
I spent a week on Grandmother's turf with people who were unobtrusively attentive to my needs.  Little by little I was learning Grandmother's deepest lesson in the daily interactions and activities at the retreat, completely outside of ceremony.  Of course Grandma saved the really tough stuff for tea time, when she was purging me of my demons.  It was only after those bad guys were expelled as the retreat was nearing an end that I was fully and finally able to recognise that the big lesson I was learning was indeed about love, especially love for myself.
So it wasn't random at all that I developed a very large, ugly cold sore on my lower lip, that ended up crawling a third of the way down my chin.  In the past I've gotten cold sores after experiencing a radical change in climate.  But I've been to Peru before, as well as other tropical countries, and not had any problems in that regard.  But this time was  different.  My first lesson in self-love was literally in my face.  Learning self-acceptance while feeling like a leper isn't easy.  Fortunately, all the good people at the retreat, custodial family and fellow participants alike, were sweet and sympathetic, and clearly didn't seem to mind the eyesore on my mouth and chin as much as I did.   
I didn't let anyone take close up pictures of me, and I sure  wasn't taking any selfies.  To make matters even harder for my beleaguered self-esteem, my retreat mates - two women and two men - weren't just thoughtful and kind, they also happened to be really good looking.  Those fine people  proved to me that true beauty is more than skin deep, and they had it both inside and out.  (Please know that good looks weren't a prerequisite for being on the retreat.)
My time in the jungle also proved to me that everyone is a teacher.  We all teach by example, whether we're aware of it or not, and I had some of the best teachers ever.  I've never been much of a hugger, but I eventually got the knack of it because it would have been rude and ungrateful of me to not return all the hugs I received as soon I arrived, and then again when I was leaving.  All that hugging coming at me from all directions finally broke this hug-resistant person down.
As ancient and formidable as Grandmother is, she's always availed herself of teaching assistants when I've visited her in Peru, usually in the shape of animals.  She knows I trust them more than humans, so she's used their services in the past to help teach me about life and love.  This time, however, her helper was Luciana, a little girl of about five years old.  Just like animals, small children are basically innocent and don't censor the way they feel. 

Luciana and I never spoke to each other because we didn't speak each other's language.  Our communication, if that's the right word for it, was wordless, just like my previous connections with Grandmother's animal assistants.  A few times through the week  I noticed Luciana just staring at me with childlike curiosity.  At first I vainly worried that it might be the ugly sore on my lip that fascinated her, but I soon realised she was looking deeper than that.  I felt as if she regarded me with a knowing far beyond her years.  Like the elderly, kids have a way of seeing beyond mere appearance.  Besides, they usually don't care much about how people look, and believe me, I was very grateful for that.  So whenever I caught Luciana gazing my way, I simply gave her a smile and a little wave, and then went on about my business.
It wasn't until the end of the retreat, however, when we were preparing for the long journey back to Cusco that I realised that Luciana had been Grandmother's designated teaching assistant.  I was standing quietly aside while the van was being loaded with our luggage, when I noticed Luciana walking towards me with great purpose.  She came right up to me, grabbed me around my waist and gave me a huge, heartfelt hug.  I was more than a little surprised and deeply moved.  I didn't know what I had done to deserve such spontaneous and ingenuous affection, but I quickly pulled myself together, knelt down and returned her sweet gesture.  It was my favourite hug the whole week.  So if I revert to my usual "air hugs" now that I'm back home, I'll just find myself a little kid to practise on and work my way back up to hugging big people.

Luciana's surprising and unselfconscious expression of love reminded me of another incident many years ago when another little girl took a shining to me for no apparent reason, and then expressed it aloud.  (See From the Mouths of Babes, 11/1/18)  Luciana's hug communicated the very same thing, and for what seemed like similar, undefined reasons.
It's no accident (nothing that happens in Grandmother's realm is) that Luciana's name means "light."  I feel honoured that she chose to shine her light on me.  It allowed me to see myself through a child's unspoiled young eyes.   
It's unrealistic to think that love can cure all bodily ills, but even a little love can help to heal a wounded soul.  I'm lucky - I got more than my fair share for a week in the jungle.  And I shall be forever grateful to all those beautiful people from whom I learned the greatest love of all - love for myself. 
So mote it be.
- g.p.