Artwork by Kari Minnick

I’m in a perpetual “wha?” state as of late, more than a little flummoxed by the odd energies I’ve fallen into.  My chosen perspective in the highest sense is to embrace said-frustration, say yay to my mass confusion, and transcend the urge to, well, feel it.

That only feels like half the story, however – like I’m ignoring a chance to dance through the whole spectrum.  So allow me to indulge in the ambiguity.

Sheesh, it’s so ambiguous, in fact, that I hardly know where to begin.  I’ll go first to my feelings.  I am absolutely submerged in the duality of emotions.  There’s someone I feel rather threatened by – his energies / message feel harsh and egoic to me these days, if I’m speaking from one of my many perspectives.  On the other hand, I can see the self-projection of this reaction clear as day, own it as my own distortion, and cease to view him in any other light but that of divinity.  And when I ask myself – which one is true?  Is he full of shit and spouting mindless drivel?  Or is he a sage showing me wisdom and self-illumination?  Self answers – why yes, he is!  Both of these and neither of these!

To which I say – Grrrrr.

Conversations have been laden with miscommunications lately, and they’re not normally even my own.  I have watched over a dozen times this week as people interpret statements in multiple ways – none of which mirror how I see things.  I realize that’s always, always happening, and I’m simply casting a light on this revelation.  We humans, damn, we just don’t communicate well.  We pretend to, in all earnestness, but because our own little world view is so incredibly snowflake-unique, we just can’t see it any other way but our own.  So we walk around understanding on a higher level (although not always in tune with such things) and pretending to understand on the mind-level.  It’s a very interesting game.

Last night I had a dream involving Hubby (a best friend in LA who was always been my “gay husband” – in other words, my intimate other half that is repulsed by my plumbing).  We were talking about a major life decision I was trying to make – whether or not to accept a job at Disney (where we both first met – and BTW, this job offer is entirely fictional.  I am not poised to return to Mouse-hell). I surmised with Hubby whether or not accepting the job would give me a color on my rainbow-colored easel.  In my dream-world, everyone carried around a flat easel-like object covered in fabric that reminded me of the outside of a tennis ball.  When a decision was made that allowed for personal growth and transformation, one got a color on their easel.  That was my focus in the dream – I didn’t want to do anything that would be, in essence, colorless.

Hubby challenged this.  He mused that I cared only about gaining colors, not about living.  He stated he had no clue how many colors his easel had, as it wasn’t his concern.  He just wanted to be present, to live, to be happy and suck the marrow dry.  I got this perspective, and then started discussing the “game within a game” concept – that coloring in my easel was equal in meaning to not coloring in my easel – it’s all the same in the end, regardless.  The act of gaining colors was just a distraction for my mind, something for her to focus on, as real transcendence occurred.  Hubby stated I spent more time helping others get colors than filling in my own, anyway, and I challenged him there – stating there was no difference between a color on, say, Seeker’s easel (he also appeared in the dream – a very prominent ex-boyfriend) than one on mine – it was all mine, ultimately.  That whole oneness thing.

The dream really hammered into the heart of my confusion.  It’s as if all this effort, all these hopes and dreams and truth-tellings and heart-pours – they are all, in the highest sense, meaningless.  I will return to the source and achieve enlightenment whether or not I always tell the truth.  Choose to be a murdering freakfest or hug it out with one and all.  It’s all. . . the same.  I’m just looking for the right distractions that divert my attention long enough for the *real* truth to float on in with any sort of staying power.  But even then – hell, I’m not sure that works either.  

It’s all about intuition, at the end of the day, and I guess that’s where I’m lost.  I have a hard time deciphering between bona fide internal knowingness and the often uber-convincing egoic chatter.  Kat, my alter EGO, talks a *very* good game – she often masquerades as the enlightened one, as she so desperately wants to be in on the secret.  And can’t be.  So, until I get very, very clear on which Me is attempting to guide the proverbial bus, I suppose confusion is the delicious dish I must just feast on, with gratitude.

So, yay for the head-spinning WTF is happening outcries.  I’d like to see my mind get so worked up over the inexplicable little world I’ve now adopted that she just implodes already and lets the God-head take over.  I’ll keep being confused by what it is I’m actually trying to do.  I’ll keep feeling confused about what teachers are telling me, the games Orion is playing, and the various voices in my manic being.  

Down deep, I can admit – I get it.  Somehow, some way, it’s clear.  I don’t have the words – they can’t access this knowingness.  And so those words that do appear speak only of the small mind.  This I know.  Illumination doesn’t come through the mind, which is the source of all words – so just know that if you could sit across from me now, if we could see each other. . .we may echo our confusions, but a good old-fashioned eye-lock would reveal something vastly different.  We could hold each other as mirrors for just a moment, and see that we do, in fact, Know.

Now that’s a revelation.

I’m in a mood. I’m elsewhere, really – it’s been an intense evening, and it’s anything but over.

Work was work. I came home and organized – unpacked a few things, put others in their place…Mom is coming to visit tomorrow; first time she’s seen the house since we did our first walk through. And it was a mess and she hated it and she has only wished to see it transformed and livable. I tried to create that.

Then I settled in to finish a film I started last night. I was about 20 minutes into Babel, and as the story goes, communications got crossed and I had to stop for the night.

Tonight though, I rode through to the end. Touch and go as it was.

I knew what to expect. I fell in love with Amores Perros, and in like with 21 Grams – I’ve been down Inarritu’s road before, and it’s such a profound path.

Babel I know – historically speaking. The ancient tower that at first meant utopia – a pile of people all speaking the same language, all climbing closer to heaven. And then they say God grew angry, forcing them all to miscommunicate, throwing up emotional barriers, and it all came crashing down.

Yes, well, sounds familiar?
It doesn’t have to.

And anyway, it’s beautiful – the film. But that’s not the point of my story – not exactly. What I’m trying to say in a tongue-tied way is I had a bit of a reaction.
Chieko, the Japanese woman who’s a deaf-mute in the film, takes a tab of ecstasy with a crew of friends, and winds up in a nightclub. I’m not sure if it was a flashback experience, or my first hardcore shakti in a long long time, but as she swallowed the pill, so did I.

There’s a point on ecstasy – though it doesn’t always happen – that I would start to shake uncontrollably. It’s a bit like a seizure, only mine stays square in my jaw, rattling me into a present-focused submission. I used to love these moments; the serotonin would explode into my brain cells and I’d tremble and sigh and just fallllllll
into the music. Out of my head and body, and out into the cells of the world.
I know now those rattles weren’t just an indication that the drugs were kicking in. Those were my walls crumbling. Those were the moments when I had no protection, when any and every energy invaded my being and merged with my cells, sucking in parts of me and leaving hitchhiking trails of entities I had no interest in bonding with.
But I didn’t know. I didn’t know what energetic suicide I was experiencing. Because I didn’t want to.

A few months back, I was having a session with a healer, and he knew enough to put massive amounts of pressure on my jaw – or at least that’s what I felt, though he says it was just a gentle rub. This action sent me into the most dramatic shakedown – jaw through fingertips – that I had ever had; stone cold sober as I was. This time, though, I was protected. He wrapped me in a safe little bubble and I just explored. Floodgates of tears, stream after stream of ohmygodithurts, each aching to escape for days/months/years – I trembled for 15 minutes or more, until finally I could just breathe.

Tonight, watching Babel, I fell into one of my fits again; the first since the healing session. A little volcano released, and I paused the film, threw out my palms, and let myself shake. My jaw again. It’s like she wants to tell all these truths, to scoop out the insides and let this shit GO already, but there are no words.

Here I am, typing a novella, and there are
no words.

If we could just learn to talk to each other with hugs and loving glances, there wouldn’t be dozens of languages to separate us. We’ve created a false sense of division – this erroneous idea that we are in any way different or strange or out-casted – when, in fact, we’re all the same. Every word, every action, every tremble shows us giving and begging for love. God, it’s just that simple. But we choose to stay confused, we choose to create our dramas, and we choose to build our massive, infinite walls.

I smell like sage, my eyes are streaked with makeup, and I’m ready to sleep for a decade – but I’m not pretending tonight to be anything other than…who you are as well. It feels good to have a little clarity.

And it feels so good to just Be Love.