Synchronicities

Since returning from the Caribbean I've been giving serious thought to how I live my life here at home. The sheer joy I experienced being there has overwhelmed my complacency.

More than the centered peace, it was the ability to go at my own pace all day each day that most profoundly stirred reflection. Instead of waking up at six-something in the morning, I woke up at my natural hour of 8am. I'd rest a while, take a shower and then head off to a breakfast overlooking a magnificent turquoise sea. The icon on my blog was the exact view.

I've oh-so-often bragged about the ease and flexibility of the job I currently have. Compared to all the other jobs I've known, compared to all that I'd previously considered, it satisfies. But then I had this other experience. I did what I most wanted to do at any given moment. Freedom, joy, peace and love all rolled up into a timeless experience of pure present

Working has been hardest of all. I question how fulfilled I am with it. From where did I learn to value the lure of security over my present joy? In nearly every other area of my life, I am a risk taker. Not as much as others, but enough that it shocks me that I so readily use the promise of a pension as the reason I can't move on. Then, again, it is precisely because I have been one who follows her whims, that I've learned to value the wisdom of a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Am I sacrificing present joy for an unknown future? Typing here is like therapy for me if you wonder why I do it. Just remembered the job from hell that I left UCLA to pursue. A very bad decision. I got a little frustrated and left something that had the potential to lead me into some sort of deanship at UCLA. Of course, everything I"m saying here suggests that I'd ultimately have left for more freedom and flexibility anyway. Nonetheless, the move looms large as a rash decision I'd like to avoid repeating.

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Speakers from the local community college were scheduled to speak today. They'd been on calendar for over a month. In fact, they were supposed to speak before I left for TCI, but rescheduled for today. Their presentation was on careers. It was the same presentation I gave my kids a month ago using some websites on estimating living expenses and linking that with occupational choices. It's what my book was ultimately trying to share with teens and parents.

It is the presentation I consistently consider doing a few evenings each month at local churches or for other parent groups...and then don't. I was surfing through prior entries this evening, looking for something related to Reiki, and instead found a reminder about a profound experience. The title of the blog is unchanged from it's original. Ironic. Maybe I mean insightful.

There are no coincidences.

I can do the workshops without it taking away from writing my book. It's even possible that doing the workshops is a necessary and important step that puts me closer to the book's completion and publishing.

And then enters doubt.

What a difference love makes

I met someone in TCI. Someone I became quite enamored with in a few short days. Talk about vivacious. I didn't even realize what had happened until it was too late. After being home two days, all I knew was that nothing was the same. Even if I could live without her, I wouldn't want to.

She enjoys waking up at a leisurely 8am. Follow that with breakfast, coffee and then time to work at her craft--lots of writing. A late afternoon swim in the salty sea takes her straight to heaven. After that a short siesta on the sand. Wake up to a view of shades of green-blue darkening into the distance until a vibrant cobalt touches the sky and softens her soul. It is a pleasure to behold.

It broke my heart when she left. She didn't return home. She left her home to return to the place she's resided most of her partially lived life. I didn't know this woman, this me, so free, was even on the menu.

The me that I was in TCI was on her own schedule, listened to her own rhythm, cared for nothing but each moment's opportunity, fully enjoying the present. All my life I've longed to be her though I never knew it.

That me I met in TCI...I am in love with her. She wants to live on a island. She wants to live that rhythm. The glow of her spirit in that place is too irresistible to allow a dull imitation to linger like stale air around her any longer than necessary. I am committed to ensuring her island dreams come true. It is a crime against her soul to claim to love her and do otherwise. I am in love with her. She is in love with the sea.

I've been talking about my need to visit, perhaps live in the Caribbean for years. Today I'm all the more certain of it. It's a constant movement toward greater certainty.
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This me I met deserves to have her dreams come true. Deserve??? That's a funny word to use. How is it that one deserves her dreams fulfilled when the dreams of so many others never see daylight? Does someone "deserve" to be fulfilled, happy, content or at peace? Does it have to imply that folks who suffer must "deserve" their pain?

I can't answer that age-old query. What I do know is that when we love someone we try to do all we can to minimize if not entirely eliminate their pain, suffering, discomfort or even minor irritations. We want for their joy, happiness and fulfillment. For those whom we have chosen to distinguish as "loved ones", we generally are comfortable saying they "deserve" the best life has to offer by mere virtue of being alive, being one of God's beloved. Because we feel something we call love for them, we hope they always enjoy life's best. We want to witness our loved ones in states of joy or contentment if not fulfillment and bliss.

What they choose, accept or settle for is another story entirely.
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I've got nine scenes of Caribbean beachfront up in my classroom. Two more, framed, sit atop my two filing cabinets. My computer's desktop is again a Caribbean beach scene. In my home four of eight framed and mounted pictures in my living area are beachfronts.

My soul has tried to speak to me through images for years and years. And even as I hear its yearnings, I've said time and time again, "One day". Always waiting! It still isn't action time. I'm not ready to leap out on faith, sell my possessions, quit my job, move there and see what happens. It isn't that I doubt God will provide for me. My soul knows he would. But that isn't what Iâ m moved to do.
I have a plan: Finally, a real and serious plan. It's a three-year plan. Here goes.

Sell my home in three years. Purchase an island condo or home, whichever I can afford. I won't move there and rent. If in three years I see a way to live there year-round and earn my income doing something I truly love while living there, then that's what I'll do. Adios and goodbye. I won't need to keep my home here in the states, because it's unlikely I'd return to live. If I do, worry about that then. If I only come back to visit, staying in a hotel for even a couple weeks will be cheaper than trying to hold on to property here for the sake of holding on to a possession out of fear of letting it go.

If three years comes and goes and it still makes sense to earn my money here, then I still plan to buy there and live here on the cheap. I'll live in my slice of paradise summers and long breaks.

"As God is my witness" | God as Witness? More like God as facilitator, instigator and co-conspirator. Who else put this longing into my soul? This dream is at my core. It's phenomenal really! God's fabulous motivating tool to get me to do more than simply rest in complacency. Spending night after night staring at a colorful box is not going to cut it. Selling my soul year after year for the promise of a monthly check when I am too old to enjoy it is senseless since I have no idea how long I'll be around.

Makes me wonder what the face of God looks like when He witnesses the choices we make, choices that add to our suffering and pain rather than our joy and contentment. I speak of those choices within our control, of course. When He views me in this life, this moment, does He wonder why I wait for perfect circumstances before moving to the place that makes my soul sing? To the place where I take pleasure in marveling at His creation? Is He waiting for me or am I waiting for Him?

The artist's doubt

I got in after midnight last night from my trip to Turks and Caicos' (TCI) Provo island. Of course, there are stories to tell and insights to share. I used some of the time at the airport to begin and outline a few entries.

This morning I opened an email from a fellow energy healer who has just finished the final chapter of her book. She is appropriately proud of it. I know that feeling. Unfortunately though, that feeling, for me anyway, comes only after blood, sweat and tears from wrestling with the angels. I am constantly on guard against self doubt.

One of the best parts of this trip was that I actually managed to get quite a lot done on the story. The generations are now complete. It is a chronicle of nine generations of women healers. The first a renowned, respected African Priestess delivered into the slave trade by a rival as a consequence of selfishness, using her talent and exceptional abilities for her own gain at the expense of another.

I always knew this was part of my main characters story, but hadn't been able to flesh it out until this week. Luzca, born in 1991 is ninth generation behind the powerful ancestor. I've always known that the book on Alice Dunbar Nelson was historical fiction--she really existed.

I'm starting to appreciate the extent to which I'll also be incorporating historical accuracy and perspective into this story. It too is turning out to be historical fiction. Lots of work ahead, which I look forward to doing.

The best part about what happened this past week was the way the story took its first unassisted breaths. Additional characters added themselves, their names, major events, how they died, the routes they took, the details on who took them in and on and on. It was more like collaborating with my right brain. My left brain sat typing while my right brain just dictated an already complete story. It really is a heady and wonderful experience that I hope to one day explore in print.

My role becomes much clearer after this experience. It is so clear to me that the story is already done. It exists in some other dimension and has been looking for a friendly human who'll lend themselves and help it grow into being here in this world. Much like music needs a willing musician or lyricist to welcome it through the dimensional doorway into our world, so too do stories and poems and so on. Seeing it this way helps control some of the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that I try to keep at bay.

Which brings me to one of the last experiences I had on TCI. I had a favorite spot at the hotel’s restaurant. It seemed odd that it was almost always available. My spot was at the restaurant’s edge, nearest the sea. It had the most direct view to the color of turquoise they must use to decorate heaven. I’d noticed another woman on several occasions who took her breakfast and lunch at the same times I did. She sat at the next best spot, at the restaurant’s edge but facing the opposite direction.

On this last morning when I went downstairs there she was. “Sorry, I know I took your spot. I thought you’d already eaten.” Now if this was my oldest buddy, he’d be quite certain that she’d wanted to get that spot for days after I made it look so attractive by the way I dawdled and stared out over the sea from my perch. He’d be even more certain that either she indeed tried to time it so that she wouldn’t have to compete with me for the spot or else hoped and prayed that by taking that spot, I’d do what I’d done any of the couple times it wasn’t free and sit in the next space over, hoping to engage me in a little conversation. I indeed sat adjacent. She indeed struck up a conversation.


It was morning, coffee time, and I’m not particularly conversational early in the day. But having opened with, “I took your spot,” how could I resist her? Turns out she owns a consulting business assisting companies who have large populations of downsized or laid off workers. She helps them relocate to newer, hopefully better jobs. When she asked the standard, “What do you do for a living?” I gave her the response I’ve grown more accustomed to over the past several weeks: “I make my money as a teacher, but my passion is writing.” I added my standard caveat that though I'm passionate about it, though I'm dedicated to it, I still question having the requisite skills to make my stories attractive to someone other than myself.

She immediately giggled. One of her gigs included working with a publishing firm that went through a major downsizing. She was assisting a project manager who’d worked with a series of best-selling authors in bringing their writing to market and on to success. (She gave me authors names, but best to respect their privacy.) My breakfast mate set about convincing the publishing executive that she was not only highly marketable but likely to find an even better job than the one she being forced to leave. I didn't ask what kind of "better"--more money, increased responsibility or perhaps greater fulfillment. As the publishing executive began to truly hear what my new friend was saying to her, she suddenly saw a parallel.

This publishing executive then relayed that every author she'd ever worked with thought their work sucked. “Sucked” wasn’t the word she used, but it conveys her point. She then said something about it being expected of artist types. That many artists underestimate their gifts until it is validated externally.

That helped. The universe at work. It was an absolute blessing that on my last morning in paradise, she'd share that tidbit. I rarely consider myself an artist. Seeing my life through the lens of artist fits better than when I insist on trying to view it through conventional lenses.

I recall being surprised when someone walked into my home to perform a service and within just a few minutes asked, “So, you’re an artist?” Since I hadn't owned it about myself yet, I thought she might be highly observant, maybe even psychic. I might as well praised her talent for recognizing that there is cola found in certain red cans with squiggly lines, and fancily arranged letters of C-O-K-E. Saying so might also mean, "next time try a professional decorator." The artist's doubt.

In the context of “artist type” my constant battles against thinking I can’t possibly write well enough to create an entire novel makes sense. It isn't every artist's issue, but enough of us have it.

Or maybe it's just a defense mechanism in anticipation of necessary constructive criticism. Clearly, the doubt doesn't keep me from continuing to pursue it. It just inspires a tendency to whine about it as I go.

BQMGDZ

That was my confirmation. I mean that literally. That was my confirmation for my trip to paradise, to heaven on earth. My blue dream, Turks and Caicos' Provo island vacation. BQMGDZ was the airline confirmation code. I did a double-take when I went looking for it to request an upgrade.

As noted in my last blog entry it's my goal to get some sort of outline for my book while I'm here. I find myself so easily distracted. Some might say it's the work of the devil to keep me from my true task. It's just the ego seeking to avoid any kind of work.

BQMGDZ

Well, I have to be honest here. I was going to write all kinds of other things instead of what is really on my mind. I am in the midst of watching some of my more earthly desires pass away. I'm torn about it. It feels like leaving the world behind.

Or maybe this too is some devilish distraction, a form of procrastination. Make this about larger issues of good versus evil instead of just working on this book.

I bought a book entitled something like The Tipping Point. Very informative and interesting. The guy next to me on the plane asked how I like it. He's read it twice, finds it valuable in terms of being more effective as a marketer of his business. We talk a while. I note that I meet the requirement of "maven" more than the books description of "connector" or "salesperson."

"Oh, an authority."
"I guess so. I'm a teacher and an author."

I introduced myself as an author. It's certainly not the first time I've told someone I wrote a book or that I even referenced myself an author. It was different, though. There was something in the way I said so...authoritatively, so certainly, so convincingly, so much a part of my identity. It was new to own it that way.

I'm an author. I'm here to work on my next book. And it isn't about how many people eventually read it. It is about getting onto paper the the underlying ideas.

Finally, that tipping point has been reached for me. The process is just as important as the result. The book has begun to breath. A few weeks back I dreamt of being pregnant. The tipping point is that this life, this book, will only die if aborted. I can't judge what others do with the gifts of life presented to them, but for myself, abortion is not an option.

With that said, I'm leaving this internet cafe. I'm heading back down Grace Bay beach and to my room where the outlines and sketches await me. I'll turn on the computer and I'll do what I can. I'll get something written.

I'll BQMGDZ. I'll nurture this little life until it can stand on its own, exist on its own. And then I'll send it into the world infused with all the love I am capable of bestowing upon it.

Writing the Light

I've been struggling with my writing. Not so much struggling as tolerating my passive indifference to moving forward with any one of three projects. Until tonight. I've pulled out the story sketches and event outlines and began a scene from Luzca's book tonight.

This is the first day of the third and final week of the 21-day post-attunement cleanse from repeating the Usui Reiki Master attunement. Amazing stuff has been going on. And today I am writing.

This day, just now, I began the arduous process of translating into fixed form these scenes and events that will eventually comprise my first work of fiction. So huge and tremendous. I've been talking about writing this and a couple other fiction pieces for a while now. Today I had that feeling I get when I am ready to brace myself for a long, arduous task. It's really more an action than a feeling. I pull at my hair.

When I pull at my hair while I write, it means I'm serious. It means I'm ready to wrestle with my myself, with my muses, with my vocabulary. It means that my heart and my intellect are going to try to work together, to hear each other out, to collaborate. And what it requires is confronting my ego at every sentence and sometimes at every word. The process of writing is hard for me because I let my ego run my intellect. I try to write from my head and it all sounds horrid. But until I learn a better way, my writing only proceeds from first putting down something, anything on the paper. The ego and the intellect tell a trite story. Then, at some unpredictable point in the future, my heart finds an opening and reworks the story in her image. Then there's beauty and fun, adventure and joy. Until then, and always before then, I have to watch myself put down crap.

I'm learning to appreciate that there are a bunch of steps before any harvest. Getting the initial draft down on paper is like the tedious work of tilling the soil. It has to be done. It isn't exciting. It's necessary.

So what brought on this willingness to dive into it finally? That deeper cleaning I referenced in the prior blog played a part. I should add that I also had a session with my own healer a couple days after the reattunement. A day or two after the session with her, I experienced a new sensation of God's love.

I'm hesitant to share it here. I'm hesitant to share that I had a new experience of feeling God's love out of fear of someone reading this and thinking, "Poor girl. She didn't know God loved her?" I knew it in the intellectual sense that everyone who claims to know God believes God loves them. Isn't the whole basis of Christianity that "God so loved the world..." Being part of the world, I was willing to entertain that God loved me too.

What was different last week, was the sensation and certainty of feeling it beyond knowledge and belief. That God loves me seeped into my soul, my body and my bones. On my evening walk it settled about me like a nourishing and vibrant cloud of light, melting away and transforming the fears that have hindered full pursuit of so many dreams, including writing these books.

For months I've been avoiding acknowledging that I quite simply felt I wasn't up for the task. I feared my inadequacy. I feared being unable to fulfill my own dreams. Nevermind my conviction that writing the Luzca tale is part of my life mission, something I must do, I still felt incapable of seeing it through. Translation? God set me up! He let me take on as my own a task I came wholly unprepared to complete.

Today I feel different. Something about that tangible peace from the greater clarity and certainty that God Loves Me has freed me from the constraints of fear. God wouldn't set me up. If I'm feeling the need to write this book, then I must be capable of doing so.

I feel willing to give it a try. I'm willing to do my best and let it do whatever it does.

Actually, there's lots more to say about it. I'm too exhausted to do so right now. I'll just add that I'm finally taking my Caribbean getaway in a few days and plan to use much of the time to outline this novel. If the process of completing my last book is any indication, this writing retreat will give rise to a clearer outline that will inevitably change beyond recognition by summer.

And that's the process. I guess this God Loves Me sensation has helped me come to peace with the process of writing. I was paralyzed by the knowledge that when I begin writing it won't come out wonderfully...at first.

There's pulling up soil, laying the seed and then the germinating that happens out of sight. Getting something written, beginning the story--that's tilling the soil. Planting the seeds is the details and outlining I do in an attempt to get the big picture and proceed in an organized fashion through the writing.

The germinating...that's when my heart sits back and does what it does in my dreams and in my subconscious. Then I come back to the story and begin to see sprouts of creativity, true love and genius. Then, much tending to the sprouts, lots of love and the plants begin to bear fruit.

It's very exciting.

Topsy Turvy

It's been seven days since I re-attuned to Reiki Master. With all the healing and clearing I'd done after the first series through Usui Reiki, I somehow deluded myself into thinking that this would be a cake walk, that the cleansing process wouldn't be intense.

What surprises me is how deep we can go into cleaning out the cobwebs of outdated thinking. I guess the first round was like taking a duster and taking off all the obvious dirt. This one feels more like taking a damp cloth and a wee bit of pressure to the surface, getting down into nooks and crannies. Even this isn't the deepest level. Stripping down the old varnish to reveal the natural beauty of the God-made material before putting on a fresh protective and attractive coating to highlight and enhance that natural beauty.

I look back and can see how the universe was helping me prepare. A couple weeks prior I felt the urge to clear out a bunch of old energies. My jar of change broke from the weight of the change that I'd let stay in there for years. All that stagnant energy. It needed to recirculate. It broke on the day I treated my home to a thorough cleaning. Even the windows, inside and outside. I knew that I was doing so because I was ready to see my life more clearly.

I've got new motivation to complete the Luzca book. All indications are that it is a life mission task and not to be dropped.