I noticed something yesterday while attempting to create more order in my life by gathering up ALL THINGS LEFT UNDONE into one list . . . by category of course--that’s just how my brain works . . . Gather, Sort, List, Prioritize, and then? Procrastinate! No kidding, that’s the sad state of affairs I noticed staring down at this lovely and tidy list as if the words were written on a flashing neon sign before me. I procrastinate, and I do so selectively.
There are things I do the moment the need appears. I do them as willingly and naturally as I breathe. Despite my particular human neurosis, these are things like clearing clutter off surfaces, getting outside for a walk with my dog, painting when the muse calls, and hundreds of other large and small items that I can’t even recall at the moment for I hardly notice doing them at all! Looking over my list isn’t helping me identify them. None of those are on my list . . . I already did them! What is written out on my planning pad with tiny little boxes in front of them to check off when I do complete them are ALL THINGS LEFT UNDONE. Curious.
In reviewing the 17 items I find none of them off purpose or superfluous. All 17 things are actions to take on behalf of my best interest . . . so what’s the problem? Either I’m a really good personal detective, or just plain dumb luck that has me seeing with unavoidable presence that the majority of ALL THINGS LEFT UNDONE involve a phone call. In 12 out of 17 items a phone call is the first step toward completion. More curious . . . and not surprising.
When I was small I spoke of things and beings that were present for me in this 3 dimensional world and apparently NOT present for my family members. Whether you call these beings spirits, figures of a highly charged imagination, angels, soul companions, or any other name . . . I saw them, spoke to them and why wouldn’t I? While I never ceased relating to my other dimensional friends, I learned quite well not to talk about them. I was a sensitive child and quickly became a silent one. I went on living a rich interior experience without ever more voicing that which could be ridiculed.
I wouldn’t want anyone to think I am finding fault or blaming. The way I look at it, we’re all doing our best. I became a silent child which offered me an opportunity to have a deeper connection to my inner life that might otherwise have gone undiscovered. Since I have but one life to live, I’ll never really know if I would have found that connection in another way, and t doesn’t matter. What does mean something to me is to take up my life right where I am.
I can never know all that might be packaged inside the events, and interactions with others. Whether they be pleasant or not, they can all become possibilities to live into. I believe I can live into everything I need, right where I am . . . And, at this very moment, right where I am is staring at my list of 17 items all neatly organized on a prioritized list . . .
The silent child became the silent young adult, who became the silent woman who smiled and served. I ‘made nice’ and tried my best to fit in and be what I imagined a normal woman would be. Anyone who has tried to become something other than who they are can surely relate to the inevitable choice--be yourself, or lose your life . . . Perhaps not by immediate death, but by a slow rotting of the seeds sown in the soil of your being meant to grow into the soul your brought with you when you were ushered into this extraordinary experience of being human. Years ago I chose to break out of my inner chrysalis, and I began the journey of my life.
It was 20 years ago and I was walking up a logging road behind my home in the foothills of the North Cascade mountains. Tears were streaming down my face. I was in a loveless marriage and saw no way to amend the course of our lifeless, icy union. I had devoted myself to my children as my life, and even though I gave their care my complete attention I could not still the storm brewing in the very heart of me. It was as though a groundswell of magma was making it’s way to the surface and the tears were a herald of the eruption to follow . . . Internally, while volcanic forces agitated toward an inevitable explosion, I was silent. To outward appearances I was a dedicated mother, and I took my silent pain to the mountains. I could not have known that on this one particular day walking up the logging road, my life was about to change.
I had arrived at a familiar knoll where the logging road ended on the top of Sumas Mt. There, alone, surrounded only by tree, stone, water and air I felt free. There I could vent all that I held under careful watch. I began crying and begging the wind for help, and it was then that I saw them. Something was moving in the sky. It looked like a giant had been shaking black pepper in the air. The flecks were moving in a small cloud that came closer and closer to where I was standing. I was transfixed by what I saw, and before I could hardly draw a breath a murder of crows were circling above me. They flew around and around me, cawing loudly. Between the clamor of their loud calls and the hypnotic rhythm of their spirited wingbeats overhead, I found myself cemented to the spot where I stood. I had no fear, only a sense of a fortuitous encounter. I was entranced.
I can’t say how long I stood there with these magnificent birds circling me with wild, highly charged energy. I only know that at some point I heard a word through their cawing, over and over as they circled, ”Speak, Speak, Speak!” In my memory, as soon as I recognized the message they began to fly away. I watched them fly over the top of the next hill. Once again it was quiet and I was alone. My tears stopped and I began the descent down the mountain toward my home where the life I had been settling for, waited. I would go back, and I would never be as I was before that moment with the crows. I began to speak. I began to recreate and reclaim my life, and that has made all the difference.
That was a long time ago, and so much has changed. From my present vantage point I can’t even picture what my life would be had I not been receptive to the gift on the top of that mountain. The crow, the most cleverly vocal of all birds spoke deeply into my soul, leaving a shamanic connection that has been with me ever since. I have become my own advocate and live according to my true self to the very best of my capacity and awareness. It is also true that old habits wired into my being in my early days live on.
I believe it is quite possible that my procrastination to pick up the phone to get on with 12 of the 17 items neatly categorized on my list might have seeds in the silent child. Even a murder of crows can’t completely wipe out neuronal pathways etched deeply into my being forbidding speech. Only by creating new pathways in my neural net will the former shrink from non-usage. This I can do. This I have access to from days, weeks, months and years of showing up for my unique life.
I no longer even care if there is something called normal. I do care that I live my life authentically. Every morning a crow I affectionately call Joe, comes to a feeder on my deck. When he cocks his head and stares at me with those liquid black eyes I breath in a bit of the wind his wings have shaped as he takes to the sky. In every morning encounter with my corvid companion my spirit soars . . . I am more able to spread my wings and speak my truth into the expectant listening that waits just barely over the horizon . . .
That’s what this artist is thinking about today . . .
0 comments:
Post a Comment