Scattering Light Over Fields Of Uncertainty

“… [T]he prevalent sensation of oneself as a separate ego enclosed in a bag of skin is a hallucination which accords neither with Western science nor with the experimental philosophy-religions of the East.”  Alan Watts, The Book of Knowing Who You Really Are

Your first word was light.

It’s ironic that you grew up to wear such a dark costume. I guess it wasn’t a costume as much as it was a uniform. When you were home you wore a tee shirt and shorts with your flip-flops and your hair in a pony tail and you looked relaxed, friendly even. But when you went out you put on several layers of chains and your skull and cross bone ties, the all black button-down shirts, black pants, Fedora, knives in your pocket, and the face. You put on the face that said, “Don’t fuck with me.”

But I knew you.

It’s all about perspective. Isn’t it?

For instance, right now, I am awake, so I think that to be awake is the normal state of awareness. I believe other mind-states are not as important, but that’s only because I have limited vision and not because they are of lesser value or less connected within the spectrum.

What if dreams and altered states of consciousness are just bits of our reality scattered over space and time like a beam of light scattered over a stretch of atmosphere and are of equal validity?

What if, even before you are born, and after you die, you are a part of a cosmic dream, and you are scattered over a field of macro-dynamic uncertainty in which life and death are alternately particle and wave?

 Uncertainty is your sky, the by and by your story unwinds in, your hopes and your worries spiral round in, down to the beginning where it all begins again until something causes a new event in your horizon.

I am just daydreaming now, because sometimes daydreaming pays off; we don’t always know how we know what we know; we just have to wait and be open to whatever comes to us.

One time I wanted to paint a candle flame representing divine light. I wanted to show the flame and the light around it.

I was sitting in a doctor’s office, waiting for my scheduled visit, mesmerized by the idea of a single flame that I could only see in my mind’s eye. I like to doodle while I wait so I kept drawing the lines over and over, trying to get it right. All of a sudden, I realized that light attracts light like a magnet. I knew instantly, on a visceral level, that light would cling to itself.  

It was such a strong intuition that I quickly got out my phone and did a Google search about light and electromagnetic energy and discovered that photons are indeed cohesive. I used other people’s information to back up what I intuited, but I learned about the cohesive properties of photons by drawing a candle flame and daydreaming about divine love!

Some people can train themselves to tap into the power of dreams to help solve everyday problems. I have a friend in Finland whose cat got lost in a snowstorm. He is a lucid dreamer. He went to bed with the question, “Where is my cat?” He dreamed that the cat was in an old pig barn not too far away, so when he woke up the next day, he went there to find the cat.

No luck at first.

But he started asking around that neighborhood, and someone said they had seen the cat in the pig barn.

He went back and searched again. This time he found the cat hiding in the rafters. She was thin and scared, but okay otherwise.

He found his cat because he dreamed where to look for her.

I want to dream about Nick. I want to find him; tell him I love him and miss him.

Maybe death is just a trick of the light.

When a beam of light hits the atmosphere all those molecules of gas and stuff break it up; they scatter it, and the short, blue waves are what you see hanging round in the sky, and that is why the sky appears blue. The other rays of the spectrum are not gone, you just don’t see them.

Maybe that is what happened when you died, Nick. You hit Death’s atmosphere and your light was scattered. I can’t see you but that does not mean you are not here.

I like patterns and rhythm. I make stuff up all the time just for the flow of sound, for the click and pound, for the sharp and round of the ups and downs. I like to talk to myself “just to hear my head rattle” as grandma always said, and because it helps me think. Maybe it drowns out some of the other noises I don’t like to hear as well, I don’t know.

I sense the world that already is as it is, or I build a world and it’s the real deal. Isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

You call that table green, so it is green. But it doesn’t look green to my husband, Tim. Everything green looks brown to him. So, we have a problem with reality, or perception, anyway.

It’s cold. It’s hot. It’s late. No, it’s not. You’re a flake. You’re deep. You make me sick. You make me think. It all makes sense if you get far enough away, or close enough, look through a microscope, dig deep, go to sleep. Ask Freud what he thinks. Or better yet, cause you still Jung, dream a little dream to meditate upon.

Someone asked why the sky is blue, and it reminded me of you.  During your last two years on the planet we got to watch a comedian almost every night. You lived in apartment 9 and I lived in 11 so we were right next door to one another. Jane used to run from apartment to apartment. She learned how to ring my doorbell. She’d jump up, hit the buzzer and then wait patiently for me to open the door. The first few times it happened I thought it was a prankster because I didn’t see her sitting there. She is such a smart dog. And maybe she is a prankster too.

Anyway, there was a comedian we liked who did a bit about a kid asking why the sky is blue. And in my mind, I see Harland Williams onstage. He says this kid comes up to him, tugs on his sleeve, and says, “Hey Mister, why is the sky blue?” And Harland says, “Well kid, the sky is blue,’ but then you and jump in and go, “because of the scattering of light over macro-dynamic mighty  molecules – because the molecules pick up the blue light, see, as light enters the atmosphere, the blue waves, like a bunch of college  kids on spring break, are all over the place, just scattered all over, abundantly visible and they are fucking everywhere, all these short, wavy light packets, blue blue blue.” And Williams looks at you, dumbfounded while Quentin Tarantino snaps the black and white clapperboard shut and says, “That’s a wrap.” Still staring at you he says, “Oh, sorry dude.”  Then you fade to black.

There is canned laughter and applause as music from Lost Highway starts to play and Woody Harrelson offers me a slice of white pizza from Sal’s on the corner of that place in Hainesport. I am beginning to realize this must be a dream. I look at the back of my hand. Old habit.

Scene changes. We are walking down the hall of the apartment building together and a neighbor says “Hello, Nick.” You swear he is making a rude statement—it was always like we were in two worlds because we could be in the same hallway, experiencing the same set of circumstances and I’d see it one way and you would see it another way altogether. You’d interpret the greeting “Hello, Nick.” to mean that the neighbor thought he was better than you and that he was disrespecting you  –that he had to make some statement about the way you dress, had to say something about the hat you were wearing or the tattoos all over your body or the skulls on your person or whatever it was that you thought people were judging you harshly for.

Because of that dream I had before you were born, I knew it would be hard for you in this lifetime; You knew it too. We both knew what we were signing up for and we agreed it would be worth it. But we didn’t know we knew! I mean, I sure didn’t sit around thinking, “Oh wow, I’m going to have this kid and he’s going to have a really fucked up, hard ass life.” God, no! It was never like that! It was more like we knew it in that other dimension, in that spiritual dimension, where we go when we dream, or where you went right before you had seizures.

The deal we made in the prenatal dream was that we had to forget the details of the dream! Was it some kind of dream land Fight Club rule? The first rule of this new life together is that you don’t remember this little chat we had about this new life together.

I used to beg you to try to remember anyway when things were bad. Sometimes if I could wake you up as you were starting to seize it would stop the seizure.

I dreamed I was in the delivery room and a baby was lying on my belly, only he could talk like (a very wise) adult. We had a detailed conversation about how he could help me during this lifetime and how I could help him. It was exciting to think how we could work together and all the things we could learn. We also knew that our life together would be terribly difficult, but that every second of it was going to be worth it. We agreed that we would have to forget the conversation in order for the lessons to take hold. At the end of the dream we forgot all the details.

“WAKE UP! WAKE UP, NICK!” I shouted and shook you, desperate to come between you and a seizure. Whispering on another level, “Remember why you are here, Please, Nick.”

And you would say, “I’m trying, I’m trying.”

Sometimes you woke up, weak and trembling, not sure what had transpired, but ready for the day to begin.

Sometimes darkness took you, beat the hell out you, tried to kill you, choked you, turned your face blue, tore up your mouth, knocked out your teeth, cut your head, twisted your neck, bruised your back, and scraped your legs and ankles raw.

Anyway, in the hallway, I thought the neighbor just said hello. I thought he was being friendly. I wanted to offer him a cup of tea sometime and a little Reiki maybe. I always said there is more than one reality and you said, “No! There is only one reality!” It made you very angry to think of alternate scenarios for the way things were for us, even though you were highly imaginative and came up with all kinds of possible situations for characters in your art.

Einstein said we have to decide if the universe is a friendly place or unfriendly, and you believed it was neither, but that people were just assholes. I always argued that people were basically good; you said people were just out to take what they could.

Your seizures made you rage. The nurse at the children’s hospital in L.A. explained that intense rage was just part of the seizure itself, that after the petit mal or grand mal, a person might feel any number of things, and you happened to feel angry.

You were five when the doctors figured out that the staring spells and behavioral problems were seizures. Before that everyone thought you were just being rude. It makes me angry to think that you were sick, and everyone thought you were just a bad kid.  And you couldn’t remember the seizures so you couldn’t figure out why people were upset. What a confusing world that must have been! One minute you were watching Scooby Doo or M TV and the next minute people were yelling at you for no reason apparent to you, anyway. Or later, they were putting you in in restraints. Or they were putting you in jail and spraying you with pepper spray.

But you were still young when you started hearing the noises at night. That was before we knew you were having seizures. You called me into your room. You were sitting in the bed calling me, “ I hear the noises.” you told me.

Scared the shit out of me! It was creepy as hell. I had to silently pray the Our Father while I walked into your room because I was so scared. It triggered memories of when I thought I was being possessed by demons as a little girl. When I saw you sitting there, staring into a corner of the room with that weird smile on your face, I have to tell you, Nick, I know where folks in the old days got the stupid idea that seizure disorders were caused by demonic possession. I am ashamed to admit that I was afraid, and I never wanted you to see my fear. I shiver to remember.

When you were five you went into status epilepticus which meant that you were seizing and not coming out of the seizure. They flew you and your teddy bear from Lancaster to Los Angeles Children’s Hospital. Tim and I were divorced by then. I was married to John. John and I drove in what seemed like cartoon style traffic to meet you there because they would not let us go in the helicopter. Someone, a nurse told me we were connected to you through our prayers. I guess it was nurse. Maybe it was an angel. They pinned wings on your teddy bear. You were still unconscious when we got to L.A.

I felt helpless to help you.

When you were a baby, I could rock you and nurse you and protect you from everything, but I didn’t know how to protect you from seizures and not even the doctors knew what to do.
You kept going to the window, talking to someone out there. We were 6 stories up. Who were you talking to?  

If someone asks me what I want, I have to tell them the truth.

I want to wake up under a tree like Siddhartha.

I want to fly like Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

I want to be like St. Francis of Assisi who asked an almond tree to speak to him of God and watched it bloom in the dead of winter.

I know in my bones that the dreams of my heart are not impossible; I have already experienced enough everyday miracles to know that I would have missed them had I nothad the perception or receptivity to see them. That is why I love the idea of lucid dreaming and neuroplasticity.

Some people may think conscious control only goes so far, but I say, let’s see how far! And still, we ain’t seen nothin yet!

I heard something on Youtube the other day about Tibetan monks who practice lucid dreaming to attain enlightenment. They have been doing dream yoga for over 1000 years and draw fruits from their purposeful hypnagogia that scientists can measure with graphs and scales. I learned how to lucid dream when I was 18 by staring at the back of my hand while I fell asleep with the intention of remembering to look at my hand while dreaming. That was the first step toward conscious control of dreaming. Once I gained control, I had hoped to learn all kinds of things from cool people like yogis and saints; I wanted to do things I couldn’t normally do while awake.

Today my dream life is haphazard and I doubt if anyone would want to measure or chart anything about it.  But it got to the point before that I was aware of falling asleep, of dreaming and then waking up. It was like walking into a valley and then walking out of the valley in the morning. But I was more interested in hooking up with Tim, your handsome, sax playing dad with the Dan Hicks record that I wanted. I started focusing more on him than on lucid dreaming, so I stopped training.

That doesn’t mean I stopped dreaming.

I have always been a dreamer and my dreams have always been vivid and memorable. Dreams are not something you work at; they are gifts; the dream of you was a gift that I cherish more than ever now.

I know it’s selfish, but I wish the lions were here now. There were two of the them in my dream.

One Lion, by Jabicatma, 2018

I could share one of them with you. One for you and one for me.

Where does the stuff we dream up come from? I wouldn’t say these dreams come from myself because my first important dream, the Lion Dream, happened when I was 4 and there is no way I could have made up a dream as complex as the Lion dream at age 4. I couldn’t understand it all then, not enough to verbalize it or tell anyone about it. But I never forgot it.

It took me years to unpack it.

I dreamed it was the end of the world. I could tell it was the end of the world because the ocean had flooded the city and the sidewalks were bulked into little pyramids. All the houses were destroyed. The people and animals were gone. Everything was gray. Except for one house where I was hiding in the kitchen. The house belonged to a lady named Mary. She had skin the color of polished mahogany and she had a serious face with a soft smile. It was her house, her kitchen. There were two giant lions who padded through the house. I could hear the sound their paws made as they went through every room checking to make sure no one could see me. I had been split into many separate versions of myself and I was hidden in the different cabinets in Mary’s kitchen. The lions made sure none of my toes were sticking out

I guess I still feel that way. Even if I die, I am OK. Even if I die, if my body dies, there is a light inside of me that cannot be extinguished, and I know that because I have been so close to death I have had so many close calls. Woke up in ICU more times than I like to remember, angry about being there, but glad now, of course. It is so stupid to want to kill yourself. It is just like walking into the next room.

I had this dream the other day about being in the old house on North Abilene. In the dream, white means pure, garden means life, and terrycloth means hard work.

I was in the bathroom of the old house on North Abilene and I really had to pee! The room was just like I remembered it and I was a little apprehensive only because the cellar door was behind the bathtub and it always gave me the creeps.

I noticed water gushing out of the water faucet in the bathtub, so I got up and struggled a little to get it turned off. The water was clear and clean; it was very cold.

When the water was off, I noticed a lady in the bathtub. I didn’t recognize her and thought it was weird to have a stranger bathing in grandma’s tub. Her bathwater was all milky from having used so much soap.

I headed toward the door (at a casual pace which means I wasn’t scared) and she got out of the water and put on a clean, white, terry cloth bathrobe.

I turned and asked her, “Are you a ghost?”

No.” She said. “But you are.”
Weird, huh.

Now this wasn’t a dream, but it has a ghost in it, so it counts.

One time when I was in Jr High, we had moved to Roswell. We moved a lot back then. I went to school and everyone looked at me like they’d seen a ghost. I was freaked out. Apparently, some rumor was going around that

A: I had been killed in a car accident.

B: I was killed in an empty swimming pool fiasco.

Either way, according to rumor, I was dead, and they were shocked to see me at school.

I was shocked to see how shocked they were to see me; I saw the ghost they saw. I walked over my own grave! Shiver.

When I was 12, people thought I was a witch because I was very observant, and I read a lot of weird books. My family was strange.

We had to move out of town. We moved to a house in the country. It was one of the worst times in our lives. But it holds some of the happiest memories as well.

Mom, who was too young to have four little children, was also very lovely. She’d gather wild sunflowers, dry them and winnow them on a blanket in the sun. Then she baked the tiny seeds into loaves of sourdough bread. She baked them in soup cans so that each of her four children could have their own loaf of bread. Sourdough, government cheese, tiny sunflower seeds, hot from the oven with fresh butter.

And we didn’t care when the truck loads of cowboys rode by shouting “Witch and Whore!” We just made signs in the air at them.

Mom made me so angry the other day I thought I was going to explode. But I moved back here because I love her, and I want to repair our relationship. There is enough hate in the world, enough turmoil. I want to do what I can to make peace. I wanted you to understand.

I remembered that day at the winnowing blanket. I made this chant and I have been singing it ever since. Not just for us, but for every mother and daughter, and really, for all of us all over the planet. Listen, I want you to hear it, Nick.

Sunshine Mother

Your children honor you

We’ve all have troubles

that have burdened us

Let us gather, then

at the winnowing blanket

where we can separate

the good seeds from the chaff

and let the playful breeze

take away what we don’t need

and leave us something good

to feed our creativity

oh sunshine mother

let us be the peace that this whole world needs

oh sunshine mother let us be at peace, let us be at peace.

I love my mother with all my heart. She taught me to talk to grasshoppers and to see the world in a drop of water.

She almost killed me; we’ve had our problems.

It is complicated.

We are never finished learning.

I wish you could see that.

But DAMMIT Nick! Your last words to me were “If you have her in your life, I can’t have you in mine!” And then YOU DIED! That is so not fair! That is so not fair. How can you say that I can’t have my own mother? I love my mother. I need my mother. And I need my son! I need you BOTH. How could you say those words to me and then die?

I know. I know. Of course, you didn’t know when you said it that those would be your last words to me. If we could pick our last words, they would be different, right? We would pick funny last words. Let’s think, what would yours be? Oh, I know! You’d quote what’s his face—your favorite

comedian–Reggie Watts. You would, say, “Molecular structure ain’t nothin’ but a thing.” And I would probably say something from Bill Burr. Oh, yeah. I’d say, “But [Nick], I just want to look at ya.”

If only we could choose our last words.


One neurologist explained that there are four stages of sleep, and that when most people get to stage four, they dream. But when you get to stage four, you have seizures. That is a pretty fucked up deal if you ask me. I am really sorry, Nick. I don’t care if I have to take you to fifty thousand doctors, I will keep trying to find someone who can help you. I am sorry, but 20 seizures a day is unacceptable. I can’t believe that one doc said, “Well at least he doesn’t have to wear a helmet.” Fuck that shit!


I remember walking you to the bus on the first day of kindergarten. You had on a He Man tank top and Red shorts. You had a He Man lunch box. You were holding my hand. You said, “Mom, I don’t want to have seizures.”
When you were 7 we went for a ride in the country in New Mexico with your grandma and great grandmother. There was a small herd of buffalo beside the road and I said “Look, Nick! Buffalo! They were almost extinct at one time.” You said, “I know. I can smell ‘em from here.”


When we were waiting for your sister, Hailie to be born, your favorite book was Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel Dig the Panama Canal. Somehow you got things mixed up, probably because I was always talking about your sister being born and one day you told me that when you grew up you wanted to work in the birth canal.

You were dark. You wore your heavy metal, bloody gore and skulls and devils, your zombies and death themes; you defended darkness and when I asked you why, you waited to answer.

It was the end of a long day. You asked in a humble way, “Did you ever think that some of us had to choose the darker way so that the rest of you could shine? If there was no night, how would you see the stars?”

I was silent, for once in my loud life.


Your first cozy bedtime toy was a truck– not a soft truck. You had to have a Six Million Dollar Man truck tucked under your arm before you’d go to sleep.


You published a book of photography and a novel and you published three excellent cd’s.

You were talented and not enough people got to know your work.


You died alone in your apartment.Well, you were not completely alone. Jane was there.

But your last words to me were, “If you are going to have her in your life, I can’t have you in mine. She is poison. She will hurt you and I can’t stand by and watch it happen.”


You didn’t want me to move in with my mother, but I felt like it was the right thing to do.

I felt like you needed the space, like I was cramping your style being right next door.

You said you wouldn’t talk to me anymore, so when you didn’t pick up the phone, I thought you were just angry.

Days went by. Then a week and I was worried.

The police called.
Even now, a year later, the March wind stirs sand into miniature dust devils on the patio. It steals my breath; I gasp for air.

It is not fair. To love one person, to try to repair one relationship and lose another forever.

To never hear you laugh at something Bill Burr says, it just sucks.


But when I despair, I feel you kick me. You kicked me in the shins under the table at the La Paz that day, on your Breath Day.

No, really, I swear, you kicked me in the shins under the table at the restaurant.

I was talking to my friend about not knowing what to do without you and I felt you kick me in the shins! But it doesn’t hurt to get kicked by a beam of light, so it made me laugh.

You wanted me to know you are right here with me, just in a different way now.

I can still hear you play your guitar while you wait for the green flare at sunset.

You told me why you play your guitar while watching the sunset every day. You said there is an old myth that sailors tell that if you see a green flare in the rays of the setting sun you will see the face of you worst enemy. You were convinced it would be your own face you would see. But you kept watching.

You liked hearing my crazy dreams.

I can still see you shake your head and stare at the air when I’d tell you one.

You’d say, “You should write those down, someone might want to hear them someday.”
“Yeah, right, In your dreams.” I laughed.

Dear Future Self, Welcome To My Body

I have to tell you that I was quite surprised and very pleased that you decided to come and stay with me here and now. I thought I’d have to wait who knows how long to actually get to hang out with you. But here you are! In the flesh. In my flesh, to be exact.

It is very gracious of you to not turn your nose up at our living conditions. As you can see, I am a work in progress. But this is a very busy construction site and wonderful things are in the works.

Yesterday, as “fate” (I don’t know what else to call this underlying symmetry that permeates all things)–as fate would have it, I had a wonderful conversation with a woman in a waiting room at the hospital who confided in me her worries about her son. As it happened, I had had similar experiences with my son, so I was able to be of comfort and offer a little help. We were both brought to tears during the encounter; both of us felt touched by grace to have met and shared our stories.

Little did I know that a yogini friend was sending light and love to me at that very moment. I had asked for her blessings with a kundalini practice we were doing with Spiritual Voyage Global Sadhana. I have no doubt that her blessings played a part in the flow of conversation between the waiting room friend and I because I had stated that I wanted to learn the yoga to be of greater service in my home and community.

The next evidence of the efficacy of this spiritual work is that I had a dream that I am sure was connected on a deep level to work being done in the area of suicide prevention. I can’t explain it in this letter; this letter would turn into a novel.

Future Self, as you know, I want to be an instrument of God’s peace more than anything. And the fact that you are here early, even before I can share your wardrobe, fills me confidence that God is hearing my prayers. I see the work you do and I hope to learn more about in dreamland. Now that we share the same body, watching our dreams will be like going to the movies! You can show me the future, and I can show the warm and fuzzy nostalgic films.

It is already different with you here. Just this morning, when I attempted the kundalini practice that I was having trouble with, I knew I had help from the spirit realm. I felt the assistance of teachers and friends guiding and encouraging me with each breath.

Oh, let me just give you the juicy details.

I was practicing the Thunderbolt of Shiva and had previously been unable to coordinate the breathing with the locks that are to be applied. I just couldn’t do it without becoming breathless and tense.

I also had not been able to sit in easy pose because my bones were too arthritic to fold that way.

But today was different. I saw a way to use my exercise ball as a prop for my crossed legs while I sat on the window seat. So there I was, in an easy easy pose, ready to try the practice again.

I had a vision of a beam of light from Livtar’s eye flash when it met with mine at the beginning of meditation as if to say, Ah! Glad you showed up! There were other’s there. Kelly was one, and gentle Snatam Kaur,

I was guided to breathe normally for a few moments while I silently chanted the mantra, letting myself fall into the rhythm of it.

Then I felt as if I was on a big swing in a beautiful tree. Like a little kid, I was being gently pushed to and fro, one teacher in front and one behind.

When ever I was ready, they instructed, i could apply navel lock at the next inhale and hold it while silently chanting the mantra. Then,I was told, I was to let go and breathe normally, to just keep up with the mantra while swinging in the tree swing.

“Then whenever ready,” they instructed, “apply root lock on an exhale and hold the breath out as long as it didn’t cause any panic or strain. And, as before, breathe normal breaths, chant silently and and enjoy being in the swing until ready to try another lock-breath.”

i went for 11 minutes with no strain.

i didn’t want to stop at 11 minutes, so i started the music again and this time only focused on the visualization aspects of the kriya, seeing light around my hands and thunderbolts moving through the top of my head through out my body, especially into my hands.

At the end of that session i used the time and space to send reiki to those who are in need of it, including myself, but especially those who are feeling like there is no option left to them except suicide.

It was a fruitful practice. It was a good day, and now you, future self, are here, in the flesh, as well! What a boon.

The sun has just gone down on our first day together. Let’s make tea and a gratitude gift. I am thinking of a wire tree necklace–or a few necklaces.

The dog is curled up, cozy beside me and the cat will wander in here soon.

Tell me, now that you have come to stay in my body, do I have a place in the future with you as well?

Can you tell me a story about what it’s like there? Can you start with the trees? What kind of trees are holding the wind chimes? (I know there will be wind chimes and gongs.)

Dear Future Self, May I Borrow Those Jeans?

I don’t want no fancy pants; I’m not looking for flash and dazzle.

Well, okay, maybe a teeny bit of dazzle.

I see you in a pair of good hiking boots. You are standing on a large rock outside your home. Of course, you have a staff that your uncle Raymond gave you, and it’s got all its crystals firmly attached.

But it’s the jeans you are wearing that I want to borrow. I just love those things!

They are the perfect shade of blue and those pockets are so easy to get to. You never have to fumble to find them.

Those jeans are not too tight and not baggy. I want to wear them because you bought them when your other jeans were too big. Remember how good it felt when you’d lost all that weight and were in such good shape that your old pants kept falling down? Hahaha! So you went out and bought new jeans.

You bought new hiking boots too. Your feet were healed completely. The podiatrist was flabergasted. He had done the x-rays himself, both the before and the after. The before x-rays looked like an earthquake had shifted the bones in your feet and the after shots showed normal, healthy bone structure. He could not explain it and would not have believed it if he hadn’t treated you himself.

When you used to talk to him about yoga and Reiki, he thought you were a little flaky. Okay, he thought you were quite flaky, but he liked you because you had such a positive attitude.

Now when he sees you he just shakes his head and looks deeply puzzled.

Your other doctors had the same reaction when you went back to see them after taking your health into your own hands.

What was it that convinced you that you were not getting well by their treatments? Their medicines, which only treated individual symptoms, actually caused more complicated problems because they ignored the real cause of the dis-ease.

But you started listening carefully to the wisdom of body; you finally recognized body as ally and not enemy. You cared for her. You made sure she had good rest, good sleep, good work and good fun. You learned to fine tune her senses and seeing, hearing and all the rest became a highly developed art. The whole world sprang to life and every multidimensional moment was magnificent in its own right.

You learned that body is an excellent transmitter of beautiful, helpful energy. You became a source of healing for your family and friends.

Even your relationships, especially the difficult ones, got better. Old conflicts were resolved and ancestral wounds were healed.

Another thing I like about those jeans is that you don’t have to change clothes to sit down to meditate. You can just plop into position anytime you like. Man, I like that kind of freedom of movement!

So let’s do some of that freaky shaman stuff you learned how to do where you bend time like a rainbow ; you know, where you make a great bridge from hither to yon. Let’s meet in body and start the molecular process of positive change.

What’s that? It’s already happening?

Cool.

I’ll be thinking about the color shirt I want to wear with those jeans.

Bubble Universe

It seemed so solid

Till I gained the perspective

That I’m living on the Outer Edge of a bubble,

Looking in.

Ah! Look! There you are. And there is Auntie Em.

Tender heartache, too, for my ex-husband, Tim.

There go the living and the dead,

all the enemies and all the friends

some who are still fighting and others who

smile and say, “You win.”

Pop.

Adi Shakti

“The body occasionally goes through what is called a healing crisis. This often occurs just when an individual is working to consciously reshape his/her health.” –Ted Andrews, The Healer’s Manual

I can’t deny that all is exactly as it should be.

I have been doing a lot of Reiki for people near and far over the past two months. That means I have been doing a lot of Reiki for myself as well.

I started meditating (doing Reiki) with crystals on a cedar staff as a way to focus my attention on the chakras of the person I am treating. It seems to amp up the effect. Some of the people I treated said that when I place the staff near them, they feel a palpable increase in the Reiki.

Then it happened. I had a healing crisis.

I didn’t recognize it at first. I just thought my world was crashing.

But tonight I see evidence of grace.

I had painted an entire page of nothing but red when the crisis first hit. I wasn’t thinking about what it meant, I was just feeling it.

Red.

No photo description available.

I thought I was just intensely angry and hurt.

But today I started cutting the painting into pieces to make a mandala which I intended to use as a shield against all the bad vibes flying around, and I also wanted to make a little red house for my vision board; I wanted to remind the Universe that I needed to move out of where I live now, the sooner the better.

Well, the house idea didn’t work so the red pieces of painting were just lying on my desk in a heap. The mandala wasn’t working out very well either.

I’d been chanting Adi Shakti all day after downloading it from Bandcamp. I’d just received a random email notifying me of a new recording by one of my favorite singers, Brenda McMorrow.

Now, if you backtrack to a poem I wrote earlier today you will see that the healing crisis I was having had to do with my mother.

So chanting to the divine feminine was a good prescription for what ailed me.

Here is the part where it all started to come together.

I picked up a piece of the red painting and was going to paint one of the Reiki symbols on it. I stopped, though, and looked again at the fragment. There was an image there. It was completely random. {Yes I am using the R word again because it matters.} There was an image of a woman’s face appearing in the different tones of red.

So I outlined it with whatever drawing thing I could find in a hurry.

Intrigued, I kept looking at the image I’d traced.

I was still chanting Adi Shakti, but I needed to look up the meaning again because I had forgotten what some of the words meant.

The more I read, the more certain I was that this whole mother crisis and the red painting and the fluke occurrence of getting one of my favorite chants in my email were not so random after all.

I wanted healing. Deep healing. And there I was, having to work through the core issues of my dis-ease: my own birth, my very existence as it has played out in the messy and emotional maelstrom of my relationship with my mother.

There were angels and midwives all around to help me through; I relied on texting friends, phone calls and all sorts of art projects to keep me from losing my heart. I even made an ocean drum and played it till my hands tingled. And I have to mention the exquisite music of Lisa Gerrard, who gave voice to the evolving parts of my being that I could not release on my own.

And then, there she was. The face of the divine feminine, a silver outline on a stormy red background. It was a calling card from God that said, “I got your back. All is well. All is as it should be. Well done.”.”

I feel like the crisis is over now. Meditating on the divine mother helped me work through some of the most painful issues I have with my own mother.

Love won.

Adi Shakti, Adi Shakti, Adi Shakti, Namo Namo

(I bow to the Primal Power)

Sarb Shakti, Sarb Shakti, Sarb Shakti, Namo Namo

(I bow to the all encompassing Power and Energy)

Pritham Bhagvati, Pritham Bhagvati, Pritham Bhagvati, Namo Namo

(I bow to that which God creates)

Kundalini Mata Shakti, Mata Shakti, Namo Namo

(I bow to the creative power of the Kundalini, the Divine Mother Power)” –3ho.org

First Blade

My mother said she wishes I was never born. She said she wished she had crushed me back inside of her instead of letting me be born.

I don’t remember feeling this desolate before.

This is not a good place, this exile.

But I have died a million deaths in 60 years and been born a million times.

I will rise again.

She cannot crush me.

She does not have enough hatred in her, there IS no amount of hatred that can put

this

fire

out.

I still burn

and turn and twist free of her hands,

of her glances.

She cannot hold

me.

I can’t be a true healer if I don’t accept this dark pain of human existence along with the light. I was ashamed of feeling this way but i am not ashamed now. I grieve. I grieve for the mother I never had and never will have.I ache.But I will feel this burn until it is spent and then I will rise from the ashes and shine like a diamond who has swallowed a volcano and now opens her throat and sings pure, radiant forgiveness.Forgiveness does not come from being nice and sweet enough to forgive someone for their transgression. My forgiveness is the rage of a forest fire gone out: the first blade of new grass.