fuzzy slippers, early morning

the i ching has been fair with me. for years i used three coins to tell tales to myself. i think they came from a coin shop via an old friend and teacher. they hung together dustily, magnetically operating as some kind of unit; it was great. but i was attracted to tarot cards, enjoying the imagery that was, initially, easier to understand. so i gave away the book of changes that was in my possession and picked up a standard rider-waite deck.

but the tarot cards, even when i did readings, felt like someone talking who was far away, through the wind: hard to hear. the i ching, when it was gifted to me again, felt less and less like a translation of an ancient text, and more and more like what no one else would tell me, that i desperately thirsted to hear: the simple truth. not my interpretation. (although one time, when the suggestion was to 'seek help regarding the argument', it took a few days for me to realise the argument in question was internal. it had less to do with the situation i was asking about and more about how i couldn't even word the question properly without scribbling it out several times.)

then i read about the yarrow method again and suddenly it made sense to go the extra mile. it used to seem extensive: fifty yarrow sticks?! shuffling around, manipulating sticks between fingers, laying them out in obtuse piles, then doing it all again and again and again and again and again. the process takes maybe twenty minutes or so, instead of the ninety seconds of tossing coins. i love it. the ritual serves as more than a quick reassurance - it becomes fulfilling in and of itself, regardless of any message.

this is how much of life seems to be flowing these days. the slow, ponderous weight of recurring events are starting to feel like love. problems aren't solved by solutions, they're clues to brewing changes in lifestyle. slow and steady doesn't so much win the race as say 'fuck the race'. not vehemently or anything - casually. with a definite "oh, that fire? that's not fire, it's just orange," attitude, a blasé sense of wonder about everything other than the frantic pace of racers.

this morning i woke up at four-thirty and hung out with the i ching. i was reminded that the outer adornments are simply that: houses, jobs, romances. endless attention could go to the "measurables": am i doing what i'm supposed to be doing? if i move cities, will i find my path? will this person love me for who i am?

uh huh, uh huh. sure, do it, quoth the i ching. but remember it is external.

the low down on lowdown

so, there's this beautyful body entrusted to me. it comes with a bad reputation. but i don't trust the opinion-givers. so i check for myself.

first, there is something. my body has sentience (whew!), feels, lives.
secondly, that i feel separate from it yet with overlapping boundaries. there are many spaces we share, body and i.
thirdly, who is talking? i always get stumped on this point.

anyway, it occurred to me the other day that our proximity engages me with body on a regular basis. it is my nature to master relationships for the wealth and health of the larger wellbeing as i understand and feel it. i wish not just to use my body as a tool, or even care for it as a pet, nor do i wish to direct it, much as that troubles me. it has been my habit to direct my body to serve a purpose, then drop it when it no longer serves me.

i do not wash my brushes, so to speak, but walk away with the painting (experience) gleefully. this is a half-assed approach. it leaves me short on experience. i am missing out on wonder/fullness if i don't take the time to listen and speak with the body, not at it.

body and mind. equal but different. i can spend my energy respecting the many skills and talents of my body, learning from my body, falling in love with my body. our society is in love with our bodies anyway. but our society isn't a healthy one; we get obsessed. imagine that: our infatuation with youth is actually a manifestation of our fascination with bodies and not our fear of death.

long live the body.

tools of the trade

i am having a good day, where the songs in my head are robust and frolicky. walked across the high level bridge today, and the sun was blinding. shared dinner with the gnomes; a household affair plus a friend from next door. continuing to love the way i relate with my roommates. i finally understand how effortlessness works. we're very close. i think two very key parts are that we are all relatively healthy, and willing to do what is required.

found a great set of shields to image, on the occasions where the sheer number of people or feelings i pick up are not very fun. i am learning these empath ways starting to actually take care of myself (which is currently defined as more than the least one can get away with, much to my chagrin). i was resistant and slapdash about self-care not because i was lazy, or even out of low self-esteem (though it is there, it's always present). i neglected myself because i wasn't in crisis, and other people were, so i had best tend to them. or else, i had to be in crisis.

it has taken a while, but i think i can be happy in a world where not everyone is happy. though even typing the phrase brings on an ill feeling in my gut. is it revulsion over the pain or shame for not being completely selfless? does it matter? i've probably already wandered away from the point. anyway. even basic logic comes around eventually: how would my unhappiness help? i don't need to be unhappy in order to motivate myself to help others. rather the reverse.

not to mention (and this one is tougher to swallow for my desperately helpful self) that it's possibly not really necessarily for me to make them happy or even help them be happy. seriously. that road to hell saying ain't just a saying. codependency, anyone? no thanks!

so i sit with my own happiness and enjoy it while it's here. butterflies tend to be fleeting.

who do i have to ask for some service around here?

i am starting to challenge myself. i recognize the stinky unwillingness to move any further, the obstinate four-year-old's feet stuck in the mud. i am DONE with this, the attitude says. but this is not done with me.

the panic rises as excuses run out, and as the panic rises, my view narrows. this is inevitable. wouldn't evolution invariably reward those who choose safety, and are willing to lose some of what they have? but the impulse to be smaller is not the solution every time. i start to make little deals with myself, saying it's okay to fritter away my moments, lost in a daze of subdued fear. i start convincing myself i can live on less than enough, rather than risk facing what could take everything away.

nothing and no one will stop me from doing that. living a half-life. only that. over and over. never more.

because although the universe has an infinite amount to gain from me flowering, growing, flying my gifts over mountains and oceans to share, it would stand to reason this is the same potential the universe has everywhere. perhaps the universe evolves most efficiently by investing in ourselves as much as we do. "... helps those who help themselves"

it begins with my change. offer my change, my state, ask myself what i would give myself if i were someone else, start exactly that. attention diverted toward what i want, what is the predicted result?