My Point of Reference's Point of Reference

I was thinking of the times I've been given bad advice. When I'm speaking to someone close to me and they come out with a negative comment, I always wonder where they got it. It probably didn't originate in their brain just then. Somebody must have said or done something negative to them at one point that stuck in their head, germinated like an evil seed and waited for me to come along. People tend to feel comfortable enough with me to unleash all their zingers. I may have come with a "doormat" stamp on my head, one that can only be read by mean people. Eventually, I want someone to be angry at, and since it's hard to be angry at the immediate offender, I tend to like to blame whoever made him/her that way. Inevitably, the realization leads to the fact that someone made the maker that way, too. We've gotta get revenge on the first insulting person ever. What made that one insulting, though? There's somebody who was just born bad. A mean, negative, offensive asshole who started it all. Now that son of a bitch shouldn't have been given free will. And who created him? So, since I like to believe in goodness, the discussion ends here. One more unanswered question. Nobody to be angry at, since I can't get to the source.

I'm Set to the Wrong Speed

With the evening wasting away at the grocery store, I began to wonder why the unimportant things take so long and take so much time away from the important things I want to get done. Yes, I want to buy the food my family needs. No, I don't want it to take up precious hours of my life each week. Budgeting makes it take a bit longer. Since I'm budgeting in order to have more time with my kids, I suppose it's useful time spent. It still feels like sand through the hourglass of my life. My Grandmom used to watch Days of Our Lives and that hourglass would always haunt me. I now watch the beginning on occasion, and feel like my Grandmother is speaking to me. She is the one who recommended I be an actress when I was bored with my job in science. If only she had been a rich benefactor like Great Expectations, my life may have turned out much more interesting. There'd still be the wasted time in between, though. Nobody escapes waste. Except, maybe people born a bit more efficient than me. I don't have a knack for time management, and I think I'm actually set at the wrong speed. Others do something and it takes them half as long as me. My impatient children will say "Mommy's being slow again or Mommy's being clumsy again." It takes forever if you keep dropping things, as I always do. I'd say motherhood just has me flustered and pulled in many directions, but I was like this before. People get impatient with me regularly. So, I would like the official diagnosis and a card I can carry, explaining my lifelong condition of having been set at the wrong speed. People will just have to pass on the left, and give me extra time. I wonder if a longer life span comes with such a handicap? Then it would all make sense.

I Wouldn't Conform...If Not for Taxes

As I sit blaming myself for having conformed a bit more than I had planned, I realize that it was in some ways for survival. That's how every society gets people to conform, really. The true nonconformists live on the streets in the city playing their guitars for food, or are unemployed artists doing almost the same. For a short time, when we are little, we are our true selves. As we grow we are molded, painstakingly into adequate members of society. Our parents do it unconsciously, most of the time. Some are quite mean and do things for the sole purpose of turning their children into broken, self-hating souls, but I'm referring to the average, well meaning parent here. Some of them think it's good for the child, and survival is definitely necessary, but it won't lead to fulfillment and enlightenment, which I'm still hoping are human possibilities. Since I moved into upper-middle class suburbia, I've heard a couple of mothers bluntly say that their children are only allowed art and music as hobbies because they will never pay the bills. One wouldn't even let her daughter minor in dance at college. She is very proud the girl "chose" teaching as her major. Maybe that poor girl will get to inspire her students to do what they want with their lives. When I was in school, there were battles between students and the school board over how many electives we would take. We always wanted more. Young people have a natural affinity for variety in their learning. Perhaps the only reason adults don't is because they were pigeonholed as kids. After graduating college, I learned that every educational show I love has an anthropologist narrating it. Anthropology wasn't offered as an elective at my high school. I never knew what it was while applying for college. There is, however, a famous anthropologist who hailed from the very town of my high school. The town is quite proud of her, apparently. Bitterness will get me nowhere, of course. Had I built a career that I loved, I might have waited longer to get married and missed out on my three beautiful daughters. I now can work on a career for myself while educating them on everything I missed. Perhaps teaching them that they can make money through a more unique, interesting career will be the best revenge I can get. But what of the people who don't even realize what happened to them? They consider being bored and detached from their true selves a part of "growing up" or being "responsible". Who has been served by this? Society's purpose is still a mystery to me.

I Am Unexceptional

When viewing various internet posts from other people, I realized , like a slap in the face that I am unexceptional. Sure, we are all unique and special, but I have definitely not become exceptional. My thoughts, desires, and lifestyle are quite similar to everyone else's. At first, this made me uneasy. Shouldn't we all be different? But then, it made me happy. Even people who, in my opinion, are exceptional live a life quite similar to mine. Suddenly, it's not as huge a leap to be exceptional. I am human, so are they. We have the same capacity for becoming exceptional. It's just a matter of focus. Sure, many exceptional people will never be noticed, or get a paycheck or any sort of reward for their work. At least they can feel they've done their best and improved over time. I bet most people don't ever quite feel exceptional, though. That's why we all keep trying. The journey never ends if the destination is just out of our reach. Or, perhaps in all our attempts to become something exceptional, we end up returning to the person we already were and find that it's exceptional just to be a unique human being. Is it too obvious for our human brains to want to consider? A complicated life of struggle is much more alluring.

Loneliness

I'm looking into a religious book on loneliness. It says loneliness can lead to creativity, connections to other humans and ultimately God. In Graceland, my husband and I stayed at The Heartbreak Hotel. "I get so lonely, I could die." Such a heartbreaking line. Can a heart break from loneliness? There are certain medical conditions where people seemed to die of loneliness. Spouses die soon after each other. A friend's cat once jumped in front of a car soon after its mate had been hit. Is death our final solution to the loneliness deep in our souls that can only be interpreted as a longing for God's love? Of course, we cling to other human souls, as flawed and seemingly incapable of divine love as ourselves. Those we admire usually show more of a divine capacity than we see in ourselves. Saints seem to have learned how to tap into God's love and share it with us. We all are capable. It's who we're supposed to be. Even tapping into it wouldn't be completely without loneliness, though. Loneliness seems to be both the way to access it and the obstacle to it. We pray in a quiet place of solitude. Even while praying in groups, people tend to go into a state of lonely meditation. All saints and those of great spiritual achievement seem to have been somewhat tragic and alone in the world. Maybe with real love, the more you give away the more you get, but only to be given away. You are a vehicle, nothing is actually for you. But, being closely connected to God, you wouldn't have it any other way. It's a peaceful loneliness. The kind that kills must be a selfish loneliness. It's the effort of clinging to divine love that corrupts it and kills you. Learning to let it flow through you freely is what gives you a healthy, useful life. If you get really disciplined, you probably feel love more fully the more you give. No need to have it returned.

Up for Debate

To me, every aspect of life is debatable. It's a great learning experience, a debate. I look at everything from both sides before I figure out which side of the fence I'm on. Of course, sometimes it's preferable to stay on my side of the fence. Simply smile and wave at my opponent on his side. Let's agree to disagree is what I find myself inclined to say to much of the world these days. Nobody wants to have a nice open-minded debate. How do I learn anything from them? I get shut out. End of conversation. Too bad we'll never come to a conclusion. No meeting in the middle. Not one step toward each other. If you want it that way, I'll build my fence good and strong. You would have poisoned me with your closed-mindedness, anyway. No loss, I guess. Uh huh, YOU LOSE! I can take what I want from you. I've learned plenty about your single faceted world. You'll never know mine. Your only value, in your stubbornness is you. You in your tiny little world. Never opening up. When someone really special comes along with a world changing idea I'll be ready to debate it and weigh its validity. You'll shut it out and be left out. Stay on your side of the fence. That's how you want it.

Will I be like that, when I'm finished searching? Are you my goal? Am I always conversing just so I won't be like you? Living in a tiny group of people that agree with me. Is that what you're supposed to want? Is that peaceful and happy closed-mindedness? Why do I even consider you as a valid being? You would shun me for not being part of your group, yet I don't hate you. Maybe you found the answer for you. Perhaps you have won a happy life behind your fence. I wait to put up a fence until I know what I'm fencing out. Yours is a preventative measure. Is it just for me, or for everyone?

I've Lost My Muchness

Sad as it is, I've lost my muchness. I didn't even realize I had it until it was lost. Can I have it back? Please? I asked nicely, but it won't come. Muchness must be harder to get back once you've lost it than to keep while you have it. Of course, if I didn't notice when or how I lost it, perhaps I lost it because of neglect. I was paying too much attention to other things. A bit of selfishness, or at least self-awareness is necessary in life. Self-preservation was never my strong suit. It's more fun to focus on other people. Of course, once I lost my muchness, it became hard not to focus on anything else, thus diminishing my ability to help others. It's a catch 22. A matter of balance in life. As a Libra, I should be better at balancing. If I ever get it back, I'll be more appreciative of it. I wonder where it went. Did my kids steal it? Is it a required sacrifice when you have children? Probably another part of motherhood that nobody tells you about beforehand. If they each took a little at a time, that would explain why I don't remember how I lost it. It would make more sense to get a bit more muchness with each child, since each requires much of you. I tried to make up for lacking muchness with caffeine, but apparently my muchness was connected to my ability to process caffeine properly. Interdependent traits are very troublesome. The Cheshire cat must be responsible for such trickery. Sleeping more doesn't seem to help, either. Of course, more for me is still not up to par. My muchness also took with it my exercise capability, and has left asthma in its place. I am grateful that I can write. I have high hopes that the writing will improve. Perhaps my muchness is still there, but shifting toward how it was meant to be used. I screwed around with what I wanted to do with it, but it wants to write. Yes, my muchness will be found when I attempt to fill a blank page.

This one's for my single follower. Happy Birthday fricken!

http://frickencoop.blogspot.com/

My Idol, My Self

Last night, I jokingly posted a comment on twitter that the people you follow are your twitter genetic blueprint. I follow a few musicians, each with distinctively different musical styles (optimistically emotional, sad and angry, fun and Halloweeny) an old writer, a yogi, a health food store, a screen writing group, and a few charity groups. They pretty much encompass my psyche. I'm missing a scientific group and a film group. Add those two, and I'm almost done. When I look at the eclectic mix objectively, I realize why I'm so indecisive. I have almost too varied a twitter blueprint to make one cohesive identity, one job, one lifestyle. I have no objection to these varied aspects of my nature, but to be productive and move forward, I need to let one dominate. The one I want to dominate might not be the most practical or beneficial one. Perhaps they each need a day of the week devoted to their strength. Would that diffuse each too much? By not letting one take over, I lose them all? Mom says if I believe in everything, I essentially believe in nothing. What of the Alpha and the Omega being one in the same? As for my finite life, one must dominate. It's just a time-constraint. I'd like to live long enough to get to do one of everything, though. A screenplay, a book, a song, a documentary, an independent film, a non-profit organization, a cure, and for fun... lots and lots of concerts. Then my kids will see every possibility. I need more time and energy.

Matters of Life and Death

To make ourselves feel better when we're overwhelmed with a decision, we like to say "It's not like it's a matter of life and death." But, in some way almost everything we choose to do will affect our lives. It would be nice to believe in predestination, or fate, which at times I do. How could something I choose to do ever be a matter of life and death. It almost seems irresponsible for God to have given me free will. I'm indecisive, yet for all the time I take in making a decision, it doesn't usually feel like the right one. When bad things happen to good people, was it because of a decision they made or something they did? Should our quest be to make better decisions and do better things? Most of us try, I think. At least I do. Maybe too hard. The best choices are the ones that don't take long at all. It's like a gentle breeze sways you in the right direction. Life goes smoothly, and you are confident. Inevitably, the sailing doesn't go too smoothly, waves are choppy, and you have to figure out what to do again. Couldn't another one of those gentle breezes come to the rescue? Unless, the choppiness is all in your head, as is the gentle breeze. We are our own obstacles? Thinking it's a matter of life and death is our obstacle. If we each have an eternal soul, then we can afford to flow gently on the breeze in this life, since dying sooner would only mean a physical death. But, what about the work we're supposed to do? What if a seemingly insignificant choice leads to an untimely demise, and the universe gets a bit off kilter? Whenever we hear of an untimely death, things seem unsettled and unfair. Is all as it should be anyway? When I was two, I went to my Aunt's funeral. She looked like Sleeping Beauty to me. Everyone was upset, but I wanted to say "She's just asleep and she looks beautiful." I've since been to funerals, and none of the corpses even looked like the people I knew, who had clearly gone somewhere else. But back then, I could still see her. She was peaceful. It was perhaps a gift to me in childhood. I didn't have to notice her departure. I wasn't supposed to be sad or afraid. I want that gift again, especially as I age. Is anyone able to deal with death as well as I did when I was two? Perhaps the truly enlightened. Maybe I was enlightened and then forgot. I wonder what made it go away. At times, life offers a little hint of my old peacefulness. It was a time when life felt endless and death didn't exist even if I was staring at it.

What Am I So Angry About?

I am a huge fan of the band Thirty Seconds to Mars. During a live version of the song "Closer to the Edge" at radio Sputnik that I found on You Tube (thank you, you tuber :) The lead singer had the crowd yell the refrain "No, No, No, No!" and on about the third yell, when they were good and riled up, he says "You're so angry. What are you so angry about." Very good question. When I went to the concerts, yelling "No, No, No, No!" was one of my favorite parts. I went to a Hole concert last week, and screaming along was half the fun there, too. As a teenager, I wished I hadn't had such a girly voice, so I could scream along with Kurt Cobain. If I could scream, especially if I were a guy who could scream, I would've tried to form a rock band. My husband doesn't really scream along at concerts like I do. What isn't he angry about? He happened to be born a white male. Not that there's a shortage of angry white men out there, but I can't deny that they are expected to have the most opportunities, or at least be more respected in our culture. I often think of a really great, world-changing idea, and try to figure out which distinguished male figure I could pitch it to, since that's how my idea will have the most influence. Yeah, I guess I'm pretty angry. I realize there are women out there who back their own ideas and achieve some progress. If I looked at the statistics, though, I'm sure I'd find them to be a small percentage compared to men. They'd definitely all be underpaid. It is sort of a cop-out to blame all of my anger on sexism. Or maybe that's what my male-dominated society would want me to believe. It's all my fault, right? I could've taken out that huge college loan that would take me twice as long to pay off with half the salary. I should have listened to all female bands and learned to like them as my role models (even though there are a tenth as many). I should have learned to adopt male qualities, then fought my way to the top of whatever male-dominated profession I wanted. (Did I mention my mannerisms and demeanor aren't unlike the character Meredith Gray on Gray's anatomy. Yes, I'm even clumsy.) When the world refuses to change, we often take on the task of changing ourselves. Fans of Thirty Seconds to Mars know and love their song "The Kill" which has the lyrics "I tried to be someone else, but nothing seemed to change. I know now this is who I really am inside." This is who we really are, not that the world has accepted us yet. It would prefer we blame ourselves and change back. Yes, we are angry. Wish there were more of us. Now let's change things.

Happiness

I saw a short film once called "Happiness" a woman of around sixty who works at a condom-testing lab envies her boss's shoes. She goes to a store that sells boxes of happiness, buys one, but never opens it. She returns the happiness and uses her money to buy the shoes, instead. She ends up back at work with sore feet from her new shoes. Her boss is wearing a new pair of shoes that catch the worker's eye. Cute film. Does our constant envy and pursuit of material things prevent us from opening a box that could be our true happiness? Is that what we're doomed to do? Or, is the happiness in the pursuit of whatever it is we fancy, so we have to endlessly envy and pursue just to be happy. Simply opening a box can't ever be enough for us. Or, would the characteristics of a person who is willing to buy and open a box of happiness be the characteristics that allow a person to be happy? The rest of us are indecisive, envious, and materialistic, our own obstacles to happiness. I don't know whether searching or settling is the key? Maybe settling into our seeking nature might work. I tend to get unhappy if I have nothing to work toward, but then once I reach a goal, I need to set another one. The happiness is in the doing. It makes me most unhappy to be too exhausted to be able to set another goal, but then I guess I need to be happy in the tween times. A bit of settling is good for the soul. I want to buy the shoes and the box of happiness, to take out and open in between shoe purchases. I am voracious. Maybe that's my obstacle.

Maybe Death is the Ultimate Joke

After I got thinking of my poor friend and my nursing school experience, I realized I had to write something a bit lighter this time. I thought about how I was petrified to give birth each time. I thought the pain would be unbearable, give me a heart attack, or I'd somehow do it wrong and harm the baby. Those were all possibilities, I suppose. Maybe not the me doing it wrong thing, although I have seen doctors yelling at women giving birth on TV, and in my experience, there really is no way not to push once the baby crowns. That's why doctors love the epidurals, you can wait for them all night. Not so sure that's good for the baby, though. Anyway, I noticed that the only thing that made giving birth scary for me was my own fear. The third time, I listened to subliminal cd's that told me there was nothing to fear and that I could do it, and it went quite well. It was like...that was what I was afraid of? I found out I was actually pretty good with pain when I wasn't afraid of it.

Cutting to the chase now.....relating birth and death, as they were meant to be related. Hopefully, the only bad part of death is the fear, and in some unfortunate cases, the disease leading up to it. We'll finish dying and be like.....that was what I was afraid of my whole life? Joke's on me, I guess. Of course, the tragedy would be a life based on the fear of death. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

You Understand

I met a man once who immediately knew I would understand him. He wanted to die, and he hoped I could help him. He probably realized I was in no position to grant his wish, but by understanding him, perhaps I helped. I was in nursing school. He was on dialysis, and just wanted to stop, to let it go. He had had a pop-fib bi-pass that got infected, and his leg looked like a piece of raw meat. He had an open wound from his inner thigh to the middle of his calf. I took him to hydrotherapy and watched him shake in unbearable pain as the salt water bubbled into his wound. I felt physically ill the whole day, simply from witnessing his torture. I wanted to give him strong pain killers or something, but if I recall, his kidneys couldn't handle it. No comfort in sight for him, other than death. As dialysis grew nearer, he begged me not to take him. "You understand. I'm old. I'm not going to get better. My family tells me I will, but I know I won't. I just don't want the dialysis anymore. You understand." I nodded. "I understand. I don't think they'll let you refuse, though." He probably saw it in my face....how I wanted to put him in a wheelchair and take him to his favorite spot to die... a beautiful beach, his favorite park at sunset. I would play his favorite album, or make sure he could hear the call of his favorite bird. Who wants to spend the end of their life in excruciating pain, hooked up to dialysis in a sterile hospital?

His family argued with him, "Dad, you're going to get better. You need your dialysis." I hope they were right, but had a bad feeling they were wrong. They would have to deal with knowing they let their father be in pain in his final days. The hospital must have made a bundle on him. I don't think they cared if he ever got out or got better. As my shift went on, he got closer to needing dialysis, and went a bit insane from the toxins that built up. He had a hallucination and kept handing me something. I had to keep him from wrapping his sheets around his face and neck. The movements his hands made simulated tying a rope, then he'd hand me something, and put the sheets tightly around his face. Had he wanted me to take the other end of a noose for him? I'll never know, but I do know he wouldn't have even needed a noose. And I would have made it more painless than that. At the end of the day, they took him to dialysis and I went home. I got out of nursing as soon as I could. I wonder what happened to my poor old friend. If he survived and was able to do anything at all that he loved, they were right, I guess. If he didn't, he and I were right. I'll never know how he knew I understood him. Is there something in my face, my eyes, my demeanor? What was it that he saw or sensed about me? Perhaps he'll get to tell me one day. We'll have a good chuckle together on the beach at sunset with owls flying all around. For now, my friend...I love you, and I'm sorry.

Funny Soul

Of course, I can't be serious all the time. I think humor is considered worldly, but I think spirituality has a great sense of humor. Most of the time, when I read something considered deep or spiritual, it isn't funny. If I become very good at this, I will achieve humor in the topic of the soul. Unfortunately, I am not that good yet. Perhaps I'm used to dark humor and crude humor. Does anyone teach spiritual humor? Buddha probably does. The title of a sort of Buddhist book I read was Being Nobody, Going Nowhere. I found that funny. My Mom found it disturbing. Or was the book Taoist. All religions run together if you read enough about them. The joke on us could be that they're all the same. I believe in everything, to some degree. In doing so, I alienate myself from most religions. It has been the same for me with friendships from time to time. People like you better if you choose their group or doctrine. It makes them feel secure, and gives them a sense of who you are. If they can't pin you down, it bothers them. Yet, you aren't pinned down, so you're more free. Maybe they resent your freedom, then. But by excluding yourself with too much tolerance, you deny yourself the freedoms that come from the security of a group. I strive to be more loving and understanding of everyone, and they shun me for it. That's kind of funny. By believing in everything, I have no definitive religion.

So, Why is this Pesky Body So Damned Needy?

In the quest to live life to the fullest by doing what I'm meant to do, why do I get so tired? The physical limitations of my body always stump me. Sometimes, I have no idea what it needs. I try different things with diet, exercise, and sleep to no avail. If I'm using my body to do what I'm meant to do, shouldn't I turn into a superhuman who has no physical needs? Even superman had his kryptonite. Why did they write that into the story? The weaknesses are obviously supposed to tell us something. Jesus knew he could not save them all when performing miracles on earth. The body was a limitation for him, too. An omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent being chose to be limited for a human lifetime. It's that valuable to be here, to learn from this. Sometimes my brain is so foggy from fatigue, I feel like I'm missing the whole point. Other times, I can go into the over-tired euphoria where I find the complete answer, then forget it in the morning. Oh..forgot to mention that a couple of my children didn't sleep through the night regularly until they were two. Four years without a single full night's sleep do things to the brain. Motherhood is a worthy cause, but everyone knows that..everyone has a mother at some point. Though, some choose not to be mothers, they usually come up with their worthy cause that leaves them sleepless. (note to self...look up circadian meditation, the thing Sidney Bristow's Mom told her to do in place of sleep on "Alias") We're all on a quest for something to make us superhuman, so we can be less hindered by our mortal bodies. If we could just live longer, sleep less, prevent aging, then we could be more like God or the source of creation or unified spirit. We'd get more done and be more powerful. When e see someone with a perceived physical superiority, we gravitate to them so we might learn how to achieve it. The body can be impressive. We're even more impressed when someone does something through sheer will, using a seemingly inferior body to achieve it. Maybe we're all supposed to learn how to do that to our bodies with our souls. If we could all live each moment with that much determination, what could we do together? Of course, trying too hard tends to cause burnout...the kryptonite of the highly motivated.

That whole body thing again....

So, I sort of get why I have to have a body. It's an experience of being an animal. As much as I would like to run out into public screaming "I am not an animal!" like the Elephant Man, I know I am. We all are. To deny our nature would be foolish. More foolish would it be to deny our spiritual nature, since, alas the body must die. Maybe I figure, if I don't get too attached to my body, dying won't be much of a loss. It's a defense mechanism to try to be purely spiritual. Just achieve spiritual immortality, get to heaven, and the body won't matter. Sounds simple enough, but I think existing as an animal is supposed to teach me something. I loved being pregnant and giving birth. What's more physical than that? And, a soul without a body couldn't eat chocolate, get a runner's high, or have sex. It couldn't even hug someone or wipe away a child's tears. I love being able to pet my dogs, watch movies, listen to music, go to concerts, and write this. I want to go back to school, or somehow learn to make films and write screenplays. Ah, it's the limitations of animalhood. So many things to do, so little time and energy. In my case, so little innate talent. I wanted to be a musician and actress when I was little. I tried to learn the guitar...I was not very good. I tried to write some songs...they never came to me. People say we usually settle for a mate. It's much harder to settle for ourselves. Yet, it seems ungrateful to not enjoy the simple, tiny bit of talent we have. I always felt the worst life would be one of a person with severe cerebral palsy, to be completely trapped in a body that can't be controlled by your brain. In my year of nursing school, I had a patient with cerebral palsy who was only a few years older than me. I talked to him all morning while feeding him breakfast. He was my captive audience for that day. I wonder if he wanted me to leave him alone, or if anybody ever just talked to him like that. I made some stupid jokes, and have no idea if he found them funny. It would have been awful for him if he really liked me, though, because he couldn't communicate it or ever contact me again. What if I was his soul mate, and his body wouldn't allow me to really know him? I think I understand him, somehow, in the way I feel separate from other people much of the time. My failed attempts at creativity are like a short circuit in my brain that won't allow me to share my spirit with the world. But in my case, it's probably my own fault. I'm not so uncreative that I couldn't have cultivated something as a talent. I probably have a self-esteem handicap, but I allow it to win. His handicap is a losing battle. He doesn't have a choice.

CHOOSE TO BE AN ANIMAL TO THE FULLEST SO YOUR SOUL CAN GET THROUGH!!!!

Why is My Soul in My Body?

I'm not kidding...really. Why, oh why is my soul stuck in this body? I think this is the same question as what am I meant to do with my life, in a way. For now, I am corporal, earthbound, living in a "meat suit" as they refer to it on the show "Supernatural". I don't feel very connected to this body, other than the fact that I rely on it for the only kind of survival I have known. As I grew up, it seemed wrong to me that when I look at someone, and when they look at me, we don't see something that reflects our souls. I could meet a beautiful person with an ugly soul or an ugly person with a beautiful soul. How many friendships have we missed out on because of ill-matched bodies and souls? What do people see when they look at me? I try my best to see the good inside of them. When there's bad, I often feel pained to take a closer look. It's even worse when I thought I saw good, but realize I was deceived. I would never want to put out that sort of energy. Better to pleasantly surprise them with good than to leave them unsatisfied. Trying to please everyone will always leave you displeased. One man's food is another man's poison. One poisoned soul is another man's food, in some circles. Glad I have no circle, but a circle is something we all want sometimes. Am I out of all circles, having been wrongly judged for my looks or because I refuse to judge? Do I not fit or do I refuse to be a part, possibly for lack of knowing which part I am? Does my soul change?

The Soul Afraid of Dying....

Death... Could the fear of dying prevent you from learning to live? I don't want to admit to that little self-destructive fear. Who would? Death can make you cling so much to life that you literally squeeze the life out of it. Protecting your soul too much leads to never letting it breathe, especially creatively. I have become the soul afraid of dying that never learned to live. That little line from The Rose pops into my head from time to time, as a tiny warning from within. How do I save myself? I only have a short time here. I don't know how short that time will be, and I never feel like I'm doing everything I"m meant to do. I've waited for a message from God, and I probably missed it while desperately living every moment like it could be my last. Oddly enough, one would have to be relaxed to really live every moment to its fullest. So, I do yoga now. It helps. Then, I wonder why the physical seems to help the spiritual......a topic for next time.

What's inside me trying to get out?

I recently began seeing a chiropractor/homeopath who told me, more or less, that there's something trying to get out of me. Hmmm....I'm not pregnant. Hopefully, I don't have any alien invaders or parasites in there. Not that I could be sure. After much reflection, all I could think of is that my soul has something to say, or do, or be. Saying, doing, and being encompassing all soul-ular activity. Evolving, perhaps? Metamorphosizing, yes!! My inner butterfly must be ready. A new take on butterflies in the stomach, perhaps. It happens to my daughter a lot. (note to self: I'll have to get her a blog.) Since, I have very little creative talent, but desire to create something wonderful, I am starting with the pen, er keyboard as my media. I hope somebody out there, like me, has a longing in the soul for metamorphosis and can enjoy reading my soul's ramblings. Back to the physical world for now. Alas, so little time for my soul.