the voice from here and beyond
Epiphany can be intoxicating. It can feel like an aha, strike on high from the Gods, a lightbulb being turned on and shining light into the shadows of a fearful existence. Wake me up, slap across the face… but what do you do about it in the morning?
Time and time again I see individuals, myself included, have these amazing moments… and then do little with them. Catharsis junkies attending the same shamanism or tantra 101 weekend year after year, having the same realization about their intrinsic sacred value, only to come back the next year to “wake up” again because they fell asleep again in the year between.
There are those for whom epiphanies are truly a tool for life transformation. Having opened wide and seen the glory possible in existence, in their own skin and sighs and soulful spirit, they cannot fall asleep again. They shake off the fetters and begin the Work on this planet of being the person they need to be. And yet, the percentage is not so high.
Epiphanies are powerful… but only if we do something with them.
What epiphanies can be though are a way to start laying the lines for our daily Work. Let my clay be etched with a line by this experience. The first line is so often the hardest. Where do I long to etch my dreams? Where do I go from here? So often we scratch and scratch at the clay that is our being and add texture, add friction, add scars… but nowhere for the finger to follow, nowhere on the tile for the water to flow away and out into the world.
For those who have epiphanies early on, they can act as an initial strike line. The hard water comes, and the line is laid. As we continue our daily work, the line gets deeper and deeper, digging into our essence. Our patterns become indelible, tactile experiences that can be felt upon our being.
And yet- there is the reflected route. Instead of my daily practice be a thing to do after the epiphany struck… let the scratches become a pattern, the pattern be followed over and over again to become lines. When epiphany strikes, the heavy rains have a place to flow, they dig deeper, the water finds its ways and lets it go where it is needed.
“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity”
-Seneca, Roman philosopher, mid-1st century AD
“Enlightenment is an accident. Meditation makes you accident prone.”
–Zentatsu Richard Baker, American Soto Zen Roshi
My own clay is scarred and textured, and tells the tale of so many false starts. And yet, wisdom therein. Let us not bemoan the sorrows of relationships not followed or spiritual paths stepped upon but not taken. Those scratches and lines into our clay set up the potential for our Work today, our work in the Now. Sing me not a tale of sorrow, unless in welling up that emotion in you in inspires you to greater work. Sorrow as fuel, yes, tasting of salty sweetness of tears and times past. But a sea to drown it… no. Fashion a raft from the debris and prepare to sail.
I examine my clay. Look at the lines run deep, the shallow scores, the takes of my flesh and furrowed brow. Look at the patterns in my etheric being, the land mines and easter eggs, the potential and passion buried in my story.
My finger runs along the clay. That one, there. There. Yes, it is the path I long to follow. And this one here, a journey to inspire, that is mine as well. I find the dowsing rod of my spirit and work out the ley lines. I lower my lips to the clay and breathe dust away, finding lines covered up with neglect of pursuit and forgotten promises.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in and hold. Slowly, I let out my breath through my nose, lips shut in silent contemplation. Focussing into the patterns, I slowly open my eyes and see the clay before me.
Here is the pattern for the daily Work. Here the where I go. Here is the sharpening of my vision into the passions for the future.
My fingernail follows the groove. And again today. And again tomorrow. And again, again, again. I do not notice as my finger finds the line again and again.
The Grand Canyon was dug out this way, and so is my heart.
In my well-laid being, let the lines run deep.
It will not always go the exact way I thought. I may meander, the drizzle of water taking a turn and twist that leads not to a goal but simply to where it leads. And yet, over the years, the awe of nature’s majesty emerges.
My line becomes a creek, a creek a river bed. My bed, well laid, awaits the monsoon and wells to life.
Epiphany comes, and I am ready.
I wait, hooded
Pull my eyes open
Lift me up
And let me soar
I know
Road and path
Hungry for the prey
Of my spirit
Let me serve
I wait, hooded
Lift me up
Eyes open and soaring
I am in a spiral, madness pulling down around me. Veils fall, stretch, pull. Pull me back in. No capacity, understanding as it all falls falls falls so far down.
Breathe.
My jaw is clenched up, locked. Spiral, open wounded tooth, uncertain medical.
Breathe.
Too many projects, too many people, please just turn on the television and leave…
Breathe.
I am sick of being me. That’s why we share, why don’t we get to share, what did the rest of us do wrong, what about us.
The story, the continued story. What about us.
Our bodies have profound wisdom.
This skin suit we have is so full of information, capacity, knowledge… it picks up things we could never hear, never see. It understands things our conscious mind is never aware of. I am blessed by my body, blessed for my body.
And yet, how often have I not listened?
I work contract projects. I get hired to come in, do a thing, and leave. And yet, to teach that class, run that ritual, facilitate that discussion, drive that intensive… there is hours, days, weeks or even months of work in advance. A 2 hour class is more than a 2 hour class.
But how do I choose what classes to do?
I’ve been relying on my intellect and cerebral knowledge. Balance out calendars, look at flows and finances, debate what will work out for all parties involved.
But I have to now start listening to my exhaustion.
This weekend was fueling. I fed my heart, my body, my mind, my spirit. I connected on profound levels, fired up my imagination, and unlocked awarenesses within me. I am grateful and blessed.
And looking at future experiences… it is not the case.
Yes, it’s a fair package. Yes, it will open up a market to me. Yes… and yet my body feels heavy. I pick up the phone to talk with that specific organizer, or send out that one email, and I feel exhausted. I feel drained, on something that has no reason to be draining.
My body knows something I do not know. My body is aware of something that I am not aware of.
I have believed over the years that my mental adventures are a gift, if only I will become aware of that gift. That my supposed physical disabilities are gifts, if only I will wake up to their potential. I know this. My tongue tastes this as truth. My lips hum knowing this to be so… and yet, what do I do?
I flounder. I lash out at the fact that some days I am “broken” or “can’t work.” I do work, I just am unaware of what it is I am doing. I am percolating, I am simmering, i am polishing. If all I do is take in, or if all I do is DO, what space is left for these refinements, processing points, and the growth of my unconscious self through the act of being? Of hitting lows and in the shadow finding the texture that brings my world to life? By hitting highs and lighting up the world?
This body suit, my Fetch, my sticky one, this that I am and am not, this shapechanger skin… I see you. I hear you. And I will endeavor to implement your wisdom more regularly. You are wise, with years and tears.
The gift of fear is not our only body gift. I also feel the gift of arousal. The gift of panic. The gift of awe. The gift of exhaustion.
Body emotions, inspired by body memory. This body has been around before… we are not just reincarnated beings of spirit, all three of our selves come back around. My skin has been carbon in another form before. My thoughts have been thought before. My spirit has shone before. And all three will shine again.
Energy is not made. And nothing goes “away.”
Haya Babylon… Hail to the Queen on Heaven… Whose azure eyes drown all sorrows… Hail to the Queen of Heaven…
Tonight the work of Songstress and Lyrical Witch Sharon Knight is playing, with backup from T. Thorn Coyle.
I dreamed last night of Babylon, a dream between waking and sleeping. Serpents from her arms wound their way in and through my body, blazing blue, and I cried. Cried tears, a thousand eyes on my lips.
Today I saw a mandala, pierced. I saw it and these eyes came forward again, wet with love for the world and the weight of our shadow.
I breathe in, and acknowledge weight, acknowledge sorrow, acknowledge love.
Those words keep echoing in my head tonight.
“I consent to the journey.”
Today I had a conversation. The conversation topic was consent, and the journey rambled from place to place, story to story, feeling to word to deed. It was funny and sad and delicious… as it needed to be.
At the end of the chat, Dan asked what would happen if he went to Raven, gave him a deer skin pouch, and said “take me on a journey.” Take me where spirit leads you. Would he be okay if Raven fucked him up the ass, for example.
Well, you said yes to the journey… the rest of the table.
Consenting to the journey does not mean being happy with the outcome. It means agreeing to take the trip.
I have been embracing this concept a lot recently. Take me on a journey, my beautiful Goddess. Join me on a journey, my sweet Boy. Don’t give me safewords, because I don’t want to be safe. I want to say yes, yes to my life, my love, my journey, my path- and accept personal responsibility for my part in saying yes.
Does that mean that consent does not matter? No.
Does that mean all bad things that happen were meant to happen and it’s okay that injustice happens across this planet? No.
It matters. I am acutely aware that they matter. I still negotiate for my health and safety, and those I care for, and those who share the world with me that I care for in turn. Let us all be set up for highest success.
And yet, the mystery, the veil. I see my Sister holding up a mantle of ocean waves, and I bow before her. Possibility and Flow. Possibility and Flow. Leannan the Dead smirks at me and goes back to Work.
I consent to the journey. Let the roads I have agreed to unfold as they will, and I will walk them with excellence, love, and occasionally, sorrow. Waves will come and we will paddle on.
Let me play this way, I think, rather than order from the menu. Let me love this way, rather than set the script in advance. But this is not an either or. It is a neither, a both, a blending. I open to each journey, having packed the bags for the adventure with the tools we will each need to succeed.
I kneel and kiss the ground. I kneel and kiss the ground again. I prostrate myself, and kiss the ground before her cave.
I consent to the journey.
Someone else’s life
Images flicker by
Voyeuristic eye
Consuming
A life I have never known
I saw you dreaming the starry sky
In the morning as I crawled from our bed
Your legs wrapped in cream
And a sunbeam dancing across your hips
When we love, when we embrace, where do our embraces lead? To disheveled streets and imperfect connections, longing and hope wrapped in who we want to be reflected in each other’s eyes. I see those eyes before me, and the mirrors show me so many me-s.
Show me the strength you see
In me when I become your mate and master
Your legs wrapped in dream
And my sunshine holding your starry sky
I am sitting today with mental health, with diagnoses and not being diagnosed. Madness and genius wrapped up in each other with a sigh, longing for normalacy and detesting the notion in the same breath. I breathe between tears and fears, and his eyes catch mine.
Forgiveness comes in so many forms
In the bowl of cereal you offer up
Your legs wrapped in steam
And sunrays caught fresh from the shower
And so here I am on the roller coaster again, and the clowns dance by. I will be your calming force, you will be my rock, and together we are better for it. Let my eyes help you be the best mine and more you have the capacity to be… for you have so much capacity.
We have so much work and life ahead
In the world at large or tucked away
Your legs wrapped around mine
We will break the molds and build anew
Revelation on the Tarmac
Tears sit on the tip of my tongue
Spill over
Taste of sweat and a realization
That I deserve
So much
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