DEEPLY AWAKE: ENTANGLED by Kathy Vik “Grandma Cannon” 11-19-14

DEEPLY AWAKE: ENTANGLED by Kathy Vik

Grandma Cannon” 11-19-14

Dolores Cannon passed away a little while ago, and I did not comment on it, mainly because it was not a little thing, her passing, and I wanted to think on it before I spoke, out of respect for this fine author and explorer.

I don’t know how I found her books, who recommended them, or how they fell into my hands. All I know is, from the first page, I was hooked. I was home.

I was just coming to, and aliens and spaceships was as good of a hook as any. I have always been curious about the experience I had with a black triangle in the sky one night, and this puzzle has, over the years, urged me to consider all manner of enjoyable things. So, talk of alien races and alternate realities, seems legit to me. But she didn’t stop there, or her subjects didn’t. They described, and somehow communicated, the same feelings and realities that I just know exist, though I can’t tell you why, I just do. I just know that we call come from light, what it feels like to be in the rapture of that light, that this is a grand adventure in consciousness. I know it, and then I read words of others who are describing it, oh my, it just set me free, reading her books.

Sometimes I would read them as if they were science fiction, and that’s fun too. I have given away many Cannon books, to colleagues at work who expressed interest. Better in their hands than mine, spread the word, I figure.

The first thing I published, very early on, is called Judas Energy. I am still proud of it, and I smile as I think that this was the subject with which I started my publishing career. Knee deep in paradox. Never there was a greater mystery than that one, in my opinion. The thing is, I realized soon enough that I didn’t know who I was writing for, if anyone. I just had to write. But, to whom?

I got replies, comments, and that spurred me on, because, suddenly, I was getting read. But, I wasn’t writing for them, I loved their comments and involvement, but I needed a face, an immediacy and intimacy that I couldn’t easily achieve with a reader.

So, on a road trip to Sedona in late June, 2012, I came to a decision. I wanted to write as if I were talking to someone like Dolores Cannon, someone who could normalize this experience for me. So I imagined a grandmotherly woman, kind and loving, with a genuine interest in hearing what I had to say, about things I had never seem to talk about, and those moments of raw creativity and clarity that I received now and then on the journey.

Sometimes I was talking as if we really were in a diner, rainy, dark, chilly outside, warm and cozy inside, sitting at a Formica a chrome table, eating pie and discussing things big and small. But sometimes she served as invisible guide,just a person who had my back,as I discussed things that sometimes made no sense to me, sometimes perfect sense.

I know that’s not Dolores, and with her passing I am aware I missed my chance to meet her this time around. But, here’s the thing. Even though this lifetime we never met, I felt a connection, a bond. Maybe it was simply that she wrote about me, her subject matter just went through me and fixed me, that longing Kathy, the one who only wanted to go home. Reading her books took that horrible pain down, made it manageable, and now, it’s gone. It doesn’t bug me as it once did. I understand home now, and I’m at peace with it. Dolores’ work helped me. I can’t repay her for this gift she gave me.

And so, even though we never met, her work changed me. If I were to say “she changed me,” I would mean it in a wholly impersonal, non-little personality way. I don’t know her favorite cologne or music or color. Never got the privilege. But, I know her thoughts, her questions, some of her professional mishaps, and tons of her professional experiences.

We all have these experiences, though some folks may not feel them as intensely, and some may. Some people speak to us, and I think the more folk we let speak to us, opening us up to new ideas and ways of framing life, the better. But that’s just me.

Because I did not know the personal Dolores, I am not shaken by her death. And, honestly, I just can’t wait to see her in her new life. What will she choose to explore this next time? Can you imagine being her mom, or grandma? With that mind, and wit? Born in this more plastic, lighter energy? What a spitfire she, or he, will be!

So, yes, the human race is diminished with every death, its reality shifted with each passing, on its grandest scale, but each of us goes, each of us returns, to carry on, and, now, to remember.

I am finding a rhythm now, but there is no real rhyme or reason to it, that I can see. I look for patterns, in mood, consciousness, thought, activities, and watch the world spin, now, feeling differently within it.

I find that I don’t mind feeling a little off kilter, which is good, because I have felt a tiltiness to things, and have noticed bleedthroughs while working.

I eel oddly magnified and detached at times, completely focused in the moment while strangely observing it, all at once. The weird thing is, I prefer feeling that to feeling squeezed and tight, locked into linearity, expectation, rules.

I am noticing, too, that I have a very clear tolerance for most social interaction, and am getting very good at learning when to disengage and breathe. I am in an environment where they recognize this about me, that it takes me time sometime to switch gears and readjust my thinking, when something brand new comes along. And I find that absolutely gorgeous, to have found such good people, who see value in me even when there is a puzzle. I can’t say we really have problems at work, because we seem to work them out as we go along.

How did I get so lucky?

I find that my consciousness has peaks, lulls, but that I am becoming more aware of all of it, just all of it, in a bit of an observer role, perhaps “participant observer” plays a part in this, perhaps not, but, it’s soothing to me, to be able to break off from the issue at hand and watch, think it through, allow the free fall, trusting the process. It is just this, this process, I find myself going through repeatedly now, and I am enjoying it.

I have been reminded that, when in distress, I’ve just forgotten my core, and of course, this is just what I need to hear to quiet me whenever there is something I have to respond to which will entail effort and caring and focus. Drop into my core, function from there, I am reminded. Seems so easy, in the still moments. Hard to remember the words, when it gets fast and furious.

The idea of Dolores being the one to have heard the above, my blip, my take on my own brainpan, that has long been a device, and although sometimes I need a grandma to write to, and do, I know for whom I write now, and so, I am surrounded my by friends as a type these words.

She moved the ball so far down the field, we’ve got a ways before we catch up. She heard the call, and did what she thought was best. She was ballsy, and inventive and rebellious, even, though incredibly responsible and sedate, in presentation and form. I am grateful for her presence in my life, and glad that she worked so hard, because, her presence is indefinite, and indefinitely welcome. Her books will always be on my shelves, and her presence is one of many, urging me to wrap this thing up.

I still do wonder if I am sane, and I wish I didn’t but, it’s a road with very deep tracks, grooves that are hard to jump. Talking about the effects of this stuff, the weird feelings and odd sensations, that’s what kills the mental illness monster, just explaining what it is like sometimes, as I quietly boggle at what it is I am doing, the worlds I am walking now, every day, not just on my days off, not just when I can supplement with sunlight and meditation and lemon water. I’m engaged now, daily, with people in ways that are exhilarating and serious and intense. This is a reinvention of self, in a way, having long been disengaged, by choice.

It’s good to touch base. This is a relatively short missive, but I grow sleepy, and tomorrow promises to require of me my attention, my devotion, my presence. I feel strangely incomplete, as if there is much yet to say, but, for now, this will do. I hope these words reach a glad heart, that you are loving of yourself, kind to yourself, looking upon yourself with indulgence and tolerance. I continue to practice this for myself, too.

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