Deeply Awake Essay: Cool With It 5-29-16

DEEPLY AWAKE Essay : “Cool With It”

By Kathy Vik 5-28-16

So, wow, talk about spending six weeks in wall to wall, self-and-Soul-directed creation.

Just, wow.

And now, yesterday was the day I was packed in wads of cotton, white, absorbent, pristine. They told me, yes, well, think of a crystal figurine that is more valuable than anything you will ever come to own on this earth, and has been on your desk for the last four years, as you studied. It reminded you of far away ancestors, your place in it all, and a future that you know must be yours, simply because daily you have been applying yourself toward it, openly willing, teeth bared in a mysteriously fascinating and permanent and simple smile, sleeves rolled up, knowing if your just do this much, for today, it will add up, and you will become more.

And then, the day comes to pack up the dorm room, to say hello, finally, and then good-bye to the little patch of linoleum on which you have paced, and layed down and cried on, and gotten sick on, and ignored. This empty room, well, it takes on such different meanings, as do you, once everything is all packed up.

But this figurine, they told me, this is the thing which you couldn’t bear to cover up until it was necessary, the last thing to go in the suitcases. Is it appropriate to slip it in a sock and jam it between the old, highlighted books? Or is it best, do you think, to gently slip it into a little box filled with new, white cotton balls, allowing it to settle without touching even an edge of the box, riding around in white softness, as the little wooden box gets nailed shut, the token safe, guarded and treasured?

This, they told me, is what you can imagine is happening, so, of course, dear one, everything seems like a good bye and everything feels soft, and this is why you know you are safe, because of this funny feeling of floating in between the spaces formed with words, not a null, just, a time to be cool with what you have been planning comes next, the culmination of a lifetime, and as simple as just getting your ass on that boat, on that plane, on that train, in that car, heading away from training and into practitionership, into mastery itself.

This is how they talk to me now, and this is the level of help I get as I butter my toast, or talk to someone who has an issue or two they need to hammer out with me, and with those who simply can’t wait for me to hang with them, as they go about their plans and fulfill obligations they think are fun, or boring, or gross.

It’s true that I know they are physical. It is not healthy for me, what I sometimes call “dumb for me,” to ignore the full on physical presence of those whose teachings soothe me, and whose love for me spins my casino machine reels and makes the machine poop out a few bucks, as they laugh and cajole and instruct me on energetic management, expectation, responsibility of expression, and flexibility of thought.

And I am, in some ways very different from who I used to be, and in some ways I have not changed at all. I consider this merely an amplification of that which others have long positively, negatively, but very strongly reacted to.

So, I know of the amplification of that which I so vehemently kept at bay, at times, leading, while in the depths of darkness (as it rode around with ever increasing, incognito light) to years of depression, of self destructive patterns of behavior and expectation, and, eventually, in full denial, doubt, refusal with and of its existence, this argument visited me as profound illness, multiple hospitalizations,  life traumas, relationship ruptures, car accidents, near death experiences, so many, so many, and other things, just as alarming.

And I know of a diminution of that which always made me physically ill anyway, truth be told. The simple energy that spurred on and made valid the destructiveness I saw in my life and the lives of others. It was indeed self-perpetuating, and imprisoning, in its own way. I often called this reality “oppressive,” and it was so hard to shake off. It required writing about it. It required I create Deeply Awake.

I will say that as the lights came on, in 2012, this willingness to acknowledge that there was something bigger, is simply how it started, not better, not benevolent, not even anything but neutral, truth be told, just simply BIGGER, that is exactly what it was like for me, when it began in earnest and I started feeling what I call “normal,” when things got good, when the sparkle finally came back and stayed on.

It was on  10-30-15, the day my innate kicked in and my ass was no longer grass.

So, yes, I know of the diminution of the depressed, apprehensive, self-loathing, and at times what I considered so gripless, maybe borderline retarded, with a smattering of the mean, person I had found myself behaving like, so often as things changed for me, and I learned to adjust, I as like that for less and less long periods of time, and it was mroe and more uncomfortable.

It would indeed shut my heart down and made everything feel so scary and made me feel so small.

I experienced less and less of the physical illness stuff, but for fevers and one object lesson that was traumatic. My body wasn’t taking the hit for my emotions or experience anymore. So, during this time of slow awakening, from 1-19 & 1/25, 2012, forward, no physical harm settled on me, though I was diagnosed with severe arthritis in my right hip, so bad it required replacement, this I learned in ’14, which is now resolving. Other than that, which I understood to be things I couldn’t process fully in the moment, there has simply been more open and rapid communication between me and my body, so I am no longer expecting illness to visit me as it might have, had I not been willing to do this, way back when.

During those four years, bad feelings would visit me, and I felt like I had never processed so freaking hard in all my life, but, oh my god in heaven, were overwhelming in their magnitude and sheer force. I am quite the weeper, anymore. Just ask anybody. I feel, but even that is not as violent as it was in the preceeding years.  I had many friends, and listened to Matt Kahn for comfort, while doing this massive clearing work. But, I took heart, I knew there were many doing it, and we were doing it for all time, for the collective, to shift things so things got better for everyone. It was part of our job, we could do it and we’d volunteered. Like that, is how we all saw it. I am glad I had those guys, because it was crazy making.

So, I let things progress, and I let them culminate, and, in full knowledge of what was about to go down, I opened a little eye on my laptop and let you guys watch as I did this curious thing which I had no explanation for except that I knew it was time. Time for something extraordinary, something singular, something grand, like catching lightening in a bottle, is how I have put it, in my essays. Oh, will you look how clever this is! I would think. Like catching lightening in a bottle!

This was my work, why I came here, to capture for all what it felt like for one, who did something like on assignment, and is happily completed with her work.

It is the embodiment which now quiets the last of the denial, doubt and argument with all that I know to be all that I am. No trauma. No illness. No physical symptom. Just a bump, a nudge, a correction, done in love, in harmony, in willingness, and, at times, still somewhat unskilled, though passionate! now.

I see these old patterns, the codes, the noise, the dark, this was once my prison, then my boxing partner, and then my instructor, and now my counselor, all who I now recognize as tired children who really just need to be told how valuable they are, that they did nothing wrong, and no one is mad at them, nor could they ever be anything but so grateful and happy for their beautiful and wonderful presence, then to feed them a cookie and let them go back to sleep.

I feel that way about the things which at one time had me pinned by the neck on the floor, thinking, hmm, “Yep, it’s true, after all… there are a lot worse things around here than death.” Haven’t you been there? Quite a few times, I’ll bet, if you are still reading along.

It is these more easily accessible thoughts and more unfettered reality that allows the old, gnarling, threatened monsters that used to lunge at me and make me stumble and hurt myself, these now appear elegantly as feeling states I now know it is best not to expose myself to. Makes me sick, I tell myself, alone, reviewing things not in a voice of contempt, but that of diagnostician, to be honest.

“It’s unhealthy for me.”  I have decided, that is a phrase I can use to just politely remove myself from things I know are not good for me. This isn’t healthy for me. No one who is in this for my benefit as well as theirs will argue with that, I figured. It’s a way to let  The Other expose their hand, in gentleness, in acceptance, in tolerance, and in love.

And it totally  doesn’t mean it isn’t healthy for anyone else, and it doesn’t mean it is bad for the one offering me a slice, but, when I ingest, things happen to me that I would rather not waste your time talking about, and, for sure, I would just prefer to move past the things between us causing so much discord, change what we want, love each other after having loved ourselves with authenticity and honesty and awe and gratitude, and not even think about the sickness anymore.

It’s best.

But, just for me. Just for me. And without telling another person what is good for them. Fuck that shit. I am more clear about my entire rejection of the giving of advice. It’s nonsense, and tells me only that someone is in the thralls of something super good for them, that they know could heal me, the one sitting next to them at the salon, or the lunch counter, or my bed.

I think to myself, I am glad you have found harmony and balance and peace with these things. Tell me more, tell me more, but, never assume, love, that it is healing that I require. See me as whole, please. Do not assume I am broken. Assume, instead, that the freedom from which you speak, that soul song you are singing, that it was I who built the stage on which you sing your song, into that huge ass microphone you have in your hand.

And, now, let me stand on your stage, hold the mic you provide for me, and let’s begin to sing new songs, both in acknowledgment of our intrinsic worth. Let’s do that, how about. And, funny thing, I a m finding many who are in alignment with their chosen expression, and they help me heal, as I know my presence helps them heal, just from being banged up by the energy, the stuff that has thankfully become, more and more, a fond companion, but one that knows it best to think before speaking.

Like that.

I asked for merge, for blend, and I have achieved that. I hear their clipped staccato as I write, and I really don’t mind it at all. Even though it doesn’t say “channel,” it may as well. Still, I like talking as me, as this me, for this time, and saying a couple things.

I know, at times, that I have indeed done what I came to do, and this thought, well, since it is a really big one, I come at it from the side, from the back, and only when I know it isn’t paying attention to me. It shines and sparkles, and I look and wonder, huh, well, isn’t that something… how did this all happen again?

It floods me, sometimes, and there is a lot I do not recall consciously, not because I am blocking it for terror or newness, but instead because this all happened in stair steps, and so, there are parts to the story what only seem salient to one aspect of self, or the healing, or the story.

I am pleased with my work. Last night, at the sink, so glad to soon be crash landing into another dreamless sleep, I realized that I have now gone nearly six weeks, producing high art, daily. The word count, the content, just, the whole thing, I just stood there and goggled at the sheer labor involved.

Then, I checked, confirmed, yesterday was the first day I took off since April 17. I like those numbers, that April date. I like what they spell. And of course it would be an 8. Of course it would be a 12. And of course it would spell a 3. Of course it would. A silly game I play with myself, perhaps, but soothing, so, why call it down, call it names, or suspect it of foul play? Instead, it is something I have done for decades, letting dates and license plates and identity numbers spell things out. Why not? It makes me smile.

I know what I am wanting to do next, and it has nothing to do with a voice telling me I have to. Oh, hell no, I say. No, it isn’t like that at all, being pushed around and led by my nose. I finally had enough of that nonsense, and told everybody, on my graduation day, it’s not going to be like that around here anymore. Not anymore, thanks, but, I think not, I said. I decreed what it was like for me, not going to be if conferred, not given if worthy, but what I am, and what it is. Full awareness. Full access. Full memory. Full expression. Full embodiment. NOW. And, I think, as a group, I can say that the reaction was one of, “Well, ok,” just as this had, for 55 years, been my response to Them.

Well, ok,” I would say, and loped off and did weird, unexplainable, counter intuitive things. Way way off the beaten path stuff. All in good humor. Responsibly. Legally. Even reverently, sedately. Pursuits into furthering my education, into science once again, into anthroplogy. Reading, absorbing, comparing, learning, gathering, sometimes highly traditionally, sometimes boho, and, I might add, sexually responsible, for the entirety. I went off and did my thing and broke up and moved on and changed jobs and moved houses, did what I knew I had to, knowing I was growing less and less fond of having others think for me, or tell me how to feel, but lettting them anyway. And so, the sickness dug in and went to work, really, figuring out my karma, is it? Or just widening reality?

All these things, some labeled weird, none of it could nor did explain, simply because if I tried, I was never believed, or I was made fun of, or told to stop it and just get on with this living stuff, being reminded how bad I was at all the stuff the cool kids don’t need to study to get A’s.

Well, ok,” I said, and I tried. I really really did try. No one could ever say, looking at my life, that I didn’t at least show up and participate.

So, now I am going to heal people again, but only on a one to one setting, for now. Groups, maybe, but, later. One to one. Soul to soul. And as they allow their fear to come out and have an expression, They will be there to soothe, and guide, and love back into balance, harmony, good will, the participant’s soul standing with mine, entwined, both of us smiling and loving and giving, with no intention but to allow the one who participates a chance to feel just how much love they are actually made of, how safe they are, how so many of the things they tell themselves might not be entirely true.

And watch the pain fall. Watch the bitterness flee. Watch the spring once again return to the cells long dormant, waiting for this time, when the one unaware of their own integrity say “Yes, ok, I feel safe enough, I am ready,” and I meet them, in my sacred sanctuary, and we exchange realities.

I think of the criticism and feedback I might get as simple pests, like buzzing flies who know there is food about, who will benefit from the food being offered, and enjoyed, and strengthened by, and we will each be nourished, in our own way, so let the flies buzz, let the flowers bloom, and let those who wish to be healed show up, under my fingertips, and under Their finest tutelage and care.

I look forward to my life. I no longer long for those who have judged this expression of mine incompatible with what is wise, or safe, or sane. That’s fine. I have found my own way, and, after the shit I have been through, having found that is all I feel obligated to do. I no longer even feel a need to comfort those who are made uncomfortable by me and how I express, or, indeed, how I once did.

I’m cool with it.

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