Deeply Awake — It’s Happening 10-30-12 By Kathy Vik

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I have the news on right now. I have been checking in since the storm got interesting. I watched the fireball that was a ConEd sub-station, I have scanned the pictures of Manhattan streets flooded, structures ablaze, the stories of stranded tourists, and Chris Christie actually MAKING A MAYOR WRONG FOR OFFERING SHELTER TO HIS CITIZENS.



It’s happening.

How many times have you had a crisp, shocked, thrilling sensation accompanied by the words, “It’s about to happen!”

I have. A lot.

And I have always wound up feeling disappointed, let down, deflated, when excitement gave way to routine, the mundane, struggle, limitation, disbelief, disconnection.

Not now.

Oh, how many times have I given up on magic?! How many times have I looked around, shrugged, put shoulder to wheel again, resigned to the rhythm breathing through my life, inviting me to just relax and let it be, with me then crying as my collarbone is shredded by the effort of skin to wheel, knees bent, pushing, pushing, pushing the wheel back into motion, back on track. Make the money. Pay the bills. Try to find my way. Try to not lose hope.

How oddly brilliant that now that the S is finally hitting the F for so very many people all over the globe, I finally feel so calm.

I am so happy.

Now, that does not mean that I am unconcerned or feel nothing but love and compassion for those giants who volunteered to position themselves within the eye of the storm. I love them, and am grateful for their courage and goodwill.

I am running light to them and see us gathering above the fray, all of us indigo light beings, helping move this person there, giving that nurse the strength to walk the five flights of stairs with a little sick baby, somehow getting the strength needed to care for another.

We are there. Make no mistake. They are our brothers and sisters. It is unnecessary to pity them, and it is unkind to blame them. They have chosen something I would not like to do, but they point out the wisdom of planning ahead, getting as far off the grid for basic life necessities so when our storm hits, we are ready. They are first wavers, as much as you are, as much as I am.

It is happening.

It is FINALLY happening.

God, it’s been a long time since I felt I could breathe like this.

I knew always I was made for extraordinary times. The slog of the ordinary almost killed me.

These are indeed extraordinary times.

I thank God I am still here. I thank God for my willingness, my dumb, deep and abiding hard-headedness.

I love you, and I love me, and I love us, walking into extraordinary moments, in which we are already well-versed.

We know the language of chaos. We know the syntax of destruction. We peer out between the lines of the tales of other people’s fear, other people’s wonder, and we easily translate this broken language of the Sun, the Heart, the Cosmos.

We know this language, we sing its lullabies to soothe ourselves to sleep.

We know the lords of chaos, because we have been the lords of chaos. We know how to still this beast of unpredictability, how to ride the very edge of what freedom means.

We are home, we are ready, we are lighthouses, and we are shining like brilliant diamantine beacons of “It’s gonna be ok,” and “no worries, friend.”

I can’t be in NYC in the physical, and hope my energetic gift is enough. With you, and you, and you, together, it will be. Together it is. It is what it is, and I am that I am that I am. Namaste, Brother. Namaste, Sister.

Come in, dry off, and let me get you some coffee. Let me remind you of how intact you are, how brave and strong and beautiful you are. There is not one thing in your reality you cannot absorb and love and learn from.

You pulled this into your reality. Love it, know it as you, learn from it, laugh with it. Here, let’s sigh after our belly laughs, and put our feet up, tell each other stories, get warm and cozy within the swirl of tobacco smoke and deep recognition that now clings to our clothes and saturates the curtains of this little cabin.

We are home, and we are safe. Outside the storm rages, but we are safe here, unaffected, creating a universe that is magnificently large and wondrous, while eating buttered toast, and curling our toes into soft, thick socks, content, clear, catching glimpses of the raging skies outside the little cabin the the woods I have conjured up to shelter me for a little while.

Is what is happening out there, or is it in here that it is all happening?

I don’t care. I’d like some more coffee, a little more toast, and another story, please.


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