Deeply Awake — Waiting 11-7-12 By Kathy Vik

Image result for leaves in sunlight gif



I am sitting at a table in a public library, three of us gathered to work on our books, our November task with NaNoWriMo, our labor of love and self-indulgence, and yes, there is some dreaming involved.

And I sit here, looking at the pale aqua Formica desk this laptop I love so much now rests on, listening to my old friend J.S. Bach explain things to me with his fugues, and I am waiting. Just waiting.

I feel like I always have been waiting, that in one way or the other, every day has some portion of it devoted to this thing with which I’ve developed such a twisted relationship. Waiting.

I know I have kicked myself a lot for having the patience of Job, and kicked myself equally hard for just not knowing when to hold my horses sometimes. Rushing forth from the gate long before anyone has given any indication they are ready, some spaz in a pale pink jogging suit, running like she’s never gone more than a couple yards before, just hollering, “Whee! Let me at ’em.” And then there is her sister, unwilling to get out of bed, not caring that the sheets are filthy, just letting it all go into stasis and lengthy introductions, excruciating meetings, decisions made, relationships formed, relationship sucks, relationship dissolves, and once again, I am huddled beneath my blanket, wishing everything would just go away, while knowing no one else is quite this psychotic about normal things.

Ha! Waiting.

Does doing it well involve obedience, trust, confidence, what? Just what delineates waiting from impatience.

That burning, that having to know, having to turn over that stone and that one, and, goddammit, that one over there too, each and every one investigated, just long enough to see they are all interconnected. The pyramids on the Giza plateau, Ceres, Sirius, Orion, Atlantis, Lemuria, Mu, Ancients, the Super-Conscious that Dolores Cannon hangs out with all the time, The Teachers, string theory, galactic core burstages, pole shifts, null zones, zero point energy, free energy, magnetics, grids, whales, gods, angels, devils, the Illuminati, the dark cabal, bad aliens, benevolent aliens, Bashar, Bach, Collective Soul, heaven, friends, brotherhood, solidarity, Obama, lightworkers, collectively choosing an easier path.

And then there comes the moment of quiet.

Just peace.

Hanging in the air where the words once stood, and even though all the questions are being answered incrementally instead of all at once, suddenly the words of a different language can be appreciated.

Simple words without tongue, words of welcome, of comfort, of peace, of ease. Of nothing being outside our abilities, because anything within our imagination is something that should be honored, hailed, welcomed, talked with, learned from.

I lead a simple life, and now it flows a little better. Today is the day I just get rid of a lot of greyness. I have a lot of greyness in my house, sort of a sadness that has drifted onto everything I encounter. It is the powdery film of going for months, years, with nothing making any sense at all. Months, years, of finding daily life completely overwhelming, just had a limit and nothing more could soak in.

I couldn’t engage in a lot of battles, and I had my attention, my seeming full attention, on just getting through the day. I considered it a victory to get my kid and I fed, dishes washed, kid washed, beds clean, pillows in good repair, now, let’s get ready for the next one.

It was a grind. I can remember having weeks of being really upset because “we” have to constantly use the bathroom. I even went to a psychic about that. It was like this thought insertion I could never shake, and I’d get all upset about having to shower, oh the immodest intrusiveness of showering. And I could not face the thought of eating soup. Because you had to eat soup one spoon at a time, and that brought up such thoughts about futility, oh, I laugh so hard as I write this, because, honest to God, that was my inner landscape the last few years.

You wonder why I secretly carry a deep dark fear of the looney bin.


So, now, it’s quiet. I sit here listening to Bach go on and on about how the Fibonacci series is right there in almost all flowers and pretty much everything else, here, LOOK you dumb ass he sings sweetly, through the baroque violins and cellos. See, it’s all right in front of you, you big dopes.

Something like that.

It’s funny to me now, as I think about what comes next, mainly the toilets hopefully getting unplugged and the kitchen and the clothes and stuff like that, but what has been driving me since Sunday afternoon is who might be emailing me right now.

I can feel agents and secretaries and publishers and publicists readying for the next big project, like actors in the wings, waiting for their cue, waiting for the music to swell.

And in the meantime, I sit here, typing, wondering how I am going to fill my day, then remembering all the housework that lays ahead, and I can’t help but feel good, whole, integrated somehow, not only with my weird past, but with my slidy present and my magnificently surprising future.

I let the hours creep on, knowing full well that a tsunami of good tidings is very close, but knowing, after all my days of odd thoughts, deep thoughts, happy and inconsolable thoughts, that what is in front of me is the way it is, and it is blessed. It is the node of power, the point of power, the place from which all good flows.

Regardless of appearance, trouble, inconvenience or adventure, I carry on, deciding it’s time to re-read this, save it, pack up and move on. My house is calling me, some success is waiting to gift me, a few bars in the music named “Where’s That Bitch Futility Now?” wants to get played on my old Zenith radio.

I will carry on, and I will be waiting. Not so much living in the future, just more I feel like it is sitting open-mouthed in front of me, and as hard as I try to see around this monster, it keeps moving, to have my full attention. Hard as I duck or weave, it sits there, showing me its molars.

So I will turn away from this giant, this big lion of a beast, and busy myself with chores. Not doing anything small, or in a small way, but in an obedient way, in a way that will soon allow my home to reflect the comfort I feel so richly within.

Now it is time to match outside with inside, to conclude this particular symphony, to move on to a new suite, a new etude, a new fugue. I can hum a few bars as I create ease while I am waiting.

I have a new job, good hours, steady pay. No more canceled shifts and financial ruin, going without internet and cable, having troubles. Nope. That’s complete. As is working in the dark.

It so happened that the only shifts available on contract were day shifts. They accepted my scheduling parameters, and now I can live with my drapes open. Another wish granted. Certainly not in the way I had preferred, but there it is.

I can wait a little longer. I can feel the electricity in the air, the crackles preceding faint voice, from miles and miles away, making that first introduction, that first hello.

I believe there will be more of those sorts of conversations in the future.

You do know that I am doing something many will think nothing less than psychotic? Making a reality out of thin air.

But, I say, observe. Watch. Stand back and watch this thing.

I think this is my best science experiment yet.

And you do remember your bio-chem, your zoology classes, right, physics and chemistry and all the rest? There must be a great thought. Then there must be lots of disbelieving. Then we shall test all the beliefs. And in the testing comes much waiting. And then we come to the one true belief, the obvious conclusion, the natural explanation.

I think this is turning into another science experiment, a cooperative dance with the Universe, seeing to it that my best self steps forward out into the sunlight every day, and in that light, I sweep away old, painful thoughts and beliefs, and in their place, put up a foundation which cannot be shaken, never was shaken, will never do anything but support even more creativity, more joy, more wisdom, more laughter. Always more of that.

So, really, am I waiting? How can that possibly be true? This moment is exactly what I needed. Smelling my stinky shoes and wondering if the other women will think I don’t shower enough, listening to one of them sniffle, and me, over here, coughing, listening to Bach, thinking I’d like to go home now and make a smoothie, but that I’ll have to wash the blender first.

I am actively engaged in my life now, and so, I think waiting is a concept which applies in a different way than it used to. Before, I was always waiting to be here. Now that I am here, I no longer feel impatience.

It’s really pretty simple. There need not be impatience within the natural pauses of the music, of a masterwork, each and every single one of us toughening up, gearing up, training up, holding onto ancient understandings without breathing them to a soul. Our time has come. So what if there are pauses. So what.

There is such a thing as patience, and it’s good to practice, it demonstrates that I understand how things work. Just being patient like a tree, knowing the sun will always shine, the rain will always come, and everything is always right with the world.

Is a tree patient? Does a tree wait? Or does a tree just hang out, say hi to others a lot, breathe deeply, look around, think. Go exploring. Come back. Photosynthesize.

How different do I need to be from that tree? This is getting delicious, and I am glad I waited. The show has started. I have front row seats. I’m one lucky girl.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.