Deeply Awake — Foregiveness 4-25-13 By Kathy Vik

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Deeply Awake — Forgiveness 4-25-13 By Kathy Vik

Well, things are coming to me pretty hard and fast anymore, and with the new changes in my sleep patterns, writing about it is working out to be much easier than it was before, “finding the time” for it.

I woke up after what seemed like eight hours of sleep feeling weirdly spat up and out onto my bed from a mysterious world where things are just some completely obvious.

I came back with a couple things pretty sparkly and whole, and I need to work with them.

The biggest thing is realizing, upon awakening, that I had encoded my awakening with all the poetry and depth I would have expected. So, I see that I led myself on a treasure hunt, and the treasure hunt involved some very significant things, and people, like The Teachers and Kryon and Bashar and Richard and Diane and my folks and sister, and on and on it goes, all the saints and giants whose shoulders I now stand upon.

And, it finally dawns on me, that my awakening was coded this way just for my own pleasure. I am getting goodies that I left scattered on the road from here on out. It was all figured out long ago, by yours truly, just by me and for me, and it was tweaked nightly, keeping everything current and relevant.

And so, it really is a silly thing, you searching my essays for ways to activate your own life, when your map has different road signs that point the way, signs I might never even notice, because I am not coded that way.

So it makes no real difference if you understand my road. I think it a very interesting and varied one, so I like recounting it, but I can see that there will come a time when this rich and wild personal history begins to fade in importance and relevance.

The pastor last night said a very profound thing. I will embellish it a bit with my own awareness, but what he said is that finding God, finding ourselves and our faith, it is like being at the base of a huge mountain. And each of us starts the climb using a particular set of tools, be it Buddhism or Islam, Judaism or New Age, each camp sets out.

And, there where we all begin, we seem very, very far apart. Our climates and daily lives may be vastly different while on the first few legs of our trek. But each hiker is doing their trek individually. No one can climb a mountain for you. Some will try to tell you they can, but they are lying to you.

And so there is bickering because everyone thinks that their part of the mountain and their path is the best one, the most meaningful one, but each trek is beautiful and harrowing and personal.

And then you summit, and it comes to you that there never really was a mountain at all, that in fact, this whole time, you were just scaling yourself. You are this majestic mountain, and you stand at the summit not only getting to own all your effort and determination, focus and skill and raw belief and talent, but you get the mountain too.

The peace of the mountain.

I like that analogy a lot, and it reverberated within as I woke up, thinking that my trek has been a great one, but I think I have been getting so excited about my own scenic overlooks that I have come to think mine is the only climb that matters, the only one that is meaningful, and that somehow, just because it is so relevant to me, it must or should be to you.

And maybe that is all this blog has been this whole time, but I am ok with that too.

As an aside, I will say that I think these blogs are assisting the group awakening. On an energetic level, I understand them to be highly coded gifts which are piercing the veil, bit by bit. I think this voice is a strong one, and one that will just be happier with more eyes upon it, but, gee, I’ve been totally awake for about a minute and a half, and I think I need to stop pushing myself so much.

Pushing myself sets up just too much dissonance, and although dissonance is nicely disorienting, it is the thing that makes me think a visit to a psych ward would be a nice respite. Anyway, I see these pieces, these blogs, as little love letters, and I am beginning to think that it doesn’t matter if they even get read. It is enough that I have a place to get clear, a big, safe, soft place for this giant to stretch and groan and slowly get oriented.

So, there was that awareness, that this great treasure hunt that I have been on has been so individualized, so intimate, that it is just preposterous to even consider that its sharing could assist another. It’s too abstracted, too mathematical, too improbable. It is far too individualized to be generalized.

But this very thought is a real one and has led to much alienation.

I thought then a lot about my isolation, how weird and different I have always felt, and when, just when, oh when, am I going to lay that down?

So then, I went to the blogs, and I read a thing by John Smallman about forgiveness.

It was potent.

And I realized after reading it and playing with it that I needed to write.

I came in tired, and I hate to cop to that but it is very true. I came in tired. And I cannot even tell you just how many times this body, as a toddler, even, is probably when it started, but this body has repeatedly just had to slowly hang down its head and slowly slowly shake it.

I have spent most of my life thinking this when among my peers: “Really?”

Really?

This is what we are going to talk about/think about/worry about/fear/concentrate on/glorify? Oh. OK. That should be fun. It’s boys again. Or clothes. Or furniture. Or how your husband/boyfriend doesn’t hear you. How your wife/girlfriend doesn’t respect you. Or how the boss is stupid. Or your workmates/friends/government is __________. Oh. That again.

Now, I know that sounds awfully uppity, and I don’t mean it that way. Just indulge me, OK? Where but here can I just finally be honest about this stuff, if not here?

I was tired, and my fatigue just got worse over the years. In many ways, the last twenty years have been awfully difficult. A tough time. But even as a girl, Oh my god, the amount of nonsense I, we all have had to put up and tolerate and somehow find peace with. It has just been ridiculous.

So I am going to do something risky. I risk sounding like an uppity lightworker bitching about stuff that is so normal, maybe producing a list proving how gd sensitive I am, ooh look at me and witness all the myriad ways I am better than everybody else not on my path. And that is not my intent.

What came to me on my bed, thinking about John Smallman’s words was this:

I am a warrior of forgiveness. I understand that forgiveness is just recognizing the other, the one I am having an issue with, is a brother, or even an avatar who I have called to me to engage me in great and enjoyable adventures in identity and acceptance. So that makes a lot of the pain of life just go away. But then there is what I am met with, what you are met with, on a daily basis.

And I do not want this to be a laundry list of the things I find annoying in others.

So I will state my intention clearly. This list is a list of the absurdities I have encountered which just make me feel like I have a big weight on top of me. It is an old, suffocating feel, and I set my intention that each of these, each and every one of these states, is divine and anointed, that none of these actions are unforgivable, and that it is really ok to have had a problem with the stuff I am now going to list, and that these problems are just proof that I have yet to understand a few things.

I can and I do forgive you. I am not as much needing to forgive my assailants, my attackers, my suffocators, the ones with names and faces and life stories. They are off the hook, and they know it. And so am I.

It is not they who I need to forgive.

I need to forgive “you” instead:

-People gathered after some new horror, yelling and crying, raising their voices in vengeance, celebrating the murder of yet another boogeyman. Ugh.

-The whole man/woman thing, but let’s just start with men, white men for some reason, sitting behind desks, deciding what is legal and what is illegal to do to those mysterious, mysterious lady parts. Oh my. The fatigue.

-Patients who are lined up, room after room of them, thinking that I can remove their pain and that being in the hospital will somehow make them better. And they are quick to anger and panic if the chemicals which obliterate their awareness are not precisely on time. And they are not on time only because I am tending to some other bird with a broken wing, mouth flung open, needing my soft, pre-digested nourishment. I know their pain. I have had the same misunderstandings. It is a pain that is sad to be around.

-Just the whole do you love me, I am sure you do not love me, oh gosh, you really do love me relationship arc. Just the whole thing people do, finding a mirror, and then hating the mirror, and then deciding to love it again. But it never was anything but a dumb mirror. Exhausting.

-This false equivalence we have going, that how much green stamped paper you have, or how many electronic zeroes your electronic bank account allows you to electronically spend, that these arbitrary markers are how we measure personal success, our personal ability to please others and to fit in. Spare me.

-That it is somehow appropriate that we have hired some of our citizens to enforce stupid, arbitrary rules. It is just out of hand. Vans and stationary cameras can now record and notify you of any number of transgressions. And cops sit in wait in their cars, with their traffic guns, gleefully providing ample proof to the citizenry that they are already rule-breakers, and a ticket is just part of the routine. Police, so much of it seems to be this lurking force, taking on the persona of your friend’s creepy older brother narc we all thought very little of in high school. I’m gonna get you. Oh, please. Just spare me.

-Sexualized jokes. If you have read me, you know I have a wicked sense of humor, but I have to tell you, sexualized jokes are just very uncomfortable to me. They highlight the jokester’s discomfort with sexuality, or they are having fun with a stereotype, and, frankly, I have encountered very few stereotypes that are satisfying thought constructs. They are flimsy and they all fall apart under scrutiny. So jokes about boobies and cooches, about how men are insensitive and women too sensitive, men brutes and women saints, women like shoes and men like cars, it just is old. I love comedy and listen to the standup station here in town. But there is a certain sort of humor which speaks of immaturity and fear, and it just makes me want to take a very long nap.

So, there is a little list of things that make me tired.

But that is not at all helpful if it just sits there like a big pile of resentment. It is a dumb thing to create if I don’t take it all the way home.

Here is the thing.

Who makes these things happen? Who legislates vaginal probes and tells people they cannot marry each other, even though they want to? What sort of person would think it is acceptable to tell a cooch joke around me? What gets into the mind of someone who fights to keep weed illegal? How is it that a man can get home from work and, in a fit of rage, back hand the wife and kick the dog? What makes people act so stupid? What is going on here? Why is it that people recoil from the word God and have made it so clear that my love affair with the Divine is off limits in polite company? Who?

You do.

I do.

We do it when I act a fool and you do not lovingly correct me. And, sorry to say, right back actcha.

It happens when I act out of a well that is known only to me, and you assign a meaning to my behavior from that deep well only you know. It is when we are at cross purposes, and utterly convinced that our friend cannot or will not listen.

And that, I think, is where it all begins and where it all ends.

There are certain conditions that I just think are dumb. And I have come to imagine that it is possible to forgive all of it.

I have forgiven people you would advise me not to. I have done that.

And now, going to work, I find peace in knowing that I am going to a place that has called out to me, and that needs me, and that I am currently willing to travel to.

But can I make this peace settle onto something that does not have a face?

Can I forgive you?

Can I forgive our group insanity? Can I forgive our individual nonsense? Can I?

Can I move past fatigue?

Will there ever come a time when my fall back position, when confronted once again with limited and hateful and stupid thinking, can my fall back position be one of patience? Tolerance? Forbearance? Good humor? Acceptance? Dare I say it, love?

Can I do that?

I have been lost before. I have believed dumb, very dumb things before. And had I not, I would not be here.

I think that for a long time I had a sort of glorious impatience, especially once my training really got underway. I think I understood that this urgency and determination I have always known, that these were indeed good things, things built into the system to take me along, help me to see things through.

And I think that the discomfort I could see on people’s faces when I would interact with them, that was me just not knowing what and who I was. I did not modulate myself well, and until just recently, I did not see the mechanism. But then things began to slow down, and I saw it for what it is: I say or do something that touches a limit, a boundary, a place where I have to say, “This is not me,” or “Yes, that’s me.” And most of the time that alone would cause pain, because I really did not know what was and what was not me, but then there is the other part of it, when someone would just take something too far, and I would come out and counsel, and BAM, even peeking out a little bit caused problems.

I guess I found that whatever power I had was expressed unclearly, and it was so greatly misunderstood that when it did come out, it was often misinterpreted, and then the hammer would come down.

Again and again there has been a theme, this lifetime, of “being kept” small.

And just who was doing this to me?

Well, that is the punch line. A delicious one, a funny one, a really good one.

It was not you.

It was me.

So much of our difficulties, don’t you think, could simply be avoided if we were honest?

“I love how you love my physical body, and I really don’t want to give up this pleasure, but I do not enjoy x, y, z. Can we talk about this?”

If I don’t have to protect myself, and you don’t have to protect yourself, because we have matured enough to understand that disrespectful behavior is not pleasant and is no longer part of the agreement, then imagine what we could accomplish!

So, I guess that is partly what I have been waiting for. For the nonsense to start to clear. For the crude jokes and the unskilled behavior to abate. I am tired of the nonsense.

But, here on this, the home stretch, I think I am needing to really honestly answer this question: Can I forgive it?

Can I stop being angry and superior, a critic of the age, a purveyor of sheer, unwieldy, unpleasant group insanity, and just love it instead?

At the time, I thought what I am about to share with you was a real disappointment, a real dud, a misfire, and a result of my not having understood directions very well.

I wrote a blog that had some full on channeling, and one of the messages is that I would, that night, be urged to give healing to a patient, and it would be a great gift that was being given to me by a family member.

That night was a weird one. I was on one hall, but things kept happening down the other hallway. One of the patients was hollering so much, just cries of pain, from spasms that the medicine couldn’t control. He was drugged but unresponsive to the Valium, the Morphine, all of it.

So, it wasn’t my patient, and I’d been told this would happen that night, so as I walked by I thought, maybe this is the situation. I checked with the nurses and got permission, if he would agree, for to me doing “Healing Touch.”

Here’s the thing. When you have an R.N. behind your name, you have permission to do a few things the ordinary person doesn’t have. I never got taught how to put in an IV in nursing school, or how to draw blood, or how to do healing touch, but lo and behold, everybody thinks I can do it because of my credentials.

So be it.

I went into the room and closed the door a little bit. I do not think healing is a very cool thing to do, so I won’t even consider it unless the person says very clearly that they intend to have it happen.

He was hurting. So I looked right at him and asked him, “Are you willing to be free of this?” And he said “Please. Yes.”

I stood there and flicked and fluffed his aura, and ran lights, as I always have. It felt good to be doing it again, because when I am fluffing energy, it is a very automatic thing, like a body poem. It is lovely.

But it wasn’t working.

And then something happened.

I realized that the nurses outside had no idea just what it was I was doing. Neither did the patient. And I had gotten myself into a mess, because he was still crying like a little girl, and I felt real dumb.

So, I asked for some help. And then something happened.

I decided, no one knows just what it is that I am doing, and I don’t either, but I know that this person, if he were my son, I would want him to know in his heart of hearts that he was not alone, and that someone lovely loves him. I wanted to be this big, old man’s mamma so much that he couldn’t even remember how to hurt like this.

And so I planted my feet firmly on the ground, and I put out my arms, and it was a very nice feeling, very expansive. I imagined holding him, but the whole of him, in these wide open golden, electricifed arms. I reached out and gave him love. Just love.

And I felt like my arms were wide open to the world, not just this hurting man. I felt like Mother Teresa, like Mother Mary, standing there all lit up.

His crying did get quieter, but I don’t know for how long. The nurses commented on how quiet he got. But I left the room and his suffering continued.

I understand that I had misinterpreted what I was to expect. I thought that it would be the awesomeness of the healing that would teach me about my path. Instead it was the application of the healing that did the trick.

So, there it is. My path was a weird one, because I wanted it to be. I traveled down some very dark paths on the way up my mountain.

And I summitted the monster with a pack stuffed full of fatigue, of world weirdness and a lack of joy. A tiredness.

Thinking over it, I do want to say that this fatigue was modeled by one who was, in the end, probably more ancient than me. My mom only lived 61 years, most of it broken-hearted, and rightfully so. What a miserable life, a sad one, a heartbreaking one. Just heartbreaking. But, there in full view, she left very obvious clues that she was always on my side.

She wanted to be a writer, and I always felt bad for her, that she felt it was necessary to put away her dream. I read her writing, and she was more than adequately gifted for a literary career. Again and again a way out was presented, and again and again she turned away from realizing her gigantic light. She wanted to go to Machu Pichu before she died. She had a picture of Stonehenge. She encouraged us in our spiritual studies and never ever made fun of them. Lots of things were up for shame in our household, but not our humor, and not our spiritual pursuits.

She was a big angel who was very well cloaked, and I think that is a tragedy. I hope she comes back as my grandchild, because she will never go without honor and love under my wing. And as I am not in a position to know such information upon meeting people, at this point, it just makes good sense to assume that just about anyone who is over the age of 11 could be my mom, a piece of her, all shiny and new and without the old script, those awful limitations.

And maybe this new generation, and we older ones who are getting recalibrated, maybe part of it is allowing the fatigue to slide off of our hearts, letting it slide off so we can walk more lightly on this earth.

If you didn’t get the significance, meaning and relevance of The Teachers, of ascension, of DNA, of all of it, I used to really really believe that we were all doomed. If you don’t wake up, I might die. I might not make it.

I really felt that way.

And now I know that waking up, for me, was always a fait accompli.

As such, do I really need to needle you?

Do I need to get low grade mad at you for once again missing the point, once again not hearing my point of view, once again being unwilling to consider something, anything, that does not fit into your functional, if not cramped, worldview?

Do I need you to get it, if I have really, finally, gotten it?

And if I have gotten it, really gotten it, don’t I demonstrate that by understanding that our dependence upon one another must be based in mutual respect and tolerance. I have found my way up my mountain. OK. Good. But if your way involves dick jokes or intolerance or rabid conservatism, what skin is it off my nose?

I have the combination to my soul, and that is enough. You were not with me in that room, all those weeks, all those months, when I was trained by The Teachers. You were not there when I absolved the ones I came to loathe and fear. You weren’t there when I put my feet on the ground like I owned it, and channeled the great mothers of my awareness.

And you didn’t have to be. I would not have wanted you there. This is a solitary journey built for only one traveler. While I was going through it, I had no words to explain what was happening, and it is only now, while in some sort of sainted repose, that I find I can formulate my thoughts into something remotely relatable.

And how disingenuous it would be if, at the end of it, the only conclusion I have drawn about my travel companions is that all of them, all but me, all of them are lost and dumb and inferior.

How sad would that be?

Maybe your side of the mountain has had little rest stops labeled “Abortion,” “Homosexuality,” “Arbitrary Legal Action,” “Bankruptcy,” “Infidelity,” or “Murder.”
You, there alone, a rugged mountaineer, breathing all that healthy air, fighting the good fight day after day.

How can I, in any honesty, look at your struggle and see it as insignificant?

I have come to understand that this world weariness, this thing which I have gleefully let define me, it may be time to even put that away. If I take that stance, then everything I encounter will serve as proof that you are an enemy and the fight was concluded in favor of the other guy.

That is silly, and we both know it.

You have done nothing that deserves my long-term abandonment. You have believed nothing which I cannot find some truth within. You have done nothing that I have not done.

So if I cannot forgive your stupidity, I forgive myself incompletely.

If I won’t let you off the hook for refusing to listen, refusing to consider as real anything that is not within your limited experience, if I refuse to do that with you, how am I set up to respond toward my own ignorance?

If my response to garden-variety misinterpretation of the available data is that of fatigue and low-grade impatience and just a teeny bit of fear for our group survival, how am I going to ever resolve it?

Not feeling for you, withholding care and curiosity from our interactions, all that says is that I don’t have it. And my degree of anger with you is a reflection of my frustration with myself.

Now, I hope you know, I am talking in the universal, the general “you,” when I talk of these things.

But every you, in the end, winds up having a face. There are no theoreticals, and yet it is all metaphor, it is all smoke and mirrors, and only as important as I decide it is.

So, can I let you off the hook for not getting me?

That is the question.

Can I love you even though you have not, at least up to this point, shown very much interest in knowing what it is that I know?

Well, let me say two things.

First, I can love only that which I can understand. If I understand that your path is a sacred and highly personal one, just as mind-blowingly sparkly and intimate as my love affair with myself has been, and I really get how sacred mine is, then I think it would be highly inappropriate for me to judge you at all, but certainly inappropriate if I judge you to be anything but beautiful. It would be really quite impossible to put you down, wouldn’t it?

Second, who says you don’t get it?

Who says that this light that I carry doesn’t respond to your great light? Who says that what is said verbally is even truthful a lot of the time?

How flipping arrogant have I been this lifetime?

It sort of makes me want to vomit, in a way.

Walking around, functioning under this very thin veneer of superiority.

And all of it, every single expression, is good. It is right. It is holy. Because we are holy.

And so, we come to the end of it, once again, and I wish to conclude by saying that I am now working on what it means to be alive in these times and to not have the weird training I had.

How odd and scary it would be to wake up one day and see very, very starkly that what has been consuming my attention for all this time is just a construct, just part of a collapsing agreement field. Believing good is without, and love is without, that comfort and even meaning and relevance and significance, all of it, lies without. Because none of it, not one bit of it, does.

We tricked ourselves really good, and lurching away from all the tricks, well, it is kind of embarrassing in a way, and sort of awkward, and a little messy. It would be hard, learning now, all about how to see life as metaphor and poetry. Not undoable, just weird.

So I think it is time to let you off of the hook, and to really do it this time. Not in some half-hearted way that I hope will garner praise once I am dead. Not that kind of forgiveness. But the kind that is living and breathing.

I want to have the sort of compassion that works like this. Someone is in great and true distress. Maybe they have been really creepy, or very selfish, or crude, or violent. And I want to be able to look right at them, while they are in the very midst of their melt downs, and I want to catch them in all of their extremity and movement, and look into their eyes with a smile on my face, and to have them know, in no uncertain terms, without a shadow of a doubt, that for a moment, the dust is settled, and the madness ceased, and they know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are whole and intact and complete and perfect in all their mess and all their silliness and all their stupid meanness and insecurity. That no matter what passes between us, what lies beneath us, what grounds us, is such love, such identification, such nostalgia and tenderness, and I love them right into silence.

A stillness comes over us and then it is known that this is not about the write up or the broken car, the short paycheck or the missed appointment. This is about seeing things for what they are. This is about seeing each other as we really are. And we are not the bills and we are not the paychecks and we are not the houses or the mortgages or the cars.

We are nothing that can be touched, and yet nothing we touch can be said to be from anywhere except our own imaginations, our own wills and interests, all melding together to form an illusion that is just getting more and more ripe for the breaking open.

It’s a pinata of delight, all of it, and I am going to let you off the hook now, and it is a forever thing, I will have you know. I just am done being tired. I just don’t want to think of myself as an alien, set apart, marked, different, gliding alongside you but never ever being touched by you, going unnoticed usually, and when noticed, often feeling exposed and uncomfortably seen.

Can I be mad at you for mirroring back to me my troubles with believing I have a reflection worth looking at? Can I really hold resentment toward you when I have been so uncertain if what I am is worthy of you?

I think it is time to put down this particular device, and to thank you for letting me don the affectation of displaced saint. It is an old saw, and it has done the trick.

I think there are better personas to play with now, and the pain associated with being set apart, it no longer suits me.

So, if it is ok with you, this is how I want to set it up with you from now on. I think this is a reasonable set up. I think you will agree, but if you don’t, I want you to let me know about where I have gone wrong.

So, for now, let’s leave it this way:

When I meet you, I am going to hold some new assumptions. I have wiped the old slate clean and understand organically that I can set up any agreement field I wish. So this is mine, in regards to you:

Now, I know this might feel weird to you, but just hear me out. I do not believe, and never have, in the concept of “society.” I think that is a nice little trick we dreamed up. There is no such thing as a “nation,” a “movie star” or “people.” Just masses of individuals, having intense, personal experiences. That’s it.

So, I really do feel when I use the word “you”, I am setting the whole world on notice. I am going to try this out, and I’ll let you know if it works. And I will do it by writing you a very personal little letter.

Dear friend,

You and I, we have been knowing each other all our lives.
I don’t know your name, because often we don’t talk. And, I know, it’s only because I have been very afraid of you.
I have been pretty sure that I could not hold my own around you, because you always seemed to know who you were and what you wanted, and I never did.
I found it hard to make peace in the world, and to value and engage in the things you found so fascinating, things I thought you were very cool for having mastered, stuff I was just awful at.
And somewhere along the line, and I don’t know how this happened, but somewhere along the line, I let it be known that if you did not understand me, that it was ok for you to make fun of that.
So I did try to do the dating thing and the marriage thing. I did the dieting thing and all the fads and stuff to try and fit in. I really did.
I did everything but stand on my head for you to get to notice me, get to liking me, but really, it was all a bit of a mind-f, because I wasn’t ever very easy to talk to.
So I began to see you, everyone, as someone who I would have to remain hidden around, and I am really sorry for that.
I want to apologize to you for my great investment in making you wrong.
I want to say that I am sorry for underestimating you, and keeping you small.
See, I knew I had something that I loved, and I decided to feel real sorry for myself about my gifts. I decided to play it hang-dog, and I am sorry for that.
I think that I even imagined that if I didn’t stay hidden, you would try to take from me the only thing that I had of any value, this heart of mine.
I am sorry that I expected so much of you, and that I was so afraid of you.
I was always afraid you didn’t like me, that you couldn’t possibly approve of me, that I had no value in your eyes. That was a very wrong way to go with this, and I am sorry for my misinterpretation, because it caused problems for us, I know it did.
I am sorry that I needed you to see me, and then, when you didn’t see me as I wanted you to, for getting all impatient and bitchy.
I really did not think I was very strong, I guess, because I sure did think you were powerful. A glance from you, or raised eyebrows, or whispered unkindnesses, those acts were enough to send me reeling with explosive thoughts on Man’s Inhumanity To Man.
Sorry about that. I know I have been a drama queen. Sorry. I really am.
And I need you to know that now that I see things more clearly, things are changed.
It takes two to have a relationship, and it takes one to end it, change it, alter it into something you think it could never morph into. Two to say yes, one to say no.
So there are a few things, not many, but a few, that I just will be saying no to. And it isn’t a personal attack or an articulation of your mistakes. It’s just preferences you should know about.
You have already noticed it, but just for the record, I want you to know that I love you. Let’s just start and end there.
I love you. I cannot judge you anymore. I cannot hate you anymore. I do not believe that you are keeping me from my happiness or my destiny. I don’t think you have that much power. Sometimes you might think that, or I might urge you to think it, but it is such a big whopper. No one can keep us from our good. We are constructed out of it.

You are my friend, and we know each other in some way, and we have gotten used to ignoring that salient fact. Whether you are taking my money at the pump or bagging my groceries, or cutting my hair, or demanding drugs from me, it no longer matters. You are my friend. A long lost one. And only one of us knows it, usually.
I’ll repeat it. I love you, and I want you to know that. It is simple and it is deep.
You don’t make me tired anymore. You never did. I was making myself tired.
And you don’t even have to care about The Teachers or ascension or God or angels around me anymore. That used to be a prerequisite. And there will always remain certain gifts I will only receive and give while among those who are obviously past of their novitiate phase, but, really, elitism drives me crazy and I will not be having it anymore, so how is this:
Believe anything. Or, believe nothing. It is not for me to judge or ponder. If you weren’t inborn with what I was, then these days will get more uncomfortable, maybe, but it’s all just a ride, and you are playing it as you see fit, and I am playing it as I see fit.

Let’s just agree to scaling our mountains with words or encouragement and not of criticism, yes?
I am just going to love on you, if that is ok. I am not afraid of you anymore, and I will not be expecting anything from you except good, solid, funny surprises. I don’t have the sight, so it is not possible for me to know, except in conversation, how much you understand.
But I was never really even mad at you for not getting it.
I was mad at myself, not you. I was impatient with me, not you. I could care less who you pray to, or if you pray. I don’t care, and it is none, not any, of my business. I never have cared. Not one whit. All I really cared about was that you cared about me and my climb!
I found my way, but it was so unique, it just couldn’t be your way, so my guess is that your way is just as mysterious and cool as mine.
So I am not going to be telling you how to climb your mountain, and I am just not going to care if you have opinions about what I am doing over here. So what. Have them. It’s fine. Criticism is not applicable. Training, tips, help, oh they are always more than welcome!
And we will now be able to get along famously. I will find you to be much more friendly and unafraid when I am around.
You will know that I think, I know, you have value, just as you are, and you will know that, at least for this moment, you have been seen as you are, intact and whole, clean and true, pure and exciting, creative and unceasingly loving.
I hope that is ok with you. I don’t think this new bias can hurt you, and it has got to be better than what we had.
I want to end this letter to you by making you some promises.
I break more promises than I keep, and I really don’t like the sense of guilt that creates.
It seems to me that there are some agreements that I can stick to, in all honesty though, and these agreements are not so much promises as they are statements of preferences for the road ahead.

So, let me know if you think these suck, because I think they are groovy, and will be what I function under for a little bit, just to see if this thing, this whole thing, can work.
So, I agree to the following around you:
1 – I agree to see you as an expression of your soul
2 – I agree to accept any discomfort I feel around you as a signal to explore and love myself and you more.
3 – I agree to allow you to be in total and absolute disagreement with me on any topic under the sun.
4 – I agree to lovingly assist us both to find the gifts we are eagerly offering each other, if we are embroiled in a conflict.
5 – I agree to remember, always, that your Higher Self is smiling and winking at me
6 – I agree to talk about you, for the rest of my days, in a way that would make me proud, if it turned out you were hiding around the corner, listening in. Count on that.
7 – I agree to opt for a smile or a laugh, a piece of absurdity dipped in profundity, whenever we have reached an impasse
8 – I agree to remember that you are more than you appear, as am I, and that we may have more than likely served on a battlefields or in a monastery together. I agree to accept that are are both still in amnesia.
9 – I agree to let my love for God and Nature and The Earth and My Soul come flooding into every room I enter, non-verbally, gently, quietly.
10 – From here on out, you have my word that this is the place I will shine out loudly and verbally and completely. I can neither proselytize not evangelize in real life. I can only state my truth. I agree to state my truth non verbally around you unless you ask me for information. Even then, the information you get will be dependent on what you ask me. But here, on the page, you can have it all. Let ‘s leave it like that. This allows me to have a place to go to be real, and if I can come here and vent, I won’t have to resent you for not listening, since I have agreed to just shut up about it all.

So I think I can live with these agreements. They seem to make sense, and they are nice, friendly, complete and loving, I think.

And, in the end, forgiveness, this is a term which will lose its meaning.

How can you forgive that which you come to understand was never offensive? Doesn’t forgiveness imply wrong-doing and restitution?

I want to get to the place where forgiveness is just a personality trait, heart as big as the ocean, unable to not love, unable to not incorporate what I am seeing and feeling into some portion of my self. Forgiveness is the first step. A valid and important and key one, and I am unconvinced the sweeter realms are available to those who choose not to forgive.

But when all is said and done, it looks a little unnecessary in the end. If I forgive you, it means I am bestowing upon you a dispensation, a pass. But if I have already been able to love and accept, honor and truly, deeply enjoy anything you do or do not think, say or act upon, then what is there to forgive?

Isn’t, in the end, forgiveness an act of arrogance? Of self importance? Of letting off the hook an offender, when there never was an offense to begin with?

So, that is where I am at.

This thing was exhausting.

I want you to know that I know that it is pretty much impossible, at this point, to digest these things whole, and I have no trouble with you breaking up the reading of these things. They are marathons, but they are very worthwhile, at least for me.

Again, if no one reads this stuff, I am really ok with it. This has always been just one songbird calling out at dawn’s first light. This has always been an exercise in self-revelation, and it is not meant to help, to steady or to calm anybody but me. It is to celebrate, to dissect, and then, finally, to synthesize, integrate, forgive and move on, into a new life where I have so much free time on my hands, so much space and clarity, that I can get real good at the fun stuff.

I’m just moving on.

After the forgiveness comes the release. Comes the freedom. And if I can forgive you of what I have known at your hands, I can forgive anything.

And none of it, not any of it, was anything but a gift you gave me because you love me back.

I understand that I can give kindness and sweetness and tenderness, because I can afford to. I have enough, finally, blessedly, and I no longer am hunched over my flickering flame, so certain that my experience will bear out to be true yet again, that here comes someone who doesn’t like this light, whose job is to bully me into covering it up or extinguishing it.

But the bully has long since left the theatre, and I have spent a long time remaining hunched, remembering again and again all the times when my light was snuffed out. It’s hard to straghten up after all those years of stupid self-preservation.

The lights are on in the theatre now, and there is no longer a need to mind one’s flicker quite so fearfully. The gas has been turned way up, and it just is harder and harder to not appreciate all the light in the house.

I love the light that shines in your eye when you see that I love you. I love how happy we are when I am good to you, and I come to you unafraid and joyful. It brings me pleasure to see you relax and to smile, in my presence, of all things! I don’t want to obsess on the sadness anymore, or the separation, on the imperative need for all of us to forgive each other and ourselves.

I like the love more than I like the obsession with its seeming lack. I have enough, more than enough, now, and I can afford to share, finally. I hope you are beginning to understand why I took the stance I did, why I chose to remain invisible and afraid. I am sorry for all the times I could have brought a smile to your face, reminded you that you are not alone, because in my confusion,

I forgot that even when you were parading around telling everyone how smart and together and awesome you were, a little bit of my love would have helped you feel even better. It would have helped me be able to celebrate your happinesses. And I can start today. I lost a lot of time, but I can make up for it now.

Sorry it took so long to figure it out.

Please forgive me.

One thought on “Deeply Awake — Foregiveness 4-25-13 By Kathy Vik

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