Deeply Awake — Me And Everybody Else 12-8-13 By Kathy Vik

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Deeply Awake — Me And Everybody Else 12-8-13 By Kathy Vik

I can hear the neighbor kids in the hallway, one is crying, and I hear a momma, talking and reassuring and scolding the youngster. Sharp words, loud crying, now. That kid is wailing. Poor thing. Poor thing.

And the mother will love the child, remind the child of the wonder at hand, distracting the little one with a toy or a sweet, and there is now peace again, silence, the radio playing softly, my cat Rosie giving herself a bath next to me, the computer keys clacking, complying, allowing me to talk to you.

Last night, canceled from work again, another week without income, and I sat transfixed, as I often am, with choices.

I had many things I could choose from, each set of activities pleasurable, but in the end, I let my desire to sit Kirtan win. I showered and left my house just before 7, into a frigid and dark night, 4 degrees outside.

They were already chanting, when I came in from the cold. I found a seat on the big soft couch and settled in. Here I am, again. I’ve only been here in spring and summer. And now it is an inky night, a cold and still one, and I am here, with these strangers.

I closed my eyes and began the next chant, one the Harmonium and drums and words began again, and I settled into a body peace, and such a sense of security. I understood, as I always do there, that we know each other very well, we have been together many times, the twelve of us, and this led to a deep feeling of family.

And yet, I toyed with the paradox the whole night, and still am. How is it that I know we know and love each other, and yet, we all have these contemporary lives, and none of us are involved in each others’ lives? How is it we find ourselves here, this cold night, in a modest home in Littleton Colorado, singing these ancient songs?

What drew us together last night, away from anything else that was vying for our attention, here we twelve sit, obeying an ancient and sacred call, an urge, a need that, if pressed to explain, many of us couldn’t even language.

And then, the feeling of family comes to me again, stronger still, and I could feel the bigger parts of ourselves, could see the colors and feel the wind, and we were all together there, the bigger parts of ourselves, laughing and celebrating and dancing. I get that a lot anymore.

Many times recently, sometimes daily, something will happen in my daily life, and I shift my focus to my support team, my loved ones, my family, around and within me, and I feel such celebrations, can feel such joy and congratulations. A lot of that. Congratulations.

In the silence, after the Hunaman chant, readying, steadying, I understood, heard, that this night is a gift. It is a celebration. I could feel, then, The Teachers, as I have only felt them when I was in their physical presence. B

ut there they were, with their huge thought constructs, their impossibly beautiful downloads, that same energy, and I understood II now embody them, they are on my tongue if I call for them, and when I get out of my own way. Right here, part of my bones, my facial structure, my DNA. I saw and felt things in my body, but mainly, just ease. Just comfort. Just integration.

They told me that this night is a gift, and to enjoy the ceremony, and that I would sleep well tonight. And then they helped me understand why I had had the Gayatri front and center in my consciousness the last few days. It is my song of songs, and I don’t even know why. But, they told me, next is the Gayatri. We wished to give you confirmation of our presence.

And then, Tom started up the Harmonium, and then the “Om’ sounded, all of us sounding that pregnant, poignant, powerful beingness, the beingness of Om, and then came the Gayatri.

I wept, quietly, and sang through the tears. I took off my mala and brought it to my hands, held it to my face, sang to the beads through my tears.

I understood many things. I was suspended, as I am always in chant, in meditation, in prayer, suspended, in a perfect shining moment that just goes on and on, until it doesn’t anymore, a moment, a space, a being, that is aware of love, sturdiness, such… I cannot describe it. It’s not an act of profanity to try, just one of futility, sometimes.

There are no words, this place I have always known, which has steadied me in my darkest moments, the ones that were as equally suspending and compelling and entrancing, those moments of complete darkness, complete abdication to that other knowing, a place where one’s meaning is ripped from them, their sense of goodness, worth, merit, a future. I have been there too, and I am pretty sure all of us have. Most refuse to talk about it, and have gone so far as to say that discussion of it is not acceptable.

And, you know, I have to agree.

To allow something to remain unnamed, non-descript, uncharted, oh, there lies danger, however. If we do not describe that from which we have emerged, how else will anyone find a way out. It clings to everything, in some realities. It is what seems to feed or drive many dramas, many scenarios we sweet ones find weird, ugly and more than a bit perverse, in that it is all optional.

This place I go, the pristine place, it is not the opposite of the place of twistedness. It is not its opposite. Nope.

The place which resides unlanguaged, but available within one’s own act of breathing, this place is one of integration, of completion, and of seeing the opposites whole. There is struggle, oh, yes, I see some over there, and there, way over there, I see celebration and joy, and yet I am none of it, and I am all of it. A perspective which loves the tragedies and the comedies equally, sees harm in none of them, and sees all as nothing but benevolence itself, divine timing and beautiful symmetry running through all of it.

And in that state, it is not the tragedy which seems important, like it does in other realities. Here, the reality is one of love, family, connectedness, open-ended creativity, and yet, with no purpose but to be in a state of creative stillness. The source, the origin.

It is in that place I laid to rest a core puzzle, one that I had asked help with, one I needed relief from. I have always had within me a very strong sexual ambivalence. Attracted to both men and women, willing to date whomever, never willing to commit to a side. I think I would prefer to explore maleness again, but I have not been willing to exclude this great love I have of women.

I am much more male than female, within me, and I have always known I had to do this female because I would have been too much to handle, would have really missed the mark, had I been in a male body. I know now, too, that I wanted the honor of being female, being a mother, reliving my first role, as my original gender, when I first came here, a grandmother I am, and a good one. I, of course, I needed to be female.

But I have struggled with this. The Teachers told me that I really should decide. Just pick a team. It is far too stressful on the cellular structure, they said, to not declare. Because I am built a certain way, merkahbah wise and physically. They had already explained that homosexuality is just a variant, and one which allows for certain powerful lessons which allow for many to advance in potent ways. But they said, you’re stressing the biology. Just declare.

So I walked with a certain guilt, felt sort of like I had a smudge against my soul, because I had somehow failed a test. I couldn’t ever really declare. I guess it’s because I think it is quite possible for this wound to heal, the one which our agreement field has made within each of us. The one which says that taking from another of their heart, or their body, or their emotions, without their engagement, and sometimes without their very consent, that this is ok.

I see this masculine energy, so far from center now, how women are legislated against, and how women are referred to in this culture, and I find it repugnant. And men are deeper into the nonsense than the women, but the women freaking consent to it.

The only roles we have within our biology is that women can give birth. That’s it. Everything else is made up, projected upon our genders, acted out in so many ways. And so, I have not been attracted to male energy, not one bit.

But I was married, and had male lovers. I found those whose company I could tolerate, and they did fascinate, but they were entrenched in the old ways, of being dishonest with self and hence with others, of being asleep, and always with this kernel of distrust and is like for women. I have not felt trusted by males. I have felt taken from them, but never honored.

Women have their own set of things they are working on, and I have enjoyed their work more. I find their company more enjoyable.

But this has been changing, you see. I have met some wide open men here lately. I have met men whose hearts are more open, and who actually have a bit of love for women, respect and honor. It’s nice, being in the presence of that. Men will one day be fucking shocked at how little of that women had to function in. We did a good job.

The disdain and distrust of women is so fatiguing, and pervasive. But there are these pockets, now, of honor, I am seeing. And that has nothing to do with what women have been doing. It has to do with men’s hearts opening up, Pachemama swirling through them , switching them on, balancing this.

I was told the agreement field we are seeing die away is that of men living below their heart, and women not opening their throat chakra. This is what we, the ones in our 50’s came to break apart. And we have done our best, but it is the new energy which is finally making it possible.

I sat in Kirtan, singing to Ganesha, realizing that I can finally put this down. I have been seeing it all wrong. I had been seeing this ambivalence as something to be ashamed of, and even scared of! I had been seeing sexual expression as something which I had to fit into an envelope, so I could send it off for authentication and validation. But I think this deserves a different point of view.

I will, instead, delight in my great love for humans, for males and for females. I will open my heart to the idea that men can be trusted, more of them now, because more of them are in their hearts, they are learning now. Maybe I will meet a savant.

And I could feel a lifetime of worry fall away from me. I decided I need to ritualize the vows I once wrote for myself, to replace the standard ones of poverty and chastity.

I had decided my four vows would be that of The Fat Farmer, the Love Puzzler, The Supreme Hedonist, and the Queen. I raised those new vows up, and let them dance in that living room, and dance they did. I saw that there is a better way of going about this, and it is in being without shame for how I choose to express my love.

I thanked The Teachers and Richard, my old teacher, for their input, and I saw that this is done, this portion of the program, the suffering around sexuality.

And then, I was back on the couch.

I took a look at the people gathered in the living room, and wondered who it is they long for, and if any of them have crushes on anyone else in this room. I thought to myself, each and every one of us are standing in a torrent of desire, for people, for goals, for this land all of us can see from this living room, a land that seems very far away, when paying a bill, making supper, arguing with the boss.

But these activities too, I realized, have changed so drastically. This changes everything, I thought, sitting there.

I needed, at that point, to look at my little traveling Bible. I needed to touch it, open it. As the Hindu chanting continued, I paged through it, but the writing is tiny, and all there are in the living room are twinkly lights, so I just put it away, close at hand, in my backpack.

Later in the Kirtan, I was again drawn to that Bible.

And I had a thought, as I paged through the bulk of the New Testament. These are letters, written by someone who had experiences much like mine. He wrote about it all, sent off letters. Writing letters, this has been a theme of mine, a need of mine in writing, since the beginning, my first adult attempt at writing being a series of letters for my nephew.

And here I am, writing letters to you, encapsulating talks I started out imagining were the conversations I was having with Dolores cannon, over a chipped Formica countertop in a diner. That’s how this all started, the Deeply Awake stuff.

And as I held that little book, I thought, What if I wrote those letters? How does it feel to imagine that the one book everyone has some working knowledge of, some awareness of, what if I’d been the one who’d written those letters, all that long time ago?

I stayed with it. It felt very good. It felt wonderful, actually. Knowing that something true and beautiful miraculously made it into everyone’s hands, as tweaked and redacted as it is. Still, there is enough that got through.

As a kid, I found it odd that there were four books in our language that we had to stand up to hear, in church. Four books seen as the word of god, treated as holy, sacred, and it is true, it is true, reading those words of Jesus, the energy is right there. There are clunkers that are in there, and it makes for difficult reading, because some of the stuff that is said that Jesus said he did not, but, overall, well, just look at it!

And so, in that living room, I realized that just as, in my more expanded moments, I understand that the people all around me are my family, chemically so, and that I am one of the first tribe, an elder, an ancient, and everyone around me is related to everyone else, me included, well then, how implausible is it to imagine I can access the energy of the man who wrote those letters? It is part of my inheritance. It is part of my knowledge base. It is part of my heritage.

And so, I sat there and felt all the hands touching my book, through the ages, and felt nothing but gratitude for it getting read, and understood, and loved, as it should have been, because it was beautiful.

The man was the vessel from which poured love, a new way, and imaginings of a new life. He caught all sorts of shit for it, Paul did, and that is just that darkness asserting itself, during a time when that sort of behavior made some sort of sense.

But you see, this is what is changing. Call it an agreement field (there are many…), call it the crystalline grid, call it akashic remembrance, there are many ways to approach this, but the idea is that the matrix has changed.

It makes no sense for me to hate myself, I saw, once and for all, last night. It is an old way of thinking, this holding myself or anyone else in judgment for such things as how one earns a living, or who one beds.

Where is the joy when there is judgment? Where is the celebration when there is comparison? Nowhere. But there is nothing to judge that I will not be able to find love in, and there is nothing that switches me off, now, like comparing, for the purpose of finding one or more parties deficient.

After Kirtan, I struck up a conversation with an old man with a missing tooth and a great white beard. His eyes were like a hawk’s. He offered me a peace prayer, which was very nice. And then he took about twenty minutes teaching me. He told me of the 7 levels of this and the 29 octaves of that, and all the hierarchies and rules and oh my he went on and on. He touched my arm a lot, which I intensely dislike, and he pointed out, again and again, how clever he was.

The thing is, I did, at first, try to engage him in a conversation. I tried to tell him of DNA and grids, of compassion and benevolence, and he did not follow up on these thoughts. Instead he talked right through them, sitting here in his soft chair, trying to educate me, save me, heal me.

He chastised me, as we were parting, that I had dropped three things on the floor when I spoke of my hen circle, and I should be aware of my words.

He told me that I reminded him of a teacher he once had, that if I could just buff it up a little, I could be like him, someone who everyone in the ashram refused to have meals with, because, “he could destroy your world over cereal.” he called me an empath, and complimented my energy. And always with the stance of trying to teach me, enlighten me, guide and mold me.

I thought he was fascinating, but as I drove away, he was still with me. I spoke, in the car, to and for and about this experience. I was glad I had not pushed my teachings on him. He had been unable to learn.

And as I drove, my heart filled with love for him. He had found something that absolutely filled him with love and joy. Something from which he drew a sense of being intact. Who am I to break that for him? Who am I to tell him how to do his God?

And there it was.

He had felt no compunction, telling me how I should hold my energy, what things I still had to do, and that he was the perfect one to teach me (this was his subtext), and me sitting there knowing I could, indeed, break apart his reality over cereal. Who am I to do that?

I said out loud, I will let my writing do that. I am going to let my writing speak for me. It is not mine to be in discussions about this yet.

I saw that he had given me the gift of remembering, always remembering, to ask questions, and to listen, in order to understand a person’s level of understanding. This man assumed I was a blank slate, and that because of his great knowing, he had an obligation to write on me, helping me to his peace, his knowledge.

An act of kindness, it could be seen as, it really could, but it in the end, it is presumptuous and incorrect, and it is incorrect because he did not inquire. He had no idea who he was talking to, and he never bothered to find out.

He taught me that it is not mine to teach. The funny thing is, in Kirtan, the height of my happiness, a real solid joy, came when I was studying on the Merkahbah dangling over the altar in the living room. I thought about what it would be like to, over dahl and Chai, be asked to tell these friends about what I have seen.

The meditations, the visitations, the gifts I have been given by trees and disembodied voices. I had a peace wash over me then, a sense of family, that I had not felt before.

Oh! To be listened to! Oh! To be honored as someone worthy of a contribution. Oh the joy. This is solid rapture. This is purpose and meaning. This is bliss.

Being listened to, and what comes out is such love, such honor, such wisdom. Me a simple woman with a chipped tooth and a weight problem, telling of my joy and my understanding of how divine everyone and everything is.

I had that great experience in my head, and in person, I was obliquely interacted with, held at bay by angular thought forms from an old man, someone who struck me as lonely and in a self-imposed posture of guru, before I started talking to him.

I don’t care to teach, really, but to be in communion with those who can meet me, and who allow me to say, “Yes, but have you thought about it this way?” This is what I like, what I felt looking at the Merkahbah.

No ego, no need to convince or educate or save another’s soul, just folks who have seen that God is something that loves us so hard we just cannot do any of this wrong, that’s who I want to hang with, laugh with, dance and chant and eat with.

I haven’t met many of them. My friends, we have that sort of relationship. My sister Diane, she is my ally, my rock, this lifetime, and we give each other permission to speak, and we disagree with one another sometimes, but we love one another. So I have this sort of love, but I want, now, to feel it from others, too.

I got home and watched the end of Battlestar Galactica. I crawled into bed late, the clock reading 222, and then, my favorite, 223, as I clicked off the TV.

In bed, I had moment. I realized, very physically, that all that has come before is passing away, that this is real, that who I once was is gone, and new vows, a ceremony, are in order. But I did squeeze out a tear, there on the side of my bed, saying out loud something to the tune of “It’s all over.”

That was the other great gift I was given in Kirtan. I realized, in a flash, while singing about my love Shiva, that all the horror and sadness and weirdness I have been aware of in my family, and in my other relationships too, really, well, all of it seemed so far away. I could see it all playing out, and it just didn’t bother me anymore.

I couldn’t feel the standard reactions, and I conjured up the best horror I have on file, from this lifetime. There, glittering along with the string of jewels my chakras suddenly became, I saw it all as things I was once aware of. Things I once witnessed. It never had anything to do with me, not the bad stuff. It is stuff I saw, witnessed, once upon a time.

I thought then about Delores Cannon’s work, and how she says, again and again, to her clients, when they are witnessing something god awful, that they can see it but not feel it. They can detach, and witness it, but not experience it.

I realized there on that couch that this is what it is, this sensation. I am seeing it, but it isn’t affecting me. And I realize I can do this at will. Nothing need shake me anymore. And then I laughed. Laughed out loud. If that is the case, I can garner joy, harvest humor, shake my fine white ass to the music and just relax. It isn’t about me, the bad stuff. I’m just there to hold light.

So, now, here I am, and I realize that what I had wanted to do last night was to write myself a good bye/completion letter. I have done this in my journal to my dad, my sister, my friends. But I haven’t done for myself.

I told my hen circle that on the solstice, I felt it would be proper to somehow release my old life. Someone else in the group had recently done this, having survived trauma and loss, and having then healed from it. She buried and burned bits of things which symbolized her old life.

And I think this letter will be part of my ritual. I don’t need to destroy or burn up old photos, old belongings that somehow made it here, with me now. I will allow me my icons, my reminders, but, to be honest, I have no old life artifacts greeting my perception in this house.

I will do ceremony, with my old vows and my new ones, and I do believe a letter to myself is in order. It is time to say goodbye.

I have been told that this is the last of the cancellations. That my life will pick up now, and that’s because it is finally time. I have made it so.

I will end on this note. In Kirtan, I realized something about this writing that was brought home, then, and bloomed for me after I had a little cry about my life being over.

I realized that, for this time I have been wondering where my readership is, where the play is, why I don’t find traction yet, I had always heard that it was because the grid wasn’t yet constructed. I could feel movement in New York, in many places, but I realized the grid was still under construction. Others were preparing. I had to wait on them.

And last night, I got it, boom, layed into me, the grid is up, and you just have no idea what is happening. I could feel people like they were in the next room, and there is much glee, and there is much going on, and I really really really have nothing to worry about, and that they are ready, and now it’s just a timing thing.

It felt good, and whole, and it is a knowing you really can’t talk me out of, although you can try if you want to.

This stuff is internal, it is physical, some of these knowings, and totally unprovable. As real as I make them, always. And I have, obviously, given myself permission to allow my self to give me my meaning, my context, and my significance. It is self-validating, and when the tone is hit, the pitch reached, the shining moment of symmetry attained, it’s something no one can take away. Not some pedantic dude who wants to save my soul. Not the wounded I love.

I have thought much about my son this weekend. Every time I see him, these days, I can tell he can tell there is improvement. We have peace in this home now. I love him now. I love him like I did not know how before. And he has eased. There is no guilt, no fear, no shame here. There is love here. He feels it. It feels good to give it to him, good to see him relax.

I know what I know, and now, it matters not who else knows.

I understand that my days, my years, actually, lived in abstraction and theory, emoting and exploring, these are ending, and for that I am glad. I want, I realised driving home, I want these interactions, as trying as they are to me, I want to be around those who are striving to understand, to assign meaning to what appears to be chaos, to find peace. I want this.

And I know there is a whole network of people now. Yoga, Hinduism, Psytrance, all of it, a whole group of souls who are comfortable in the multidimensional. Yes, there are those who touch it never having picked up a metaphysical book, and there are those who get there in church, in synagogue, but it is the seeker, the ones who have gotten off the well worn paths, who have abandoned all they have ever held dear, only to discover the creator of the things we hold as most beloved, those are the ones I wish to commune with. The ones who can hang with open discussions of sexual expression and dancing higher selves in the same essay. If I can do it, there are others. First rule, every single one of my teachers had for me. You are not special. You are one of many. What you can do, everyone can do.

So, that is how I end this. We are each a cosmos, walking around complaining about the weather and scratching our asses. We laugh at darkness, now, and flick fear away like the annoyance it was always supposed to be. We stand tall and proud today, or at least I do, knowing that I am here on purpose.

I hugged myself last night, at the beginning of the festivities and then again at the end, overwhelmed as I was with gratitude for sticking it out, and finally understanding why I could never go through with my intense longings to leave this mess. It used to bother me, how suicidal I was at certain points, means and access and plan, and yet I never went through with it. I asked, and I knew I would have been taken, on one occasion, and I have been in many nearly lethal situations. And here I sit, 52, in holey jeans, bulging now in the middle, well fed and warm, on a still December night, 2012 well behind me, surrounded by like minds, in the company of angels. I am here. I am physically alive, I made it. I did it. I did it. I did it.

I love that about myself most of all. I did it.

And so, how can things not be different now?

Ritual will be a good way to end the energy, place a marker in time, and I intend to do it with fire. I had planned on re-reading my essays before writing this letter, and realized this particular letter is not ready to be delivered to me. I will sit with its intention, and it will come to me when it’s time. In the meantime, I have three days before the 12-12, days I can no longer project anxiety into. I have tried. I am not permitted to anymore. And I am glad of that.

I am alive here, now, not exactly knowing how any of this will play out, as always. No longer scared, or even in misunderstanding of this blind spot. It is a blind spot because I have not yet created it. And I will create, now, by listening, as I did last night. Do I go buy Christmas gift stuff? Do I go to a movie? DO I stay home and keep warm? A low thrum kept playing me, an ache that I, at first, did not want to obey, but there it was, go to Kirtan. You need to go to kirtan. Get showered. Move.

I will do as I am told, in loving obedience to my creator, the one who has always been feeding me lines, and who has twisted the plot right where it needed to be, to lead me here, and there and here.

The pain I felt in company passes form me now, and I can love. I can love the ponderous, billowing teacher who thinks he knows more than me. The selfish. The inattentive. The angry. The ashamed. I can. I do. They are me, I am them, and their paths are so utterly singular, holy and complex, I recognize it is not mine to lead them anywhere but into my love for them. My high regard. My encouragement. Their protestations and teachings, if not of the appropriate vibration, I won’t resonate with, but no longer need to reject, tear down or augment.

I understand that this degree of openness to The All needn’t make me an outsider. I am no longer in my cave, and the time of hibernation, blessed training, this is what is coming to a close. My time in the desert is complete, my integration is complete, and now I get to road test this stuff, have fun with it.

Mine is to laugh, to find humor and fun and blessings and encouragement between me and everyone else. The chasm I used to feel separating everyone from me has been filled, seemingly overnight, with the same golden liquid light I saw creates everything I am aware of in this form.

The chasm has been filled with light that is solid, and I know now that I had a hand in filling the chasm in. It was my love of this process, my willingness to listen to the ancient knowings I heard, even as a girl, that has let this light descend, just as your work and loving persistence has filled it in. No one person could do this. This is a group effort.

The ones who fought against us, pushed us out of the nests, turned from us, these too were saints, helping us, in lesson with us to help us discard all that we knew as familiar and safe and sound.

We are a new group of humans, switched on, and as plain as mashed potatoes. Just like everybody else. I mean this. I do. There is not one notion of separation here. A blessed relief, I can tell you. I feel connected, not odd at all, and enthused about mingling.

I can feel my own grid. I know my loved ones are there, and we are coming ever closer. Their need for me is as great as my need of them. They love me, even now, and long for my company, as I have so often longed for them.

I have family. I have friends. And I have everybody else, all family, all friends, the drama a distant chatter, the fear something is see like matchstick houses, broken on the floor, no longer relevant.

I am in love with my self, with you, my faithful reader, with my cats, with this room, this act, and this endeavor. It is bigger than just the earth. It is as beautiful as this earth. The old ways are passing, and everything is in divine order. There are enough of us now that none of us need ever feel alone again, in the physical.

We are coming together, and the fireworks are going to be spectacular. We have earned it.

No threat, gentle ones, we will finally come together, and it will be good to be in company once again.

From there we will once again travel into the lands containing everybody else, warm, we will be, revived, unshakably joyful, unspeakably peaceful, unendingly loving, and we look just like everybody else.

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