Deeply Awake — Bring It On 4-12-14 By Kathy Vik
This is the last entry for Ascension Field Notes. I will be starting a new project entitled, Deeply Awake: Entangled.
Deeply Awake is a living journal of my life and adventures in consciousness as I awakened. My first official entry was March of 2012, and I ended on Halloween, 2013.
I used November of 2013 to write a novel, Patrick Hears Voices. It is a shitty first draft, but a grand idea which will morph as time passes.
Since December, I have been writing Ascension Field Notes. Although perhaps shorter, it is more dense. I guess you could say AFN has more girth.
But things have yet again shifted. I need to branch out. I need to learn more. There is much to discuss that is without the realm of the personal. Of course, as within, so without, but as my window has cleared, I see now that there are other things to explore.
I will be channeling more, in Deeply Awake: Entangled. I am especially looking forward to this. I am told it will be a one for one sort of thing.
I hope I can keep up the pace.
I have earned a sense of certainty. I am always learning, but I no longer hold doubt, as I now have the evidence I needed, the healing I required, and the hope I was looking for.
There has been, for me, and I know I am not alone, a tremendous clarification, a clearing, which has occurred lately. I want to tell you how I got here, because that’s what I do, but first I want to talk about what I think is happening.
Could it be that the energetic, magnetic, plasmic bath we sit in is more permeable to Source now? That this bath is the biochemical, magnetic, organic vehicle which is created by our life force, by means of our DNA? And could this bath be like a “real” bath, something one can ignore, or enjoy, add bubbles or scent to, or make clear, but that this bath is a fact of life, though we can change its attributes?
Kryon gave a marvelous analogy one time. He asked the awakening ones to consider their function to be similar to a highly concentrated flavoring or coloring. He said, there do not have to be many of you in any one place, because your signature is like that one drop that is added to a gallon of water. It changes the water.
Each molecule is changed as a result of the addition, the attributes of the liquid in the pitcher change, and yet, not a whole lot was done, and the drop remains itself, individual but dispersed. Just a drop. Just a drop.
I have crested things. Last night, around four, I awakened to celebration. My arms were outstretched, I was on my back, and I understood that I had completed the two lessons I’d seen were outstanding. It’s over. I understood. The hardest part is over.
I’d drilled down, two years ago, first waking up, that my biggest lessons, my unfinished business, was that of my relationship with money, and my relationship with my family. I diligently applied myself to all the ancillaries and corollaries, but these spun off the hub of matters: survival/worth/faith and dissonance/mismatches in interpersonal energetics. Do I belong here, and can I have a different reality than the others and survive?
My sister Mary watched on as I spun on my bed of nails. She has been my rod and my staff, in many ways, and the pebble in my shoe sometimes, without even knowing it. She fulfilled her role beyond all hopes.
What I have discovered lies beyond, or ties together, these themes, of survival, in an often quite hostile interpersonal world. I have come to understand that the adjective is the crux of the thing. It is not a hostile world. Not anymore.
I was shown in living technicolor that I had had a hand in every form of interpersonal dissonance I have been party to. I realized all at once, by the end of the week, how I had contributed to the dissonance everyone was feeling. I was tired of feeling the building so wobbly, and saw how I’d been feeding it, how I’d protected and coddled it, sometimes, and how I had created my own, and other people’s, problems.
It was a moment of brilliance. I had while walking down the nursing home hallway. I got it. I’d created any problems I was having, and they were just each of them opportunities to come together, to be humble and kind, to ask forgiveness, show courage and goodwill, to demonstrate how someone changes their countenance and builds.
I perhaps even made these messes so that I could clean them up. Who knows? But things shifted after that. I have been sleeping better.
Lying on my bed, spreadeagled and transfixed in the predawn hours this morning, I felt like the condensed version of what I experienced in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s yesterday, so that’s where we go next.
I’d just seen my sister. My son commented off-handedely recently that he is glad we are getting along again. I agree. We have always loved and recognized each other, but as I was going through this final stage of reflection and growth, she became, in some ways, a symbol for all I had experienced in our odd little family.
Mom is gone, Dad is unable, so Mary stepped up and allowed me to project and push against and learn from, in this special time. I am ever grateful.
As an emotional and soulic stand-in for all my old mommy issues, Mary stood, just as solidly as she always does, steady and beautiful as the trees I am in love with. Understanding we are growing even now, and what we have thought and done has fashioned our bark, made our habitus, Mary has always seemed to gain strength from the truth of it, that we are far more than the bark others judge us as being. It took me, in many ways, a long time to catch up to her.
This change between us has come about slowly, but has solidified and can now be taken as more than a flook, for the last several months. We have, I think, changed each other. She has walked through this awakening process with me, sometimes rather reluctantly, but she did come along for the ride. She did incredible work on her own issues, and has lived a full and meaningful life. She forgave my emotional incontinence, my odd statements and more spaced-out, channelly moments. And now, here, at the end of it, yesterday, me feeling peace and completion, dropping by to give her her birthday gift, she hands me a gift.
A yellow magnet, with the words, “You’re a good sister. That’s all.”
I have craved this, and she didn’t even know it. It moved me so.
You know that really good feeling you get when you’re playing a mind-blowing game of pinball, and you and the ball have merged, and you can feel all the movement and fluidity and geometry, and then, unh, the ball hits a hole just perfectly , just right, and there’s that moment, just a moment, really, of perfection, when everything has stopped, yet you know the game is still going, and you can feel the stillness and the motion, just because the ball sunk so satisfyingly in that hole. And have you ever just sort of sat and expanded the moment, and enjoyed its awesome beauty?
Have you ever done that?
Well, I have. A lot. And reading that magnet felt just like that pinball sensation. Just that UNH feeling, when you know there’s more, but, holy shit, you just won. It’s all just easy street now. And you’re in the zone, so you know easy street is going to be fun. That is how I felt, her handing me that.
This came off the heels of a miracle at work. I am talking full on miracles here, guys. I’d just come from a meeting where I presented radical new ideas, and was told I was valued and supported. They will, soon enough, actually prove their words, or I’ll float away, but for this moment in time, I felt a satisfaction, a surprising settled feeling. Pride and assurance and faith and reward. This was my countenance walking into Mary’s house.
Now I need to tell you what I learned in the parking lot. I drove from Mary’s to Trader Joe’s. Driving the eighth of a block there, I reflected on the conversation we’d just had. It was about watching our kids become themselves, make their choices in who they are going to fashion themselves into. As I parked the car, I could feel it coming on. I understood things I must convey now.
I think that in the past, when either of us saw our kids, or anyone, going down a path that appeared to be counter-productive or not in their best interest, it was easy to judge. It was easy to worry and to fear and to judge. We were taught by someone who could afford to judge. Cloistered but aware, and without sin.
I come to from a group of very clear thinkers, able to discern things. That we were each hobbled with emotional and behavioral oddities was just part of the package. Let me explain.
Mary and I are highly intelligent, verbal, we are both writers, unconventional, creative, anti-establishment (or at least thoroughly weary of authority), but we are vastly different in temperament and approach. I think she does linearity much better than I, and because it is a value to her to do it well, she has not been too thrilled with my not being able to get a grip on things very well, at times.
She’s been patient as I have done the weird things I have done, and has never fully abandoned me, but she and I had decades of not being emotionally close. A sense of competition always seemed to invade, and sometimes just a world-weariness. It was not easy, what we were a party to, and we are just average Americans, you see. The majority of us came from the archetypal, dysfunctional homes. With folks doing just the best they could. And this is how we proceed.
In the parking lot, I saw that in our family, each of us had chosen behaviors, lessons, wounds, and these seemed to shape things for us. Odd misunderstandings, they appear to me now, but at the time, each of us came in bent and twisted a bit, unable to do or think or say certain things, with allowances as large as the sky in other realms. Each of us allowed our weirdness. That was rule number one, always.
I thought about my sister, and how she has shown nothing but support and kindness and encouragement and courage and strength to her children. How she has done, with her own turbulence, what our mom had done for us. It was so beautiful to witness and feel and honor. I felt reverence and awe and gratitude and pride.
It would be dishonoring to disbelieve these assessments, I think, especially of my mom. Read on. In the 39 years she was with me, I never saw her do anything unkind to anyone, even when they really really deserved it. She never “got back” at people. She had opinions, but they were based in fact, sound, deep logic, and empathic. She had amazing discernment.
In our tiny family, often, she was discounted, seen as nothing, she was devalued and made fun of, and she never fought back. I was mad at her for ages over that. She never defended herself. Ever. Who lives like that? Who do you know like that, I ask you.
Crying now, transfixed now, understanding now that hers was a placeholder function, I turned off the engine and began to cry. That she was distant and did not feed me emotionally I always resented her for, but can see now, had she not, oh had she not, I wouldn’t have this compulsion to connect.
Can you see the beauty of this? Can you? I so hope you can. She was not able to have intimacy like I could, or at least she did not show it to me, except a couple of times near the end of her life. And it made me into what I needed to be. It was a beautiful sacrifice and agreement. It’s ok now.
I could feel Grandpa on the Farm then. Mary and I had different relationships with key players, and did not feel, perhaps, what I did with my Grandpa.
I have never loved anyone like I love him, and it matters not to me if I ever meet anyone who has within them this love, it just doesn’t matter, because I have had it. I know what it feels like, and there is no need to re-live or re-create or replicate it. It rides with me, always, now, and always has, really. I know what it is to be seen and to see another and to be seen and known as perfect and ancient and by being seen by this one, and seen as such, you now you are looking into the eyes of God. And you know the other as self.
He is my placceholder, he has the energy of a whale, ancient, beautiful, simple, love itself Love itself. That’s my Grandpa on the farm.
I thought then on my mentor Marge, who schooled me, with The Teacher’s help, in the ways of interacting with humans, engaging fairly and purely in business. Being clear, holding integrity, being wise. She is my template for a functional human being at work. She showed me how to toughen up. How to say no, when and why, and that it is not only justified at times, but necessary.
She showed me how to defend myself cleverly and at no cost to anyone, how to practice with skill and honesty and a sense of humor. She’s a yogi, a guru, a saint. I knew it the first time I shook her hand, and she never, not once, let me down. Not once. Who can you say that about in your life?
And so I see, sitting in my car, crying, how it is that I might also serve this function for others, and then more and more, my awareness populated with people I struggle with or adore. I see the lessons, the dances we are doing and see, they are just that. Just lessons.
I understood that it might be time to stop screaming. Let me explain.
When I tell you of Grandpa on the Farm, I am giving you a wee child’s memories. Those brief slices of heaven that pulled me through dark times, they were not taking into account what he had to function with. He lived with a full on crazy person, twisted, dark, mean as a snake, irrational, hilariously nuts, but just so mean. Grandma of the Farm’s whole clan was sideways, with every darkness and self-inflicted crazy known to man. It was desperate and dark and scary. And he stayed.
Like each of us, when we choose to stay and to deal with your own brand of crazy with family, But, in my life story, my Grandpa stayed. My dad says he used to scream a lot. As a young man, this perpetual screaming and strife and soul suffering drove my dad away from his home, and to my mom, to silence. To silence.
I never saw Grandpa scream. And I know, in his old age, he stopped screaming. He stopped. And how does that happen? The crazy didn’t stop. The crazy only got worse, more depraved, more compulsive and sad. But he stopped screaming.
And I realized, blowing my nose, that I think I have finally stopped screaming.
I realized with the help of the loved ones I work with, that people need to do as they see fit. My conversation with Mary about our kids brought this concept home. The best I can do is express my opinion without any attachment to the outcome.
There are things I will and will not do, to be in alignment with my standards, and I am very clear about what my boundaries are, but I know a different tone now, a coupling with acceptance, rather than forgiveness, of tolerance and allowance and permission. It is grand.
This comes from a time when I realized, through a series of harrowing experiences over the last several weeks, that I have a form of social retardation that I need to be aware of. I stumbled onto a website called Workplace Bullying. On it is a page, which I will cut and paste, which describes a “Target.”
My guess is that most of you will identify with this. I felt the last fifteen years worth of frustration and self-doubt wash from me as I read this article.
You can find this article and more at http://www.workplacebullying.org/problem/early-signs.
Who Gets Targeted
Unlike schoolyard bullying, you were not targeted because you were a “loner” without friends to stand up to the bullying gang. Nor are you a weakling. Most likely, you were targeted (for reasons the instigator may or may not have known) because you posed a “threat” to him or her. The perception of threat is entirely in his/her mind, but it is what he/she feels and believes.
WBI research findings from our year 2000 study and conversations with thousands of targets have confirmed that targets appear to be the veteran and the most skilled person in the workgroup.
Targets are independent. They refuse to be subservient. Bullies seek to enslave targets. When targets take steps to preserve their dignity, their right to be treated with respect, bullies escalate their campaigns of hatred and intimidation to wrest control of the target’s work from the target.
Targets are more technically skilled than their bullies. They are the “go-to” veteran workers to whom new employees turn for guidance. Insecure bosses and co-workers can’t stand to share credit for the recognition of talent. Bully bosses steal credit from skilled targets.
Targets are better liked, they have more social skills, and quite likely possess greater emotional intelligence. They have empathy (even for their bullies). Colleagues, customers, and management (with exception to the bullies and their sponsors) appreciate the warmth that the targets bring to the workplace.
Targets are ethical and honest. Some targets are whistleblowers who expose fraudulent practices. Every whistleblower is bullied. Targets are not schemers or slimy con artists. They tend to be guileless. The most easily exploited targets are people with personalities founded on a pro-social orientation — a desire to help, heal, teach, develop, nurture others.
Targets are non-confrontive. They do not respond to aggression with aggression. (They are thus morally superior.) But the price paid for apparent submissiveness is that the bully can act with impunity (as long as the employer also does nothing).
According to the 2007 WBI-Zogby Survey, 45% of targeted individuals suffer stress-related health problems. Additional findings regarding targets’ health can be found in WBI research and the PTSD-related research by others posted at this site.
Read our checklist of common signs of bullying.
Kinda breathtaking, right?
So, I began to realize that I had been quite pushy, and at times very judgmental, with my colleagues. I had held pockets of fear that their perceived lack of dedication or knowledge was some sort of moral failing. I held that, and it got more and more and more uncomfortable. It brought up past lives/collective energy to be transmuted, felt and known and released.
And then I saw it all double back on me, in a very benign, actually benevolent way. I was given an opportunity to just set a tone. They sort of invited it, and I did my best, and they like what I’ve done. That feels good. But the folks running the show don’t do things as I would like, and though they are kind enough to allow me to tell them so, off they go, doing as they see fit.
This has been very hard for me. It brought up much other stuff to heal, and I’ve done that. Now I see, maybe for the first time, that it really is ok if folks don’t do things that make good sense to me.
This throne of judgment Mary and Mom and I used to occupy has dissolved somehow, and I am coming to see that every decision is a blessed one, even those that appear to me to be misguided or non-sensical. There is no arguing with some people, and I see now that there shouldn’t be.
There should be instruction, or an allowance to share viewpoints, and in a perfect world, the best idea would win out, but people are still territorial and fear based and status driven. So let bosses do as they see fit. Let sons do as they see fit. Let me do as I see fit. Such relief.
Is this what my mom, and my grandpa, came to know? It’s what Marge drummed into me at every opportunity. That people will do what people will do. I think my pain comes from feeling I have no power in a situation when most of the people around me do stuff I don’t really get. And that’s most of the time, because my frame of reference is different. Not better or worse, but different. Bigger, maybe.
I want to wind down by talking about something which has been a big question in my life.
I would go through a recalibration, basically, in my life, having used a life lesson to gain insight into a problem, and then, I wanted to act differently, better. But what I found is often, doing things differently from the day before, better, but different, well, this was often not only resisted in the workplace, but sort of shamed, sometimes.
There is resistance to being honest and doing things that makes sense, sometimes. This is not an uncommon situation anymore. They want us numb and dumb, degraded, looking down, always looking down, you see. It’s the setup.
But remember what Kryon said about that one concentrated drop of flavor or color added to a pitcher of pristine, beautiful water. What happens? Everything changes. Everything.
I have just come into the habit of not riding these problems quite so hard. I have had a cresting of energy. I feel on a plateau, overlooking yet another, new, better than anything I have seen yet, view from this mountain I climb without end.
I have looked back and feel how the tones of life have changed again. I had a shift after my dad’s heart surgery, and have spent this year finishing this interpersonal stuff. I had to get free of the personal, had to finally see and then come to love my Asperger’s approach to life and people, and to finally find a place to fit, and seen as something beyond this weird, sort of socially awkward geek I project at work. I have found a place who’ll have me, for as long or as short as the bigger story calls for. And that’s pretty awesome.
I understood from the beginning that they were my teachers, and that I would be giving them gifts. I understand this is the transition job I requested, something to ease me from where I was into something else. And they are obliging, just as all the other masters in my life have.
So, I tell you, getting out of that car, welcomed by this nice, sweet vibe in the store, I understood that it is ok now for me to take my place. To stop making apologies for what I have always been, what I have been shown is possible, what I have received instruction on this sentient lifetime, to be, what I know I am. I am love itself.
And the others?
I know now, in my cells I now, they are love itself, just like me. Regardless of lesson plan, regardless of the karma I assist them in, and the dharma they assist me in, they are me, and I am them, and we are god itself.
I walked into that store knowing that I have changed my past, my future and my present because I do not see any of it as I once did. Somehow I can see things even more benevolently now. And everything softens once again. Everything starts feeling better again.
The misunderstandings, based in confusion and fear and limited knowledge have been transmuted, brought into the light, seen for what they always were, reminders of the importance of grace, mercy, patience, tolerance. The absence of those attributes hurts, wounds, diminishes. But it only has ever taken one, in my life. One at a time. Just one.
I know this was and is an assignment, this job of mine, within this nutty family of mine. I laughed as I thought about my own weirdness, and how obliging they have always been. How, when in my murder book phase, my sister gave me The Encyclopedia of Serial Murderers. I smiled thinking about how each of us had, and still have, odd bents, and how we always gave each other a wide, respectful bow toward our individual interests, as odd as they got.
I got amazing goodies at the store, and as I am struggling with whether I should feel guilty about my purchases, as I am watching the goatee’d dude load my awesome new Trader Joe’s tote, I understood, I heard that my income is assured. I am safe. I am finally safe.
This is the safety I have long craved, the tone I was able to strike a year ago, it has returned. I wanted to be able to feel that safe each and every day. And now I do. And now I do.
So, I guess, before us looms two eclipses and a Cardinal Grand Supreme Super Duper Cross. I hear, actually, this cross is one of such precision to be breathtaking. I like such times.
I look back now, and forward, teetering, balancing in this one pristine moment, my pinball game to resume shortly, with a quiet click and a flutter of a flick, it’ll be back to batting things around and motion, always motion, but for now, in this moment of peace and expansion, I wanted to tell you that I am a little itchy about this celestial stuff, because I am feeling so super fine and super high but physically sober nearly all the time now, I’m wondering just what the heck might happen to my physical vehicle.
My intake is changing again, my appetite, and I have grown intolerant of caffeine again. I’m barfing a lot again, physically aware and ultra sensitive to stuff. I have gone through this part before. It’s fun. My body is getting ready for something, I feel.
I sense this trinity of upcoming celestial energies is going to be a time of holiness, of donning the mantle. At least for me.
So this is how I close, always the malingerer at the water cooler, I want to say that this is the image I got repeatedly upon awakening last night. I saw, as I used to, when I first worked with Marge, and when I first started channeling Margartha for my own personal career help in ’88, I saw me in white flowing robes, that turban on my head. Man sometimes, a woman sometimes, but most comfortable as an old, tiny, brown yogi, wrinkled, neither handsome nor disfigured, tiny but strong, muscular, a hidden, hits-you-in-the-face love, love, acceptance, love, fun, laughing, play, love, acceptance, just this constant little lover.
Too expanded to be focused unless called to do so, and the eyes of a hawk, seeing everything whole, moving form blessing ground to blessing ground, doing work. Like the nuns who ran things in the old days, the yogis who roam, the ones who’ve given up fighting it and are dedication itself. I see me in the dining room, even now, in my mind’s eye, little and brown and simple, unassuming, simple dress, feeding others, smiling, quiet, radiating. That is what I want to do now. That is all I want to do.
My lesson had been, you see, that I could easily be this yogi among patients. It was when I could do it freely, usually. It drew me to nursing like a magnet. I could be this among the suffering. The sicker, the better. The more extreme, the better. That is my way, anyone can tell you that, who has worked with me. But, how do I do that with the resistant? With the haters? With those uninitiated to suffering, who have not softened, and who are mean? How do I survive in a world where what I am is seen by others as a weakness, a liability? That’s how I sometimes felt. That’s why I isolated. It was not yet time to shine, is all.
And I have solved this.
I will use these celestial events to contemplate unity, and strength, the strength borne of acceptance, tolerance, recognition. The resistant fall silent in front of it, you know. Water on stone, but this is how it is done.
Bring it on.