Wouldn’t be nice if relationships were like getting a latte?  Today I want a double shot skinny.  Maybe tomorrow I want a dash of cinnamon or a squirt of hazelnut.  To tell you the truth, I don’t drink coffee, but just think if it was as easy as deciding about a drink.

Excuse me, can I order a compassionate, listening, attentive person today?  And add a sprinkle of humor.  Or, today I’d prefer a vitamin drink with wheat grass and tobasco.  Or better yet, how about a steak dinner to fill me up, or scallops–yum.

The thing is, I believe relationships are almost MADE to be bumpy.  How else would we get polished.  I mean, we are already perfectly imperfect as humans–can’t get any better than that.  But getting close to another human just always softens the rough spots of my personality.  If I can be aware of myself–good luck some days–I can see my sharp ragged edges when my buttons get pushed.  And then trying out a wide variety of tools to smooth those edges.

After all, every piece of music involves bumping one thing against another.  It can be horrific, like the destruction of a building, or exquisite, like tiny chimes in a cathedral.

Like Hafiz said: God and I have become like two great big fat people in a tiny boat–we keep bumping into each other and laughing.  Love is to bump and laugh.

After enduring near death experience–not of myself, but of family and friends–there is this slump after the initial grief: why bother with life?  What am I doing here?  What difference does it really mean, this little lump of protoplasm stuck on the third planet in a minor galaxy on the edge of a middle-sized universe?  Why bother?

It must be about making up good stories.  That’s what humans do best, I think.  Make things up.  Sometimes it’s classic, like Diana of York; sometimes frightening, like Hitler or 9-11.  Sometimes it’s quiet and simple, like how my dog and cat both used to walk with me through the neighborhood.

I ask the trees and they say it is about just being more of what you are.  They don’t even call it growth, just be more of whatever you are being.  I think life is about creating something.  I get stuck wishing I could create something big, like a book and be on Oprah, or a spectacular therapy tool and talk on TV like Phil or something.

But it is just about being me.  Here is where I spill some stories.  I tell funny ones in person.  And I do create every moment.  One of the things I created–with help, of course–was my kids.  That counts too.

And today I claim the story that there is a magnificent ancient and beautiful Goddess that is always at my back.  Right now She is singing and dancing behind me with a new song that the universe has not yet heard.  The melody takes me away to a near heavenly experience.  That is my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Now what kind of spiritual symbol could this be in my life?  Well, a faucet is a funnel for water from some mysterious and grateful reservoir through the pipes to a spot I can operate and use in the kitchen.  It allows me control over the water, moving the faucet from one sink to another, turning it on and off, hot and cold.

Emotional control.  Well that makes sense.  When it was out of order we had to pick up pliers, fasten it to the broken knob and wrestle it to and from, up and down.  Less control on feelings this past weekend.  Good symbol.

I’m shifting.  From this to that.  In the middle of a shift, the future is murky and the past is fading away.  Do I want to buy a sportscar that is fun and crazy and so much like a part of me?  Or recognize logic with a fuel efficient hatchback with room for hauling things and people?  Can I weep when I feel the loss of my pets without draining my body and getting a headache?  Am I willing to go to a party with a friend who talks more about her self right now instead of asking me about me?

Sure.  It’s another day in paradise and I will be able to watch the dawn over the snowy mountain range as I am driven over the floating bridge.  My faith and love of the Divine is always a floating bridge.  My doubt is a broken faucet.

I think I’ll take my scooter today to pick up my cat.  Drive him around with the air rushing through his fur.  He’ll sit on the back, safely clawed into the seat.  I’ll put little kitty goggles on him so he can see the bright new spring day from his magical perch.  The sun will be at his back.  He’ll spy hundreds of new hunting grounds and yeowl when we drive through the fresh fish market.

Oh but wait.  He’s no longer a cat.  He’s ashes.  And what I’ll be picking up is a tiny strongbox with dust.

Amazing how that phrase just opens the floodgates of tears.  Missing such a tiny fur-covered bag of bones.  Glazed eyes still searching for the morsel of food that might fall from the cutting board, even as his hind legs fold his slight frame to the floor.  Sweet friend who tolerated our barely sufficient constant care.  We are grateful for the time you deigned us your soft curled up warmth on our laps.  We will always tell your stories of torturing the big dog, swiping our potato chips and yelling when you were hungry.

Mayor of the neighborhood, you still hold office in my heart.  I claim your presence in spite of your absence.  And cherish the love you brought that now aches in my chest, opening my heart even more.

I wasn’t born with them, being the oldest, but I have seven.  Seven brothers.  I think as a child they should have been dancing & singing just like “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.”  What a neat, tidy fantasy that would have been. 

Uh, wait a minute,  I only have six.  It’s early and hard to count.  But most are wanderers.  One is a sailor, one flies, another hunts and spawns babies.  There’s a mason who is taller than any and the smart one that can trace the traveling of a cell phone call from the Phillipines through every tower in between.

And then there are my brothers I’ve chosen who live near me now.  One is an actor who loves to play tennis.  Another works harder than any lawyer or doctor I’ve ever known to endure a horrendous certification to be a landscape architect.

Brothers say protection, safety, warmth and strength.  I met a channeled entity who introduced himself as a Brother.  And I need that male spirit near me often.  Like my kin, the trees, I lean on their steadfast and rooted center.  I hug them tight whether they feel it or not.

There are times when the story catches me like a ragged fingernail or an irritating tag inside my shirt.  I bump into a table corner and have to stop in sharp brief pain of how stupid I was, or my shirt gets snagged on a metal shard of the past.  Sometimes I can pause, let the movie run in my head, and other times it takes over the brain and I’m distracted for hours.  It’s like my life turns into velcro and catches on everything. 

I hear meditation is a practice of recognizing those moments and shifting the power of being snagged.  If I’m out in the field of Pure Comfort, I can see these made-up fantasies and fear mongers as bubbles.  And whether they seem filled with water tears, or cigarette smoke confusion and stink, or even tiny wishes, I can touch them gently and poof–they sprinkle over the grass and disappear.

Here and now I kindly pop all those distracting bubbles of loneliness and only see the tiny violets, pure green soft grass, and hear the spring song birds calling me to love.

Pair of ducks.  On the slough.  One paddling and tilting his head near the other shore, wondering what I’m doing making noises at him.  The other disappearing into a dive.

Fish out of water feeling.  Sleep travel still stuck to the back of my eyes, glass-eyed numbness staring at the harsh glow of the computer screen.

Comfortable with spirit, tired in the body, dazed at the day.

Hafiz comes to mind:

First the fish needs to say:
Something just ain’t right about this camel ride.
And I’m feeling so damn thirsty.

Damn, it’s dark in here.  Has it always been dark in here?  Am I just waking up?  Or have I been sitting in the dark for months now?  Can’t tell.  Don’t really care.

Hmm, is that a glimmer of light out there?  Where is out there?  Do I care about out there?  Maybe there would be fresh food.  Don’t want to move, it’s cozy in this little dark den.  I don’t need others, bah humbug, they’d only make me do something like get out of my hole.  I like my hole, it’s been good to me.

But I hear noises out there.  Is that the spring bird already?  Damn, those birds are loud.  Were they always loud or am I just hearing them? Ugh, can’t shut them out.  They sound so happy.  Must be stupid.  Nothing to be happy about.  Cover my head with dirt and drown them out.

It smells good out there though.  Fresh and warm almost.  And I’m hungry for something different.  Hmm, I suppose I could stick my nose up there and just sniff around.  Maybe stretch my limbs or something.

Sniff sniff–whoa!  Too much light!  Yipes, back in my hole.  SAFE!

It’s not as comfortable down here, and geez, the light was lovely for a change.  I guess I could sniff a bit more.

Sniff sniff.  Slow and sniff safe.  Wow!  Look at the all the green!  The trees look so much better than when I dig in.  Were they always so green, or am I just noticing them now?  Hey, there’s another one of me–scary.  Sniff sniff.  Well, maybe not so scary.

It feels nice and warm in the sun.  I like the little breeze.  I could go back in the hole…but it looks so dark and cold now.  I like it out here.  I suppose I should clean up the clogs of dirt on me.  I want to look good for that little gal down the path.
__________________________

The light can be safe.  The dark shadow is for just a season.  I slowly embrace the Light and honor my shyness.  I am in an in-between season and peek my head out into a new land.  The Light has never gone away, and now I choose to face it.  Mother Nature loves me just the way I am.

Ok, how come I didn’t get that booklet when I was born: “How to feel as a human and keep centered as a spirit at play.”?  Seeing family, living with a partner, working among other humans–all bring up these murky sticky feelings that don’t seem to match facts or logic.  But what to do with them?

“Detach” I hear.  Yeah, ok, so I sit in another room with the tar-paper feelings and have nothing but ick on my hands.  Sorting them out is like dissecting fog.  Or in a middle of a family gathering, with siblings I knew from before birth, it’s like all of a sudden I have peanut butter everywhere–on my fingers, shirt and stuck on my heart.  I feel sad or lonely or puzzled in the midst of screaming yelling niece & nephew, loud chatting brothers, sisters laughing & cooking.  How can I feel lonely in a crowd?

Well these are not new, and it won’t be the last time.  Perhaps just getting used to feeling them and not reacting to this churning chest crawling mud is all that is needed.  Lucky for me I can pull some of them off and slap them on this paper.

And so you don’t get stuck with sticky fingers, I wash them off with the cleansing Love of the Dear One that puts Her arm around me and whispers in my ear “Remember to play.  Enjoy the ride.  Do not analyze the funway.  Just squeal and raise your hands in surrender.”

The trees remind me that I chose to be a walking plant, taking on the stories of the brain, the path of human feet wandering through puzzling rocks and feeling cold water streams, face shining in sun, shoulders sinking into the soft forest shadows.

How can we possibly, humans merely being, keep present in the here and now?  It’s impossible!  The mini-second that I claim here–I’m somewhere else.  The now seems illusionary, since even uttering the word now results in it instantaneously being “then.”

What’s a little piece of protoplasm like me to do?!?!  How do I claim the endless everywhere forever spirit with suck a story of time and space?

I say we dance.  Dancing is twirling, shaking, bouncing and laughing.  It is hard to dance and not smile.  Especially if you’re like me and forget the steps and fall all over myself (and my partner) giggling.  I was a head-banger in my youth, slamming my whole body and tossing a big head of untamed hair to that bone-shaking heart kicking beat of drum and electric guitar.

Being in bliss stops all time and space.  Writing of the Dear One, sitting in a forest of centuries-old trees, looking into the eyes of a precious person all make the here and now stand on it’s head and do the shimmie shimmie twist and shout!