I am the queen of sorting things out.  I don’t understand much, and realize perhaps that it’s not for me to stand under anything.  Forget understanding–it’s so overrated. From war, to relationships through to Micheal Jackson and a record-breaking zombie walk–I am recognizing that I can be content without figuring any of that out.

But I do realize that I sort things out.  This goes there, that goes over there.  I’m sitting in the midst of wrapping paper and picture frames.  But it could be scraping for food from a garbage pile–this is edible, that is not.  Or this paper filed here, a note for action over there.  A friend who doesn’t call is placed in a different spot that one that calls me every day.  And then I notice–who do I call, and what makes me procrastinate there, but not here.  Sorting wrapping paper and not returning calls. 

Free to be me, and loving me enough to nudge me back to what I love.  To sit in unending love.  To feel it slowly wash over me like sunshine honey and soothing shade in a pine-scented forest.

I don’t have to understand god, or death, or tears or the squeal of fireworks, as long I as feel the Dear One, Mother Nature, Gaia, fairies, my Sweetheart’s Presence before, beneath, behind, above, at every side and standing under, me.

I was reminded recently how disappointing it is that so many Christians believe that the spiritual principles beneath the tarot and astrology are contrary to the teachings of the magnificent man from Bethlehem, also known as Joshua, Jesus, and the Christ.

Spiritual principles are not the same as dogma, so the rules of an organization (such as a religion) are to be honored as those rules.  I would never insist on reading for anyone who found the disciplines against their principles.  But the love beneath these “hidden sciences” is the same love that the compassionate carpenter spoke about in Nazareth.

Lift the rock and you will find me.  The greatest of these laws is the law of love.  See the little children.  Sow your seeds in fertile ground.  I am nothing, the Father does the work through me.  Consider the lilies in the field and the sparrows, they have nothing to worry about–so you are deeply loved from the tiniest hair on your head to your every thought and feeling.

Ok, so everyone can point out that I have none of those quotes exact, etc. etc.  My point is that the universal love that Joshua spoke about is everything, All That Is.  It is in the love I have for the Divine Lady, the chair I sit on, the whining dryer downstairs, the jets miles above me, the lowliest worm in the earth, my aging dog and my fingers that are commanded to remind you again and again and again and again:

You are the Beloved, of whom I am so well pleased.

What would that mean to me–a new freedom?  Where is it that I feel restrained and imprisoned?  Time to get a “get out of jail free” card.  I sing a song on my scooter: “I’m free, I’m free, I’m free to be me!”  I used to hate that phrase in the 60s-70s, “Who am I?”  I would insist that I knew exactly who I was.  But sometimes these days, I find myself held captive by the myths of who I’ve been, and am not sure of what it is like to walk out of those old walls.

New freedom.  Clear, open, wide dervish dancing.  Swinging on swings, walking for hours in speckled shadowed forests, sitting under an umbrella at a grey drizzle beach in all afternoon until I can hear what the rocks and waves are saying to me.

Sit.  Still.  Stay.  Flow–rush–bounce–flail–splatter–laugh–sputter–giggle.  Quiet.  Smooth.  Still.

Temptations to look for lonely hooks in the stories of requisite holiday celebrations, I breathe deep into the centered stillness of a new Divine Freedom.

I heard the phrase this morning suggesting that we give up  “power-driven arguments.”  Well, one of my spiritual vision words is “power.”  Hmm, what IS the difference?  Do I ever have an argument that isn’t driven by the desire to have power over someone else?

The root of the word “argue” comes from the idea of making something clear, or to prove.  How can I tell if I’ve made my opinion (what I see as the facts) “clear” to the other person?  I have no idea when or if that ever happens.  After all, it is just my opinion.  How do I know it is true?  My own past experience.  Clearly [sic], the other person does not ever have my exact experience.

I suppose I could attempt to prove my clarity on the facts, but that only gets me to the middle of the street.  They have to take it from there to their side and assess how it relates to them.  Are we always just speaking to the middle of the street?  Even the two eyes on our heads see things from different perspectives.  Is there ever an actual exchange of conversation?

Perhaps it is about both of us walking down the middle of the street, holding hands as they stretch over the center line.  Me walking here seeing it from this eye, and you walking there from your eye. 

I’m thrilled to indulge in the belief–my belief–every morning, and throughout the day if I can, that we are truly lounging in a field beyond right and wrong.  And I can always instantly forever be holding Her Hand of summer-warm golden grass ease.

Why is it that we cry at change–so-called unfortunate change?  Death, trauma, loss.  I suppose we cry at weddings and births too–what is that salt water leakage all about?

My mom says, from the other side, that we cry because we love, that’s how humans do it.  I like that story.  Loss appears to be abandonment and disappearance of love, affection, companionship, routine of safety.  Maybe it’s human love looking for an object.  Spirit has no objects, materially speaking, and love of Spirit necessarily, it seems to me, is about love above objects, love beyond things.  Which, to me anyway, is a continual practice because “things” are hypnotically believable.

These days I appreciate the earth, and given a chance to leave it, would probably beg for more time.  No wonder my dog is so stubborn to stiffly walk, like on stilts hold himself to bend and sniff that wonderous scent one more time.  I guess I’d do the same.  The colors, the smells, the changes, the seasons, the faces, the objects to love.

I love that I am gifted with these fingers, this antenna of a heart to trap the tiniest glimpses of the bursting fireworks magnificence of the Divine.

That is what was given to me in meditation this morning–that no matter what my choices my heart should be drawn to the path that is as luxurious, simple and beautiful as a walk in the park.

Fighting for survival–the worry of not enough, the doom of massive debts, the horror of struggle–is a story.  Despite any downsizing or move, adjustment or payment plan, it will not kill me, yet the fear is as if a knife is at my throat.  In a culture of capitalism, where stuff accumulated is success, I continue to practice feeling free of no-thing.

I stand in a path with options of so-called career, job applications, intensifying my spirit reading skills, supporting a partner and more.  As a human, merely being, I am so easily distracted by “right and wrong” choices.  No such thing.

Today I fall back into the soft grass in a forest clearing created by fairies, lie on my back and watch the clouds drift along, sun and shade and shadow easily grace my face.  I fill up with birdsong, trees rustling, breeze caress.  Moving through this day, step by step, is a walk in the park.

Daisies come and go, but the plastic grass football field is ageless.

What a gift to watch trees grow–seems so much more graceful than my aging limbs and messy mind.  Rocks.  Gravel.  Yellow grass.  Sanctuary for my senses.  Heart enclosing the marauding mind.

To be a daisy–stalk slender, clustered with family and friends.  Rising slow and sure over the grass to mirror the sun.  Shifting and shouldering out of the tight green birthing bud, eyes closed petals tight.  Resting in the cool summer morning air till Sol’s warmth coaxes me to open petal by petal.  Hesitant and then wide and glorious to shine.

Peace that surpasses all understanding, confusion and figuring out.  Peace beneath, above, to the right, to the left, in front and in back of all my feeble mind tricks.  Trying to wrap its earthbound dissecting energy around Spirit that slips and giggles, eases and sings, tempts and loves to me to keep along this exquisite Divine path.

Storms happen.  Clouds build up, the air smells wet, energy seems to spark around the edges.  Soon the rain begins heavy plops, the sky darkens and the thunder and lightening pounce like a crouching bear grabbing at the salmon thrashing in the roar of the river in sheets of pounding water.  Anger screams out for a reaction.  Frustration slams on the table.  Eyes flash hateful spikes grabbing at blame and shame.

I sit now in the center.  I did not cause it.  I cannot control it.  Have I contributed to it?  Dunno.  Want to sit numb for a while and let the rolling grey sky have its way with the earth.  Where am I in this? 

I call upon the quiet, that the turbulence will subside and the murkiness settle.  Storm or silence, my center is true and changeless. 

One of Yogananda’s poems talks about hiding behind duality, life, illusion and even unanswered prayers.  But the Divine cannot hide behind our love, “in the mirroring light of my love, You are revealed.”

As this blog is written by a human, merely being, sometimes I just don’t feel like loving.  Usually it’s because I don’t feel loved, and the culprit is another human–merely being.  You really can only trust humans to be human.  Or as the saying goes, “Love people, only trust God.” 

Ok, enough quotes, I’m cranky.  Wrestling with what I know to be illusion–feeling unappreciated.  This feeling, however, is a foil and a barrier for me to just simply do what I love, to move forward with the channel of love that is moving through me, to release the dam of goodness that is always pouring through me.

Lucky for me I’ve got a God that allows me to be a cranky snotty short-sighted human some days.  She holds me like a fussing baby, cooing with a little laugh at my toddler stomp against life as it is, spoiled that the red carpet and servants don’t clean the house, promote my business, design a market, make the calls, fulfill my duties, have difficult conversations.  Waa waa waa.

She strokes my hair, wipes my tears and rocks me in Her arms, hiding a little smile at my frustration in the light of the gloriful day She’s made for me.  She sings a lullabye about puppy dogs, swings, fairies and elephants.  And like the infant I truly am, I am mesmerized by Her beautiful voice.

I grab a lavender blossom as I walk, crushing it in deep desire in my fingers, spreading the scent on my face and clothes.  One story screams that I’m hurting the flower.  I switch to another story that it has spent its life yearning to be pressed against my fingers, hands and body.

One story is that I’m alone and unloved, taken for granted and useless underneath it all.  I claim the switch–even set a secondary toggle–that I am brilliant, loved, overflowing with a circulation of good in every way.  Good and plenty.

Some days the switch is easy.  Some days I eat cereal that makes me tired and take a nap, letting the luxury of time and rest slowly move me to a new now.  Away from then.  Letting the movement of the sun over the house shift my view.

In every active moment I claim the story of stillness in the heart of the One I love.