So for about the half-dozenth time since my return from England, someone has said to me, "Did you have a nice trip?" They mean well, but...
Nice trip? Nice trip? Are you kidding me? "Yes, I was truly myself for a week-and-a-half, thank you, and that sure is nice." Jeezum, as they say in the north country.
Tomorrow, eclipse day, I need to move again from the lovely place I have been living, at least temporarily. It seems to have been a pattern of most of my visits to England that some kind of "move" follows. I mean, the fact is that I've never felt at home "at home" and getting to England stirs up my energy and reminds me who I am and upon my return, I no longer fit into my latest temporary lodgings. In a sense, I have been a fifth wheel all my life and am thus expendable. But -- ahem -- Law of Attraction proponent that I am, I realize that this belief system started early in me and is emanating from me. I have allowed myself to be expendable to me, to believe in this two-tiered system where completely aligning with myself was a rare moment, out of reach and "foreign," and that my norm was a deadened wasteland. I allowed it to be OK to compartmentalize, to have my feet on two different tracks, to have my "house for sale and for rent," to use my metaphor the other day. I figured there's nothing the world wants less than a brilliant woman with a passion for anything, much less a passion for an obscure foreign genre of music. Passion is power, and we women aren't exactly encouraged to be powerful. Better not to rock the boat. Better to fly back to the US each time, put on my cheery "isn't this an interesting spiritual journey I am on!" mask, find another temporary roof for my head, and just barely survive -- until the next "nice trip" to England.
So yeah, this most recent cycle of homelessness reminds me of one thing: this is all an inner game of which my external reality is only a reflection. The only person who can change the situation is me, not by racing around externally to "solve the problem" (it's not a problem, it's a life lesson gift). Not by trying to figure out "how to get back to England." I've done that for years now, and it hasn't led to anything permanent. No, the "solution" is making the decision between "house for sale" and "house for rent." The solution is making a decision between life and death. Going to England this time finally put me over the edge; I am no longer willing to suppress myself out of the fear that people won't like a passionate, powerful, alive me. I will accept nothing less than the energetic "feel" of being engaged, singing, zinging, intellectually stimulated, and with my tribe. There could well be a variation of this on this side of the Atlantic and from now on my primary commitment is to zinging. No more "nice trips." No more houses for rent. No more words unsaid or songs unsung. No taking seriously the frequent suggestion that I sign up for low-income senior housing and just fade into the woodwork. That house is for sale. I'm committed to being alive and powerful and passionate and in my best element and in integrity with my values. And you know? I don't think I'm the only 60-something woman uprooting herself until she finds the right soil. There are a whole lot of us spectacular flowers on the verge of blooming.
