Where is the Love? (3 of 3)

This will be the last post specifically about narcissism for a while, although as you'll see, I think it is at play in almost everything going on in the world. And I suspect that huge numbers of people are affected by it in their home and work lives as well. What I would wish for them is that they discover this fact much sooner in life than I did!

It's as if the lens through which I see the world changed four or five years ago. Whether this will make what I am about to say relevant for others or not, I don't know. But I now see narcissism virtually everywhere:

• in humanity's cavalier disregard for Mother Nature. It's all about us, and hey, if we leave the planet unlivable, that's OK because we can create virtual reality. 
• in every form of violence, the use of weapons, murder, and war. Even if (as I believe) there is ultimately no such thing as death, every human comes to this planet with a purpose to fulfill. For anyone to feel they have the right to cut short another person's life seems like the ultimate in narcissism. 
• in our culture of idolizing stars of music, sports, politics, and movies.
• in our social media, of course.

Lastly, and for me the one that has felt most painful, our capitalist economy. The castle on the hill dominates the landscape, and it's the only place where the financial "action" is. I have knocked and knocked on the door, but just didn't have the kinds of skills, inventiveness, or addiction-to-conflict to get in. It's almost as if there is a guard at the gate who is the mirror image of my dad, staring blankly at me and saying, "We're sorry, but we could never be the kind of economy you would prefer. Please go away." Of course, the truth is, my eyes glaze over looking back at the system. Nothing about it makes sense to me, seems loving or caring or empathetic. And it isn't that I am a communist or socialist. Those systems don't feel any more love-based, to me anyway. My hunch is that several decades from now, we will be starting to build from scratch an entirely new "economy" of love. 

Because that is the question, isn't it? For all of us with some capacity to love,"Where is the love?" (Apologies to the 1970's hit song!) Where do we see it in the news, in events locally, at home? Who is acting out of love, and who is acting out of not love? It's so hard to focus on "love and beauty" in times like this, but it is the only path forward. Narcissists hate love and beauty, and if we turn to walk in that direction, they simply won't follow us.

The Bag of Candy (2 of 3)

Turns out I was considerably braver three years ago than I realized. On September 17, 2018, I wrote the attached blog, almost word for word the same essay I worked on (on paper) this past weekend. And so, I am copying it as my second installment on the topic of narcissism since it's possible people never saw the earlier post. I'll just add a few words at the end.

The lesson in the bag of candy

Well, OK, here I go, before I lose my nerve.

As regular readers and friends know, my dad passed away a few months ago. It was a bittersweet milestone, really. I envy the people who can genuinely grieve for a parent, and who can truly celebrate a long life well-lived.

In my case, my dad was a lifelong mystery. On the surface, he was handsome, sweet, smiling, WASPY, with a uniform of button-down shirts, rep ties, and (depending on the situation), grey flannel trousers or tan chinos. But the core reality that I experienced from childhood was his alcoholism. From the moment he got home from work at 5 pm, he poured himself a new cocktail every twenty to thirty minutes until, somewhere around 8 pm, he would "fall asleep in front of television." So many nights, I would try to wake Daddy up, shaking his shoulders, but he remained entirely unresponsive and slack-faced in his easy chair. It felt, to me, like he died every night. I knew that he didn't from the evidence of my eyes (there he was, leaving for work the next morning) but it was a daily heartbreak that I was not allowed to acknowledge or understand.

During my 20s and 30s, I explored this situation (and subsequent family perplexities) in therapy and 12-step programs, and yet I never felt that I had gotten to its core. No one else in the family wished to join me in solving the mystery, and so for a good decade or more I just tried to forget about it all and get along with everyone.

Somewhere around 2000, an old friend of the family expressed dismay that I had changed my life entirely in order to help take care of my mom while she was dying. This woman said, "Your father is an incubus. He's just using you." I was so clueless, I had to ask her what an incubus was. Vampire. Bloodsucker. I said, "Oh no, you're wrong."

Fast forward to 2014. Two years earlier, I had moved to his town out west, both because the choir at St. John the Divine had been disbanded and I wasn't sure what to do next, and because I thought once again that I could be in relationship with family by "helping." (Dad was due to make a major move into a different housing situation, something that never actually happened.) It had been a wrenchingly difficult few years, but I had survived. One night, I ate dinner with dad at his swank retirement community's dining room, and he said to me, "Liz, come back to my apartment for a minute before leaving. I have a present for you." Silly me. Dad had almost never spontaneously offered me anything and my heart almost burst with anticipation as we walked down the hall.

He handed me a 99-cent plastic bag of discount candy, you know, those sugar-coated fruit slice-shaped soft gum drops. Before I even registered the shock and disappointment of receiving something so totally worthless after such fanfare, I sensed that there was something even more amiss. The bag felt oddly heavy. I pinched one of the candies between the plastic and my fingers and it was as hard as a rock. I peered at the expiration date (I am the Queen of expiration dates). Lo and behold, that date was a good seven or eight years earlier.

"Dad, this candy is extremely stale." Silence.

I plucked up all my courage, and with as much control as I could muster, I said, "What on earth would possess you to give your beloved only daughter a stale bag of candy years past its expiration date?" He looked at me with this utterly blank look that often came over his eyes, but he regrouped and said, "I thought that you could share them with your friends at the Y." (The fact that he was living in luxury and I was living at the YWCA was another one of those clues that was finally adding up, although all of a sudden I was proud to be there.) I said, "Dad, what kind of person would I be to do such a thing? Most of these women are living in abject poverty, missing many of their teeth, and breaking a tooth would lead to dental work they cannot afford." He stared back at me, and then walked away. I dropped the bag into his wastebasket, and walked out the door. This was a watershed moment. This wasn't about his age, or dementia (which he did not have) or alcohol. This wasn't just "a man of his generation." This wasn't some unique situation, the result of a bad day. This was the latest in a string of inexplicably subtle but cruel interactions that I had never understood, and it had to signal something far worse.

The next morning, I went to the public library, and wandered around the psychology section hoping that some insight would leap out at me. And of course, information that might be applicable was easy, but horrifying, to find. Dad would never in a million years have consulted with any mental health professionals, so an accurate diagnosis may never be possible. And I'll never know whether his condition, whatever it was, was genetic, or the result of his experiences in World War II. I'm just going to be conservative and refer to it as extreme narcissism. But surrounded by stacks of books and the light slanting in from high library windows, I finally came to understand my experience of my father.

Other than the New York Giants, the New York Yankees, and alcohol, I never experienced my dad taking a loving interest in me or any other person, activity, or situation. He never really had a career, hobby or creative pursuit.

I never experienced my dad apologizing or expressing regret for anything, even though there were many events and situations where that might have been appropriate.

I never experienced my dad expressing genuine appreciation for anyone or anything, unless it reflected on him. (On Easter, he would tell me and my mom, "My ladies look nice today," kind of thing.) He did stand up and say some nice words about me at my 50th birthday, words he had never said directly to me; there were some of his old friends there, and I'll never know who he was really speaking to.

I never experienced my dad helping people or offering to help. He never said, "Here, let me do that for you" or "I'm going down the street to help Joe paint his shed." He didn't belong to civic, church, or volunteer groups. Most of my interactions involved my feeling that I had to help him. However, late in life he led the residents' group at his retirement community, which I never really saw firsthand. Perhaps a new side of him came out at that time.

In my experience, my dad was highly manipulative about money. That is all I will say for now on that subject.

Fortunately, my dad had no global ambitions, and his energy vis a vis the world was quite passive. The people most affected by his emptiness were family. I think the fact that I was female and utterly his opposite meant that I was exiled, at birth, to a point off his radar screen, except for some key occasions when he could use my free help. The candy incident gave me an intellectual context for finally solving the family mystery, but the waves of emotion didn't start to hit me until last year. I apologize to readers for taking so long to more fully explain some of my metaphors, but I literally didn't dare speak until well after he was gone.

I left Montana soon after I learned the lesson in the bag of candy, but I did go back one more time two years ago, when he almost died. We had what we both knew to be our last encounter. I thanked him quite genuinely and in a heartfelt way for the emphasis he had placed on getting a good education, for his and mom's choice of churches (where I was introduced to the English church music tradition), and for our summers on Lake Champlain. I told him how these three things had enriched my life. And then there was silence. This was when another father might have jumped in to say, "I love you so much, honey. I am proud of you. I hope you will have a wonderful, happy future." Instead, a long, dead, silence. I finally blurted out, "Dad, do you even love me?" He said, "Of course." "What is it that you love? I mean, I am not sure I even know." He looked at me blankly, clearly not having a clue what love is, who I am, or how a quote-unquote "normal" father would feel on parting for the last time from his daughter. Finally, after a few more empty moments, I stood up, went over and kissed him on the top of his head, said, "Good-bye, Dad," and walked out. 

There are a million more stories to tell, but that's all I can bear for today. I guess you can see why, when I say I'm just now learning about love from scratch, I am not joking. I think I have always known how to love, but not how to believe that love, respect, or caring will ever be returned in my direction.

That's enough for today, although something new hit me this weekend. The candy incident was so strikingly ridiculous and absurd, that I wonder whether it was him trying to communicate who he was, trying, in effect, to say, "I could never have been the father you were trying to make of me. Please go away." People like this are so energetically dissimilar to people who have some capacity for love...indeed, I think they really can't stand "us".  And I don't think the Christian teachings of forgiveness and turning the other cheek really work in these situations, either. Any action that continues the relationship keeps you in the black hole. What I tried to do was acknowledge the truth, then turn and walk completely away. I will never find love in "non-love", and the path of love is the only path forward, ever.

Outside the Castle (1 of 3)

I've decided that I'll write a total of three more posts about my experience with narcissism, and then move on for now. The whole thing about narcissism is that it is a giant black hole, a bottomless pit (or whatever metaphor you care to use). I don't want to skate over thin ice and try to ignore its influence, but I also don't want to get stuck in the muck. 

Another thing to mention here: I am a writer, an artist, a musician, a feminist, a mystic, and someone with a strong interest in the scope of history (and our potential futures). I am not a physician, psychologist, theologian, scientist, politician, economist, or diplomat. I have done relatively little non-fiction reading over the years, except in areas like metaphysics, women's and "New Age" spirituality, English culture and history, and art. I have no expertise in most arenas except through personal experience. That in itself may be self-centered. But as a woman in a largely male construct, I have had to struggle daily just to figure out who I am and what I think, and this is the only way I can be fairly clear about the integrity of my opinions. I'll always try to acknowledge an outside source of an idea if I can remember where I got it!

About fifteen years ago, I decided I wanted to do several large paintings depicting key moments in my life. Having normally painted small -- I had no studio -- I just wanted to break out. I bought four or five large panels, and got started. The first one was the only one I finished before my unsettled life caught up with me, and having no place to store the canvases, everything went to the dump. But that first painting depicted me as a small child wearing a blue dress, with golden curls and blue eyes, knocking on the door of this huge castle. The implication was, of course, that no one was coming to the door, that I wasn't welcome inside the castle that was my family.

This morning as I was struggling to figure out how to address this topic, the image came back to me. But I'll expand on it to suggest that a narcissistic entity (person, family, institution, whatever) is like a locked, moated castle, and the inside walls of the castle are mirrored. The "king" (and of course it can be a woman, or a group of people) and his followers only ever see themselves, and the mirror image of themselves, in a closed loop of experience. Sure, there are guards up on the battlements. And if you are outside the castle for whatever reason (basically, you are of "different stuff" than the people inside), it doesn't matter what you do to try to get their attention. You can knock, plead, write heartfelt letters, dance, sing, show them art or other accomplishments...it doesn't matter. You will never, ever, interest them. The only way to catch their eye is to actively attack, do something that threatens their status quo. And then and only then do they notice you, and they will fight back -- and probably win. 

In that case, why even try to get into the castle? Well, if it is your family, or the one and only field you care about, or the only game in town economically, or whatever, it is human nature. We want to be within the castle walls. We want to be protected, loved, accepted, part of the crowd, doing work that satisfies and connects us to community. But there is that awful moment where you realize that to enter the gates, you will have to be something you are not. You will have to spend your life centered around "the king", and that isn't an option. The only way to be genuinely "you" is to camp out on the fringes.

Most of my life I was the little figure outside the family gates, tap-dancing and waving and helping and doing whatever it took to connect in some small way. My dad was often a smiling, placid presence, sitting in his chair, drinking his "old fashioneds", not connecting to anyone. I still have almost post-traumatic stress when I see those original smiling emojis, they remind me so much of him! I accomplished organ recitals and college degrees and travel, and even a corporate job in a window office without eliciting a word of pride or love or genuine caring -- only once, at my 50th birthday party, did I ever hear Dad say nice things about me. (The same might have happened sooner if I had ever gotten married, but he had told me when I was about 20 never to get married because he couldn't afford a wedding! I still hope that isn't the reason I stayed single...)

In the early '80's, I made the fateful mistake of attacking the status quo, although I didn't fully realize what I was doing. I told my parents that I had started therapy, and was attending ACOA (Adult Children of Alcoholics) meetings. My mother burst into tears, and my normally smiling father went utterly ballistic. How dare I be so disloyal to the family? Look what I was doing to my mother! I was killing her! When I tried to explain that it was important for me to understand all these things before moving forward in my life, Dad essentially told me I was disowned, and that I needed to leave immediately. Now, they didn't have a cent to their name, so this isn't disowning in that sense. When Dad died, I "inherited" $725, which was frankly more than I expected. It was being disinherited in the sense of, the cannonball flattening you so that you will never come to their door again. 

Now, silly me, I kept trying over and over again for another thirty years to stagger up to the door and try to gain entrance. And when I could be of some practical "help", I sometimes got a foot in the door. Finally, about a year before my dad died, I gave up. I understood just enough about narcissism at that point to realize that all my efforts had ultimately come to naught, and it was time to let go.

Of course, the damage was done. This dynamic has played out in almost all areas of my life, and I also see it playing out in our world. Life outside the castle is excruciatingly hard on body and soul. And it's nearly impossible to survive too far from those castle walls, so you end up in a bizarre limbo. Whether you stay alone or connect with other outsiders, life is "catch-as-catch-can". But at least you are free; your eyes and soul are free to look outwards or move as far as your courage will take you.

 

Narcissism and Me

"Narcissism and Me." What a perfect example of "res ipsa loquitur" / "The thing speaking for itself", eh?

Seven or eight years ago, I finally came to understand that extreme narcissism has been at play in my family my whole life. It was a mystery I had been trying to "solve" for decades (I come by my interest in reading/watching who-done-its naturally!), but, as you can imagine, there was no satisfaction when I finally reached the "aha!" moment. More like horror, revulsion. The years since then have been especially turbulent. It was not enough to distance myself from my family and the part of the U.S. that I associate most with my family. The pendulum has swung wildly between lighthearted joking about the topic and shame-filled embarrassment. In this blog, as in my friendships, I guess I hoped I could skate on the thin ice of only the occasional vague reference, and move forward. Yet, of course, that rarely works, does it? Especially in northern Minnesota, people who skate on thin ice usually fall in.

Deep down, I believe my higher self chose this reality for this lifetime, a form of training that I would need to completely reach my potential. It sounds paradoxical, doesn't it? But think of it this way. Being raised in the household of a father completely incapable of loving or caring gave me valuable insight into the difference between love and "not-love". I know "not-love" to the core of my being, and, indeed, cannot escape the probability that I am somewhere on that spectrum myself. Pretty low on the spectrum, I hope (I am capable of huge passion for English church music, England, animals, art, and the Goddess, at least). Still, it is the "school" that I had my first lessons in, and which may be the primary influence on my life and even my evolving beliefs. I have finally reached the point where I must look at the topic as clearly as possible, as honestly as possible, and as fearlessly as possible, for my own sake as well as for my readers and friends. It is a reality experienced by countless people around the world, both in personal relationships and in the wider political, economic and societal spheres. Narcissism is out there. If my attempt to make sense of it helps even a handful of people, it is worth it for me to proceed.

So, over the next few posts, that's where I am going. Goddess give me the strength and courage. If it has ever been hard to hit "publish", it will be more so now!

A Bad Dream

This pandemic (and all its ripple effects) is a bad dream for many of us, and an out-and-out living nightmare for others. If medical personnel are able to sleep at all, it's probably a miracle.

But the kind of dream I want to focus on this morning is the kind that we experience when we are sleeping. In my adult life, most of my dreams have had the same theme: I am trying to get from Point A to Point B, and simply cannot get there. The details may differ from dream to dream, but the frustration and hopelessness remain the same. I wake up, sometimes in tears, feeling like I have been put through a wringer. A friend once suggested that maybe this is a metaphor for my whole life, and the minute she said it, I saw that she was right. 

The granddaddy of these dreams, and perhaps the most symbolic, is one I had maybe six or eight years ago. It began with my having been accepted into the choir of St. Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue, in New York City. Even in the dream, this was quite shocking, because they had (and still have) only a men and boys' choir. I was so thrilled, and took the subway to the station at 50th St. and 6th Avenue, intending to walk the few blocks over to the church. But when I exited onto 6th Avenue, I entered a post-apocalyptic world. The high-rises around me were either dark or had collapsed, there was rubble on the sidewalks and streets, and there were hardly any cars or streetlights. The few people on the streets looked emaciated and grim. I slowly made my way over to the church around obstacle after obstacle, and felt enormous relief when I walked up the front stairs. However, when I entered the church, I didn't see its incomparable reredos (altar screen) in front of me. I was in a crammed little vestibule with many doors. I opened one, and started down a long hallway. In the distance, I could hear the very faint sound of the choir practicing, and I went into a panic that I was late. Someone appeared in the hallway, and I asked them to please help me find the choir room. They indicated a door, and I opened it and walked down the stairs. At the bottom, I entered yet another warren of long hallways and dead ends. I asked another person who showed up, "Where is the choir room?" They pointed to a door, and upon opening it, I found that there was indeed a choir practicing, but it was a high school or college group. Panicking now, I fled down yet another hallway and encountered a member of the clergy, and said, "Please, I have been accepted into the choir, where are they practicing?" He said, "I don't think so, my dear," and turned around and walked the other way. I glanced at my watch, and realized that not only had I missed the rehearsal, I had missed the entire church service. I slumped down on the floor and burst into tears...and woke up literally crying.

Last night's dream was no where near as symbolic, but I am puzzling over it nonetheless. I was in Utica, New York. Why Utica, and not my hometown of Schenectady? The only thing I can think of is that a recent crossword puzzle clue was "Mohawk River city", five letters. Utica. Anyway, I was evidently visiting friends but was due, that night, to take Amtrak's Lake Shore Limited train west. I'm not sure if I was heading out here to Duluth or what. In any event, my efforts to arrange for a ticket and find out the time of the train were dashed at every turn. I lost my phone. My friends' phones weren't working. I opened up a laptop computer, and my hands didn't seem to be able to type out the word "Amtrak". When I was finally successful with that, the words literally melted off the screen. Finally, with dark night settling in, I gave up and started to walk through the cold, snowy streets. My bag was too heavy, and, yes, I woke up just as I had collapsed, exhausted onto the sidewalk.

We seem to have entered a time where getting from Point A to Point B will often be considerably harder than before. Indeed, I may have woken up this morning in tears, but I did wake up, and healthy. I am very, very thankful for that, and thankful that I can continue to try to make sense of it all. Our nighttime dreams may seem less important at a time like this, but I still think they are trying to communicate with us. And if I can figure out why I am still having these kinds of dreams, I'll let you know! 

 

The Numbers

Two years ago, which must be about the time when COVID first entered my radar screen, I remember thinking, "I hope we don't fight this virus tooth and nail." By the end of January 2020, it was clear that indeed the virus was being fought, and that major changes were coming. By late February, stress and panic were settling in. I wasn't afraid of the disease, per se, but of the wave of fear I could already see circling the globe. By mid-March, the library, the bus system, and other networks had closed or all but closed, and I was housebound with some friends. I didn't have a computer, and, as you know, didn't write this blog at all for about fifteen months. It was one of those deals where you watch and sense the energy of events rather helplessly; in any case, I couldn't envision a scenario where anyone would listen to me. I was, like most people, in shock, and had no easy outlet for speaking out. And even if I had had such an outlet, I convinced myself that I would be ignored. My advanced degrees are in music and art (illustration), not science, medicine, theology, sociology, political science, or any other relevant discipline. 

However, this year, ignored or not, I'm speaking. 

One of the main law of attraction/metaphysical teachings is to focus only on the things you want in life, not the things you don't want. The idea is that what you focus on, grows. Money, cars, and fancy houses seemed to be the preoccupation of many of the field's modern teachers and students, so I wasn't always completely on board. However, I still think the precept is true if you broaden it out beyond physical possessions. In this case, what do all of us want? Health. What do we not want? Illness or death. In early 2020, as most of our institutions started down the road of fighting this disease (with all the passionate attention and focus that this requires), I cringed. Other people began fighting the people who were fighting the disease. Then, as the language increasingly reflected that of the military (front lines, defense, offense, victory, etc.), it became almost impossible for me to even watch a short nightly news report. The "fight" mentality appeared to me to almost guarantee a bad outcome.

However, this past summer, there was a hiatus when we all thought possibly the vaccines and the weather had improved things. It was liberating to do errands without a mask, and to see friends more easily. I truly hoped that my early gut reaction was wrong, and that the human effort to fight the disease had "won". 

But there has been no victory. The case numbers, hospitalization numbers, numbers of protective equipment, masks, tests, studies, medical personnel, emergency personnel, upheaval in business and education, airline travel cancellations, tons of trash, the cost in dollars and mental and physical health...the situation is off the scale huge, and the numbers in every category are growing by the second. Me being me, I would never have "fought" this illness from day one, but of course there is no proof of what would have happened if humanity had not reacted as it did. Our culture is doing its best, and doing the only thing it could have done, based on its underlying duality vision of the world.

One of the only things I can do is focus on my underlying vision, on the number one, a world of love, unity, community, oneness with each other and nature, a world without fear (of disease or anything else) or violence. How long it will take to get to that point, I don't know, maybe centuries. But the prospect of a more unified longterm future keeps me going right now, as does trying to do a better and more frequent job of expressing the path forward in that direction.

 

The Dropped Stitch

Those of you who have done any amount of knitting know that, from time to time, you will discover a little hole in your project where you dropped a stitch. It looks innocuous, but this little open spot can grow over time as nearby stitches come undone. Excellent knitters (I am not one!) can find ways to repair the damage with a crochet hook, but depending on the pattern, it is often necessary to literally unravel your work back to that spot, pick up the dropped stitch, and move forward again.

What does this have to do with anything on this frigid (-40 degree windchills) Monday in January?

In my last blog, I suggested that one of the "graces" present in our current scenario is the possibility that climate chaos could ultimately keep earth habitable for human life. I got some interesting feedback on this, and rightly so, in the sense that the sentence wasn't complete or clear (although I'll keep the wording as it is). I agree that there is no guarantee that humanity will, or should, survive coming environmental changes. Indeed, I am fairly confident that we will not survive our current profit- and conflict-driven model or efforts to maintain that model. Earth simply cannot take it any more.

But our modern paradigm is tragically lopsided, and it is not the whole picture, as we all know. Historically, powers-that-be have chosen to de-value nature and de-value the feminine, plowing ahead with largely left-brain, logical, competitive energy. I've written before about how frustrated I am at our current embrace of "Artificial Intelligence". Women's intelligence and spiritual perspectives have been bypassed. We haven't listened to the women -- and men -- who might have represented alternative ways of working with nature, and ways to gradually knit right-brain, feminine creative energy into our earth experiment. We've completely bypassed, well, people like me. I mean, this is personal for me, and for so many women, artists, musicians, spiritual beings, and beings from different kinds of communities and cultures, left in the dust. Sure, focusing on only one form of creativity has allowed for rapid, showy, and extremely impressive technical "progress". Yet, as much as we have all come to rely on this progress and have adapted to it, many of its manifestations are brutal and unsustainable. And they are starting to fail us.

That is humanity's "dropped stitch". Our flashy sweater is unraveling. Now, if enough humans can pick up the dropped stitch and begin to honor Nature and women, and build lives based on love, not profit -- if we can embrace new kinds of "progress" and more evolved manifestations of the human spirit -- I think human life will continue. We are integral to exciting physical and spiritual changes taking place not only on earth but throughout the universe. I have a hunch that the Goddess actively wants the most loving humans to survive, and to thrive in the coming new paradigm.

But I agree, human life, per se, isn't the point of it all. Aligning with the streams of love surging through the universe is the point of it all.

The Grace of These Times

The word "grace" isn't one I use a lot, either in the superficial sense (elegance) or the theological one (God's favor). But I can't think of another word at the moment, and am using it to mean "hidden blessing" or "spiritual gift". 

I cannot think of a time in my life when so many stunning things were happening at once. Most of these things are stunningly hard, stunningly life-changing, stunningly (and visually) like a punch in the stomach. Miles of cars stranded on a frozen highway, thousands of overfull hospitals, neighborhoods burned to the ground or blown away with the wind. Earlier generations couldn't observe these events from the air as we do. Our bird's eye (drone and satellite) images are hard to "unsee". Perhaps we are at a point in history where we need to see the enormity of things, the larger patterns. The images shouldn't be unseen, or unfelt.

Where is "grace" in all this? It seems like the contrast between "love" and "not love" is becoming clearer by the day. I feel it energetically, that's for sure, and am less and less interested in focusing on (or fighting) humanity's "not love". There is a gift in being able to feel love/gratitude/harmony/beauty/etc. at all in these times. 

And as far as climate chaos goes, if you see it as Nature struggling to keep earth habitable for future human generations, then there is "grace", too, in these events. There are moments when it is so hard to see our reality through the lens of "only love", but this is a teaching moment for the whole world. The lessons are coming thick and fast, aren't they?

Love and Truth

First of all, may I say that there is nothing as silent as Duluth, Minnesota on New Year's morning when it is -20 degrees F.  No cars, no birds, no sirens (thankfully!), none of the recently-omnipresent helicopters (heading to the hospitals, oh dear!), virtually no one walking by on the street. I am not close enough to the lake to hear it freezing and crackling, and it was too cold (in my book, anyway) to attempt a walk. So New Year's morning was literally a silent re-boot. Today and tomorrow are scheduled to be warm enough to get out and do some errands, then, later this week, back into the freezer. I still don't quite understand how my life path has so prominently featured a city of such winter extremes, but I'm here, and that's about all I know.

In my last blog, I said that love and truth are the way to get through uncertain, hard times, and you might say they are my deliberate resolution for this year. My re-solution. There has been almost no setting in my life where I was encouraged to love passionately or be completely truthful, and longtime readers of this blog know that virtually every post has been a terrifying leap in those regards. My impulse continues to be to hide what I am passionate about, and to be diplomatic (best interpretation) with what I see to be the truth of situations; for almost seven years, post by post, I've tried to push against these inner and outer restraints just a little bit each time. But "a little bit" isn't enough any more, not in these times.

On New Year's Day, I pulled a card from my "Mystical Shaman Oracle" deck (by Villoldo, Baron-Reid, Lobos; 2018, Hay House): "Upper World." "...Do not fall to the temptation to craft a slightly more improved version of yourself...take the great leap." My inspiration may come from women like Judy Chicago, the 80-year old feminist American artist whose oeuvre is finally the subject of a huge retrospective in San Francisco. She persisted. Her hair is purple. She is passionate. 2022 will feature a bigger leap in the direction of expressing myself more colorfully, openly, passionately, and truthfully. Emerging from winter's hibernation, I will know I am on the right track if friends shake their heads and say, "She's really lost it!" I'll know then that I am finally, truly, self-actualized.