I got really off base with my Reiki practice this last year or two. I got the idea that I should heal Richard’s Alzheimer’s. Like that’s what I could do if I’m a real true Reiki Master. I fell into one of the traps I always warn my students about: I got personally invested in a desired outcome.
Directing energy specifically to produce any certain outcome isn’t Reiki. It’s energy healing. But you have to wonder if we are always and only meant to heal. In order not to interfere in a person’s life path, healing the ailment may not be an ethically defensible goal.
In Reiki we are trained to recognize our personal wishes for the outcome of a Reiki treatment, and then release them before we engage with our client.
The daunting task of curing Richard’s Alzheimer’s was weighing on me. It was also interfering with my ability to channel a strong energy flow. Upon releasing myself from this unfortunate lapse in practice, my energy flow rebounded.
Thanks to May Cotton for seeing the problem and pointing it out to me.
My first car was a 1972 Ford Pinto. The one that became famous for the gas tank that exploded on impact. It was lemon yellow. I paid $600 for it in 1980.
The second time I drove it, I was headed home on Sunset Blvd. and it was raining. I turned left on Bundy Drive and headed down the hill. Almost immediately the motor home in front of me stopped at an intersection. I pressed my brake pedal … nothing. I pumped the brake pedal … nothing. And then I hit the motor home.
The front of my Pinto crumpled. Smoking and grinding all the way, I drove it home. I told my boyfriend and my mother that the brakes had failed. My boyfriend went out and checked. He said the brakes were fine. My mother opined that I was just going too fast for the conditions, a typical new driver mistake.
We fixed the car, sort of. It needed a new hood and a new right fender. We found a blue fender and a white hood at the junkyard and bolted them on. And there you go! Get back in and drive the car.
But I was terrified. I still insisted the brakes had failed, but nobody believed me. I kept putting off driving my Pinto, and the more I resisted the more abuse I had to endure. Finally I had to drive the lemon yellow death trap.
It was going okay at first but as I came to a red light and depressed the brake pedal … right to the floor! And I’m pumping and nothing, no brakes. I rolled across the eight-lane intersection holding my breath. It was eerily still as no other cars moved. They all waited and watched as I glided out into no-man’s land.
This time I didn’t plow into an obstacle in my path. I was sailing free. So I kept driving. I moved two lanes to the right and aimed for the first driveway I saw. I turned in, set my emergency brake and came to a soft landing in the most perfect and improbable place I could find myself, a Midas Muffler Shop. When I looked up the first thing I saw was the words, “We do BRAKES.”
It took the Midas guy just a few minutes to find the problem. My master cylinder was drained dry, no brake fluid.
I never painted that car. I sold it for $650 with its blue fender and white hood.
There’s a lot of debating going on about who’s responsible for the cruelty to the children coming to our borders. It seems like the bullies are running the yard. They’ve brought the Bible into the argument, further emotionalizing it. This the fevered pitch. Jeff Sessions looks apoplectic! So it seems most of the oxygen is being taken up in the blame game. But I only care about the kids.
When I was five years old, I was abruptly separated from my family. In my case it was due to Polio. Nobody would breathe freely or speak more than absolutely necessary in my isolation room. I remember those three weeks better than I wish I did. I cried and threw tantrums the whole time. I was terrified of one of the nurses and she got so she disliked me. There was an incident where she deliberately handled me roughly. When I got out of there I expected to be reunited with my family. I wanted my Mommy. It was my constant refrain. But even when I got to the polio ward, I still wasn’t reunited with my family for weeks. I cried so much I was punished for crying too much. I tried to stop but I couldn’t. So I was punished.
It was horrible.
So speaking just for myself, I only care about the kids. And I remember what it was like to be separated suddenly from my family.
So I’m probably having a bit of PTSD right now. But I think what it really is, is I have a heightened state of awareness about this issue. Fight later you idiots. Stand up for those kids first.
… the ones I grew up with and maybe you did too.
1. Thou shalt always agree with your parents (and pseudo-parents like daycare teachers, baby sitters, teachers, other kid’s parents and baby sitters, adults in uniform, adults not in uniform, priests, police, nice ladies, nice men, ADULTS). You shall maintain a pleasant outward demeanor no matter how much you hate doing what you are told to do.
2. Thou shalt not tell.
3. Thou shalt be good boys and good girls. Beyond obedience to adults and to the accepted rules of behavior, all girls will know their place and all boys will prove themselves.
4. Thou shalt not get caught. You must find ways to outsmart the system. The notion of achieving on merit alone is a quaint notion, but unfortunately it is the current social ideal. You must work around it.
5. Thou shalt always have an alibi or plausible deniability.
6. Sex is love.
7. Money is power. There is never enough.
8. Winners look like winners. Thou shalt spare no expense for the sake of appearance.
9. Good guys finish last. Take with both hands.
10. Do as I say, not as I do.
It takes me a minute to figure out what’s happening, and then I’m pushing him away. I’m getting up, but he grabs my wrists. I’m pinned down on his sofa. I can’t move at all, not even a little. Can’t even twist, nor pull, nor push. I squeal with frustration. “No! Stop! You’re hurting me!”
He raises up like he’s stopping to think. Then a crooked smile turns up one corner of his mouth. His eyes stay cold and flat. “I can hurt you more,” he says with calm certainty. His certainty of his power over me tightens around my throat like a vice. Then a sharp stab of pain like an exclamation point. I gasp.
I dangle above an abyss. Lightless black presses around me like a wave. Like a sound wave without sound, like a bear hug without a bear, but close and suffocating. Nausea.
My cue to disappear. My body has to stay here, but my nerves withdraw. And then I’m numb. I’m not sure but I think I’m holding my breath, my hands are fists. And my heart, it’s pounding from somewhere far away and only an echo remains for him.
Him. Disgust boils up in my gut, in my chest, behind my eyes. In a voice that spits venom I tell him to, “Hurry the fuck up.”
But I do not fight him. I do not resist. I’m focussed on damage control, I’m all about harm reduction. Holding on.
I’m a ticking bomb. I will him to hurry. He seems to be complying. He’s really going at it.
And then, amen, he slimes me. Ugh, I want to throw up. “Get the fuck off me!” I command. He leans away and I slide out, out from under. Some independent agency in my brain scans for weapons. Pulling up my pants. He heads for the john. Out the door fast. I’m gone.
Made with Paper / fiftythree.com
At last I have a reason to meditate. At 67 years of age, with all the adult years engaged directly or indirectly in spiritual study, including meditation, I’ve never had a specific personal need to meditate.
Truth is, I enjoy my own thoughts overmuch. I found little in the quietness to compensate for the effort to silence my personal inward chatter. Meditating is entertaining in its own right, for sure, but still hasn’t been important enough to make it a big piece of my practice. And I do have a practice.
But now, as of today meditation has become more important to me than entertaining myself with my own thoughts. Indeed, I find I very much want to have greater, more frequent access to my intuition, my insights, and messages from my guides. None of these resides in my mental chatter. Meditation seems like it will be the key to opening my third eye, and giving me greater access to these more subtle ideas.
A quiet mind creates the space for less-directed messages to come in. So now that I’ve made the messages a priority, meditation is equally a priority.
Makes sense to me.
You are not unique. In the ways that you may be unique, you add your uniqueness to the story the cards depict. It’s a story of humans and their lives. How could it not be your story. The Arcana are the people who populate human life, humans. The number cards represent energies, forces of life. They show what’s happening to the people.
So I shuffle. Play with the cards. Deal them out. There I am, in the middle of all this busy living. How to make sense of it.
It’s a conversation between me and the cards I’m dealt. What other meaning could I possibly bring to this than my own meaning.
Tarot is always right because it can’t possibly be wrong. Because it’s you interacting with the cards. It could be tea leaves as well, or the lines on your palm.
It’s helpful because it is a mirror. Sometimes it’s easier to see in a mirror.
In some instances, my recovery from Polio being one such instance, forcing a reluctant child to do something they abhor to do isnt mean. But most times that’s all it is: mean. I remember when toddler Erin became what we call a “picky eater”. She also began an odd eating routine, in which some days, sometimes several consecutive days, she fasted. The other days she ate voraciously, if selectively. Nothing on her plate could have any contact, including drippings with the others.
I called my pediatrician. He said in his forty years as a pediatrician he had never once seen a child starve by choice.
My parents would have forced me relentlessly to eat as they wanted me to eat. Unfortunately this frequently occurred and often led to dire consequences.
My parents were wrong, but there is a silver lining: I’ve always been clear in almost all cases not to follow their example.
But I have to give credit where credit is due. My mother forced me to do every bit of the daily routine and sequencing of exercise and rest the Physical Therapist at the hospital recommended.
I of course resisted, but my mother insisted, no exceptions. The doctor at the hospital told my mother I would never walk again. My mother was having none of it. She pushed me off of the crutches, refused to allow surgery. She was my hero. And I’m still walking. And grateful at a depth … well I have nothing to compare it to. Love. Gratitude and love.
So there are times when a child’s displeasure is simply irrelevant. But those other times …
The roses are coming along nicely. A Robin is looking around for a nest. I want her/him to nest where I can see them. I hope it’s not too late. I’ll put out some nesting material to entice her. I have no idea whether that is ignorant and lame or a good idea. Please weigh in my dear treasured wildlife biologists. Your input enriches my world.
Update: The. At Maggie is a bird killer. So far from enticing her I’m just hoping she nests where I can see her with binoculars.
Humpty Trumpty built a GREAT wall.
Climbed up on top to show he was TALL (BIGLY).
Humpty sat down to write a new TWEET …
The wall began trembling and soon he did FALL,
down on the MEXICAN side of the wall.
That is all.