Arriving and Continuing

Ailment: I'm afraid of not being what I'm not for fear of $ financial disaster.

Antidote: Spirit finds the Soulution.

I am making a choice to TRUST my HP (Higher Power), that I call Mariko-san/MaiLing (Truth Worth) + All-That-Is, + Other and Company (the support and companions we always have, even in Anime)—and . . . in spite of the jitters, anxiety, fear, sadness, rejection disappointments, frustration, worry . . . on and on . . . to find the Solution that is work I can engage with deep motivation, and not put my writing and art passions at risk of prostitution. This is a rich and complex path to come up with the combination key-lock that will allow me to move forward.

One of the things I see here is that my engagement with the animal world—pet, feral, wild—is very directly connective = animals and those who love them. On the other hand, writing and art, though they can be inspired, and even amped by others, is a very self-engaged “retreat” energy for me, in which I get to dive beyond sight into both Treasured and completely unexplored realms, and the deep need for protected boundaries in that.

To many, I am sensed as an extrovert: Public speaking, blogging, make-it-so/happen, arrive the 3D, engage, take action . . . and while I do very much carry those energies within rich intuitive nuances, actually, it comes from being a contemplative, exploring, turns-within, introvert.

I grew up with a blessing of animal presence: Horse, dogs, cats, goats, chickens, baby barn owl, raccoon, baby fox—and—as I moved into later adulthood as a Cultural and Natural History Tour Guide,I found a renewed connection with fox, bobcats, coyote, eagles, hawks, jays, squirrels—and one very special Peregrine falcon whom I was blessed to rescue--(after a WEEK, I so found out, later, of others noting and not acting!!! This falcon now resides in the Sierra Vista area as a part of a licensed educational program, as injuries disallowed return to the wild, and a very worthy lifestyle alternative!)

Animals are magic to me, as are the stars/galaxies and the Fine and Performing Arts, and the grace of those who embrace these arenas. We are also blessed by paper-pushers, accountants/number crunchers, retail sales personnel, IT specialists . . . and it's time for me to find both my work and creative niche, which, while connected, are not necessarily the same. Arriving.

What I've arrived to is that I want to switch careers into animal grooming/care as work—visible and connected to my shared world with them and humans, and continue to explore my writing and art in a non-work environment. Anybody out there? Would love to hear from you!!!

Blessings, on your path and all your endeavors!

SURPRISE! When What You Hunt Finds You

Sometimes, those rare instances show up when something catches our attention from the corner of our eye--suspends us out of time--soaks us with a profound sense of recognition, connection, our only then knowing that sense of something lost--found. What has been unseen, disregarded, dismissed or gone torpid in unuse thrusts up and breaks surface--something that you didn't even notice was gone until that instant, until it stands there before you.

Under the glaring fluorescent lights at Walmart, surrounded by gaggles of noisy kid families about their shopping, out of place, at eye level, I flashed on the arresting image of a Blu-ray/DVD cover: a red-haired elfin teenage girl lifted in the arms of a svelte, boneheaded man--long elegant horns atop a canine skull. Reminiscent of Beauty and the Beast--it was something more. I stood transfixed--every hair on my body rising in a mysterious sense of joyful, other-worldly recognition. I was looking at a copy of Kore Yamazaki's anime, volume one, of The Ancient Magus' Bride.

On the spot, entranced by the image, I laid down my long-standing psyche pattern--the huntress with her "bow and arrows." As the "archery equipment" fell to the floor at my feet, my immediate takeaway was that I felt "filled." The acquisitive hungry ghost that haunted behind my fires of creative fervor and lurked in the luscious binges of engrossing conversations with friends, the want factor receded from me; shadow chased by sunlight. . . . I felt myself scooped up, on the spot, and held close, like the red-haired girl in the picture before me.

I felt found, seen, visible--wide awake, wide open--filled with a sense of possibility, mystery, intrigue--reclaimed by something--guarded and protected by a fierce, present, dragon energy--this, even while respectfully regarded and inquired--and mysteriously beckoned. To my sense of wonder, I stepped from inner shackles into an inner clearing.

All of this from a glimpse of an anime cover? What I had unknowingly sought stood magnificent before me--the anime image capturing an ancient archetypal story of a lonely mage and homeless young woman now become apprentice to this powerful, reclusive magus; and in turn about, sometimes she the teacher, his having lessons of his own to learn.

I stood looking at a star constellation in the night sky, recognizing it as my own. Why? Where from? Don't know. Don't care. Doesn't matter. Restored something in me--a sense of depth value, an inner confidence that had been definitely on walk-about--recall of connecting with a being not unintelligent by any means, but at the same time not acculturated to the status quo of our embedded social and cultural structures with all its attendant restrictions: Whoosh: breathing space--kind, if sometimes baffled, inquiry into Other, plumbing internal depths that had faded from sense and sight.

This is the story of Chise Hatori and Elias Ainsworth, and a full cast of characters spanning numerous realms; a story about the cultivation of empathy and self-introspection--seeing through to a person's quivering vibrant core and the ownership of emotions, choices and consequences; inquiring into integrity and ethics—not about the ownership or suppression of another person; rather, ownership of relationships and a deep regard for sovereignty, even as we are the challengers that trigger growth and change that sometimes takes us on separate paths.

I'm still receiving this new sense of being filled up, from within. Meeting moments of peace and equanimity before this, in the rich complexities of encounters with self and in exchanges with others, they've been fleeting. This brings a base shift; new glasses and new eyes.

Barnes and Noble, https://www.barnesandnoble.com, features an anonymous quote:

We lose ourselves in books. We find ourselves there too.

Kore Yamazaki has captured, in her magical manga and anime, a story etched within the very hollows of my bones, where the marrow lives: an Archetypal Presencing that has threaded my entire life--so often relegated, dismissed, as chimerical fantasy. Enter the ancient thorn mage and the courage of a young girl as they together leap into their own depths and darkness to find the light within both of them.

From want of use, since my late husband's passing, this archetypal pattern within me had slipped into torpidity. Blessed with rich, close friendships, and surged with cyclic creative fire manifested in a passion for writing, and in a wider arc, enamored with drawing/sketching, this part of me, a very active, vibrant and interactive part of me, had languished--a psycho-spiritual vitamin deficiency, costing me significant portions of my native verve, sauce and juice. A marathon session of watching season one and two of The Ancient Magus' Bride anime brought the lights back on! I felt alive as I had not in many years. Who knew!!!

Ms. Yamazaki! Self-described in the September 2017 Forbes Magazine interview as only knowing "how to draw manga" -- for me, you are a magician scribe revealed in this Ancient Magus' Bride story that spun out of you, renewing me to a deep sense of magic, of re-trusting the Universe, and myself, in my native ways of sensing and egaging my world--ways that over the years had gone bone dry in me--bones left to bleach and brittle, slivering in the sun--now moist again with quicksilver in my marrow, my psychic flesh sewn back onto them--my huntress' "bow and arrows" now a rubble of dust on Walmart's floor.

ありがとうございましたArigatōgozaimashita, Ms. Yamazaki

天の恵み Ten'nomegumi (Heaven's Blessings)

If I had Orange Hair

If I had orange hair . . .


Cfalaicos Short Red Orange Cosplay Wig

Several times these past weeks I've sported orange hair: a swingy, multi-layered, wig, alternate to the 1920's chin-length black bob of my real hair. I like the "otherness" the subtly different responses to people and things it brings; allowing a peek into other replys to the world, to myself. With the exception of one person, everyone I know liked it. One person I've known for years noticed I had freckles.

Incognito. The word brings to mind mood Bossa Nova: big black sunglasses, slouchy straw hat, white dress with red poppies-- eyes peering over the top of the dark shades; mellow, a little cheeky, a mischievous confidence. Think René Russo opposite Pierce Brosnan in the Thomas Crown Affair.

In orange hair I take off my blinders and let myself see, notice, explore what isn't usually on my menu; say hello to what looses me from my inner corsets into breezy chiffon and naked daring, skinny-dipping in the surf--fully engaging what undoes me into a flight of birds.

I've tried on many me's along the trail. One time a sales person recommended my trying on something I would never have selected myself. I had a lot of fun "trying out" the alternate persona looking back at me from the dressing room mirror. Some of her is still with me.

At a business dinner, surveying the room, I knew no one there. How freeing!--cut loose from others pre conceptions, and my own. I walked off the map into the undiscovered country. I didn't betray myself, just found more of me.

Another time, during an intimidating phone call with law-wielding attorney's, I stood atop a chair, unseen, none-the-less, changing the balance of power in that  conversation. It worked; I was bigger than they were; at least taller!

Next time you go shopping, don't just try on different clothes, try on different postures, gestures, facial expressions, 'tudes. On the way to your favorite clothier, take a new route, pop a Bossa Nova disc in the car player! Try on orange hair; you might meet a you you'd like to know.

The Heart's Story

My heart?

She's overjoyed that she hasn't got everything figured out yet.

She still has so much love, verve, and curiosity to express. She's definitely not done yet.

She whispers to me: "You know, there's a Korean film called: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter . . . and

Spring."

So, this is our new Spring. "No shelf for me, she says!" she announces.

"This time, I'm being found, rather than the huntress. Oh, I still will indulge in treasure hunts, but

instead of tracking with my bow and arrow, I'm making myself available--in some deep, rich, fecund

way, letting the Universe claim me--discover me, and in the process, uncover me, unearth me."

I feel the quickening of being seen, sensed, recognized, appreciated--allowing me, in turn, to extend

that to others, also learning to let the selves be found:

Found by—Found to–Lost and found—Profound.

Resounded by the choir of the Universe--found to what wasn't honored, cherished; found to what

was blown off, dismissed, diminished, disinherited; found to the nest of my own heart, a heart of kind

inquiry. Found to the easy dust of summer, dandelions and the buzzy song of insects, grasshoppers

and once green grasses gone straw-colored, crunching underfoot.

Found. Found to the magic of a cool puddle under the shade tree. Found to me! -- and the magic

awareness of truly taking in the Presence and Grace of Other. And graced we are that we are not the

only--and, that, Thank God, it isn't just all about me; that there is Other to discover, discern, by

making me available to its revealing; by listening to it, sensing it, viewing it with open and eyes and

heart--sometimes even licking it.

I saw a sign in a TV series: "Do not lick the walls." I remember licking wood fences to get a better

sense of that delicious wood smell. It made me feel a kinship with trees. I even licked barnacles

once--sharp, tangy, bland--all at once: a part of my sense-based repertoire. Hope they have barnacles

in Heaven, in our lives beyond the veil.

A Swatch of Satin Silk -- Magic Carpet Ride

My age 8, A swatch of dark royal blue satin silk "took me" to exotic lands -- places of rolling sands, diamond bright stars, cycle moons, campfires flickering the night with pungent smells of bubbling savory stews, and cardamom pastries, unfurled below me as I gently, invisibly, sailed a magic carpet over the scenes below, just close enough to catch snatches of laughter punctuated conversation.

This patch of twilight fabric took me to floating shrines, tiny barges with a wise monk where I

apprenticed in the ways of mystic cooking, on bound logs, floating islands in the quiet of mist--objects

appearing and disappearing through the veils of fog.

It took me into velvet black where the emanation of body heat and the velvet of his voice were the only textures, the gentle rush of phosphoresced surf the only sense of dimension, the only stage prop in the depths of the dark.

It took me to places the adults in my life served only as fantasy. I could never figure out why they

always wanted to return to what was not working for them--trading in adventure for their disappointed

bitterness and forlornness. I could never figure out why they didn't want to bring this magical land back

with them, into our world.

Don't get me wrong--I love bitter: bitter coffee, and the depth a little of it brings to to a ladle of gravy. I

love shadows, that bring cooling relief to the eyes from the desert sun, cooling nuances, and

dimension that isn't present in sun-bleached landscapes, that harbor mysteries -- but not the

shadows, the bitterness, in their eyes and hearts.

It's time for a swatch of royal blue silk, again, or a silk pouch--holding mysteries, reigniting the

magic of stories yet to be lived.

Shorelines, Horses and Self-Compassion

There's a point when we arrive the new shore--we're not still out on the ocean of change. We're not in transit anymore. We've arrived--for now. We through anchor. We step from the sway of the boat to dock, to the new land, our sense of who we were no longer the defining element. Someone hands us the reins to the horse that stands ready. Ah--free at last! Or are we? Do we dare to now get on the horse of each new day, in this unfamiliar landscape, inner and outer, free from the inner corralling and self-critiquing of the old life? By not only accepting our past, but actually affirming it as what formed and informed us, thus far--arriving us to this new place, sitting astride the edge of our past and our possible selves?

It is the strong sense of a Possible Self, in the Present, that quickens our ability to to rally from a trauma, to bounce back from a falter, to co-creatively respond rather than react, to what presents in each moment of our now, held in deep compassion and regard for the trails and sails that it took us to get here.

Years ago, I hit a moment of black despair: bitter, ashamed, cold, tired, I groused that no one knew where I was, and that no one cared. An inner voice gently cut through my shivering and self-disgust. "I know where you are. Let's get you home, and to bed."Something wise, deep and caring bucked the tide,  cut through my crap, with immovable conviction that I was worthy of grace and love.

I just finished reading a book called The Horse Boy, by Rupert Isaacson--there's also a documentary of that same title that you can watch on Amazon Prime. It's a book of wonder and desperation, of edges pushed, risks taken, of setbacks, doubt, fear--and breakthroughs, leaps of joy, and a deep steadfastness to inner and outer promises--not only surface promises, but the deeper promises--a story of a father's quest to heal his autistic son--that took them across an ocean and into outer Mongolia and beyond to the taiga of Siberia.

This book was a template to me in how we can show up for ourselves, make that same kind of deep commitment of staunch love and sacred witness to our own temerity, our new beginnings--then through trial and error, intuition and instinct, focus, attention, and practice, become strong and sure-footed when held in our own deep, positive regard. Held by a love that doesn't give up, makes it safe to bumble, to stumble, to scratch and yawn, let fly both curses and peals of laughter, to yearn and be fulfilled. Where it's OK--to encounter the unknown, the unfamiliar, nose-to-nose, to not already be all-informed, to encounter newness, within us and outside of us. To reach out and touch it, meet it, greet it.

Artist Caroline Caldwell, Artist. Bad girl. Co-curator of Art in Ad Places: http://artinadplaces.com 
captures this in her quote/picture below (by permission):

IN A SOCIETY THAT PROFITS FROM YOUR SELF DOUBT, LIKING YOURSELF IS A REBELLIOUS ACT

https://twitter.com/dirt_worship/status/897335952477007872?lang=en

Though I like my comforts, and the ease, contentment and security that comes from the familiar, I have to say that there is no more "bat-shit" feeling than withholding an adventure from myself, the road not taken--out of laziness, fear or self-doubt, sometimes exhaustion. What heals self-doubt is self-compassion. This is not egoic license to do whatever, without care. This is, instead, accountable, deep self regard. When joined with an invitation to be partnered by the Universe--grace, power and connections, constellations of support and clarity, form out of the mist. And the horse you're riding, of each new day, is warm and steady underneath you, as you rebel--defiantly liking who you are/are becoming, right now.