Intuition: Unfurling and Skirling

From our relationship with Intuition, we experience its off-spring, synchronicity: things come together; the dots connect; it works! Intuition as premonition gives us far more than present-moment effectiveness, or keen discernment in linear time. It also gives us 'soul-time':--time to prepare, consider, reflect; tread water. It gives us time to pause in the gap--and get directions for what is coming next.


Like a wave, it can even seem to come back on itself, but keeps its integrity, even as overlapping individual waves retain cohesiveness, slip-sliding over and under each other, yet all of the ocean. When we have Intuition, we don’t have to kill, burn, or chase time--we're on time; time becomes elastic rather than rigid. Instead of "killing it," we live into it, breathe into it, vibrate with it. We flow. We ride what is arriving. We instinctively know what to do next, preparing us for the next pulse. We are in right, timely action, before conclusions. We are prompted! 


It’s free, wild and curious. We hop on for the ride as it unfurls. We are not oppressed by it--freed of our usual polarized view of having either too little time, or too much. We are loosed of the swell or dip that preceded; loosed from old definitions/interpretations, fully living in the ripe moment, no longer afraid to be different than we were, riding our arriving; surfer riding skirling, unfurling wave.

This is the way we are designed. We were never meant to assess and navigate our lives only through analysis; we were designed to have Intuition as an ever-present Companion; analysis only a tool. Mystical poet Rabindranath Tagore wrote: "The winds of grace are always blowing, but it is you who must raise your sails." We were meant to be Partners, in co-creation with Intuition. If we are not a participant, Intuition has no one whom to bring synchronicity.


It takes trust to put up our sails--not only trusting the wind, but trusting ourselves. As author Tama Kieves shared in her recent teleconference (www.tamakieves.com), the best predictor of success is how we navigate uncertainty. She points out that many seek first a job, situation, relationship, circumstance to foster peace of mind. She goes on to say, rather, we need first to find peace of mind, then generate from that the job, situation, relationship or circumstance. And, peace of mind comes via our becoming our own ally, by being in our own court, becoming dependable to ourselves, our own consistent supporter--no matter the winds and the tides. We need to become our one dependable thing; rather than fickle, hot-water/cold-water, fly-by-nights.


We only truly get to that when we give up the blame game: blaming others, because we first blamed ourselves, and are then seeking alleviation of that through pointing the finger at someone else. Rather, when we are willing to become conscious of our continual inner narrative, in all its grace and vulgarity, we truly step up to the plate of being our own best friend. When we are that, this is when we can arrive ready to what is arriving to us, with bells on!

 

SEA BECKON, Sea-ing the possibilities

Leaning ‘gainst the port railing, arms akimbo: I rise up, a beckoning teasing the edges of my hearing—my eyes scanning the Mesmer-flicker mirror of the sea, searching . . . what? Mysteries, possibilities, becoming-s . . . the urge to inform myself (to form myself within) through forming myself into something new becomes paramount, priority.

There is a saying:

God can only do for us what God can do through us.

      — author unknown

Another saying:

Let go, and allow in.

—author unknown

So--question is: Will we allow ourselves to be amazing? To step out of bounds—out of outdated, limiting, restrictive, land-locked perceptions of how, and who, we are--can be; allow fresh briny breezes to blow into our scent-ual awareness , tantalizing scents, of what we’re becoming; in spite of ourselves; our own resistances.

Author Alan Cohen, narrates in his book, A Daily Dose of Sanity, that student, George Dantzig, upon arriving late to his U.C. Berkley math class, copied down the two problems on the board, assuming they were homework. Solving them, he turned them in to the professor at his next class and, the next morning George’s professor was pounding on his door: George had solved two classically unsolvable math problems!

Alan’s point, of that day’s reading, February 17^th, was that at times ignorance of what is “impossible” allows us to step right through walls of time-honored restriction, through waves of cultural resistance, breaching a strictly adhered limitation.

The harder limitations to shake are our own self-defined restrictions: we live in our own soup, most often convinced that it’s just the way things are. A second layer of this can come from familial assumptions: unlike many, I don’t have this familial layer to undo if I become a new me;—my family of origin dissolving years ago.

I’ve been blessed to live in several states, and, one of the blessings of new territories is that they don’t have you “pegged,” they don’t have any images of what you’re like from ‘way-back-when’—so, you don’t get any “That isn’t like you,” flack. Change in familial units can often feel threatening to the individual members who have developed emotional charges and attachments to having other family members filling a certain slot, being defined a certain way. That can happen even if they’re no longer in your life, if you still roll the same “film-strips” in your mind and heart.

So how do we get our own permission to change; into something we haven’t been before. Some of it comes from the inspiration of others: we become enchanted or intrigued by someone: sometimes it can be difficult to sort out if we’re really attracted to someone because we like them, or because we want to be them!

However, we also have an organic unfolding of soul-silk, the unfurling of a satin wave. We feel that Siren call from out across the seas of our awareness. We long, yearn to go to it. Question is, will we allow it.

Allow vs. permission: hmmm. Looking at the words: allow, I initiate; permission, I seek. So, there are two stages to it. First I seek my own permission to change, or grow, and then I allow it. I let it in. I try it on for size; I become it.

My creative energy tends to be organic, wild, sometimes messy, in a nest of basic order. Like the tides, the visual mediums around me surge and recede—natural objects; images of the sea or high desert, people’s faces, structural features of ships, homes, or a fan of clothing and textile images, featuring rich organic textures and color palettes.

And then, every so often, I need to bring it all down to a clean white slate, to clear the decks. Think: unmarked sand, un-trodden snow; or painting words on water. It usually arrives me because I've been praying for it. Something in me has been wishing that something would force me to pare down; that would require me to initiate a 'thinning.' I need that fluidity, the flexibility; the freedom to go with my own flow, to swim out to what is unfolding in me, to the surprise of me—the part that I don’t know yet: I’ve shucked down to undies, slipped through the railing, over the side, stroking out to what I’m becoming—drenched in curiosity; a sea-soup of greater possibilities.

Salient Saline Ponderings

Back in 2010, in one of our Photoshop class assignments, we were furnished a gray-scale image of the sea, to "shop." As I worked with this, the mystique of living in a universe that offers us the distinct lenses of day and night presented in the imagery.


As this imagaic metaphor unfurled, I was impressed with how incredibly lush it is that we live in a world that provides daily seachanges: internally, externally; echoed in the pulsing of tides, the rhythm of our breath, illumined by the sky-lanterns: sun, moon, stars, and the mirror of the sea.

Intuitive Sees

Deep-see diving into intuitive sense, there is a rich sea of perspective on the mystique, and the effectiveness, of Intuition as a mode of being here on this planet. Traditionally, intuition is seen as an occasional visitor, gossamer, like a muse. I have an intuition that it is rather how we are wired to be here; like our breathing, we come equipped with lungs. As we are equipped for oxygen, so are we equipped for Intuition--its in our blueprint:


"It is always with excitement that I wake up in the morning wondering what my intuition will toss up to me, like gifts from the sea. I work with it, and rely on it. It is my partner."

Dr. Jonas Salk



This captures that that sense of Intuition joining us at the ship's wheel, pointing our way, as we navigate the seas of our lives, new vistas opening before us, a deep trust and dependence upon the intuitive process growing us into a sort of muscle-memory of the spirit:


"Most of us are living at the periphery of consciousness intuition invites us into the center."

Willis Harmon



We are drawn into the center of the Net--a spiritual Internet:


"Intuition is really a sudden immersion of the soul into the universal current of life, where the histories of people are connected, and we are able to know everything, because it is all written there."

Paulo Coelho

and:


"A mystical experience is simply a prolonged intuition."

Paul Brunton

Intuition is also intelligent; not just good at timing. Repeatedly, master of surprise, I've been astounded by Intuition's wry Wit!--a swashbuckling sense of humor, that has our best interests at heart: Intuition comes a court'n, uh-huh.

Sea Swoon

Reading these words, first time: First sentence raises hairs on my arms; visceral SWOON. The very word ‘swoon’ saturates me, attendant sensorial pulses mambo dipping me. Waves slide over me, catching me in palpable push-pull tides.  

Hairs up again—quivering: 5th paragraph; 3^rd sentence; begins:  

swoony as the sea . . .  

 

Follows a poem, by poet extraordinaire:  Diane Ackerman 

 

Whale Songs 

 

Speaking in storm language,

a humpback, before it blows

            lows a mournful ballad

in the salad-krill sea, murmurs

deep dirges; like a demiurge,

it booms from Erb to Santa Cruz,

bog low, its foghorn a thick liqueur.

 

Crepe black as a funeral procession,

the pod glides, mummer-deft,

through galloping brine,

each whale singing the same

runaway, rounded tune:

 

Dry finger rub, drag, drub

a taut balloon. Glottal stops. Pops.

dry fingers resume, then, ringing

skeletal chimes, they ping

and rhyme—villanelles, canticles,

even a Gregorian done on ton tongues

 

as trapped below the consciousness

of air, hungry, or wooing

or lamenting slaughter,

jazzy or appalled,

they beat against the wailing wall

of water, voices all

in the marzipany murk they swim,

invisible but for their sons.

 

And often they raise high

as angels’ eyes a refrain

swoony as the sea, question-mad,

sad, all interrogatives, as if

trying to fathom the fathomless

reach from ladle-shaped ocean,

scurrilous surf, to breach-birth

upon beach and blue algae’s cradle.

 

Sleek black troubadours

playing their own pipes, each body

a mouth organ, each shape a daguerreotype

of an oblate friar caroling,

they migrate, glad to chain rattle

and banshee moan, roaming the seas

like uneasy spirits, a song on their bones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Sea Scents & Soul Sense, Riding the Waves with Old Salt

 

When we breathe in the briny air—something clears—winds of clarity and renewal blowing through us; and something anchors. There is that deep sense of “just knowing,” of surety—a type of homecoming—not about sticking our heads in the sand, or hiding under the covers to effect that comfort—rather, it is that deep, clear, sharp sense of clarity: it relaxes into itself. There isn’t any doubt. But the surety doesn’t come from having nailed down every possibility, or manipulating everyone and everything into conforming to our expectations. It’s an inner surety, that even mindful of some likely soakings, that we’ll be just fine—and we know what to do next. Timidity has fled.

While we may refer to nautical charts, known facts, eye-witness reports, local lore and suspicions--joining us at the helm, is Intuition. Standing at the ship’s wheel, gazing out across the water, flanking us, sometimes in translucent outline, at other times in near flesh, age vacillating, is a sea-seasoned, tall-plank, ship’s captain, with crystalline eyes, in captain’s cap, pea coat & dungarees. There is: kindness, wisdom and challenge in those eyes---and info and insight we won’t live long enough to garner on our own, but is being freely offered. This Old Salt is the Presence of the Life Force necked down into something relatable, personal, companionable and useful.

We were never meant to ride the waves of our lives alone. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t develop reason, not use our brains, or blow off common wisdom—and, Deeper Wisdom, at times, flies in the face of all known common sense, drawing on a deeper Truth. This old Salt will also inform us, against all appearances of clear sailing, not only to not leave shore, but “absurdly” to batten down the hatches—only to be spared the ravage of an unexpected storm. It knows all manner of things that we do not—and is willing to share.

Imagine being gathered ‘round a map table, several shipmates discussing the best routes and the weather conditions as you explore where, and whether, to go next. In the corner, rocking a chair tipped back on two legs, is The Captain, whispering adjuncts, sage wisdom and knowledge, that is not floating the conversation in the room. We were made, engineered, to have this Intuitive Partner informing all of our contemplations and activities. Regrettably, with sometimes distressing results, we have blown this off as anything needed or necessary, seeing it as intermittent flukes —sporting an “I’ve gotten along fine on my own, thank you,” attitude. While we survive a lack of direct interface with it, we don’t really thrive unless we accept this Old Salt as our Ship Mate.

We’ve all had that heady sense of being “spot-on,” against all odds; well-meaning friends hissing “don’t do it,” and—we ARE spot-on. We score; we bring down the “big one.” We hear ourselves muttering, “At any other time —I’d agree with you. But . . . something’s different this time; I’m do’n it. We don’t know ‘why’ with our minds; we know with our bone-knowing.” On the other hand, we’ve had the occasion to hear our self-same voices, saying “I was so sure . . . “—and it didn’t pan out. Most times self-deception is the culprit, personal dishonesty—or potential harm to an unknown other.  Spiritual Override buts in: “Nope—ain’t let’n you do that; it’ll mess you (them) over.”

       Old Salt gives us space and respect we rarely give each other. It waits for Permission, with Patience unimaginable, to be Invited, allowing us free rein and reign--sovereignty of will: to our frequent consternation of feeling lost, confused and alone, “flopping around on the dock like a fish out of water.” On occasion, it intervenes without invite, maybe not even noticed, changing something only minute degrees. On rarest of occasions, it’ll blow the ship out of the water! – loosing us from a tangled net in the process. This occurs usually because something deeper of the soul is crying out for help overriding the obstinacy of the ego’s fears of being found either lacking, or Heaven forbid, revealed that it doesn’t have to be a victim of circumstance! “All you had to do was ask!”

      This Wise Presence operates through many mediums, including people: When I was 19, I had made an error in judgment. Distressed at the results, I felt since I had created it; I had to fix it. More than that, I was embarrassed to reveal the issue in order to get help. Stressed out, I reported for work for my usual shift. I hadn’t been on the floor long when the phone rang: No ‘Hello,’ no ‘How are you?’ — Just my boyfriend growling into the phone “What’s wrong!” When I got off work, we faced the issue together, and the problem was resolved. That boyfriend again: riding a city bus headed to karate class, I surprised the bus driver, telling him: “Please, I need to get off here.” I’d only just gotten on a couple blocks back. Kindly the driver stopped, at a ‘non-stop’ and opened the door. I scrambled down the steps, trotted back across the intersection we had just crossed, and stood at the cross-walk, craning my neck, scanning the traffic. I saw my boyfriend’s gold Chevrolet pick-up truck in the traffic. Flagging him down, I ran to the passenger door and jumped inside the truck; looking at his grinning face: “Knew you were coming.” I married this guy—with him 29 years, until he passed in 1996.

       It can work through timing and the ‘luck’ of forgetting something: think Sleepless in Seattle, when young Jonah leaves his knapsack behind at the Empire State Building, which brings him, and his father, Sam Baldwin, back to the observation deck to retrieve it, hence connecting them, destined, with Annie. In a similar manner, now many years ago, I was protected when getting off work extra late at night: a man approached, starting to harass me, as I was locking up. A worker from the next-door shop unexpectedly returned to retrieve a camera he’d left behind earlier, the threat melting into the night as the worker guarded me to my car.

        "Why?" we ask, initially, when something spools out that appears to derail us, capsize us, only to find out later—sometimes years later, it was steering us to ultimate success—in spite of apparent disaster. There’s often that eerie sensation of it being the road “almost not taken,”—the “left we took, when we almost turned right,” the intense sensation of “Could have missed that—altogether!”  We can make a “wrong turn” and, stopping to ask for directions, we connect with our next right employment. A snatch of conversation heard from an open doorway informs us of a pirate movie our nephew would love to see. We go to the movie. Next thing we know, we’re taking a fencing class that blesses coordination, timing and agility—where we meet the partner of our dreams, a guy who captains Tall Ships, bringing hours of joy out on the water. See you out on the waves.

PTMSC Blog, Connecting With Nature Through Art: Nature Journal...

There is a natural depth and richness in us that can slip away in our busy-ness, like a harbor seal slipping beneath the waves. And, like the harbor seal, that part of us is still there in the depths. A nature journal requiring presence, attentiveness and patience--inquisitive focus, is a practice that can restore us to the mer-magic of our own depths.

An enduring student of nature, I carry strong imprints from my age 4: standing in a flannel nightgown, barefoot in night-dewed grass, staring into the depths of the stars; washing my clothes at the riverbank on a three-week desert camping trip; standing in waist-high drifts of sleet at stream's edge as my father and grandfather cast their lines for trout; captivated by the massive curl of a glassine jade breaker; lulled into spontaneous meditation by the rumbled rhythms of the surf. 

More than four decades later, I sat a semester of  Natural History of the Southwest, at Yavapai College -- taught by an exacting, passionate instructor, Dena Greenwood-Miller, covering: flora, fauna and geology--including binomial nomenclature of living things, we 15 students growing depthed respect in our accumulating understanding of nature.

During the 16-week course, Dena assigned us 3 hours minimum a week, 49 hours, of nature presence and journaling -- day or night, no matter the weather, connecting with, paying attention to, nature's offerings. Through minute detail: drawings and sketches, collecting field samples, research notes and narrative, we recorded our interface with the wildness that holds our days and nights. We connected to the pulse, rhythms and cycles of nature's power, beauty and grace in ways we had only done in intermittent camping trips and weekend outings, in fleeting focus.

If I found myself, due to my heavy work/study load, coming up shy of the required three hours, the night before our weekly class found me on all fours, atop the bed, tracking the arcs of stars through the black ink of the sky, courtesy of a massive picture window. The dawn's ripple of light signaled the need to inhale my breakfast, before a sequence of rocking a jeep load of tour-guests through the red rock canyons, then rocketing off to night-class--my work, and my life, immeasurably enriched by that enforced practice.


The journal came with me to the Midwest, my interim home away from home, until I relocate to Port Townsend, WA, in the spring of 2018. I still pull this journal of nature's magic from the shelf and breathe in the desert land: the sprig of juniper, a Zen-sketch of a red fox in gray-phase, a riff of poetry triggered by a spray of stars--the high desert being my parallel love of all things sea.

In deep yearning to return to a coastal environment, available to me the first 44 years of my life--Washington, Oregon and Southern California, I was joyed to find this blog entry on Port Townsend's Marine Science Center Lecture Series! If you love the shoreline, all things sea, this is a rich, vibrant way to connect to the mystery in front of you and the tides within you:

PTMSC Blog : Connecting With Nature Through Art: Nature Journal...: Staff and volunteers head out on the beach to find subjects to draw and enjoy the sun What is nature journaling and why would anyone wan...