Journey Inward: At the Edge of the Forest

Life is a sacred journey; we need only go within. This is the first in a series of inner world, shamanic journeys.

The Pathway In

The Pathway In

At the Edge of the Forest

“Who do you want to be–you or some accommodated version of another person’s projection you believe is a true reflection of you?”

I sat on my stump at the edge of the forested path, contemplating his question, looking out at the rounded landscape embroidered with the last vestiges of Spring’s wildflowers. They were almost impressionistic, maybe like the surreality of Monet’s inner world.

Trying to make it all feel less like a dream, and avoiding my own inner world, I searched for the sea beyond the fog. As always, in the Summer months, it was there, just beyond my vision, at the edge of the hills behind a fluffy yet formidable white wall. If I touched the fog in my dream, it would dissipate and I would find my answers lying out there lifting with the swells in one moment and lost in the troughs the next. Right now though, I wasn’t ready to see.

He was standing nearby, one foot on his own stump, breathing down on me like the wind and towering above me like a giant tree god. His skin was the same rusty color as the local redwood bark, his hair polished, long and black. Almost like the searing and burnished charcoal wounds inside the remains of a fire-gutted trunk, I’m certain lightening had struck his foliage many times too. Even his gaze matched the lifelong scars of courage and resilience on those gigantic trunks, his formidable stature was powerfully duplicated in each of his subtle bodies.

As age rings on a tree claim another year of growth and wisdom, each layer of his energy was individuated and clear. The golden threads of connection sewing the memories together synergistically, and like the volunteers growing from dismembered stumps into a circular fortress of new growth, he was also immortal. When he glanced down at me, his eyes contradicted this mystery. One blue, one green, each reflected a picture window to all souls. In them, I could view the history of the Universe, if I chose to see it.

“Are you searching for acceptance?” He prodded me again.

“Yes,” I said. “From myself.” Then I became whiny. “Why do people feel so put off by me…as if I have an expectation of them?”

“Because you carry pictures in your field as you work through the old energy,” he was still standing on one foot, gazing into the forest in the opposite direction of my outward view. “As it is scraped from the marrow of your bones, its dust covered gumminess begins to surface. Eventually the rain washes it away. Because you don’t hide it, you expose it. Because they don’t want to deal with their own lack of acceptance, you light them up in ways they don’t want to acknowledge…ways they feel they are superior to you. Just by doing your own housecleaning they are shown the dirty corners of their lives they believe they’ve already cleared. You show them their lies,” he sounded as though this all came from a place higher than the tree tops.

“Maybe they’ve already completed those lessons and they have no tolerance for someone like me who is just now getting to that sticky stuff,” I was so willing to dismiss myself and my progress.

He stood there for a moment, the precise triangular corners of his eyes looked at me with one eyebrow lifted, seemingly debating whether or not to give me any more input. I could tell he wondered why, in these moments, he even wasted his time. It was his usual response when I disrespected myself, yet this time he showed me some mercy. “No. They are projecting onto you so you not only do your work, you also hold their secrets. Why would you want to carry all that?” This was a constant question. Why would I want to carry all that?

“If you believe you aren’t equal to them, if you give them your power and recoil, you also allow them to lord their illusion over you like an invisible ceiling.” I turned away from my fog bank to look up at him. He’d definitely used the right words. I was suddenly and totally present.

“Unconsciously they want you to believe you are the cause of the upset inside them. What you expose in yourself uncovers and mirrors the secrets they try desperately to hold in place. If you anchor your truth in your belly and your feet on the ground, their lies will ultimately be revealed to their own consciousness and they will no longer stomach the energy as it rushes upward giving them a big nauseating headache. One day they will spontaneously throw-up when you aren’t around, projecting this delusion onto themselves. That’s when they’ll know.”

My eyes were closed through the last bit; I wanted to envision this part of the story. Then I swiveled around, slowly lifting my lids to the wild flowers looking through my eyelashes at the golden hills. And turning the rest of the way around, I looked out wide-eyed at the ocean. It was calm and flat, like glass, the still pool of true reflection.

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Pick-Up Sticks: Parables from Many Dimensions

Paraphrased From the Bible:

A teacher is walking through the desert, his students all around him. Suddenly, a horse jumps  gallantly off a nearby outcropping onto the path in front of the group. The man sitting astride is enthusiastic to find the teacher. “You must come teacher. Your friend is dying!” The teacher keeps walking. “Teacher, the family said you are a friend and their brother needs help. He is dying!” The teacher looks up at the man on the horse with gratitude for the information. His students are baffled by his non-challance, gossiping amongst themselves, yet the teacher continues to walk in the same direction away from his friend. Later, about three days later to be almost exact, the teacher arrives at his friend’s tomb and begins to invoke the divine, bringing him back to life in front of a large group of people.

Paraphrased From “She, Understanding Feminine Psychology,” part of the triad: “He,” “She” & “We,” by Robert A. Johnson.

A woman on her last legs to enlightenment crosses paths with a bent and tired old man carrying a bundle of wood on his back. She watches as the man loses his balance, all the wood falling to the ground. It’s her choice, her final test, whether to stay and help him pick up the wood or to walk on.

Taken From Life:

A mentor asks a student to live in her studio while they train together. The student uses all the mentor’s supplies and resources, though she has enough of her own untapped resources to share with the mentor. The student doesn’t know that she and her mentor are actually equals in this way, though the mentor sees the truth. This is the only real difference between the student and the mentor.

One day, after the student’s resources were as fully cultivated in this environment as they ever would be, the mentor asks the student to leave, giving the student very short notice. The student can’t believe it. “I love it here,” she cries out. “I don’t want to leave; this is my home now!” The mentor has no sympathy and pretends not to care. “You aren’t the right person to continue here. I am looking for someone who can be truly present in this place,” the mentor replies. Of course this angers the student and she stomps off, never to look back; well almost never. The student becomes very successful and soon surpasses the mentor, though she is grateful and humble.

Taken From Life:

A student was happily living her life after a trip to see family for one month. One day after she’d returned to her home, she received a call about her father being ill in the hospital. She was in communication with each member of her family, every day. No matter how many times she contacted them about the status of her father, no one returned her calls.

Extended family and long-time family friends started calling to ask her what was going on and why she wasn’t “home” with her father.  In fact, two of the women in her brother’s family, who lived down the street from her parents, called ranting about a lack of communication and wanted the student to make it better for them. 

One of the women raged at the student, “It’s your job! You should be here to take care of your mother while your father is ill. Your brother is stressed and now I have to handle all this for you!”

“What can I possibly do,” the student asked. “I can’t get any more information than you and I live 1500 miles away.”

Fear and guilt immediately pulsed through her body and her mind started roiling. Reactively she wondered, “should I go back and do my job?” This was her typical response and normally she would have fallen into the obligation she’d carried her whole life.

This time, she did not act. Instead, she waited for the emotions to pass, eventually sending a message to the two women. ”I no longer pick up sticks!”

Caretaking 101

Sara awakened from her dream that morning earlier than usual. It must have been the 7pm bedtime the night before. Oft recited words ran through her mind like a cursed mantra that almost blocked the images she wanted to savor. Remembering the dreams was a key part of Sara’s ability to survive in the world. They were her personal messengers of light, the only messages that allowed Sara to know herself like she’d always wanted others to know her.

“It’s better to give than to receive.” The words resonated as though it was 1960 again. Sara’s Mother taught her early on to be considerate of others, drumming that golden rule into every cell of her body. She wasn’t allowed to be an individual with her own thoughts and ideas, nor was she given many opportunities to speak or show that she had any of her own gifts, as she was busy making other people feel more comfortable.

Sara knew the words and the beliefs she developed from those words were a lie all along. She just couldn’t separate them from herself long enough to find the truth. At some point along the way they were so entangled with her sense of self, it became incredibly challenging to move them out of her head. So she just left them there and tried to overcome these “prickers” that grew like weeds on her lifeline.

___________________________________________

Last night’s dream was very pointed and simple. It’s amazing that at first she thought the dirty dinginess was hers. Amazing, yet not surprising, as the wiring of old was tenacious in spite of its fraying ends.

A house. It was a small house on the main street of town; a town that Sara loved and missed now that she’d been away for nearly 20 years. The walls inside the house were clean and white, even the kitchen was all white. The furniture and other accoutrements were sparse, orderly and arranged nicely. There was nothing on the walls. Sara stood in the middle of the main room, feeling enthusiastic about creating life in her new home, a place she’d definitely been before.

 When she began to place her things on the kitchen shelves, she found a cupboard that had not been emptied. “Oh, I guess the old tenant forgot some things,” Sara didn’t give it another thought and began to clear it out into a box to give the landlord.

 “This is strange,” Sara said to herself, her arm immersed up to her shoulder, wading through things in what seemed to be an endlessly deep hole in the wall. “Why can’t I finish? I’ll never have time to make-up my bedroom and unpack my clothes.”

 As she spoke to herself in her dream, she looked up and saw an open window. Walking through an opening in the wall, she went to that window to close it. “I think it’s going to rain, I’d better shut this.” As she slid the window closed, she looked around and found she was in a large open living space with many doorways at all the directionals. The place was a mess with furniture, overflowing boxes of junk and smelly old clothes. The floors were filthy and the table lamps were on.

 As Sara made her way to all the doorways, she switched off a lamp or two and looked into the bedrooms. “What a mess! My God, the tenants have left this place a total wreck and I had no idea it was so huge!” Sara scratched her head, looking around in shock, wondering what she’d gotten herself into and how she was going to clean out all the junk. “What exactly am I going to do with all these extra rooms? I had no idea they were part of the deal.”

 All the windows were open just a crack; all the lights were on–all but those she’d closed or switched off. And as Sara took inventory of this place, she slowly stepped back to get a wider view, realizing this was not her job.

 “Oh,” she said it matter-of-factly, “I don’t have to handle this mess.” She turned the lights back on and reopened the windows.

 In a flash, she was up in the air someplace looking down. For the first time ever, in that moment, she saw the dividing line between her little white home and the other dark shambles. The houses were close together, but they weren’t overlapping; they weren’t even touching. She knew right then what was true.

 None of this was her job to manage in anyway, it never was. From her vantage point on the ground, the line was never clear to Sara. Wherever that command had come from, she always took on the work as if it was her own.

 “Never again,” she said. “Never again. 

When Sara awakened that morning, life was different. As she went on with her day, she found herself deeply saddened, intermittently crying, feeling lonely, lost and unworthy, as if some larger part of her was missing. It felt as though all her connections to life outside herself were suddenly severed.

This is an excerpt from one chapter of a novel.

All rights reserved. Copyrighted 2012 The Energetic Connection

Faery Singers

Singer of Initiation

Last night I was awakened in the wee hours, most likely by the wee people!

As I lay there trying to find some physical comfort in an otherwise rather twitchy hour, I closed my eyes, looking behind the veils to breathe and practice opening my inner eye.

It’s not a new practice, it’s just that last night something different sort of, well…happened. Sometimes I see a lot of orange, other times it appears to be outlines of people and their faces, and frequently I see the Blue Pearl.

Not so last night. And even though I’ve seen this particular phenomenon before, I’ve never heard the singing that accompanied the visual brilliance. Last night was a first for that.

So many bright little lights, swirling wisps of pink, white and golden light, in all shapes and sizes–moving this way, dancing that way. I looked and looked, and at one point one of the faeries transmitted this to me:

We are the Singers! 

Unity, Ekstasis, Guardian of the Gate

If it hadn’t been so late, no, I mean so early…if it hadn’t been dark and if I’d wanted to come out of that brilliant space, I might have consulted Brian Froud’s, “The Faeries’ Oracle.”  I knew there was a section on the Singers of the Realms.

According to The Faeries’ Oracle, the Singers have many names: angels, devas, gods, dakinis…I can think of a few more too.

Faery Singer of Intuition

“And they sing the song of the underlying universe,” according to their Oracle anyway.

I have to say, this felt so true last night when I was beyond those veils, inside myself, in my inner world. It felt as if they were knitting me together in some way.

But that’s just me, I always feel like I’m being dismantled and taped back together, especially in the wee hours of the night. It’s an inner journey, personal transformation kind of thing; a shamanistic initiation of sorts in which one is shunned, dismembered and near death. Luckily for us, me in this instance, when the Faeries are the root of it, it can be a wondrous, even charming journey. Although when the Challengers are out in force, it’s a very shadowy experience, indeed.

You see, there are five different Faery clans: The Singers, The Sidhe, Faery Guides & Guardians, The Help-Line Troupe and The Faery Challengers. They all have different types of jobs and various vibrations, and depending on what kind of help our Earth and we humans might need will determine what clan makes its way into the land of potentially “seen.”

Yes, I did say potentially. Not everyone sees them, though I’m pretty sure everyone senses them on some level. If you don’t sense them, I think you just don’t know you do, or maybe you’re really dense! I don’t know, you’ll have to reflect on that for yourself.

I’ll bet the Faeries can help you with that!

The Faeries have a lot to say right now, and in this particular time on Earth we had better listen. FYI, I’m sure you can get a more intellectual book about Faery and study a much more intense vein of Faery wisdom, but it might not be as much fun.

G. Hobyah a Faery Challenger

Singers are the angels, the Sidhe are mediators of the singer energies, Faery Guides & Guardians are in direct relationship with we humans and our creative gifts, the Help-Line Troupe are the elementals, and the Faery Challengers help us with our shadow work: bringing it into the light, helping us confront our fears, denials, traumas and bad behaviors.

Pretty important role they play, isn’t it? Yes, actually all of them are critically important to the balance of the Earth and Cosmos and the humans in between.

Get the book. Get it now! It’s been around a while.

Inner Journey: Redwood Dimensions

When manmade noise abates and the whispers of nature become musical expressions in simplicity, the question of dimension arises, only because the line between sleeping and waking is more apparent then.

In contrast, the veils between the worlds are very thin. It must be dusk.

Walking down the trail, time, even seasons, are elusive among the majestic Redwoods and loyal Madrones. Mere minutes separate us from the city drones, yet this walk is like a trip into before when the sounds of horses hooves pounded out the smells of earthen moisture dwelling underneath the dust. In a moment, it can shift the obsession of achievement into accidental vulnerability and soft focus.

With a fast and steady pace, the heart rate quickens, challenging oxygen uptake, ultimately stimulating the endorphins of any hiker, elite or novice.

Try a sauntering pace, take time to look up before the light is stolen by night. Redwood branches and foliage scrape the sky–the view is dizzying–carving out a kaleidoscope of shapes and tones. These old souls somehow influence consciousness.

And the luxury of drawing breath goes mostly unnoticed, yet eventually opens a door allowing fragrance to sachet through the senses. Gentle as the breeze, it flows in and then out again.

Darkness advances.

The aging eucalyptus tree creaks like a rusty hinge on an old farm gate in the gloaming wind, always mysteriously half open. Coyote and bobcat eyes peer out from within the brush on the ridge top as humans depart and the lifeblood of this sanctuary, everything authentic, waits for the footsteps to cease.

Nature’s daily expiration crosses time, cooling the light sheen of warmth and moisture on skin, now thin with sensation. Intrinsic excitement explodes into goose bumps, frosting its surface as this coupling of life’s forces gives birth to enchantment.

Night has come.

Little Brother

Every time Sara thought of her little brother, she wept with a depth she’d never felt for anyone else.

She loved her little brother.

And she was always responsible for everything he did wrong.

Constantly confused with someone who didn’t love anyone, her heart was often distracted with projections of heartless-ness.

“WHYyyyyy!?” Sara screamed it into the mirror so no one else would be harmed by her rage.

Even today, no one really understood how deeply Sara loved. At least that’s how it felt to Sara.

Not even her brother for whom she cried everyday could see past his own dark and heavy need for love. No, her brother couldn’t see her at all. She went to war with the devil for him as a baby, she stood for him as a tortured little boy growing up. She took risks with everyone in her family for her brother–the man who was willing to sell his soul again and again because he was desperately seeking recognition by those around him, anyone.

And Sara recognized him no matter how far down he went.

Even when the demons took over his body, she always saw her little brother’s soul, lost behind the glaring red eyes and pointed teeth, lost under the decaying skin of beings no one should ever have to see. She saw Gerard even when he blamed her for everything that went wrong in his life.

“It’s just the demons in him, that’s who’s talking.” Sara continued to believe, even after a lifetime of the same grueling hopeless fight, to find the light in him.

She didn’t want to believe it, but in her heart she knew it was over the day he met Diana. If even one bit of his soul had survived the first 50 years of his life, he’d be hard pressed to save himself now.

Two weeks later while in England her niece Kaitlin called to report that her Father had abused her. She was so frightened she ran down the street to her younger sister’s school to call their Mother. Sara wasn’t surprised, but her chest cracked from the weight of Kaitlin’s emotions.

Six months later, Diana spat in Sara’s face from the altar at her wedding to Gerard. her face was like a beautiful maiden’s on one side. On the other, that familiar disintegration was happening and only Sara saw it. Everyone else in the congregation that night sat staring in unconscious bliss. Even the minister’s skin was decaying.

“She’s got control over him,” Sara felt her own bones turning to dust under her skin. “And now she’s going after  my parents and the girls.”

Kicks in the Wind

“Finally,” she said. “A moment to myself. No more communication from any source. It’s been a long month.”

Spent, Sara went down on the bed, into the milieu of propped-up pillows placed ever so carefully, in just the right way to create some neutrality for her aching back. Her landing on that cushy cloud of white and green was not graceful. Yet it didn’t matter that the pillows squished out from underneath her body, flattening into a bumpy pile of sponge. Anything to allow her back a reprieve from all the hard work it had been doing was welcome. She couldn’t wait to be still, clear her mind and relax her body, releasing all the thoughts that came to her, everyday, from places mostly unknown, save the few that she’d experienced over and over through the years.

Those, in some strange and self-defeating way, were her constant companions. Most shrinks, most friends, and most anyone who’d offered professional assistance over the years-certainly all the ministers-wanted to make Sara out to be in denial or a state of delusion, even dissociated. She knew though, these were not her thoughts. In fact, they were often the thoughts of those so-called friends and professionals, violently projected onto Sara where they froze in time and space, collecting the dust of similar thoughts that rode in on the wind.

It had now been close to three weeks since one of those bludgeonings had come in on the breeze in the restaurant during brunch one morning. And like many of the negative thoughts that appeared on Sara’s radar, this one was accompanied by a swift kick. That day it went right to the sacrum and lumbar spine, the precise point where her vulnerability had been all her life.

“It’s truly amazing to me, that after all this time, they don’t know I’m paying attention!” Sara laughed to herself. “But maybe the joke’s on me. After all, I keep taking it,” she said it with the wonder of a new perspective. “What would people think or do if I spoke up every time they kicked me?!” Something in that was actually pretty funny.

Sometimes those kicks and throttles came like buckshot from an unknown someone’s rogue spray, yet those who knew her, those whom she knew, focused and aimed. Something in the connection between she and many people—call it Karma if it makes you feel better— highlighted the bull’s eye that was tattooed on her body or somewhere in her aura. Sara wasn’t quite sure where it really existed. This one was no less on the mark, and this was friendly fire, so to speak.

“Maybe it’s my fault,” Sara said it casually to her friend Nora that day in between sips of their favorite chai tea. “Maybe I’m just masochistic enough, or guilty enough, that I point, saying, ‘it’s right here! Just a little to the right and up. There you go! Now you’re on target!’”

Anyway, this night, with all the pillows around her, she really wanted to drift off to sleep like she had several nights before, with a smile on her face, love in her heart, and two sweeeeet, sweet kit cats at the foot of the bed.

“Ah. That feels good,” she was settling in to clear energy and then read for a bit before she turned out the lights.

Twang! Sara’s tendons and ligaments actually sounded off as her neck lost all muscle control and her head snapped back. “Aughfff. Whoa, where’d that come from?” Sara said it aloud but softly to the cats, wondering why her neck was suddenly hinged back and stuck in place. “It’s never come at me like this before–from the front!”

—————————————–

“I need your help,” it came as whisper to the light beings she knew were up there beyond that familiar black cloud. “I need your help, please help me. Why am I being challenged so much in this life?” Sara went to sleep with hopelessness in her voice and the old familiar loneliness in her heart.

“Why can’t I see you? Why can’t this be finished? I’ve worked so hard,” Sara was crying now. The tears came freely; it was the only outlet. Her back was too fragile to sob as deeply and convulsively as she really wanted, and needed.

“THREE, THREE, THREE! Three, three, three!” she chanted, doing the simplest possible proactive thing she could imagine, fading into a night of desperation. More softly now, “three, three, three.”