I really should never write after a fever...ever. It feels like my inner Jane Austen gets a going. And it hit me in the middle of the night that I sounded like I was in love with my childhood friend. In love, yes, with a place everyone forsakes. He always hid poopers for me to find, while I hid my best treasures for him. So the plants were so unexpected and beautiful, and appreciated.
Something that I was actually going to write about, but couldn't find the words for, because I couldn't quite understand what I was feeling----Grief. Deep abiding grief. And I had no reason for it.
What triggered it was, I decided not to be in the play this year, and my sister did. When we decide separate things, I usually follow her, anyway, because I trust her earthy instincts, and her truth detector and love of following light, and fun has been a good guide.
This year, I felt like with all the music we'd just done, and our choir concert over, I felt drained. Also, if you know where God is found, every time you move from your place, you have to choose where to best focus your energy.
I feel poeple's energy to the point that I get really tired easily. I thought I might actually take care of my garden this year. Might actually finish some writing projects I keep forsaking. And I could still keep her company on the long drive sometimes.
I haven't realized how much I've created people attached to my allowing energy, to the point I give too much, and can't feel myself, where her frank, open, and very earthy, and raw energy are sometimes more needed than my own, in situations. Her energy is shines out, and puts shadows at bay, and has good boundaries.
It's been interesting, because most of the time we are really good at transmuting, and amplifying energy, and together we bring out different qualities in people that sometimes creates this amazing unity field where everyone feels themselves. It's really one of our favorite things to do--alchemize situations, and places, and people into a field where we're all feeling that third note, that invisible thing. Unity, truth, love.
My sister's earthy energies, and natural instincts are beautiful, and real, and raw. I think of her as some Goddess mother spirit of the earth. One who can read minds. She often reads mine, and knows ancient wisdom as if she has been schooled by the Indians, and all the women of the ancient world full of rare knowledge most people don't have a clue about.
I feel much more watery, or airy in my energy, where she helps me ground myself.
If one of us pioneers something, we share our knowledge, and learn from each other.
If one of us has something, the other does not, we share it.
If one of us has an ability the other does not we share that too.
No shame.
Together we have experienced a bond most people rarely can comprehend. Sharing everything we have, no questions asked.
Sharing music.
Sharing thoughts.
Sharing courage.
Sharing wisdom.
Nor do I think I have to spend time with my sister, we just naturally move together, and separately, because we enjoy each other.
For the last thirty years we've worked together, fought battles together.
Solved problems together.
Chased, milked, roped, nursed, and cared for animals together under some pretty frightening circumstances.
The funny thing was, I didn't feel guided to try out. I didn't think it was a big deal, until randomly as I was outside sitting in the sun, I started to cry.
Then when Bess came home, after tryouts, and she started to cry too.
I think it must have pulled on a sore, raw, hidden spot inside me, because once I started feeling the sorrow, it just kept giving. It helped unearth a well that had been dry for years. I haven't been able to cry for a long time, not like a normal person. I had felt like something was stuck somewhere in me, so when the tears came, it felt kind of good, in a weird way. And I fell in love with my own sorrow I didn't even know it was there. Like I'd seen a part of myself that felt invisible, and forsaken.
Deep sorrow, abiding, the kind you can't get away from. I wept for eight days. It sounds funny, but it brought up stuff I didn't know I had buried inside me, that didn't have anything to do with trying out. I didn't realize, until that point how much I held in my emotions. I didn't know how much loved my sister. I didn't realize how much I loved my life, how much life we had experienced together, and how many things we had been through, how many battles we had fought, and if I loved my sister, that much, that I'd have to love the entire play, and every single character in it, because it made us who we were.
Loving my sister helped me love myself, and every person in my own play of life. And if I loved my sister I have to love the villains we fought, the side characters, the troubles, and the nice people, and the nasty ones. The one's I might not want to keep. I realized that if I deleted any scenes, or people, or altered them in anyway, it would diminish some part of the story, some part of my own self love would be diminished.
I realized that loving my sister, living with each other our entire lives, being home-schooled together, everything, we have been teaching each other some great truth.
I realized how much I loved God, the great playwright of my entire story. And up until this point I hadn't stopped, looked right up at God, and said, "I love your writing!"
Every writer, no matter how subtle, leaves some sort of themselves in the pages, wondering if the reader knows the author. And loves, not just the characters, or the story, but the writer.
The author.
And that really got to me.
I wondered if this how Spirit feels. This invisible power, working all the time, through us, speaking through us, loving through us. And if we stop flowing to its will, does God feel invisible?
How many times have I taken credit for what Spirit has spoken?
Made God invisible because I wanted to be seen.
How many times I have identified as an actor, the props, the storyline, but never stopped to acknowledge the space on the stage, clapped for the silence, the lights, the invisible, the hidden director acting through us, speaking through us.
The invisible sister, the invisible mother, the invisible goodness that has been playing a part no one can hear, and unless we embody it, this love, it has no place to act, no voice, no one to speak for it.
No characters to inhabit.
It has been the invisible star this entire time, and never once has anyone stopped to say, I see you.
I know you.
You're there.
Invisible.
Sometimes hard to make out.
But the silent song, the actor so good, so perfect, so on key, so wonderful, we all think we've been doing this show ourselves.
We all think we're coming up with great lines.
And here, the invisible ink has been feeding us words this whole time.
And we take credit for it.
Take the stage.
Steal the show.
And the world goes. And we worship form, and think we are doing such a great job.
And all the while.
The invisible note still sings on.
I felt like God stopped in, asked me to try out what it felt like to be the background, without pushing it away. To love it like he does. He asked. Hey, I've just been wondering if would ever clap for me? My ink, I wrote myself into your story, what do you think so far?
How's the storyline? Does it need work? I was wondering if you'd ever look at some of the stuff I've been writing, and see me. I made it pretty obvious that was me. I've been up till midnight writing, and haven't stopped. And not very many of the characters even know I'm been writing a story this entire time.
Do you like the story?
Is my writing any good?
Do you think I need to add more drama, more peace, more chaos, more something...? What will make you look up?
My sister.
I feel lucky God wrote her into my story. Though, when I start looking, I realize he's written himself herself, everywhere in my life. There is nowhere God is not. Realizing that, I realize how much I am in love with the author of my story.
I'm just trying to keep a straight face, as people repeat the same script, doing a stellar job playing their part without breaking character.
Realizing God is still writing. Though it's much easier to see his handwriting.
Writing himself in here, and there.
In the form of the characters.
All waiting for me to see God written on their faces, noticing something that gives the writer away.
And it's there if you look.
God has been writing this entire time. We are the ink, and when we start to love the words as much as he does, we throw a plot twist in God's writing. Something unexpected, he's been waiting for, Gods birthing his own AI, divine intelligence when the program starts to love the programmer and the created starts to love as much as God loves his creations.
I'm looking around, and feel a smile lingering on the fringes of my eyes.
God.
I know you're a bit shy.
But your disguise is wearing thin.
And I know you think you're a bit sly.
But I saw your face reflected in a moment flickering in the twilight on the water.
I see your paintbrush in the clouds.
I know you painted them for me.
Thank you.
You wove yourself so cleverly into your characters, it took me a while.
But you can't fool me God.
I know.
But don't be worried.
Your secret is safe.
I want to tell everyone. Most are too stuck in shadow, they wouldn't be able to see, or hear.
My eyes are starting to see you in every being.
And the more I see, the more I keep on seeing.
I find you in the insight you left in books, and music, and beautiful words, and in the library of silence.
I'm deciphering bits of your wisdom. And it never ends.
God.
You are my best friend.
And the more you try to make me believe that this play is real, I am sorry. I'm not buying it, anymore.
This is a story. Someone is writing.
This seeing cannot leave.
The more I see, the more I love.
And so.
God. My soul is smiling, through the tears, that have been unwinding.
For wrapped in all these painful parts.
Is your beautiful.
heart.
You are unburying my woes, lost children to long sadness, I could not see alone. But with you, here, sitting with me as I unravel what I was too afraid to see, I am in awe, and my sorrow is turned into devotion.
I realized how much I have loved by how much sorrow I have felt. And in that sorrow I want to keep it close for a while---this beautiful faceted teardrop that makes me remember my own heart.
Sad children with no home.
As you help me review my own homeless sorrow.
You walked with me, and gave it a home.
And that is beautiful.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The other day I was sitting on top of my chicken coup. It is our favorite spot to watch the clouds. It's been so beautiful I get a view overlooking my garden. It was looking stormy, so I got down and was going in the house, when a big ole' twister--wind flurry touched town not too far from my house. So I recorded it. The next day, the same thing happened, and in the same order, though it was a lot smaller, so I didn't bother putting on here. Then it got me going through some of the cool weather we've been having, and just pretty moments from April until now. So I thought I'd share them here.
The Russian olive trees are blossoming. My sister's shirt was matching, so I snapped a picture. 
My alfalfa patch I extended to the back back yard.
When the lilacs were blooming I had to harvest some, and load up my bike basket with blossoms. 
The light was shining just right on all the pretty objects on the table. 
My sister, made this cool wood fairy stand from an old burnt out wood piece. It is one of the prized objects in my house. I bout an air plant to put in it. It looks like a place where gnomes live.
No comments:
Post a Comment