Hiatus

Redirecting you to Cafe Now.

As stated above in the description of this blog and in a previous post, As Is, this blog was partly inspired by a tool created and highly recommended by writer/artist Julia Cameron. The idea is to write three long hand pages every morning. Immediately upon rising. To do so before the all too powerful editor wakes fully and starts trying to direct and control all of your thoughts. It's a tool for getting past fourth, third, and second thoughts (veneers not always of our conscious choosing) to first thoughts. To the authentic self.

That's my morning pages description of morning pages anyway. Morning Pages are to be unedited. To not let the pencil pause. No trying to say anything the "right" way. Just letting the hand write down what comes out, however nonsensical it might seem. When one follows the rules (yes, isn't that interesting?...rules about not following any rules) it's the most incredible playdate for the self.

Sometimes in life there's so much confusion and noise that I can't figure out what I really feel. Sometimes I even wonder if I have any of my own unique, original, authentic thoughts or if I'm just a robot parroting back everything I've ever been told to think. But when I've done morning pages the way Julia recommends, I break into something deeper. Thoughts and observations and awarenesses arise that I didn't even know I had and that feel incredibly real and valid. And the more I practice, the stronger this little voice becomes. And she begins putting in appearances in other avenues of my life, outside of morning page practice. It's nice when she does that. I feel more whole then.

The idea to try and do the morning pages online was an experiment. Obviously I'm not getting here every day. It's not that I don't like what I've written. It's just that it's still strained. Still too much "trying" to write. Still not completely first thoughts. And instead of it taking me a half hour or so to write real morning pages, I have to admit it takes me several hours to write here. I'm still worried that it's public. That people might be reading it. Which causes me stress. (Another thing to work on--perfectionism. Fear that people will think I'm not good enough or loveable if I don't write--or do--something perfectly. Geesh.)

I thought writing here might actually help me with that, but so far it doesn't seem to be working. So...I need to devote this time to exercising. To giving myself, and that scared little voice, a safe place to experiment and play and get used to talking and becoming and growing. A place out of the public eye. She's like a scared little wild child that has lived her whole life alone in the woods. She's just learning to speak. To say what she feels and thinks. To share her observations. Sorry little one for bringing you here. To this public place. And expecting you to feel comfortable. My bad.

So for now I'll be be honoring this child, and encouraging her to speak, in private. Perhaps sometimes sharing something publicly if she permits. Hopefully she will become fully integrated over time. I will still write publicly-- inviting the child to sit safe and quiet beside me--over at Cafe Now.

Cafe Now has been an on again off again place for me to write. As is evidenced by the wide gaps in posts. That's the other thing I'm working on. I'm so interested in so many different things, in addition to all my responsibilities as a wife and mother and homemaker, I tend to lose focus. In fact my focus is fairly shattered, like a mirror, reflecting bits of light in all different directions but no real clear picture. It is my goal in the next few weeks to begin putting that mirror back together. To organize my workspace, both internal and external. To have a space online where I can post a thought, a video, a recommended article, a recipe, a quote, an opinion piece, a story, whatever--in one unified place instead of scattering it all to the four winds.

And in time, perhaps first thoughts will be reflected more and more. Not only in my online space, but more importantly--in my moment to moment life. First thoughts as opposed to all the thoughts everyone else--society, education, the culture, the media, the government... tells us to have.

Our Little Island

And then our family goes to our not-so-secret swimming hole on the Scott River this weekend and I find myself forced to contemplate more fully the idea of peacefully coexisting, not just on a beautiful green and blue ball floating in space, but on an island in the middle of the river probably no bigger than my front porch. And my front porch isn't very big.

Apparently it's easier for me to imagine "World Peace" than a "20 x 15 Foot Peace!"

Backtrack to four years ago when we "discovered" this particular swimming hole one hot August day. Some friends had suggested we might find some good swimming, "Just go 16 miles down Interstate 5, over the border into California, then exit onto Highway 96. You should find some good spots along the Klamath River."

So we packed some lunch, towels, our dog, the kids, and my husband and I into our little two door car. Off on a Sunday Adventure, anticipating a refreshing dip within the next half hour or so.

Two hot hours later-- and becoming more and more irritated with the situation and each other-- we were still driving along the Klamath. Still going. Hoping. Yearning for that perfect swimming spot. That Oasis we were sure we could find. I guess we're picky. But we really didn't want to swim in the green muck and algae that was all along the water's edge--probably there because of all the other swimmers we observed enjoying the river: geese, ducks, migrating water fowl...

Looking at the map, I saw that in another few miles we'd come to a spot where a river dumped into the Klamath. "Let's check that out. It looks like it comes out of the mountains. Maybe it's better swimming."

About five miles past Horse Creek, we came to the place where the Scott River flows into the Klamath. We turned left to follow the Scott upriver. It was a beautiful but hairy ride on a narrow passage up into the mountains. And to our dismay, the road immediately rose higher and higher...and farther and farther away from the river.

Still we drove. Looking at the map, the navigator (that was me) says, "Let's head to Scott Bar. Sounds like a beachy sort of place. Maybe that's where we'll find our spot."

Scott Bar, once a gold miner's camp, is a picturesque little community in the hills above the river. Not the sort of bar I'd been imagining. Nothing sandy about it. I suppose I would have realized this before had I been more adept at map reading. (At this point I start imagining an altogether different kind of bar...one with ice old beverages and air conditioning.)

Feeling more and more frustrated, we decided (imagine this) to stop and ask for some help. We pulled into the driveway of a nicely kept little white cottage. Pretty summer flowers dotted the landscape. I knocked on the screen door and an attractive older woman appeared. I doubt they get many strangers knocking in these parts and she was a bit apprehensive. Or maybe she thought I was a Jehovah's Witnesses (I used to be one so I can say that) there to convert her.

But when I told her we were just trying to find a swimming hole, she smiled and gave us some rather vague directions to an area farther on up the road. "Just a bit up the road, you'll probably see some cars parked, that's a good spot."

Yeah, just up the road. Another 10 miles or so of a narrow, curvy road that if you make one tiny mistake you will find yourself, and your loved ones, careening over a cliff down into the rocky canyon far, far below.

After wondering if we'd missed it, if vague directions were intentional in these parts, and if we were just going to keep going higher and higher into the mountains on a journey to nowhere--we found the spot that fit the description.

We parked, got out, looked over the edge of the road... and saw the most beautiful sight. A perfect blue-green pool, rocks for diving, and a white sandy beach. We wondered, after all the heat, hunger, and frustration if it was just a mirage.

It's been our little mirage ever since, traveling there at least once but sometimes two and three times a year. And I've never forgotten that I learned something valuable that day. But sometimes I do forget that it was something to do with patience and trust and that it's the journey not the destination.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. It's our first visit to the Scott this year.

I'm driving (incidentally, we found a shorter, less white-knuckler, way to get there). We're a few miles outside of Fort Jones when I notice that I'm not thinking peace. I'm stuck behind a minivan with Missouri licence plates snaking along at 20 mph, mile after mile after mile. And it's pissing me off.

On this part of the drive there's no posted speed limit that I've seen, but 35 to 40 mph has always felt pretty safe except on certain turns. "Why can't this guy (not even sure it was a guy) get out of my way? I mean, I've got a swimming hole to get to. And by golly, I don't want anyone else (including you people from Missouri) to get there first."

"Geez, don't you hear what you're saying Debi? Don't you hear the impatience and worry and selfishness and anger and see the separation you're creating? Is this the path to peace that you speak of?" --asks one side of myself.

"Yeah, I hear it...but damn it, that guy could pull over."

After a good talking to with myself (and my family saying it's the universe's way of teaching more patience and tolerance), I finally bring my mind--oh what a beast it can be-- under control. Consciously choosing to feel peace towards the driver, trust in the abundance of the universe and its ability to make room for us at the beach, tolerance for the different ways people choose to drive/live, and acceptance of what is-- instead of always striving towards something in a future moment (a moment we are never guaranteed of even having).

Interestingly, it was immediately following my mind adjustment that the driver pulled over, letting me pass. (Of course, then I had to do some more adjusting because of the guilt feelings that arose from having the negative feelings...)

A few miles farther down the road we came to "our" spot. And I was so relieved to see that no one else was parked there. When we looked over the edge, we were surprised to see that the river had changed. We always know it's a possibility, but except for mild changes from year to year, it has always been the same. Now we observed that sometime in the past year, a river probably swollen with spring rains and snow melt, had changed the beach entirely. Gone were all the bushes (maybe it's a sign) and small trees, gone was the white sandy beach which had always been (in our knowing it) attached to the shore. What was left was a little island, shrunken by two thirds, with grey pebbly sand.

The upshot, we somewhat smugly thought, was that since it was so small, and we were the first ones there, we'd have it to ourselves.

Wrong. About a half hour later three people and a newborn baby showed up. Twenty minutes later, 12 more people and a dog. Then four more people and two dogs. And coolers and chairs and blankets and cameras and floaties and...

Fortunately, and perhaps due to the earlier experience, instead of frustration at this turn of events (that I'd only probably later realize and regret), my husband and I just looked at each other and laughed. It was the most people, on the smallest bit of land, we'd ever seen at this particular mirage. And, together, everyone made it work.

Instead of selfishly, fearfully, and nastily guarding and hoarding "our claim," I experienced the joys inherent in sharing and trusting there to be enough for all of us. I also realized that this little 20 x 10 foot experience was a beautiful metaphor for something much larger, what we can do for each other and together on this planet.

The only thing missing from the 20 x 10 foot version was the family from Missouri and that bowl of cucumbers and a pot of beans.

PS
I hit the publish post button and then went to read the news and opinion at Common Dreams. Had to come edit this post to add something James Carroll writes in his article published today, Sharing the Oceanic Feeling:

Normal rules of personal space are suspended at the beach. And you -- why do you love being in this crowd if not for contemplation that is also communal? At the ocean's edge, watching the waves and staring out at the horizon, you have the most intensely private sensation of all, becoming the ocean. But the sensation is the more precious for being shared.

Wow.

As Is

Yikes. What was I thinking linking my babbling pages to the bio paragraph of the article I submitted to Common Dreams day before yesterday? Maybe I didn't really think the article would get published so I didn't agonize over it like I usually do? Or that this is the only blog I'm actually writing in at the moment and since I'd mentioned blogging in the article, it was only fair to link to one? Or was it the wine I had with dinner?

I know people have been here. Some have mentioned it in emails. And the count for how many people went to the profile page--which is the access to my other blogs, the ones that were meant for public consumption--went up considerably.

This blog really was intended as a writer's tool. Practice. Letting monkey mind play. Writing without the editor who loves to hover over every word. The thought police who tell me what I should think and say and feel and write and convey, that over time can be pretty convincing but not necessarily true.

And everyone knows what it feels like to have someone hovering over your shoulder when you're trying to create. Yet now I've actually INVITED people to hover! Yikes again. But maybe it's a good thing. Maybe an intensive practice whereby I really have to work through some of my bigger fears regarding writing and editing and my tendency to agonize so much about perfection and judgement that I lose contact with the small but true voice within.

Actually, writing tool aside, I'd like to recommend the true form of morning pages (as discussed in Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way) as a good tool for learning who you really are, stripped of who you've always been told you are. If you can learn to listen. Hence the importance of daily practice with the tool. Little by the little, with encouragement, the real voice--long buried deep within--gets stronger and stronger. Currently I just hear a faint whisper of the voice, but a whisper is certainly better than the silence I used to hear. At least I know there's life.

Interestingly, at the moment anyway, I actually feel freer to just let it hang out--despite or maybe even because of the fact that this isn't necessarily private. And, over time, as I gradually remove the 41 year buildup of so much varnish and veneer, perhaps more and more of myself will get the chance to hang out in its natural state. Not to devalue the process itself though. It's not about the destination. A snippet of memory and a 15 year old epiphany reminds me to reconsider where I'm heading with this.

I was living in Elma, Washington at the time. One--usually rainy--Saturday or Sunday a month I'd bundle up my young son and myself and we'd drive to the Grays Harbor County Fairgrounds for the local swap meet. My goal was to find at least one little interesting tidbit. Preferably something old. Something under $20. One particular morning I found an old shaving mirror. The mirror was crackled with age, the wooden frame looked like it had been painted with a hundred tiny bottles of white-out. It hung by a tangle of rusty wire. It spoke to me for some reason.

I took home the mirror and decided to see what was underneath the "white-out." While my son was napping I retrieved some paint remover and sanding paper and went out into the carport for some excavation work.

It wasn't easy getting the paint off. And little by little, as the white came away in patches, I uncovered a layer of green paint, un-ripe avocado green. And as that came away in patches I discovered that the wood beneath was honey colored oak. I sat there and thought to myself, (it's still such a clear memory, which is unusual for me), "Why on earth would anyone have painted over this beautiful oak? And why would they have then painted over the green with this ugly white?"

Then suddenly I realized, thankfully, that through all the time this mirror had been in existence, there had been differing ideas of what beauty was. Of how things should be. I immediately saw the mirror in a whole new way. Saw it as beautiful just the way it was. I left it as is--part oak, part green, and part white--as a reminder that beauty can be found anywhere along the way, if we can just behold and perceive it.

I received a touching email this morning, in response to my article, from a woman who told me about her daughter-in-law who was born and raised in Sarajevo and 15 when the war broke out.

There was very real danger all day every day but they tried to make life go on as it was supposed to. For instance she was walking home from school with a friend when the friend was shot in the head by a Serbian sniper and killed. She was deeply affected but the next day took the same route home almost in defiance of the possibility that the sniper would shoot at her this time...

...There were dance contests (tangos mostly) in cold and unlit ballrooms because the acts of dancing and singing re-affirmed their humanity and aliveness.

Because the acts of dancing and singing re-affirmed their humanity and aliveness.

The woman, (hopefully she won't mind if I tell you that her name is Glenda), ended her email with this poignant observation:

If we cannot understand human nature's demand to be human even in the midst
of terror and horror then there is little hope we can understand anything.

So...here we are, covered in varying layers of color, a few different veneers, an odd varnish or two, sometimes bordering crackled reflections, and often hanging only by a tangle of rusty wire. And while we might--in our attempts to understand what lies beneath--continue to peel off bits of old color and veneer and varnish, and often-times fume about the reflections we observe (in ourselves and in each other), let us not forget to re-affirm our humanity and beauty and aliveness wherever we are, in every moment. I'm by no means suggesting that we just sit back and blithely accept what is, to see beauty in war and greed and hate. But I am suggesting we not forget to see beauty in spite of it.

After all, (to end with a quote similar to the one A Bowl of Cucumbers ends with, but this one by Ernest Holmes):

Life is a mirror and will reflect back to the thinker what he thinks into it.

A Bowl of Cucumbers and a Pot of Beans

Maybe it was just midnight mind talking. You know, that tendency to get all worried, scared, panicky, stressed about things in the middle of the dark and silent night that wouldn't ordinarily bother you in the light of day? Or at least not as much.

I woke--around 1:30--got up for a glass of water, went back to bed and was unable to get back to sleep for more than an hour. Laid there worrying, of all things, about my writing/blogging. Even considered getting up and deleting all my blogs.

Why?

Several reasons.

Maybe I should be more private. More "off the grid." Less involved with "the vast machine."
Maybe my friends will think I'm strange if they read what I write.

Maybe I suck at writing.

Maybe my opinion is irrelevant.

Maybe it's a waste of my time.

Maybe there are better/more helpful things I could be doing.
Maybe this, maybe that, maybe the other.

I eventually fell asleep. And here I am, the next morning, writing again. I am strangely compelled.

Perhaps it's because of a deep and acute need to push through the shallow and inane in search of deeper awareness and understanding that I am compelled. Yeah, sometimes I worry that I ain't got what it takes. That I'm not capable of diving any deeper than the surface. But no, that's not true. I can dive deep. I can take it all in. And it's not just true for me. We all can. But mostly we don't. Mostly we prefer the shallows. Perhaps it's the sheer scope of all there is to fathom (pun partially intended), that gives us the bends--some of us even before we descend. For me personally, the problem intensifies back on the surface where I have an even harder time breathing and describing and processing what I've seen.

Once in a while, one particular thing/observation/idea/event will come along and grab my attention and focus and I am compelled to write. And suddenly I feel totally absorbed, connected, fluid, coherent. And the end result feels meaningful and useful.

But lately/usually I feel overwhelmed by everything going on in the world. There is SO much that needs our attention and focus. So damn much. Where to begin? And what have I been writing about? Dreams, soccer, making silly audioblogs, doing the laundry...

Yet, these things are important too, and not necessarily little or meaningless. They are the ordinary in life that we cherish. They are the ordinary that bind us.

I was reading a regretful but important article this morning, After Bomb Kills Loved Ones, Life Turns Ghostly, that tells of the tragic and devesating effect war has had upon one particular Lebanese man. A man who is, among other things, a husband and a father.

I don't know what it means to live in a land where bombs are dropping, and pray I never will--though if we in America did understand this, maybe we'd be less likely to make the bombs, less likely to be in the business of profiting from them, less likely to export them, less likely to drop them, less likely to support the government that does...maybe.

No, I don't know what it means to live with the very real threat of a bomb landing on my loved ones or me. How can one live normally with such a threat? But I read the article and was touched by the semblance of the ordinary that existed immediately before bombs dropped and destroyed most of this man's family and self.

The rooms were still neatly composed, life suspended. Dishes were done. Laundry — tiny pink pants, a head scarf, a bra — was hanging on lines. But details showed something was wrong. The clothes were dusty from the pulverized concrete and soot of the explosion. A bowl of cucumbers and a pot of beans in the refrigerator were covered with mold.

I just can't imagine it. Can't imagine what it must be like to walk into the rubble and find your five year old daughter torn apart--her torso and an arm separate from the rest of her body. To find your wife crushed to death. Can't imagine it.

I can't imagine what it's like to do the dishes, hang the laundry, and then run next door hoping to find shelter from a bomb only to be blown to bits.

I can't imagine how the United States is contributing to this carnage. Can't imagine how we have been visiting the same spectre of destruction and carnage and death (oh the shock and awe of it) upon thousands and thousands and thousands of Iraqi civilians for over three years now. And for what? Can't imagine how war is still a thing of the present. Can't imagine why we haven't found a better way.

There are so many other things I can't imagine. Yet they are happening. And they are overwhelming.

Maybe the only way to work through it at the moment, is to take decompression stops along the way. Little writes here and there. Go to the dark places and witness what's there. And once back on the surface--out of the dark otherworld of fear--work more diligently at a world I can imagine.

We can all do this, can't we?

Former Apollo astronaut Edgar Mitchell once said:

[In outer space] you develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and a compulsion to do something about it. From out there on the moon, international politics look so petty. You want to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and drag him a quarter of a million miles out and say, "Look at that, you son of a bitch."

Can we imagine ourselves, like Edgar Mitchell, out in space looking back at our precious planet and all its beautiful people and imagine a world like no other we've ever known? A world of peace, joy, equality, love, health, liberty, justice and unity for all--including the sons of bitches in power? Can we imagine all of us getting together for a bowl of cucumbers and a pot of beans?

That's what I choose to imagine the next time I have an attack of midnight mind.

Like Buddha said:

We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world.

Life is What Happens

Yeah, I know...the idea is to write daily. And here it is three days since a post.

Was up late Thursday night/early Friday morning all excited about audioblogging and blogging in general. Tried to learn the code for inserting tags. Want to learn how to do general tags but the only code I remotely understand at the moment is how to insert technorati tags. Isn't there an easier, user friendly, non-computer geek, push-button way? A way that doesn't involve having to type in code?

It is a good exercise for my brain cells and synapses though. And more exercise is ahead as I don't like the way the tags on my last post turned out or know if they're even working.

Anyhow, up so late on Thursday that I slept in on Friday. Then Saturday and Sunday was in Salem for soccer. My daughter's soccer team had their annual qualifying tournament. The results of which decide your placement in the state's OYSA Fall League. The girls gave it what they had but came away with 4 losses and a tie. Funny that I should say "but came away" instead of "and came away", considering how much we constantly try to emphasize that it isn't the win/loss record but how you play the game...

I think the "but" comes from knowing how discouraged most of the girls were. Although my daughter has never been one to be upset following a game (except for that one time when there was confusion during the game over who was going to take a pk, so she took it, and the coach came unglued and yelled at the top of his lungs at her--during the game). She plays merely because she loves to play, and no matter what the score, gives it her best effort (though her best effort, like for most of us, can vary from time to time).

Anyhow, running off course here a bit. Headed off into the brambles. Though that's the way my mind works and what these Babelon Pages are for. Letting it all out. Letting the monkey out for a play date. So that when I really need to create, I'll have less clutter. And more flow. ("Not that this isn't creating as well, mind you"--said to that Ms. Editor Pants also residing in my head.)

I have so many things I'd like to explore here. Wish I could just read (online and offline) and write (online and offline) and reflect (online and offline) all day long.

Like part II of Holy Grail, Jesus. Thoughts on anti-Semitism. The Middle East crisis. The momentum the 9/11 truth movement is gaining. Global Warming. My conflicting thoughts on being a "soccer mom" and how it impacts global warming, wars for oil, and so much more. The creative power of our thoughts. The list is endless.

But, for starters, I've got breakfast to make, bags to unpack, laundry to start, and some rearranging of the pantry to do in order to accommodate that side trip to Trader Joe's we made yesterday.

Life is what happens when you're busy...taking care of the family, putting the groceries away, and trying to comprehend the bigger picture all at the same time.--John Lennon and I.

My 13 year old guitar playing daughter checking out this audioblogging thing!

On the Frontier: Laura Ingalls & I

Okay, that was interesting. Had no clue about audioblogging until 45 minutes ago. And voila, now there's one (albeit a boring test) on my blog. This technology thing just keeps getting more and more interesting. Like any passionate relationship, it can sure piss me off at times, but for the most part I think I'm in love.

Tomorrow, of course, I'll remember all my contemplation through the years regarding the bane that technology can be on society, the environment, children, etc., and how I've often fantasized about becoming a Luddite and/or living like the Ingalls family along the banks of some plum or blackberry or cottonwood creek. But for today? I'm excited to consider the possibilities of this new (to me anyway) technology.

In a brief moment of rare and personal clarity, it has just now occurred to me that Laura Ingalls Wilder and I are not so different after all. The thing that took Laura and her family on their journey--a journey I've been enamored with since I first read her books as a young girl--was perhaps first and foremost a desire for adventure. A desire to explore the frontier of this generous and vast country and to find a place for themselves within it (the often negative impact this Pioneer/Explorer/Adventurer desire had upon the Native American population notwithstanding). Following their hearts and prodded along the way by adventure and a desire to know more fully the limits of their being, they left their comfort zones and--with risk to limb/life/family/security/etc., drove all the way to the edges of that frontier.

Today, I stand looking out at another frontier. And feel somewhat blessed because of it.

Having just come off of a 10 day vacation with only sporadic access to a computer, I can imagine that having had audioblogging I might have accumulated some interesting posts here.
(Especially after those margaritas shared with my husband and our good friends Joe and Lynn.)

Seriously though, it feels like another opening into independent media/on the street reporting. Another opportunity to get the truth out. Like the next time I'm at a political event? If I don't have my camera or don't want to wait to get home and write or download video/pics, I can hit the new contact in my cell phone's address book--"audioblogging"-- and send an audio message--immediately. (Of course, people have to be reading it for it to matter, right? The point is though, the technology is there and people WILL use it. It can, and hopefully will, be a means for spreading truth.) I don't know about anyone else, but that strikes me as expletive left out incredible at the moment.

But, (said in an Eeyore sort of voice) will I personally do anything with this technology? My M.O. is to get very excited about something, have all sorts of visions for its application, etc., and then get overwhelmed by the possibilities...or distracted by something else.

I suppose time will answer that question.

For now, I'm like my friend Laura Ingalls Wilder. A little apprehensive about what the journey might look like. What it all might mean. Where I and my loved ones might end up. Perhaps the place has changed, but the adventure remains and the excitement is the same.


audioblogging
technology
laura ingalls wilder
new frontier
adventure
luddite

Holy Grail, Jesus. Part One

Last night's experience was similar to the previous night's, though far less intense. Same places and conversations I think, same subject matter, but even less memory of it all and less vibratory sensations.

I did wake at one point thinking: Surely I won't forget this. I should get up and write it down, but I won't forget it.

Well---I forgot. Damn.

Maybe my imagination is working overtime, but I feel like something is going on. Like I'm being guided towards something in particular. Guided towards having a certain realization.

(Writing here without editing myself is far more difficult than I imagined. I keep typing and backspacing, typing and backspacing. Which is against the rules for these babelon pages. Perhaps it's because when it's my notebook I write slower? Giving me more time to clarify the thought before putting it to paper? Or is it just giving me more time to edit the thought? There is a bit more of a gap there between the thought and the hand-writing-the-thought than with this typing-the-thought thing. The whole idea, whatever the method, is to get past the "editor's" thoughts and get to what Julia calls "first thoughts." More on that some other time.)

I guess maybe I'm a little afraid to write about this stuff here. It's very personal, yet in this format is open to anyone who happens across this blog. I have other blogs where I freely and openly state my thoughts and opinions on certain things. This one is different. And still in the experimental stage (as in I'm not sure I'll keep writing in it). It's a peek inside my own psyche. Do I really want to let people in?

Especially on this topic of feeling "guided towards something?"

People might think I'm delusional or something. (Maybe I am.)

But something is also nudging me towards exploring this openly. I feel like humanity is on the verge of a giant leap in understanding who it really is and what it's really capable of (besides unending war and violence). And part of that leap requires, I feel, trusting and owning the experiences we might be having along the way even if we don't completely understand them or their meaning at first.

All through history there are examples of how the masses believed one thing, like the earth is flat for example, and an individual or small group started to share information suggesting otherwise. It usually took a while for the mass to come around. Probably something to do with inertia. But turn they eventually did (but often not before putting more than a few good people considered heretics to death).

Point is, just because the masses believe and accept something to be the incontrovertible truth doesn't necessarily make it so. Although, science--in the field of quantum physics for example--is beginning to suggest that belief does have an incredible affect on the performance of matter/reality which should perhaps be factored in here.

That's a good, if not confounding, example actually. The masses don't believe that our thoughts and beliefs directly create our experience (even though the bible says--the "authority" so many look to--that God created us in his image). But there is growing evidence from a variety of sources that in fact we do. Is it only a matter of time before the masses catch on? Will it help things along if I believe they will?

Imagine what we could create if we really believed in our ability to create anything we set our minds to. It is one of the things I feel I'm being guided to more fully understand. This guidance usually seems to come to me in the form of books. Books that appear on my radar from out of nowhere.

I've been a voracious reader my entire life, but in the past 15 years it's been mostly non-fiction. Not so this summer. Books just seem to keep appearing. I'm not looking for them. Hadn't heard of them. But all of a sudden there they are. And their subject matter is all related.

When I mention the titles, it'll sound like I've just been swept up by the same Davinci Code madness as everyone else the past three years. For these books all have themes similar to the Davinci Code. (Actually, this Davinci Code "madness" is interesting in its own right. And something to consider more fully at another time is: why IS this such an interesting topic for people? Is it something trying to reach our collective awareness?)

Frankly, I'm still surprised at the reaction Davinci Code received. I read it in the summer of 03. It didn't strike me as a particularly good literary piece. I enjoyed it of course, but the reason I read it was because sometime in 98 or 99 I'd become incredibly consumed by the mysteries surrounding the Priory of Sion, Knights Templar, and the guardians of the grail secret that purportedly included Davinci. The Davinci Code was supposed to be about all that.


Like many, I've always been intrigued by the grail mystery. And in 1999 I found myself staying up night after night, sometimes until 3 or 4 am, online in a chatroom dedicated to discussing the mysterious Priory of Sion. Then I would spend any available moment during the day reading all the non-fiction books on the topic that I could find. Holy Blood/Holy Grail of course. But also The Templar Revelation, The Messianic Legacy, The Hiram Key, and any other book I could get my hands on. I also went to my local library and checked out everything I could find on Leonardo Davinci. Got out my protractor and played around with his "proportions of man" study. I went from there to considering the odd mathematical oddities and coincidences within the pyramids of Egypt and Richard Hoagland's theories about the pyramids on Mars. One thing led to another and another. I even made sure Rennes-le-Chateau was included on the itinerary for the trip our family took in October of 99.

Not long after though, I started to feel overwhelmed. I couldn't get a handle on the larger picture. Always in search of the larger picture. So I took a break. (Besides, my family was getting a little tired of my obsession.)

Speaking of break, and family, I've been sitting here for two hours (yes, that's a lot of typing, backspacing, typing and too much thinking considering this post doesn't look two hours long). Time to take a break and tend to the family.

More later.