“I Love All Things on Planet Earth”

So sang the dancing aliens in my dream a couple of nights ago. I even woke up with a melody in my head that accompanied the words. The aliens — who could also have been angels, I suppose; their exact origin was unclear in the dream — seemed sincere in their sentiments, and looked ecstatic as they danced in a small group. There were four or five of them.

My first thought on waking. . .well, actually, I guess it was my second, since my first was “I love all things on Planet Earth”. . .was “but I don’t love all things on Planet Earth.” There are many events and occurences that are — at best — quite difficult to tolerate, much less love. So what, I am wondering, is the message I am meant to take away?

It might be as simple as: “Love yourself, and all things about yourself.” Loving myself is easy when I am happy, and when things go well. When plans fall through, when I spend a lot of time alone, when I start to doubt whether I am walking the right path, then it becomes less easy to find compassion and love for myself.

Ah! And now I come to why I love writing so darn much! Whenever I write about my dreams, or about any situation or event regarding which I am seeking deeper understanding, writing often brings clarity. The dancing, singing beings in my dream — they were all me. And I am, to them, the entire world. So what they were really singing to each other with such unbridled joy was: “I Love All Things About Selene.” And what I answered upon waking was “But I don’t love all things about Selene.” Sigh. No matter how much work I do on myself, there is always more to be done.

The good news is I have a lot more love for myself than I once did. A part of me is still with those angels or aliens, those other apsects of me, still dancing in a circle and singing “I love all things on Planet Earth, I love all things about Selene.”

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

Battling the Blues

I am having a bad day today, after a bad night last night. As near as I can tell, I’m suffering from a crisis of faith: in my purpose, in the rightness of my path, in my writing, in myself. Last night I went to a poetry reading where I expected to perform. The host of the reading made a change in his usual format, and asked people to come up and read when the “spirit moved them.” I decided to wait to be introduced, because that is how it usually works. He asked me to read last, after two-and-a-half hours of other people’s words, and half the audience got up and left while he as telling them there was one more poet. Then he asked me whether I was “into it,” and I sort of shrugged and said, “whatever.”

He closed the show right then, and I did not get to perform. I had gone there with that express purpose, and I was PISSED that I didn’t get to read. I was also pissed that half the audience walked out just before the end, that I had watched my husband sit next to me and eat food I cannot even imagine being able to eat, that I had dragged my butt out to a reading where most people would not hear what I had to say even if I had gotten a chance to say it, and a whole lot of other things.

Today I just feel stupid and sad and ashamed and not worth very damn much. I listened to a lot of beautiful women (and one or two men) last night talk about how they struggle with racisim and sexism and other forms of abuse every day of their lives. And I thought, “What right do I have to ever be unhappy? I have so much.” After a while that turned into “What right do I have to be here?” meaning (at the time) the venue. And today, I’m feeling like I had just better be grateful for what I have and stop whining.

The worst part about being in this place emotionally is that I am very familiar with it. I thought I had left it behind. I want to be over this crap already. How much psychological processing do I need? I’ve been doing it non-stop for a lot of years now, and I feel like I’m right back to square one.

Except that isn’t entirely true. I’ve been doing things today that I normally would not do in this mood. I’ve already talked to one friend on the phone, and have a call in to another. I’m writing this blog entry, telling you all about how I feel. I emailed a couple folks who have promised me featured readings and said, “let me know when I’m scheduled.” For me, that’s pretty bold, seeing as how I usually wait to be asked on most things.

I guess I need to accept myself in my myriad aspects — angry, ashamed, sad, stupid. Well, I’d better wrap this up and get back to cleaning my room. Somehow, clearing out old junk feels like the exact right thing to be doing just now. As always, thanks for reading.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

Trolls in the Cupboards

I had a strange dream last night, one that’s still rattling around inside my beleaguered brain. I dreamt I was a college student once again, but in a very strange setting. The school I attended in my dream was a sort of low-rent, high-rise version of Hogwart’s Academy in the Harry Potter books. At least, that’s the best I can do at giving you a concise idea of how it felt.

The other students and I sought living quarters inside a humongous skyscraper. Along with human students, there were troll students, gremlin students, vampire students. As you might imagine, each student group kept pretty much to themselves.

One small group of human students, which included me, had become truly desperate for a place to live. For some reason, we poured out our troubles to a janitor as he cleaned the floors in the lobby. He told us there were empty penthouses on the roof, and that we should just go up there and move in, claim squatters’ rights or something. At first I questioned whether this was strictly legal. Could we really get away with it? Wouldn’t we get thrown out at some point? Someone else said that we could stay until then, so we went up in the elevator and moved in to one of the penthouse apartments.

For some reason, we all stayed together in the kitchen of the apartment, huddled on the cold linoleum floor. Everything was huge — gigantic cupboards and cabinets, huge appliances — and painted either white or pale yellow. When we woke in the morning, the cupboard doors across from us slid open to reveal sleepy-eyed trolls huddled inside. We hightailed it out of the apartment, not wanting to appear on the trolls’ breakfast menu!

We escaped the trolls and continued our search for a place to live. I ended up in a small, dark room. The windows were hung with black or navy blue drapes and everything was painted or upholstered in those same colors. I do remember seeing stars and city lights through the drapes, which were somewhat sheer. The bright, twinkling lights made the gloom of my room more bearable.

How strange. Now that I’ve finished retelling the dream, I feel sad. Often when I face a monster or menacing creature in my dreams, I will become lucid and face them down. Since I assume that I was a student wizard in the dream, I could have zapped the trolls with magic at the very least.

Emotinally I have spent many years of my life in that small, dark room, looking longingly out at the bright points of light in the distance. The message of the dream seems to be that I am getting ready to move in to the penthouse of my own life, and that I still have fears and doubts I must face before I’m able to do that.

Ah, well. I’m certain there’ll be other dreams and other chances. Doubtless chances to battle trolls in the cupboards will also appear in my waking life. Guess I’d better start rehearsing spells and polishing my wand!

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

What Next, Ms. Wizard?

So, as I proudly crowed in my previous post, I have printed out my novel. And since then, it has sat in its box, untouched by me. I have, in fact, sort of tip-toed around it as though it was a bomb that might go off if I breathe a little too hard. Perhaps I ought to have expected this, but somehow I didn’t.

Why is it so difficult to sit down with a few pages and begin to the read the darn thing? I know I want to, or else I would have left it locked in the electronic confines of my computer. What I’ve done in printing out my novel is made it real. I have been ignoring its existence for a few months, trying to kind of wrap my mind around the fact that I wrote four hundred and thirty two pages of prose that came to a conclusion, that end with the words THE END, even. So, why have I gone from happy and proud about that to grumpy and sullen?

Well, to be more accurate, I am sad. And that puzzles me. Yet perhaps it makes sense. I’ve heard over and over, from other writers, that our books are our children. I have given birth. By printing out my novel, I have given it life, a physical body in which to interact with the world. I am no longer carrying my novel in my body, a precious secret that only I know.

I will come to that place emotionally where I am able to begin to read, to release my offspring of paper and ink into the wild jungle of the world. It just may take more time than I anticipated.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate your regard.

 ~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

Marvel in a Box

 I did something very exciting today! I printed out my novel for the first time, all four hundred and thirty two pages. Now I’ve got it stashed in a small cardboard box, and I’ll begin reading it tonight. After I read it all the way through and make whatever improvements I think are required, I’ll have a few friends read it through as well.

What an amazing thing it is, to see the pile of pages tucked into brown cardboard, neat and orderly. When the printer first began spitting out the pages, I thought of Spalding Grey’s “Monster in a Box.” Right then, I decided my novel is a marvel in a box! I am so happy to have completed one-and-a-half drafts of it, and I know I’m going to enjoy reading it from first word to last.

Well, I think that’s about all my kitty is going to let me write just now. I’m trying to eat a meal and write this blog entry, all with a very demanding pussy cat on my lap. And she refuses to stay off my lap — each time I nudge her onto the floor, she leaps back up. The only way to keep her out of my lap while I eat is to sit at a table in the other room. She also seems to think that my purple and green cabbage and zucchini stir fry looks tasty (because she actually has no idea what it is), so I’d better go before my plate ends up on the floor.

Thanks for reading, and have a spectacular day!

 ~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

“Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote. . .”

This is a different sort of post for me, one in which I have know idea what I will write, no preconceived notion of . . . oh, how funny! I love when I do that. . .spell “no” as “know!” Perhaps the Universe is trying to tell me that I do know what I will write, though perhaps that knowing resides in my subconscious, rather than in my conscious mind.

I would love to be out in the beautiful April sunshine — despite the Chaucer quote with which I began, sweet showers are not currently falling on my gorgeous corner of Northern California. I would go out and take a walk or take a drive, except I must wait for my fanny pack to be returned to me.

I spent the weekend at a lovely retreat called Isis Oasis, and had such a mind-bendingly marvelous time cavorting with friends that I drove home with all my luggage and my car keys, and somehow managed to leave my fanny pack behind!

The pack serves me in the way a purse once did. I carry it because strapping it around my waist leaves both my hands free when I walk, and puts no strain on my shoulders and neck. I decided many years ago that I wanted to be free of the yoke of a purse, to pare down the quantity of personal acoutrements I carried with me. At one point I remember that I carried a purse so large and so stuffed with sundry items that the weight of it wore a purple-red strap-shaped groove into my right shoulder. Ouch!

So here I sit and wait and hope that my pack comes back home to me soon (a friend who was still at Isis Oasis and is returning today is bringing it back with her). I hope to go out tonight with another friend, to a poetry reading in San Francisco. She is featuring there, and we’ve had plans in place for a few weeks to check the reading out together. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I get to join her as planned.

This is fun, to blog with no plan about what to say! I find I blog less often than I’d like because I think I must have something to say when I get on line; something pithy and eloquent and quotable. . .and the list goes on.

Oh, I think my cat is at the door! No, she was sitting behind me, on the floor, perhaps patiently waiting to be let out again. Well, I think I’ll stop writing for now, and get back to printing out my novel. . .more on that later!

As always, thanks much for reading. I appreciate your regard.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~