These are the Sacred Colors

It is rare that I get a song delivered to me in a dream, complete with melody. Well, to be more accurate, I’d say it’s a chant. In my dream I knelt in front of a low wooden table and held an orange and black hair tie (at least, that’s what it looked like to me). It consisted of a circle woven of black and orange cloth, topped with a beautiful orange cloth rose. I grasped the circle with flower, raised up my arms, and sang:

These are the sacred colors,
these are the colors sacred.
They decorate my altar
as each season changes.

This is a little less clear, but I think I was also wearing orange and black in the dream. I knew exactly why the colors were sacred, what they meant. They represented sunlight and its absence, earth and sky, life and death, enlightenment and the void of ignorance.

I woke up thinking of my love of colors, of wearing certain colors — especially during the holidays. I had the idea that the most sacred color for New Year’s Day would be white — the color of new beginnings, of clean slates, of innocence original and reclaimed.

Perhaps I will wear white tomorrow. Tonight, I have yet to decide what to wear. I had plans to go out, and I woke up not only with a mind filled with images from my dream, but also with a headache and a sore throat. Whether or not I go out tonight and tomorrow, I will honor the message of my dream. When I intuit between the lines, I think the deeper message is this:

The sacred is in every moment, in every mote of dust, in everything that ever was or will ever be. Live sacredly. Honor your life and all that it contains.

And I say, what better time to begin than on the Eve of the New Year? My spider sense tells me 2008 is going to be an amazing year.

As always, thanks for reading. Happy and Sacred New Year to you.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

‘Tis the Season. . .

. . .to feel sad and blue. Well, at least blue is a holiday color — or can be in the right tint. This time of the year I miss my family, most of whom no longer speak to me. Regardless of that, I still love and miss them terribly.

I’m certain they think of me as the black sheep. Yet who says a black sheep is a bad thing? For my part, I always loved black sheep. They’re so beautiful, the way they stand out from the herd. They look even softer to me than the other sheep, more touchable. And yes, I am different from the rest of my family, which is really what the black sheep metaphor is all about, right?

It’s a primal thing, this fear of standing out in the crowd, of being recognized as different. I accept who I am, embrace who I am. I am learning to have pride in my differences, and even to flaunt them. All of which separates me more and more from my family.

I feel this is the year, finally, to let them go. They dropped me like a hot rock over 10 years ago. Time for me to stop trying to save them. I’ll always love them, and I need to release them. For their sake, and for my own.

This year, I give myself the gift of sanity. I will stop doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. I will stop yearning after a family who no longer want me.

~Peace, Joy, Blessings, and Love,
Selene~

Car Wrecks, Death, and Tollhouse Cookies

All three of the things in my title have been in my dreams of late. A few days ago I dreamed a car — looked like an old mustang — drove off the roof of a house and into an old-style Volkswagen bug, that happened to be painted robin’s egg blue. The mustang compacted like an accordian, and squished the two people inside. Three chunks of human flesh catapulted upward and broke through the window from which I was watching. One of the chunks landed on my arm and I screamed in horror and woke up.

Last night the tollhouse cookies entered, fresh-baked on a plate held by a woman who was supposed to be my sister, and who looked nothing like either of my actual related-to-me-by-blood sisters. An evil man dressed all in red (meant to be the devil, no doubt) entered the room and took her away. He told her he would murder her whole family (and while he said this, he transformed into a man in a Nazi SS uniform). Somehow I managed to hide behind a large sheet of white plastic, and the devil/Nazi man didn’t find me. I felt like a coward in the dream, and promised myself I would find her and rescue her. She came back later as a zombie, dressed in dirt-streaked rags and holding a plate of moldy tollhouse cookies, no doubt to reproach me for not rescuing her. I screamed in that dream, too — screamed and screamed and screamed until I thought my chest would explode. This time I didn’t wake up, though, and the rest of what happened is fuzzy, except I think the Nazi/devil man was standing outside behind my sister (I could see him through the hole she made when she crashed through the wall).

I believe I’m having these dreams because of unexpressed grief. I need to cry. I need to cry a lot, have one of those good, long, clearing-out-the-pipes cries. In order to have one, though, I need to battle many years of stoicism. I learned as a child to express all my emotions through only one — anger. Anger was the only “acceptable” emotion in my house. Everyone got royally pissed off on a regular basis, but I rarely saw anyone cry. When they did cry, it was quite painful to witness.

I vividly remember the first time I saw my father cry. Somehow I had formed the belief (at the age of about four) that grownups did not cry. I looked forward to growing up with joyful anticipation, because I sincerely believed that, once I attained grownuphood, my crying days would be over. Then I walked into the living room and saw my father looking at our couch. The same couch I had recently decorated with one of my mother’s bright lipsticks, that looked just like crayons to me. He stared at all the beautiful, swirly squiggles of vivid red, lay down on top of them and started to cry. His back was to me, but I knew the sounds, and I knew what that shaking back meant. Watching him cry was like witnessing a natural disaster, like seeing a mountain collapse. My dream of a grownup paradise free from pain and tears dissolved then and there.

Oddly enough, I had never connected that childhood belief before with my difficulty expressing grief. I’ve been waiting my whole life for my sadness to end, and it never will. Neither will my love, joy, anger, or any other emotion. Maybe, at age 48, it’s finally time for me to accept grief as a part of growing up. Wow! I typed that and the pipes suddenly started clearing out. Hallelujah and amen.

Thanks, as always, for your kind regard.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

Popcorn, Earthquakes and Strange, Dark Days

 At 3:55 pm Pacific Daylight Time, a magnitude 2.7 quake rocked my world. I was in the bathtub and there was a loud thump-bang-boom and for a moment my safe, reliable world shook, rattled, and rolled. Now I’m munching popcorn, my ultimate in comfort food (that is, when I must refrain from the velvety, dark, wicked wiles of chocolate, which I currently must). By the way, if you love popcorn, try this: buy organic popcorn and pop it in organic unrefined coconut oil. Then, instead of butter, melt some organic ghee (butter clarified to remove the milk fat). Drizzle the melted ghee on your popped corn and finish with a teaspoon (or two) of sea salt. If you are — as I am — a fiend for popcorn, you will never want to eat theater-popped kernels ever again. Yep, it’s that good.

Today is dark and overcast in my corner of Northern California, which is rather odd for this time of year. Usually September and October bring us warm, golden days and cool, crisp nights. Today, however, is cool and shadow grey and I am feeling sad. I understand this is what I need to feel, yet I still fervently wish I could escape the clutches of grief. Whenever I weep I hear my Mother’s voice and my Father’s voice and the voices of my classmates: “Cry baby. You’re just a big baby. You’re too sensitive. You just want attention. You’re always crying. Grow up.”

Yikes! For a few minutes I thought the Universe was telling me I couldn’t talk about such things. Just as a I finished the previous paragraph, I clicked “Save and Continue Editing” and everything went blank. My wireless connection chose that exact moment to exhibit its fickle nature. Happily, WordPress saves my blog automatically at timed intervals. Which is only smart, I guess, with the Internet and life being so uncertain.

At any rate, back to my original thread. In thinking about my childhood while preparing popcorn, my (nearly) favorite childhood treat, a sudden insight/epiphany/revelation rocked my inner world. For a moment I wished I had memories of a happy childhood into which I could retreat when I’m feeling lonely or sad. Then I realized: If I had happy childhood memories, I might lose myself in them, stop growing and moving forward. The very fact of the (mostly) miserable memories from my growing up years keeps me on my current (and lifelong) path of personal growth, pushes me to seek soul fulfillment. Without those rotten recollections to spur me on, I might spend all my time trying to recapture what I lost. Instead, I work to create and maintain what I lacked — happiness.

Mind you, when I use that word — happiness — I ain’t envisioning bazillions of dollars, a residence on Nob Hill or in Trump Tower, a Lamberghini, and designer duds. What I see in my mind’s eye is self love without caveat or condition; self acceptance deep, total, and complete.

Whew. Well, that does it for me and blogging today, I think. Thank you, as always, for your attentive eyes and minds. I am deeply grateful for your regard.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

Sweet September

Autumn is my favorite season, and has been so ever since I can remember. It’s the one season that makes me think with longing of New York State, if only for the scenery. Trees brilliant in the throes of their dying; the crispest, cleanest, tastiest air; skies of pure periwinkle blue. Color is vitally important to me, one of my favorite life spices, and an East Coast Autumn always delivered hues luscious and bright. As much as I love Northern California, the seasons are very different. Autumn here is not the many-hued banquet with which I nourished my inner artist as a child.

One of my favorite things about New York State Autumns was the apples. No other flavor on this great, green Earth can compare with the taste of New York State apples in season. Paula Red, Ida Red, Rome, Red Delicious, Golden Delicious (my second favorite), Mcintosh (my first favorite), and Pink Lady were just a few of the varieties that appeared in the markets beginning in September. Back then, when I could still eat such things, I was a pie baker extraordinaire. The best apple pie I ever baked, hands down, held fresh-picked (by my own hands) tart, sweet Mcintoshes between the golden-brown crusts.

It’s been many years since I traveled back to New York State. My excursions to the East Coast in recent years have all been to Walpole, Maine where my husband’s aunt and uncle live. Usually we go back for Christmas, or in Summer for the occasional wedding. I am woefully ignorant of whether or not there are locations around Northern California where I might eat and drink my fill of magnificent Fall color. There may be a few. I am traveling to Mount Shasta with a friend in early October, and I may find the color there I seek.

Thanks for reading as I reminisce. I appreciate your regard.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

Herbaceous Goodness

Dill is my favorite herb. Cayenne pepper runs a close second, and that actually surprises me. I am a lover of hot and spicy food from way back, so I always assumed hot pepper of any sort would be my favorite. Yet dill, green, feathery and distinctive, is definitely the one I like best.

I’m eating a meal just now, and two out of the three items on my plate are enhanced with dill weed. My broccoli and cauliflower saute was generously sprinkled with dill while cooking, and my side of brown rice was decorated with dill after cooking. I used cayenne pepper on the cabbage/kale/shitake mushroom/garlic saute–and I must admit, I was tempted to use dill as well!

I love to cook, and have played with ingredients and made up my own recipes for as long as I can remember. As a little girl I picked wild blackberries for pies, used my mother’s mixer to turn heavy cream into butter, and cut translucent slices of cooked potato to make my own potato chips.

Even today, I rarely cook from any recipe in a book. Sometimes I start with a written recipe and make something completely new. Cooking is a creative act for me, one that lets me nourish my body with the results. Now that my diet consists mostly of vegetables, I am learning new ways to put them together and to make them taste outrageously delicious.

If there are any other vegetarians out there who want their diets to be even healthier while remaining (or becoming) more scrumptious, I am happy to share some of my cooking secrets. This one I’ll share right now: remember to have fun.

If you ever read the book Like Water for Chocolate, or saw the movie by the same name, there’s a deeper truth there. When you love to cook, you cook with love, and whatever you cook tastes that much better as a result.

Thanks for reading. Bon Appetit!