‘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~

LTNB, Part II — Trip to Mount Shasta

Mount Shasta is a magical place. I had heard much about it’s sacredness and beauty, and I saw and felt them for the first time on my drive to Portland in June. I knew I had to spend more time there, so my friend Karen and I (here’s a link to her blog) went at the beginning of this month.

We drove the four hours to the town of Dunsmuir,  arriving at our motel by mid-afternoon on Monday, October 1. We were greeted almost immediately by a beautiful, pure white pussycat. He was super friendly and starving, apparently a stray. And I loved him. I didn’t fall in love with him. I didn’t learn to love him or grow to love him. I just knew, the instant I saw him, that I had always loved him and always would.

Because I loved him, I wanted to take him home with me. He spent a couple of nights in my room, gobbling cans of Fancy Feast and snuggling with me on the bed. I told him that if he wanted me to, I would take care of him for the rest of his life. I promised him undying love and all the cat food he could eat. I named him Shasta and opened wide my heart to hold him.

In the end, Shasta the cat chose his freedom. I left him behind some food, and the hope that he would live out the rest of his live in whatever way pleases him most. I realized that my time with him was like my dream of standing on the bridge. Perhaps that was why one of my cats appeared there during the dream. I have further come to see that throughout my life I stand on that blasted bit of bridge. I am alone, even when friends surround me — human and animal alike. I am always an island unto myself, yet I need not be a rock.

I am glad to have known Shasta, both the mountain and the cat. I am done with regrets over any part of my life, because regrets are just another way to hold on to the past. I wrote a new song when I returned from Mount Shasta — my first new song in many months. Below is the first verse, and the chorus:

My love lies sleeping under Shasta snow,
and the times we had, only we’ll ever know.
I will never love again the way I loved then–
I will love even more, because I’ve opened my heart.

Shasta snow falls over the water,
Shasta snow falls over the grass,
Shasta snow falls over the mountain,
brings me quiet and peace at last.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

Long Time, No Blog — Part I

I decided it was finally time to make a blog entry, after more than a month away from the blogiverse. Or blogosphere. Or whatever you want to call this fantastic other world we have all conspired to create.

Where have I been? To Shasta. To the Pinnacles. To the heights and depths of myself. I’ve spent a lot of time immersed in dreams, both in the process of dreaming and in the analysis of the dreams. One dream in the past month has been emblematic, so much so that I may paint the central image from it on the drum I bought (more on that later).

In this dream I am dressed in a long, golden-yellow gown and I am striding ahead of a large group of people, leading them away from a city under attack. I walk out onto a bridge, and then the world explodes around me. When the smoke clears, I stand on a blasted section of the bridge, alone. In front of me, darkness and jagged edges of concrete. Behind me, the same. I know I am relatively safe because I am standing in the center, with one of the bridge supports (the only one left) directly beneath me. On this concrete column are rusted metal rungs leading down into dark, roiling water — the only apparent way off the blasted piece of bridge. Above me dark clouds fill the sky. One of my kitties — the black one with two white patches (on her neck and lower belly) is with me on the bridge. I know this even though I do not see her.

Waking from this dream, I thought I understood the message, and I did — in part. I have since discovered there are many, many layers to this deceptively simple image, and each layer holds its own message. For me, the loudest message is: Everything has changed, and you must alter the way you have always walked. For most of my life, my path has been forward, onward, looking toward the future because (I was convinced) the future held the happiness I so desperately wanted. I believe the dream was meant to tell me “Happiness is here. Happiness is all around you, if you will only stop moving forward long enough to take it in.”

Being with myself, steadfastly in the present, is proving more difficult than I would have imagined. My forward movement for all those years kept me safe, provided a buffer from pain, from noxious things in my daily life with which I did not want to deal. If I try to list them all in this post, it will likely be the longest blog post ever made.

I promise I’ll be back soon with more. My life certainly is exciting — that I cannot deny. Thank you for reading, and for any comments you wish to leave. I appreciate 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~

In the Midst

Since I woke up today I have wept and I have laughed out loud. I’ve felt anger surge through me and I’ve peered into the shadows of my own soul.

I am in the midst of grief, letting go of a friendship/mentorship that meant a great deal to me. I am in the midst of joy, anticipating seeing friends and entering into ritual space with them. I am in the midst of fear, anticipating the mysteries I will explore in that ritual space. I could go on, because I am always in the midst of all my emotions, even though I may neglect to acknowledge those that are most painful.

Many months ago I engaged in a visualization during which I went in search of my healer. I found her in a castle dungeon, chained and wearing tatters. With shock, I learned she had imprisoned herself, and she’d done so to keep the pain of the world from overwhelming her. That day, in the vast landscape of my psyche, I set her free, and gave myself the understanding that all my emotions are as they should be, perfect because they are part of me. Without them, I would be someone else. With them, I am the perfectly imperfect being whose words you now read.

Thank you for your regard. It is, as always, deeply appreciated.

~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~

The ‘Kill-Each-Other-with-Clay’ Game

It’s weird dream time again, folks. I woke up today from a dream in which I played a paint-ball-style game with a group of about 15 people. Just as the object of paintball is to ’shoot’ your opponents and win by ‘wounding’ or ‘killing’ them (as shown by the paint splatter on their clothing), the object of the game in my dream was to throw a large wad of moist clay at one’s opponent in hopes of ‘wounding’ or ‘killing’ them. The only way to actually ‘kill’ in this game was to hit your opponent smack in the face with the clay.

In the dream I could play the game the best, and I winnowed the playing field down to me and one or two other people. The whole time we played the game, all of us were laughing and greatly enjoying ourselves, and I remember we were mostly naked with much of our skin covered in dried clay.

At the end of the game — which, as it would turn out, was also the end of the dream — I had chased my last opponent into a large room in which all the players who had been ‘killed’ were waiting. Even though two large windows graced the far wall of the room, everyone sat in shadow, in darkness. From somewhere a light shone on myself and my final opponent — who I think was a young man — as we circled each other, hefting wads of clay and looking for the opportunity to strike.

We smiled hugely at one another, raised our clay lumps and simultaneously threw them — right into each other’s faces. And that was that. The only other impression I have from the dream is of the other game players — the ones who had been ‘killed’ — all sitting passively in the dark and watching us.

This dream makes my weird-o-meter go off the charts! I’ve got all kinds of associations and ideas frolicing around in my brain, such as: clay equalling the human body in poetry and literature, symbolizing our return to the soil after death. That’s the most obvious one to me. Also, I sort of get the symbolism of ‘playing the game’ of life, and that it doesn’t matter how good you are at it — if you equate staying alive with ‘winning’ the game, you’ll never win.

Perhaps this dream came into my headspace simply to make me think. About what, you ask? Well, about what would make me a winner, in other words, make my time on Earth — in this clay body – successful. Sure, I can have fun, and in the end I’m still getting that wad of clay in the face. So what do I want out of my life besides fun? Heavy question, eh?

I’ve got a lot to think about, it seems. Time for me to sign off and get started. Thanks for reading.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

August Heat — For Real This Time

Oh, it is hot today. Hotter than a jalapeno. Hotter than a habanero (does this text editor do tildays)? Hotter than the inside of a . . . well, of something really, really hot. Usually doesn’t get this warm in Northern California, but the last couple of days have been brutal. Right now I’ve got a large fan blowing on me and I’m soaking my tired tootsies in a bowl of water and peppermint soap. . .ahhhhhhhhh! As good as it feels, my feet are the only part of me that’s comfortable. Oh, well.

I performed at a poetry event this weekend in San Francisco, and someone sent me the photo above of myself on stage. It is rare that I actually like photos of myself, and I am very happy with this one. I am red hot! At the moment, literally (and I’m not wearing red — just the old, unloved wool coat of late August, late afternoon air).

Tomorrow I have a free day, and I will probably spend much of it sleeping, catching up on the rest I have not been getting. That will be lovely. I’ve nothing super exciting or pithy to report — just wanted to get in another post before August passes by. If I could bring myself to do shorter posts, and ramble like this when I’ve not much to say, I know I’d post more often.

It could happen. Thanks for reading.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

August Heat

Hardly know anything about August heat anymore, living in Northern California. We get a smattering (one of my favorite words!) of hot weather in summer, but almost nothing to really get excited about. I’ve been to Iowa City, Iowa and Portland, Oregon this summer and both places were way steamier than my area of Nor Cal, at least regarding summertime weather. I guess I just decided to title my post ‘August Heat’ because I couldn’t think of anything else to call it, and it happens to be the first day of August.

I realized recently that I never did post about my drive back from Portland. Well, the first thing I will say is that if my trip up to Portland was the bright side of travel (which is how it felt), then my trip back was the shadow side. To begin with, I drove through five hours of (mostly) heavy rain, which lasted all the way to the California border. I ended up pulling into more rest stops along the way, and even took two naps at different times, each one lasting an hour. That was not, of course, my intention either time, but my sleepy body and brain had other plans. I also managed to injure my right foot at the very first rest stop. Stretching my aching, weary body I tried to grab my right foot and bring it up to my butt, lost my grip and slammed my toes into the concrete wall behind me. Ouch. My middle toe is still bruised and sore.

I did put my new digital camera to good use, as you can see by the picture of Mount Shasta above. I like this photo so much I have it as wallpaper on my desktop computer. (The Portland Sunset one from my previous post adorns my laptop, which I used to blog while in Portland.) I also took a couple of amazing “psychic side trips,” turning off I-5 when my inner voice urged me and taking some photos of gorgeous trees and such along my route. Nearly the most astonishing part of these side trips was this: after each one I found my way back to I-5, and not by backtracking. This is especially astonishing to me given my tendency to panic and get waaaaaay lost when I am in an unfamiliar place.

My first side trip took place in Oregon, a few miles from the California border. I turned off I-5 South and then hung a left, following a sign that told me I was headed toward ‘Old Highway 99.’ I drove all eight miles of Old Highway 99, stopping to take photos along the way.

On the opposite end, 99 was called ‘Old Siskeyou Road.’ I drove past Immigrant Lake and saw gorgeous mountain views, went around in a huge circle and found my way back to I-5.

My other notable side trip took me through the city of Mount Shasta, where the first thing I saw was a billy goat perched on a big rock in someone’s backyard! Perhaps such things are old hat for those who live in Mount Shasta, but billy goats in backyards are exotic to this urban woman. Everywhere I drove in Mount Shasta, I could see views of the mountain for which the town is named and also the ‘plug dome,’ which has another name that I am unable to recall. Fascinating that much of the Shasta area was formed by lava gushing from the mountain’s belly.

 

So really, my trip back was a savory, salty mix of painful and fun, exciting and scary. At one point, near sunset, I pulled in to a rest stop outside of Redding, California and found myself (nearly) alone. As I sat in my car, a man approached holding a spray bottle and cleaning rags, a hopeful smile pasted on his mug. At least, I think he meant me to interpret his smile as hopeful. I was struck immediately by the wrongness of his presence. To begin with, he was clean and neatly dressed; even his rags were clean. He also seemed to be the only other person there, and there happened to be one other vehicle — an old yellow van — in the parking area. I shook my head, rather vehemently, and he backed off. I sat in my car and watched him as he walked around to each of the bathrooms, apparently checking to see if there were any other people around. I lost sight of him for a few minutes, then spotted him peering around the far corner of the men’s bathroom to see if I was still sitting in my car.

Well, that did it. I took off from there, ignoring my need to relieve my bladder, and found another rest stop further along. I mean, maybe this guy was legitimately homeless and ultimately harmless. Maybe. I’m still really glad I didn’t stick around!

My trip back to California ended up taking exactly as long as my trip to Portland — fifteen hours. Now my only question is, where will I go next! I’m thinking about Sedona, Arizona — only about 12 hours away as the car drives. Other possibilities may present themselves as well. A close friend who spend lots of time in Nevada with her sweetie has suggested on several occasions that we (my husband and I) visit she and her sweetie and stay at their bed and breakfast retreat center. Heck, though — that’s only four hours away! But it could be a fun trip, nonetheless.

Wow, this is a long post! And I may make another before the day is through — two in one 24-hour period! Will wonders never cease!

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~