The Bottom Half

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“To sin by silence, when we should protest, makes cowards of us all.”
-Abraham Lincoln

Donate, protest, keep sharing, exposing and doing what you can. Do the right thing, don’t look away.

That is the top half of freedom. The bottom half hides in a dark well, looking up. Another kind of protest, a quiet conviction FOR something, a belief, a knowing that burns truth and passion into your soul. The thing, or things, the parts of yourself that fascinate and excite you, and scare the shit out of you. The heartfires you want to pursue, the love you want to surrender to, the power you want to inhabit. But you’re afraid to admit it and say it out loud, especially to yourself. Because once you do, you will have to do something about it. It commands your attention. And you know that if you ignore it, you won’t be able to live with yourself.

Eckart Tolle said that his life changing moment came when he heard the words “I can’t live with myself any longer”. The awakened question appeared, “who is the ‘I’ that I can’t live with?”

Who is the ‘I’ that’s talking to the little suffering self that I think is me?

To feel that ‘I’, that voice, the entity that’s watching, is to know it surrounds you and IS you at the same time. That voice, that feeling, knows who you are and what you’re here to be. It speaks louder and feels stronger than who you’re not, while the skittering monkeymind self runs around in a junkyard, trying to drown it out. It bangs on cans and spins circles in the garbage with distractions and arguments. But the “I” inside and all around is incessantly still and patient. It only wants your emergence out of illusion. And it won’t shut up, ever.

The trials of life, and resistance to them, of giving up and starting over, and over again, through it all I begin to hear more of what this other “I” tells me. Especially when what it’s saying pisses me off; because dammit I can’t escape it. The truth has a funny way of backing us into a corner. It nags you in the back seat, and floats around in your depths. Pull it up and to the front, let it breathe fresh air. Fight, thrash and cry with it. Your tears unleash it and will calm you down. The feelings felt, the words finally spoken, this other “I” moves in and takes charge.

Drive where it tells you, take the lid off the well. There’s nowhere to go but beyond what you were. Hidden in dark water, asleep in the dirt; you’ll wake up to the sky, in the garden.

Set Yourself Free

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“Grief is the price we pay for love.”

Heartbreak. Is it worth it? Yes. The person you’ll become by being a willing participant in life, in diving into the mysteries of your heart, is why you’re here. You can’t know who you are by staying shut down and afraid to be vulnerable. It’s an honor to feel with such intensity, depth, and enormity that you think it might kill you. Some spend their whole lives only knowing the painful numbess of their own repression. You could die tomorrow, in the prison of your own making. That is the real killer. Don’t waste this life regretting that you didn’t honor the gifts you were given. Not just your talents, but your deepest expression of connection. Most especially in the terrifying, exquisite dance of intimacy between two hearts.

When love arrives, in whatever strange form it does, allow it to do to you what it will. Even in surprising friendships, connections with animals, familial bonds, or passionate human desiring, love is your greatest teacher. One of it’s infinite lessons is to remind you that you had it all along. The Wizard behind the curtain is you.

To survive your biggest fears, the simplest answer, and most difficult endeavor, is to love yourself first. Above all else. And to forgive yourself for every fall back. Not just once, not just on paper, but as an ongoing practice. It is not a meme, or a self help quote, or an overused platitide, or a nice concept. When taken in, when surrendered to, it can never be overstated. It is the key to the door you’re afraid to open. It is your mission. With love of your own beautifully imperfect self, you can venture through the treacherous wilderness of the world, and relationships. That sword of Self Love cuts through the bullshit. It burns straight into the core of your life and unearths the treasure that you came here to find.

Love is the calling, fear is the challenge. Accept regardless and step out into the deep. They go hand in hand as the soulmates of your life. Trust is the boat that carries them. Don’t watch it go by. Get on board.

Just Say It

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What is going on? Night before last, one of the best of my life, made my day. But last night, I dreamt I was with a friend and we came into her home to find her dog slaughtered on the kitchen floor. Yet not all the way dead, still breathing, and looking at us “why did you let this happen to me?” What the holy hell. One of the worst nightmares I’ve ever had.

Maybe it was because I’d just seen a clip of a pig being slaughtered, as the USDA just made news yesterday by reinstating “high speed pig slaughter”, one of the most brutal and horrifying deaths a sentient being could have. And thus, the thought of this kind of cruelty being done to gentle, intelligent, innocent pigs, cows and chickens too, and baby cows and chicks and piglets, by the billions every day, and accepted, and hidden within mainstream society; the utter insanity of this melted into my subconscious and I had a dream that it was right in front of me. Thus I was personally devastated by it.

As I am in my waking life, we are all impacted, whether consciously or not, by the depraved industry that is animal agriculture. The horror was not new to me. The first time I started seeing any of it, finally let myself sit through the undercover videos, was about eight years ago. It haunted my dreams then too.

I’ve shared “annoying/extreme vegan activist” stuff, simply the truth behind the lies, on facebook more consistently lately when I feel I must say something, but not for awhile. Right now though, instead of going to work-out and get on with my day, I’m compelled again to share these things. That nightmare was telling me something that I’m still trying to put my finger on. Maybe it’s partly, say what the hell you want to say in this life. Not just about politics, animal rights, spirituality, the environment, oppression of all kinds, but your own story especially.

Speak on anything that’s important, to you! Risk being in the minority, getting criticized and ridiculed, being ignored. In the end, what does it matter? Do I want to live my life being safe, and only sharing things that are easy for people to hear because then I’ll be liked and approved of by everyone? Great. That may temporarily satisfy the ego, but it kills the soul. I need to be liked and approved of by my own self first. And that means being honest. I am love and light, and grief and guilt, and self doubting and fearful, sometimes embarrased and regretful and sometimes there is shame.

But the more I listen and ask myself, what feels right to do, to say? Not for the attention, not to be seen, or liked, but because it’s why I’m here, I can at least know I’m being who I came here to be. Then the joy and inspiration and wanting to share that returns too, because I honored the times when the opposite feelings just needed to be felt; and expressed. No matter who doesn’t like it.

After I wrote and shared about this and other animal issues yesterday, I went to a fitness class in the afternoon.  A woman behind me had this piglet tattoo on her calf; and the woman right next to me was wearing a shirt, with a large photo of her dog that covered her entire chest. The dog’s face had the same eyes, looking at me in my nightmare from the night before. And that affirmation was so much better than a like or a comment. The approval of Spirit, telling me to keep saying what I must, is all I need.

Suspended Stars

Reach up and pull yourself down into your body. Let it explore the dull ache, grab hold of it and ask, “what are you”? Feel the stiffness of that clay of pain, mix it up, immerse yourself, swim around, and mold it into something new. Like a lover, it’s only wanting your touch. And it swoons when you ask questions. “What are you covering up and keeping quiet with the fake smile, the extra bite of food, the extra drink, too much Netflix, too many selfies? What are you saying no to? And what are you ignoring?”

Another endless scroll through your life won’t find that scratch to your elusive itch. There will be moments, if you’re one of the lucky ones (you are), but never a whole day. Why is that so unfair? It’s not. It’s exactly right, it’s exactly you. You wrote this script in the sky. Then plopped yourself into your Mama’s belly, to bathe in amnesia. You can’t know the end of the story because there isn’t any. You can only know what you came here to remember; the tragic, hilarious truth.

The doors have been open the whole time. You can get out whenever you want. The prison you think is your limitation, your unworthiness, your inherent flaw, doesn’t exist. You designed this maze called your life, glorious drama and brilliant comedy that it is, because it’s too boring to know the Truth all the time. You had to forget, for the thrill of remembering what’s now projecting onto the screen. You see yourself, shimmering with faith and dimming with doubt. You’re the writer, director, producer, Star. Suspending nirvana so you can dance in flesh. Unraveling you, only to discover, you’re God too. And Shakespeare, and Dr Seuss, laughing at the book signing, “look at all those silly angels in line, waiting for autographs when they can just sign their own books”.

(photo by Adam White)

towers

Standing alone as grace and might
nothing to prove and nothing to hide,
matter dissolves and becomes a new you
that sees all directions
up, down and through
no longer bound by the shell of your body
as always it was and always will be
as horse and flower, you’re only just God
as clear as day, you know the Way
but desire pulls you back to the matter at hand
while gentle amnesia embraces your Mind
and so you enter the battle again,
but this time
something else knows, that inside the swirl,
you’re only just God,
fighting yourself and creating your world
watching with wonder, “what beauty and power!”
you stand again and gather your children
scared and confused, they hear from the Tower
“you’re all the same, you’re only just God,
know it or not, it’s ok, but one day
you’ll wake up and see
yourself as Me”

(art by Deborah Butterfield)

blossoms

Through tiny stems you see a filtered world,
behind hints of trepidation,
a thin film of blandness,
warping your view of the Universe within,
behold your creation!
love the unknown truth,
you are imagination,
evaporating brilliance blossoms again,
bright and tall in the sun of you.

The Angel Gabriel, and Freddie

Gabe

Some people, living and dead, known in this life or only known of, come into our lives in a flash and leave an indelible mark on who we are.

A couple years ago I went to a movie and beforehand there was a trailer for a new documentary. Within a few seconds, I got a lump in my throat. But something in me didn’t want to go there, so my mind quickly swept it out. “Oh my god, it’s Gabe”. The doc is called ‘Strike a Pose’, about the male back-up dancers who performed with Madonna during her 1990 world tour, and their lives now. They had also been part of a documentary about the tour that came out back then, called ‘Truth or Dare’. They were having a rollicking good time in that one, lots of backstage antics, six of them were gay, one of them straight. I saw it in the theater when it came out, 25 years ago.

Then a few months later I came across a co-worker’s post on Facebook, about a new documentary he’d just seen on Netflix, ‘Strike a Pose’. Within seconds, that lump came back. “Oh Gabe. Someone has finally told your story, thank God”. I decided it was time to watch it. The doc shows the lives of Madonna’s back-up dancers now. She had picked each of them, only seven, out of thousands who auditioned. And the guy I was secretly in love and lust with in my junior year of high school was one of them. His name was Gabriel Trupin. We were both in the dance department at School of the Arts in San Francisco. I had switched high schools three times already (moving, chaos and being a teenager, the perfect storm) and when I arrived it was the spring semester of my Junior year.

I was a ballet dancer for the most part before this, had done some jazz, but this school’s program was much more contemporary. Lyrical modern and jazz were the focus, with a little hip hop thrown in. I was a loner and fairly miserable in my own skin, but this way of expressing myself was much more freeing and a welcome relief. When I stepped foot in that studio for class and then rehearsal, I immediately zeroed in on this beaming light of manly beauty and talent. Gabe was a vision to behold. He was so beautiful to look at, tall, lean but muscular, and dark, could have been a GQ model. That type had never done much for me, mainly because I had yet to encounter (from my teen angst and insecurity perspective) a guy who looked like that who would ever notice me, much less be real and nice. It wasn’t that he was so gorgeous to look at, nor his joy and natural skill when he danced. It was his essence; he was a beautiful human being. I came to see that he was humble, sweet and paid attention to the unpopular, awkward ones. He was the star, the teachers loved him, and he was all MAN. The girls got giddy and nervous in his presence, I was no exception. The other guys in class of course just wanted to be him.

We didn’t talk much in the brief time I knew him, but in all our interactions I felt seen, and dancing alongside him was like dancing with a flame. And he was kind and gentle. And he knew something. He was calm. He didn’t have to try, he was greatness already.

I found out years later that he had died of AIDS. I didn’t even know he was gay. Apparently nobody did, and he had a girlfriend in high school who loved him so much. Madonna refused to edit out the footage of him kissing another man, after he begged her to. He was outed on the big screen, then found out soon after that he had contracted AIDS. Tragedy can be such a horrendously beautiful thorn in the heart.

Last month I had a job working in the AIDS Memorial Grove, an annual fundraiser in Golden Gate Park. Gabe’s name is engraved there. The spiral path illuminates, the trees grow taller. My Mom’s best friend from childhood, a girl, was also named Gabriel. I’d always associated that name with goodness, with helping buds to blossom.

Recently I went to see ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, the new film about Queen and Freddie Mercury. I cried tears of sadness and love and inspiration I hadn’t felt in a long time. When I think of Gabe I feel those same things. Both Gabe and Freddie gave me goosebumps and here I am writing about them. They are still being of service to me, telling me it’s ok to be more of who I really am. When they pop into my awareness, I remember them as doing the same thing, and there is a feeling of camaraderie in that. I’m not alone ever. I think of them and I remember.

Freddie Mercury’s wife loved him regardless. I recently made a new dear male friend. It’s not a romantic couple kind of love, but it’s not devoid of aliveness and excitement either. It’s that different kind of love that you can’t define. You meet someone, there’s an instant connection; more than just a friendship, it’s something else. They recognize you right away, they immediately love you for you, and very soon you realize you love them too.

Gabriel was that, is that. And so is Freddie. I feel them singing and dancing together in Heaven, and inside me. I love them for the gifts they were, but also as a presence I feel now, an inspiration that guides me and tells me secrets. My new special friend is that too. Angels never leave.

October 17th

29 years ago I was alone in an elevator in San Francisco and the ‘Quake of ’89’ hit. Of course terrified, the lights went out, it didn’t occur to me it was an earthquake. I just assumed the elevator was malfunctioning and I would soon plummet to my death. I survived. And here I am, 29 years later, not knowing I’m experiencing a similar earthquake within, but only realizing once I was out of the darkness. Today I woke up, out of a meditation but also out of a dulled life. Yesterday started out ok, but I was tired, I was in pain, and as the work day became a grueling 11 hour night, I was also succumbing to my darkest tendencies. Doubting, exhausted in my confusion of how to change my life and my patterns, I began overeating. This took me back down to the gnawing shame of self-hatred I hadn’t visited in a long time. And after just a week before, feeling on top of the world. So I collapsed from the high and last night came home to defeat.

I saw a photo today of the Bay Bridge on the day of the earthquake, where a portion of the top deck had fallen onto the bottom, taking with it a life that plunged into the water. I remember seeing that clip on the news back then, and the screams of the people in the cars behind who witnessed the horror. We thought it was the end of the world. I’d even had a premonition in a dream the week before of this very thing. And now it was real. But then it wasn’t, for me. There was death and destruction but I was still here and my life continued. There was another dying last night. And a rebirth today. 29 years later, it is still so hard, I am still the same person but I’ve lived so many lives since then. I am so much better, and weathered and worn, and fresh and new at the same time. Today the top deck of the first half of my life collapsed. That outer layer of artifice and desperation, of suspension, and waiting for things to change, buckled under the weight of my dreams. My dreams are too big to hope. My dreams deserve all my belief. My trust is the Bay I’m diving into.

in spirit

Flashing star bolts from the ether
into my body it shoots and ripples,
the tip of a paint brush,
a vision in nature,
calls forth the future
renewing my word
strumming guitars I’ve never heard,
it ushers me down to the orchestra pit
alone in my room, it orders me “sit”,
allowing the sculptor,
a wave diving through
the dawning hue
of whirlpooling light,
unearthing the jewel,
and my vessel is back
in tune.
(artist unknown)

branches

Held on high and lifted up
the lightest touch, we whisper
propelled and shaken, awakened moons
and one step back, we falter
not right not wrong, not wax nor wane
we remain, where branches bloom.

(photographer unknown)