This is the Thing . . .

Okay, here's what I did with my free time today:
Meet Frank and Fritz (left and right respectively).

They are now guarding our front porch atop their thrones of plastic pot (courtesy of our backyard pile 'o junk, where all discarded potting equipment must eventually end its tawdry life or, apparently, find a happier fate under a pumpkin).

It's Halloween -- another pagan holiday (once rather serious) pilfered by the Christians, who attempted to turn it into a religious observance honoring only the "good" people (saints, etc. -- thus the name Hallows-eve, the day before All Hallows Mass), but which reverted back to something at least a bit closer to its original Celtic form once the inventive and party-on! Americans got hold of it.

Seems that, even after pillory, whipping, torture, and burning at the stake, those dang backward pagans never did completely give up the idea that it was probably good practice to give a nod to all those on the "other side of the veil" (maybe cultivate your allies and protect yourself against those who weren't so happy with you) when you are about to plunge into a long, cold Winter. Golly gee, those wacky pagans!

It is said that on this night, the veil between the worlds (of the living and the dead, the seen and the unseen) is at its thinnest. It is simultaneously the end of the harvest, and the beginning of the new seed, which will lie dormant all Winter, but is alive, nonetheless, holding the potential of the crops that will burst forth in the Spring.

I believe in the power of this paradoxical time, in which fruit and seed and tree are all present, though not apparent.

Tonight, my first trick-or-treater was a friend who dropped in for a Halloween visit. She was magnificently garbed in a lavender ball-gown, complete with tiara, pearls, and fine white embroidered gloves, bedecked with jewelry from her grandmother, and a prominently-placed pillow filling out the front of her frock. Her greatest desire is to have a baby (soon!), and so she "hallowed the evening" with her vision of herself as a pregnant princess.

The stream of visiting spirits at our door was heavier than usual this year -- probably due to the seductive charms of Frank N' Fritz. (After all, nothing says "Free Candy Here" better than a couple of gutted gourds.)

But a lot of the kids were older this year -- very few of the shy, tiny tykes whose mothers prompt and prod: "Now what do you say????", after I load their bags. I feel a bit guilty as this little girl sporting tule wings turns around and practices her Emily Post on me: "Thank you very much." I think the kid is truly grateful, but it's likely that her mother, who has cattle-prodded this appreciation from her, may be cursing my name in a few days, when the sugar-frenzy has not yet abated. The kid's bag is huge, and lumpy, and very, very, full.

Faeries seemed to be in vogue this year. Now, I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday, so I know that there is a big difference between a Faerie and the very convincing and regal Elven queen who graced my doorstep (I think she only took the candy because she thought I might be catching on that she was for real, and didn't want to blow her cover).

A short list of other memorable visitations tonight:

An X-generation pirate, with very good "Arrrrs".

This pirate (whose alter-ego identity is known to me) came with a whole passel of Gen-Xers, who sang "We wish you a Merry Christmas" to me, after complimenting my pumpkins. This group also included a guy with a piece of egg-crate foam curved over the top of his head. "And what are you?" I asked, as I let them pick their favorites from the candy bowl. "I'm an herbivore," he said with panache, and charged forward as if to browse, head down, spikes of foam advancing toward me. It forced laughter out of me.

Two smallish faeries with a larger faerie mother, a human grandmother timidly standing up on the sidewalk out of harm's way -- accompanied by a very small vampire brother. (Wow, I'll bet there's tension in that family.)

The Phantom of the Opera (the new, post-broadway-musical version -- no Lon Chaney gruesomeness -- a handsome cuss behind his mask, I'll bet, and probably a teen fag to boot -- after all, I know what I'd go as, if I were a gay guy in high school these days. Trendy and scary -- oh girl!) I know, this may be pure projection on my part -- but listen, he was also really, really polite. No -- REALLY polite. (Wish I'd gotten a look at his fingernails.)

Now here's a question I have -- why did they all seem so shocked when I simply held out the bowl and let them pick what they wanted? They all just held out their bags and waited for me to drop something in. Instead, I said, "Pick your favorite." We had a limited selection, but went, as always, for the "good stuff": a mix of Mini Mars, Kit-Kat, Baby Ruth, single Reeses. The treaters seemed shocked.

I don't know, maybe it's just me, but I just don't feel comfortable selecting someone else's candy for them. Sure, they could trade a personally-despised Mars bar (I would), but why not let them choose for themselves? I have enough faith in the variety of the Universe that I believe that it would all balance out in the end. I truly do not believe that we would end up with a bunch of "crap candy" at the bottom of our bowl.

At one point, I thought about relying on some kind of "psychic candy matching", having been faced with so many surprised and slightly disgruntled children. I could almost hear them saying in their heads "Dude! You're not doing it right!"

And I honestly couldn't remember -- was this some time-honored Halloween protocol that had slipped away in my adult mind? Were they relying on me to be somehow tyrannical, wise, and wonderful in the manner of my dispensation of sweets? Was it my job -- as the adult --as the person who was at home, dressed in regular clothing -- to apportion the goodies?

Later in the evening, I did hear a comment from a tennish/elevenish person as she scittered away from my door. She said to her friend over her shoulder: "I told you this would be a good one."

My choice to support their choice was utterly validated in that moment.

This blog entry and this day is a personal victory for me. Long ago, and far away, I experienced an extremely difficult Halloween night. The fallout of this was that this "holiday/holy day" was very difficult for me each time the calendar turned 'round to it -- this was so, for me, for many years.

This year, for the first time, I spent the day carelessly carving pumpkins and planning the delight of children of all ages.

I think it's going to be a very good Winter.

Don't you just love that phrase . . . "Temporal Anomaly"? With a nod to Jean Luc, I am also partial to combining the words "tachyon", and "pulse".

Because if something is going wrong in your life, you can blame it on a localized temporal anomaly, and you can simply deal with it by changing the modulation of your tachyon pulse. If it's good enough for Data, Wesley, the utterly-testy Deanna, and the serenely-centered Guinan, it's good enough for me.

Today we taught a class, which started at 10 am (which was really 11 am), and most of the folks that checked in talked about the wonkiness of Time in recent weeks. They weren't just talking about the oddity of setting the clock back "just because we agreed to" -- they were talking about the oddity of Time itself lately.

For me, Time has been in a strange state of flux for the past couple of years. It has seemed very elastic, compressing and expanding at unexpected intervals, and the weirdness just seems to be getting weirder as the hours, days, weeks, months, and years tick off.

This week, I had two days in which time stretched out like my cat in front of the radiant heater -- it got long and thin and slow -- during an interval when I didn't expect this. I was very busy on both these days -- days that I had no scheduled work such as session or class -- and usually, when I'm very active on my "days off", time seems to compress down to the tiniest and most fleeting particles imaginable. I was grateful to luxuriate in that slow-passing Time -- I kept looking at the clock and thinking "Wow! Great! It's only 1 pm!" "Wow! Great! It's only 1:15!"

Carruch gave us an assignment several weeks ago to "turn the clocks against the wall", which I did, for the most part -- I covered the clock on my computer with a sticky, turned the old timex around, and just set alarms for the stuff I needed to do on a time line.

It drove me absolutely, stark-raving crazy.
I was surprised.

I realize that my relationship with the clock is, to some extent, simply an exercise in self-torture. My life is such that I often don't have to be ruled by the clock -- yes, I have sessions at a certain time, and circles, and classes, but much of my time is self-governed, relying on no appointment or rigid schedule. (This doesn't mean I don't do a lot -- I just get to do it on my own organic schedule for a good part of my days.)

Still, I look at the clock compulsively, measuring my life by it. Even now, before me, below this post, there is a little "Time" and "Date" meter that tells me when I first started posting on this entry. It reminds me that I sat down to start during a lunch-break today, at 1:43 pm, and it is now 7:40 pm -- which I know because another little clock in the lower left of my computer screen keeps me ticking along with the agreement. (Yes, I took the stickie off -- I just couldn't bear not knowing, somehow).

I have been told by those older than myself that time continues to accelerate as you get older. Yet I believe that the compression I'm experiencing lately (it seems like so much happens in a single day) is beyond that. I seem to be transforming and changing so quickly, and being impacted by such a huge variety of experiences in any given period, that I am hard-pressed to assimilate it all before the next transformation-wave hits. Even younger folks that I know are reporting this, so I'm not sure it's just an age-thing.

But why am I so fascinated with knowing what time it is? Why, after we had turned the clocks around for days, was I still glancing up to the discolored spot on the wall where the bedroom time-piece used to rest? What the fuck is so important about knowing the time of day, even on days when I have nothing on my calendar, nowhere I have to go, and nothing I have to do?

I think that in my case, it's just plain old freakin' fear. Yes, I said it -- The "F" word.

I'm afraid that if I go to bed too late, I'll be tired in the morning. I'm afraid that if I don't do something now, it will press on me later. I'm afraid I'll miss an appointment and someone will think I'm flakey. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid.

I think what I'm really afraid of is letting go of the thin thread of connection I have with the status quo. It's thin, and getting thinner. I don't really care how I dress anymore. More accurately, I don't really care what anyone else thinks about how I dress anymore. (I care deeply about whether the clothes I am wearing are comfortable and warm/cool enough.) I don't care to be polite, opting instead to be civil (treating others as I would like to be treated). I don't care if someone thinks I'm "cool" or "hip" anymore. I don't care if someone thinks I'm stupid. Some people would say: "She's really let herself go." And I have. Thank God.

I've let go of a lot of my attachments to the status quo agreement about how I "ought" to be.

So why do I cling to the agreement about "what time" it is?

If I completely let go of time, would I also be letting go of some extremely basic agreement about how humans must/should/ought to interact? Will I, in effect, become like an Alzheimer's patient, drifting in a continuum of my own definition? Will I be letting go of some primary way of affirming a collective reality, which we have agreed to mark with seconds, minutes, and hours, dates and days?

I've considered doing this. I've thought about not scheduling sessions at all, or not setting a specific starting time for circles and classes -- but rather sitting like a hermit in a cave, without time measurements, and waiting to see who showed up when, or who called when -- and letting my whims and waves of self-dom determine whether (and how) I responded to the knock on the door or the ring of the telephone. I may yet choose to do this.

How lovely to say, "when the sun is disappearing over the western horizon each day, I may sit to channel and to teach -- or I may not". How lovely to say "I will do sessions when I feel like it, and leave the scheduling to the Universe and the choice of those who seek my assistance."

How lovely.
How terrifying.

And how ironic, when I have just recently embarked upon the use of an "online scheduler", that not only "keeps" time with me, but with my clients around the world.

I think I am especially aware of the arbitrary nature of time today, when "we, the people" (at least the people who agree to) simply steal an hour of the day, and declare that "now it is 1 am rather than 2 am!" (Of course, we are good little beings, so we plan to gift this hour back to the day next Spring.)

I notice that the Sun takes no notice of what we have decided. Nor the stars, nor the moon.

I awoke with the sun today (a thing that is new for me since I entered my late forties -- as a child, teen, and young adult, I was the sleep-in queen).

I tipped my head back over the pillow to gaze out the east window at a reddening haze, and then, I looked -- at the clock. I realize now that this ritual of sequential glances is so ingrained that I was frustrated during the week that I turned the "alarm" clock against the wall. Staring at it's little plastic backside, I fought the temptation to turn it around, and something inside me raged against my ignorance of the collective measurement.

Today, however, I looked that tiny clock right in the face and said in my head: "Thank God! It's only 6:15!"

I burrowed into the covers again, relieved, and drifted back to my dream -- returning to the bookmark I had set in those other realms -- yes, I was still dangling from the ceiling, my right arm still entwined in a long silk scarf, and my "captor" still negotiating with me as to the quantity and type of my ransom, although I knew very well that I could slide out of my "bonds" at any moment. (Don't even get me started on my dream life.)

Now, it is 8:28 pm, Sunday, October 30th, 2005. At least, that's what time it is here. According to my computer. (And I trust her to know these things.)

In "olden days", it was Noon when the sun was in the center of the sky. "Morning" when the sun came up. "Evening" when the sun went down. No matter where you were.

I think the obsession with time in our culture may be traced somehow to the illusion of control.

Do we believe that if we can pin down: "Who knew what, and when did they know it?", we can somehow come to a sense of certainty about where power and responsibility must rest?

Do we believe that if we can contain time well enough, measure and meter and parcel it out, that perhaps we can make enough of it to satisfy all our stray desires, accomplish all our mad-cap schemes, or escape its restraints altogether?

Do we believe that by carving time up into smaller and smaller increments -- seconds or nano-seconds, that we have somehow multiplied and made more of it?

Why else would we use the term "keeping time" to describe a reliable clock? I believe that, like money, time has become a commodity that we are trained to "store" and "keep", rather than a resource we are taught to use well.

Today, for me, was long and short. I can remember that moment of waking as if it was mere minutes ago. Yet what stretched between now and then -- the discussion with my students of essential qualities, the soul's path, and the nature and purpose of death - seems impossibly large to have wedged between that brief red horizon and this blackened, windy night.

Tomorrow is Halloween. The time when the veil between the worlds is, reportedly, at its thinnest. Daring children, some who know us, some who do not, will grace our doorstep, expecting candy, which we have at the ready, even now. I will carve the two pumpkins that I picked out and have already named "Frank" and "Fritz", but whose faces linger in some creative nook of my brain, not yet manifest upon their wrinkled surfaces.

Does that tomorrow exist already? I have a picture of it in my mind.

Does the today that "happened" exist still? I have a picture of it in my mind.

And between them, there is this Now. The only thing I can truly experience.
And that Now is already gone, replaced by this Now.

Does what I say about time change time? Does what I think about time change time? Does turning my clock back change time? Does time exist at all?

Is time somewhere, laughing at us and our machinations? Giggling at our attempts to control, contain, or define it?

Ah, give me the sturdiness and steadiness of space/locus! At least it seems to stay put. But . . . . but . . . . as Carruch pointed out, many months ago -- I walk into my kitchen every day, thinking that I am returning to a location in space where I have been before -- yet that "place" on a little spinning ball called Earth has literally shifted its location, as the planet spins, and transits around the Sun, and as our Solar System itself moves through the Universe on the arms of our galaxy.

I think it's time for me to abandon all attempts at control, and surrender myself to the experience of this perpetual motion.

I've always wanted to travel, anyway.

----------------------------------
If you've been wondering why I haven't blogged since October 23rd -- well, I wandered into this localized temporal anomaly, you see . . . . and . . . . .

This week, I had a session with a client who has been struggling with a relationship dillema. I'll give the meta-overview of the situation. I think it's one most of you will probably relate to at some level or another.

A long-standing relationship, with long-standing patterns, that has never really been satisfying (probably to either participant). One person begins to transform in their life and the nature of the relationship, which was never satisfying for them, now begins to feel so unsatisfying that they come to a crisis point -- something's got to give. The relationship must transform, or they must leave it.

In the course of our time together, something became clear to me about the thrash and struggle of the situation -- it was clear that, even though the relationship was difficult, and had always been difficult, this person still wanted a relationship.

Which meant that the act of discarding or leaving the relationship would be no more satisfying than continuing with it as it was. This seemed, to me, to leave only one option: To fully embrace and reveal the fact that the relationship was desired, and to engage in the work of possible transformation.

As we talked about that reality, my client's eyes filled with tears. As some of you may have heard Carruch say: "When you squeeze a human being with the truth, the water comes out, for that is what you mostly are."

And so, tonight, I want to talk about the grace of recognizing a pure desire.

I'm aware that I entertain a fear that truly embracing and expressing my pure desires will result in me being in a position of great vulnerability.

For example, if I admit, through all my tough, realistic facade, that I deeply and purely desire a world and a society that is revealing, just, and alive for all, I realize that I am expressing a desire that requires the participation of others. Others who might say "no". Who might laugh at me for being idealistic or impractical. Who might throw me out of the "normal" club. (Ooops. Too late.)

AND -- in spite of the presence of that fear, this desire is still in me. It is real and palpable -- and conscious, when I allow it to be. It motivates much of my action in life.

This desire is a "what is so" for me.

I want to co-create and live in a world that is just and authentic and alive for all.

I have recently had a situation in my life with an erstwhile friend. My estimation of the situation is that we have been at an impasse -- neither proceeding with ending our relationship nor proceeding with cultivating it. It has, for me, been hanging in limbo for some months.

There have been times when, for simplicity's sake, I have wanted to just say: "Well, that's over with." In many ways, it seems like it would be a relief to just cut the cords and move on. But when I search my heart of hearts, I still have a desire to create and maintain living, functional relationship with this person. That is the "what is so" for me, no matter how much I might want to expedite the process, no matter how much I dislike the feeling of being in limbo.

In relating to others, my power and responsibility is limited. I can choose what I think, say, and do -- that's it. I cannot choose what they think, say, or do. I can invite them to the process of relating with me, I can be responsible about how I think, speak, and act with them, and there, my power ends.

I think that I knew this in some innate manner even before I assimilated the concept at an intellectual level. In a society that touts "being in control" as an important aspect of life, I think I experienced consternation when I ran up against the greater cosmic reality that I could only be in control of myself.

The suggested road-map in the societal mindset I was raised in seems to me to be something like this: "Control as much of your life as you can, including finances, circumstances, and other people -- make this a primary focus of your life. Color inside the lines, but don't be boring. If you are smart enough, you can figure out how to get people to do what you want them to do, without them getting mad at you. Plan for the worst. Be nice. Blah. Blah. Blah.".

I rejected a lot of this stuff at an early age, much to the dismay of some of the people around me.

But somehow I retained this sneaking, nasty little mantra: "Don't reveal what you want. It will be used against you."

In this impasse with my erstwhile friend, I think I have journeyed to the edge of my own power and responsibility. I have clearly invited them to participate with me. I have revealed what I want. Now I wait, cultivating my own courage to continue embracing my ongoing desire for participatory friendship, even if that desire goes unanswered by the other.

I think that is the source of the water in my client's eyes. To face the what-is-so of pure desire for something or someone, whether the desire is met or not, is an act of meeting the Self.

The Buddhists might argue that this is the reason to desire nothing, as they cite desire as a source of suffering. But really, that seems like a form of spiritual cop-out to me at this point, a lack of willingness to face the pure desire that is truly present. (I may change my mind about this as I become more enlightened ;-).

The dance I have been dancing in my limbo-relationship is the balance between honoring my own clearly stated boundaries and the pure desire I have for connection with this person. I want to connect with the other, but will not do so at the expense of connection with my Self (in the form of honoring my own boundaries). I found this reflected in my client's difficulty as well.

I've been taking this whole experience as an opportunity to become clear and whole with my Self. In many ways, it has served me, although it has been uncomfortable at times.

I believe that it is a sign of hope, for me, that I still hold this desire to connect. It means, to me, that the events of my relationship with this person are not more powerful than my intention in the relationship.

There have been times in my life when others have chosen not to meet me, have chosen not to accept my invitation, and I attempted to summarily dismiss them from my existence, even though my desire to connect with them remained. In these instances, I had to work very hard to make them "evil", "bad", or "wrong" so that I could justify my choice.

I have found that, when I am truly done with a relationship, I have no need to make the other person "bad" or "wrong", and they usually haven't had the need to make me "bad" or "wrong" either -- we're just done, as if our contract had ended. We might even provide each other with good references, like any two people who have satisfactorily completed their agreed-upon work.

But if the desire for connection is still there, it's still there -- no matter what I choose to do -- like an unfinished contract, it lingers in the file-drawer, demanding attention each time I open the cabinet to search for a different file.

For me, it is a return to grace to simply acknowledge my pure desires.

I deeply desire to live in a society where everyone speaks and acts authentically, where this authenticity is honored and cherished and valued.

I deeply desire to live in a society where everyone practices the golden rule with themselves and others.

I deeply desire to live in a society where connection and equal exchange between beings is cultivated and nurtured as if our lives depend upon it.

I deeply desire to live in a society where each being is granted the power of their responsibility for themselves, and where each being takes up this power joyfully.

I believe that this is possible. I believe that I will see this society in my lifetime. I am helping to create it right now.

In some ways, even listing these desires feels vulnerable to me. I think that's a good thing.

If I deny my yearning,
does yearning disappear?

. . . what a swell party this is!