Bragging Rights

Bragging Rights

Since this is my blog it occurs to me I have bragging rights.  Today I want to brag about my son Justin.  Not only is he a wonderful son, father, brother, etc., he started out life with a great attitude, that he was born with the ability to make his own choices in life.  He realized this at a very early age.

My brilliant son at the tender age of five came home from his third day in kindergarten.  “Well,” he said with satisfaction, “I learned all I want to know.”  I explained that he had only begun his education and there was much more to learn.  He was still insistent that he “had learned all he wanted to know.” He had no intention of returning to school.  I didn’t want him to feel he had no say in the matter, that school was something which was forced on him.  I wanted him to see it was a journey just begun and look forward to learning more.  To be honest I was bewildered.  It was one thing, I thought, to hate school as some children may say they do, but another to think they have learned all they wanted to know after three days in kindergarten.  I wondered if I’d given him the impression that school was like Tot Lot, which he’d attended for a few weeks the summer before. I talked to the Principal and he thought my son may need some special attention.  He would come offer him a ride in his little red sports car.

My son did not act impressed when the Principal came but agreed to go with him.  I don’t know what the Principal did or said but my son did return to kindergarten and became a happy brilliant student. He grew up to become a wonderful adult with a career in the Air Force, retiring as a Lieutenant Colonel.  He recently returned to his hometown and began a new career.  You can see why I breathe a sigh of relief.  For an intended kindergarten dropout, he has done exceptionally well.

A Wise Quote From a Genuis

I ran across the following quote from Einstein yesterday. “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.” – Albert Einstein

It’s not too late to open our minds and hearts to recall the sacred gift of intuition granted to us at our birth. It awaits hopefully to be rediscovered and renewed. How many times have you learned something new and then discovered you had already known it before you learned it. You had just forgotten it for awhile. It had been waiting in the back of your mind for you to remember.

Lost Yet Found: My Inner Journey – Part 1

“Now, each event of which you are aware is already a translation of an inner event, a psychic or mental event that is perceived by the soul directly but translated by the physically oriented portions of the self into physical sense terms.”   Seth Speaks, the Eternal Validity of the Soul by Jane Roberts

As a child I had several experiences of “seeing things”.  One vision was lovely and comforting yet the next one was frightening.  So much so that I built up a resistance to seeing things.  I kept an eye out just in case something scary tried to appear, to let the bad things know they weren’t welcome.  Which worked, mostly.  Only a few managed to get through the barrier over long periods of time.

I also carried an image in my mind of a closed door at the end of a tunnel with a light shining from beneath it. Even though I wondered what was behind the door I had no intention of opening it. I was afraid of what I might see.

All of which began to change after I married and had children.  I began to question my former beliefs. Things I had assumed to be true.  I started on a long journey of self-discovery.  What did I know for sure?  Not much.  Eventually I opened the strange door in my mind.  I would later learn it was the first of many more to come.

I tackled the subject of religion.  I’d grown up in the Protestant church but had been impressed by a visit to a Catholic church with a friend.  I loved the grandeur, the ceremony, the priests in their robes, the beauty and elegance.  I made an appointment with a priest. I told him I was considering raising my children in the church.  He said I would have to become a Catholic first and gave me some materials to take home and read.  I read the material and realized I couldn’t believe all of it.  Since he’d said I had to believe what was in the materials, I realized I couldn’t become a Catholic.

The children’s father left such decisions to me.  They were still toddlers, all four under five years of age, the third and fourth being twins.  So I felt we still had plenty of time to decide which church to join. Meantime we said grace at meals.  At Christmas time their father read the story of Christ’s birth to them.  They were, of course, sweet adorable children. I was very proud of them.

One day it came to me that all I really had to pass on to my children was who I was (since I had no wealth).  I not only should be a good example but also improve myself, try to become a person with the qualities I wanted to pass on to them.  Having always been an avid reader I read many of the self-help books popular at the time.  But I also read books which helped me to understand myself.  Which led to the next door in my mind.  I would open it to rediscover my early intuition and spirituality.

In the late Sixties and early Seventies Jane Roberts was contacted by an entity who called himself Seth.  She began writing the Seth books.  As I read them I found answers to many of my questions.

To be continued

 

 

Is The Me Too Movement Over?

Is the Me Too Movement over?  Is it too late, or is there a place where I can sign on.  I recently entered his name on Google and learned he died six months ago.  No, he wasn’t the one who did it to me but he was the one who changed his mind and finished destroying my self-esteem.  His obituary said he was 86 years old and had a full life.  Well, bully for him.  Although I’m not quite 80 I’ve had a full life too.  I had no choice but to go on.  What else do you do?  You pick up the pieces scattered about, grin and bear it.  Roll with the punches.

We had met and he’d romanced me, making me feel so loved!  Treating me like a lady. But we double-dated one night with his friend.  His friend told him.  Later I noticed a change, asked what was wrong.  He told me.  The friend had recognized me.  He had arrived at an alumni party of fraternity brothers and their dates.  I was passed out and they were searching for my panties.

Humiliated?  You bet.  All I remembered was arriving with my date, having one drink and waking up the next morning, sleeping bodies scattered about.  I woke one and asked him to take me home.  What else could I do?  It never occurred to me something had been in that drink.  I’d never heard of such things.  I assumed I’d had too much to drink.  As usual I blamed myself.  I’d learned early in life that anything that happened to me was my own fault.

I’d like to blame him, even though he’s dead.  Kick him in the gut for assuming I was trash, not the “nice girl” he had believed me to be.  But instead I hope he had a miserable life, married a girl who was actually a hooker, found out on their wedding night (since she wouldn’t let him before) that she was not a virgin.  I wish all kinds of evils on him for the time I suffered, licking my wounds until, on the surface I healed yet went on to make a few more bad choices.

But you know what?  I wouldn’t change the results of those later choices.  Because I’m a survivor.  I learned to love that innocent, naïve girl that I was.  Welcomed her into my life.  Along with the one who at age fifteen successfully fought off an attempted rape. I hit him over the head with my shoe and threatened him with my brothers.  “By God,” the asshat said.  “I never thought I could get a virgin!” and begged me to marry him.  The answer of course was ‘Hell no.”

Gypsies on the Mountain

Mama and I sit on the front porch in the growing dark, watching a string of lights move along the side of the mountain.  I ask her what they are.  “It’s the Gypsies,” she says, “they always come back this time of year.”

“Where do they go off to?”

Mama tilts her head and pauses for a moment. “Someplace on the other side of the mountain, I reckon.”

A storybook picture fills my mind, of a tall covered wagon with pots and pans banging against its sides, drawn by large dark horses and led by dark-skin people in brightly colored clothes, barefoot children with tangled hair dancing along behind.

I see myself, one of those dark-skinned children, not the coming but the going, to that mysterious place on the other side of the mountain, in a Gypsy caravan with twinkling lights.  I wonder if I am really a Gypsy child.

“Why do they come back,” I say.

“Why, to steal our eggs.”

Did they leave me here?  I wonder.  Maybe they traded me for the eggs.

The house is small and dark; we go to bed early to make the lamp oil last longer.

Lying beside Mama in the growing dark I force my eyes to stay open to keep away the monsters that hover in the darkest corner of the room, waiting for me to go to sleep.  When they will invade my dreams and chase me through the terrifying night …..

 

Waiting for Uranus

Did you know there’s a place in the back of your mind
That’s gathering dust?
A place where you’ve stored things
Over the years
Just for awhile, you said
Until you have more time
Until you have more money
Until, until….
Sometimes a small beam of light flickers from this dark place
In the back of your mind
And you wonder, briefly, what it was
But then it goes out and you forget to wonder….
They still wait there, you know, beneath the dust on the shelf in the dark place in the back of your mind
For something
To trigger your memory
And bring back your future

A Ghost Story

Have you noticed all those ghosts walking around? They used to be mothers, full of life, full of warm, nurturing love. Babies snuggled up in the curve of their necks, their soft sweet skin smelling of Johnson’s baby powder. The babies grew and grew and learned to walk and talk and make their mommas proud when they said her name. As they began to explore, they outgrew their infant needs, becoming self-propelled. They began to learn grownup things. Like who to love and who to hate and some even learnt who to blame when things go wrong. Be it their teachers, the government or their mothers.

They used to be ordinary people like you and me before the miracle of motherhood changed them into bright shooting stars that lit the heavens with happiness for an all-too-brief moment that continues to warm their memory as they grow old.

Have you noticed all those ghosts walking around? The ones with their failing eyesight and tender smiles who fade into the background, soft-spoken and undemanding? They had their moment in the Sun and are content to watch the seasons change and the years fly by.

I hate to say it but they are not me.

Oh, how I loved my time of shooting stars, yet I refuse to be a ghost.