My residential base before the trip is not available, including its resident piano. Neither are previous sources of income available.
I am sitting in the public library on Telegraph. I am here because today is Change Location day but the key to the new location is not where I was told it would be and I can't get into the house. I'd driven there as soon as I woke up this morning; didn't even get dressed. Just slipped on shoes and got in the car. I discreetly changed from pj bottoms to shorts in the car. Parked outside the library I actually slipped a bra on beneath my pj top. I left text and VM at my host's cell #.
In the library, the internet connection was funky for 45 minutes...during which time I received two cell calls offering alternate lodging solutions -- one in Berkeley and the other in Santa Cruz.
I am facilitating a play-shop tomorrow from 4 to 6 at the Court of the Faithful Fools, after meeting at 2 with a potential "replacement" group leader. The players at the Court want to keep going. We have had a rich and marvelous time together since February. I will miss them and playing in the magical waters of our connection.
I believe it will come because "it" always comes. I have almost completely surrendered to the ever-changing rhythms of creativity and inspiration. Resistance is futile and needlessly stressful. Breathing, I detach from identification with the thoughts and feelings and emotions swirling and sparking in response to events in my life.
I am present. Awake. Knowing nothing....and breathing.
Holly Springs looms like a radiant, welcoming angel standing on a not-too-distant hill. Holly Springs is the next scheduled open-ended sojourn. I will carry house keys again and stop asking around for house-sit assignments. I'll plant a garden and probably teach piano.
I'll learn the way to Oxford, the nearest town of size to Holly Springs. I'll keep a list on the refrigerator of things to pick up the next time I'm in "town."
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I caught myself muttering "God damn!" under my breath earlier today and simultaneously noticed my posture: shoulders tense and hunched, belly clenched, little bit of a frown on my face.
Breathing, I detached from identifying with the frustration that produced the curse. Saw it, but not as my identity. Deep breath. Stretching.....standing all the way tall as I am. Eyes open. Breathing. Awake. Knowing nothing. Seeing what is.
My father is aging. His wife, my stepmother, is aging. We are all aging. My father is unhappy. His mind-belly is full of regret. He nurses old grudges.
I see him as a beautiful spirit trapped in Hell. He does not know that if he released his bloody grip on the thorny bars of the cage, he would be free.
He opposed my use of the word "tragic" to describe our family saga. For him, acceptance of that description would suggest his faith in God was lagging. "God is good. God is good" he chants between recitations of decades-old injuries and conflicts.
I see him as a beautiful spirit trapped in Hell. It is tragic. I make no comment on how Daddy's story will unfold from now -- I believe healing, transformation and salvation are real and accessible for everyone. And I see his current situation as tragic.
The next day: Finally connected with my host and slept well in a king-sized bed beneath an open window.
I am grateful for everything: the frustrations, the resolutions, the enduring questions, the surprises. My path wends through a varied landscape. This is a time of movement; later there will be seasons of rest.
I am grateful for everything: the frustrations, the resolutions, the enduring questions, the surprises. My path wends through a varied landscape. This is a time of movement; later there will be seasons of rest.
