By Jamie, on May 3rd, 2011% Milt and I had a nice coffee chat this morning. I realized a couple of things while we were talking. Although this time we spend talking doesn’t produce much or help cross items off our do list, it’s probably the most important time of day for us. It starts with scattered chatter, this and that, but if we stay with it, eventually we break through the chatter and sink into some other place.
My goal is the “some other place.” There doesn’t seem to be a way to reach that place except by entering the chatter first.
Chatter is a nice word. Just the sound of it mimics the mind at this busy entry point. It’s like walking into an auditorium filled with people before the lights come down and the main event begins. It’s loud, indistinct, a nattering chattering sound.
It’s the preprogram—not the program.
We also love road trips for the same reason. A four or five hour drive is about right. He listens to the radio. I squirm, pick up trash, dust the dashboard—kinetic busyness that, for me, finally burns off excess fuel until I can settle in. Then, at some point, he turns off the radio. I have my legs crossed and have settled down. Usually one or the other of us jokingly says in a South Dakota (or a Minnesota) accent, “Whatcha been doin?”
And then we talk.
First level. General bullshit.
Second level. Uneasy bullshit (any sensitive issues that need clearing)
Third Level: Sinking in.
Fourth level: Communicating
Fifth level: Creating—the land of new ideas and new ways of looking at old ideas.
When we’ve exhausted our ideas, we go back to the beginning, turn on the radio, squirm a bit, dust the dashboard . . . On a good trip, we may cycle through these levels two or three times. Trips force us to descend (or would it be ascend?) through the chatter and into “some place else.”
There is consistency in this journey to the creative. I don’t know anybody who just walks into the room of the creative and flips the switch. The room of the creative always seems to have a noisy crowded tunnel that leads into it. If we know this and expect it, we don’t’ have to get trapped in the tunnel. Every day when I sit down with this notebook (the one I’m writing in right now) I expect the tunnel. It will last one, two, three pages. If I’m patient and just keep chattering—I’ll find the inner room.
For some reason, I keep thinking about this joke that I overheard in a coffee shop recently. That’s the other cool thing about the room of the creative—I can do whatever I want.
Four Middle Eastern students were sitting at the table next to me. One was telling a joke about this German guy on a boat in the middle of the river. He had sprung a leak, and when he saw several bystanders on the path, he called out to them,
“I am sinking.”
The bystanders—unused to hearing a German accept called back, “And what are you sinking about?”
I loved this. Four ESL students telling a joke about a German accent.
I also loved the correlation between “sinking” and “thinking.”
So, what are you sinking about?
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By Jamie, on April 24th, 2011% It’s Easter Sunday. I feel like letting my mind drift back in time to all the Easter Sundays of my life. It’s funny because the first thoughts that come up are all about pretty new dresses, starched little bonnets, white gloves, shiny white tights and even shinier white shoes—a little girl’s favorite thing—new clothes. My mind could have gone to memories about lent, fasting, doing the rosary on our knees in front of the couch, fish on Fridays, long masses . . . .
But what I remember most is feeling pretty.
Feeling pretty. My husband says he thinks I am prettier than Jaylo—which is something to say to a 57-year old woman, and I love him for that. I’ve been working on revising and republishing an earlier book that I wrote in the mid-eighties. It has important information in it, and I want it back in print. The book is about how to shed old feelings about not being good enough, pretty enough, smart enough.
And now, as I wander back into my own Easter reverie, I am surprised to find how much old stuff about not being pretty enough. I’ve walked these decades in this body and no matter my age, I have never felt pretty except on those rare Easter Sundays in my new bonnet and shoes.
Crazy. The crazy part is that I do feel pretty on the inside. I write pretty words, grow pretty things, have built a pretty straw bale house, have pretty children. Pretty things come from me even when I don’t see “pretty” in the mirror.
My self-rejection runs “pretty” deep. It could be from the concept of original sin. It could be from skinny models and the advertising view of women. It doesn’t really matter where it came from. I don’t think I need to excavate some old wound to figure that out. Better to be grateful that at least I can see that pretty things come from me. That seems even more important. I can celebrate that.
I remember working with a woman many years ago. She was beautiful inside and out—a Baha’i woman dedicated to serving the world. We worked a session together, and when we finally came to some of her core feelings about her mother, she said, “I just wanted her to see me beautiful.”
I was so struck by the plea in her voice—and by the phrasing of her words. The emphasis was actually on the words “See me.” She wanted others to see past the surface—the skin, bone, body part—and see her soul, the place where her spirit resides. I love that. We are all beggars of that moment—we need somebody to see past our surfaces and into our heart and soul.
Why do we work so hard to put old programming to rest, to change patterns of behavior, to reach higher and further? Why do we work so hard to be in relationship, to make them strong, to find our path? I can almost hear my own inner self who works so hard on my behalf begging me, “See me beautiful. Just see me.”
So, relax harsh criticism. Ease up on wanting so much. Abandon impatience. These are my Easter messages to myself. Just see me beautiful.
I’m reminded of a story I wrote long ago that, in fact, recently was named a Notable Selection in a writing contest for Dylan Days in Hibbing, MN. It is a fun story about a woman who feels like her voice is all used up and that she has nothing more to say. She goes to The Voice Store to buy a new voice but can’t decide what kind of voice she wants. The story ends with this discovery and these words.
Be still and know that I am
Be still and know
Be still
Be
I’ll post the full story in a separate post for those who may want to read it.
One of my spiritual teachers taught us to “See God in Each Other.” I think it means the same thing as “See me beautiful.”
Happy Easter, my friends, and many blessings.
Jamie
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By Jamie, on April 13th, 2011% 
The New Age doesn’t hold much appeal for me. It seems like much of what is being explored there is simply the old age wearing new garments. Philosophy, prophecy, spiritual teachings have been around as long as humans have been using their frontal lobes. I’m also rather stunned by how much of the new age is about selling you a bill of goods. I read
somewhere that wealth, health, and relationship are the hot “sell words” for the 21st century. I get it. I really do, but there is no substitute for deep study of who we are and what our purpose is.
That was my disclaimer. I also can’t help but admit that I’m fascinated by other realities, the web of energy that seems to connect us all, the deeper links and hidden rivers that bind one to another through time and space. I like magic. I like mysticism.
When I was a college student I considered myself quite the agnostic. In reality, I was a recovering, knee-jerk reactive Catholic busy denying the existence of a higher realm. One time I had an independent study with a professor on “The History of Psychology.” This man was a scholar and also a devout Christian. He was not a blind believer but a student of the truth. One day we were discussing the mechanistic approach to human existence and he challenged me. He said that I could not have it both ways—that man is either a collection of “machine” parts all turned on and moving along until they don’t work anymore and the machine breaks and dies—or he is more. “Which is it?” he asked me. For the life of me, I could not say that we were merely a machine. It simply doesn’t account for the “more” that I knew is a part of us. My agnostic attitude took a heavy hit that day.
For me, writing is the action that takes me deeper into myself. I feel a little bit like a fisherman who is sitting in a boat looking out across the surface of the lake. It is pretty and shiny and looks good, but then I have to fall out of the boat and get wet. When I start writing each day, I am on the surface for the first page or two or three and then something happens, and I’m suddenly thrown into what I’m writing. The depth of this can be shocking, surprising, terrifying, seductive, enticing . . . I never know what I’m going to see.
Which brings me to Albert’s Manuscript.
Many years ago I wrote a novel that moved between two stories, one set in the current day and a second story set in a pueblo village in 1300. While I was skipping back from one story to the other, one of my characters meets Albert, an old grandfather that he didn’t know he had. My character was adopted. Later he receives a manuscript from the old man after he has passed. The manuscript describes a vision that Albert had as a young man about a mighty wind that comes to blow all of the people of earth into one another.
This was “Albert’s Manuscript.” I didn’t know any more about the vision except the wind part. The novel went the way of many other novels (into the drawer), and I forgot about it for a while. Then one day I was scouting around for something to work on and I came across that novel. I wondered exactly what was in Albert’s manuscript. Just for fun I bought a new notebook and sat down and began to write. It was an odd experience—my mind had no sense of this vision. I was like Jilly, the granddaughter with a tape recorder simply putting it down the way he wanted it told. For six days I wrote like this. I did not call it channeling or automatic writing, but there was an “other” energy to the telling of this story that I cannot explain. When it was done, it was done. I couldn’t seem to add anything to it or expand the story in any way.
In the story Albert meets First Man and First Woman and they explain to him that a cycle is ending on earth and that we must be prepared for the opening of a new cycle. What fascinates me most about this story is that four major movements of our development on earth are explained. There are the Walkers, the Watchers, the Weepers, and the Weavers. A fifth is implied—the Wise. First Man and First Woman are particularly concerned about the Weavers. They say that following “the wind of a thousand years” these new children of earth will be pattern makers able to synthesize and integrate, to make sense out of complex ideas by weaving them together. But only if we help them.
I am once again fascinated with the 5 W’s and the way they mirror not only centuries of time but also individual development. I’ve begun to scribble about what each one means and how to tell which ‘W’ applies to your own development. Are you a Watcher, a Walker, a Weaver . . . or a Weeper? If this intrigues you as it does me, I am offering a free pdf ebook of Albert’s Manuscript when you subscribe to my blog. Just register in the upper right hand corner and I’ll send you a copy. Some of you have already subscribed and I finally got the manuscript ready to go. It’s coming your way soon.
As I explore each ‘W’ in depth, I’ll share my ideas here.
Later, Albert’s vision became the foundation of our international peace project, The Bead People International. With all of our little thumb-sized Bead People everybody gets a story–The Wind of a Thousand Years. The project has a life of its own and has traveled to over 18 countries. Somehow, I think that is what Albert had in mind when he hired me.
Now, back to the New Age. I think that sometimes when we still the chatter and are willing to risk taking a dive into an idea or a vision, we enter the realm of great mystery and discovery. It happens to artists, scientists, writers, poets and ordinary people like me. We know when we are in these strange waters because we feel so alive, so sharp and open to possibilities. This human life widens out to include the realm of the heart and spirit. It always feels a little raw and risky but worth it.
Register. Read Albert’s Manuscript. Tell me what you think. Decide which of the five ‘W’s fits you. And then let’s talk.
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