Posted by: innerpilgrimage | June 24, 2010

My Higher Power Likes Air Supply?

      I have been thinking about why I don’t talk about my day-to-day life, and a compulsive red flag came up: I’ve been isolating. Well, and that I really have a dull life in the physical realm. Inside my brain? It’s like a page out of Where’s Waldo?

      Despite isolating, I’ve found that I’ve gotten some serious internal work started. I’ve gotten the quiet, meditative solitude I personally need when, uh, well, when I’m meditating on my current lesson.
      I seem to grow like Grasper, the little crab who went out on his own and risked losing his protective shell because he couldn’t stay where he was. Come to think of it, it’s like Richard Bach’s Illusions for kids. That was a weird book, especially the introduction. Not Grasper, which I am realizing can be seen as a physical, mental, and spiritual journey. Looks like I’m looking for a kid’s book along with the Mirabai Starr’s book on St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul. These are unnecessary, since they’re already inside me. And, to be honest, it’s mara. But I would like the opportunity to turn to them and enjoy rereading them for the pleasure of touching the spiritual again.
      And, I guess, to lend them out to people who are looking for answers, themselves. Something I can share. A teaching tool, as it were. Crystal Reflections tarot gave me an insight I needed yesterday, one that is integral to my current mental and spiritual enlightenment: “The reflection of [my] conscious mind formulates the beliefs of [my] sub-conscious mind.” This hit the truth button at the core of me, and I know it’s what I need to learn. But because I am not quite sure what it means on this level (though I do have ideas), I’m unable to integrate it as fact yet. I consider that what it means–at this point in my evolution–is that I can literally change my own mind by forcing my perspective around. Not violently. I don’t need to force it around violently. I can do it gently, by replacing the broken facts with powerful Truths (my truths, as others’ truths can intersect and be different, as well). Instead of saying “Don’t think that way” or replacing thoughts with other thoughts I don’t believe, I am completely going around them and uncovering childhood truths that have always been bigger than the facts. Despite being shouted down by my lifetime of compulsive messages, that truth has always been there. It’s strange that I’m remembering the beautiful moments of my childhood while I’m pursuing them. My first teacher, I think, was my mother’s mother. Despite being haunted by her own addiction–one which killed her, in the end–my grandmother had moments of pure joy and love and shared them with me. She and I connected on a spiritual level through accepting love. It was as if the light in my eyes gave her hope. Seeing life through the eyes of a child, something I took forward with me in my life. The wonder of the beauty of the world, the forgiveness of my unintended destruction of her jewelry because of my intent to share. To give with love. To be love. To come from love. To be made by love. To never cease to love.

      [I just dealt with the car repair place, and $200 just became $550 because I put off maintenance for so long. But it was $650 (not including tax) and they were kind enough to give me a decent discount. I appreciate it very much.]

      So, what’s with my Higher Power liking Australian soft rock from the 80s? Well, I was just out of the shower this morning when I heard, clearly in my head, the first part of the chorus of Air Supply’s “One That You Love”. Then the first stanza started in my head, incomplete. Now, I don’t generally think of Air Supply, despite having listened to the album again and again in the early eighties (yup, on vinyl). That band lived on love songs.
      So I YouTubed it and listened to the whole song. And I hit the one line: “Love is everywhere; I know it is,” and that opened the whole song for me. I feel that way about my Higher Power, about my program. Like it’s a message to me from my HP, reminding me that it’s there. That all I have to do is connect and I will get the “God” of the Sufis–love, lover, and Beloved.
      I’ve been facing off with my physical and mental need to be loved by consensus. (I think of Alanis Morrisette’s “Perfect” from the album “Little Jagged Pill” when I deal with that particularly painful message.) That I want other men to see me and go . . . “Burrr . . . WOW!” But that’s really shallow, see. I know at the front of my brain it is shallow, but my subconscious has an ugly tape that replays again and again. The lyrics of my awful self hatred follow along like this:

I have no value if I’m not beautiful.
Thin is the only definition of beauty.
Youth is the only definition of beauty.
There’s no such thing as too thin.
I need a man to rescue me and give me money and security, and I have to be beautiful as a trade-off for his money and security.
I have to become what my rescuer wants and have to stay that way to keep him. If I let myself be me, he will hate me.
I can’t do anything right, so I have to look right. To look perfect.
I have to keep looking for someone better, someone who can give me more money and more security so I can save up for when I am not young and beautiful (and the nagging that I’ve frittered that away completely now that I’m 40.)

      Is that not completely and utterly messed up? A soul which wants to be LOVE (as opposed to a mind and body which wants to be in love) has to rebel. It cannot function as a prisoner. And what’s worse? It removes me from my own life, from my own equation. It saps the joy from life. It makes me an object, an empty vase gathering dust on a shelf instead of a bouquet of flowers seeking a vase to sit in.
      In the last two days, I have had moments of standing outside of my physical self (not astral travel), where I am not actually thinking “How do I look to other people?” That constant self-analysis makes me either too timid or too brash. What I am rarely is a contented soul flowing in and around the vessel. Where I actually don’t feel my body and its limitations because I’m not fretting about it. It’s a sort-of floaty feeling, where I am feeling, where I am absorbing the scripture of nature all around me (again, Sufism). But I feel REAL. I mean 100% real.
      There is the elation I’ve been getting recently, the chemical high of getting recharged on the spiritual plane. When that kicks in, I am yanked back to the physical. And, with that energy, I revert to type and start thinking compulsively. Well, except this morning. This morning I was thinking, “I really wish I had that tiered broom skirt I bought in 1989, that blue and purple happy thing that flowed like water and air. That I loved to run and dance and twirl in.” Yeah, okay, it seems dopey to say (Say hello to my Broken Mind . . . I can’t let myself be unadulterated joy because I will embarrass myself! EEEK! *rolleyes*), but I did have moments of pure joy. The drama fell away, and I got to be my hippie-self, just going with the flow and enjoying the tiny miracles all around me. Reaching in to that child who didn’t quite “get” the social conventions. That child who was destined to have a really hard lesson that if I float through the world all peace and love, someone will notice and use it against me to get what they want. The child who learned betrayal. The child who felt the pain of rejection so deeply again and again that eventually the brash self and the ubermeek self became the only ways to reach balance. A soul shoved aside for a mind and body in constant battle with itself. A soul locked into a broken brain, ignored and called “The Void”.
      I treated my soul like a little pet bird. Not a companion animal, just a caged thing that I wanted around to look at. I poured food into its cage and cleaned the cage when it began to get so bad I couldn’t stand the smell. What I never did was set it free. Well, that mental self is afraid to set it free, because it’s fearful it will go away. That there will be nothing left but an empty poop-smelling cage and a big bag of bird feed in the corner.
      What I never recognized was that the bird IS me. I treated it separate from me. I am the bird. I need to fly in the blue sky, to seek out the challenge of finding my own sustenance. Of stretching my wings. Yes, there will be a day when I don’t return to the physical and mental realm from my flight. But having flown at all instead of dying every day until I’m cold with my little feeties up and my wings pressed hard to my side . . . always having dreamed of stretching my wings and not hitting the bars of my own cage and never reaching it.
      Sure, I had enough food to sustain my physical form, but I just wanted my soul to soar. I fed myself more and more, trying to make my soul so laden down that it wouldn’t want to fly. But my soul didn’t eat the food spilling all around the cage. Just my body did.
      Signs are pointing to this coming physical trip being a turning point in my spiritual life. My beliefs, my abstinence, my self will all be challenged. That’s why I am doing my best to carefully pack the things I need for this spiritual journey. I have packed my spiritual broom skirt. I have packed the smile my grandmother gave me when I was a child. I have packed the OA meetings I will be attending (one for sure, and possibly emergency meetings as life begins to shudder underfoot). I have packed my internal copy of Illusions, and Grasper, and Dark Night of the Soul. I have even packed that internal vinyl LP of Air Supply.

      “Here I am, [Universe],
      The one that you love
      Asking for another day.
      Understand
      The one that you love
      Loves you in so many ways.”

      My name is Jess, and I am a food addict and food restricter on a spirit quest to California. The road is fraught with physical and mental perils, ones which will challenge my mental and physical self.
      And when that happens, it’s time to open the cage door, and let my spiritual self soar free into the blue sky and remember that everyone has a piece of the Universe within them–whether or not they choose to keep it caged.

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