Category Archives: Healing

Something good

The alarm goes off at 6am.
No.
No, I can’t do it.
I will.

Every week I think of 7am Qi Gong downtown. Sometimes I make it.

Shift.

But this is the time of savor. This is the time of doing what I want and not making a job out of it.

I get up.

I sing in the car on the way to wake up and prepare for the song I am learning.

Yeah.

On the floor, first time through the form, I was savoring the deliciousness of being in my own body, feeling grounded. I recently discovered that if I eat breakfast before class – not just a smoothie – it is so much better. I really stretched, toe to torso to fingers and it felt good. Before we came to the end of the form, everything shifted, though and I felt light-headed.

Dammit. I’ve left class because of dizziness and I do not want to leave. Stick it out, girlfriend. Be tough. Well, it’s not about being tough. That way will result in you passing out. It’s about figuring it out. Navigating.

So the second time through the form, I did it small. I focused on the furnace within and considered any stretching as an expression of containment. Locking in, not leaving my body. My world is here and I modulate the boundaries, all being sacred but the center being here. Not there. Success.

Afterwards, I went by one of the last earthy cafes in town, looking for the familiar comfort, the same old tables, the good smells and ambiance. But it was early. It smelled like burning, there was a couple talking too loudly and the staff didn’t realize in their rush to get the place opened that the music was too low. Walls bare, they must be between artists.

“This is just an empty shell”, I thought. “Like any other room.”

It felt exciting, the cool, the starkness, the knowing that the fun was in my heart and no one could take it away. I asked them to turn the music up, the couple left and before my breakfast was ready, yummy smells came from the kitchen. Things resumed, but with me in better awareness.

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It’s not enough to get away, to shut those things out that have been eating at your soul.

It’s not enough to find a safe space and hunker down.

It’s not enough to clear the debris and dig into the foundation, to break through to fertile ground and feel again.

It’s not enough to dream and sort things through and find reason and plant a few seeds.

You gotta grow a garden.

You can’t go out into that world without your garden. A rich, dense, undiscovered area to the rest of the world that you may or may not give access to.

Otherwise you are just setting yourself up for defeat again. The wheel of defeat and recovery is too small. Get on the greater wheel, the one that includes the expanse of life not just reached but lived.

Know this.

Know yourself without trauma and you will never want to go back.

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That which comes without warning

And then there is the time when after the long awaking, after the split, the sleep and the recovery, after the faith has been held for so long, that sustenance seeps up from the ground. Things look the same but the doors are open. Medicine pours into the dry wounds and pleasure for living returns. The fallow period has passed. All the dreams, the prayers, the offerings to the mother have been heard and the answer is now in your blood.

Live. Live the life you wanted. Defend the new life as if survival depends upon it, because it does. And you know that now so there is no more deliberating. It is a fresh page and you are not a young thing, so take the pen and stroke from your life, the tapestry which cannot be undone yet can always continue.

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Not knowing has become fun again, only because of the rock inside. This rock which has been formed through so much hardness, this hardness which has become your strength. To trust in that strength is to find the will to be gentle again. To know that you have become your own protector grants freedom to be able to choose to be open again. This child, inside is safe and brings a joy to carry you forth.

Blessed be the seasons that pass. Blessed is the ground beneath our feet. Blessed is the food and the wake and blessed has been the silence.

We do not run, nor push nor fend. We stroll into a new world with the patience of time. We savor and we test. We choose again and we go for what we always wanted. With skill this time.

Blessed be.

#metoo

This is my spiritual share to the #metoo trend that is going on. I was sexually harassed on the job at age 16 so severely that I had a breakdown on shift and had to walk out. I never went back. But the experience left me in PSTD for further jobs and set me up for my generation’s culture of “if he buys you a drink, you are obligated to sleep with him” in the following years. When that chapter was over it took me decades to sort it all out and find some semblance of personal sovereignty.
 
After I moved to Seattle in my 20’s, I had a healing from a dear woman who did multiple extractions of all the men I had slept with – I stated that I could still feel them swimming around in my womb. During the healing, I pounded my fist on the mat I was lying on so much that I sprained my wrist. Afterwards, she had me visualize a space inside of me that was my sacred temple. This was a place that no one was allowed in except for me. My goddess, I was in my 20’s and I had never even that such a container in myself was even an option! It took me many years after this healing to fully realize this conception.
 
I wasn’t ever raped in my memory. (Though on one occasion I was almost gang-raped in a Fremont apartment. Luckily, Spirit charged me to get out, high on cocaine, before it was too late, and find my way home, unfollowed.) Outside of that, I was emotionally and psychologically overpowered by older men at a young age. I was imprinted to open for men, to act aroused when I wasn’t. When I stopped these behaviors, I found that something had been taken from me that I never knew that I had, or had a right to hold. I didn’t feel that feminine power that naturally flows from so many women I saw around me. I was spiritually/sexually barren. The only way I knew to receive intimacy was through sex because I didn’t trust – wasn’t ever shown – that my mind and humor and creative abilities was enough to love and call anyone to want to be close to me.
 
Many decades later, after experiencing many emotional flashback without informational memory, I came to believe that something terrible truly had happened to me at a young age that I cannot remember. I am at peace that I may never remember and I am not concerned because the Great Compassionate Spirits and my human spiritual teachers have shown me how to untangle my relationship patterns: relationship with other, with myself and with Spirit. But still, I must admit, now that I have found my boundaries, I find that the amount of time it might take for me to trust a man to let them touch me again, might be longer than most men would be willing wait. Well.. their loss.
 
Shamanism is about relationship, to all of these things and also to the land, to the tree people, the stone people, the stars, the sun. My superpower, my holy grail is my commitment to my own personal sovereignty, which is about learning to establish healing boundaries in all of these relationships. To say no. To say maybe let me think about it. To make a calculated decision to say yes. To allow myself to change my mind. To allow myself to sing my medicine in any form I wish to, alone always and in the witness of others if I choose to.
 
Things that do not change, die. It is the nature of nature to change, so when I am stuck, I move. Move towards healing, move through the pain, move into trusted mystery, move away from people and environments where I do not feel safe. I do not need have a reason to say no. I need to listen and listen and listen until I can hear my instincts – and then trust them. And trust my friends on the other side who have walked every step of this path with me.
 
When we are violated, it can cause a rip in our field where other beings can come in. Where attachments are made with our abusers and where possessing beings can jump from another person to ourselves. And of course, soul loss, as a result of leaving our bodies at the moment the abuse is occurring. All this can take many years to unravel but it must be done. We all have unique gifts, to give to ourselves fore-mostly and through that, to the world and the people around us. As we do the work, the trauma lessens and the flow reestablishes. Our ability to be the hollow bone for spirit increases and our discernment is refined.
 
As humans, we are naturally hollow bones. To find our song in what makes us the most happy is the hollow bone that we are born to be. That is what, in my view makes us different than the other people’s on the planet. Us humans are hollow bones for a variety of things, not just humanness.
 
May you find healing in the #metoo expression that is happening right now. May the triggers not make you feel alone as much as you feel one with the rest of us who have had to travel this path alone as well. Collectively, we put together the pieces needed to find our path through healing to our divinity.
 
Blessed Be.

Final Reprise

PART ONE:

When the warrior finally reaches the green pastures and sunny meadow,
when the warrior puts her weapons down,
she feels the heat rise from within her and lies down to rest
under the high grass, smell of lyrical flowers.

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Further no purpose, no quarry in sight, she dreams of battles
and then when she rises, all comforts greet her body
and she sighs, and she sleeps again.

When the warrior has found her way out of the darkness
into the light of her own heart
there is no longer need to strive

for arrival is done
and the land is still.

There is nothing left to seek,
yet the song still awaits, as she waits for the song.

Soothe the jagged remembrances of evil;
remember the misplaced soothing of jagged affairs.

Awake she is, like never before and
like never before, she draws from her sleep,

every fiber,
her being whole now,
glistening and listening to the holy voice within.

 

PART TWO:

I asked, “Once the debris has been cleared and demons faced, transformed, what is left in the sacred vessel of the shadow within us?”

ravencauldron

and I heard the reply,

“That which one is connected to, but has no words for.

That which gestates and must not be disturbed, lest it be damaged in the process.

The Great Mother, who holds us, who nourishes and who weeps and cheers for us.

This is also the realm of the White Raven, she who has been burnt through and through and yet still lives. She who is Grace with a thin cloak of iron unseen and unshakeable. She who is container, soft as feather, hidden power capable of those very things she yearned to do when in pain but put down as soon as she was able. She is Death, she has seen and understood every aspect of Death and yet she has no need to bring on Death. She holds forgiveness, her compassion gently touches us with the naked light of presence aware.”

Once stagnation is broken in the sacred vessel of shadow, once the river is flowing freely, dreams of the Gods come quicker, our journeys clear in the slipstream of their inspiration. Then when we tell, we tell from a place of the Gods.

This is all I know and I pray for.

That Engine

I just finally got underneath the car and fixed it.
You know, that rattle, that pulling back when I am trying to move forward, that shaking, threatening to fall apart while I am distracted about what is on the road before me.

The adventures I have chosen have been filled with potholes to move around (dropped a wheel a few times), filled with close scraping branches (no bother until the scratches start to rust through), filled with high winds and some furious storms.

Well, I stopped the car and got underneath it and fixed the darned thing. And when I got up, wiped my hands on my jeans, a road opened up that was level and open. The sun shines down and the engine purrs and I think, “Wow I could’ve done it before.”

But I didn’t. So I did it now and the ride will be so much better now.

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Time in the Lady’s Cauldron

The orchid will bloom in her own time.

The dirt will lie, perfect patient receiver of the rotting life. It will change slowly as pungent passes and chaos reorganizes into readiness.

Then she will lie down too and listen as everything passes by her. She will dream her dreams and sort through all the possibilities of what to be. She will listen and listen until she remembers and then she will yearn with all of her might, her yearning the only power within her purview. Her yearning can only be truly answered by that which makes orchids, so any wrong turn, any receiving of haphazard medicine will shape her asunder.

whiteorchid

photo credit:  thank you Hans Partes

So, patience, patience.

She yearns, her little mind filled with orchid visions and of the sun kissing her buds.

One day, in delight, she realizes that her yearning has burst her shell and she has become a seedling, thrumming with tender excitement. She dawns in her stretching and she ever reaches. Her intoxicated wonder bursts forth with her bloom and then dances a wild interplay with her new world, filled in the diversity of the cosmos. She receives and receives, sure of her vision under the nurturing great forces of moon, sun, water and wind.

Be an orchid my friends, bide time. We cannot stay forever in the cauldron, but we cannot leave until the Goddess opens the way, lest we run our dreams back into darkness. As decomposition turns to fertility, as the path is etched in dreamtime, each step is a long passage, each a juicy time of medicine to be schooled by and digested.

Our yearning is synchronistic faith and singular force of creation together. The nature of yearning is to birth, to co-create with the Gods. Hold this, my ones. Nothing is more important than the clear, unprecedented arrival of your bloom.

Blessed Be.

by Tasara

Mapping

Scars mark the way to future conflict.
Their beauty still me

as I bend to scoop
cold water
on my face.

There I am.

I would not recognize myself
without them
for want of a compress,

begging,

soothe my presence.

(late 90’s)

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I caste out a spider web and it sticks to their faces. It sinks in, penetrating their soul until I can see every pattern inside them. I draw from the pattern.

“Is this the way? Is this the way?”

I bring the pattern unto myself and try to fit into it’s shapes, to see if I will feel better.

“Is this the way? Is this the way?”

spiderweb

It is not the way. But I am so lonely. So I dip into my spider bucket and I try again. Again and again, onto the same person or different persons. Persons who look happy. Persons who look loved.

There is nothing left in my spider bucket and my imprints are jumbled and cross-sectioned inside of me, telling me what to do in so many ways that I do not know myself anymore.

“Is this the way?” “Is this the way?”

I am less lonely, because of all the voices. But I am less happy. And now I must be away in order to untangle the mess.

What is my pattern? What is my pattern? Does it run through me freely? Is it made of ideas or is it the song of my own soul?

The spirits sing. The spirits shout towards me. They say do not waste your precious life being anyone but yourself! Do not waste your precious, precious time..not exploding into the rapture of your precious, precious self, a song that no one can ever or will ever be able to sing but you. If you don’t, we will miss it. You will miss it. You must share yourself with the world. You must find the flower and care for it like it is your very own. Because it is the one thing that is.

I put on my mask, poured hot from the kiln and pounded into a shape only I can describe. The marionette strings are high, up into the world where no one can reach them. I dance, and it is not my dance. It is the dance of a jester, one who calculates how one will be received. I am happy. I am received and well, my brooches are colorful and dancing.

But my heart is deep within and my heart is hidden from all of you. For you are the enemy. My wiles and my smiles are meant to weave other webs, the kind I can sleep in and dream lullabyes sung to me by made up sweetness. But it’ll do. It’ll do fine as I do not ask much of anyone besides their praise. My heart is closed in a way that even I do not know it.

If I ever want to find true love I will have to get alone. Cut the marionette strings, consider the mask of power and lie still while my heart beats quietly.

“Is this the way? “ “Is this the way?”

My little heart speaks to me in syllables unspeakable. The spirits are silent, waiting to hear me stir in the darkness, to come clean with my own blade of reason, to feel the truth inside me.

Years pass and I am still lying on the dark earthen floor. I am taking in the butterflies. I am considering my past. I am looking at the edges of things, where they were not serving me before and will not again if I continue forward. I am watching great forces move across the horizon. I do not want to make a move, for I have not changed. I do not know who I am.

There is nothing. There is nothing and there is nothing. Once again, I am nothing. There is no master pattern to map and there is no self to hold onto. I am a vessel. There is nothing but movement and change. There is no expression but song. The kind of song that burst forth unprepared for with no warning. I am a song and I have lost my way.

But there is no way and stillness, eventually, only leads to death.

song

by Tasara

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“Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road– Only wakes upon the sea.

Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.”
Antonio Machado, Campos de Castilla