Out of the Lion’s Gate and into the Fire

Somewhere between July and August my Chariot went off-road. Things that had been moving smoothly, if sometimes slower than I wanted, started to develop snags. Like so many interruptions to flow these snags were entirely within my own mind and energy, not the sort to simply force through. Synchronicities were loudly asking for my attention but they took some time to understand.

Creating and sharing can feel a bit like grieving. There’s a tenderness to expression that only you know about, an awe at the transmission of ideas. Opening small parcels and carefully unwrapping them. Placing them gently on a shelf and admiring them. The shelf becomes more crowded and it’s harder to maintain a pristine surface. When you examine each treasure individually, the beauty and importance is absolute. When you step back and see it all together you ask “what is all this?” You wonder if it really matters.

Sometimes I keep a project secret, and tell myself it’s because the creation is enough, but really I’m afraid it will lose its magic under scrutinizing eyes. My own scrutiny can be the worst.

I was walking and saw a stand of tall stalks with bright yellow flowers, which I thought were sunflowers. I figured as much because they were over 6 feet tall, but it turns out they were Cup Plants. They’re called that because the base of the flower looks a bit like a chalice, especially when they’ve lost their petals. I felt called to make an essence with the flowers and came back the next day. There were bees everywhere (I am very allergic to bees!), and I was worried about taking a bloom that was still in the pollination process because there weren’t very many. When I asked which flower to take I was called to one whose stalk was bent over. I wondered if it was too close to wilting to be suitable for an essence but I heard “it is enough.”

I walked to an open field and knelt down in the grass. I placed the flower in a jar with water, exposing it to the sun. I asked what knowledge and purpose the flower wishes to share through its essence. As Pam Montgomery would say, I asked to enter the daydream of the plant. The energy was palpable and cathartic, expanding upon a message I received earlier that morning. When I stood up I became extremely dizzy and had to sit down again.

I received a message:

Sometimes you have an idea in your mind, and when things turn out differently you feel you have “failed.”  

Disappointment creates a gravitational pull, expectations creating endless hoops to navigate, distracting you from this moment.

Ideas of what “should be,” confusing you from the truth that you are already enough. Remember that the difference between ordinary and majestic is sometimes only a state of mind. This moment, is enough.

Do not underestimate the power of your unbridled joy. When you can remember your true essence, this energy finds a channel— to cultivate and seed itself.
Reconnect and unearth the radiance that lives within.

Let your joy bloom, trust that you already have this power within you.

Shine and receive.

Cup Plant 7/31/23

I’ve been revising and finishing a workbook for trauma recovery. I wrote the whole thing, 50+ pages, over 3 weeks earlier in the summer. It poured out, it was all going quite smoothly. As I approached the final pages of the first draft, I completely lost the flow. It became excruciating, I could barely look at it. I stepped back for a couple weeks, but time alone didn’t help.

Even though I’ve already done all the practices and all the exercises in the book, something about writing them stirred a deep yearning in me, rereading it stirred me even more. Especially the theme of cultivating unconditional self-love, woven throughout the book. Writing it for someone new to these practices required me to remember “what it was like.” I had to go back, and there was pain in remembering the long road to this moment. And there was also Joy, which was somehow even harder to move through.

A confusing paradox of developing non-ordinary awareness is that while you gain access to a form of loving energy that is indescribably soothing, ultimately you need to come back to the ordinary. Even though it should be a relief and a balm for your weary spirit, it taps into a longing and a grief for your life up until knowing the feeling. Even though you finally understand that you never were and won’t ever be alone, you might feel like you’re returning from a distant planet and you can’t begin to describe what happened to another person. You get earnest but confused looks, and that word “lonely” starts to float around.

Cultivating the energy of Joy is also a paradox. On one level it’s simply a choice, like changing a thought. It’s just as natural to the body as fear or sadness, but when so much suffering is around you it feels a bit gauche to say “I Choose Joy.” Joy and Sadness may be opposites but in the energy body they’re not mutually exclusive. Some find joy more natural and they need to build their empathy and awareness muscles, and tune into others more thoughtfully. Others have highly developed “feel the pain of others and minimize their own” muscles and need to actively practice Joy.

From time to time the circumstances of one’s environment conspires to teach you a lesson in joy and you bottle it up for safe keeping.

Splashing in the waves with a dear friend, exhilarated and completely immersed in the magic of childlike curiosity. A shared glance after getting smashed by a wave says “Did you SEE that??” without a single word.

Watching a turtle lay eggs and bury them in the ground, a shocking spectacle that was mildly disgusting and incredibly beautiful.

An osprey catching a fish that was twice its size, dragging it onto the beach and refusing to leave it behind.

I don’t know what happened to the osprey and the fish because eventually I felt I was intruding and walked away.

What is the line between agony and ecstasy? Why are the two so often intertwined? Creation holds them both but we like to ignore the parts that turn our stomach. Cultivating joy is a messy business, because it always holds the opposite. When you find it, the mind sometimes drifts towards the grief that this joy will eventually fade. Staying in the moment can feel too hard to bear and we push it away, or we grip it so tightly that we crush it.

How do you cultivate something while also letting it breathe?

The metaphorical phoenix lets itself burn completely, into ash, before rising again. I don’t imagine it knows for certain this will happen. Does it simply trust it will be formed anew? Does it yield to its own death?

It’s hard to let go of something without a promise of what comes next. In a garden of dreams there comes a time to break down what is no longer alive so there’s room for something else. Destroying something of your own creation seems unnatural. But who better to acknowledge when your creation has died, when one way of being has come to an end and a new one must take form?

Joy celebrates life, including its eventual “end” or whatever becomes of us and some of our dreams. There’s an ordinary sadness to this that feels like an old friend to Joy.

Joy can be a portal, that opens one door and closes another.
A catalyst to finding the flow again.
The blooming of new dreams.

What doors are opening in your psyche now?

What doors are closing?

What dreams and hopes need to find new life, or death?

Where can you choose joy and restore a sense of balance?

Where can you choose to grieve and connect more deeply to those around you?

What does trusting yourself mean for you at this moment?