How about that full moon last night, bloggers? Grand and pulsingly radiant was that golden orb on the horizon as it rose in a cracking clear sky (at last) here in Houston. Quite potent in the reflection of that Leo Sun, I’d say. So much so that I was somewhat intoxicated on my lone walk last night through the dark tree shadows along my thick woodsy trail. There was no fellow walker’s conversation or foot-falls to distract me or diminish the power of its attraction on me in any way.
I walked last night for my increase in potency, passion, pleasure, and respect—for joy, as I committed to you that I would at the time of the new moon. Actually I affirmed that on the crescent moon with all of you who focused in meditation during the Fire the Grid endeavor to fill the global consciousness grids with the flame of joyful purpose. And so I am not surprised at the quality of this Aquarian moon’s energetic presence—it was almost difficult to look upon without feeling quite overwhelmed.
As I told you in my “Summertime” post where I revealed the off-beat passions present both in my back yard and in the national news, I haven’t been sure whether to attribute these quirky mating rituals to climate change or Venus going retrograde the day before in Virgo, a few degrees from the cusp of Leo. And that remains unclear to me at this juncture. I must consider that Saturn and Neptune, at the same time, continue their oppositional dance flanked aggressively by Mars, demonstrating some of his own brand of sensuality.
But, certainly, Mercury trine quirky Uranus, having picked up some momentum in slogging through Cancer’s emotional seas is adding to the overall psychic atmosphere of these phenomena. In addition, I have to say, the bride thing just seems so Virgo to me! (Actually, Virgo does represent the Bride, Bridget/Brigid, before she surrenders her sovereignty into the marriage bond in Libra.) *sigh*
Nevertheless, the retrograde period of Venus from now until September the 8th should bring us some time for clear reflection upon our passions of the past, though I don’t expect they will all be recollections of quirky, out-of-time, sad, or aggressive relationships. Do, however, recognize, my friends, that they are reflections of relationships you are no longer “in”! It’s a good time to both honor those relationships, foul or fair, and recall what their consequences have been for you. You may now commit to live with those results, using them to plan for a more pleasurable and potent relationship future.
This recognition will become clearer as Venus retrogrades back into Leo and forms a conjunction with Saturn (August 13th). It may also be a good time for you to reflect upon how your relationship with your opposite sex parent (or both parents) has affected your sense of personal attractiveness in terms of your potential for pleasure with intimate partners. I know a well-loved daughter, the apple of her father’s eye and the chest busting out pride of her mother who exudes self-confidence in her beauty and worth, and attracts men like flies. So, you see what I mean, bloggers?
As we go into the waning phase of this moon cycle, let us make meaning of what we have received in the experience of this full moon, enjoy and revel in its gift, and disseminate its joy to all our relations! In short time we will be gathering up the harvest (last quarter moon, August 5th at 4:19 pm CDT), storing what needs storing, and setting aside in good faith what will be used in the next cycle of manifestation.
Showing posts with label passion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label passion. Show all posts
Monday, July 30, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Summertime
“Summertime,
And the livin’ is easy,
Fish are jumpin’
And the cotton is high—
Your daddy’s rich,
And your mama’s good lookin’,
So hush, little baby,
Don’t you cry.”
Yes, bloggers, summer is high, and de-e-p [sotto voce gone bass and drawn out hypnotically] at this time in the seasonal cycle. Sitting out by my lily pond today at high noon, I couldn’t get a better take on that. Though it’s much cooler than usual at this time of year here in Houston because of the unusual amount of rain we’ve been having, the sun came out strong to bear down on my shade-friendly white shoulders (not that I’m a southern magnolia flowah, but I do have that indoor skin more familiar with the monitor light of my ‘puter), and pull my attention to all the high-life going on before me.
The first thing I noted is my only remaining gold goldfish (since the debacle some of you may remember), who is also the smallest, and clearly now, the only female, was being battered about by my two feisty and richly winged inky-black males. (Actually one of them has a gold mouth and will probably become all gold during his lifetime, as I have seen others do, born inky and invisible in the darker waters.) Anyway, earlier in the day on my tour of the pond, I had seen her, the gold one, lying close to the surface in the shallow watery embrace of a lily pad—quiet, still, and seemingly close to death.
At that time, I left her to her fate, but later, seeing commotion on the pond’s surface from my living room window, I went back outside, and that’s when I became apprised of the chasing and battering. She first would be batted sideways, exposing shiny scales and one eye to the sky, then, as she looped wildly in a dive, would be hit again one way, then another by the two larger males flanking her. The attempted escapes would take her skittering clear across the pond’s surface like a skipping rock, where she would suddenly arrive as if she’d slipped through a worm-hole, but her pursuers would be right upon her before I could catch my breath.
Now, as I sat lazily in the sun, pond-side, I realized (because I’d earlier examined her for any damage) that they were doing their very aggressive mating dance, even though spring’s long gone, and the cooler days of fall have not yet arrived. Then, in grand redundance, I noticed two enormous iridescent blue-bodied dragonflies stuck together as they are when mating, one’s tail inserted at the back of the other’s head, while the latter dips her tail agilely into the water dotting the surface near the lily pads. I began to wonder if the life stream in my back yard had been fooled into re-gearing their bio-rhythms for responding as if the year were further along than it truly is.
Other mating anomalies I noticed this morning were in my morning news feed. A bride in Brooklyn decked in full wedding regalia was found sleeping on the ledge above the door of a Park Slope brownstone (first reported in the July 21st “Brooklyn Paper”. She was awakened and removed by police called to the scene by worried residents, but was speechless except for her “squeal” when officers tried to separate her from her teddy bear purse containing the Tiffany wedding ring. Maybe she had also misjudged the timing?
Whether to attribute these quirky mating rituals to climate change or Venus going retrograde yesterday in Virgo near the cusp of Leo (while Saturn and Neptune continue on the other side of their oppositional dance and are flanked by Mars showing his own sensual and aggressive mating behaviour), remains unclear to me at this juncture. But I won’t bore you bloggers with astrological details you don’t comprehend. I’ll save that for another post that goes to the astrologically acclimated.
Nevertheless, the retrograde period of Venus from now until September the 8th should bring us some time for clear reflection upon our passions of the past, though I don’t expect they will all be recollections of quirky, out-of-time, sad, or aggressive relationships. But do recognize, my friends, they are relationships you are no longer in! And I have to say, the bride-thing just seems so Virgo to me, anyway! (Actually, Virgo does represent the Bride, Bridget/Brigid , before she surrenders her sovereignty into the marriage bond in Libra.) *sigh*
A poem from several years ago seems to fit in here, so I'll insert it:
In the Garden
I am the girl who likes to play
The game of love how e’re I may
There are no rules in love and war
No limits there, no holds to bar
I claim my freedom and my youth
My Victory, my Self, my Truth
In the garden of my Father’s world
I am a carefree, nascent girl
The boy next door whose strong young arms
And body make me feel so warm
Stealthily stretches tight his bow
I watch his muscles roll and flow
And breathlessly I fall in bond
Though he may be of me but fond
While swimming in the waters deep
It’s hard for me my heart to keep
The sparkling bass flash, colors fly,
The sky reflected in my eyes
Has blinded me from deep blue cold
In piercing eyes that are so bold
Oh, Mars and Venus, you are still young
Your Soul’s sweet song has not been sung
In your Mother’s forest play
Grow up to Love another day
December 5, 2004
And the livin’ is easy,
Fish are jumpin’
And the cotton is high—
Your daddy’s rich,
And your mama’s good lookin’,
So hush, little baby,
Don’t you cry.”
Yes, bloggers, summer is high, and de-e-p [sotto voce gone bass and drawn out hypnotically] at this time in the seasonal cycle. Sitting out by my lily pond today at high noon, I couldn’t get a better take on that. Though it’s much cooler than usual at this time of year here in Houston because of the unusual amount of rain we’ve been having, the sun came out strong to bear down on my shade-friendly white shoulders (not that I’m a southern magnolia flowah, but I do have that indoor skin more familiar with the monitor light of my ‘puter), and pull my attention to all the high-life going on before me.
The first thing I noted is my only remaining gold goldfish (since the debacle some of you may remember), who is also the smallest, and clearly now, the only female, was being battered about by my two feisty and richly winged inky-black males. (Actually one of them has a gold mouth and will probably become all gold during his lifetime, as I have seen others do, born inky and invisible in the darker waters.) Anyway, earlier in the day on my tour of the pond, I had seen her, the gold one, lying close to the surface in the shallow watery embrace of a lily pad—quiet, still, and seemingly close to death.
At that time, I left her to her fate, but later, seeing commotion on the pond’s surface from my living room window, I went back outside, and that’s when I became apprised of the chasing and battering. She first would be batted sideways, exposing shiny scales and one eye to the sky, then, as she looped wildly in a dive, would be hit again one way, then another by the two larger males flanking her. The attempted escapes would take her skittering clear across the pond’s surface like a skipping rock, where she would suddenly arrive as if she’d slipped through a worm-hole, but her pursuers would be right upon her before I could catch my breath.
Now, as I sat lazily in the sun, pond-side, I realized (because I’d earlier examined her for any damage) that they were doing their very aggressive mating dance, even though spring’s long gone, and the cooler days of fall have not yet arrived. Then, in grand redundance, I noticed two enormous iridescent blue-bodied dragonflies stuck together as they are when mating, one’s tail inserted at the back of the other’s head, while the latter dips her tail agilely into the water dotting the surface near the lily pads. I began to wonder if the life stream in my back yard had been fooled into re-gearing their bio-rhythms for responding as if the year were further along than it truly is.
Other mating anomalies I noticed this morning were in my morning news feed. A bride in Brooklyn decked in full wedding regalia was found sleeping on the ledge above the door of a Park Slope brownstone (first reported in the July 21st “Brooklyn Paper”. She was awakened and removed by police called to the scene by worried residents, but was speechless except for her “squeal” when officers tried to separate her from her teddy bear purse containing the Tiffany wedding ring. Maybe she had also misjudged the timing?
Whether to attribute these quirky mating rituals to climate change or Venus going retrograde yesterday in Virgo near the cusp of Leo (while Saturn and Neptune continue on the other side of their oppositional dance and are flanked by Mars showing his own sensual and aggressive mating behaviour), remains unclear to me at this juncture. But I won’t bore you bloggers with astrological details you don’t comprehend. I’ll save that for another post that goes to the astrologically acclimated.
Nevertheless, the retrograde period of Venus from now until September the 8th should bring us some time for clear reflection upon our passions of the past, though I don’t expect they will all be recollections of quirky, out-of-time, sad, or aggressive relationships. But do recognize, my friends, they are relationships you are no longer in! And I have to say, the bride-thing just seems so Virgo to me, anyway! (Actually, Virgo does represent the Bride, Bridget/Brigid , before she surrenders her sovereignty into the marriage bond in Libra.) *sigh*
A poem from several years ago seems to fit in here, so I'll insert it:
In the Garden
I am the girl who likes to play
The game of love how e’re I may
There are no rules in love and war
No limits there, no holds to bar
I claim my freedom and my youth
My Victory, my Self, my Truth
In the garden of my Father’s world
I am a carefree, nascent girl
The boy next door whose strong young arms
And body make me feel so warm
Stealthily stretches tight his bow
I watch his muscles roll and flow
And breathlessly I fall in bond
Though he may be of me but fond
While swimming in the waters deep
It’s hard for me my heart to keep
The sparkling bass flash, colors fly,
The sky reflected in my eyes
Has blinded me from deep blue cold
In piercing eyes that are so bold
Oh, Mars and Venus, you are still young
Your Soul’s sweet song has not been sung
In your Mother’s forest play
Grow up to Love another day
December 5, 2004
Friday, July 27, 2007
Staying Alive
Some of you have asked about my references to Fire the Grid in my last post. "Staying Alive" gives you some of its history and a little more insight into me. I appreciate any honest and interested feedback--
No, this is not a recap of the John Travolta movie, though that was a lively fantasy, and wasn’t he hot back then? This is, instead, a stream of consciousness flowing from a source located in a writers’ blogspot. It begins with a blog from a girl floating down Boulder Creek in cool currents of gurgling waters rippling over me in Houston—while I sit, looking beyond my window, interconnected intimately with the shades and shimmers of the day passing before me in a moving stillness that is co-conscious with my own thoughts as they play through my fingers on the keyboard and then magically appear before me, manifesting in black on blank white pages.
And in that flow that ripples easily beyond time and space connecting us, there was talk of death—a death dry as choking on a cracker, a wet death mired in muggy mold, or drowning in the drench sweat—the death of a mate, the death of an old mother. And yet all those writers nationwide are choosing to stay alive. And it is my choice, also—staying alive. WHY, is the question flowing within this universal stream along my computer banks and spilling out onto my monitor. WHY—the word echoes off the banks of Boulder Creek from each weaving current that ribbons and curls its way through the sunlight playing with my mind’s eye. What beauty, what joy, what pleasure or passion—what pain is it that keeps us choosing to stay alive?
For one man, 89 and living in a senior center far removed from family and community, it was the passion of betting with a buddy what image would be on the next state quarter to be released. It was around 2003 when this was reported and his desire was to stay alive until the last quarter was released. He was from Wyoming and worried it would be Old Faithful chosen for representing the spirit of that state. He proclaimed a cowboy should be the symbol for a state wild as Wyoming and vowed to stay alive until 2007 to see his wish come true.
CNN reports that widows in India flock to Vrindavan to die as is customary in their rural Hindu communities, but they stay alive for years on the streets begging just for food enough to continue on. These widows are shunned from society when their husbands die, not for religious reasons, but because of tradition -- and because they've become a financial drain on their families. They can’t remarry; they must shave their heads and wear white, and remain alone. No-one speaks to them--even their shadows are considered bad luck. They stay alive hunched over in pain and sorrow, choosing, all 15,000 of them, to crouch in this city until death comes to take them from life, never to have to be born again into its suffering. Dying in Vrindavan is believed to release them forever from the wheel of karma.
Some in Vrindavan, through the caring of a benefactor, are now living in a home where each has a daily meal and a small room for a pallet where she can keep her minimal belongings (usually what can be tied up in a piece of cloth). These are struggling to make the transition from living in isolation to living in community after as many as 50 years living on the streets alone—and some don’t make the adjustment. Are they staying alive in Vindravan to be complete with the passion of their suffering?
My mother is a widow living alone, like me. She was once an active and athletic woman who was a part of many clubs and community projects. I remember her smiling eyes, in one moment dancing rhythmically in friendly conversation, and in another, becoming deadly focused in piercing blue upon her pupil who better know her words are Law, but in either case, the deliverance was punctuated by her hands moving musically to coordinate her body with her meaning.
She has always been a lover of music. She played the piano—taught lessons to the children of the neighborhood—sang in the church choir, brought the symphony to the small town schools, played records and danced with us when we were children. She loves to sing and dance as do we all in our family. She made our lives very active with her social engagement in the communities where we lived. My mother had the energy and motion of a flirtatious filly on the one hand, and the insistence and will, on the other, of a bull ram.
Today her arthritic hands still fly in smiling conversation when she can find someone who will listen, she can no longer play the piano (but Katrina’s theft of that treasured box so full of her essence was grievous to us all), her voice has gone so low and raspy with her years of cigarette smoking that she is no longer welcome in the choir. But though she is often thwarted with word loss in her memory, she can still deliver the law when the spirit of it is called up in her. Maybe that is why she stays alive.
When left behind in the loneliness and isolation that follow the storms and suffering of life, what is it that makes us choose to continue staying alive? I think whatever that particular passion or purpose is, it is a very individual thing—and may not even be conscious, though a much more meaningful experience of life would most likely come from knowing it. But if we were to truly pursue awareness, we might awake a mighty beast within us. It is perhaps a fearing part of us who keeps it hidden.
Sometimes in my loneliness and seeming widowhood, I see myself becoming my mother, all bent over with arthritic hands, poorly functioning bowels, and faulty memory—shunned from brighter company and ridiculed behind my back. I sit in my window looking out upon the world I only experience in my daydreams and half-written stories. I draw into me the essence of life from the bountiful store in the trees grown tall and thick in my yard and along the trails nearby—from the flowers, birds, bees, and butterflies busily buzzing alongside the dragonflies dipping into my lily pond while gold and ink-colored fish bring me my only entertainment.
And I realize—in my loneliness and isolation I have become rich in new life, with company I never knew before—at least not so intimately as now. I am filled with a new song that gladly uses me as an instrument for its playing and I am more alive than I’ve ever been. It is this purpose I see that has become the reason for my staying alive.
You may be aware, reader, that a young woman who had a near-death experience a few years ago has been inviting us (along with many others who have joined in her purpose) to “fire the grid” of human consciousness—for reviving the life force in humanity and in the living body of the earth. She’s asking that we prepare ourselves for an hour of meditation on July 17th by imaging just what it is we love about life on earth, what gives us the greatest joy and pleasure, what fills our hearts with love, what gets our juices going. In this realization and its strengthening in us through the practice of experiencing it, we build a repository for, or activate a core radiance of that beautiful and loving energy within us, and can, by intention, focus it just as we choose.
She and a growing force of others are asking us to join with them in this focus for manifesting a new life frequency of joy on earth at 11:11 GMT on July 17th. (That’s 6:11 am here in Houston, readers.) If you feel called like many others do, to “fire the grid” in this activation of passionate purpose, you must ask yourself that question—why do I choose each and every day to keep staying alive? It is both an easy and a difficult question to answer, is it not?
No, this is not a recap of the John Travolta movie, though that was a lively fantasy, and wasn’t he hot back then? This is, instead, a stream of consciousness flowing from a source located in a writers’ blogspot. It begins with a blog from a girl floating down Boulder Creek in cool currents of gurgling waters rippling over me in Houston—while I sit, looking beyond my window, interconnected intimately with the shades and shimmers of the day passing before me in a moving stillness that is co-conscious with my own thoughts as they play through my fingers on the keyboard and then magically appear before me, manifesting in black on blank white pages.
And in that flow that ripples easily beyond time and space connecting us, there was talk of death—a death dry as choking on a cracker, a wet death mired in muggy mold, or drowning in the drench sweat—the death of a mate, the death of an old mother. And yet all those writers nationwide are choosing to stay alive. And it is my choice, also—staying alive. WHY, is the question flowing within this universal stream along my computer banks and spilling out onto my monitor. WHY—the word echoes off the banks of Boulder Creek from each weaving current that ribbons and curls its way through the sunlight playing with my mind’s eye. What beauty, what joy, what pleasure or passion—what pain is it that keeps us choosing to stay alive?
For one man, 89 and living in a senior center far removed from family and community, it was the passion of betting with a buddy what image would be on the next state quarter to be released. It was around 2003 when this was reported and his desire was to stay alive until the last quarter was released. He was from Wyoming and worried it would be Old Faithful chosen for representing the spirit of that state. He proclaimed a cowboy should be the symbol for a state wild as Wyoming and vowed to stay alive until 2007 to see his wish come true.
CNN reports that widows in India flock to Vrindavan to die as is customary in their rural Hindu communities, but they stay alive for years on the streets begging just for food enough to continue on. These widows are shunned from society when their husbands die, not for religious reasons, but because of tradition -- and because they've become a financial drain on their families. They can’t remarry; they must shave their heads and wear white, and remain alone. No-one speaks to them--even their shadows are considered bad luck. They stay alive hunched over in pain and sorrow, choosing, all 15,000 of them, to crouch in this city until death comes to take them from life, never to have to be born again into its suffering. Dying in Vrindavan is believed to release them forever from the wheel of karma.
Some in Vrindavan, through the caring of a benefactor, are now living in a home where each has a daily meal and a small room for a pallet where she can keep her minimal belongings (usually what can be tied up in a piece of cloth). These are struggling to make the transition from living in isolation to living in community after as many as 50 years living on the streets alone—and some don’t make the adjustment. Are they staying alive in Vindravan to be complete with the passion of their suffering?
My mother is a widow living alone, like me. She was once an active and athletic woman who was a part of many clubs and community projects. I remember her smiling eyes, in one moment dancing rhythmically in friendly conversation, and in another, becoming deadly focused in piercing blue upon her pupil who better know her words are Law, but in either case, the deliverance was punctuated by her hands moving musically to coordinate her body with her meaning.
She has always been a lover of music. She played the piano—taught lessons to the children of the neighborhood—sang in the church choir, brought the symphony to the small town schools, played records and danced with us when we were children. She loves to sing and dance as do we all in our family. She made our lives very active with her social engagement in the communities where we lived. My mother had the energy and motion of a flirtatious filly on the one hand, and the insistence and will, on the other, of a bull ram.
Today her arthritic hands still fly in smiling conversation when she can find someone who will listen, she can no longer play the piano (but Katrina’s theft of that treasured box so full of her essence was grievous to us all), her voice has gone so low and raspy with her years of cigarette smoking that she is no longer welcome in the choir. But though she is often thwarted with word loss in her memory, she can still deliver the law when the spirit of it is called up in her. Maybe that is why she stays alive.
When left behind in the loneliness and isolation that follow the storms and suffering of life, what is it that makes us choose to continue staying alive? I think whatever that particular passion or purpose is, it is a very individual thing—and may not even be conscious, though a much more meaningful experience of life would most likely come from knowing it. But if we were to truly pursue awareness, we might awake a mighty beast within us. It is perhaps a fearing part of us who keeps it hidden.
Sometimes in my loneliness and seeming widowhood, I see myself becoming my mother, all bent over with arthritic hands, poorly functioning bowels, and faulty memory—shunned from brighter company and ridiculed behind my back. I sit in my window looking out upon the world I only experience in my daydreams and half-written stories. I draw into me the essence of life from the bountiful store in the trees grown tall and thick in my yard and along the trails nearby—from the flowers, birds, bees, and butterflies busily buzzing alongside the dragonflies dipping into my lily pond while gold and ink-colored fish bring me my only entertainment.
And I realize—in my loneliness and isolation I have become rich in new life, with company I never knew before—at least not so intimately as now. I am filled with a new song that gladly uses me as an instrument for its playing and I am more alive than I’ve ever been. It is this purpose I see that has become the reason for my staying alive.
You may be aware, reader, that a young woman who had a near-death experience a few years ago has been inviting us (along with many others who have joined in her purpose) to “fire the grid” of human consciousness—for reviving the life force in humanity and in the living body of the earth. She’s asking that we prepare ourselves for an hour of meditation on July 17th by imaging just what it is we love about life on earth, what gives us the greatest joy and pleasure, what fills our hearts with love, what gets our juices going. In this realization and its strengthening in us through the practice of experiencing it, we build a repository for, or activate a core radiance of that beautiful and loving energy within us, and can, by intention, focus it just as we choose.
She and a growing force of others are asking us to join with them in this focus for manifesting a new life frequency of joy on earth at 11:11 GMT on July 17th. (That’s 6:11 am here in Houston, readers.) If you feel called like many others do, to “fire the grid” in this activation of passionate purpose, you must ask yourself that question—why do I choose each and every day to keep staying alive? It is both an easy and a difficult question to answer, is it not?
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