Recalibration

Understanding our reverberation in the whole of the universe at every given moment, is consciousness—being who we are on that cellular level as the omniscience of our life—the anthropologist from Mars, or Venus, depending upon our gender.

Vibrational pulls draw us synchronistically with a God’s nudge into a relationship dance.  Our paths parallel, intersecting, obliquely, and back again to parallel.  Is the composition a harmonic, melodic vibrational orchestration?  Are the instruments in tune where the music happens?  There are moments when even consciousness is not sufficient for a feast in peace and equanimity with those we walk alongside. 

For how long can the temperamental strings sustain their pitch when the plucks and pickings stretch those steel wound sinews of our temperaments?  Does the difference in language, the connotations and denotations rise in celebratory crescendo, or fall flat, perhaps missing both the rhythm and awe held magnificently by one and not the other?

Dissonance steals quietly, suddenly, unsuspected, yet not unannounced.  Tuning sags, losing clarity of pitch, timber, and purity of key—that universal recognition alerting us somewhere, ghost-like, with faint recall of something familiar and off-putting.  That tint of offishness in pattern, vague with ancient familiarity—one ear listing into the wind as if a sharpened auditory sense might rise enough to forewarn and offset the undoing.

In the end, it was a word—a series of words, spoken in truth, integrity and love--as if dissonant to the other as fingernails on chalkboards. Static shocks to the epidermal layer of self.  Revealing that the nine degrees of separation are indeed beyond connection and relationship.

And in the end, there was an ending.  A new tuning, a vibrational recalibration of Self without which the universal vibrational-pull repeats.  The Self rises higher--turning, clothed in thoughtful reflective space, time, and stillness to gather, recenter, and reconnect with truth, integrity and love.

Kat

29 May 2016

Portals

Deeply inside the diminishing portal, a world begins and ultimately ends—having culminated in lifetimes of relationships expanding and contracting like amoebas opening and closing to sensation—tentacles sensing dualities and all the betweens, floating in the sea, rising and dropping in the fathoms depending upon their visceral survival.

Sensory cues direct motion in all life forms.  Like a mechanical switch, life responds—seeking homeostasis when the mania exhausts the passionate ones, drawing back to the plumb bobs’ center.  Too extreme, the highest and lowest tides and gale-forces tip even the fishes’ float bladders askew—rolling with turbulence in the vastness of the Mother herself.  

Wearing out in time, from the ons and offs of our connectedness, the world, too, sheds its cells, those reptilian skins, replenishing anew with a constancy only understood when our macro vision includes the portals within the portals—the outer worlds that expand—the necessary process called living, ultimately lethal to all life forms.


Kat
29 May 2016

Suppose

Suppose you knew that oxygen supplies are about to end.  And that your knowledge of the importance of oxygen to your aliveness was undeniably clear—that death was imminent.  Would fear grip and smother the love in your heart?

Given the key to perfect health and longevity, would this bring you joy?  Or sadness, knowing that you had decades more living to fill, to finance, to face?

Suppose your capacity to laugh was taken away from you due to some deeply wounding experience.  Have you ever pondered if your inner strengths—your core self, could rise above and beyond such a distress?

Suppose joy and happiness fell upon your life in abundance and with regularity.  When the opposites, sorrow and sadness, found their way into your life, as all dualities eventually do, would they hold equally strongly, or would they linger, only fleetingly?

Suppose everything is as fluid as water, as energy flows, as do emotions move into and through us as surely as the moon through her cycles.  Suppose it is all a dream and nothing is real—but a randomness of human trials and tribulations to bump up our vibrational frequencies to help hone our soul growth and ultimately set it free.

Kat

22 May 2016

Vibrational Colour

Some pay heed to all precautionary rules and regulations—holding fast to the safety of concreteness to which they cling.  Gripped as they are in fear of impending chaos, so they are of uncertainty and flow, aligning with authority’s guidelines used to assert control over the masses.  They join in with the policing of not only themselves, but everyone in their inner circles and outer-reaching circles with aplomb.  And with this certainty, assert their intellect and daily energies to ensure the captivity of everyone and everything within their own vulnerable sense of life.

Yellow corresponds with earth in ancient Chinese, generating Yin and Yang, as it was revered as the center of everything.  It represented freedom from worldly cares, therefore, was esteemed by Buddhist traditions as it signified the Middle Path, that is, the absence of form and emptiness.  The Imperial Chinese decorated their royal palaces yellow, exalting their power, reverence and authority, symbolically.

Eastern cultures revere yellow as a symbol of heroism, yet in America, it is the colour of cowardice and caution.

The culture into which we are born is not necessarily the culture we must embrace for the wisdom of our inner light.  Living with love, without precaution, fear, or need to control either other elements in our world or ourselves,  we can find alignment regardless of our cultural origins.  This brightness reflects our ability to shine, connecting with our God /Goddess is within.

Yellow can be whatever we choose, if we understand we have choice.  And with that choice, we live a life of freedom.

Kat

10 May 2016

Spirit Badger Medicine

 The sun broke orange against the sandstone mesa cliffs that early spring morning.  Bird songs joined with the new light that washed the brown meadow and red rock walls, crescendoing and filling my senses, which had been stilled by a deep uninterrupted night sleep--then followed by the centering of sitting meditation that morning.

The gentleness of this early morning practice, at a time when chaos and change tugged at every edge and tried to get deeply within my core, brought centering instead.  The moon in her cycle, the darkness and ensuing lightness at dawn, the twittering of tiny birds, then the crowing of the domesticated fowl and the clucking of their hens, assured me of the natural rhythm which I could rely upon, daily, for calming and assurance that the pattern to which I felt intimately connected was one thing upon I could depend, with absolute certainty.

The sudden clamour and ruckus that followed this otherwise ease, day-after-day, sent me charging with speed and riveting focus towards the coop.

Meeting face-to-face with a badger in my chicken coop was therefore quite a surprise since I had not before either seen one or met one in person. 

She was scampering broadly, low-legged to the ground, gray, with amazingly smooth steering considering her girth and shortness of stride. After dismissing her species as a duck billed platypus, I realized that she was none other than the first badger to grace my life.   Known for their mystical bold self-expression and reliance, the keeper of stories in Indian folklore, I realized that her symbolic message of the keeper of light and the knowledge of other animals and the Earth was a gift to contemplate that day. 

 Through badger we are assured  that ”if stories come to you, care for them.  And learn to give them away where they are needed.  Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive.  That is why we put these stories in each other’s memory.  This is how people care for themselves.”

And so I spent the rest of the day praying and listening and staying still with the beauty and knowing that her spirit had graced me and was continuing to unfold its presence.

While I had tried to capture her, my efforts were in vain, and her viciousness in her snarl and forward-attacking motion sent me running in retreat of safer distance.   Coyote, too, carried that wild snarly snappy aggression that gave me deep respect for their wildness and safe distance, not unlike my new adventure with Badger.

Later that day I noticed that a light poked up from the ground beneath my outhouse seat.  This Y2K compliant facility was the bane of my life now that I lived alone and had to care for its recycling into my compost pile.  I put off the work to take its contents and dig and bucket it over to the compost bins--yet knew one day soon, before I left this place, I would have to do the responsible act and clear it all out.

But before giving it too much thought I found myself the next morning looking into the opening once again only to note that the entire contents had been removed the night before.  My badger, having failed to feast upon the white breasted hen’s flesh, had opted instead to give me not only a reprieve from my work load, but a gift of light, of story, and more time to care for myself.

Kat

4 March 2012

Free Flight

Can people be the sustenance of our life?

The very rocks upon which we stand?

And climb?

The soil into which we dig and sow our gardens?

The shared air we breathe--in and out, in and out?

Ether onto which we gaze and wonder?

Hearts openly sharing joy and happiness?

Can people be the sustenance of our life?

Or must we cultivate our own ground?

Our own grounding?

Rooted in self-love that seeps from our core?

Sprouting happiness

Sustained in fertile seeds we plant and reap?

Ever vigilant in the lone hours? 

Can people be the sustenance of our life?

Or must we satiate our soul’s desires, alone

On paths, separately searching?

Or perhaps, just perhaps,

Along side

Hand-in-hand with our beloved--

Our paths converging in free-flight.

Kat

25 January 2016

Each Time

Decades ago I saw a French movie once, about the moment of total silence and its demarcation when it appeared to switch-on-a-dime into the incremental beginnings of the rustlings of the new day. 

Living in my box canyon in the wilds of New Mexico I discovered that moment. I always wanted to contemplate on it--study it, expand it--capture it and hold it still, then pull it apart like cotton batting wads, or cumulus clouds, but there was no time to do so--it was but a moment--a mili second, a nano second--as quick as that nighttime lightening flash across my meadow that lit brilliantly long enough to create a hunger to see more.  

Do you know what I mean?

I don’t know.  It was so momentary.  Unable to grasp its girth in any extended manner--I could only sense it, observe it for that fleeting time.  It took my breath away though, and equally so, left me with a deep sense of loss--as if a trick?  As if there were no markings to track--only the dash between two missing dates on a tombstone.  

And no one who knew the deceased.

Kat

1-29-16