Saturday, February 21, 2009

 

Taking leave of my Goddess

6 weeks ago to the day a series of events occurred that created a radical change of lifestyle.

The first one was in the sleeping dream. I was taking care of a child’s much loved corn snakes. They were on a table in front of me and the male, orange, brown and black suddenly pounced on his life partner, pink and white, and started swallowing her. I was too shocked to move immediately, they were after all life partners. By the time action happened all that was left was her tail sticking out of his mouth. I tried to pull her out to no avail. The child entered the room and gently pulled and sure enough she came out unharmed. He then flashed me a grin and left and sure enough the same thing repeated itself.

Then in the waking dream I went walking in the gorge. Came upon a pit, and in the pit were many baboon skeletons and skulls. Some large, some small but it was a mass grave. I went to Cape Nature but they told me farmers set traps as these creatures are incredibly destructive. Its not that they eat what they need they literally rampage and can destroy an entire orchard and vineyard. So the men who toil the soil kill them – what else can they do. I guess the baboons being here first has no bearing here, or give them no rights; after all they do not own the pieces of paper making them owners of the land. They have just become a nuisance.

Then there was a domestic dispute involving a man a woman and a broken bottle. Managed to break it up thanks to both parties severe inebriation and an inability for the man to lunge to far forwards without falling flat on his face.

I saw clouds of poison every day being sprayed on the grapes to keep them free of mould. I saw the drivers of the tractors spraying, with no masks, just breathing it all as are we all. It is thick in the air.

I saw pictures of children killed and injured in Gaza and pictures of grieving parents. And even in this village far from Zimbabwe, I see the Zimbabweans creeping in, starvation outweighing the fear of xenophobic attacks. And further afield people have become slaves without even knowing it.

The sleeping dream pretty much covers the current sense of being. Eaten alive, being sucked in and yet at the same time the possibility for regeneration is always present. And regeneration is seen to be needed direly.

This mind has slipped into some quick sand and thoughts were tending to obsessive, with a more then necessary dose of fear thrown in to the mixture. Life had lost its sweetness and I was projecting my stuff onto others with false sagacity intertwined with vehemence. (Thanks psychegram).

This was not a pretty picture. Catching a glimpse of myself in a window sent a shock wave down my spine. The smile that is normally the first thing you will see of me had changed direction and was edging its way to the floor. And the furrows between my brow had changed from lines of intensity to lines of insanity.

So lighting up a joint my 20 year old happens upon me and we sit down to talk.
He asks how long I have smoked – “oh give or take 462 full moons” I reply. Take away pregnancy and breastfeeding.
How often he asks –“ well one in the morning and one in the afternoon”.
At that point the doorbell rings and I immediately dive into the bushes to avoid social interaction. Why would I want to talk to anyone is my immediate response.
He raises his eyebrows and in the gentlest way challenges me to stop my life of devotion to the goddess ganja.

I had not even thought about it. Never beat myself up about it, it was just who I was, but in the few minutes following his challenge, neurons fired up and a decision was made (way out of my control) that it was time and that was it.
For 6 weeks and a few hours the goddess and I have walked separate paths.

Unbelievable bursts of anger have appeared that I did not even know were harbored in this body mind. Lethargy reigns supreme and it is just a question of getting through the day. Still diving away from any social interaction, still looking for that sweetness which used to present itself with each inhalation.


Then an internal messenger informed me that perhaps if I lowered the toxicity levels of this body, joy would be forthcoming. So on day 4 of a grape fast (from an organic farm), I sit and write this, knowing that you beings out there in this particular sphere are a great gift and a smile of gratitude appears on these lips.
Posted by Picasa

Saturday, February 7, 2009

 



She arrives at dusk.
That time of day that when you are travelling and it is all around you, transitory, itinerant and seemingly timeless. The time of day when the sky hovers for an eternity in the indigo phase. The day has left the sky blue stage and is preparing to merge into the blackness and yet is still carrying light.

The taxi departs. The birds preparing for sleep, the crickets preparing for a night of music. A magical time where it always seems as if one is on the threshold of something marvelous.
The daily death of the day. Exactly when it happens is never noticed, always comes as somewhat of a surprise.

The stone building appears rather somber and cold . She stands at the larger than life wooden door. Shifting slightly from foot to foot as she awaits an answer. She views the antiquated bell she has rung and wonders if it works.

An owl swoops down and lands in a grove of trees just behind the house. She startles and when startlement has abated, her face gleams in appreciation of the symbol.

In a few moments her mind has jumped around a field containing a myriad of thoughts. Unrelated, non-relevant and extremely busy.

She presses the bell again. Her face tightens somewhat. Her lips clench, her eyes blaze. Anticipating that she might be observed she consciously relaxes her body and half smiles. After another eternity her attitude has changed from anxiousness to agitation and finally settles in belligerence. She finds herself muttering under her breath. She finds that the night is fully present with no luminous envoys.

Blackness surrounds. Her eyes flash on a white shutter, a stone wall and a single Moonflower, its scent divine and yet not bearing sufficient power to dissuade the rising disappointment which always manifests as anger.

Knowing by now that no one is home she rings incessantly, all the while raging.

Yet rage has a way of wearing itself out and makes place for a sense of futility to find a home. She heads for the grove of trees where she last saw the owl. She lies to the side of the circle. Something about being in the centre never did fit well with her. She places an additional layer of clothes on, and drinks from an emptying bottle of water. Deciding to do what she always does at times of uncertainty, she lies down. Her head uncomfortably high on her luggage, but unwilling to seek out comfort and remedy the situation.

Looking above her she sees the owl, motionless above her except that it is obvious it is watching the surroundings with such intensity as if to give it an appearance of imminent flight. She feels blessed. Life has put this magnificent bird above her head. The only other time she had been with an owl was a dead one that her youngest son adored for a day before the burial.

Just as she was pondering the importance of this, the owl flew off and suddenly the symbol became a past tense object and therefore lost its sacred awe.

She felt the first mosquito bite demanding a scratching. With a grunt she sits up and heaves her rug sack in front of her with about as much grace as a birthing hippopotamus. She has to pull out the bags stuffing until she can reach what she is seeking. Her eyes are not involved in the search; her hands have to do the task. They eventually touch something hard and smooth and triumphantly she pulls out a bottle of lavender oil. Smearing it on the exposed parts of her she ponders her situation. Then decides it is too bleak. Don’t contemplate the nearest town, don’t contemplate the failed arrangement. The only thing left for her to do would be to follow the path of self-enquiry. Life often creates situations where this is the last option. Never life threatening situations. Although sometimes these as well, but mostly mundane circumstances. No the only thing for her to do is to lie back and ask “who am I’. It is what she has learnt as the main tool in stopping the mind rushing ones emotions into an abyss of despair.
The shift from minding to being.

It followed like this for a time.
“Why did this happen”?
“To whom did it happen”?
“To me”
“Who am I”.

This process of enquiry is ultimately meant to lead to the discovery that there is no me that can be found. The point to discover where the I meets the source. For her it had never produced feelings of anything other than exerting the question to the thought and chopping the thought down. The moments between thoughts supposedly become longer and more profound, but for her the thoughts came as rapidly as Bush’s revenge for the September 11 attacks.

So here in the dead of night, we find a somewhat resigned woman asking the same question again and again until blessedly sleep made its way through the minds battlefield. She dreamt that night she was driving a fire engine from the back seat. She found it rather awkward.

She awoke in the hushed dawn. Just before night surrenders and yet the birds have already started their day. She goes to the outside of the grove and has a pee. Returns to her rug sack and continues to lie down. From her horizontal position she surveys the surrounds. The house looks as uninhabited as it did in the previous night’s darkness. It is abandoned.

How typical of her to follow a whim. To take this journey trusting that things don’t change and that she will be received here as she has in the past.
In her mind she was journeying here to have a break, in the presence of this remarkable teacher.
It did not occur to her to check up on availability or the possibility of death or such.

Hunger gnawed, she knew with absolute certainty that she would have to walk to the nearest town, and that it would be long, and that her rug sack was too heavy with books etc.
Angry and dejected she hoists the bag onto her bag, grunts and heads off into the sun.


Deal with it ego.
Posted by Picasa