A.K. Reader: Crone: “She who Lives from the Inside Out” (2011)

I wrote this piece as my swan song for SageWoman Magazine, after nearly 20 years there as a columnist, with “Crone Eyes, Crone Heart.” If you’ll notice, the tone of this piece is very much that of a crotchety crone: direct, no nonsense, seeing through the appearances.

Yesterday, I received a text message from my granddaughter Kiera’s mother Sue. She told me that Kiera might be calling her Grannie Annie soon, after her adventure up Mt. Washington, which she summited last weekend with two other 17-year olds, both boys with mountain and ice-climbing experience. Why they agreed to take her, a complete novice, with them, they probably wondered. She told Sue she’s never been so scared in her life. Leaving home at 4 A.M., four hours later they started up, and actually did manage to get all the way up the mountain (4000 feet from base to summit), carrying sleeping bags and extra gloves, and with help of ice picks, crampons, and, on the way down, ropes.

Oh my! Had Sue known the danger I doubt she would have allowed her daughter to go. But as she said, “Kiera is beginning to realize she comes from a long line of crazy women.” YES!

I do remember saying to her, after one of her fiery tantrums as a little girl: “Some day you will be able to focus and direct this huge energy in immensely creative ways.”

I’m just so damn proud of Kiera who, as far as I’m concerned, has now initiated herself into her obstreporous female line. The key, as I told myself back  when I was 26, and just beginning to experiment: “Whatever I’m afraid of, that is what I must do.”

 

Baubo, Goddess of Dirty Jokes

 

Crone Eyes, Crone Heart, Final Column

by Ann Kreilkamp

SageWoman Magazine, 2011.

We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related, the eternal ONE. . . We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon, the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which these are shining parts, is the soul. — Ralph Waldo Emerson 

I’ve been writing a crone column for SageWoman magazine since 1993. That’s nearly 20 years. You’d think that by this time I’d feel like a crone! But I seem to have transitioned beyond Crone, indeed beyond any aspect of female, beyond human, into cosmic.

I sense myself as a cosmic, interstellar being.

What happened? How to describe?

It wasn’t anything dramatic; no blinding light knocked me from my human perch. Nor did a booming or whispered inner voice spin me around, shove me forward, order “go that way.” I can’t even point to a particular event that ignited this latest, now visible arcing of my ongoing evolutionary spiral.

As the philosopher Wittgenstein once said — and I’m sure I’ve mentioned him more than once before in this column, in fact exactly this same quote, so please bear with me — “It’s hard to start at the beginning, and not go further back.”

That quote reminds me of the ontological status of all merely human endeavors: how whatever we build with our minds and hands is “contingent, “ i.e. finite, changing, unnecessary, and floats, somehow, miraculously, in the infinite ocean of interstellar space. Simply, ultimately, there isno “bottom line,” no foundation, no place to fall. We live on earth, and build structures around us that we pretend are real, valuable, and secure — and which, sooner or later, crumble. And yet, even so, we don’tfall. We live miraculously suspended in a mysterious living universe.

But back to here, and now . . .

Lying in bed this early morning, I found myself deeply in thought as to what approach I might take to expressively and naturally show the full flowering of the shift I have undergone. For I can say one thing for certain: it happened “from the inside out,” as usual.

This is one of the definitions of Crone (for those many who ask) that I’ve always favored. “Crone is she who lives from the inside out rather than the outside in.” Crones are resistant to conditioning, impossible to brainwash. They have shaken off the ageist programming that is subtly or blatantly dictated by our body-identified, youth-worshipping culture.

Instead, of acting old and decrepit, instead of cringing in public, instead of feeling lonely and invisible and washed up, crones do their thing, even flaunt their thing, and to hell with what others say.

Luckily, unlike adolescents, who also do their own thing and to hell with what others say, we are not young; we are old, and our experience has gifted us with both sides of any equation, so that no matter what happens, we feel what others feel. In doing our own thing, having walked in the other’s shoes, we take care not to step on them.

In gatherings of crones, we open space up wide, wide! wider! — and revel in celebration of each others’ uniqueness. The girdles are off and the hair comes down. Finally, after a lifetime of mothering (whether persons or projects), we flower into exactly who we are, no matter how fierce, or intense, or dreamy, or otherwise strange.

For “as crones become invisible to others, they learn how to see.” This is a huge gift. Freedom of perception! No longer subject to hungry eyes devouring or envying our decked up, sexualized bodies, we breathe a sigh of relief. No longer squinting to avoid others’ projections, sight expands panoramically, our perspective honed by the halls of memory, from which we have gleaned truths and paid dues, in spades.

Crones live from the inside out; crones see all and everything with their own eyes. But how does this shift happen? For it’s not automatic. Not all old women become crones. Aging is no guarantee of wisdom or verve. Yes. How do we shift from needing to be loved by others to, in essence, being love, radiating unceasingly our full luminescence?

 Here’s how. We eat our own shadow. Crone is “she who eats her own shadow.” This, one might say, is the Jungian understanding of crone. Crone is one who has “individuated,” become whole, by consciously facing, embracing, and integrating within herself those aspects that lay in shadow —  denied, or ignored — and/or of which she was terrified because they felt “bad,” or “wrong.”

Some do this inner work through psychoanalysis. Others devour books. Still others, especially women my age, joined forces in the late ’60s and formed “consciousness-raising” groups. At first, our focus was sociological: together, we started to recognize how we had been pushed into certain “roles” that we then resolved to overcome.

Later, we turned inwards, to “process” our experience. We harvested understanding from dreams and visions, from the miraculous synchronicities of every day; and we dialogued with what we had found in our journals, or at times with others, usually other women, intimates. I, for example, have been co-counseling with my dear friend Claudia, since 1985. That’s 26 years! (She’s the one who remembers mydreams. I, alas, do not remember hers in turn.) Alone, and together, we’ve worked to help ourselves dig up the family roots of our own dramas, so that, in grokking our herstories and their import, we can bless them and let them go.

Aha! I now realize the natural approach I have been guided to take in elucidating this latest seemingly inexplicable shift within my own being.

I’ve just eaten my own shadow again, processed through my own dramas, and this time, the shadow and the dramas were those of the body itself — and not just the aging process of the body, my relation to which has been a dominant theme of my crone contemplation for nearly two decades. I have consciously eaten the body itself. Eaten the process of living in a body.Of residing here temporarily as an invisible, limitless soul trapped inside a decidedly limited suit of bones, flesh, and fluid.

And yet, I have not felt trapped inside this suit. At least not lately. During those twenty years I identified as a crone I did feel trapped.

All my life, I have recognized myself as “ageless,” an immortal spirit uneasily yoked to a mortal body. Immortality is an easy (though profound) understanding when one is young and feels immortal anyway. Not so, during the years of cronehood when what used to be bounding energy gradually or suddenly begins to wind down, until finally the spirit, eventually or suddenly, incandesces.

As a crone, I worked to accept and integrate my ageless self with the seemingly inevitable, sudden or gradual slowdown of physical energy, the sudden or gradual devolution of skin texture and tone, hair color and thickness, muscle definition and tone, and so on. I wanted to stare, unblinkingly, at the ongoing decomposition of the body, it’s inexorable end. And I wanted to utilize that understanding to both enlarge my world view and deepen compassion for all of life.

So yes, that’s what’s changed. I’m no longer meditating so much on  “death” as the end of this life, what I must consciously prepare for as I unflinchingly move towards it.

Instead, it’s as if a much larger “I” or being has chosen to temporarily focus in and through this body suit, chosen it as a lens, through which the universe moves into temporary incarnation for a certain purpose.

I remember the day when I first underwent this strange, compelling, very different experience of my own life in a body. I was standing up, bending over my desk, about to write a check.

Suddenly, it was as if a whole chorus of spirits were funneling their combined energies through the tiny aperture of my eyes. Funneling their energies, from another dimension, into this one.

I told my niece, who lived with me at the time, about this experience. She is an amazing being, one of the indigo children, so I didn’t have to worry that she would think me crazy. I asked her if she had ever had this kind of experience. She had not.

This experience, of funneling a group of souls through the aperture of my eyes, started to become more frequent.

In some way, I can look upon this experience as the result of a long spiritual practice, that of “witnessing” my experience, something I began in my late 20s, after reading a book about Gurdjieff, his practice of “self-remembering.” From then on I have cultivated a doubled consciousness: This practice helped greatly to smooth out the ragged edges of my peripatetic, highly experimental and risk-taking life. No matter what, I could always count on “being” there; no matter what I was going through, there was always this detached awareness that calmly and dispassionately witnessed the experience.

When I say I had practiced this since my 20s, I don’t mean to imply that this double-awareness was continuous. Far from it. Rather, I had given myself a sort of operational command, “wake up!” wake up to the actual living reality of the present moment, no matter what is going on! Let go of attachment and emotion and wake up!

The witness awareness would come in sudden flashes, and then blink off. Or it would bloom, for a long moment, and then blink off. Always, of course, it did blink off. The off and on sequencing continued for years, though I will say that at some point it did seem that the on moments began to flood awareness for longer and longer periods of time.

Though I’ve long known that, in reality, “I”, i.e., the real, invisible aspect of me, was larger than my body, and that, actually, as the saying goes, “I am a spiritual being having a human experience,” what I did not realize, until now — and I have no evidence for this, just the subjective nature of my altered experience — was that this life I lead here, this so-called “life,” is but a tiny fraction of my own multidimensional self that is living an infinite number of lives in an infinite series of universes. Yes, I am vast, as vast as being. My being is coterminous with the whole. Nothing separates me from all that is. All, that, is, is me!

So, given this near-ecstatic expansion in communion with the All and Everything — what about this business of being Crone, and of this column, “crone eyes, crone heart?”

After not receiving my column when it was due, Anne Niven wrote an urgent email to ask when it was coming. Her email caught me blindsided. Somehow, her earlier email had not registered.

For several issues now, Anne has been hinting delicately that perhaps my time as a columnist for SW is done, that I have moved on. But I am a creature of habit, and rather enjoyed the quarterly attempt to fashion my usually abstract focus into some kind of concrete form that might stimulate others.

This time I paused. Perhaps it was time to quit. Ah yes, it was. And since mine is a crone column, I also wondered about my association with Crone Magazine. I asked Anne, “Should I quit my column there as well?” (For those who don’t know: I started  Crone Chronicles in 1989 and ran it until it closed in 2001. Anne Niven started up Crone Magazine in 2007 with my help as its Founding Editor, a position I relinquished after issue #3, narrowing my role for #4 to that of a regular columnist.)

She emailed me back. “Are you coming to the Crones Counsel in Portland this September? If not, then the answer is clear. You’ve told me you love going to UFO conferences, and you only went to one day of last year’s Crones Counsel in Albuquerque, so . . .”

Aha! She’s right. I’m not going to the Crones Counsel this year. Simply, I don’t feel moved to go. I’ve moved on, as I told her, from gender-based consciousness, and further, from human species consciousness, to interdimensional, interstellar . . .

So, what does it feel like to be me, now, this cosmic, multidimensional, interstellar being who happens to have one aspect of her vast being funneling in through a 68-year-old female body on planet Earth in a tiny solar system in one outer edge of the Milky Way galaxy?

Well, I confess, until I began my new website, www.exopermaculture.com, five months ago, I was feeling, not exactly alienated, as there was no angst involved, no real sense of loneliness, despair, or anything else associated with the existentialism of my ’60s youth. No, rather, it was as if I was done here. There was no more for me to do. I actually began to alert people close to me, like my son, who now lives next door, that when it came time for me to leave this life, I would actively do it. Not by actively killing myself, but naturally. Like an aboriginal, I would simply stop eating and drinking.

Of course, he was alarmed. “Really, Mom??!”

I’ve long had what most people would consider an unusual relationship to my own body, and to life on earth. I’ve known that “death” is not only not to be feared, but welcomed, the entrance to greater life. Further, I’ve seen no point in prolonging this earthly life beyond the place of full usefulness. I take care of my body well, in fact I make a huge point of taking good care of my body, since without a body that is primed and functioning, of what use am I to the whole? I would be focused on my aches and pains, rather than on whatever service I’m guided to give at the time.

And though, last December, my body was still in prime condition, something had changed. I was bored. I could see no more point to living in this body, having seen it all done it all.

And then, for some reason, I sat down at my computer, and very quickly, surprisingly for an self-identified luddite, created a website, www.exopermaculture.com, and have been blogging like crazy ever since.

There’s something for me to do here still.

___

BTW: I am going to attend this year’s Crones Counsel XXVI, near Bellingham, WA, in late September, along with my old friend Claudia. Moreover, since this column was written, I have grounded myself more thoroughly, in Green Acres Permaculture Village.

 

 

 

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Is the U.S. Military Already Obsolete?

First, back in 2014, I noticed a story about an American destroyer in the Black Sea, its electronics rendered useless by a flyover Russian jet:

What spooked the USS Donald Cook so much in the Black Sea?

Then, all the conflicting stories about how most Trump-ordered U.S. missiles against selected targets in Syria, both in 2017 and 2018, were rendered harmless.

Meanwhile, it’s assumed, by those who both love the military and those who hate it, that the U.S. economy is largely composed of and/or dependent on the military. And that the military is necessary, especially to protect the petrodollar, which seems to be fast collapsing. So if (when?) it collapses, what happens to the American economy, American Military Might?

The ever-gloomy Chris Hedges thinks he knows:

The End of Empire

Meanwhile, here’s a new twist on what is becoming an old old theme:

Empire Collapse: Russian Missile Tech Renders American Trillion Dollar Navy Obsolete 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Empire Collapse: Russian Missile Tech Renders Trillion Dollar American Navy Obsolete

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Green Acres Village News, late April 2018: Repotting, planting, workshop

GAV News, Late April 2018: Repotting, planting, plus IU “infomatics” workshop

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A. K. Reader Interview: Angeles Arrien lived and taught traditional values in a disconnected age (2007)

exopermacultureRooting around in the hundreds of possible A.K. Reader posts from my storied history, I came upon an interview I had done with Angeles Arrien in August 2007 for the inaugural issue of Crone Magazine (itself a successor to Crone Chronicles magazine).

Oh wow! I see now that the interview was never published! I wonder why. And I certainly can’t remember! In any case, reading through this interview again, I am struck by just how her work in cross-cultural anthropology continues to reverberate through me and others who are devoted to community building in a time of increasing atomization of society. Arrien’s life story, which I coaxed out of her, is itself illuminating. Never did she seem to have doubted herself! Moreover, she seemed innately immune to social programming of all kinds. Or maybe that immunity had to do with the traditional Basque upbringing she received, something I think she would agree with.

I then looked up the date of her death, six years later, April 24, 2014. Today, this very day, is the fourth anniversary of her sudden, unexpected death! This synchronicity was the final note that convinced me to publish this beautiful old interview today.

 

Arrien Interview

 

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New David Holmgren book: RETROSUBURBIA

I wonder what co-founder of the permaculture movement Holmgren has to say about suburbs that we in Green Acres Permaculture Village haven’t already figured out! Or at least begun to experiment with. I do plan to purchase the book.

Retrosuburbia by David Holmgren: in conversation with Morag Gamble

 

 

 

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A.K. Reader: “Our Magic Wand” (1995)

exopermacultureThis essay introduced readers to that issue’s theme of “Money and Soul” in Crone Chronicles #24, Autumn Equinox 1995.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OUR MAGIC WAND

by Ann Kreilkamp

As a small child I was very aware of my family’s status in our small Idaho town. And yet, walking back home from school one day as a first-grader with my friend Freddy, that awareness was eclipsed by another larger one.

Freddy and I were privileged children of doctors, and our families’ natural allies. That day we were walking on the left-hand side of Addison Avenue, and I noticed Lorenzo Ortega walking parallel to us, on the right-hand side. Lorenzo was one of the poor kids, Mexican “wetbacks,” we called them. He sat in the back of Sister Bernita’s classroom, and his family sat in the back pew in church on Sundays. Lorenzo was a troublemaker; Freddy and I were teacher’s pets.

That brilliant Autumn afternoon I was struck with a sudden unexpected insight: I am the same as Lorenzo. There is no inherent difference between us. Simply, I was lucky, and he was not, in having a doctor for a daddy.

I didn’t say anything to Freddy about this, or to anyone about the other moments of sudden riveting clarity that came to me periodically during childhood. What was there to say? How could I explain, and why would they care? I cared, deeply. But I didn’t know why.

Another time I was walking to my friend Edwina’s house to play dolls early one fresh summer morning. Suddenly again, I was thunderstruck by — what to call it? — this time I did not so much receive an insight as enter another dimension altogether, parallel to the usual one, but not reducible to it. I was enveloped in an atmosphere of utter and timeless clarity, a knowledge that the world was one, and that I was here, present, eternally NOW. Again, there were no words, and though some say that only experiences which can be put into words are remembered, this experience, utterly other, was filed away as a lodestone, or crystal, the memory of its light dimly refracting everything in a new way.

I would say now that during these fleeting moments I was being signaled — no,flashed— by soul. The boundaries between this world and that one were, in those rare and seemingly random moments, permeable. Something flashed in to this world from the other one, leaving me stunned.

Meanwhile, life went on. Like other young females in the late ‘50s, I got caught up in Jantzen sweaters and training bras. I was embraced by the agony of first love. I did well in school, memorizing texts. Receiving my B.A. Magna Cum Laude two weeks after delivering my first child, I was already thinking about graduate school, and fighting with my husband.

Then, when I was 26 years old, I had an experience, one that plummeted me into that other realm altogether, so compellingly that three months later I gave up the life I was living to start down a different path.

Like many in my generation, I was caught up in the turmoil of the late ‘60s. Against my husband’s will I had left him in Cambridge alone for the summer, taken our two little boys, and moved into a large summer commune on the beach. We had rented a hotel, and its name, The Idlewild, fit the mood exactly. For me, however, the experience was traumatizing. I had been such a good Catholic girl, wife, mother, and graduate student, that all summer long I sat stunned, watching the others bend their brains and open their bodies through drugs.

In September, my friend Sylvia and I went down to the hotel one more time, alone. We sat at one end of the long table in the large kitchen, haunted by memories of summer, eating our dinner. Afterwards she pulled out a tiny packet of tinfoil and opened it. Two little pills stared up at me. Mescaline, she grinned.

Okay. It’s time.

That night Sylvia went off to the beach and I drifted into the huge front room where we had held our Saturday night strobe-lit dances. I turned on the music one more time, and began to dance to The Doors, gradually picking up speed until I was twirling through the air like a dervish. It was as if energy, dammed up for centuries had suddenly erupted and I was its instrument, wild, furious, and free.

The next morning, as the sun rose, Sylvia walked into the room and broke the spell. I had been dancing for seven hours.

The next day, at home, I developed a stomach ache. I crawled into bed, and remained there the following day too. The pain got worse. Finally my husband, still furious and tight-lipped over my summer disobedience, took me to the doctor, and I was admitted into Mass. General that afternoon with general abdominal peritonitis.

For seven days and nights the infection raged out of control. Intravenous antibiotics were administered continuously, each to its maximum, one every three or four hours, until there were none left to give me and the doctor, looking defeated, said he didn’t know what else to do.

I looked up at him, dreamy on Demerol, and asked, “Am I going to die?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, embarrassed, and scuttled out of the room.

Thus was the stage set for the entrance of soul into matter. Loud and clear, in a booming internal voice, it told me to decide: live or die, it is your choice.

 The next morning, my belly, which had ballooned to the size of a six month pregnancy, was flat. My fever was gone. I was here, NOW, and my body was inhabited consciously, for the first time, by soul. There was no turning back. In shock for the first three months, knowing now, that I, alone, was responsible for what happened next — that as I had chosen to live, so was I creating my life — I finally “came back to earth” and began to make the decisions that would unravel the knot clenched, like a fist, inside my stomach.

As in Plato’s story of the cave, wherein people gaze at shadows on the wall, mistaking them for reality (think of the cave walls as TV screens), so I, like the philosopher of old, had turned around to face the sun. The sun was warm, inviting; I wanted to remain there, at one with the sun, blind to this world. But I could not. Once again, now consciously, twice born, I had to turn and go back into the shadowy cave, to make my life with others.

But how? How can I live in this world when I feel alive only in that one? How can I live with others when they seem to have never noticed the sun? How to live as a stranger in a strange land, working with money, and things, and jobs and so on and on, the sheer minutiae of what I thought then to be a vastly inferior reality to the one outside the cave?

I am now 52 years old; 26 years have gone by since I was 26. The world is no longer black and white, dark and light. The world is becoming a single shimmering atmosphere permeated with colors reflecting light back and forth like singers arcing their voices to the heavens and back, in praise, in benediction.

I discovered that at the source of life is soul; that if I am in touch with soul, and align my personal will with its directive, then I experience the universe as alive, and it in turn supports me. Soul springs forth from the void to radiate love, bathing all activities in its glow, from the tiniest detail of daily life to the blush that bathes the Tetons at dawn.

Money, I have discovered, as a medium of exchange, is like water, or oil; it greases gears, moves things along, makes them happen. No longer is money my enemy, a part of this world opposed to that one. Now I see money as a transformation of matter. And matter itself — coming, let us remember, from the same root as “mother” — is, as Jean Hardy points out in this issue, “the love poetry of the Great Mother.”

There are so many stories, life stories — of coming to terms with money, and with soul, and with the fact that they are or can be connected. Each of these stories seems to be a variation of the same plot told above. Whether we start out with or without money; whether it comes from self or another; whether we become aware of soul early in life or late, the direction of our stories is similar. Some authors seem to be tentative, not sure; they are wrestling with as certain point in the plot, needing to master it before they can move on. Others are moving forwards at a fast clip, shuddering with revelation, or slowly, surely, building it in for good.

For there is an immersion in things of this world. Then, at some point, there is a conversion process — short or long, sudden and dramatic or painstaking and gradual — which leads us to turn inward, to the self, and its greater Self, or soul. Once we do that, then, when we do begin to turn around again and face the outside world, everything looks different. Once again, we have to come to terms with it, but inside this changed perspective. Money, then, can be viewed within the first world or from this transformed second one. And within these two worlds it carries different connotations.

To the extent to which we are still entranced within the first world (and who of us is not?) money is one of its gods, and we identify with it, worship it, rebel against it. To the extent to which we have “seen the light” and are moving in the direction of integrating the life of soul with “real” life, money can carry a different meaning. Its shamanic, shapeshifting, transformative capacity can be appreciated in new ways, and placed within a more universal context. I have a feeling that we are only beginning to open to new understanding and action with money as we seize this extraordinary moment presented by the coming millennial shift.

Money is not the bottom line, never was, as one of my sons, Colin, realized when he was three years old. I had asked him and his five-year-old brother what they would ask for if they could have anything in the world. Sean answered quickly, excited: “A million dollars!” Colin looked at me, and then, eyes open wide, as if struck by lightning, he announced, “A magic wand.”

 

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Alt-Epistemology: Me, and you, and the “Deep State,” its puppet masters — or not!

Michael Salla, of exopolitics.org, utilizing info from Qanon posts, offers one clear, overall perspective of the purse strings that pull the world’s puppet masters in this two part series. True? I have no idea. But it IS interesting.

Qanon on the Rothschild, Saudi, & Soros Puppet Masters Behind the Deep State

Aim4truth.org, however, considers the Q phenomenon to be a psy-op. True? Again, I have no idea.

QAnon: The Inconvenient Truth | Part I [videos]

As ever, I ask to allow my mind to stretch to include contradictory approaches to info, as well as contradictory info, without thinking that I must “come down on one side or the other.” No. I don’t. Not unless the choice is right in front of me, a choice that determines the direction of my own personal life. In this case, it does not.

We, the people of the world, have our own very busy or leisurely lives to lead — though all the while, according to some, we are being subtly manipulated, or not!, by the so-called “elite” to frame our worlds up in their way.

But really, think about it.  Just how much does all this deep state baloney have to do with the living, conscious, breathing Earth, as she now pushes up her beautiful plants through the soil in response to Sun’s lengthening rays? Furthermore, how much does all this deep state baloney have to do with my own deeply interior sleeping/waking cycles, and the dreams I entertain in both states?

Answer, at least for me, NOT MUCH! And yet I do find myself fascinated, even so. So thank you, Dr. Salla, for paying close attention to these far-away matters, and for connecting dots, tying threads, and so on. And thank you aim4truth, for serving as noble opposition.

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Alt-Epistemology: Let us sink below the conceptual scrim of judgments to the energetic realm of feelings . . .

. . . and stay there! And let us notice our feelings, watch them move through and dissolve. Yes! Let us let go of identification, which triggers the mind, which then instantly conjures up ideas, to justify “why” we identify, which then hardens the ideas into judgments, pro and con, good and bad, good and evil. Yuck!

This is the way wars begin. Let us find another way.

More and more, I notice myself withdrawing from the geopolitical world, the lies, agendas obfuscations, complexities, layers, distractions, judgments pro and con — all the mental stuff that we use to cover up  mild or extreme discomfort resulting from triggered emotions of aversion and desire and, especially, that does or, more likely, does not accurately describe, or at least parallel, the actual 3D reality.

Instead, I find myself withdrawing, noticing my inner world, what I bring into being by the quality of my presence. Noticing where I am carrying lies, agendas, obfuscations, complexities, layers, distractions, judgments, pro and con — all the mental stuff in me that is triggered by OLD OLD OLD emotions of aversion and desire, and that I know damn well, does NOT describe or parallel the actual 3D reality.

On the one hand, I’m glad others are still paying attention to the hoopla, and like most of us, I do hope that justice will be served — whatever that means in this high-stakes global game of greed, gotcha, cruelty and corruption.

And on the other hand, I’m glad to have lived long enough to learn how to instantly shift  attention, over and over again, whenever I feel myself being “drawn in” to the maelstrom.

So, here, now. I clean house, do the dishes, walk miles on forest trails with dogs, work with podmates to nurture and evolve this Green Acres Permaculture Village, and above, all, feel very very grateful to be grounded here into this tiny living experiment in transformation of  values that govern life in the suburbs — all as I continue to descend deeper and deeper into the layers of my own life to recover and share the writings (see A.K. Reader, Astrology, and E-Books) that have accompanied my voluminous and varied experiences over seven and a half decades.

Meanwhile, once in a while, I try out a new experiment, and here’s one: an idea that I’ve been dreaming up ever since Donald Trump was elected President, of showing his astrological chart alongside the chart of the U.S., and zeroing in on their energetic connection. In other words, I aim, in these presentations, to go beneath politics, beneath the polarization that defines this (and every?) age, to understand how we are all being “played,” on an unconscious level, by forces that we do not understand but that connect us even so.

I had originally wanted to do this presentation right after the election last year, in the auditorium at the public library, downtown. But was dissuaded by others: too dangerous. Who knows who would show up? Who knows what kinds of extreme positions people would walk in the door with in this Democratic liberal academic town? Could I contain and transform hostility, if necessary? Perhaps not.

For a whole year I stewed in my juices, wondering how to do this presentation. Then, aha! We have recently inaugurated the idea of short “presentations” following some of our Community Dinners. For our first presentation, podmate Alex gave us an hour-long demonstration of Feldenkreis. Afterwards Mariella asked, would I like to go next? Do the Trump/U.S. astrology talk that I’ve been wanting to do? Why yes!

So did I end up doing this presentation for the first time here, in the tiny, and safe, venue of Green Acres Village, as a short, 15-minute talk after one of our Community Dinners. That was over a month ago. Then, two nights ago, I did the presentation again, this time out in Brown County, up a country road to friend Annie’s home on a beautiful ridge overlooking the forest with a lake to the west framed by the setting sun. We sat there, around the fire, grilling hot dogs and sausages, about a dozen of us, all drawn by the promise of looking at the energetic connection of the astrological charts of Donald Trump and the U.S. After dinner, we headed inside, where these beautiful souls, many but not all of whom knew each other — and, Annie told me earlier, most of them were “anti-Trump,” though there was one couple that was “pro-Trump” — and you know what? When it was over, and this presentation lasted a full hour, branching out in several ways, I realized that I had no idea who was pro and who was anti. Why?

Because we succeeded. We descended below the superficial conceptual political linguistic  level that gets triggered by the strong, uncomfortable emotional charge that energizes us all during this time, and stayed there, below our judgments, below the polarization, realizing our connection — and above all, having fun!

To give a short summary for astrologers of the two strongest energetic connections: 1) Trump’s warlike, courageous Mars/Ascendant in Leo (the king, the ruler, the narcissist) exactly opposes the U.S. Aquarian Moon (the populace). 2) Trump’s twittering Gemini Sun conjunct wild-card, unpredictable Uranus opposite Full Moon in wide-ranging Sagittarius conjuncts the U.S. Mars (exact). All these planets are angular in both charts, i.e., bound to express into the world rather than to be held within. As the U.S. populace is uprising, so Trump seems to be the one who incites the uprising, but in fact he simply mirrors and exaggerates it. There was much more, along the way, including the uncanny transits to the U.S. chart on 9/11, the technological prowess and continuous warlike tendencies of the U.S., Trump’s love of family and need for loyalty. On and on. Instead of blaming or heralding, we were, instead, understanding. “Standing under” our judgments, recognizing that and how the original nature of Donald Trump strongly stimulates and echoes the original nature of the United States of America.

At the end — wanting, no doubt, something about their own original natures as shown in their sun signs — they asked me if I would just give a short description of each of the astrological signs in order. At this question, something took me over: I said, “How about I do it in body language?” and proceeded to move in exaggerated ways, demonstrating first, impulsive headstrong Aries, then stubborn head-in-the-sand Taurus, then curious scattered Gemini, clannish protective Cancer, proud self-expressive Leo, critical, discerning Virgo — and so on and on, sign by sign, all the way around the zodiac, until we were all laughing in recognition of how each of us is, in our original natures. Instead of lots of words, the entire demonstration took not even two minutes. I plan to do this body language display of the signs of the zodiac again soon, and videotape it.

Meanwhile, podmate Andreas, who accompanied me on the hour-long journey to Annie’s house, took a few pictures and made an audio, which I link to, here.

 

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