"Who do you think you are?" Earthquakes, personal and telluric

San Andreas Fault

Well well, I must say, this sickness has been a humbling experience. Nor is it in any way over! But I do feel like blogging about it a bit today, so maybe that’s good?

Having not been “sick” for — what is it now, three years? — I assumed that I was over that particular dysfunctional expression of dense 3D corporeal reality. NOT!

I’ve long assumed that all illness is “stuck energy,” and that to heal illness is to get the energy to flow again. Well, there’s been some stuck energy in my head, jaw and neck apparently — all parts of this dense 3D corporeal body used to “think” and “communicate” — and it’s manifesting now in copious amounts of mucus from nose and throat. Neck stiff, but preferable to the headache and raging sore throat of Sunday and Monday. Still weak and a bit dizzy, but I think the fever has abated (can’t find my thermometer, buried in some overfull bathroom drawer from the last, long ago, bout of sickness).

So what’s the problem? What’s the communication block? Well, for one thing, I notice that now that I’m doing this blog I feel duty bound to post a certain number of articles each day, like five or six. What? Who says I need to do that? Where does that “duty-bound” consciousness come from? My German roots, most likely, and specifically, my father, who at 95, now cares with unflagging patience and tenderness for the daily needs of his 93-year-old beloved wife who is melting into dementia. She becomes his final “patient,” capping a long, honorable, duty-bound, old-fashioned career as a member of the last generation of doctors to actually make house calls.

That’s the deep genetic roots. The immediate roots are only obvious to very very few who live within my circle of familiars . . . I am currently embroiled as the central figure in a difficult political situation in my community that I can’t even talk about until it gets fully resolved. For a congenitally truth-telling Sagittarian, that’s a big deal. Having to look at the “game” being played and its “rules;” having to look at the “players” in the situation, their number and kind and various agendas; having to become aware and let go of my own ego, the role it plays, its need to “win” — and instead, surrender to a pulse from the unconscious that would manifest a community framework for resolution that would be necessarily much much larger than volatile, dueling polarities of the status quo. . . A big order. And guess what?!

I have already done that, already surrendered, and the larger framework did appear, like magic, like a miracle, mushrooming out of the void after two intense months in the middle of last week early in the morning of a long, sleepless night. Yes, the creative act has occurred. All it needs now is to unroll out of the imagination into physical manifestation, a process that will entail more inspiration and finalize sometime next spring. Some day I’ll even be able to write about it here. Meanwhile, I can only assume that it took a hell of a lot out of me, that deep, two-month-long underground process of trying to absorb and transform a complex political and cultural situation without going crazy or wanting to kill!

So, for the past two days, sick; but not sick enough to fall into oblivion. Rather, agitated, where time crawls rather than flies. Lying abed twitchy-legged and itchy-eyed, largely unable to sleep I picked up Julian, a historical novel by Gore Vidal that I had checked out for some unknown reason from the library and, of course, it happens to be a brilliantly done biography of a Roman emperor for whom court machinations and lethal internicene, labyrinthian political plots did not come naturally. Julian Augustus was a prince who wanted more than anything to be a “philosopher,” but instead found himself elevated to emperor, battle commander, administrator — . . .

Needless to say, I’m learning a lot. Not so much about what “strategies” to use in my own difficult political situation, but how to learn how to see/feel all sides of this or any conflict-ridden drama while resting in the still quiet center of equanimity. I thought I was there. Obviously, I was not there, or I wouldn’t have gotten sick. I “held it together” long enough to go deep and surrender to the larger framework that was needed, but in the process, apparently, parts of myself got out of balance and needed to snap back into place. So . . .

. . . though the “creative act” happened a few days prior to “falling ill,” that is literally what happened. I fell from an unreal (apparently) perch, and was, frankly, shocked to wake up Sunday morning with a raging soreness on the right side of my throat. There had been absolutely no warning. Usually, I can feel subtle signals from my body for at least 24 hours prior to “falling ill,” and so can adjust sleep habits, nutrition and meditative practices to avoid it. But this hit me like a slap in the face. All of a sudden as I write this I hear, loud, “Who do you think you are!” Aaah. . . now why that voice from the past, right now?

I flash to the nun who, when I flounced in with a message from another teacher to her classroom and planted my ten-year-old, teacher’s pet elbows on the side of her desk, said to me, in sharp, curt reprimand, “You little snip! Who do you think you are?!” Like a bell tolling the end of freedom, that remark has reverberated inside me ever since.

Yes, hard to remember I’m in a dense 3D body, and that this body interacts with other bodies according to how its “mind” has been conditioned by parents, schools, society. How that conditioning is designed to force us to think we have “limits,” which, of course, we don’t, not in our larger selves, not in our surrender to Love’s presence which haunts all our imaginings, powers the universe, and potentiates and dissolves endless seeds of new forms to harbor and express Love.

So I experienced my own tiny earthquake on Sunday, and am still reeling from its aftershocks. As if I’ve been deprogrammed. As if I’ve melted to the mush of the butterfly-to-be’s cocoon.

Dutch Sinse noted yesterday that the “uptick” of larger and larger earthquakes continues.” Earth body shakes her booty, too. Who do we think we are that we think we can control natural telluric and cosmic forces? HAARP or no HAARP, Earth is shaking off the “limits” hubristic humans have tried, for millennia, to impose on her large, living, breathing, vital being.

As above, so below. As within, so without.

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