The Way Things Were. The Way Things Will Be. alt: // Signage. There is no end to the beginning.
The richness of lost senses. A return.
Near the passing of time, I feel the knowing rush up to meet me, as I sit here, in a wood walled restaurant, half of my forehead and face being soaked in the warm glow of fall California light…
My heart echoes with the conversations of last night, where I held my truths close to my heart, and opened the ribcages so they could fly free with each breath.
Depth… There is something deep inside of me that yearns to be free, to swim at least, in the marriage of myself. Holding myself sexually accountable, in the energy of Creation, rising joy to my list of priorities, where it gets so buried before and beneath.
♾
No, this is not a to-do list — I have been heavily resisting those. This is an intuitive emotional checklist, watered by the sun and plagued by the overflown negativity of others, ignorance floating through this world that is often unmet by the awareness that our society constructs so much of the projections we experience in day-to-day life. There are not often people that I meet who understand this, but for those who do, and when I meet those who do, it’s like my heart shatters open and my seeing of the world is once again cleared, like the fog above the Santa Cruz mountains.
So much… is arising. Because lately, I have met not just one, but four of these beings. And I am overwhelmed with sensation, to call them my friends, my being, my persons. Also, to realize that, FUCK, none of them “are my people,” at the same time, “they are.” They, as amazing teachers of loving awareness, have guided me to the realization that I am truly my greatest guide, and that my inner voice is the one I should be listening to the most. Attuning to, the most.
Last night, I drove home from my friend Henry’s place after hours, back to the house that I grew up in, that often has pulled my entire body into a concave shrivel during conversation, and that pulls up the side of my face, crunches my shoulders together to protect my heart, cricks my neck to the side, raises an eyebrow on my face, and where my mouth and eyes purse simultaneously into squeezes of recollections of pain.
The invisible scars of my childhood home have played their part in my body, keeping ages of wounds healed and reopened to be revealed and revisited and rehealed every single day I continue to reside in this retched place that seems like my personally designed experience of hell, triggering, and resilience that I have never experienced before, celebration internally unlike anything I have experienced before, and the neutrality and calm and conflict in magnitudes that make my heart weak as it does strong, pulsing, volcanic eruptions: unlike anything I have ever experienced before. (I am) Healing high school wounds and loving tragedies in the hometown that I grew up in, the process of distancing myself from myself so that I can experience the truth of my own attachments has been such a powerful process (and looking up, wow, I am sort of glad I did not tip the creators of this place, which also seems to always be under construction).
How can a being who has experienced so much hate, also experience so much love? I ask myself this often.
Driving home from Henry’s place has been an occurrence of majesty and miracle over the last week. In the most healing and majestic way, the accessibility to his space of enlightened creativity brings me to an understanding of my inner voice, an allowance and permission of Self, that opens me wide to this teacher of life, of healing, of creativity.
Last night, it was different: (angelic) I cooked for him.
Now, I have been sharing meals with Henry and our/his friend, Jong, who was visiting from Toronto, in myriads of ways over the last two weeks. In this passing of time, I also met ~
also a brief intermission: to remind myself to TAKE NOTHING PERSONALLY, and share my energy in the knowing that this experience is a gift. I have hella issues, energetically, with this place and now the kind of crowd that 11th Hour attracts (especially since dining in has still been a gift, but this place, which was once small, is now seemingly a local favorite, and I am grieving the years before of what it used to be… while also recognizing my complete energetic sovereignty in this space now. When I was doing lots of acid, eating so much fruit to clear my body, and listen deeply to my intuition and voice, working at Frascati, smoking weed simmering out of college, I didn’t have this sense of knowing and wholeness that I embody now. Coming here was my choice. My challenge to myself, to hold my own energetic sovereignty and meditate in space that doesn’t always feel good to be in.) I feel like service has gone so downhill: the personal, cute coffee experience I used to get, feels now dismissive, assuming, and like the people here think they know me. I don’t think they actually do. I think we find things to like about each other, though, I have felt so weird and uncomfortable being in Santa Cruz because of how I’ve been speaking about it lately, with trusted companions and friends.
I feel like it has huge notes of white superiority, and disempowers the non “aesthetically-pleasing” folks, even though beach towns themselves (have HUUUUGE waves of this, particularly in California), but should be the most welcoming places, with all forces of Mother Nature. Evil does exist here. That is important to recognize. anyway.
All the fucking ways that I have been telling myself that I’m a boss lady have been PAYING off. And I feel that as I sit here, writing, whisking my mind into circles, listening to music, wanting my ego to just go away. It’s not just me that sees the white supremacy.
I want to write about joy.
Jong, at Henry’s pad. (find him @peachluffe on Instagram, music streaming on all platforms. ✨)
This is Jong. :)
Him and I met at the cafe I was working at, near the end of the ~~~~
