On Integration

Without form or prose stickiness, on Integration.

I met someone that reminded me of me for the first two years of intentionally doing psychedelics — treating my body like it was not so much a holy space, but also, believing and knowing deep down that I was right about something. There was an opening in our world, an entire portal: and I was right inside of it, accidentally stumbling upon it, when I least expected it, because inside, I was already looking for it. This world is not meant to make sense — though it’s compassion that is what glues it together. We must remember that.

At one of my favorite cafés, nestled in a rainy town in the corner of mountains filled with abundant trees, winding roads, and redwoods — a café whose name I shall not mention — I’ve contextually found it in my bones to write. To write and write, like writing is the vein of blood and nutrition that will feast and free me: and I drew myself here, in the name of Source, to experience myself writing.

And as I walked out of the bathroom, for the first time, then back in from the rain the second time, I locked in and felt the eyes of a blue-eyed gentleman, a white man, let’s be honest, and I found myself smiling at him, happy to be here. And he was smiling back, and as I admired the rain from the windows of this cafe, I had that feeling that has been melting into oneness through me, that everything is okay. I saw a pack of cigarettes on his table, a big black backpack, and this person himself had no shoes on, just a rusty light pair of cutoffs, and I feel this familiar sensation often, of being looked at versus being seen.

Around Things, around nature, I am seen. I am able to be free of the limitations that others place upon me, the same things that I have braided into the fabric of myself, so I can digest it, alchemize it, wear it, and get curious about it. Stories that I’m too far out to be a hippie and live in a van, hell, walk around barefoot — getting on with it. Eating with my bare hands, tying my hair into two braids, or six or three; riding my bicycle almost every day, pretending I’m exploring the mundane with a seeker’s mind and open heart, and as I listen to music and write now, just the things pouring through my brain like the colorful coral reef it is, housing secrets and secrets and fish without names, I feel the jelly of my heart expanding into every open crevice.

For there IS nothing to hide!

You need to put yourself out there. — In terms of sharing your gifts as a writer.

Understand who you are by being in service to others: the anger and anguish that you’ve been healing, are nothing and everything. Do you understand what it means to hold a space? Perhaps not… I’m understanding that we will get nowhere if we hold grudges against others, and it’s almost rurally important to create community wherever we are. I miss my friend Jens, for it was him who taught me a lot about my own ability to form telepathic connections, heal, and recognize my connection with God and my personal journey of healing are really sacred, dances, with the Divine. He taught me about love, as a truth, rather than just a concept — I lived with him. We saw and held and touched Things. Someone else’s triggers and sensitivities do not have to be your own — you have the freedom to decide what stays in your life, and what leaves it.

Tenderness. try a little… tenderness.

Warmly,

Christina