"Life is short. Life is sacred. I am one of the luckiest people alive."
These words are taped to the bottom of my computer monitor so that I can read them each day. But I have many more phrases strewn about, for I am a spiritual phrase junky.
Each morning I sit at my computer and gaze at my western wall. The words, "I am open to a miracle in my life," greet me readily. Sometimes I pause and ask myself, am I truly open to a miracle today?
Situated nearby is, "I am the possibility of abundance!" Although I smile at this possibility and delight in the word abundance, I often wonder, what would living this possibility entail? Eliminating attachments, even the most mundane, seems to be the key to abundance. I ask myself, can I preserve nothing in my life so that I may receive everything in return?
My current favorite is a mere five words, "The path abruptly showed beauty." It suggests sudden and unexpected relief after an arduous struggle. There are two ways you can view this, however, as the next message declares, "Hold fast to your inspiration! Glorious light awaits you on the other side." The truth is, the path continually shows beauty, just as glorious light continually shines upon your being. Although deeply committed to self-development, it seems a vital concept frequently escapes my fingertips: There is no getting to to get to.
Now that I've exposed my western wall to you, let's ask a pointed question: Can I practice what I write or am I just a spiritual phrase junky? I believe if I stopped writing today, I could probably be true to a handful of the positive messages in my midst. But if I continue writing uplifting messages and mix them into my growing pot, I don't stand a chance. Remember, I am a spiritual phrase junky.
"Life is short. Life is sacred. I am one of the luckiest people alive." I want to believe in this statement. The question is do I want to believe in it enough to honor it?
When I look due south, my eyes fall upon the disappointment wall. I've dotted this portion of my room with regretful and strife ridden messages. As I've just realized this caveat, the distribution on my part must have been subconscious. "They keep moving the cheese," is pinned here. In my mind, I ask, who are they? I wish they would stop moving the cheese. I hate to construe the meaning of life as a treasure hunt. A list denoting, "Things I enjoy doing," is also adhered to this wall. I created this list because I often forget them.
Other regrets include a poem in memory of September 11th, a rebuff from Paramount Pictures, and several triathlon race results with one name consistently highlighted: a particular gal who habitually beats me by a minute or so. The cover letter of my 1993 business plan also accents this region. What's fascinating is that this summary speaks to the same insecurities I maintain today. Additionally, two months after writing this motivational plan, I became certifiably unemployed -- again, not unlike my current situation. Maybe I should call this area my unlearned lesson wall.
Finally, the words "Build a team" contrast strikingly with the words "Working solo has its rewards." I consider the first option carefully each day. Can I build a team? I ask myself. How much new business would I have to generate to make it so? As it is, I can hardly drum up enough business to provide for myself. Such thoughts always lead to the same result; working solo is best, so why do I ponder the option continually?
In case you are hesitant to say it (or perhaps you already whispered it beneath your breadth), I am also a woe-is-me junky. This is why my disappointment wall exists. Granted, I unintentionally designed this wall to prop up self-pity, it succeeds just the same. And over the course of the last half hour, I've sneakily contemplated the following thought: This journal entry -- possibly my last -- may end up pinned there as well.
Woe is Me.
Instead of glowing rays of dawn, I awoke to grays folded on grays. The Northwest sky so looming and motionless, it reminded me of a 17th century Dutch landscape painting. Except in this instance, the artist had foiled his colors. We'll be heading east, I said to myself. At last escaping the infinite Puget Sound grays.
The doorbell chimed. It was time to go. I grabbed my little green scooting stone and stuffed him into my pocket. Pedro, as I called him, needed an adventure, too.
Riding on the back of a motorcycle is like embarking on a ride at an amusement park. Though unlike amusement park rides, this one lasted five hours with little breaks at roadside stops. Through the city we raced, passing shapes and blurry pigments, leaving only faded strings stretched behind. Tense and half-dazed with fright, I acknowledged that it was too late to turn back. Let this excursion be a lesson of physical vulnerability, I told myself. I am unwilling to face the emotional fragility that lingers in my future.
In unison, we dashed over bridges and hills and flew across windswept prairies until,inally, we reached the base of the Cascades. The real adventure was just before us. Still thinking of the roller coaster analogy, the rapid rise and fall through the mountain range seemed akin. The rapture of upside down loops within a rickety rail car, however, cannot compare to descending great heights atop a machine that summons you to lean into risky curves. Even as a passenger, you learn the sanctity of the human-motorcycle bond. You truly are one with the machine. Second-guessing this oneness isn't wise.
At the east edge of our journey, we encountered an episode of flashing lights and an abrupt halt. I dismounted the motorbike and removed my gloves to greet the patrolman. He appeared expressionless and stoic, and I considered that I could benefit from acquiring a similar stance.
He asked us a few questions, scribbled a few notes, and uttered simply, "Slow down. You're going too fast." He then brightened and began chatting. He must have liked us or liked the bike. He departed without issuing us a citation.
We resumed our voyage southbound. As we levitated and dropped through the ridges, I played peek-a-boo with snowcapped peaks. High above, I was unable to find my angel in the cumulous heavens to converse with. This is a new trend -- speaking to angel-shaped clouds. But I considered that since I was looking for my angel, he chose not to appear. I shifted my gaze to the cloud shadows hanging over the mountaintops. The dark formations were magnificent, yet, heavy with burden.
At the end of day one, we took rest in a warm valley at the shore of a shimmering lake. Glorious blues painted the sky, not a speck of Seattle gray hindered the horizon. I pulled my little green stone out of my pocket and squeezed it in my palm. One more day of freedom, I whispered, before we must return to a place I no longer wish to call my home.
Today I spied my little green stone. I had slipped so far down into my chair that a new viewpoint of my surroundings emerged. I had forgotten this little treasure. Just beneath my outdated Rolodex, half in shadows and half in light, its glittering rump caught my eye. A long time ago, someone gifted me this unusual pebble. Or perhaps it was more recent?
My little green stone carries magical connotations. Except that it's unlike others of its type. My peculiar lime friend is smooth and oddly shaped, much like that of a Jelly Bean. I became reacquainted with this nugget today, partly due to my skulking position and partly due to an intriguing question: How did it end up situated there?
After a lengthy stare, I felt that the pebble's form summoned a sense of scooting. How long had it been inching toward the shadows, I wondered? There's really no way to tell. My magical friend had been scooting on stone time, a time dissimilar to the sort that ticks away on my nearby wall.
Pedro, as I once named him, also seemed a bit downcast. I don't think his mood stemmed from a haphazard push on my part -- a push that sent him partially hidden from view. I truly believed he maneuvered to his current location on stone time. But he appeared dispirited nonetheless. Turned away from my busy typing, turned toward a dull, dark refuge.
Still slouching uncomfortably, I said, "Why are you resting in the gloom? There are plenty of bright spaces, warmed by splendid sunshine to alight yourself."
Pedro cannot answer me with common words. He speaks stone speak. This language is a barely audible hum. If I listen intently, I can distinguish a tone. A sharper tone usually indicates need. A lower tone often indicates sorrow. No tone at all means he mustn't be disturbed. In response to my question, Pedro displayed no tone at all.
This is my fault, I thought to myself. I have neglected him, and I can't even recall for how long. Pedro used to be perched on the corner of my keyboard. This is when I first learned the art of stone speak.
After another long-held gaze, I reconsidered. Maybe he's nudged himself deeper into the dark in an effort to undergo a transformation. Maybe his silence indicates that he's fully submitted himself to this process. I wondered what might lie on the other side of his transformation. A more complete, wiser Pedro, I surmised.
Divine Lady was the founder and spiritual head of www.runecast.com, a site dedicated to offering soul guidance through the use of runes. Ms. Divine also authored the site's distinctly original rune meanings, designed to expand your relationships and your world. Today, she gathers her writings at her personal site: www.colleenlynn.com.