Covid-19 Silver Lining & Self-Work

My friend posted the following opinion piece to social media. I'm copying and pasting it here and also will provide a link:

What Psychedelics Told Me About The Coronavirus

Azrya Cohen Bequer

 

An Empowering Message to Humanity from Ayahuasca

 

 

No matter how complex a question I may have, when I take it to psychedelics I always receive an answer. So when the Coronavirus pandemic kicked into high gear, I brought the subject to my trusted mentor Ayahuasca to be illuminated.

Ayahuasca is an ancient shamanic plant medicine technology, consisting of 3 simple ingredients: a vine, a leaf and water. The ensuing brew is consumed in a ceremonial context, and commonly referred to as “the medicine.”

In the visionary state, downloads around COVID-19 began pouring in and it all began with the humble teachings of a tiny little insect known as the caterpillar.

Did you know that a caterpillar will consume up to 300 times its body weight per day before entering the cocoon?

I share this fun fact because, as the medicine showed me, we have reached a moment in our human evolution where the clumsy, dense, survival obsessed caterpillar stage of our collective human consciousness must finally stop mindlessly consuming and surrender to the chrysalis, in which everything it has known itself to be dissolves into mush.

Welcome to the “Corona Cocoon.”

Yup. We are in the disintegration stage now where all the magic happens and the next chapter of our human experience can transition into the era of the butterfly; a being that is light, free, empirically exquisite and in service to others (pollinators).

Let me illuminate how this is far more than a nifty metaphor.

Times of crisis bring a tremendous opportunity because there is a “pattern interrupt” to our collective, habitual ways of operating, most of which are heavily anchored in excessive consumerism, distraction and a relationship to productivity so unsustainable it has become violent, both to our own minds, bodies and spirits, as well as to the mind, body and spirit of our Earth. Which is — surprise surprise — a sentient being as well and has its own consciousness.

 

The Coronavirus is the great equalizer.

As the pause button on the rat race is pressed and so many things we take for granted suddenly withheld, the opportunity in the apocalypse reveals itself to those who are willing to detach from the panic enough to actually listen to a deeper truth that is emerging from the wreckage.

Before I dive into what that truth is for me (and of course, this is all my perception and by no means empirical fact), I must first share the fundamental framework of my lens on reality, so the following statements have context.

In the arena of personal development — an industry which I am very much a part of — there is a term called “shadow work” that is very important to understand.

SHADOW WORK

The baseline world view here is that everything in our reality exists because of a complex interplay between light and shadow, thus creating a vast field of polarity in which consciousness can manifest itself. Through an esoteric lens this interplay is captured by the Ying Yang symbol, which exemplifies that each polarity contains within it a speck of its opposite. From a quantum physics perspective we can explain the same phenomenon through the language of vibration, of frequency. We can measure the amount of light particles contained within each frequency. The “lighter” or “higher” the frequency, the faster the oscillation, the more information or light is contained within it. The “darker” or “denser” the frequency, the slower the oscillation, the less light is contained within it.

While we in our culture have generally deemed the light to be “good” and the shadow “evil” (just watch any Hollywood movie ever, it’s always about “good vs evil”), neither are actually superior or inferior, they are simply expressions of duality itself and give birth to the very nature of our human existence. Yet our judgment of these forces — which exist on the macro-level of the Universe as well the micro-level within each individual human being — has condemned the shadow to such a degree that it has become repressed, and therefore dangerous — for any force that is repressed long enough will eventually erupt — like a geyser under pressure — with equal intensity to restore balance.

“Shadow work” is the voluntary examination of one’s own internal darkness, or — to put it in more psychological terms — the excavation of our subconscious — which lacks the light of our conscious awareness and is therefore hidden from view.

Most human beings on the planet have no concept of “shadow work,” and even those who do may not have the courage to voluntarily look into the dark crevices of their own psyche. Repressed traumas, inherited fear programs, undigested pain and all sorts of other disturbing and uncomfortable revelations lie buried there, represented by the metaphorical “boogie man” of our collective human unconsciousness.

And yet — no matter how much we ignore, reject and deny the shadow — it never disappears. In fact, quite the opposite is true. The very fear that keeps us from looking at it, is the same fear that feeds it.

I believe, times like these are a collective wake up call to actively participate in our shadow work or be swept away by the darkness once and for all.

The Coronavirus is simply the trigger to force us into being with what has been there all along. As a wave of fear permeates the collective, the shadow we’ve repressed for generations can no longer be ignored. Until right now, we didn’t have external circumstances dire enough to bring it to the surface. And now that it’s here, we stand at a crossroads.

THIS IS A CHOICE POINT MOMENT OF EPIC PROPORTION.

Every time I participate in a psychedelic experience — and especially when working with Ayahuasca — I am confronted with the same question:

Do I succumb to the current operating system of “victim consciousness”? Or do I claim my “creator consciousness”?

VICTIM CONSCIOUSNESS says, “I have no or very little personal power. I am at the whim of my external reality and things are happening to me beyond my control. My fear based Ego must cling to any semblance of control it can find in order to ensure its survival, and fight for that control at all costs. I project blame externally, refusing to take responsibility for my reality.”

CREATOR CONSCIOUSNESS says, “I am infinitely powerful, precisely because I am ready to relinquish my false sense of control and trust in the greater intelligence of life (and death) itself. Everything I experience — pleasant or not — is a result of some form of conscious or subconscious co-creation. It is through taking full responsibility for my experience that I liberate myself from victimhood.”

Truly, at this stage of the game each individual human being is confronted with the decision of which operating system to run. One is based in fear, the other in love.

Whatever narrative we choose to focus on moving forward will significantly impact the quality of our human life moving forward. What a ripe opportunity for massive transformation! The stakes have never been this high.

Congratulations everyone. We are officially in the cocoon.

Before I illuminate both the gifts of LIGHT and the gifts of SHADOW available within the “Corona Cocoon,” I want to say to anyone who has had a loved one transition due to the Coronavirus, my heart goes out to you. I sincerely hope that my perspectives on the situation don’t in any way demean the pain of your loss. I also recognize that it may feel almost impossible for many reading this to understand how this devastating event could have a major silver lining, and that’s okay. I’m not trying to convince anyone of anything.

My intention is solely to share my perspective in order to support you in making an internal choice that can have a lasting impact far beyond this pandemic — which could end up being the most profoundly valuable thing that has ever happened to you in your life. Again, it’s all up to you to decide what you do with the information.

THE REALITY OF DEATH

Currently, Earth is activating her defense mechanisms and — like a stern mother — putting our insolent asses in time out, so we may come face to face with the very thing we have been avoiding for so long: Our mortality. This is also known as “being grounded.”

I’m not just talking about being forced to confront the inevitable death of our physical bodies, but also the death of our comfort zones, the death of our false sense of security in regards to finances, food supply, health care, government and international affairs.

Death is really — at its core — the fear of the unknown. This is why those who are doing authentic spiritual work are going to be less affected by a crisis like the Coronavirus. If you’ve experienced yourself beyond the physical dimension and connected to the infinite aspect of your consciousness that will continue to exist long after your body has deceased, there is no reason to fear death.

The Coronavirus — an “invisible” threat — confronts us with our relationship to the spiritual realms, which we cannot navigate with our five senses.

Every time we open our Amazon boxes to pull out the next bulk order of toilet paper while wondering if the cardboard is contaminated, we are quietly confronted with the mystery of the invisible, unknown nature of reality.

Examining our mortality is also an access point into more deeply understanding the biologically ingrained survival mechanisms that run so much of our day to day lives. Truth is, the vast majority of humans — regardless of income bracket — do not feel safe and secure in the world, and are plagued by anxiety and stress because of it.

Isn’t it amazing that death — an initiation every single human being must face eventually — is so taboo in our culture? No wonder we ignore and suppress this fact, when nothing in our modern education systems addresses the subject even in the slightest to prepare us for it. Indigenous cultures create elaborate rites of passage for their youth to confront and even embrace the reality of death, so they may be free from the fear of it. Rituals around death were and are commonplace, necessary initiations in ancient cultures. We have lost these ways. Today, our fear of death has tampon commercials showing period blood as blue instead of red, so we don’t have to face the truth. We can’t even connect to the death of the animals we consume in such copious quantities. Meat products are neatly shrink wrapped and disguised with names like “hot dogs” and “burgers” so we don’t have to think about the reality of the sacrifices we so casually pull off the grocery shelf while scrolling through our instagram feed. There is no more tangible connection to the cycles of life and death that occur in the natural world, and that connection is now ready to re-awaken, bringing with it the hard yet sweet realization that:

Nothing is guaranteed.

When we truly embrace the truth that we are all going to die, that life is a profound gift and each breath is a privilege — every moment becomes infinitely precious.

THE PURGE

In the ancient, shamanic healing tradition of Ayahuasca the purge is a very sacred and crucial component to “getting well.” Fighting the purge is hell. Relaxing into the purge, truly surrendering to it, that is the medicine.

It’s easy to forget, but we have some pretty serious traumas in our very recent history. Just in the last 100 years we had two world wars, the cold war, the Vietnam war and 9/11 (plus all the other violence, environmental distress and genocide going on in the world today). Until very recently when science began the study of epigenetics, we have had very little understanding of how trauma can be passed down from generation to generation and how it manifests itself as disease in the body if left unaddressed for too long. Epidemics like the Coronavirus are a very serious invitation for us to look at the emotional material that is surfacing as more and more “war like” conditions surround us (borders closing, mandatory quarantines, the potential of martial law, etc.). My German grandmother — a WWII survivor — never had the opportunity to consciously process the trauma of her experience which means that if we believe energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transformed — either my mother, myself or my children will eventually have to consciously transform that energy and break the chain.

I see trauma as a zip file of information, which contains valuable lessons within it. Unpacking it might feel like trying to diffuse a very dangerous bomb, but if I can truly trust that the trauma is here to serve a greater purpose and my only job is to be brave enough to really feel it fully once and for all, the suffering disappears and only gifts remain. I believe the remnants of the collective trauma that we’ve acquired in our human history is now ready to be purged and transmuted, and so it makes sense that we would subconsciously evoke conditions similar to those that created the trauma in the first place. Only this time, instead of having to go to the front lines and fight in battle, we get to do the inner work in the comfort of our own homes.

SCARCITY & MONEY

Now is the time to look at our fears and especially our scarcity programs. The “not enough” conversations that are happening externally in the form of “not enough toilet paper,” “not enough supplies,” “not enough income,” “not enough hospital beds,” “not enough flights” are an amplified reflection of our incessant, internal scarcity conversation that keep so many of us locked into the rat race of our modern lifestyles.

“The world is caught up with the non‐essential, and yet it yearns for the essential.” — Richard Rudd

There’s a massive reset button being pushed on the financial system right now and it is a huge opportunity to come into greater integrity with how we generate revenue. Yes, the Coronavirus will have a devastating impact on small and large businesses, as millions of people are laid off due to the government ordered shut down, AND — using the example given in a recent Wall Street Journal article of “…the entrepreneur who invested his life in his Memphis ribs joint only to see his customers vanish in a week…” — there was a hidden, denied truth in that business that can no longer be ignored, which is the quality of life of the animals whose ribs are being consumed for profit in the first place.

I am not vegan, nor do I believe humans should never eat animals, but I do believe that the lack of awareness, consideration and empathy for the quality of life (and death) of the animals we consume requires serious and immediate attention, and anyone who is not actively participating in the conversation of humane treatment and sustainability while making money off of meat or any other natural resources, will eventually be forced to do so. Obviously not all businesses require the death of living things, but most businesses exist to sell “inessentials,” aka “shit we don’t need” — and so in this purge, I see a tremendous extinction of the nonessential sweeping across our economy. How many shipping containers full of products to stock malls and Amazon warehouse shelves are truly enriching our human experience? This may be a very unpopular opinion, but if a business dies because of the Coronavirus, there is a very real possibility that:

A) It wasn’t truly providing essential value in the first place.

B) The value it was providing had an unacceptable cost to it (which was being paid for by the Earth itself), and / or…

C) The time for a new, potentially more omni-considerate creative idea is ready to express itself through those involved in that business, and it’s time to innovate and move on.

This topic of sustainability also ties back into the scarcity conversation, because if whatever job or venture we are accustomed to making a living from suddenly disappears, perhaps it’s because a deeper purpose for our unique skills, gifts and talents wants to emerge and only a scarcity mindset would insist on seeing the disappearance of one opportunity as a dead end, when in truth there are infinite ways in which each individual can reinvent themselves. So many people work just for a paycheck without ever stopping and asking “what value can I contribute to the world that nourishes my soul in exchange? What is actually my Full Fuck Yes?” This is the time to ask those questions, for finally the distractions are removed enough for us to begin receiving an answer.

Will it be easy? Likely not, although anything is possible.

Will it happen overnight? No. True change takes time, repetition and dedication. But a very real quantum leap can happen in the next few weeks and months, and with the internet, there is no shortage of guidance, education and tools available to anchor in a permanent, internal shift.

This is also a time where we might see unprecedented acts of generosity and kindness amongst humans. Unlike all the other pandemics we’ve seen so far, we are all in this one together. The opportunity for the global human family to show up for each other right now is huge, and the joy of both asking for as well as receiving support is available everywhere we turn.

MAKE D.O.P.E ART

My mother and I were talking about how the Coronavirus might affect arts and culture, which many would argue are “inessential” to human survival and were wiped out in Germany during WWII. The big difference today is technology. All you need to plug into a vibrant, abundant buffet of creativity is an internet connection and a smartphone, and within seconds you can share your voice and tune into the hearts and minds of the 3.5 billion human beings who are online in 2020.

Human survival isn’t just the physical component, we must nourish our emotional, mental and spiritual bodies as well, and right now technology is our ally in that because it doesn’t adhere to borders, boundaries and “shelter in place” laws. I see the Coronavirus unleashing a creative supernova of new ideas, visions and voices as we start claiming our capacity to Make D.O.P.E (Daring, Original, Personal, Expression) Art, which can manifest itself as anything from writing an epic love song to incubating a sustainable business to rearranging your pantry to reflect back to you a healthier mindset.

Our contributions to the collective narrative can either be saturated with fear, or drenched in compassion and optimism.

Coming full circle back to the beginning of this article, now is the time to choose which operating system you will run.

If you do decide to opt out of the victim consciousness and claim your creator consciousness, know that you are signing up for a deep, spiritual journey into the depths of yourself. The process begins with intention. The intention to truly know yourself. To be with all aspects of yourself, no matter how unpleasant some of them might feel. We will require community and guidance on this journey, even though at the end of the day, no one can do the work for us. I have compiled a list of free resources that have been incredibly supportive on my journey for you to tangibly begin this process, you can find them here: www.The-FFY.com/resources

The profound gift in all of this? You have been given the opportunity to see how powerful your lens on reality truly is. How much it impacts your experience. How deeply it affects the quality of your life, and the well being of the planet itself.

In times like these, new innovations emerge and you can contribute — right now, from the comfort of your couch — to a brighter future for generations to come, simply by consciously choosing to look within.

Stop looking for the answer. BE the answer.

Love,

Azrya

Find me on instagram @thefullfuckyes and @iazrya

I read this above work aloud to my husband, who I felt, like me, needed to receive these important, truthful messages. Moments after I finished reading, a text arrived from my energist. She moved to Manhattan last summer, and her synchronistic outreach was for the purpose of encouraging her tribe to "use this time as an opportunity for self-work." She continued to state: "So many people I know are successfully clearing their past for a new future and are coming out ahead. To help you, here is a free 10 minute meditation:"

https://youtu.be/JbwabrfEyto

Encounters & Dreams

On the thirteenth of August this year, I had a close encounter of an enchanting kind. Nightfall was just starting to set in, which means around 9:00 p.m. during Pacific Northwest late summers (and much later in late spring). I was out front of my home setting up the sprinkler when a flying object from the west caught my eye. It was large and gray with an enormous wingspan. The specter made a sudden two-point landing on the electrical service line across the lawn from where I was standing.

My sense was to remain still. I didn't want to startle this amazing creature. Or perhaps it was me preferring to not be startled by this amazing creature. My next inclination was to have my husband see it. On rare occasions in the middle of the night we hear owls calling out from the woods behind our home. We've never actually seen one incarnate.

I slowly reached for the phone in my front pocket. As I started to dial the owl leaped from its perch and swooped down onto the lawn where it stood about eight feet from me, wings partially extended at its sides. I couldn't believe it. Indeed it was an owl, a very big owl, about the size of a human toddler.

My husband answered just as the owl took flight again. I could make out even in the darkness it landed in one of the two trees at the end of our front walk. In a whispered voice I told my husband about the owl and to come join me for viewing. Moments later he was gingerly opening our front door and sat beside me on our front stoop. I explained where I had last seen the owl. Suddenly the silhouette of a youngster riding a bike appeared on the street at the end of our driveway, not something we usually see at night. The bicyclist turned around and then vanished down the street. Just as they were turning around, the owl once more leaped out from its perch. We both watched as it flew from the tree over our carport before it, too, disappeared between ours and the neighbor's house to the north.

My only other close encounter with an owl was in Texas. My dad, mom and I were driving home one night. We were about a quarter mile or so from our street when the loudest sounding collision you could imagine struck our windshield, shattering the center third of it. We hit an owl or an owl hit us. The three of us screamed. I believe we were all of course scared out of our wits because of the sudden violence and on a deeper level because it was an owl.

The ancient Greeks revered the goddess Athena, who was supposed to be the goddess of wisdom and guardian of the Acropolis. Her symbol was the owl, so the bird became a symbol of higher wisdom. The owl was a bird of prophecy and wisdom in many ancient cultures.

I like to think my owl encounter is a good omen.

On Sun. 8/27 I dreamed I had a very odd looking spider on my right shoulder. It was elongated, kind of like an ant, but it was definitely an eight-legged spider. A black one. It bore into my skin with its legs. In my dream I don't know how long it had been on/in me. I flicked it off and once it was free from my flesh I noticed it had left behind crimson marks in the shape of a dog bite.

The next morning after I awoke, I was rinsing dishes and loading them in the dishwasher. I pulled the cutting board from the sink to give it a scrub and suddenly noticed a big, black spider at the base of my left thumb. I threw the cutting board and shook my hand. It fell to the floor and disappeared. I was almost more startled because my dream from the night before was still fresh in my mind.

Dream interpretation: To dream of a spider denotes that you will be careful and energetic in your labors, and fortune will be amassed to pleasing proportions. If one bites you, you will be the victim of unfaithfulness and will suffer from enemies in your business.

Another suggests little annoying or irritating things that are left undone. Can be a fear of gossipy things said about you - or the consequences of gossip you engaged in regarding someone else.

Yet another suggests it can symbolize feeling trapped in a stale or unsatisfying relationship. To dream that you are bitten by a spider represents conflict with your mother or some dominant female figure in your life.

Still another suggests it indicates that you are feeling like an outsider in some situation. Or that you may want to keep your distance and stay away from an alluring and tempting situation. The spider is also symbolic of feminine power. The dream may be a metaphor for a devouring mother or the feminine power to possess and entrap. Perhaps you are feeling trapped by some relationship. Alternately, a spider may refer to a powerful force protecting you against your self-destructive behavior. Spiders are a symbol of creativity due to the intricate webs they spin. On a negative note, spiders indicate a feeling of being entangled or trapped in a sticky or clingy relationship. It represents some ensnaring and controlling force. You may feel that someone or some situation is sucking the life right out of you.

On Mon. 8/28 I had a dream with raccoons in it. I'm foggy on the details. After I awoke the first text I received was from my bestie, who sent me a picture of a raccoon at her bedroom window and a note declaring this guy and his friends kept her up until 3:00 a.m. 

Dream interpretation: To dream of a raccoon denotes you are being deceived by the friendly appearance of enemies. Also, the raccoon has stood for deception and mischief, and thievery down through the ages because of his mask and his nocturnal ways. It shows that people are presenting false faces to you in your everyday life.

Nature's Music

What do tree rings sound like when played like a record? 

 

What do birds on wires sound like when played by instruments?

BedFest 2017

It's not too late for an art submission to BedFest: http://www.meaction.net/bedfest/

As someone who has struggled with chronic illness for 4.5 years, I was moved to tears by this short music video. How does one not mourn the vibrant parts of one's self that have been lost to disease? I hope this inspires you as much as it has inspired me ...

LOVE

Remnants

Only since 2000 have I known my biological half brother. He and his family came out for their inaugural visit to Seattle from D.C. this month and left early this week. My heart is full. And as I see traces of their time here; small handprints on windows, the end half of a broken blue crayon, an adult ticket for a roundtrip ride on the monorail, the hoola-hoop I promised to (and will) mail to my niece ... I am reminded of their presence still in my life despite the many hundreds of miles between us.

All Roads Lead Full Circle ...

Today is the only Friday the thirteenth in 2016. Since the high was forecast to be at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit, I thought it would be fun to wear my new sparrow shirt. It's a white, short-sleeve button down with a navy print of small sparrows all over it. From afar they may look like big stars.

According to whats-your-sign.com, life is symbolic and we're to start interpreting. The site lists out a summary of symbolic meanings for this small bird:

• Joy
• Inclusion
• Creativity
• Simplicity
• Protection
• Community
• Productivity
• Friendliness

As of late, the greatest feeling I've had is one of nostalgia. Since early last weekend I've been thinking about people from my life around mid to late high school in Texas and Washington.

Had a regular follow up with my Lyme literate natural doctor (LLND), and I mentioned my feelings and deep sense of nostalgia as of late. She said this may likely be on account of me being in a healing crisis. Her concerns today related to my struggle with balance, or rather the area of my brain that controls balance, as well as my heart. She referred me to a Lyme literate cardiologist, who I may have to wait at least four to five months to get into see.

On my way into my LLND's office today, I bumped into a couple folks I met at my Lyme group a few months ago. The wife is the patient, and she's been severely struggling. My LLND mentioned she's very sick in an indicative way as though I am much less sick than she is. I suppose I take some comfort in that, sort of. The other part of me holds much compassion for my comrade of complex infectious diseases. The struggle is real; deeply injuring body, mind and spirit.

After my follow up visit I needed to have blood drawn, which  I had forgotten to do earlier in the week (Lyme brain), which meant having to go to First Hill on my way home from Sand Point. The most expeditious route to avoid a traffic-choked Interstate 5 is to take Roosevelt to Roanoke to Boylston. This route would take me along the edge of the Eastlake neighborhood.

As I recalled from earlier this week, my office mate just listed a very special condominium unit in Eastlake. Special not because it's the latest and greatest carbon-neutral architectural marvel of modern design. On the contrary, the building is actually pretty dated, constructed in '66. It's called the Maison D'Or, a very ornate sounding name for a fashionless, mid-century condo building.

To me this isn't just another concrete honeycomb of dwellings amid a hodgepodge of non-conforming architectural styles that make up the peculiar patchwork neighborhood assortments comprising Seattle. This was a place where I first ventured into my adulthood and savored my first sips of careless freedom.

My high school friend Anna's dad Paulo owned this condo back in '92. It's a top floor 2 bed/2 bath corner unit with vaulted ceilings and an actual wood-burning fireplace (a rare carbon-abundant feature for today). I mean, what are the chances out of 16,000+ residential brokers in the Puget Sound area that my office mate would be the one to list this place. That's at the very least just a little synchronistic.

I met Anna through our mutual friend Megan, who I met through our mutual friend Sam, who I met through my friend Mitch, who I met through his sister Michelle, who I met in fifth grade. And so our degrees of separation go. Anna was fun, a lot of fun, trouble kind of fun. Earlier today I gave the following description of her to my BFF via text:

"Shit talkin', softball playin', Amazonian princess."

To which she replied:

"You love explosive powerful woman. It's because you are one."

Hmmm ...

Anna's dad Paulo was slightly enigmatic. He's Brazilian, so he has a foreign mystique, which is further punctuated by his Latin flair. You know, he has a certain jeux ne se qua. At the same time he was somewhat soft spoken and reserved, always the calmest person in the room. Then again, he was also at times a little touchy-feely. Perhaps it was a cultural thing? Even so, and even though I was quite closeted during the time we were acquainted, I thought perhaps he may also be attracted to the male of our species. As they say, it takes one to know one.

As I recall Paulo worked for a bank and his work required frequent travel. So when the cat was away, Anna, Megan and I had his condo all to ourselves to play. We mostly just hung out, made food, drank, smoked, made each other laugh, played games; typical teen stuff.

It was strange going there today. I mean, I've passed by the building on a number of occasions between then and now. Actually having the intention to visit someone's old home really brought some things to the surface for me. Just remembering how we'd parallel park on East Lynn Street, the antequated front door call box, the cranky old lady who loved to complain about how noisy we were and I one day scared the living shit out of.

In my defense (not really sure there is one) that incident was totally by mistake. I'm not evil; just at times (especially as a teen), you know, dumb. Anna, Megan and I, like most silly adolescents, would occasionally prank each other. It's a show of affection among friends. Anyway, I don't quite remember all the circumstances other than I was hiding around a dark corner outside the basement parking garage, thinking Megan and Anna were unexpectedly coming my way. I patiently held out for the perfect moment to leap out from the shadows with a loud roar! Oh I got the reaction I wanted alright, and then some, just not from the right people.

"You could have given me a heart attack!" the cranky old lady shouted. "I should call the police and file charges for harassment."

In the background I heard Anna and Megan laughing their fool heads off. After I stumbled all over myself with apologies and the cranky old lady shuffled away, I found the two of them convulsing with laughter, Anna in tears.

"Oh. My. God. Bradley!!" she exclaimed. "That was some mutherfuckin' funny ass shit, but we are SO dead! She's going to tell my father and who knows what else she'll do. But whatever, that bitch totally had it comin'."

Anna had a point. Even so, I felt really bad about that particular incident. The rest of the cranky old lady's previous complaints about us though were pretty lame. Yeah, we drank under age. Who doesn't? Yeah, we were a little rowdy late at night. Our rowdy wasn't fighting or screaming; it was joyful banter and laughter. We were kids, and we certainly weren't all that bad. Naughty sometimes, like when we aided and abetted a friend swiping a half-rack of beer from an East Lake Sammamish Parkway mini mart. That wasn't cool, except being the get-away driver was kind of a thrill. Still, we were no ruthless criminals. We just liked being young, carefree and, of course, to party.

Pulling the keys from the keybox, two appeared to be originals, one of them stamped "Do Not Duplicate."

Suddenly I'm thinking about these keys having been in Paulo's and Anna's hands countless times without them giving a thought to possessing them. I think quite fondly on these objects now, rather artifacts that are a sacred link to another life I once held so dear. It was a similar, sentimental feeling as though you're holding a cherished memento of someone who has passed onto the next world. Yet they're still alive, at least I think they are. Maybe not?

The stark, minimal lobby looked exactly the same except for the brand-new-looking, modern traffic control carpet. The elevator is also a time capsule of dark, faux-wood-paneled walls framed by metal. The elevator controls are far from minimal, small circular buttons that protrude and depress in quite dramatically, like antique light switches. When the elevator reached the top/fourth floor much sooner than expected I remembered the lobby entrance is actually on floor two.

The elevator door slid open and there it was, the door to unit 401, right where I had left it some 23 years ago.

The door still had its original mid-century hardware. The brass knob sporting a simple ribbed design, which had at one point been painted white except the paint had over time been worn off the tops of the ridges. I remember as a late teen thinking of the design both as retro and international. Today it just looks a little dated. Yet I like it if only for the familiarity it now represents. 

Standing at the front door to an empty tomb is much different than returning to visit a long, lost friend at their home. Sure there's some degree of anticipation, albeit quite faint and nothing that stirs the soul like wondering how you'll be received by an actual human being, one you once had much in common with and haven't seen for years vs. being confronted by a random blur of memories aroused by sights and smells.

I slid the key into the hole and turned the knob. Ah, yes, I vaguely remember the feeling of this old hardware turning in my hand. As I walked in, one of the first things I noticed were the ceilings being taller than I remembered, perhaps appearing loftier on account of my ever so humble return.

You would think I were an old man, and with all the meds I'm taking I often do feel like one. I mentioned to my counselor the other day how awful it must feel, physically, to be really old and worn down. She told me a real life anecdote. I guess a younger man asked a 90 year old man how he was feeling. The 90 year old man said, "Well, if I were your age I'd be calling an ambulance." Though the elder man responded with humor, he also meant what he said. He physically suffers and yet it's his normal and the best he can expect to feel at his age.

Today when I mentioned to my LLND I feel like an old man taking all these various meds, she set me straight. "That's an internal conversation you'll want to stop as soon as possible," she said. "Instead, the conversation is 'I'm so grateful there are things I can take to feel better and to heal.'" She admitted she can say such things to me because I'll understand where she's coming from.

I definitely get what my LLND is saying, and I used to naturally live from a place of gratitude. I once enjoyed life, fully, squeezing out each precious drop. I think I see why this healing crisis has me so nostalgic. It may be my body, mind and spirit's way of reminding me who I've always known myself to be, that happy-go-lucky person with a light heart and quick wit, he still exists inside me somewhere, even if just in my fond boyish memories.

One thing I loved most about Paulo's place, other than the company kept there; the magnificent view.

Top floor corner with a panorama of a growing skyline to one side; water and hills and mountains all round, oh my! All this in one of the city's quietest, close-in enclaves.

As I walked in I was immediately drawn to the balcony. What a spectacular, sunny day it was to take in the view. I can't tell you how many late nights Anna, Megan and I spent sitting out there, drinking and smoking. Many a night we watched the renown Space Needle turn out its lights (around 2:00 to 3:00 a.m. if memory serves). I took a couple shots with my phone to capture what's been buried deep in my mind's eye since all those years ago.

Looking north to Gas Works Park and the Wallingford neighborhood, I'm reminded of when you could actually climb up onto the colossal defunct industrial machinery which landmarked the park. Sunbathing at the water's edge with Anna and her then boyfriend Andy, who looked like a hunkier Morrissey (and I'm pretty sure he was super into The Smiths, too). Never did we feel more bourgeois than when we were invited to Sunday brunch at Paulo's girlfriend Mary's Wallingford home. Mary, incidentally, is Andy's godmother and the person who introduced him to Anna. There was quite a bit of drama around that, namely because Anna was at times a naughty, and fun, influence.

Mary lived in the second floor unit of her charming Craftsman-turned-duplex. Her brunches were amazing. She'd have about 15 to 20 gathered on her south-facing deck, which offered jaw-dropping panoramic views of Lake Union, backdropped by the Seattle skyline. She was a whiz at homemade hollandaise sauce, and would fly in fresh-caught lobster from Maine. Of course she'd have bottles of chilled champagne, and I'm pretty sure that's where I enjoyed my first-ever mimosa.

As I walked back inside from the balcony, the sixties-modern stone fireplace, which has since been painted, confronted me.

In most cases I prefer raw stone, even and especially if it has a nice patina. Suddenly in my mind's eye I'm sitting back on the concrete fireplace ledge again with a lit cigarette in hand.

The living room is no longer this plain, safe yellow-beige walled sanitarium with minimal, neutral staged furnishings. Instead it looks warm, worn and well lived in with exotic hand-woven area rugs, shelves of old books and a plethora of unusual indigenous art pieces.

Despite the new hardwood floors and interior paint, the place smells eerily the same. It's a sweet, faintly-musty fragrance somewhat like old leather and tobacco. I feel like a ghost who has come back to haunt. Only I know how much wine (in many cases cheap bottles of Boone's) was poured and drags blown up the fireplace flume in this space.

I made my way into the kitchen, and suddenly I'm once more a silly youth, taste-testing the amateur combination of spices I added to our sizzling breakfast potatoes. Turns out I had luck in my choices, they taste divine. Anna and Megan are amazed as am I. We all wear smiles. We sit to breakfast at the table that morning, entering into our usual brand of banter; light and jovial.

The flashback vanishes and once again I'm middle age, worn down by disease. My lips draw in toward one another, my eyes begin to well up and I take a full breath. In this moment I'm overcome equally by a profound sense of joy and sadness.

Way back when, I lived for fun in all things; it's all I ever did without a care in the world. All those many happy days sailed on by like clouds gathering before a rain storm. And, yes, there's beauty in the rain, too; often a more somber, heavier kind of beauty.

I hastily completed my tour shortly thereafter and hurried off like a guest who overstayed their welcome. I am, after all, part legal intruder. Then I had another text exchange with my bestie to let her know of my discoveries.

She agreed what a small world it is for this residence to be so blatantly called out to me. "I wonder if the place asked you back?" she wrote. "Maybe it's time to reconnect?"

Maybe. I saw Megan's mom Debbie a couple Dia de los Muertoses ago. She still worked at Countryside Floral in my hometown of Issaquah. I stopped in impromptu for a pair of arrangements for my grandparents' graves.

Debbie was surprised, pleasantly it seemed, to see me. She told me Megan is a mom, and has a special needs child. Her younger brother Matt is a team leader for one of my parent company's brokerage offices on the Eastside in Bellevue. Anna is a recent divorcee "on the loose" in Arizona. She was one tough cookie.

I recall things not ending well between us and leaving those relationships in an unresolved fog when I moved to California in the summer of '93.

Something else trivial and silly dawned on me. I remember this really naughty, misogynistic song I sang a Christmas ago to my bestie's nanny in Portugese. She is Brazilian, and I learned this song from Anna's boyfriend (before Andy) Dun Dun and his bestie Penna, who also were Brazilian. I loved those guys! Super fun and spirited. I'll skip past the song for now, it's pretty dirty.

One day all five of us went up skiing. We were drinking whisky in the parking lot before the lifts opened. I'm not sure if those guys had even seen snow before. They were both pretty athletic. We all rented gear, and after about a half hour of giving them all a lesson, we were all skiing intermediate runs. The guys were doing exceptionally well. Sure they'd fall and crash here and there. They'd also get right back up and after a couple hours the falling became less and less. The weather was perfectly sunny, and we all had such a marvelous time. As I take this intermediate run at my health crisis, I wish to be as resilient as my long lost Brazilian pals.

Ah, to be young, wild and carefree. Those were indeed the good old days ...

Who's Who at Knudsen Park

[Written on my iPhone notes app]

Today (5/11/16 2:00 pm) at Knudsen Park I've seen a hunky Latino reading a book on a bench, a couple younger men passing a joint on a bench, an older man in a blue linen blazer measuring the centerpiece tree, a woman enjoying a soda, a man laying on a bench in the shade, a guy with spiked hair and Egyptian looking eye tatts (only the line extensions were drawn downward vs. continued across the sides of the face on the outer eyes) wearing black backpack, red tee, shorts and heavy metal chain as a necklace riding a yellow and orange mountain bike, a woman with a hot pink head scarf wearing a black burka praying toward Mecca, three guys congregating, smoking weed behind me and just heard a woman ask them if they have a lighter (though I did not see her).

The sleeping man just awoke, he's wearing black pants, tee and leather jacket, has longer, shaggy hair and a beard-goatee combo. He's now smoking something and coughing a bit, now making a call and overheard saying something about a housing program. As Carlin says, homes are just places where we store our stuff. A heavy set woman with large breasts wearing long, brown hair, pants and eyewear frames in a tight white top just walked through the corner of the park on her phone. I've been on my phone quite a bit since I've been here, too.

A clean cut man wearing dark shades, a charcoal gray polo and light blue shorts just wandered in with his lunch and sat where the woman had been enjoying her soda. A short, heavyset woman just wandered in with her lunch and sat on the concrete barrier surrounding the base of the centerpiece tree. This park is situated in a circular formation with a ring of well manicured trees and benches surrounding a large, dark red leafed centerpiece tree that's much taller than anything else directly around it. Few places are more well manicured than this. I'd rather be nowhere else right this moment. It's a beautiful, warm, sunny and peaceful day in Seattle ...

As I was leaving a woman in a light blue plaid short sleeve top pushed her two sleeping toddlers in on a stroller toward the three congregated stoners who just disbanded. She is now seated next to the other woman on the centerpiece barrier. All you can hear are the swooshing of cars passing on the adjacent MLK Jr. Way arterial, maybe the occasional car stereo with windows down.

It's quieter in my counselor's waiting room, just the occasional commercial toilet flush or shuffle of feet on carpet along with an oddly low volume digital Emerson alarm clock radio playing Rush's Tom Sawyer with a sticky note next to it asking please not to turn it off. The woman who walked through the corner of the park on her phone just walked slowly through the waiting room reading her phone and quietly entered the door at the other end of the room. The station moved onto The Politics of Dancing and it's time for my appt.

Wake Up to Reality ...

A 1981 description of the world as it exists today ...

Woody Harrelson Nails It!

Wise words from a wise man ...http://upliftconnect.com/thoughts-from-within/

I felt more connected after reading this. Overlooking the distraction of our current dystopian reality, one realizes they are not the only one who can see beyond the veil of lies and greed. We are not alone. We ARE one ...

X-Files Re-Opened My Struggle

I fucking loved this new episode and am so excited about the reboot of X-Files!!

Browsing some of the Facebook posts about last night's premiere season 10 episode, the New York Times critic seems to think the story had problems, but it was great for nostalgia sake. OK, they're entitled to their opinion as I am to mine. Here goes ... I am not in the least bit surprised this episode failed to resonate with the old, and I mean antiquated, establishment rag such as the New York Times.

The overarching theme of the episode, and the new direction the show is exploring is around government mistrust and abuse.

For viewers, and especially die hard X-Files fans, I believe this theme resonates so well. Why? Because it feels like the truth, and its mechanics are well placed in our reality of present day. Multi-national companies profiting off the deliberate over consumption of resources, those claiming they are feeding the world when they are starving it and taking away humanity's most basic rights to clean air, water and food.

I thought it was really excellent the show went in this direction because of the profoundly dire and actual insights this holds. I'm actually a bit surprised the show was so bold. Let's face it, truth is often stranger than fiction. So is this all really that far fetched?

I can imagine the hidden powers that be, whether corporate/military industrial complex/government, would find this broadcast at the very least a little unsettling. People are becoming increasingly aware and intolerant of the insidious greed which plagues us all.

The Curse of Chief Seattle

According to my 'This Day in History' widget, in 1773 Captain James Cook crossed the Antarctic Circle. Something I find oddly synchronistic about this. Just yesterday I stumbled across a news story about Antarctica possibly containing the world's deepest canyons below the ice. My curiosity lead me to further research the content. Did you know there's nearly two kilometers of ice covering the land on Antarctica and the continental interior is known to be the driest place on Earth? It's considered to be a desert. Only the coastal areas get a little annual precipitation. I digress ...

Captain Cook has a profound tie to the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. In fact he was one of the very first explorers to sail into the Puget Sound. His crew included George Vancouver, who later named every island, mountain, waterway, and point of land in sight, including previously recorded Spanish landmarks.  Puget Sound itself is named for his lieutenant Peter Puget. His predecessor Captain Cook was one of the first "palefaces" the area natives ever encountered.

Also in the news this week, Seattle's boondoggle of a "Big Dig" project hit another big snag. Washington State Governor Inslee put a stop to the world's largest-ever tunnel boring machine Bertha: http://www.geekwire.com/2016/governor-stops-berth-tunnel-machine/

First Bertha hit a mysterious object, which turned out to be a pipe that had been called out in the tunnel schematics.

Then Bertha broke down.

After that, Bertha was rescued and repaired at considerable risk and cost.

Next came a barge that hit an adjacent pier, potentially creating more risk. Oops.

Finally, a sinkhole has opened up.

Nearly 162 years ago to the day, great Chief Seattle, who had foretold the "palefaces" would one day have longhouses that stood on their sides and reached to the sky, expressed the following at the Treaty of Point Elliott signing:

"Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people ... And when the last red man shall have perished-and the memory of my tribe is but a myth among white men-these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe ... At night-when the streets of your cities and villages are deserted-they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land ... The white man will never be alone!"

Just for fun, I'm proclaiming the great chief and his people are not only opponents of the 99 Viaduct replacement tunnel, they have vengefully cursed it.

The tribe has spoken ...

The Ghosts of Christmas Present & Past

We began Christmas day at home, which was really nice. Midday we went to my brother-in-law's, which turned out to be really nice. We ended the evening at my mom's, which also turned out to be really nice.

My mom has been surviving stage four lung cancer for about a year and a half. From what I understand from my sister-in-law, who is an oncology nurse, six months is a long time to survive this cancer type and stage.

My mom's sister, my aunt Gini was there, too. After caring for my Grandma who passed on my birthday in spring of 2012, she aged rapidly. Her mobility declined nearly overnight. The summer before last when my mom was diagnosed with cancer, my aunt was diagnosed with Parkinson's. I guess I can add my Lyme disease to the family pot of clinical ailments.

Anyway, my mom was so pleased to host family for the holiday. My brother, who despite being able-bodied, can barely take care of himself was there. We barely interact. He took me on a street walk down memory lane, reminding me of a trip our family took long ago to the Big Easy. I was maybe 17. We went clubbing one night and met a couple gals we hung out and danced with. Apparently they were very under age. Their dad tried to retrieve them from the club we were in, pissing off the doorman in the process. An altercation erupted followed by a couple of New Orleans' finest hauling the dad away in handcuffs. The girls were beside themselves.

Despite my brother wanting to just bail and leave the scene, I urged we accompany them until everything turned out. So we got in the bed of someone's old pickup truck and were shuttled down to police HQ. There we waited for quite some time. Apparently the family knew a city council person, who ordered the father's release.

In the end us being there for the family disarmed any sense of wrong doing. I was completely in the closet at the time, and lord knows I had no illustrious intention with these gals. I was just having a great night out. My brother on the other hand, given the opportunity, I'm certain he would have taken advantage of the situation. No harm, no fowl, and I believe we were able to go home with a clear conscious.

Toward the end of the evening, my cousin Robin and I began piecing together a Star Wars puzzle my mom gave me for Christmas. Despite it being small and 300 pieces, the illustration was really intricate and it was a challenge to solve. We didn't get too far before my husband needed to call it a night for health reasons.

Before we left, my mom brought to my attention a coat I once purchased many years ago as a birthday gift for my Grandma. She always had a warm, camel colored wool coat. The one she had from a time before she lost everything had gotten really old and worn out. So I went to Nordstrom and bought her a new one. She loved it, and wore it regularly during the cold months.

After my Grandma passed, my aunt hung onto this coat. She now regularly wears it during the cold months, and wore it that night. As we were all preparing to leave, someone draped the coat over a chair so my aunt would remember it. Seeing this coat again in this manner, for mere moments, I felt as though my Grandma was there with us. That maybe she just got up to get a refresher for her vodka tonic. I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. I looked to my husband with my lips drawn in tight, holding back tears. How my Grandma always loved the holidays and having her family together under one roof. Maybe she was there with us after all ...

Feliz Dia de los Muertos Navidad

Oh, this is my Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos) coloring book my husband put in my Christmas stocking. What's Day of the Dead? I'm so glad you asked. It's a special celebration in Mexican culture. Somewhat related to how many Americans celebrate the birth of Christ on December 25. Mexicans celebrate their loved ones' passing from this world.

Death is much different to Mexican culture than it is to American culture. Americans view death as a tragic finality. In some ways it may be. In Mexican culture death is celebrated much like a birth, the beginning of the after life. Yes, of course Mexicans also mourn the loss of their loved ones. Each year they commemorate their passing and remember the importance their life meant. This is done at the beginning of November as it is believed this is when the two worlds of living and spirits intersect. They make shrines to the deceased with their picture, flowers (often Marigold), their favorite things in life and lots of glowing candles.

One ancient culture, the Egyptians, didn't even have a word for death. The closest word they had to death is "westing." Westing as in west, the direction of the setting sun. As we know, the sun also rises, and to the Egyptians their dearly departed loved ones entered a wondrous afterlife, a new cycle of existence. Cycles we know to be a very true way our world works. Old gives way to the new. New eventually becomes old and so on. Pacific Northwest natives didn't believe in "death" as we know it either. Instead they called it a "change of worlds."

I explained all this to my 12 year old niece while coloring with my husband and mother-in-law Christmas Day.

Second Anniversary

The eleventh day of the twelfth month of the thirteenth year of this new millennium my husband and I wed. We celebrated our two year anniversary Friday. Sometimes I wonder if he really knew what he was getting himself into with all my health challenges these past few years.

 

I wasn't sure what to get him as a gift to commemorate the occasion. I recalled quite some time ago he mentioned wanting me to paint him a Mondrian style piece. We've seen quite a bit of his work together over the past few years. New York's MOMA has several I was able to see in May 2014.

 

One piece in particular I liked for its simplicity, especially if I was going to make any feeble attempt to create a knock off. The following piece is an original Mondrian, which I photographed at MOMA on that visit a year and a half ago:

So yesterday I spent a good portion of the day in our utility room making a go of it. I had a flat 16" x 20" canvas in stock along with all the necessary brushes and colors (mostly in acrylic). I went to work, and made quite a few discoveries along the way.

 

Doing this work gave me much more of an appreciation for the artist’s skill. Mondrian’s works appear so simple to achieve. If all his paintings were done completely freehand, well that’s nothing short of a miracle. It’s a very exacting style to replicate. I had to use guides, and mine were fashioned out of electrical tape. Not only did the tape’s gauge and color give me inspiration, this was somewhat of a challenging material to work with.

The tape’s elasticity made it so I had to carefully lay the strips down so as not to create any tension. I didn’t use anything fancy to measure the gauge, just another piece of electrical tape. My lines may not be completely plum or level either.

Of course I made several mistakes along the way. My greatest overall mistake was not having ample patience. Funny how art imitates life, even when engaged in the practice of creating it. Allowing enough time for the paint to dry is much like allowing things in life to settle down. If we rush, we often end up off the mark. That happened to my brush hand repeatedly. That happens to me in life when I fail to keep an even, slower pace.

So here's how my piece turned out:

I added my own story to it. I see this piece as a very abstract family portrait. My husband is the blue field at the top. I’m the red field. Millie, our 12 year old Daschund, is the gold. Hers and my husband's brush strokes go up and down, they’re in harmony together. Mine go side to side. Even juxtaposed in some way, we’re all still drawn together. Blue, the color of the sky, the sea and his gorgeous eyes, can represent tranquility. My husband is such the peacekeeper. Red can represent passion, fire, blood, war. Together they are quite yin and yang. Yellow is the color of sunshine, and Ms. Millie is such a ray of light in both our lives. She compliments us both so joyfully.

 

The traditional gift for one's second anniversary is cotton, which canvas is made out of. So I really felt like this was the perfect gift. Not to mention I really got quite a lot out of creating it.



Today my friend Cleo reposted to Facebook the following photo of Picasso in his home studio in Paris:

The photo was accompanied by the following quote:
"Inspiration exists, but it has to find us working." - Pablo Picasso

Both the image and especially the quote really struck a chord with me. It couldn't be more true. My process was meditative and enlightening. I was able to be creative, focused and introspective. This all felt really nourishing to my body, mind and spirit.

My husband is getting some materials today to mount my work. We're going to hang it in our media room, in which he wants the décor a primary color theme. I think it might just work. :)

The night before last we had company. My long time high school friend Aron and his fiancé Michelle. They are wonderful people, we love them so much. They're so easy to be around, the conversation flows, taking on a life of its own. There's much laughter and cheer.

At dinner I had some challenges. Sometimes my brain swells from the inflammation. It feels like there's just not enough room in my head. Not sure whether it was this intense cranial crown pressure sensation, I also felt light headed and ever so slightly dizzy at times. As the conversation roared on I naturally tend to meet others' energy levels. As I did, my body continued to recoil on me. Waves of fatigue washed over me a few times. My right shoulder began to burn in a strange way, as if my nerves were just tired or the front side of my should just felt worn out.

From where I sit in our dining room, a large portrait of my most dearly departed grandma smiles back at me. She reminds me not only of unconditional love and joy, also of strength and perseverance. My grandma was an amazing woman, who despite living with a herniated disk in her lower back for the last few decades of her life, wouldn't allow that to dampen her incredibly bright spirits.

I pressed on with a smile. For one thing I was genuinely enjoying our company and great conversation. I continued to drink water, thinking perhaps my system was just weighted toward toxic and that would help me flush out the bad juju. As our evening progressed late into the night, my discomfort lessened and I really became present to all the joy in our beautiful home.

Michelle and Aron brought some silly holiday hats for us to wear. We put them on for the tail end of the evening. Before they left we took a group selfie. Is that a gelfie? Anyway, here it is:

When I shared with them about my recent, definitive Lyme diagnosis, Aron said how much sense this made. It's a strange brand of validation. There have been times I've thought some of my friends have thought this whole thing was in my head or I was being some kind of a hypochondriac.

Michelle told me she has a friend who healed from Lyme. It took her two years. Apparently that friend of hers called her twice this week, and she regards it as a synchronistic sign for her to connect the two of us. I would love to converse with someone who has been through this, and welcome Michelle's introduction.

We heal ourselves.