Stuck as a Bean Counter

A new story for your reading - does it work this way? I don't know, but there are sure a lot of people who say - rewrite the story - and come unstuck. Plus it was FUN to write.

SHE was not lost! She was never lost. She knew exactly where she was. She was stuck. Stuck as a Bean Counter. Stuck in not allowing. Not allowing money to come into her life. Stuck, keeping joy from manifesting in her life. Stuck not moving forward in her career. Stuck not allowing love into her heart.

She was stuck.

Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. And it had started eons ago. God only knowing how much living she had done - stuck.

Stuck in the act of being birthed into the life he had always dreamed of. With no money for a midwife - and unwanted to boot - his family had broken the ribs of his fragile body in order to save the life of the mother. Allowed him to die, having never lived and never accomplished the things that would save thousands upon thousands of lives. His desire to live had been so strong that he had struggled to breathe with broken ribs, lungs damaged beyond repair, until finally sometime late in the night he had given up and let go of the fragile body.

What was keeping her stuck was the idea that they had trained her to be something she was not. Trained her to count beans, when she was at heart a planet mover, a world saver. Trained her to be small, bound her up in rules and strictures that kept her from breathing.

And yet through it all, her will to live was so strong that she had continued to breathe, living shallowly. Though each inhalation was a struggle, she had kept taking breath after breath. Hoping that someday she would break through whatever it was that she needed and that someday what should have been her birthright – air – would come easily.

And finally the burden became so difficult that one day she said “Enough. ENOUGH. I DON’T WANT TO PLAY THIS GAME ANY MORE. I’m going to change the game.” And so she did.

She re-wrote the birth story.

This time his mother was laboring to birth a new fragile life into the desert that was the family’s love for each other. His father had so valued both the life of the mother and the fragile life waiting to be born that he had called for a midwife. She arrived not long after to find the nearly born baby stuck, coming feet first - ready to hit the ground running. Not understanding the ways being human, he was expecting to come full into life – ready to move about and be productive.

Gently and tenderly, this woman had talked to both mother and babe, with voice, energy and hands. And she had persuaded him to pull back his foot so that he could spend a few more uncomfortable minutes being turned. Patiently the woman had turned the babe inside the mother until clenching his fists in impatience he was finally in position to be born. Three contractions and he was out, telling the world of his arrival. Finally relaxing his fists he allowed himself to be soothed.

This child, loved, nurtured and wanted, grew eagerly into a strong young man, creating a new irrigation system, bringing water to the fertile but dry desert. Staving off the drought that held the land in its grip for a decade, he found a way to bring water up from the depths of the earth to water their crops when the rivers ran dry.

In his lifetime he became the patriarch a loving family who found creative solutions to whatever was standing in their way. He built a legacy of Joy and Prosperity that they shared with all, for the betterment of not only their own tribe but all tribes.

With the prosperity that came, he provided midwives for all, so that fewer children would have to be sacrificed to save the life of the mother. And because there was some thread that had known that he had been unwanted, he created a system where unwanted children could easily be matched with parents who would love and nurture the child, no matter the age.

And so the woman, having dreamed a different story, began to breathe. She could feel her ribs moving, muscles relaxing that she had not even known were tense. Letting go of angst and sadness that had kept her from building the life she truly wanted.

She became the planet mover – the world saver - which she had been born to be, never counting another bean in her life, and never missing it. She and her partner founded a dynasty of brilliant inventors and world movers who found creative, loving solutions to problems that had plagued mankind for eons.

Living a long life together, they lived the kind of life that had only been spoken of in myth, larger than life. She was free to generously give her time and energy, caring for those who could not care for themselves.

What's a Tweet betwist Friends

On March 30th, 2009, I finally caved. My friend Bridgeblder had been nagging me for nearly six months to join Twitter, so that I could make some connections. Get out of the cave that I had crawled into after my divorce. She enticed me with a "writers' chat". And I, grumbling all the way, finally joined.

The original Sunday afternoon writer's chat was so overwhelming - that I almost didn't go back. But under her browbeating, I timidly started following random people that I saw along the way in her tweets. I figured if she liked them, I probably would. And for the most part I did.

There have been some followers who have come and gone. Some I never notice, because they are either silent or what they write doesn't interest me. But some of them have become close friends, in a really strange way. I never expected the in-depth metaphysical and philosophical discussions that have occurred. The emotional support and depth of friendship that I feel towards my favorite people. Here we are, technically strangers, and yet I'm closer to a couple of these people than I am to my own family (except my brother). And that might not be right because he and I talk about every 2 months, not daily.

Some of these friends have watched me crawl out of a Dark Night, cheering me on and sometimes even taking my hand by the love and comfort of their words. And I have done the same for them. None of us knowing the depths of the gratitude felt for the support, or the changes wrought in our Tweethearts and friends. But we have been hear for each other. Occasionally pushing them into the 'pool' of awakening - in a form of tough love. But more often, catching them gently as they fall, giving them a soft place to land. It's what we do for our loved ones. We give each other ¸.•*' '* Sparticle Hugs *´`*•.¸ [Sparticles are Sparkley Particles]

I was lucky enough this week to be in the right place at the right time to catch one of my friends in free fall. Stopping that downward tumble was as natural as breathing for me. This is someone that I love. Why wouldn't I? This is the same person who has asked me some of the most soul piercing questions of my life. And who has challenged me to step up to the plate. Who knows how far reaching our actions and our friendship will be? I don't. But it will be interesting to see the changes unfold.

I met these incredible new friends because my old friend badgered me to join a writers' chat. Thank you dear BridgeBldr.

Gayle

Welcome Home

This story was 1st published in Booksie.com 1-16-2009 - 17 people read it. No one commented. This fiction is written to help me understand the possibilities of ascension. Does it work like this? I don't know. But it feels right. I have left the story essentially unchanged though my life has changed since this was written.

It was frightening for me at first, because so many could not see me. Yet I was still there. I was not dead - there was no body. But I was gone from their sight. As if by magic. I moved among them, touching and trying to comfort them. Yet all they did was brush me away, as if I were merely the touch of a fly.

There were a few who knew that I was there. Small children, and the very aged, but I still had a body. And the man that I loved got lost in grief for a time. But I kept leaving papers on his desk. And soon he began to read them.

I could not write, but I could move books from one place to another. I could pick up pieces of paper.

‘Read this’ I’d whisper in his ear. ‘I am here. Do not grieve for me. Live your life, Love, and you will see me soon.’ His heart healed. And he let go of his grief, long before anyone expected him to do so. So he must have felt me loving him.

He began to devour the writings that I left for him. He began to devour the things that I had sent to him over the years, which he had kept in folders on his computer. He called my friends and asked for their help. For somehow he knew that if he could only understand one critical thing, that he could achieve all of his dreams.

But what was that critical thing? Did his heart long to be famous if love was not part of the picture? What use was a big house, if he was the only one in it?

He began taking longer and longer treks into the wilderness, wilder and wilder he explored. Searching for a guide to teach him.


Until one day, he went to the Forest of the Ancient Ones, searching for answers. Arriving shortly after dawn, he simply sat. Leaning against the rough bark, he rested quietly, allowing his mind to become still. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed partway, and his heart calmed. Peace stole over him that day.

He melted into the tree, feeling the life blood of the earth rising toward the treetops of the Ancient One, and his eyes widened. For finally, he could see me, sitting next to him, cross legged, leaning against the same tree, smiling my quiet smile.

“What do the trees say to you?” asking him the question that he had asked me so many years ago.

“That they are glad that I have finally come. They say that you are really here, but that usually I just cannot see you,” voice barely above a whisper, he smiled for the first time in months. Then his smile disappeared as he spoke again. “But what use is it for me to know if you are here, if I cannot touch you.”

“Are you sure? Take my hand.” And I reached out to touch his knee. For the first time in months he felt my hand, warm and tender. Not thinking it was merely a trickle to be brushed away.

Fingers entwined in mine, he looked at our hands in wonder. “But you’re gone? How can you be here? I must be dreaming.”

“No, I have always been here, waiting for you to stop lowering your energy in grief. I have always been here, loving you. Now you must trust. Trust that you are ready for the shift that is occurring within you.”

He leaned back against the trunk of the old tree once more, and I told him the story of ascension. How one day I was playing with the energy in a crowded room, and I just disappeared. Right in front of people.

It had not been dramatic, except that they looked around, and then dismissed my disappearance, as though I had merely stood up and left the room. Their minds had not been ready to accept the reality of what they saw, so they simply forgot it.

But I had still walked around. I had still moved from place to place. I found that moving by thought was easier than driving. I learned to fly again. At first it was awkward, like swimming through mud. But eventually I got the hang of it. And then I remembered him. And went in search of this delightful man, only to find him immersed in grief. For to him, I had evaporated, leaving a hole in his life.

We talked the afternoon away, leaning against those old trees, holding hands, the other visitors of the park ignoring us completely, as though we were invisible. It was almost dark when he finally stood.

“I must go now. I’m supposed to be with the kids tonight,” regret filled his voice. “Will I see you again?”

“Take my hand; I have something to show you.” And we walked off into the forest. Finally reaching a clearing, surrounded by a half dozen of the Ancient Ones, we stopped. Puzzlement filled his face as we began to glow.

“Children, come here,” the words were spoken at barely a whisper, and yet they carried out into the Forest, on a wave. The Forest fell quiet and one by one our children stepped out between the trees. “They have always been here, because they did not forget. Somehow they were allowed to remember that they belong here. How they lived in both worlds, I do not know, because I couldn't do it. Perhaps it was as like a game of role playing. But they are here. Now. They live with me. All of our children. Both yours and mine. And other children come and go. It is comfortable, and we are used to each other now. Though at first it was awkward, because your children did not wish to be disloyal to their mother. But we adjusted, and they have helped me to understand how to come and go between the energies, of high and low. In that way they could visit you, and then return here to recharge and renew. Though I can't seem to do it yet.”

“Many of our friends are here too. Not all, but the ones that we loved best are here. And I am glad that you have finally joined us.”

He was concerned about getting out of the park before they locked the gates, still caught up in the idea of the lower energy. His children laughed, and told him that there were no gates here, and that his car would be all right. And that he should come and see our home. . Surprised that they should say our home, he was nearly overwhelmed when we arrived at a comfortably snug home. The boys climbed to their shared loft, my daughter was preparing supper. Pausing a moment in her movements my daughter hugged me, and then went to stand in front of him. ‘Welcome home,’ was all she said.

Shaking his head, he sat at the simple table, while I got him a drink of the clearest, coolest water he had ever had. Clean and tidy, our home was not large, but it was cared for with love.

After supper, my daughter hugged us both again, patted each boy on the head, and went to the door. “I’ve work to do tonight. Is there anybody you especially want me to love, mother?”

“Why don’t you check on your father? In fact you might want to take him to a movie. I think he’s kind of lonely.”

“It’s getting harder to manifest a body. I’d rather he brought his energy up,” she complained. “Will he ever ‘get it’?”

“You know that no one is kept out, except those who will not love. So sooner or later, your father will get it, though he may have to die to do it,” was the answer heard through my sigh. “If he can learn it from you, then he need not go through that pain. Good luck, you’ll need it.” Nodding, she waved as she went into the dark and closed the door.


“Am I dead?” asked the man at my side.

“No,” was my reply. “You are finally vibrating high enough to shift to a new dimension. Here, we live our lives, creating that which we want, no more, no less. We live peacefully, because there is no need to take things from someone else, when we can make whatever we want.”

“I don’t understand.” His face reflected disbelief.

“We have no crime, no war, because they are caused by fear, hatred, and wanting. Those are lower vibrations, and whenever someone falls to these levels, they cannot maintain their place here, so they simply shift back to the old. But after living here for a very short while, most people are changed forever and no longer wish to live in the lower vibrations. So they work hard to elevate their energy through allowing love back into their lives. This allows them to shift back to this level.

“You are here now, and may stay, if you wish. Or you may return to the lower vibrations, and this will seem like a pleasant dream. But sooner or later you will reach for this dream again. You may stay if you wish; you may stay in our home, with me if you wish.”

“Is this real? Are you real?” was his question.

“I am as real, and as passionate, as I was in my old life. I am more loving that I was then, there. And I am still not easy. Remember that I have told you, I will never be easy. You will have to put effort into loving me. For without that, we will not be a vibrational match, and we will simply drift apart. Easily, naturally. The choice is yours.” And I sat quietly, looking into his eyes, waiting for him to decide.

His breath became ragged, for a moment as the implications sank in, and he said “I want a purple balloon.”

A moment later, from the loft a voice was heard – “hey, I’m trying to read… Do you mind?” And a lavender latex teardrop floated down to land on the floor next to his feet.

“Oh my god, this is real. And you knew all along. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I tried, but I couldn’t find words that you could understand and believe. All I could do was love you. And I couldn’t wait for you to come with me. I tried, but it just didn’t work. So I came first.” Tiredly, I smiled. Reaching out my hand, I continued. “I promise I will answer every question that I can. But let it wait till tomorrow. For now let’s just go to bed, for I have been waiting for you.” He stood, the twinkle in his eye said he knew exactly what I meant.

Building with a Song

She had work to do, and no office to do it in. They had outgrown their old place. The tiny house where she and her husband had raised their family. It had been home for her children, and accustomed to it, they no longer remembered the larger house that had been part of their early childhood. But now they were nearly grown, off doing their own things, leaving her alone for much of the day.


But Gia knew that she needed a bigger place to do her work. All her life she had drawn people to her who needed healing of some sort or the other. And now she felt the call to help the walking wounded more effectively. So she had begun opening her home and her heart to the friends of her children, and the people who wandered into her life like a stray pup. Often so emotionally battered by life that they snapped at everyone, even the hand that fed them.


Gia had never thought of herself as a gentle woman, yet in her heart, she tenderly took these lost souls in and through patience and hard work, brought them out of whatever private hell they had been in. She would have laughed at anyone who said that she was really a softie, but she had a secret place in her heart for anyone who tried, failed, and picked themselves up to go again. Her children knew a bit of this secret, but they did not understand the depth of her fire, for they had not been through the hell that she had growing up.


Hands that should have been tender had been brutal. Words that should have been spoken in love were used as whips on the young Gia. Chores that should have been easily accomplished were made infinitely more difficult by their unceasing demand.


And yet, in spite of hiding her wounded heart behind walls and hardness, she had these tender spots. She found enough courage within her to change how she talked to her children. Not playing head games with them, she learned to ask for the behavior that she wanted. Though in order to do that she had to figure out what she wanted. It was an interesting journey for the wounded Gia, peeling one layer of pain away to reveal a sweeter, stronger woman, just as one would peel an onion.


She knew that part of her healing was to help heal others who had been wounded just as she had, with words, with fists, and with cruelty. And so she stood there, looking out over her land, having the time, the space, and the willpower. Missing only one thing, the money. And no money meant no materials.


She had been clearing the land the hard way, the old fashioned way. With an ax. Pulling up the scrub, using it to create fences and foot paths through the woods, fill in the low spots, and cover over the muddy ones.


But finally all that preparation was done. She stood in the midst of the clearing, ax in hand and realized that there was nothing left for her to cut. The trees around the area had ribbons around their middle. These ribbons marked the edge of the yard that would surround her new home and office. They would shade her home in the hot summer sun of Arkansas. They gave protection from the winter winds too. But it was the fierce heat that she was most worried about. In the winter you could wrap up in a blanket or put on another sweater, but in the summer it was hard to take off enough clothes to keep cool. Trees helped that tremendously, which was why Gia didn’t want to cut any more of the tall sentinels down. Besides they made her feel safe. Protected, watched over. And she had never had family and friends who did that for her.

But there she stood, ax in hand, uncertain what came next.


Sitting carefully on the ground, she crossed her legs and just enjoyed the peace. Once the building began, there would be no peace in the clearing. And so she enjoyed the silence. A silenced filled with the stirring of mice and voles, fluttering of butterflies wings, twittering of the yellow and blue songbirds, as well as the harsh cawing from the neighborhood crow. The silence was anything but.


As she listened to the cheeps, and whirring, the knocking and the clicking, she began to hear a pattern, a song really. And hearing it, she began to hum along. It began tentatively at first. Just a quiet humming. The song of the Forest seemed to quiet momentarily, as if listening to her song, and then it began again, quietly at first. In her heart she heard the melody of the greenwood and allowed her voice to grow, adding a harmony, tentatively at first. Gradually, the sound grew, echoing through the forest. Eerie, haunting, and soulful, her song echoed the Forest, and the Forest echoed through Gia. Each note sliding up and down the scale, harmonizing, shifting, swooping and diving. The song drove on. Harmony interweaving with melody, until she was not sure which was which.


Eyes closed Gia sang from the heart, pausing only to breathe, listening to the excitement growing within the Forest. It had been many years since anyone had sung with it. Enjoying the playfulness of it. Stretching here, singing close harmony there. The only dissonance came as a pickup drove down the gravel road nearby. Radio blasting, momentarily silencing the Forest. Only to have the shifting melody start up again as the dust settled. The song returning stronger than before.


Eyes still closed, Gia found her self lying down in the center of the small meadow, feeling that her body was alive, perhaps for the first time. As though she were larger than her skin. Weaving melody and harmony, into Forest and home. Bringing each separate sound into the melody much the way a builder would bring each separate board into creating a building. A home.


Totally focused on the swelling symphony, she didn’t hear the quiet rustlings around her. Didn’t feel the wind dance, ebb and flow, enveloping her lifting her, Didn’t feel the earth move as the clearing reshaped itself.


So totally focused on Listening and Singing, she didn’t see what was happening around her. Didn’t notice until the melody wound down to its end, gently slipped into silence as the last note faded away.


Eyes still shut; Gia felt vibrant and alive, wishing it could go on and on. Knowing that soon enough she had to return to everyday living, she allowed herself the luxury of a short nap in the dappled sunlight.


Finally the sound of a dog barking in the distance drew her back to her body. Sighing, knowing that she still had to figure out how to build her home, she struggled to a sitting position rubbing the sleep from her eyes.


Confused by what confronted her, she thought she was still dreaming. For before her was the home and office that she had envisioned. Built already. How could that be? She knew she must still be dreaming. For there was no way that these structures in front of her could be real. But the details were so vivid, so real.


She’d never been able to get anyone to understand exactly what she wanted. Her hands had been unable to draw what her heart had wanted. Her words a poor substitute for the vision she had carried all these years. And yet it was standing before her. She’d even managed to dream the guest cottages that she’d seen one time in a movie, so that the people who came to get her help wouldn’t always be underfoot. There was even thick, lush grass in the yard. And the dirt under her fingers was different from the poor sandy soil that had been there before. It was rich and black, and the plants growing in it were strong and healthy. Everything she had ever wanted, down to and including, the flower garden underneath the front windows.


She knew she must be dreaming. None-the-less she stood and went to investigate. The house of her dream didn’t include furniture. Nor did it include window screens. Amused at the missing detail, she started to laugh. Gia began to run through the house looking at everything, touching each new thing, still unable to believe that she wasn’t dreaming. She wondered why the wood of the window sills looked as if they had grown up from the ground. The kitchen had just the kind of faucet she had seen at the hardware store and wished for, knowing it would never happen because of its expense. In her dream it had happened.


Gia joyously spent the rest of the day wandering through this new home and office.

When Nathanial had come home, supper wasn’t even started, much less ready and Gia wasn’t in her usual places. Worried about her, he decided to go the only place he could think of – the clearing. She had been working herself near to death to clear the land. And he was concerned for she had never stayed so long.


She heard him call through the woods, as he hiked up the path toward the clearing. Positive that she was still asleep, that when he stepped into view, Gia greeted him as if she were a mere girl again, skipping across the yard. Puzzled by the wonder on his face, she peered up at him. As tears ran down his face and he pulled her into his arms, Gia realized that she was not dreaming.

The Healer

I had a dream that ended badly. And thus the dream came to be rewritten.

I present to you ---- The Healer

The Healer Medic stood over the dying man, tired and frustrated. It had already been a long day by the time Anlar’s wife, Keeri, had pushed her husband through the doorway and said “You’re the Healer. Now heal him.”

She had expected the Medic to wave his hands and make it all better, as if by magic. She had not understood that the patient must be willing to do what is necessary. Kaylar’s skills required that the patient let go of the old way of doing things, the old way of thinking. It required a great deal of trust. Trust in the process, trust that things could be better, and trust in the unseen Energy.

But Anlar was a stubborn man and not very trusting. Suspicious of this new-fangled healing, he wanted something he could put his hands on. Wanted something he could see. Unfortunately his condition had not responded to the traditional methods of healing, and he had only come to Kaylar as a last ditch effort to save his life.

If Kaylar had been wise, he would have told them to go home and prepare for death. But at heart Kaylar was a kind, gentle man, who understood that sometimes fear of death can accomplish miracles. He could see the love that Keeri had for her life-mate, and the fear that she would lose him. As Keeri took her husband’s hand, the Medic wondered if the patient was finally willing to accept any healing. Huddled together for comfort, they looked at Kaylar with varying degrees of trust and hope.

The Medic had spent a great deal of time listening to one complaint after another from the ill man. Kaylar’s explanation of the process went unnoticed. As did his statement that Anlar would need to change his way of looking at the world. That the patient must begin to look for what was right with the world, one thing at a time, leaving behind complaints and negative habits.

The Healer knew that neither one of them had understood what had been said. They were grasping at straws, but in the end the couple had agreed to see the Listener, the next day. Kaylar could only affirm that the patient would accept and absorb enough Energy to make it through the night.

And thus he had begun preparing for the healing session, clearing his mind and bringing his focus back to the Energy.

It had started out as it always did, simply. Anlar laying under the clinic lights, covered with layers of blankets, shivering as his body began shutting down. His wife sitting nearby, wringing her hands, tears falling to her lap.

Kaylar stood beside the patient, feet spread, and Reached. Reached within himself opening the door to the Energy of Healing. As the Energy flooded up through him, it filled every nook and cranny, until it expanded out to encompass the entire room. Only then did it begin to flow into the patient, being instantly absorbed. Kaylar knew that this was not HIS Energy, but that it came from the Sacred Ground upon which the clinic had been built.

His hands began to move of their own volition, following the paths of light and dark that surrounded the patient. Pushing light into the darkness. The darkness was anything that was not supportive of love and life. The Healer unaware that it was long past sunset continued to allow the Energy to flow through his body. Using him as a conduit, filling but not consuming him.

The moon had risen at dusk, and by the time Kaylar felt that he was done, moonlight filled the room brightly through the roof window. The Healer backed away from his sleeping patient, finally allowing his hands to fall.

Still buzzing with Energy, he spoke quietly to Keeri. “I am done. You may have waited too long to bring him to me. But I have done what I can. All we can do now is wait and see whether he will allow the healing.”

Kaylar nodded toward the sleeping Anlar and added one last thing. “He must let go of his anger. Or he will die of it, and there is nothing that I can do. The Listeners have the skills to help with that, if your husband will see them. He agreed to speak with them, but the choice to speak from the heart is his. Always. But now if he is to recover he must sleep. I will return in the morning.” Silence descended as Kaylar left the room, broken only by the sound of labored breathing.

Keeri slid under the covers next to her husband, and taking his hand again she settled down to sleep. The two had been so long in each other’s company that her breathing had slid easily into rhythm with his as she drifted off. Soft, gentle, harmonious, comfortable. Unnoticed by the sleeping couple the moon slid across the sky.

Kaylar had returned to the clinic as the sun crept softly over the horizon. Standing in the doorway he relieved to note that Anlar’s breathing was no longer labored, and his color was much better. Crossing the room Kaylar Reached for the Energy and checked Anlar’s condition. Though the patient was still weak, there was no sign of the disease which had nearly taken this man’s life. And Kaylar breathed a deep sigh of relief for he knew that the patient would recover.

Anlar snapped awake at the sound, seeking the smiling eyes of the Healer. Remembering his promise Anlar said, “I will seek a Listener, for I have much to talk about. Much to release in honesty. It is time.”

Gayle McCain

Originally posted on Twitwall 05/11/09

I Didn't Push Her into the Pool

I know I am the Wise Woman. I know how to just BE. And even as I remember that I'm more than connected, in ways that English fails, at the moment I am frustrated. Right now I just want to push an old friend in the pool. I want the shock of that to get her out of her attitude of "pity poor me - life is soooo stressful."

She is caught up in her victimhood, and unwilling to do more than give lip service to understanding her own responsibility for where she is. She is the one who several years ago spent hours every day on her knees gardening, and then in spite of their aching protest, embarked with her family on a 100 mile hike across the Sierras. Hobbling across the mountains, slowing down everyone. But she has never accepted responsibility for the damage, and expects everyone in her family to accommodate her frailties.

She just spent the better part of the afternoon here, complaining about the latest crisis. And I have had enough.

I am responsible for myself and my own mental health. As much as this woman has meant to me in the past, I find myself reluctant to spend time with her. And so I think that this is the last time that we will spend more than a few minutes on the driveway talking. Or I shall go to her home, where if it is too much, I can make some excuse and leave. But this afternoon, once entrenched upon my couch, she wouldn't leave. And I am too polite to say, "Oh gee, look at the time."

I have gradually let go of people who seem to like being stuck in their own victimhood. I am not responsible for saving them. I can only offer the gentle listening and wisdom that I have always offered. But I'm choosing to do that now with people who are going to use my comfort and wisdom to shift their point of view, changing, growing, and moving out of their pain. Otherwise my time and energy are going into a black hole.

And I must say, I wanted to push this woman into the pool. Force her to see the folly of staying in the 'pity poor me' role. I wanted to. But I didn't. I was strong.

However, the next time she says "Let's get together." I'm going to say no. I may make some polite talk about being too busy, but the answer will still be "No." It must be, for I am not advanced enough to let her rant and rave without wanting to use tough love on her.

And perhaps, this is merely one of the stages of being a Wise Woman, knowing when to walk away.

Gayle

Imagine with me if you will for a moment.

On the card table there is a puzzle. One which you’ve been working on for a while. Almost complete, missing one little section, right there. This puzzle is different from the one at the left in that not all the pieces are of uniform size and shape, so you have to actually put a piece in place to see if it matches the picture around it. This means that this hole might be a single piece or it might be 3-4.

On the floor around me are millions of puzzle pieces that didn’t fit.

And on the coffee table next to me is a box that only contains 50K pieces. But I’ve no algorithm for sorting them. So I have to pick the darn things up one by one and try each piece. Which apparently I’m going to continue to do. Even though I don’t know what this widget will do. Or what it is.

What are these puzzle pieces? They vary. One piece is the shadows that I learned how to paint, another is the concept that what actually defined the mountains was not the paint ON the canvas, but the gaps in the color that created shadows, nooks and crannies. In other words what I left out.

It’s the silence between the notes within the music as it ebbs and flows, washing over me in symphony and birdsong. No wonder I don’t like much rock and roll – not enough silence between the notes. There are calculus formulas as well as some mechanical engineering things thrown in there from a college boyfriend. And some electronic circuitry handed to me by my ex husband (that I never even knew I’d seen before).

The pieces of this puzzle include the science classes that have lain dormant in my brain for millennia, and the physics that I’m absorbing now. I don’t have to be able to do the math to recognize a piece that fits, just have those puzzle pieces in my head. Plus there are the aerobics classes that really taught me how to follow someone else’s lead. And the understanding I gained about DNA from my early science classes.

Another puzzle piece was the ebbing flowing swirling energy of Chi that I have always seen, but finally got a name for when I studied Wu Ji Chi Gong, sliding between the layers of the swirl. And the belly dancing that allowed me to follow the twists and turns of movement. Then there were the Reiki circles, and the ghost busting, the Tae Kwon Do and the meditations with people at a distance.

Add the classes that were only taught one time as a unit, on psychic gifts, that I happened to see a flyer for. And the dancing in my living room that taught me to follow the energy stream. To ride the waves and chance the rapids of the energetic flow.

All of those pieces are in the almost completed puzzle on the table. Plus there are children’s games, and story pieces and a whole mish-mash of other things. And I see there are a lot of those buttons that go missing in the dryer are there too (go figure). There are a couple of keys, and somewhere on this intricate picture, I’ve left my glasses – which I can no longer find. (Note to self – Call Dr. Make an appt. for next week.)

And somehow I’m down to the last few pieces, trying not to be in a rush as I sort through what’s left to sort through. Though my patience is wearing thin.

Why have I spent my life assembling this puzzle? I don’t know. But what makes this the most interesting thing of all, is because once the last piece(s) are in place the puzzle widget comes ‘alive’. Really alive. A Marvelous Toy (Peter Paul & Mary).

I don’t know exactly what it does. I haven’t been methodically looking at the whole puzzle. I’ve been looking at the colors and the patterns of each piece as I pick it up to see where it fits into the pattern.

Will it do 0-60 in 5.2? Maybe it really is a better mousetrap, Or it might just be like one of those clown guns that instead of a bullet shoots out a sign that says “Congratulations. Next.”

And how do I know that the puzzle piece lies in the stuff I’m learning now, because the widget is vibrating in anticipation; it’s really getting excited. Which I cannot explain, but nonetheless is true.

Why is this important? Heck if I know. But I’ve spent billions of years finding the answer.

Do I have any illusion that I’m the only one with a puzzle like this? No, I don’t. I know that I’m not. Everybody has at least a little bit of their own construction. Each one unique, each one beautiful. And each one will come alive when the last piece is in place.

And as I glance around, I can see that some of these other people have really simple puzzles – like the 4 piece toddler ones. Some are uniform in pattern, or puzzle piece size. Some do not hold my interest.

But some are wildly fascinating. And those are the owns that are vibrating excitedly like mine. Imagine a race horse just before the gates are opened.

I don’t know which piece of information will complete the widget. I don't know if this widget will allow me to move to any somewhere, or somewhen, in history. Or it merely qualifies me to sit back and say, "Nice picture full of shiny things." And I’m willing to consider that this widget is merely a single piece of a larger puzzle. Creating an even grander … something… And maybe that is what I mean by “Next.”

So I will become a better writer, because that helps me define what it is that I am looking for. I will continue to pour information IN through Google, articles sent to me by friends, meditation, and dreaming. And perhaps, some other soul is holding my puzzle piece ready to throw it on the floor at their feet.

And as I glance back over this email, I noticed what was missing from my description, but which is the glue that binds the whole thing together. The love. The compassion I’ve shown for others, the hugs and kisses. Cuddling, comforting, gentle and kind. And the tough love with someone who simply will not get off the fence. The love to say “no more” and the love to say ‘yes.’

So what the heck is this widget? I believe that it is me. Gayle. Not uniform in any way, shape or form. Not flat, but vibrant, exciting and beautiful. And I think that when I find the last piece(s) I’m going to really come alive.



Gayle