Mick Zippert Easter Beauty, Easter Grief

Mick Zippert                                                                 Easter Beauty, Easter Grief

As the spring holiday approached, the not unfamiliar dread of being alone without any plans or built-in companions threatened to deepen my despair but I wouldn’t allow it much airtime. I found myself Sunday morning at a local women’s meditation retreat accompanied by a friend. As I walked towards the carefully designed and expensively built simple zendo it was the petite solo tulip tree with her huge lush royal magenta flowers that was the first to en-trance me. Next was the overflowing flower and vegetable gardens bursting with fresh color and fragrances as I wound through on the narrow cedar-shaving lined paths. The gentrified barn housed several gorgeous far-from-feral longhaired cats.  Two huge koi, one a golden yellow, lazily swam the turtled pond. A powerful, well-groomed but gentle horse was roaming the grounds. I recognized the casually prettied-up shed on the far side of the garden from the email invitation that drew me to this idyllic slightly overcast Easter gathering.

As the meditation practices were coming to a close, I sensed, for the first time in three months that I might barely possess a sufficient quantity of courage to visit a long-time friend. Two days before I had authorized his entering into hospice care through email. I had awoken the morning of “signing day” feeling overwhelmed and chose, for my self-preservation, to remotely give the go ahead to this change in his care. My unusual friend had been existing in this “nursing home” in a nearby town since summer, however, it was a marked improvement over his last living situation. Yes, nurses served there but to refer to that drab institution with its decaying urine stench as a home was far-fetched.

I had only spoken to my friend on the phone twice since my partner died two months before. I was emotionally unable to visit him and face more sickness and death. When I had called Mick in early February, he immediately asked how Jeff was doing. My sweetheart had befriended Mick after  meeting two years before. Jeff was intrigued by Mick’s spiritual insights. My partner, in turn, had helped Mick solve various electronic and practical issues when our aging friend was living in senior housing. Jeff also visited our infirm friend weekly for months after Mick had been shipped to this facility. out of town. Mick was distressed knowing my sweetheart, who was considerably younger, had been quite ill. “He died, Mick.” “Oh no,” he cried out, “that is horrible!,” and his generous expression of anguish soothed something in me.

The “home’s” social worker had called to tell me my friend was declining rapidly. I knew he was confused in the fall but he always recognized me when I came to visit. Now this bear of a man was consistently 350 pounds and hadn’t gotten out of bed for weeks. The brand-new synthesizer he had purchased with the money from the sale of his paint-stripped, malodorous and dandruff strewn gray Honda had never been played. I was impressed that my diabetic hand-trembling friend had successfully engaged the ombudsmen (with some coaching) to persuade the “health center’s” administrator to allow his sizeable synthesizer to be in his room. The space was now more crowded with his bed, cheap furniture, wheelchair, walker, commode and tattered belongings. The social worker made it clear the music equipment was her proverbial thorn.

I dreaded facing my friend’s death since my own yawning grief wounds were rendering me so fragile. On the other hand, I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving this realm without one final visit. Timidly, I walked into his room noticing a different roommate. The new addition was thinner and more virile appearing than the previous one. This handsome slightly graying man was sleeping on his side, facing the door I had just entered with the white sheets pulled up mid-chest. I sensed sleep had been inspired to escape the odd situation of having an irregularly breathing stranger on the other side of the drab curtain.

I walked to the far side of the dim room wondering why the blinds were always closed. Their Russian immigrant nurse Elena followed me. As a nurse myself, I was impressed that Elena always seemed genuinely invested in my friend’s care.

Mick was lying on his back with his head slightly propped on the institutionally white pillow, staring blankly ahead towards where the wall and ceiling mate. “Oh no, he really is leaving!,” grabbed at my guts. Then I gratefully noticed his crisp linens and gown and finally he was well groomed. I approached his right and called “Mick, hi, it’s Vanita.” His head turned barely noticeable towards the familiar voice with eyes remaining unfocused. “Hi Sweetie,” he said. I knew he recognized me though I had never heard him use a term of endearment in the twenty-six years we had known each other.

Sadness flooded me. What can one say? “You are going home Mick. You are going to see God”. He nodded slightly and another wave of uninvited grief overtook me.

To the strict but compassionate nurse witnessing the intimate exchange I offered my excuse. “I couldn’t come before. With my partner dying I just couldn’t bear it”. Her skilled response eased my burden, “It is okay, you did what you could. You have been through a lot yourself. Yes, he is going home.”  She seemed grateful that this obvious spiritual fact was being acknowledged. I had posted on Facebook and a local community website about Mick’s situation but had only gotten a handful of responses. “Have others come to visit him?,” guilt inquired. “No, just you”.

I doubt the staff had any idea what an advanced being Mick was or the secrets, good and bad, this clairvoyant knew about them. Mick was more evolved than I and he pointed this actuality out intermittently over the years with a very factual tone. He had guided people at psychic fairs on the West Coast with his creative and insightful readings. He was a gifted music channel proud that he had opened for the famous spiritual teacher Ram Das. I had never heard of music channeling before Mick made his debut in my life. This being’s greatest pleasure was to lazily stroll in the forest playing his silver flute while communing with Nature. He attempted several times to convey his light-filled visions but I could only grasp the edge of his perceptions and resultant bliss. Once when he endeavored to describe his experience of the “Eternally Swirling Eye of All Creation,” I was able to briefly glimpse the awe-inspiring enormity of God. Didn’t I realize that God was creating everything in existence in every moment?

I suspect we all often feel alone but Mick’s loneliness was extreme. He was born with a birth defect that resulted in violent projectile vomiting whenever he fed and he underwent major surgery at six weeks of age. He was severely neglected as a child with frequent bonding ruptures and an assortment of caretakers. His mother banished him to a military school at age 5 and his absent father barely tolerated him when he was around. My friend’s dismal socialization plagued him. Add his unique view of reality and his intuitive awareness of people’s hidden selves and he had a large load to cope with. Top this off with his beloved wife’s sudden car-wreck death in 1991 near their home. He was incapable of metabolizing this mountain of grief and never recovered.

I met him six months after the accident that he recounted incessantly for decades. His music, ecstatic spiritual experiences and increasingly infrequent readings were the only things that kept him inching along. His most reliable and comforting companion was the excess food that kept him sedated from the pain of years of inadequate meaningful human contact.

Though he had been briefly in the military and had attended college, Mick was unable to function in everyday practical matters.  Showering regularly, wearing somewhat clean clothes or keeping his dwelling from smelling like a garbage dump were impossible tasks. Despite his shortcomings, he was a rare precious lifeline for me. He casually informed me one afternoon that my guiding essence in life was the “Heart of Love” and encouraged me to always follow it. Whenever I was upset and felt lost he would guide me to an expanded perspective and soothe me with divine wisdom. “How could someone so dysfunctional with so many unresolved issues be so clear and wise?,” I often wondered. Let me tell you about my introduction to this extraordinary, fascinating and complex human being.

I was deeply in love with a man Mick later announced was “my essence twin”, the closest of the soul connections and commonly referred to as a “twin flame”. My twin had met Mick the evening before and received a personal channeling that thrilled him. The next day he wanted to take me to the psychic musician’s home for a couple’s reading.

My twin warned that Mick was quite depressed since the trauma of the tragic accident. We arrived at the beautiful rural three-acre property with its respectable manufactured home. As the front door opened the smell of rotting garbage startled me. This huge man, 6 feet tall and well over 300 lbs, invited us in. He moved and spoke heavily but I was drawn to his deep resonant voice.

The home was filthy and Mick pointed out the garbage “zones” throughout the house. He was proud that the trash was contained in a myriad of large cone-shaped piles. The kitchen sink and counters were laden high with thickly crusted dishes, glasses, cups, pots, and pans with an array of dirty utensils strewn about. Dropped or carelessly discarded food was drying up everywhere including on the floor. He explained he hadn’t been able to keep the house up since the loss of the woman who was so dear to him.

The unkempt man ushered us into his bedroom to our left. “What do you want the reading to focus on?,” but before our reply formed he interjected, “don’t bother, most people are too stupid to know what to ask anyway.” Surprisingly I didn’t feel offended by this, later to be learned, very accurate observation.

The bedroom was cleaner and the odors less. His queen-size bed was elevated four feet off the ground and pushed up against the left and far wall; his black synthesizer faced the foot of the bed and the room was devoid of chairs. “Climb up on the bed,” he instructed. I scanned the sheets and deemed them clean enough to sit but first went to the adjoining bathroom which was another unbelievable scene.

Now we were seated on the cushy bed stage and Mick settled in behind the keyboard that happened to bear the uncommon name of my essence twin in big white block letters. I never expected the musician to casually invite, “Feel free to make love while I play.”  Stunned, but eternally curious I asked, “Has anyone ever taken you up on that?”  “Yeah”, mentioning the names of a couple we were acquainted with. Notably the vibe from him wasn’t perverse which struck me as even more odd. “Uh, we’ll just sit here”.

He began playing his silver flute while watching us. After the haunting opening he put the flute down and created a melody on the synthesizer that touched into the deepest part of me. He began his spontaneous song referring to me as “Anita” but despite that faux pas I was weeping with profound relief of finally being seen and known by another. He sang of an ancient bond and indescribable love between my essence twin and I. He sang of the joy of finding each other after many years of searching. He sang of my vibrantly colored strands of emotion that often got entangled and overwhelmed me. He sang how my twin would help me unravel them into something manageable and useful. “I can’t go on anymore,” he suddenly announced overtaken by a wave of pain. He abruptly pushed his wide slumped shoulders away from the keyboard ending my sorely needed influx of divine grace and I was hooked.

Our friendship grew and deepened but he never recovered from his soulmate’s death; she was not his essence twin he explained but another type of deeply fulfilling but less tumultuous soul connection. He lovingly spoke of her in most every conversation we ever had and clearly was idealizing her. I knew they were in the process of separating just before her death which he rarely remembered. About ten years ago he announced that part of her soul had reincarnated in Australia. During a vision he had seen her home and he gazed on the newborn through the window. He was comforted she was again on the planet with him.

I had numerous intriguing experiences with him as the years passed and also plenty of frustrating ones. His honed spiritual abilities were always dramatically contrasted by his inability to function in the world and his drug of choice, food, was doing him in. His undeveloped interpersonal skills constantly plagued his intermittent attempts at relationships. His wife had founded the popular local metaphysical bookstore with his support and they had been well known though now he was an almost forgotten hermit. By the time he entered the nursing home, he hadn’t seen his middle-aged daughter since she was a toddler, was estranged from his family and one by one managed to alienate most of his few friends.

Now it was time to leave him on this late Easter afternoon. I had been with my partner throughout his illness and only rarely left his side during the last week of his life so it felt really wrong to desert a dying friend in this bleak institution. But I needed to buy groceries for the week and attend a support group that would be able to console me. I was sitting  in a chair on his left side. “Mick, I have to go”. Was that a nod?  “You will be with Joan soon, you will be so happy to see her again. Mick, I love you”.

I knew from studying grief that saying goodbye to his physical form, saying farewell to the friendship we had shared was crucial. Our relationship was eternal but I also knew I needed to utter that powerful word while dreading the anguish that was sure to follow. I finally mustered my “goodbye,” but immediately copped out with “I will be back,” knowing that wasn’t feasible. Though his otherworldly stare continued the entire visit and he hadn’t spoken since his brief affectionate greeting, I was startled when he began whispering the last words I would ever hear him say. “It is so….. beautiful.”

“I am glad Mick, I am so glad,” and I knew he was okay.

Pierce Michael Zippert was prophetically born on April Fool’s Day. His body died March 31st, 2016. He would have been 74.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Great Confusion

The Great Confusion

So many confused.

Christ is not a man who lived long ago,

Nor a woman.

The Christ is not of this world.

 

Men and women, even a child,

Can realize the Light.

It will not come through the body’s eyes,

Glory supplants our binary earthly existence.

 

Wish to become fully the Light?

Be not fooled. Pain will be involved.

How are dense gray rocks transformed into transparent crystals?

How is gold purified?

 

The Christ is Quietness.

A snowstorm scribbled a solid excuse to stay home,

Relief washes over you,

Your daily burdens miraculously lifted.

 

Peace envelops the forest, or city street,

Blanketed in pure heavenly white.

Sunlight transfigures the brilliant wonder,

into a unexpected in-breath of long-awaited awe.

 

This same Love reaches through a young woman’s

Fatigue to comfort her cranky infant,

Or sensed as a man opens his heart

To his woman’s upset directed at him.

 

It is felt as skillful compassion is extended to a distressed addict,

Understanding the incessant attempts to keep the inner demons at bay.

It shines through a neighbor’s soaking of a small dog’s infected wounds,

As day after day, she coaxes the little creature from death’s claws.

 

Christ is the Eternal Remembered,

Not a religion.

Christ is those who embody the Deep Stillness,

Those transmuted by the Joyous Emanation of Immortal

Radiant Light.

 

God’s Peace

road-sun-rays-path.jpg

As you were drawing your last breaths,

I made an altar on your body,

Stuffing your hands full with raisins.

You would have plenty to eat as you journeyed.

 

Your last breath, 3:54am

Another came 3 minutes later surprising me.

 

A spacious medical suite overlooking the bay,

We could see the hospital of your birth from our

window.

 

I sat in the dark, cross-legged

A high backed cushioned chair

Next to your bed

Listening for you.

 

I didn’t experience much

When I let go of my wanting to

I sensed you.

Quiet , dark and deep

To my right.

 

The months of sickness began to ebb,

I remembered

Who you really are

And why I softly fell in love.

 

Our connection was nurturing and sweet,

Quiet and deep.

It took me time to trust it.

 

As I sat in the dark,

I remembered how your presence calmed me.

The first time we cuddled,

Fully dressed,

We feel asleep in each other’s arms.

 

The first time I stepped into your home,

Higher up in the mountains,

Surrounded by tall trees,

Peace enveloped me.

 

I have many Jeffrey’s in my life.

“What number am I?,  you asked and I laughed.

Well, both wasbands have your name,

My son ‘s middle name is that,

My grandson is Jeffrey and

then our Atlantean spiritual brother too.

 

We called you Jeffrey the Sixth.

 

You have some weird pattern some have commented.

Jeffrey means  “God’s Peace”, I tell them.

This is what you are for me.

 

 

An Eclipse’s teachings about Christ

An Eclipse’s teachings about Christ

On August 21st, I was at my sister’s cabin in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina and all were grateful for an uncharacteristically clear day. Though I had originally planned to experience the eclipse from a music festival in Oregon, I had been led to fly east to be with my family.

Anticipation had been building for months and millions were staged across the diagonal swath of our country where totality could be viewed. Kayaking that morning on a huge lake we joined excited spectators who were camped along the shoreline and on the water for the event. I was heartened that multitudes had detached themselves from their terrestrial fascinations with sports and tumultuous political happenings and were focusing on a momentous cosmic event.

The moon’s courtship with the sun extended over hours, though totality would last for less than three minutes. My first inclination was to meditate indoors as totality approached but I found myself instead on a forested hill above the serene cabin with a clear line of sight. I wondered if darkness would descend that early afternoon with totality, but a surreal gray sepia enveloped our surroundings as crickets began their harmonious chirping. “This is disturbing,” my niece announced as our normal reality was mysteriously being rearranged. Gazing upwards with now naked eyes, we were spellbound. A solid black sphere, the moon, was surrounded by a mesmerizing halo of vibrant, dancing pure white light as if encircled by innumerable fast darting white fire flies. I had not researched the eclipse phenomena beforehand and was gratefully unprepared for what occurred next.

Some background information might help you comprehend my experience. There is growing awareness in spiritual circles of the ancient knowledge that the deepest level of existence is infinite, non-visible black light. Some traditions refer to it as the Void, Nothing, Beingness, Dark Light, or simply the Unmanifest. Even the mystics of common religions refer to this in their writings and I have heard it from Zen Buddhists and the Mexican Toltecs. This black light is the “Source of All” and not to be confused with the destructive psychological and emotional darkness caused by human repression. No, the Unmanifest is profound stillness, deep silence, the peace that surpasses all understanding and the source of all manifestations and infinite possibilities. Shamans access and use this power for regeneration, healing etc. However, most religions and spiritual paths focus on finding or realizing the visible spiritual light. Many overlook this dark light inside them since it is “no thing” or they may experience abject terror peering into eternal vastness.

A spiritually awakened man guided me to this awareness when I was in my twenties. When I looked within myself, I saw what appeared exactly the same as the clear night sky dotted with stars. Turning away, I screamed imagining I would disappear if I went into it. Interestingly, for many years now, I no longer see any stars or visible light in that blackness but find comfort as if being enveloped in a velvety soft black blanket. One shaman-friend reports seeing it as a dark purple black.

I refer to this deep inner reality as God/Goddess and some ancient cultures named it the “Great Womb” or “Mother.” Obviously on a physical level, humans and mammals are conceived, nourished and grown in the dark of the womb before these beings emerge into this outer realm of visible light. Women are known, for a variety of reasons, to have a spiritual advantage in being able to access this inner reality more easily than men.

Now, back to totality on that hill I was perched on. The celestial mating now complete, the moon began her leisurely slide to the left off the sun. Shockingly brilliant, absolutely pure translucent white light burst out at one o’clock on the black sphere. I gasped at the miracle before me and finally understood what the words the “Glory of God” meant. My awestruck educated niece uttered the astronomer’s label for the phenomena, “the diamond ring.”

Though I have studied the Course in Miracles intermittently for decades, I had never before understood how the Unmanifest or Black Light created us. The white light or Christ was born in a single burst and is the one and only “Child of God.” Light is genderless and that afternoon it struck obvious that the “Son of God” would more accurately be named the “Sun of God.” Jesus fully realized he was that light and referred to his Creator (the Unmanifest) as “His Father.” Now there was infinite black eternity and also pure white light but they are somehow inseparable.

How this single burst of white Light became the “10,000 things” is another tale. Our physical eyes perceive innumerable forms today- people, animals, birds, insects, trees, oceans, etc. But whether it is realized yet or not, everything contains the brilliant white light which some refer to as the Christ. The term Christ comes from a Greek word meaning the “Anointed One” which is one who remembers their divine origin. The man named Jesus Christ realized this fully and spent his life attempting to awaken others to this fact. When we remember we are immortal light and not primarily an impermanent body we are “saved” or enlightened. Other Christed beings have walked the Earth including Buddha, Krishna, Rama and Sita, and alive today are Eckhart Tolle, Adyashanti and the female hugging Indian guru Ammachi to name a few.

If you resonate with the great teacher and our powerful loving brother, Jesus, honor him. His entire existence is dedicated to helping us remember who we are. Everyone is the beautiful immortal Light of God/Goddess (Christ consciousness) though purification is often needed to become aware of it. Do you think you are primarily a body that is changing every moment? How depressing is identifying with a decaying form? You, as well as the rest of all physical forms, are made of light! A practical way to train yourself to remember who you really are is to begin to look past the physical forms of people, animals, objects etc. to the light of who they are. Each being you choose to see as light reminds you that you are light also! How cool is that?

What to do with any resentments, hard feelings or grievances you carry about yourself, others or the world? What to do with deep disappointments or judgments you may be addicted to that form the dark clouds blocking your sunlight? This year I have been learning about the stupendous power of true forgiveness. Not the world’s version of arrogant forgiveness that says, “I am better than you so I will bestow forgiveness on that awful thing you did.” Not the namby-pamby version that feigns holiness while suppressing anger or even murderous rage at what happened. True forgiveness accepts our human emotions and works through them until we realize we are all the same. As we forgive others we begin to undo our own shame and guilt about all the errors and mistakes we have also made. We learn to forgive ourselves more quickly. It is a purification practice that is a free ticket to inner peace and freedom. A enlightening book you can delve into is, “Radical Forgiveness” and I invite you to consider committing to a practical forgiveness practice in the coming year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wake Up!

Wake Up!

“Wake up,” inside nudges

A column of Dark Empty Light within.

Some fear such subtle things

They are Power True, they are my Home.

 

Spirit’s precious pre-dawn gift

I surrender to it,

Or maybe just focus

Remember it?

 

I sit on my dusky lavender pillow

A sick dog drugged sleeps at my side.

Soft light gently begins seeping in,

“Open your eyes,” the nudging whispers.

 

The trees are in love with me!

Quietly ecstatic she has awoken.

Sweetness dances,

I remember who they are!

 

The world would say a breeze

Moved their sensuous union,

Science not my God,

We know what is true.

 

July 4th, 2017. May all remember we are free.

Honoring the Mother on Christmas

Honoring the Mother on Christmas

I was raised a strict Catholic and therefore familiar with the Divine Mother’s appearance outside of Mexico City in 1531. She spoke to the humble native man she had chosen to be her messenger in his language of Nahuatl. Although intellectually I knew that Mary, the mother of Jesus, was Jewish still deep in me she was Catholic. I have come to believe she was a highly evolved being and clearly was a mystic. The celebration of her appearance, miracles and healings are celebrated in Mexico as a national holy day with masses and elaborate festivities each year. A unique tradition is the torch bearing runners seen on the thoroughfares throughout the country on December 12th.

 

I had planned to publish this poem on the twelfth but circumstances intervened. Now posting on Christmas makes sense since Christianity, as well as most other major religions, highlight the Divine as male. It is obvious to me that this world needs a resurgence of female qualities such as receptivity, empathy, nurturing,  devotion, patience and radiance. These attributes will lessen the massive suffering caused by the eons of domination by the masculine’s negative qualities such as arrogance, aggression, insensitivity and violence. The survival of the human race is actually dependent on us making this shift.

“She is not Catholic”, the wild-haired shaman announced.

Of course!

The Great Virgin is not Catholic I realized,

What does that archaic term even mean?

 

You are not Catholic!

You came to end the Aztec’s sacrifice of humans

Including many a infant,

Which can never be holy.

 

You came to stop the Catholic

massacre of a deeply religious people.

Missionaries forcing their beliefs and traditions on them

So Spaniards could worship at the altar of greed.

 

The indigenous survivors called out to their Divine Mother Tonantzin.

The soldiers to their Blessed Woman.

 

Distressed by the sobbing of her children,

Rivers of blood having soaked the precious Earth,

You came to a poor Indian at Tepeyac

An ancient native site dedicated to their Goddess of Compassion.

 

Juan Diego was pure enough to perceive you.

 

Again and again you dispatched this simple middle-aged peasant

To the bishop

Until he got it through his sophisticated and educated head,

Who you were and what you needed from him.

 

Your love is vaster than all of the oceans, Great Mother of Tenderness.

Su amor es gentle and unimaginably deep.

The Indians needed their Goddess’ protection and

The church was forced to acknowledge you.

 

Esta la Madre de Cristo,

You love us all-perpetrator and victim alike.

 

As I walked your shrine in Mexico,

Where fragrant Castilian rose gardens appeared magically during the winter frost,

Where water sprung from the parched desert to grab their attention,

The Catholic co-opting of you made me cringe.

 

You are greater than all these man-made institutions.

Spaniards and Aztecs now both bowed to you.

You brought unity to all your people,

This is the power of the feminine.

 

The beautiful accounting of Mary’s appearance was documented in the Nican Mopohva. You can read an English translation online at: http://ndclmurray.weebly.com/uploads/3/1/6/2/3162790/nican_mopohua_english.pdf

http://ndclmurray.weebly.com/uploads/3/1/6/2/3162790/nican_mopohua_english.pdf

Save the world by healing the hideous

Save the world by healing the hideous

I published “Hideous Me” on Halloween after a long night as a grisly zombie. As I drove through the forest to serve as volunteer staff at our local “Fright Night” Extravaganza, I decided to stay in character all evening. The community celebration that gave license to alter egos and flamboyant ingenuity was housed in a historic miner’s foundry with large dim rooms, ramps and hallways and included a line-up of bands and a bar.

As the creature was parking its white Rav4, two strolling women noticed it. The older one enthusiastically began praising my costume, “You look awesome, that is SO-O-O-O creepy”. The stagnant turning of my queerly cocked head and catatonic stare unnerved her. This would be fun!

I staggered like an exhumed corpse towards the venue. Passersby were frightened, disturbed and/or admiring of my repugnancy. On entering the event a middle aged furry wolf gregariously introduced herself and asked for my name. My psychotic look jostled her. A few other volunteers gingerly attempted to interact, unclear if this was intended theatre, a result of poly-pharmacy or was this mute insane? Their palpable unease excited me to leave patterns of acceptable social behavior behind.

The event director pointed me to the ID table at the room housing the bar’s entrance. She gave me brief instructions after another volunteer informed her “she ain’t talking”. A cute male volunteer approached the table to chat but quickly became concerned with my lack of engagement. “You will need to interact with people to do this job” was met with silent staring. He brought the director back immediately who actively pursued conversing with me.

Despite the theme of the night in a community riddled with artistic types, it became obvious that 911 might be called or I would be escorted out soon. I made friendly eye contact, took out my fangs and reassured her that I could be a social human despite my oozing facial wounds and yellow black-tipped talons. I did resume full zombie mode as I staggered to the bathroom, danced later in the night and as I dragged myself back to the zombie mobile well after midnight.

The shadowy streets were crowded with sexy bears, pirates, robots, clowns, barbarians, several wild creatures, a robust tall blond pussy grabber and the usual assortment of tramps. Amphitrite and her consort Poseidon had emerged from their marine environment to encourage more creative expression in the too controlled and monotone terrestrial one. A joyous exhilaration buzzed through the various groupings and the bars overflowed with smiling costumed customers. My embodiment of the human dark side or “pain body” (as Eckhart Tolle refers to it) continued to startle some and disturb others. Again behind the wheel, I decrepitly crept along staring at passersby projecting an eerie predatory energy.

As the dawn light tickled me into the reality of this world, I realized I had given life to a long ago entombed aspect or maybe I been acting out a piece from the collective unconscious? Posting the writing allowed a deeper owning of that bizarre and socially rejected energy. Anxiety intermittently arose after publishing it. It was far from my most popular writing but unexpectedly a tickled joy appeared as the days went on. This zombie was thrilled to walk again in the world after its long torturous exile.

I was born in “Pleasantville”, USA in the late 50s and I never trusted the extreme emotional suppression of that decade. At 8 years of age my mother told me her domesticated friend was found babbling incoherently in the corner of their living room by her 9-5 husband. I still have a clear image of their clear plastic covered furniture. “Why, what happened?,” I asked. Her absurd reply was “she had a nervous breakdown, it just came out of the blue”.

What are other results of suppressing our individual and ancestral baggage? We distract and numb ourselves with mall shopping and incessantly “clicking our lives away” on ever changing technological devices. We ignore the horrifying fact that we are destroying the ecology we are dependent on. Rates of strange autoimmune disorders and other chronic degenerative illnesses are increasing but they are very profitable for pharmaceutical companies and “the health care industries”. Recently, for the first time in decades, our life expectancies began to decline!

Our families and communities are disintegrating as the rates of serious addiction and mental illness are on the rise. Serious attachment disorders plagued us and interfere with healthy human bonding and the astronomical divorce rate. May the days become increasingly rare that someone who is “doing just fine” shockingly takes their own life.

I am gratified with the growing awareness of the need to own our “shadow” and be more open with each other. I am heartened with the increasing value of authenticity and learning how to communicate honestly and empathically while we get more skillful supporting others in the throes of emotional pain.

It is evolution that we can be vulnerable in a therapist’s office, our support groups and in personal growth workshops. Can we substitute the rote “How are you?”, “I am fine” banter and start answering truthfully? “Fine” in recovery programs is an acronym for “Fearful, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional”. Can we say, “I feel sad today”, or disappointed, lonely, anger or am possessed with toxic shame? Can we also be joyous without the comment “what are you so happy about?” Are you truly interested in knowing what is happening inside your friends, loved ones, co-workers and neighbors?

It is known that suppressed anger or rage is simmering deep in the depressed. In 2012 it was estimated 13% of US citizens were on antidepressants. (1) Society obviously prefers depressed people instead of angry ones. Depressed souls often need to express and move through anger/rage to become happier. Are we interested in learning how to assist people to safely and responsibly release rage before they get a weapon and go on shooting sprees?

Decades ago I awoke one Sunday morning and afraid I would wind up in a psych unit. Though I don’t remember the circumstances exactly, I remember praying for help in that motel room and the idea came to call my family doctor. Admirably he listened and then invited me to attend church with his family. Though I didn’t resonate with his spiritual path, his extending himself eased some of my suffering. I then called an experienced healer and body worker I knew and he met me at his office. I found myself dramatically releasing rage from a past life of being tortured and killed in the times when powerful women were being burned alive. I was stunned that I left his office feeling peaceful. How many people wind up in ERs or psychiatric institutions because there is no one skilled enough to help them express their pain safely? What do we do commonly? We sedate people which will never solve anything and actually may add to it.

I endeavor to create a wiser society where people have permission to responsibly express the “darker” aspects of themselves. Are you ready to join me?  Only in this way can we integrate these fragments back into a more wholesome and functioning self, community and world.

  1. Mad in American Website. https://www.madinamerica.com/2015/11/percentage-of-americans-on-antidepressants-nearly-doubles

 

Edited by Roberta Willaims, Santa Rosa