For all the wild and wooly wind and rain that thrashed through our area earlier today, Karl, Pacha, Brutus, and I still managed to get a walk in. And oh my – there’s just something so exquisitely Maxfield Parrish about November sunsets.
The colors and cloud configurations we witnessed made it seem as if we were walking inside a kaleidoscope, they shifted and changed so fluidly before our eyes. When we first set out, I was smitten with what appeared to be a massive cloud raptor rising in the east, reflecting the pinky-peach rays of the sun that was just barely sinking below the horizon in the opposite direction. When I looked at the photo, I was shocked to see the pointy chin and just-a-little-creepy expression of a devilish looking man on the right.
Cloud Raptor and “Onlooker” – Photo: L.Weikel
Hawks Abounded
Our walk was littered by several substantial chunks of dead tree branches. Swirling gusts of wind were still with us, mostly high up in the treetops, rushing and whooshing and occasionally making us wonder if we should take cover.
Hawk 1 – Photo: L. Weikel
But the best part of this walk, in concert with the colors and clouds, were the three hawks that were swooping and diving, soaring and skimming the field beside us. We think they may have been Sharp-shinned Hawks. Whatever type they were, they put on a joyful aerial display, riding the gusts and quite obviously playing with (or showing off for) the others.
Hawk 2 – Photo: L. Weikel
Watching them play, I was reminded of the Red-shouldered Hawks that were so raucous in the springtime, doing their mating dance right in front of me for the first time in my memory. Well – they are back, literally waking us up every morning for the past week or so. Shrieking from the treetops literally outside of our bedroom windows.
Needless to say, our bird feeders have been a bit like a ghost town recently!
Hawk 3 – Photo: L. Weikel
What’s the Message?
I have to wonder. Honestly, I’ve been inundated with Hawk medicine lately! What a gift – and what a challenge to discern what we’re being asked to pay attention to.
How am I supposed to write with this on my arm? Photo: L. Weikel
This is always a tough time of year. Actually, most of the month of November is a challenge. Starting about a week before the 11th, I begin framing everything in my life around that day. (This day. Today.) I see 11/11 ahead on the calendar and I want to look away. I want it to mean something different than it does. But of course it can’t. It never will again.
This year, I’ve sort of been in an in-between place. It’s been ten years. Karl’s been gone for ten years – and actually, I haven’t seen or put my arms around my son in just under 11 years. He left for the West Coast in January of ’11 and never made it home again.
But even though today marks a full decade of missing him, I’d grown a bit detached – perhaps a smidgen one might call ‘spiritually aloof’ – over the past several months. Make that the past two years or so.
The Beginning of the Quiet
Now that I’m thinking about it, it’s all starting to make sense. Since he died, my main mode of receiving communications from Karl has been through the music on my iPod (and now my iPhone), which I would most often listen to as I drove in the car. Since the pandemic hit, I’ve hardly driven anywhere. As a result, I’ve barely listened to any music in the past two years. (Yes, this realization is appalling to me as well.)
While music (and especially the lyrics) of songs is his most effective means of communicating more complex messages, I am cognizant of the occasional hints he drops that he’s ‘around’ – or at least checking in. Some of those I’ve even written about. I guess, though, in the chaos of Covid and everything else that’s been unfolding in our lives, I just felt a distance growing between us. I assumed it was probably natural, that he was busy moving on with his own evolution.
Lately, though, the dearth of communications from him has left me feeling wistful and sad. It starting to hit me just how long he’s been gone. I think the impending end of my 1111 Devotion is also weighing on me. This Act of Power in his memory is coming to a close. Is it a metaphor for something bigger?
Recent Increases
Over the past two days, I was seeing so many license plates with his initials or even his name (for instance, “KRL 1234”), I actually talked to him out loud. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but you have my attention. I see the initials. I see the signs. But I’m starting to feel like it’s just because I want to see them. Our area issued a bunch of license plates with your initials. Big deal. I used to see magic, but I’m starting to think maybe I’ve just been acting dumb.”
Yeah. I went there.
I was feeling sad. And losing my sense of wonder. And yet I still maintained a grateful heart – for if that’s the extent of the messages I was going to receive anymore, at least I was receiving them.
Salmon Speaking
I ran over to Whole Foods today to pick up some salmon for our dinner this evening. We’ve barely eaten any fish since we watched the documentary about over-fishing. But this is a hard week for us, and I thought both Karl and I could use some Omega-3s to lighten our outlook.
As I was driving home this afternoon, I had a very clear and strong urge to listen to my music on shuffle again. No podcasts. No radio. “I need to listen to my music.” I’ll admit, I hoped for but honestly doubted whether anything ‘special’ would come up for me.
The Voice
The very first song that played on ‘shuffle’ was The Voice by The Moody Blues. I do not know why, but as soon as I heard their voices and listened to the lyrics, tears started streaming down my cheeks and all I could think or say was how much I miss my Karl. It was the weirdest thing: like a button had been pushed that immediately triggered a doorway to the pain in my heart that I live with and try not to dwell upon.
For my own special reasons (due to context and history), I heard in the lyrics some statements I sensed Karl was making to me about trust and moving forward with new projects and ideas. I felt like he was offering commentary on a number of things I’d said out loud to him while out doing errands, driving alone in the car, over the past several days.
I will admit that even then – even after bursting into unexpected, unbidden sobs – I actually said out loud that this was pretty well orchestrated, Karl, but who was I kidding? I was probably only hearing what I wanted to hear. After all, today was the 10th anniversary of your death. Of course I’d like to hear from you today. (I’m actually a lot more skeptical about receiving signs and messages than a lot of people assume. Sometimes I make Spirit – and my ancestors and allies – jump through hoops before I’ll believe they’re really giving me a message.)
Tonight’s Wagon
So it was especially fascinating tonight during the Wagon when one of the participants reported that she’d met Karl for the first time. Tonight. In her journey. Now, for some context, when Karl comes through to other people, he almost always brings messages specifically for his father.
That wasn’t the case tonight, though. He asked her to tell me, among other things, that I need to “let go of the past and focus on creating the future.” And I’m supposed to “BELIEVE.”
I had to smile at that last comment. To me, it was very obviously a direct response to the cynical commentary I’d made out loud in the car earlier in the day – in spite of my visceral reaction to the music.
I guess our work together has yet to conclude. I miss you, Karl. But I’m glad you’re so persistent and willing to insist that I move forward with our collaboration.
Won’t you take me back to school? I need to learn the golden rule. Won’t you lay it on the line? I need to hear it just one more time.
Oh, won’t you tell me again? Oh, can you feel it? Oh, won’t you tell me again tonight?
Each and every heart it seems, Is bounded by a world of dreams. Each and every rising sun, Is greeted by a lonely one.
Oh, won’t you tell me again? Oh, can you feel it? Oh, won’t you tell me again tonight?
Cause out on the ocean of life my love. There a so many storms we must rise above. Can you hear the spirit calling, as it’s carried across the waves? You’re already falling it’s calling you back to face the music. And the song that is coming through. You’re already falling the one that it’s calling is you
My a promise take a vow. And trust your feelings it easy now. Understand The Voice within. And feel a change already beginning.
Oh, won’t you tell me again? Oh, can you feel it? Oh, won’t you tell me again tonight? Tonight?
Oh, won’t you tell me again? Oh, can you feel it? Oh, won’t you tell me again tonight?
And how many words have I got to say? And how many times will it be this way? With your arms around the future and your back up against the past. You’re already falling it’s calling you on to face the music. And the song that is coming through. You’re already falling the one that it’s calling is you
Each and every heart it seems, Is bounded by a world of dreams. Each and every rising sun, Is greeted by, a lonely, lonely one.
Won’t you tell me again? Oh, can you feel it? Oh, won’t you tell me again tonight?
Won’t you tell me again? Oh, can you feel it? Oh, won’t you tell me again tonight? Tonight
Oh, can you feel it? Oh, won’t you tell me again tonight?
It’s hard to describe how much it means to me to have all my kids together at the same time. This weekend was one of those rare treats. Of course, no matter what, there’s always a hole in the fabric of any such gathering because Karl isn’t here. And while it’s not as if we act all maudlin and morose, there’s not a one among us who doesn’t think about him every day – but especially when we’re together. And then, miraculously – inevitably – he shows up.
The weather today lent itself especially to hanging out together and enjoying a fire. The creative juices were flowing and there was some serious pumpkin carving artistry taking place. Puppies reveled in the attention they were receiving from every direction.
Besides our conversations (which, to be honest, mostly centered on Pacha and Brutus), the crackling and popping voice of the fire was the primary sound track of our day.
Brutus & Pacha on a walk 24 Oct 2021 – Photo: L. Weikel
Did You Hear That?
Just as the afternoon was starting to grow some shadows, a couple of us perked up and shushed the others. “Did you hear that?” we asked together. It was the weirdest sound – a chirruping that did not sound familiar at all.
Movement down by the barn caught my eye and Sarah cried out, “It’s a raccoon! Look!”
Sure enough, a raccoon had just slipped into our barn. I barely made out the tip of its tail before it, too, disappeared into the dark innards of the deep red outbuilding. None of us were quick enough on the draw to snap a photo, but we all had to smile. “He had to make an appearance.”
The raccoon continued to make its plaintive cry, though. Only a minute or two later, it poked its head back out the barn door, then hopped out and scurried/waddled around the corner and past the compost pile. Oddly, it didn’t even hesitate at the pile. That usually has treats for all comers of one stripe or another.
Compelled to Follow
The appearance of this lovely, robust raccoon on a perfect fall day when ‘all of us’ are gathered together felt important. Significant.
Yes, we have raccoons that live around here. But it is rare to have them show up during daylight hours, calling a plaintive cry, and clearly on a mission. I felt compelled to follow it and see if I could see what it was doing and where it was headed.
Making sure the puppies were otherwise distracted, I headed out behind the barn. I meandered around the islands of wavy wild grass and the burial mounds of Sheila and Spartacus. I checked out the cherry tree Karl had nearly killed as a young kid.
And then I heard it. What a strange sound. Beyond the Weeping Willows and the eldest Sycamore tree, I heard a sound I can’t even write about phonetically. It was soft at first, and then I caught sight of the raccoon crossing the small creek at the back of our property. It was close – and it stopped and faced me as I realized we were going to encounter each other face-to-face.
It looked right at me and called out its plaintive cry. For the life of me, she sounded like a mommy, calling for her babies. Her coat was thick and beautiful, her eyes bright and her ears perky and aware. Her tail jerked expressively in time with her vocalizations.
Mommies and Babies
This raccoon spoke to me directly twice. It wasn’t afraid; it was demanding. On one level, I do believe it was looking for its babies. On another level it was serving as a messenger to tell me even my baby who’s no longer in a physical body is nevertheless here. Now. Reminding me – no, insisting that I acknowledge: when we need him most, he shows up.
And when I walked back up to the house, marveling at my mystical encounter? After looking at the video and live photos I’d taken (complete with audio), Tiffany gestured toward the pumpkin seed heart she’d found while I was behind the barn.
There are no coincidences. Messages surround us. As much as we miss Karl, I have no doubt he misses us as well and wants us to know: he’s with us in spirit.
Well, when I mentioned last week that I suspected yesterday’s full moon and tomorrow’s equinox would be some powerful aspects to contend with, I guess I wasn’t messing around. And those are only the more obvious transits happening this week.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I am emotionally cooked. In spite of my hopes and exhaustion, I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed, turned, and was acutely aware of the absence of Spartacus in/on my bed. That boy slept in the small of my back for 13 years. So stringing the words together tonight is like walking through quicksand. I keep sinking into pockets of random thoughts and then jerk awake, finding I’ve been stuck on the same sentence for twenty minutes.
I did want to mention that tomorrow (Wednesday 22 September 2021) is going to be a powerful day on a number of fronts. The most obvious is the fall equinox, which will occur at 3:21 p.m. EDT. This marks the balance between light and dark and heralds the gradual shortening of our days (in the Northern Hemisphere) and the time of harvesting (on a variety of levels). Once again, this is a powerful time to begin taking action on making the changes in our lives that are in alignment and support of our dreams. Here is a perspective you might find interesting.
Spart’s Rainbow & Heart – Photo: L. Weikel
A Chaotic Day
Besides today being the aftermath of yesterday (how’s that for profundity?!), I also had set up an appointment last week for Precious to be seen by our vet. She’s been a hot mess for a long, long time and I finally made up my mind to have her examined and tested.
This is a bigger deal than you might at first think. She’s paranoid as all get out and of course she hid under the bed in my son’s old bedroom, howling (and yes, I do mean howling) in distress that Karl and I were trying to pick her up. (She bolted upstairs as soon as I looked at her about 45 minutes before her appointment. Damn cat is too psychic for her own good.)
We managed to double team her and not only put her in a pillowcase, which is my preferred method of transporting our cats to the vet, but for good measure also put her (while still in the pillowcase) into the cat carrier.
Long story short, she acted like her hair was on fire or as though we were plotting to slowly butcher her. Once I got to the vet’s office, she actually needed to be sedated (gassed) in her carrier so the doctor (who was still feeling anguish over Spartacus) could examine her.
While we are still waiting for the blood tests to come back tomorrow (to see if she has anything else going on in her old age), it turns out she has an autoimmune disorder, eosinophilic syndrome. She received a long-acting shot of steroids that could make her feel better than she has in a very long time indeed. I hope so, because her extreme anxiety wore me out, especially after yesterday.
Spart’s Feather – Photo: L. Weikel
Walking Hurt Today
It was excruciating taking a walk today. For all the joy being out in nature brings me, it was hard to appreciate anything in the realization over and over today that Spartacus and I would never walk together again.
Surprisingly, I did witness some magic, even though I was pretty sure my perspective was too sad to do so. A rainbow dog appeared in the sky and the cloud formation beside it reminded me of a broken heart. Not in a sad way, though. It felt more like an acknowledgment from Karl and Spartacus (and Sheila) that they feel my sadness and know how much I miss them.
Further along on my walk, I found this feather.
It’s a little bit of magic that I wasn’t expecting. In my need for sleep and desire to wake up and find this was all a bad dream, I’ll gratefully accept these gifts from Spirit.
I wrote last night about two poems I came upon a few days ago, discarded in the tall grass and weeds beside the road. The question is whether these so-called random discoveries*, again, are indeed random or are somehow, in some way, orchestrated by consciousness we just can’t yet prove.
I make no secret of the answer my experiences would seem to support. And just because I can’t prove the existence of the consciousness behind such discoveries does not disprove its existence.
The bottom line is that I choose to expand my awareness to include the numinous. My life is immeasurably enriched by my choice (and capacity) to soften my gaze and thereby see a little bit more of what surrounds and infuses our world and, indeed, each and every one of us. Embracing the possibility that these discoveries are anything but random increases my risk, perhaps, of being perceived with ridicule or pity. But I’ve reached the point where I throw my lot in with the magic I know is Truth.
With that, I hereby proffer for your contemplation the other poem by Charles Bukowski that managed to find its way into my life. Torn out of a book and crumpled up. Tossed into the weeds along a single lane country road, only to be discovered by a 62 year old woman and her Boston Terrier; these words were published 55 years ago.
The Genius of the Crowd
There is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
Human being to supply any given army on any given day
And the best at murder are those who preach against it
And the best at hate are those who preach love
And the best at war finally are those who preach peace
Those who preach god, need god
Those who preach peace do not have peace
Those who preach peace do not have love
Beware the preachers
Beware the knowers
Beware those who are always reading books
Beware those who either detest poverty
Or are proud of it
Beware those quick to praise
For they need praise in return
Beware those who are quick to censor
They are afraid of what they do not know
Beware those who seek constant crowds for
They are nothing alone
Beware the average man the average woman
Beware their love, their love is average
Seeks average
But there is genius in their hatred
There is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
To kill anybody
Not wanting solitude
Not understanding solitude
They will attempt to destroy anything
That differs from their own
Not being able to create art
They will not understand art
They will consider their failure as creators
Only as a failure of the world
Not being able love fully
They will believe your love incomplete
And then they will hate you
And their hatred will be perfect
Like a shining diamond
Like a knife
Like a mountain
Like a tiger
Like hemlock
Their finest art.
*Speaking of random discoveries, as I was proofreading this post and re-reading the link to Charles Bukowski, I finally saw that Henry Charles Bukowski’s actual birth name was Heinrich Karl Bukowski. Hence, in a manner of speaking, this literally was a message from Karl. Gotta love it.
How many times have I mused about the random discoveries we make in our day to day lives that actually feel like they’re messages? How many times have I picked up trash beside the road or looked at a billboard I’ve looked at a million times before and known with absolute certainty that it was meant for me to find or see in that moment? Even seemingly random tickets in line at the DMV can feel like a Hallmark card to me. Yeah, this is a theme I come back to over and over again.
I’ve made some pretty bizarre discoveries in the decades we’ve walked and picked up trash along the way. The other day was one of the odder discoveries. But in a peculiar way (naturally), I made a connection between what I found crumpled and tossed into the thicket beside my country road and my son – whose presence I’d felt very close recently.
I’d seen his initials on license plates at least half a dozen times over the past two days. I overheard random mentions of ‘1111’ or turned my head quickly when someone called out, “Karl!” in the grocery store. (No one was with me at the time.)
These things happen occasionally and they make me smile. Sometimes I ache and wish the connection was stronger or could segue into a conversation, but I’ll take what I can get. I’ll feel the hug. I’ll send the love right back at ya, Karl.
An Odd One
But the discovery the other day was different. I noticed the papers crumpled up in the grass as I walked by. The grass is tall along the roadside at that spot and initially I only saw one wad of paper. The other was actually a few paces further along.
The first one I picked up, while balled up, was still fully intact. It was clearly a poem ripped out of a book. So was the other, but that one had been ripped with less care, the bottom corner obviously remaining with the binding.
“What’s the message, Spartacus?” I asked as he eagerly nosed the balled up waste and looked expectantly toward me for a treat. Absently, I fished for a treat in my pocket and tossed it to him, which he deftly snagged mid-air.
Tucking the leash under my arm, I used both hands to smooth the page. I felt my heart skip just a bit faster. “Huh,” I said. “Good one, Karl.”
Poetry Thicket – Photo: L. Weikel
A Poem
Here in the middle of nowhere (see the photo above), I found a poem entitled ‘the bluebird.’ Not being a poet myself, nor a student of that genre, I had a feeling I should probably know who wrote this, but of course I didn’t. My Google search once I got home immediately yielded the name of Charles Bukowski.
Its words are haunting. And I can easily imagine my son thinking some of the thoughts expressed in the piece. But beyond that, it reminds me of Karl because he played the part of Moonface Martin in the musical Anything Goes when he was in 7th grade. He had a solo: Be Like the Bluebird.
I can’t even credit the book from which the pages were torn. But the two poems (I’ll share the other one tomorrow night) feel raw and important; at least important enough for me to pay attention to them and give them another venue in which to be read and contemplated. Do they hold a message for you? For me? For any of us?
OK, so we all know the next several days are going to be messy. Not unlike many planetary configurations we endured in 2020, there are going to be a number of intense aspects occurring this week that, if they occurred all by themselves, would portend a challenge. But piling up on, triggering, and otherwise instigating each other this week, the squares, eclipses, retrogrades, and T-Squares (to name a few) taking place could very easily make the days ahead especially stressful.
Hence I thought we could use a little humor as we greet this morning of a blood moon.
Of course, it’s not exactly light and airy humor. What do you expect? I take my laughs where I can find them. And I found this one last week, outside of the courthouse in Doylestown, the county seat of Bucks County, Pennsylvania.
Messages Everywhere
Last week I was ordered to serve as an arbitrator on a three-attorney panel to hear cases in matters in which disputes are for amounts of $50,000 or less. While this is a service I bear as a member of the bar, I’ve always enjoyed the responsibility and taken it seriously.
My colleagues and I broke for lunch and I took that time to bask in the wispy-clouded, breezy spring weather and strolled into the center of town for a coffee. Walking along the sidewalk, I noticed a white piece of paper amongst some scattered tree detritus. Me being me, I thought, “I wonder what the message is?” The paper looked even from afar as though it might have something hand written upon it that could, indeed, harbor a message I could interpret for shits and giggles.
Yes, well…
Ask and you shall receive, I guess.
Scattered in the Wind – Photo: L. Weikel
Probably Not Arbitration
Something tells me this was not a note passed across the table in a routine arbitration determining the value of injuries in a car accident. No, from my experience, this definitely smacked of a domestic relations case. Probably a support case.
Ah yes. This message took me right back to the good old days of my law practice. It made me laugh when I approached it as a message from Spirit. But the actual tone and intention, and the likelihood it was between two people who used to love each other…
A reminder: things may get messy this week. Let’s try to be kind to ourselves and each other – and keep a sense of humor!
It’s always amazing to me how Spirit will sometimes turn the most mundane objects or tasks into opportunities to send (or is it deliver?) messages. I guess the answer to that question (sent or delivered) depends entirely upon the recipient. Spirit can send a million messages – or a single message a million times – but that act alone doesn’t ensure a single one will be noticed, read, heard, or received in any way.
A piece of garbage that blows out of the back of a garbage truck can remain on the side of the road for days or weeks, or even much longer than that. It might get whisked into a roadside gully where a thunderstorm washes it into a stream, ultimately delivering it into a river. It might even make it to the ocean if it doesn’t get caught on a rock or buried in silt like the skeleton of a dinosaur.
There’s a chance that piece of garbage was sent as a message for someone to find and pick up. But if the intended recipient chose not to walk before the rain or went a different direction – or just wasn’t paying attention – then that sent message might never get delivered.
Ah, which tells me that it takes the efforts of two for Spirit to actually deliver a message. Spirit’s acting alone in sending is only the first affirmative act. But we need to do our part if we’re to give Spirit the satisfaction of claiming delivery. We need to see it and recognize the effort as the message it is.
Act On It?
It’s romantic to think that all messages we receive we act upon, but let’s face it: we don’t. I think we’re probably lucky to bat .200 or so in just recognizing a message has been sent and we snagged it as it passed by.
But following it? Actually listening to the message? Yikes. That entails a lot of steps. Receiving the message, recognizing it as such (and not dismissing it as a random piece of garbage), realizing it could actually be a message intended for us on some miraculous level, and then choosing to respect the message. And by that I mean respecting it enough to take the time to contemplate just what the message might mean and how it could apply specifically to our life.
Is this meant for me?
How does it apply?
Does it answer a question I’ve been mulling over?
Does it make sense?
A Picture or a Word
All of which makes me wonder just what I was being told and shown this evening. I believe the application calls for some contemplation. But no matter what, “Message sent – and delivered.”
At least twice today I found myself contemplating the sentience of certain Beings that share my home with me. Well, one of them lives outside, just off the edge of my porch. The other – whose specific identity remains uncertain – can be confidently narrowed down to a field of three who do, in fact, reside in our home with us.
Notice I’m not questioning their sentience. Ha – at this stage, I wouldn’t dare. I’m merely contemplating it. Perhaps even celebrating it. Most definitely acknowledging it.
Floral Proliferation
My first appreciation of the sentience surrounding me has to do with the continued astonishing proliferation of our faithful Lamprocapnos spectabilis – our bleeding hearts. (Sort of a little disquieting to speak of how these flowers are flourishing when you consider their common name. Do we really want to celebrate the proliferation of bleeding hearts?) Hmm. Bears some reflection.
Beyond the wisdom (or lack thereof) in speaking of bleeding hearts with such great affection, I want to point out that my Lamprocapnos spectabilis is utterly delighted by having such lavish attention paid to it. If I didn’t know better (which I don’t), I’d say my tiny bleeding heart that I first began writing posts about a month ago is loving all the attention. This plant is becoming ginormous. ‘Flourishing’ barely covers how well it’s doing and how abundantly it’s bestowing its beauty upon us.
And while I honestly feel as though it’s growing noticeably bigger this year than it ever has any other year, there’s yet another reason why I feel this particular bleeding heart plant is responding to the appreciation and attention I’m lavishing upon it. That other reason is the white bleeding heart plant that’s only four or so feet away from the red one. I’ve been paying but a fraction of the attention I’ve paid to the red bleeding hearts to the white ones. And quite honestly? That plant is not thriving, at least not even close to how well the red one is doing. It’s doing ok, but the difference between the two plants is stark.
I’ll take a photo tomorrow of the white plant for comparison sake tomorrow.
Not So Subtle Dig
The other example of sentience in our household today was something I observed in our bathroom, where we keep our cats’ litterbox. In fact, when I saw it and the reality of what I was looking at sunk in, I had to check with Karl. I thought for sure he’d done it as a joke or something.
But no.
One of our three cats was either sarcastically sending a message that the box was not cleaned out satisfactorily or s/he was snidely being helpful. We’re pretty sure it was Tigger. Precious is too paranoid to take that much time aiming a poop. Cletus would rather fling his or leave it on our pillow (not that he’s ever done either of these things – I just have a feeling his sentience would more likely express itself in one of those ways). Tigger is the only one who would politely, if passive aggressively, express either displeasure or a sense of humor in that manner.
Either way – the careful placement of the beast’s solid waste directly onto the scooper was a marvel of both adept rear placement and not-so-subtle snarky sentience.
Yep. These are some of the weird things I occasionally contemplate.
You have to admire the aim involved… Photo: L. Weikel
Spartacus Sending Mind-Meld Vibes – Photo: L. Weikel
A Coalescence of Messaging
I’m experiencing a coalescence of messaging lately. At least that’s what it feels like. Two Pileated Woodpeckers and then two days later two Ospreys. Neither of these birds can be considered ‘frequent’ sightings, in spite of how much time I spend outside walking or how often I frequent the Tohickon Creek or the Delaware River.
The trick, as always, is to do my best to be open to what that message may be, which is not as easy as it might sound.
It’s one thing to be able to see patterns and read signs and omens for other people. I’ve been intuiting such messages probably all my life. In fact, for the longest time I thought these clues to life that surround people were so obvious that I wouldn’t point them out. It never occurred to me that they weren’t being ‘picked up’ by the intended recipients. Indeed, I didn’t want to insult people’s intelligence. It felt disrespectful to point out everything that seemed readily apparent to me.
Sometimes a part of me would want to say, “Well, duh! Do you need to be clonked on the head with a 2×4? It’s so obvious!” Usually, though, I would over-correct and deliberately choose to not point out what was blaring like a neon light in my mind. If it was obvious to me, surely it was obvious to them. I only saw the connections based upon information I gleaned from listening to them (be they clients, friends, or family). I was simply connecting the dots.
Forty Years
If I really think about it, it probably took me at least forty years to fully grasp that people don’t see what I see. Or they don’t connect stuff that happens all around us – particularly after asking a pointed question or expressing a yearning for guidance or a message – that to me is obviously a direct response to their plea.
As I say, I think I’ve always had an odd way of looking at and interpreting information that comes to us via a variety of traditional sensory and extra-sensory means. But it wasn’t until I started engaging in the energetic work I was taught in the Andean shamanic tradition, including listening to and giving credence to the information I receive via shamanic journeying, that I realized that a significant part of what I offer is precisely what I thought was the most mundane and pedestrian aspect of my work.
Do For Yourself
I’ve spent a lot of my writing time this evening trying to convey something I’ve struggled with for decades. I’ve probably taken so much time trying to explain my perspective because it matters to me how I express this. I’m not in any way disparaging those who look at a very obvious (again, to me) message from their higher self or Spirit (or whomever you want to attribute the message) and don’t get it.
In fact, I often wonder if it’s just a blind spot we all have. Are messages easier to See when they’re not being directed toward us?
I don’t know. I do know, however, that as obvious as so many messages, signs, and symbols are to me as they pertain to other people, I have a really tough time reading them for myself. Perhaps it’s because I do my best to remain detached on behalf of others. I don’t want to be invested in hearing any particular answer or message for another person, so I just see what I see and hear what I hear.
But for myself? That’s tough. It’s not as easy as you might think.
