"Lifted" because there is still time and room to imagine (and create) this world into higher consciousness, one that values creativity, spontaneity, love, abundance, lovingkindness, authenticity, community, etc, over fear, greed, competition, irony, anxiety, and needless suffering. In such a world, self criticism is never on the radar; why would you want to assault the one person who is always actively loving you? IN such a world, you are an awesome mom (or dad) or son (or daughter) or poet, or gardner or whatever you are just by being fully your authentic self, even if that means admitting you have a really hard time being your authentic self.
As I watched and had my heart lifted, I wondered, hmmmm, how can I somehow turn this talk into this week's prompt? How can I turn this into something to write about and/or inspire writing? Well... I couldn't. So I put it aside and ran for the bus to get to Jude; I was so absorbed in watching my psychodrama guy that I almost missed the bus, but I made it on time and then forgot all about it.
Then, on the way to Circus school, Jude started in, as he will, about his creation story, which apparently began way before he was in my tummy. No, it was actually the dust of a red Lego that I somehow swallowed that carried him from this former life into the one inside my tummy. You see, Mama, I was once in Lego Land, a red Lego, where some family took me home and played with me until a giant fan blew my out of the window until I was a spec of dust. But guess what? Before that I was in the Amazon. Yeah, I was in the jungle. (I am forgetting what incarnation he was during that time). And before that, guess what? I was in this underground world below my school. There was a battle and I was part of it and then I went into space and landed in the Amazon...
I think he could've spun on and on like that. He seems to be heavily into the Imagination Age. And according to my psychodrama guy, this is where we need to be (with a little help from our higher consciousness, that is). So.
WHAT DOES YOUR IMAGINATION SHOW YOU TODAY?
HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR IMAGINATION TODAY?
IT'S 10 PM; DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR IMAGINATION IS?
SERIOUSLY NOW...tune into the imagination show you have within you all the time... where does it go on the page? Follow the light... Wanna post and share? YES, you can be anonymous. Just post and click "anonymous" and no one in their wildest imagination would ever know it was you.... xoxoxo
AND Get Wildly Imaginative you Wild Writing Women! Winter Solstice WILD WOMEN WRITING RETREAT, SATURDAY DECEMBER 14, 2014, 10AM-4PM. We'll gather to write and remember our fire and sing our light on the page. Plus all the usual community, warm nourishing potluck joy, silly and sweetness. Register soon. Fills fast. $75
I'll let my imagination convince me this is anonymous, despite my well documented skepticism. It's 10AM, and my imagination is fully present - in my good days, it's a sort of "on demand" thing. I feel lucky for that, but hell, in the spirit of cliche - I've created my own luck! Peace.
ReplyDeleteHi Anonymous. Thanks for writing. I have no idea who you are. Promise. I like that. I like to imagine who you are. I like to imagine that maybe I know you or maybe I don't.... As someone I don't know, I imagine you at your desk/table, with computer, a light, upstairs overlooking some tree branches. I envision evening, though you wrote this at 10 AM. I imagine you wrestling a bit with your extreme intelligence... then making way for the imaginings to come... Anyway, hope to hear from your fully present imagination again sometime soon! Thanks for sharing. Please write again. Imagine a hug, Rox
ReplyDeleteYou imagine well. Your imagination seems to combine a pinch of hypothesis paired with a dollop of intuition. Not bad. Yes, there are some trees, now bare, Bare Trees an early Fleetwood Mac tune, is a favorite. I like to imagine that era, that music, that essence. Raw, natural, and unbridled. Loud and soft in that simultaneous way, that is somehow hard to accomplish anymore. This anonymity feels safe, and I'm happy you honor and like that - you seem genuine in that way. So yes, glad to share, maybe again, maybe not - that is for tomorrow to decide. Oh, and I imagined the hug, it brought a smile. Thanks
ReplyDeleteDearest Anonimia of the Bare Trees,
ReplyDeleteI am truly loving this correspondence...something fun about not knowing who you are, though imagination filling in some of the picture along with your poetic sharing of your musical wavelengths... I often wonder if we attune to these preferences as early as the womb... I am moved by how you describe your appreciation for it. What other music moves you and/or your imagination? Glad you are feeling safe here and yes, I am genuine in more ways than I can mention... too hard being anything else! Okay, so, today, tomorrow, whenverbeit... hope to write with you again soon! Always a hug, Rox
Listen to Jude. He is probably actually describing his past lives. Any child under about 7 or 8 can and does remember their past lives. After that age they forget, (because no one believes them) but Jude is lucky to have you for a mom, someone who believes in "imagination." Listen to him and write them down. You will be amazed at what you find. I've studied past lives for 36 years….it is real.
ReplyDeleteI truly believe in all imagination as being "reality". A friend recently confirmed this for me. I was fortunate that I was brought up at a time when imagination was not put down. Think of your favorite children's books -- how can you live without imagination?
Wow, thank you for this! I love this. And I'm not sure if it's 12 years of yoga, a few years of chanting, (my affinity for the HindJew life), Shamanic drumming, being in the community of light and love, and mostly Jude, etc etc... or all of the above plus plus plus... but I think I agree with you. I'd like to say I wholeheartedly without a doubt believe this, but I think I am getting there! I tell ya, Jude is tapped into something higher. He is the oldest soul I know and not just because he is my boy. Once we walked into the Buddha shop and one of the Buddhist/Tibetan owners was mesmerized by him, saying over and over in her little bit of english..."he teacher...he good teacher...big teacher someday..." Of course, he is my daily teacher... as are my students, including you, my love. thank you. xoxox
DeleteA different anonymous says: My imagination seems to be dormant today. Asleep at the wheel. Pull over, wait it out, I say, but things need to get done. There are expectations, responsibilities. So my unrested imagination rears up and tells me to do this and that, but which first? What if I type wrong? What if I chose the wrong thing to do first? I can't even type a simple email without second-guessing myself. Then I realize my poor imagination has been twisted by lack of sun, too much noise, brain chemicals all a mess premenstrually, so I try to settle. Breathe deep, type a comment on a blog post. Take it slow and gentle. Choose the low-hanging fruit on the to-do tree. Sip coffee. One thing at a time.
ReplyDeleteI'll come around. I'll come around and my mind and imagination will blossom again.
Dearest Different, Thank you so much for the poetry of your words here... yes, poetry! Isn't it amazing that your suffering is my poetry? Not like "good" amazing as I do not want you to suffer, but perhaps ironic that the raw human truth of your words, which so precisely depict a certain human suffering I know so well (what if? get it done, brain noise, self criticism, etc) cannot at this moment feed you the way they do me and that likely you cannot recognize them for the beauty that they are... Well, I hope that you can and/or that by writing them you created an opening somewhere in your body, in your imagination, perhaps by lingering in that place you choose to settle and surrender to what is... slowly, gently, one word at a time.... thank you so much for sharing. Come around again... when you're ready... I like seeing the beginning of the (re) blossoming... xoxo
DeleteLovely Rox, Your kindness brings me to tears. Your wisdom resonates with me. New file on my desktop: Wisdom from Rox. And yes, an opening was created. Thank you. ADS
DeleteAw, ADS... you are so welcome. Thank you for sharing your raw beautiful poetic truth... the greatest wisdom there is! Bathe anew in the tears, linger/play in the opening, write love letters to yourself, stay in touch. xoxo
DeleteWheneverbeit be now. So I sit and tap the keys and we'll see what comes of it. Beyond F Mac, Edith Piaf jostles my imagination. I can think of little that tops French being sung into an old-time microphone. Makes me wish to fire a cigarette, stir a cocktail, dim the lights, and indulge in a B&W moviefest. Yet, I imagine the cigarette would make me dizzy, the cocktail make me brash, the dim lights make me stumble, and the B&W flick nudge my nostalgia. The not-knowing thing, such a rare interaction paradigm, halted at the door by the rules of anonymity! A good thing, I assure you. So, cheers to Friday and with, always a smile --- BT
ReplyDeleteps - seriously, entirely genuine?
Good Sunday evenin' smilin' BT of whom I can never imagine into reality, so no worries... When I read your writing, sometimes I think you are my spirit-brother Daniel, but then I remember he passed away last year (though you sure could be Daniel writing to me from the other side... that's where my imagination takes me this evening....) I wrote about him a few times on this blog... But you, you... am loving your intuitive typing...loving where it takes you... your Friday night black and white snapshot into the nostalgic speaks to me deeply. Why? Are we all drawn into the irresistible make-you-stumble, dizzy, brash, old-time microphone because we so desperately want to believe the serenade will be for us? That we can live out the drama, passion, romance, etc? Boysk, I got a whole memoir there...So... here's a prompt for your imagination and pen: what happens if you write yourself into that old BW world where Piaf jostles thy dreamland...? Je attendrai! Si'l vous plait.... Bon Nuit, Rox
DeleteHmmm... There is an alley. And a streetlamp. It is dark, that just past late, not quite early time of night, let's call it 1:00am. The streets are damp and cobblestoned. Undoubtedly Paris, yeah Paris, 1937. A distant saxophone moans and beckons from a jazzy club. I've had a martini, but only one (my imagination recognizes SOME limits) and am enjoying the dulled pleasure that only a Parisian cocktail delivers. My mind turns to a letter received earlier that day via post. The letter spoke with familiarity, with certainty, with symbol. Yet, it was anonymous. It's words were haunting, not in a frightening way, but rather in an intriguing way. Imagine that, a real letter! Around the corner, a Peugeot backfires, and 50 meters down the cobblestones, a phonebooth reveals it's phone with that strange, old-time ring. I scurry the 50 meters and reaching the booth lunge for the phone as it ceases to ring. A just missed call and the aching despair attached. I return home, down the cobblestones, past the saxophone and the Peugeot, to the letter, it's aura, and my imagination. And I am fulfilled. BT
DeleteBT, this is amazing! I am there with you... I can only imagine you are there too...word after word. What does the letter say? The real letter?
DeleteCan you write that part of the story? Where were you in Paris? What were you doing? Or... drop into the fulfillment...what is fulfilled? Or...who is calling? The letter writer...? Only you can know...
Can't wait to see more...
At long last, it is Friday and I will respond. You pose so many questions, Rox! So, which to choose..? The letter writer remains for me a murky, shadowy, persona or symbol. But, I imagine the letter writer represents one part past, and one part future - her identity is fictional, yet comprised of specific traits from a "once known" to a future fantasy. As such, the story continues...
DeleteHaving returned safely home, I stoke the fire, boil some water, and light the candles. The candle glow, a perfect invite to again indulge the letter. Settled near the hearth I reread the letter and allow the words to massage their magic. They take me to this place, this place of comfort and intrigue, this place of knowing and not. And that, is the essential joy. A joy, not intellectual, rather, entirely ethereal. And the feel of the paper, warmth of the fire, and cocoon-like sense of solitude makes the letter, this letter, like gold. I devour the letter again and again and allow various meanings and interpretations to tempt and taunt. What a exotic paradox it is to be tempted and taunted all within one moment - this becomes nearly overwhelming, so much so that I consider returning to the streets, to the saxophone and cobblestones. It will become a quest, I feel the letter writer must want that of me, she must be telling me, within the symbol of paradox to follow the sounds and accomodate the cobblestones and to take foot! I struggle back into topcoat, don my beret, stride to the door, take and twist the knob, and step back out, into the promising darkness.
All-for-now, Anonimia of Bare Trees
AOBT... this is heating up again, eh? So...what happens next? Do you run into letter writer in the cobblestone streets? Sure you do... :) I am assuming that all that was promising yielded many promises...Always reading, Rox
ReplyDeleteI did run into the letter writer! And while still recovering, I can indeed say, all that was promising, yielded many, many more promises. As such, leaving this writer befuddled and glazy eyed. And, precisely halfway between the start and finish lines - long live ambiguity! :) So, thank you for your feedback/encouragement, I am taking this story offline, yet will continue to develop. Truly, this process is such good and great fun! Peace - AOBT
DeleteOh Joy, AOBT! Enjoy your glazy-eyed adventures on and off the page! Thank YOU for sharing and writing... glad to hear you enjoyed the process. I hope your writing and imagination brings you continued joy, discovery, magic! Au revoir! Bon voyage! :)
ReplyDelete