In the culture we live in, leveling up is often just amassing more obligations. Methinks leveling down may be the better way to go.
The spirit wants the me no one else can see, and the same for me towards the spirit.
Intimacy as the truest knowing.
Why is love approached from a single dimension, as if it’s a flat note? Why doesn’t anyone talk about how love is bliss and grief together, like a two-flavour soft serve cone?
The strands of time travel, past lives, parallel existences… blinking slowly yet seeing quickly, feels smooth and detailed, unrushed and rhythmic.
To rest is to know we are safe.
I will not bury you in perfectionism.
I will not bury you in productivity.
I will not bury you in functionality.
I will not bury you in objectivity.
I will not bury you in happy or other acceptable feeling.
I will unearth you.
Acknowledge you exist.
The Unseen Seen.
Clarity becoming the answers.
My home shows me she is Vaginal, an entrance to a Womb.
Why do you rush so much when you’re inside of me, she asks.
I appreciate your devotion to cleanliness and tidiness, but would you play with me more, play in me more? What does it mean to engage in honouring as foreplay?
The Money Wound is also the Mother Wound.
The Money Wound is also the Body Image Wound.
Yet, in personal development / wellness / new age circles, it’s still simplified to “law of attraction” / “good vibes” / “abundance mindset” baloney. We understand how triggering and harmful it is to admonish someone with body dysmorphia to “think positive thoughts”; we can recognize it as bypassing. Yet, the learn how to change your mindset so you can become a millionaire continues to be dispensed and consumed with fury.
How many crushes can I have at once?
Body dysmorphia aside, I think I sometimes also experience social dysmorphia.
To trust is to know that I am home, no matter where I am.
Resentment doesn’t knock on doors, she kicks the damn thing down, invades and plays her death metal tunes. And instead of tiptoeing around her and the vile mess, I went up to her today and invited her to have dim sum with me.
We wound up agreeing that I could learn a bit from her, and her from me. That I don’t like metal, though adore the attire. Tell them what you need to make things work, she reminds me. Dutifully noted with family.
Martyrdom is a form of narcissism, but in a way worse, because martyrdom also virtue signals.
And to realize that my parents each took on one of these polarities.
Both archetypes carry lessons around identity, permission, honesty, boundaries.
In a dream:
We were away, on a local island, and my partner ferried home without me, leaving me with a dead battery, network-deprived cell phone, one, by technological standards, is considered a relic as it was a flip smart phone, with actual buttons. A friend happened to also be at the inn where we were staying, was also heading to the ferry terminal, and had room in her car. I didn’t want to complain, but it smelled like 80 wet dogs in her car. I was grateful it was a hot day, and since her car did not have air conditioning, I had a reason to roll down the window.
I tried and tried to text my partner. The messages were not going through becuase the cell did not have enough battery. I use her charger, and I kept trying to send a text. We don’t really talk in the car. She feels weird because she hadn’t replied to my texts from over a year ago, when I was asking if she’d like to hang out. The ride she offered me was meant to be a convenient atonement for ghosting.
When I wake up, I immediately wondered why I didn’t ask to borrow her phone to message my partner. And why was I being so stubborn with the dead phone, of course it couldn’t send a text, could I not have waited a few minutes for it to charge? The urgency, the near panic of being left behind and not being able to communicate with him, the fear of being “mah-fan” about the smelly car…
If I’ve learned anything for this year, is to plan lightly.
Listening to all the things I can’t hear… until I can hear them.
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