Sacral Chakra, Sex Chakra, Holy Creativity

 

Love of the Creative Chakra or,
Holy Creativity

Autumn Equinox Changes

 I had a dream. Colors were muted: greens and browns. I was holding a bowl. In the bowl was time. I was panicking, that time that was running out.

In the morning I had a message waiting for me.

"Happy Equinox," wrote my Love.

I felt a little silly, beacause I had forgotten, the Big Change Celebration.

Journal - Autumn Equinox Dream

It would be easy to see changes as new, new, new. Or feel overwhelmed, or feel only loss. That is why we celebrate the holidays I think. To stand the pressure of change, To allow ouselves to feel what's gone. To honor and move forward with as much grace as we can muster.  Or, at least, move at all. 

Changes are often in company of chatter, even around roaring pagan fires,

"When one door opens, another opens."

Oh yes, it will open allright. That is not the predicament. At all.

Just because we don't dare to feel deeper range of emotions, doesn't mean we're wise.

The challenge is to walk, and feel, and not stumble. Our ancestors were wise. They knew it took a ceremony for this act.

It's easy to be overwhelmed. 

"Time, time! That never will come back," we can shout, clutch our hands over our hearts and wring our hands in agony. Or, we can dream something similar.

Overdrama, catastrophising and being overly sentimental isn't wisdom. ... either.

A step, a step, then one more. A moment, some moments, to feel the Fall Equinox flow through your heart and wet your toes. That's one celebration recipe. That's the celebration for me this year. I wish you a calm transfer. Take your time and lift your feet. Don't stumble on the threshold. But if you do, there's remedies for bruised toes.

Happy Fall Eqinox.

Travel Tales to Unknown Realities, part Three - Embalming Bodies and Restless Ghosts

Travel Tales to Unknown Realities, part Three. Listen to chapter three of the Travel Tales. You will hear chilling stories of a child forced to embalm bodies in the midst of a storm, about dead bodies sitting up and about ghosts that refuse to rest. With Halloween creeping closer, it's a great way to cozy in. Told by Michael Peter Langevin, who is the child in question. 

To Share Your Story

I have finished edited a collection of ghost stories and finally made it into a coherent story. I took some time. Writing tends to take time and editing even more so. There are so many levels to it. I also started to reach out to publishers. I think the stories are worth reading. I will find the right forum to share them well. It's the least I can do. They are not only my stories after all. They are voices from a multitude of beings in the in-between. They have voices of their own, however fictional.

To write is a joy and also immensely difficult. It's giving the world a gift, every time. It really doesn't matter if it's a story of your life for the family to read - your grandchildren will salute you and so will the great, great, great ones in hundreds of years from now - or a story that puts everything we think we know on it's head or educational or pure entertainment - entertainment is a lightness not to be taken lightly. The words reaches someone, or many, somewhere and changes their lives. They make connections, an intricate pattern in the weave. Our stories are never just our own. 

To dare to write is an act that takes courage. Are we any good? Do we have what it takes? Do we have anything to say? To share it takes even more. Fictional, autobiographic, non-fictional; there is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, parts of our truest self will shine through. This is scary. But whatever the loud, insistent voices tries to convince us, they are only repetition. We have AI for that.

To tell intricate, complex stories worth telling, stories that says something about life, now that is worth it's weight in gold. You know what Galadriel says, 

"Even the smallest person can change the course of the future."

Chairs and Crutches - to Listen so It Matters

If you want somebody to talk, all you have to do is listen. Listen in a way that matters. For just a moment. 

If others are just cardboards, for your words to fall on, for your anxities to be absorbed in, you may just try another profession.

You may not be told what you want to hear. There may not be a view of life presented that you like. It's ok.

To listen is an artform (not in a terapeutic kind of way. Being the proffessional, pretending to have answers, enjoying the role as the smart one. Freud became obsolete a long time ago. To be a smartass helps no one. Send out the memo, just in case.)

If you want to listen in a way that matters, you have to to begin with falling out of love with your own voice. If only for  moment. 

You also have to dare not have the answers. Try out what it is like to be defensless. It's scary, I know. But don't worry. You're opinions will most likely come back. They usually do. If they don't - good riddance.

Words can be crutches. To walk without them stregthens the muscles. Precreated answers are convinient chairs to sit on. Only sitting is not good for your back you know.

If you need rolemodels in this difficult art listen to the mothers. Most of them know how, because they had to. Because, they have to. To make people grow there has to be some room for exploration, as we all know.  Thanks to the brave mothers, there are still some architects for evolution left.

I think it's so difficult to listen fully I only do it on rare occations these days. I have to spare some energy for other tasks. 

To listen for real, if that's what you chose to do, you have to walk without crutches. But first, you have to stand up.

Every Morning

 Every morning I bend up my body.

Cat and cow, cat and cow, cat and cow. The frogposition is good too.

Every morning I straighten my brain. Silence, a path, a new map for braincells to follow. 

A worried mind grows old so fast.

Every morning I seek, and find, a place for my soul. That's the hardest one, what it needs forever changing.

Soul room: a candle, a stare (gorgeous view, oak trees, birch trees, and my sisters garden), kindness towards view, reflektion back to Self.

Every morning ... ... ... ... ...

Some posion in softness

Travel Tales From Unknown Realities - The Poem

There are tales. Tales we wonder about. Tales that makes us ponder, what is possible? Michael Peter Langevin has not only written such a book, but also started a podcast series telling the stories of unknown realities. To not miss a beat, you can follow him HERE.

So get cozy, sit back, and start with an introduction poem. If you want the first part that introduces Travel Tales from Unknow Realities go HERE.

Enjoy Your Self.

Black Is Also a Holy Color

 Black is also a holy color,

Even though.          It's no color,

at all.

But a void,            a blanket hiding

That there's nothing                    to see.

Or, perhaps there is. If we feel the shape. Rather than use our ever worsened eye sight.