June 21, 2003 - A

"The Magic That Is Before Us"

If you do not liberate yourself in this lifetime, what lifetime will you wait for? Once this day has passed, that much of your life is gone too. With each passing thought, observe the impermanence of the appearances of the world and give up thinking there will be a tomorrow. With each step tread the Great Way of the mind source, and do not turn to another road. - Man-an (1591-1654)

So warns the Zen Buddhist Mr Manan, several centuries ago. Now, many things have changed, but not the message of 'Today is the day'. Those of us having found a liberating philosophy may regret the unawakened past, but perhaps all that was a necessary prelude to that which is before us now.

And that which is before us is all that really matters. Mr Manan warns, ''Nurturing the embryo of sagehood, cultivating practice in the aftermath of awakening, is really not easy.''

Quite strange, (or is it?), that he is not the only philosopher-sage to warn of such. A Mr Webb says much the same. The awakened path is for those ''who do not fear hard work, rigorous thought, [ourselves] or the future.''

But, hey, what else I am doing with the last half of my life? I'm up for a challenge. I like to keep the gray matter well stimulated. I feel 'more alive' that way.

Ah, here are the words of yet another philosopher-sage:

We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. - Henry David Thoreau, in Walden (1817-1862)

On this dawn, when the sky is lightening to gray and the birds are chirping, I feel full of optimism. I can do this, paint my very atmosphere. I can choose to be happy. My emotions can follow me, instead of me following my emotions. I would not have thought it possible, but I have done it. I have stopped a full rage and quelled it. I am learning not to let small annoyances bother me so much.

I can also choose to let my emotions have sway, as I did a few days ago, when I sobbed great tears of missing Laura, and this can be wonderful catharsis. Or when I felt anger the other day over injustice, it did not paralysis but motivated me to action. I can choose how my emotions will effect me.

Oh, that lonely poem I wrote of missing Laura! I felt bereft of her, and could not feel her spirit. But I was rewarded the other night with a dream of her. I laid beside her in bed and we held each other and it was so real. As dreams are wont to be strange, there was an annoying visitor in the living room, (which we later learned was one of Laura's estranged sons), but while we hugged and embraced, SHE FELT REALLY THERE.

It was a curious thing. Just before the dream ended, I remember saying this to her, ''I know that when I awaken, you will be gone, as you were before. But I thank you for this lovely visit.'' Pure magic, it was, and for that I am grateful.

This is what I am learning on the historical day of the release of the fifth Harry Potter book. Young and old love the adventures of that young wizard. I've read the first three books, and found them delightful.

But now I am learning a new magic, that doesn't need wands and incantations. This is the goal of the consciously awake person, to create magic where ever they go, to find it as a trick magician pulls rabbits out of hats, but look, there is no trickery! It is all the process of our wonderful minds, the source of our 'Great Way'.

I leave you now in hopes you will find something magical in your own lives today. Keep your eyes open for its occurence!

June 21, 2003 - B

"Simple/Complex"

This little ditty was inspired by Julia. This morning, she began singing the old Shaker song 'Tis A Gift To Be Simple' with new lyrics, ''It's A Gift To Be Complex''. Taking part of her silly lyrics, I've re-written the song for those of us with 'a DIFFERENT perspective'.

Tis a gift to be complex, tis a gift to be free, Tis a gift to fly up where we wanna be; And when we place ourselves in our space just right, T'will be when relaxed and we're not uptight. When true complexity is gained, Of our twisting mind we shan't be ashamed. To turn, to yearn will be our delight, Till by burning, learning, we come 'round bright. © JAL, © JCL

June 23, 2003

"Pain Into Joy"

And if there is pain, it is for the things which are not touched,   are not felt, are not known - how might I transmute these? All other aspects of Knowing can be transformed. But in the ugliness that is not known, what then? I would force it into Knowing, bare its head, and let it roar. Then, the animal may be tamed. Yes, loved, treasured, respected, and then brought into Understanding. All that I am is seeking to Understand it. From this day on, the bright transformation of pain into joy by a Working of Beauty. This, then, my goal from now on - So mote it be. Cleansed by the fire I shall be. No other burning I have shall be so pure, blue flame hot. I welcome it, don't question it, accept it, but Welcome it. So mote it be. JAL, 6 - 23 - 03

June 25, 2003

"Heart's Desire"

A new mandala has been born! Last night I stayed up late until it was finished. This morning I put it into into the mandala pages.
Heart's Desire

I could not think of what to title it, But, as with my previous mandala, Julia named this one. She's always helpful to have around, for a lot of different reasons!

June 26, 2003

"I Am Not Rich"

Last night, as I lay in bed, I had in mind a subject for a journal entry. But having stayed up late the night before with the mandala, I didn't want to stay up late again. And besides, I was certain I would remember it.

I don't! All those words of pearly luminescence are gone, gone, gone. And now I shall have to scratch as scratch can. But I give away what pearls I do collect for free.

Maybe that is the mistake. I learned of a healing practicioner who is teaching workshops this weekend. 'Only' 150 bucks if you are so inclined. Any inclination I would have had is quite scared away by the cost.

Ah, the remarkable sufficiency of self guru-hood and godhood! Not only do I save tons of money, I am FORCED to exercise my own creative muscles regarding the divine. So all those cooker-ups of fantastic menus and recipes for cosmic this ñ that will wait for some one more cash rich than I.

Meanwhile, here am I, tossing away what pearls I have for free. I rebel against the capitalist conventions. But then, this could be WHY I am not rich. But I console myself, I'm so rich in other ways. And that is true.

Happiness like this can't be bought or sold. It's at the marketplace of the soul, and the pathway there leads 'only' to oneself. The sole expense is the time, effort and daring. Pearls! Pearls! Get your 'free' pearls! Pearls like no other, pearls the finest ever. And 'free!' 'Free!' 'Free!'

You alone determine the cost.

June 27, 2003 - A

"Sufficient For Now"

I have recorded a marvelous dream. Later, after recording it, and returning to bed to snuggle with Julia, I recall the night before which may have inspired it. Julia and I have developed a habit of watching cartoons at night. A station has a nightly special called 'Adult Swim' which features animations more suited to adults. We watch Futurama, and then Family Guy. Last night's episode of Family Guy was hilarious. I burst out laughing. It is the sort of humor Laura would appreciate. The little football headed Stewie says the most outrageous things. Big papa's father has retired, so he tries to bond with him, as he's never been able to as a child.

But the old man is a soured judgmental xtian of the most odious kind. Laura must have inspired the screenwriter. Granpa reads the most vicious Bible sections to Stewie, all the fire and vengence parts. Stewie really grooves on this, ''Oooohhh, this God is SO Eeeevil! I like him!'' Maybe ya hadda been there. It WAS funny. Christians might find themselves laughing despite themselves.

Anyway, it seemed like Laura was there, watching and laughing with us. I know so well how she'd have loved that cartoon.

And now I will go to the dream-record:

The vividness of the dream is so real. I awake 4:15am, Friday morning, and I must not trust further sleep; I must record this thing I saw.

It was so real.

We lived in an old, rickety house. Laura had discussed with us escape plans, should the house ever catch fire. Laura was always one to prepare for every contingency. Each possible disaster had a plan.

If we were ever separated due to a emergency that forced evacuation of the city, we had a place at which we agreed to meet. Laura was like that. But those words of discussion were forgotten now. It was time to relax after a hard day's work.

The three of us were gathered around the TV, as was our usual evening habit. We'd gone to get the mail earlier, and I held two new music CDs I'd sent for. We were distracted by the TV program, and I was fumbling with the CD packaging.

But something didn't feel right. I knew something was wrong. I sniffed for what it might be. The house didn't smell right. Certainly, I found the cause. An electrical fire had begun in one of the outlets. Laura urged me, ''Leave now!'' But I asked, ''Aren't you and Julia coming?'' She said, ''No, we will come, you just GO now, get out!''

As I went to the door, I discovered the frame of it already was being tickled by flames. I could barely squeeze through safely. Why hadn't Laura and Julia left when I left? I looked up at the big house (which looked like the old-style two story house such as Gramma had and my Mother still lives in.)

It was full ablaze anow. I didn't know what to do. If Laura and Julia didn't get themselves out of there, what was I to do? What was the plan of meeting? I strained my brain to remember. It was at the Bird Cage food and drink emporium at the county fair grounds.

So I got myself there. Did I drive? I don't remember this part. Then I am there at the fairgrounds. Some kids are practicing with toy airplanes. But how unusual! They are attached to the flying device, and come in for a landing looking like they are flying on their own power. One nearly misses me as he flies over my head.

I come to the metal building which houses 'the bird cage' and look around. There is a room of people waiting. I search through them, and find Laura and Julia there, in a corner. But wait! My gramma, who died in 1998, is sitting with them, too.

Laura and Gramma are so vivid. They are both laughing and smiling and so happy to see me. I cry with great joy. I'd thought I'd lost them, but here there are, so real and alive. Their glowing, happy eyes, the hugs of greeting, it is all so vivid.

I have with them a brief lament over the house. I've lost everything. My huge music CD collection is all gone, except for . . . And I look down at the two CDs I'd been holding when the house caught fire. I still had those. I laughed At least I still have those! And those two that were duplicates of others I have that I'd brought to work, I still have the Enya album and the other one. I cried, for that had been a 'contingency plan' too.

Then I looked once again at my radiant loved ones. Most importantly, THEY were not lost. THEY had survived the fire. I sobbed, because the most important things had not been lost.

And then I woke up, realizing both Laura and Gramma are dead. I remember what Laura said when she was trying to comfort me about her eventual death. ''You know me so well, you will remember what I WOULD have said to you in any situation. You will be able to recreate me in your mind's eye.'' That was Laura, preparing for every contingency. And she was right.

This morning, I still don't know if anything of ourselves survives our death. I won't really know until I die. But something of Laura and Gramma HAS survived their deaths. I still remember their happy bright eyes, smiles, hugs, and the way it felt when they greeted me, glad to see me.

Believers will say I really met Laura and Gramma in that dream, that their astral spirit Somethings slipped down into my dream. I don't know. But the embrace I felt 'from beyond' was so real. Whether they were constructed anew via the powers of my mind, or not, I know not. Suffice it to say, the dream had its own reality, and that will be sufficient for now.

June 27, 2003 - B

"Sweet And Tender"

There are but four decent music stations in Yuma. There's a pop station, given occasionally to playing too much rap-crap. There's a 'classic rock station', which occasionally features the excessive banging of metal drums. Oh, yes, small epiphany, that's why they call it 'heavy metal'. Now I know.

Then there's the country western station, which occasionally features a GOOD song interspersed amongst all the boozing and losing, red neck love-it-or-leave-it patriotising and nauseating smarmy moralizing.

And lastly, there's the college radio station, bastion of the 'free' world of thought and music, where many alternative types of music are played.

I will not mention the others, mostly floating over from across the border.

It is these four music stations which entertain me as I sit and sew at work. This afternoon, I was fleeing a bit of rap-crap which led me to the college station. I was surprised to hear a woman's voice mention 'women's music', and then began a lovely ballad I'd not heard in ages. ''Sweet darling wo-o-o-o-man,'' the warm alto voice began.

I looked surprised at the radio station. The ladies conversing in Spanish were well distracted. I thought to myself, ''I remember this tune. It was MEG CHRISTIAN! Oh my goddess, they're still playing her music after all these years!''

It was twenty-five years ago that I'd first heard Meg sing this song. I was away at college and a friend had given me a tape of her music. Oh, I was so careful to make sure the headphones were plugged in when I listened to that tape. I was terrified my dorm mates could hear through the headphones. How radical the ballad seemed back in 1978!

A woman daring to sing about loving another woman! Back in 1978, it WAS radical, I suppose. For many years afterward, I would have had apoplexy to have had my co-workers hear it sung. Now in 2003, things are quite different. It is quite common knowledge, the nature of my relationship with Julia.

And the song is no longer 'radical', but very sweet and tender. Which is how it SHOULD have been to me back in 1978. But I am a process of becoming, and I had to go through twenty five years of learning and growing to get to where I am today.

Now I look forward to the next twenty five years. Where will I find myself twenty five years hence? I will be sixty-nine. I smile as I anticipate future growth, a maturing of the seeds I sow today. May they flourish in ways I cannot now imagine!

But, somehow, I think this is assured!

June 28, 2003

"Transparent Enough?"

I spent some of my hours today watching The Hours, an immense panorama involving the lives of three different women and their relationships with the people around them. Each woman is vulnerable and fragile. One, Virginia Woolf, is based on a real life author. Another, Clarissa, is loosely based on a character in one of Woolf's books, Mrs Dalloway. And the third, Laura Brown, is reading Mrs Dalloway.

The parallels and relationships between their lives are intense and deep, as life is so often under the surface. It is a heavy film, a hard film, but one that rewards the viewer.

Each of the three women deal with depression. One succumbs, certain her illness will not get any better. In 1941, Woolf drowned herself by wading into a river wearing a heavy coat laden with rocks.

Virginia Woolf, 1882 - 1941

But while she was alive, before the illness consumed her, she very much fought against the shortness of life, as this one quote reveals:

The insatiable desire to write something before I die, this ravaging sense of the shortness and feverishness of life, make me cling, like a man on a rock, to my one anchor.

- Virginia Woolf on December 20, 1927

That is something I could have written.

And, so too, is another quote of Woolf's, regarding her diary:

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself...into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life."

--Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary

I have said much the same, only I have referred to my journal as a sieve which retains that which needs remembering and lets the rest sift through its holes.

One of the commentators on the life and times of Virginia Woolf, in the special features of the DVD, mentioned how it was Woolf's diaries which held the most fascination for her, as Woolf's keen eye recorded vividly all sorts of things that occurred in her life.

It is these personal details about other authors which fascinate me so. I very much disagree with a quote that appeared as a writer's 'quote of the day' a while back:

To be more interested in the writer than the writing is just eternal human vulgarity.

--Martin Amis

A writer of some deep thought on one of my discussion lists inspired me to test my intuitive leaps based on references he'd made in some of his articles. He wonders WHY I asked him the questions I did.

I haven't answered him yet. I'd already informed him before the asking that curiousity inspired me. The personal details of an author is fascinating. I very much enjoy the vignettes of other online journalists, for instance. My eyes can for a few moments suspend looking through my own perspective and take on that of another.

I carry this hunger when I read the capable words of other writers, working in other genres. Now regarding Anne Rice, when I live through her characters' eyes, I KNOW I'm living IN her mind. Her novel Violin seems to be her most autobiographical novel. The character Triana IS Anne.

But this is not the same with non-fiction, non-biographical authors. Don Webb, a philosopher-magican-sage, possesses a lively, cheerful, and engaging writing style. He gives no hints about his personal life in any of these writings. For some reason, I pictured him as a philosophy teacher I'd had in college. That teacher was in his seventies, full of energy, and bright, probing eyes.

I took to the search engines one afternoon and tore the web apart looking for more info about Webb. I'm delighted to learn he is also a prolific science fiction author, and I will soon acquire some of his efforts in this field, as well. Perhaps, as I can with Rice, in these works I will be able to have that sensation of 'being in the writer's head'.

What causes this? It's the observations. It's the writer's observations, as voiced through their characters, or in their journals, that does it. Rice observes both the characters INNER worlds and OUTER worlds vividly and transmits it to the reader. The grist for these can't be pulled out of a vacuum. It is the observations of her OWN inner and outer worlds that are transformed into those of the fiction character.

What does it all come down to? Why should these observations fascinate me so? It's a people-hunger. I hunger after the essence of learning what makes people tick, what makes one person different than another. It is the uniqueness of each of our lives that makes each of us so interesting.

In my own lifetime, I can only live my life. But through the wonder of books and journals, I can live the lives of many. For one doubtful of reincarnation, the variety of perspectives vitalizes me, energizes me. Yes, I feed on this, I do, vampire-like. But this feeding leaves no puncture wounds and it is only from the willing that I absorb the essence of their lives. And I am not only a taker, but a giver, as well.

For, here in these pages, I've tried as best as able to crystallize that essence of myself here in nice, neat forms, easily digestible. Whether or not you find the digestion not always so easy, be patient, for I work always to improve these efforts. The transparency of this window into my soul will clarify with further practice and time.