Who the hell is in charge here?

I am.  You are.

At least, we are supposed to be.  If only we could accept this truth without those pesky human belief systems, we might reclaim our birthright to consistently call the shots.

Any well-trained and clever witch would remember that it is she who sets the tone for her life experience.  She would naturally develop her thought patterns to reflect this truth.  She would fashion her intentions and behavior accordingly, knowing that it is she who ultimately holds the power to determine each and every outcome within her life experience.

And yet does she believe it?

Ah.

That, my friend, is the one question in which we share our skepticism toward whether or not creative control is truly in our hands.

Well, welcome to earth.

It is here where we are systematically conditioned to believe that there is, and always will be, a force that is greater than ourselves who decides our fate.

With six billion residents occupying our physical plane of existence, it certainly makes sense that any one individual would seem an insignificant speck in an endless sea of influence.  Common sense suggests that no matter what we do, there will always remain a power greater than ourselves that is in control.

Acts of God, ploys of Satan, and popular terms such as “fate” and “destiny” are used to explain circumstances over which we appear to have no control.  Eventually, this stuff sounds pretty damn good.  When in doubt, we need only to look upon the wisdom displayed on our bumper stickers.

“Shit happens.”

..And in the grand scheme of things, it appears that shit would occur regularly.

What is a witch to do?

She could admit that shirking full responsibility for every shitty circumstance in her life has been rather convenient.  Why take full ownership of your life experience when it is socially acceptable to pass the buck to a supreme being?

It is only when she no longer wants to believe that her destiny is determined by a power greater than herself that she can begin to recover her birthright to creative control.  A conscious decision of this magnitude may be determined immediately, and yet a genuine belief in one’s sovereignty is a process subject to one’s acquired level of human resistance.  Ingrained traditions based on thousands of years of religious explanation are some mighty tough nuts to crack.

There may be infinite ways to position a firm grip on the nutcracker, but none so intriguing as the ability to question authority.  After what may feel like a lifetime of assigning responsibility to a higher power, the process of reclaiming creative control over one’s destiny may begin with a simple inquiry.

Of course, it defeats the purpose to acknowledge one’s sovereignty by engaging in conversation with a perceived superior entity.  But if “I am God, also,” then a familiar little exchange between myself and myself would be perfectly sane:)

Besides, should a witch be so inclined to initiate an effective transfer of power, posing a relevant question to Oneself may hasten the unraveling process of a tightly-wound belief.

She may start with something general, such as, “What is it, Oh-Great-One, that you have in store for me as my greatest good?”

In which case, she might clearly hear the splendid truth.

“I don’t care,” God said. “You decide.”

Well, thank the gods for second chances.

Most occupations that uphold a reputable track record regarding safety require some manner of assessment for employees.  It is only appropriate that I would be expected to demonstrate some notion of what the hell I am supposed to be doing in my new job.

After a five-day crash course in a position for which I have had zero prior knowledge, my first evaluation turned out to be exactly that.  A big, fat zero.

Failure to recognize and formally acknowledge a potential hazard, regardless of whether or not it was covered in training, apparently constitutes an instant red “X,” meaning “you fail.”

So now I know that.

The designated score keeper’s nerve-wracking, highly audible huffing and puffing that was delivered incessantly over my shoulder before, during, and after the official “I’m failing you” episode was an exceptionally delightful supplement to the evaluation.  Because, of course, the self-inflicted tension that I had been experiencing all morning was not stressful enough.

Jeezus.

Never mind that I was studiously completing an itemized check list that might as well have been written in Arabic.  Never mind that my confidence was steadily rising as I focused on the actual nuts and bolts of the procedure.  In spite of the excessively long exhaling sounds that were streaming over my shoulder, it appeared that my brain had finally begun to address the task at hand.  All of the details that two separate (and extremely knowledgeable) trainers had shared with me over the past five days were beginning to click.

I was reveling in a few glorious and sure-footed minutes of “I can do this” when the moment was abruptly thwarted by a disturbing perception that something was horribly wrong.  It was then that my brain registered the “I’m failing you” ceremony that was being conducted on my behalf.

What.  Just.  Happened.

Previously informed that I was restricted from posing any questions once the initial evaluation commenced, I had quickly surmised that my assigned adjudicator prefer that this policy include barely speaking to me at all.  Adapting to this unnerving silent treatment had consequently placed my sensory perception within a state of heightened alert.  Therefore, I experienced no lack of comprehension when the rare and curt phrases that were being directed toward me had suddenly shifted to pronouncements about me.  Even without an inkling toward the exact nature of my heinous crime, it had become painfully obvious that I had done something horribly wrong.  The “I’m failing you” festivities continued in full regalia while I merely remained in awe over my unexpected initiation into the “cut off at the knees” club.

Damn it.

I must have stood there in bonehead mode for an eternal minute before I could recover some ounce of wit.

“It is what it is,” I said to myself.  This seemed the mature option over breaking down in tears.

While my livid scorekeeper was completing her dramatic pronouncement to a supervisor on the phone, I took an inventory of myself and my immediate environment.  The sizable lump that had materialized within my throat was threatening to incite an impromptu cry-fest.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Then I sensed the presence of the kind and pleasantly human trainer who had been at the scene simply observing the latest segment of this harrowing ordeal.

“Oh god.

As the heaving scorekeeper hung up the phone prepared to address me directly, I choked back that goddamn lump, made a conscious effort to avoid any and all eye contact with the nice guy standing directly behind me, and proceeded to feign my best inquisitive expression.

When at last she revealed the cause for my immediate failure, all I could think was,

“That?

That was it?

That’s what you’re failing me for?!”

While she offered her reasoning as it had been acquired primarily through her time served on-the-job, I did not question her authority to use my ignorance regarding this information as a measure of my overall incompetence.  At this point, I was just damn relieved to be spoken to as a fellow human counterpart.

It wasn’t until after I consumed my second bourbon later that evening when I was able to conclude that occupational proficiency and effective training skills are mutually exclusive.

I am a grown woman with a bachelor’s degree, graduate school work, licensed certification, and years of experience in my former field of study.  I worked my way through school waiting tables, tending bar, and managing a full-service wait staff before earning the position of marketing director for the corporation that owned and operated several establishments.  I raised three children of my own, assisted with the full-time care of my sister’s, and currently serve as a vested partner and client liaison within my husband’s construction company.  I’m confident that I would have retained the significance of the potential risk factor that was introduced during the morning of my evaluation without having to receive an emphatic failing grade in order to do so.

Then again, the inclusion of senior-ranking members among a training and management staff does not necessarily imply that these individuals also possess high-ranking people skills.

So now I know that, too.

Oh, and the kind and pleasantly human trainer?  Being witness to the unfortunate events that transpired during my first evaluation, this honorable soul had meanwhile gallantly secured a position as the assigned ’score-keeper’ for my second-chance assessment. Well-equipped with job experience and stellar people skills, his presence throughout the subsequent testing phase resulted in none other but a smooth and successful “passing” grade, which hence forth, has earned him the title of Jesus Christ.

For any witch who thinks that she has fulfilled all the necessary requirements in order to manifest one of her deepest desires…and yet the damn thing still has not happened, well, what is there to do?

Brood?

Always a first choice, brooding remains my knee-jerk reaction to the absence of something in my life that I want.  When it’s something that I really, really want, it seems practically impossible to focus on the place within where I won’t care, or notice, that I do not yet have it.

Impatience seems reasonable, even justified. After all, did I not do all that is required to have this thing in my current experience?  What the hell?

A familiar tune it is, indeed.  “It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming….where is it, where is it, where is it?…damn it and damn it and damn it…!”

Therein lies the problem, in which a clever witch might remember if she were not thinking so much.  We all know that a watched pot never boils, but try removing your focus from the pot when you really, really want that goddamn water to boil.

Most of us are aware that, in theory, distraction is the logical solution to avert an overactive mind from focusing on the absence of something.  Applying this theory in practice is an ongoing challenge.

A consumed brain that is charged with intense desire and sheer will is not so easily distracted.  This is like trying not to notice a throbbing headache.  The overdose of Excedrin that you threw down your throat ten minutes ago is proving to be useless.  Currently, there appears to be not even the slightest bit of relief from the invisible, freakishly large rubber band that has somehow been tightly wound around your head.  Exactly how does one go about not noticing that?

The possibility of distraction seems ludicrous.  It is the nature of theory and practice at its best.

So here’s an idea.  I recently discovered that the issue of distraction can be forced, in the sense that “fire” is fought with “fire.”  It may be one thing to attempt the steering of your mind away from whatever it is obsessed with by exploring other subjects, but forcefully plunging your mind into any avenue that requires a level of accountability is the real deal.  This is the theoretical “distraction solution” that really works in practice.

A powerful mindset that is fueled by intense emotional direction has no other choice but to follow your lead.  Our mind is a perfectly designed and rightly arrogant task-master.  Once you give it something to focus on, and feed it with emotional “energy bars,” it will continue to perform superbly.  The adage, “can’t get my mind off of it,” is a true reflection of the nature of the beast.

When the mind is focused on the absence of something in your life that you really, really want, then the absence of your desire will surely remain as constant as the mind’s superb ability to keep enforcing this reality.  The more you want it, the more you notice it isn’t here.

Once-a-week pottery class is not going to distract your mind from the emotionally charged task that you have bestowed upon it.  “Oh-what-a-nice-bowl-I-turned-out” is really not going to dissuade the beast from remembering that your publisher still has not called.  Pleasure reading, hiking, running, relaxing with music, or taking in a good movie are notable methods to relieve the mind, but they are merely temporary.  In time, they may add up to pose a worthy respite from the incessant observation of that “thing that you want and do not have yet,” but impatience reigns the ultimate spoiler at the end of the day.

If the subject you have chosen to distract the mind with does not include a level of accountability, something along the lines of community art class will do nothing more than succeed at keeping the monster mildly amused for about, mmm.., maybe one minute.  After the beast smirks at your stupid pottery bowl, it will surely turn right back to its constant vigil regarding the still-to-be-heard-from publisher.

Fine.

There is not anything that a beast loves more than a suitable challenger.  Choose to study another subject of interest that requires incremental testing toward some form of certification.  Any level of genuine accountability forces the beast to perform.  It wants to.  It has to.  This is what the beast is designed to do.

Instruct the mind to learn how to fly a plane, navigate a boat, drive a bus, or even create an inventory of pottery for a scheduled art show.  Provide the beast with something, or anything that requires a form of accountability.  There are endless possibilities to choose from in any area of study that piques a personal interest.  The mind’s responsibility to inspire the world through one small abstract design that you have painted on a bowl of pottery one night in class simply cannot hold a candle to the responsibility of something like, oh-let’s just-say, keeping a plane from crashing to the ground with you and another live human being on board.

Qualifying as a worthy distraction, a subject that requires any form of genuine accountability will most certainly challenge the beast.   In fact, this method of theory-in-practice may be so successful in redirection that the beast may not even be capable of providing you with immediate assistance should you need to, I don’t know, maybe recall the publisher’s name on the weekend when he does actually return your call:)

Armed with bullet points on an index card, even a timid mind can express intention clearly.

Well, most of the time.

I’ve had my moments.  Predetermined lines of reason fly out the window if nervous energy makes an untimely entrance.  With a potential to spread like wildfire, unchecked emotions will overpower a well-rehearsed delivery before a witch can even register the words that are coming out of her mouth.  The content of whatever the hell was carefully written on those index cards vaporizes, rendering the original intent of a message to be lost under a heightened state of panic.

I hate when that happens.  The advice to employ any number of various relaxation techniques before you open your mouth should be considered.

For whatever reason we need to speak our mind, using our voice is a one way to get what we want.  I taught my kids to organize their thoughts into clear and concise bullet points before they expressed their desires to another fellow being.  Formulating precise statements that convey emotionally-driven thoughts improves communication.

I may have helped the kids find and use their words throughout the years, but it is my children who taught me the value of personal confidence, inner trust, and pure expectation to empower those bullet points with the positive momentum required if we are to manifest the desired results.

Kids.  We can only teach them what we know through our own experience, while they can usually remind us of the subtle energy differences that exist throughout our relationships between each other, as well as the Universe at large.  There’s a fine line between aggressive and assertive energy.  It took me awhile to get this.  Stubborn or blind, an aging witch can forget that she still has a thing or two to learn from her kids.

A person could earn a degree in communication and still not know how to talk to people, express their wishes clearly, or set their desires in motion.  Appropriate language that relies on carefully chosen words is one thing.  This is when those index cards come in handy to record applicable bullet points for future reference.  Almost like magic, recalling predetermined words minimizes the possibility of any unplanned emotional eruptions that may sabotage original intent.

It is one thing to know exactly what you want and practice expressing these thoughts with carefully chosen words.  It is quite another thing to believe that you can have that which the words describe.  Even the most carefully chosen declarations will lie dead in the water without a genuine belief in their fruition.  A speaker must first ascertain what it is that they are truly capable of achieving.

Only a complacent witch would skip that part.

Trust.  Confidence. Calm assertiveness.  These are the ingredients summoned to empower otherwise latent words with an ability to produce desired results.  I needed my kids to remind me of that.  This did not happen overnight, but only after years of observing the energy these young human hearts would use to surround the words that I had only helped them to discover.  Apparently there was good reason to keep them around all this time:)

Over the past few weeks, the Bean sprouts, as well as their aging parents, have been batting one thousand.  We are getting what we want through the use of effective communication.  Words that are fueled with desire are powerful, but desire that is backed with unconditional belief is life-giving.

Hence forth, may I only open my mouth after consulting the divine source within, remembering that the most effective way to speak one’s mind is to first be silent.  For only in silence can a chattering mind prioritize the heart’s belief in self.

Recalling the words I wrote on the index cards never hurts, either.

I earned my appreciation for peeing in privacy.  Until I raised three children of my own, I did not understand what a luxury this is.

It is a rare privilege to nurture our fledgling offspring.  A mother willingly casts aside many of her personal priorities without hesitation, as the survival of her young prevails over any superfluous notions she may have entertained in the past.  Lofty dreams of an individual nature rarely exist in the present.  When they do, she will promptly place these personal aspirations on the ‘back-burner’ for future consideration.  (Or at least until later that night, when the kids are in slumber or safely away.)

The “Mom Instinct” reveals itself whether you bear your own, open your heart to adopt, or find an abandoned kitten along the side of the road.  Before you know it, you forget what it was like to remain in the bathroom undisturbed.

After Natalie started preschool, I had some vague appreciation for peaceful slices of time.  They were eerily pleasant.  Surely I had moments of privacy before all the Bean sprouts started school, but they were always due to some highly-orchestrated maneuver that required coerced compliance from the kids, or a desperate plea to Durwood for support.

“If you don’t keep the kids away from the bathroom door for one hour, I’m going to lose it.”

Durwood was a real trouper.  No spell-casting was necessary to convince him of the benefits to be reaped from a routine ‘time-out’ for mom.  Sunday nights were mine.  I was granted two glorious hours to soak in the tub, fuss with my nails, or just sit there with my head back and my eyes closed.  I was temporarily free from the responsibility of answering a question, or directing someone to the location of a missing item.  I would highly recommend a similar approach to anyone currently immersed in the full-time mother mindset.

Until I spent the last few years caring for Evie’s little ones while she worked, I had forgotten how magnificent it is to just pee alone in the middle of the day.  Now that Anson is successfully off to preschool with his sister, I find myself surprisingly reacquainted with the luxury of privacy in the privy.

Thank you, Evie, for the opportunity to revisit the infinite facets of Baby Land.  I hold a renewed appreciation for even the slightest aspect of my morning:)

Happy Mother’s Day to all my favorite witches!  May you enjoy many solitary moments of silence throughout the year, if only to relish a fleeting minute when you may find yourself alone in the bathroom.

Jillian Olive Bean, you have successfully ensured the healthy development of five young saplings who will contribute to the positive expansion of our planet…so, what will you do now?  “I’m going to Disney World!!”

After over three weeks of silence, a person might wonder if Jillian has run out of things to say…

Preposterous.

Armed with a fat brain that never seems to sleep, the musings are ever abundant.

Either she has adhered to the wisdom in the words, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all,” or she is just plain tired.

How about both?

Surely, one excuse precedes the other.  Jillian has been doing all of the things that she has normally done, juggling six million balls with ease, skillfully incorporating the occasional new ball that is thrown into the playing field, and feeling satisfied with her consistent performance, as always.

And then she noticed that one of the balls she had been juggling joyously for years wasn’t really so much fun any more.  Come to think of it, neither were a few of the others.

“I don’t really want to do anything that isn’t fun,” Candace reminded her.

“But it used to be,” Jillian thought.  “Now it just feels… tiresome.”

Every human being is entitled to change her mind, and a practical witch would be wise to check the expiration date on her juggling duties.

Perhaps it was time to reassess the capacity of her current load to do a bit of ball sorting.

Bound by the natural laws of physical time and space, a witch can become weary from juggling her balls.  Never mind that she did it with ease until now.  Once a suspect ball has been determined to hover within the “no-fun” zone, the effects of gravity will kick in to transform this particular ball from one that started out “light and fun” into an enormous ten-ton concrete sphere.

Until she found a suitable place within the hands of another capable juggler, she continued to bear the responsibility of the gigantic boulder that she loves.

This has made Jillian quite bitchy.  She has not had anything nice to say in over three weeks, which is exactly why she has not said anything at all.

Meanwhile, a fresh and worthy juggler has been selected.  The replacement juggler is perfectly able, poised, and willing to accept one of the balls in Jillian’s playing field that has become too heavy for her to bear.  Only one more week until the transfer is complete, at which time any new and exciting prospective balls can be considered.

Or none at all:)

Until then, Jillian hopes that you will give a bitchy witch a break.

Writing posts for the blog is one of the large and glowing balls that will always remain within her fun-zone.  For Jillian, it is always a pleasure to share the restless thoughts that are forever winding among the endless avenues of her big fat head.

Picky, picky…

That’s it.

This is the only guideline a modern witch will ever need to fulfill her purpose.

And what is her purpose?

That’s easy.  Her only purpose is to be absolutely content with today and completely enthusiastic about tomorrow.

Somewhere, deep within us, we know that this basic element of overall satisfaction is all we need to continue producing more happiness.  And yet we spend so much time being unsatisfied that we guarantee our own failure to receive fulfillment and complete happiness with life as it unfolds before us.

(What?)

It’s simple, really.

It’s always okay to want more.  Wanting more, and creating more of that which would make you happy is why we are here.  The only reason that this doesn’t seem to “work that way” for many of us is because we forget to first be satisfied with what we have created for ourselves right now.

When we are not happy, we want to blame it on someone, or something else.  When and if we realize that our experience originates from within, we may view this as “bad news,” since we seem to have done such a horrible job!

“I created this mess?!”

Eventually we adjust to our creatorship,  connect the dots, and take responsibility for our own experience.  We allow ourselves to take note of a few of the good things that we created, mostly by default, and give ourselves about one minute’s worth of credit.

I can tell you from experience that feigned appreciation and sarcasm do not amount to much in the momentum department, but if you have spent the majority of your time on the planet feeling unsatisfied with your work, then this approach may be a good place to start.

Until we can remember to be completely (and genuinely) happy with EVERYTHING that we have created so far, we will never be able to receive more.

This is where the “picky, picky” guideline comes in handy.

If you have accepted 100% responsibility for every circumstance in your life, then you have reclaimed ownership of your birthright to create your best life experience.  You know the creative equation.  You remember that your thoughts, focused intentions, and emotional responses are continually creating your current reality.  Once you have grasped the essential elegance of this universal truth, you are going to want to be a little more selective about the crap you are entertaining.

Contrary to outdated (and yet still popular) belief systems, you really are the one in charge.  It becomes impossible to pretend that you have no control over any of the thoughts and subsequent emotions that enter your creative power source.  You do.

Be picky.  Meticulously inspect every thought, opinion, attitude, and perceived notion that you allow to enter your mind and heart.  Does it feel like the energy of love?  Or does it originate from the energy of fear?

Determining potential players on your creative energy team through this method will help to provide yet another practical venue for the conscientious creator that you have remembered yourself to be.  Your decisiveness and attention to content will eventually define your individual art form by which you practice complete satisfaction with everything that you have created so far, everything that you are creating at this moment, and everything you are creating for tomorrow.

Natalie, so timely and true, has inspired me to offer today’s “picky” reminder by providing this quote from Ayn Rand:

“It is a rare gift: to feel reverence for your own life and to want the best, greatest, the highest possible, here, now, for your very own.”

Was I really stuck?

…Stuck in a joyless commitment to certain family members and friends, stuck in a shitty and unrewarding job, stuck in an unbalanced relationship, stuck with too many bills and a dwindling bank account, stuck in the same old predictable conversations, stuck with endless requests for my time, and stuck in the same old mundane routine day after day, after day, after day,

after day,

after day.

Stuck with the same old crap time after time,

after time,

after time,

after time.

Days,

weeks,

and month after month bled together seamlessly to form year,

after year,

of aimless direction and meaningless purpose.

It was endless.

The truth is, I was never really stuck with any of it.

But it sure the hell felt as if I were.

I used to feel “stuck” with a lot of stuff.  For what seemed like lingering and perpetual slices of time throughout my life, I have experienced the depths of human doom and gloom.

Frustration.

Hopelessness.

Complete resignation.

Despair.

I am no stranger to the state of depression.

I know Prozac.

I know despondent weeping.

I know what it feels like to drench the bed pillow with desperate tears at night,

only to open overwrought eyes by morning,

where the numbest of functions merely plod forward just to face another dismal day.

I know the absolute absurdity of the words, “Everything is going to be okay.”

I know what summoning an ounce of will feels like,

to hang on to a singular reason to breathe,

to comb the mind and heart for a shred of honorable expectation.

Clawing any way out from under the heavy blanket of severe depression is a suck-ass journey.  It is fraught with overwhelming lists of suck-ass things to do just to be able to lift your head above the water long enough to grasp a fragment of recovery.

Well, then.

Maybe I should describe how I really feel.

From tragic loss and trauma, to brain dysfunction and heredity, there are volumes of circumstances known to trigger a depressed state.  For whatever reason a human being may suffer, one of the last notions a person can understand, let alone hear, is that they have a choice.

No one is stuck with any condition.  It is only the nature of a human coping mechanism, when experienced for any length of time, that provides a sense of familiarity.  Once we become intimately familiar with any state of being, depression included, it can feel as if we are stuck.

It feels as if nothing ever changes.  No matter how hard we try, we cannot see the fluidity of our circumstances.  Our familiarity with our response blinds our view.  Current perception does not allow us to acknowledge that all things are in constant motion.  We cannot see that things are always changing….

because they are always changing back to the same things.

Over,

and over,

and over.

Again,

and again,

and again.

The energy of life itself is in perpetual motion.  It is impossible for life to stand still.

Responding to life with habitual patterns of thought, emotion, and familiar states of being can only create the same patterns of circumstance, the same experience, and the same familiar outcomes.

Time,

after time,

after time.

I used to say that Prozac saved my life.  Durwood referred to it as my “don’t-kill-the-children-and-husband” medication, so Prozac may have ultimately saved the life of my family.

“Have you taken your Don’t Kill Us Pill today, honey?”

I used to say that my therapist saved my life.

My kids, and the love of my patient husband received credit for saving my life, too.

I did it.  It was me.

I saved my life the moment I took complete ownership for every single experience, circumstance, and condition of my life on this planet.  If I did not like the way things were, if I wanted things to be different, I had to reclaim my birthright to create my life experience.  The only way I could do this was to approach all unwanted and familiar circumstances in unfamiliar ways.  I had to loosen and remove the glue that held my thoughts, my beliefs, and my emotional responses to life in an aimless pattern that no longer served me.

I could write a book about it.

…or create a website dedicated to blogging about it:)

I remember the day when I discovered the source of my true magic.  Weeping uncontrollably, I raised a desperate cry to know “WHY, WHY, WHY does this stuff keep happening to me?!!”

I heard my answer in crystal clear resonance:

“It’s you, stupid.”

I wonder if I might pose the question, “What is love?” without prompting a slight gag reflex in either of us?

A smirk?  A roll of the eyes?

C’mon, Jill.

It is possible to address the subject of love seriously.

A practical witch will gladly remove a firmly-placed tongue from the cheek to explore all energy forms that are available for our human use.

After all, love is energy.

…And what is a blog maintained to ‘encourage the individual creation of the best life experience’ if it does not include the topic of love, itself?

This is my one-hundred-and-fiftieth post.  ‘Love’ seems fitting.

I love this site.  I love our visits.  I love the opportunity to continue sharing my words here.

It is easy and natural to love things. It is just as easy not to.

It is when we express our love for people that the energy of love is often transformed into a complex formula of highly emotional extremes.

In its purest form, love simply exists.  Divine nature does not complicate, much less care about that which we make such a fuss over in our physical realm.

It is only in our human existence that we use direct experience to assign our understanding and predictions toward love.  We have all sorts of ideas about it, too.

We love our kids, of course.  There are days we don’t like them so much, but our expression of unconditional love remains pure.

Every parent I know would not hesitate to “lay down their life for their children.”  This edict can sometimes be misinterpreted by parents who may experience a potentially harmful “forgetfulness” toward attending to their own life.  It happens.  A timely reclaiming of self-love allows for a healthy recovery when desired.

I should move on, but I want to note here that there is not one mother I know who appreciates the term “doting,” particularly when it is suggested by someone who is not a parent.  We’re not stupid.  We know that neglecting our own desires could naturally escalate throughout the temporary life-on-hold requirements of motherhood.

This side-effect, along with the six-million other potential aspects of parenting, are always best left for an individual to figure out for themselves, in their own time, when the necessary precautions may eventually be discovered for the sake of sanity.

So for those of you who don’t have kids…Just shut-up, already:)

Not exactly a lot of love in the above statement, but it does provide a smooth segue to the next subject regarding love as shared among our family and friends.

“I love you” is too often such a loaded statement.

Overuse between friends and family members have relegated these three powerful words to insubstantial status, as if it were a mere closing to every casual conversation.

Too bad, too.  There are some of us who really mean it.

Perhaps due in part to the “free love” movement, there are undertones of uncomfortable misinterpretations that are sometimes associated with the expression of love.  These underlying notions are often relieved by those who will substitute the written word “ya” for “you.”  We’re not sure why, but we know that a non-committal “love ya!” automatically eliminates any creepy factors that may be associated with a rather bold declaration of “I love you.”

To avoid potential blathering, I will refrain from any further discussion regarding the expression of love as it relates to a spouse or significant other.  Romantic love and the nature of our intimate relationships comprise an entire category of human experience with trust that may be best left to another post, another day.

I began writing this musing with the intention of sharing a perspective toward the energy of love that may (or may not) be of appeal to one who wishes to ‘play’ with the potential of natural forces among us.

It is a simple approach, really.

In silence and to yourself, whisper the words “I love you” to those whom you choose.

So what if it’s the guy behind the counter at the 7-11?  It doesn’t have to mean “I want to jump your bones” or anything.  Unless, of course, you do.  Get your mind out of the gutter, people!

I am merely offering a suggestion to play with, and enjoy, the potential energy of love.

Silently addressing a fellow human being of your choosing with the words “I love you” can be an amazing experience.  When spoken sincerely within, there is a gentle summoning of the purest vibration.  Weary and overladen misconceptions surrounding love are not present.  The natural rhythm of well-being is permitted to move freely, and most assuredly serves to open your heart, if not that of your unsuspecting subject.

We could always use a little more of that:)

Soul-searching, finding your path to spiritual enlightenment, techniques to achieve emotional healing, the process of vibrational alignment, blah, blah, blah…..

Is any one else as tired reading about this crap as I am of writing about it?!

Holy hell, already.

Perhaps someone needs her second cup of coffee this morning.

Whatever it is, the theme for today will be short and sweet.

Here we are.  Living, breathing, human beings.

There’s an infinite supply of information, inspiration, and shared discoveries available to those of us genuinely interested in the human experience enough to want to make the best of it.

Who we truly are, why we are here, and to what purpose we are to fulfill in this lifetime can be found everywhere throughout our written history, art form, fellowship, and current life experience.

Remembrance is in our fiction, our fairy tales, our music and poetry.  It is woven throughout our text books, our scientific discoveries, our technology, and our investigative reporting.  It exists in yesterday’s experience and tomorrow’s newspaper.

When not readily detected within any of these other resources, truth can be found most prominently within the eyes of a child.

All of the above are mere clues.

The real answers?

Round up your five human senses, one by one, and place them in the ‘pause’ mode.

Now take a deep breath, inhaling all the way down into your belly until it reaches what you perceive to be the innermost core of your being.

Feel the silence?

Ahh…

Right there.

Right there is everything you ever wanted to know.

There is no way to peace, prosperity, spiritual fulfillment, vibrant health, and everlasting happiness, my friend.

Happiness is the way.

After a second cup of coffee, any day is a good day to just remember that.


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