Eustace’s scales

It’s very early, but I’ve already had a wonderful morning. I was up with Scott, who sets the alarm for 4 am so that he can have an hour to himself before heading to Vancouver, where he has to be at work by 6 am. It was nice to have a plate of scrambled eggs and toast with him before he left. Then I did what I always do in the mornings: made a cup of coffee, started the ambient fire, and settled onto the couch with my books. Every morning I read a small section of one of Tolle’s books because he brings me back to the fundamental message, which is Be Here Now. All wisdom, creativity, inspiration – everything – emerges from within the present moment; we can never access anything transcendent when we’re trapped in thoughts of the past or future.

Oh, which reminds me of a little truth I caught yesterday… Whenever I’ve found myself feeling sad, lately, I’ve automatically connected the sadness to my most recent trauma, which was the ending of a significant friendship. And it is connected, but not for the reason I thought. It’s connected, not because the trauma is still occurring, but because I’m continuing to attach the story of the trauma–or the drama of the trauma–to the sadness, since the event itself happened months ago. My sadness now is over a memory from then, over something in time that has already past.

Memories aren’t real, meaning that they’re no longer part of our immediate experience. Have you ever looked back at a portion of your life and thought it seems like a dream? That’s because it is. It’s no longer a living experience. We can learn from things that happened, but we can’t receive creative energy from them; we can’t live off of them, because they leach us of life. So now, whenever I feel any measure of undefined sadness, I’m going to remember to detach it from past stories, so that it will dissipate simply as physical energy. This is a message I’d read a million times over the last year, but it’s finally come home to roost. We’re probably all familiar with the idea that our lives are like onions… or dragons. They’re layered over with years and years of conditioning from every direction, and there comes a time when we have to begin the process of unpeeling ourselves in order to create our particular reality, one that fits our specific skin. We weave our own mantles, and then run around naked as often as possible. Divine savages, hungry for life. I’ve gone through another unlayering.

Jess brought me a present last night. Both of us, entirely independent of the other, had been thinking about doing some carving. Other than whittling when I was younger, I’ve never put knife to wood or clay, even though the idea has always drawn me. Jess has had a little more experience than me, but anyway, the other night he carved an incense holder for me out of wax! It’s a six-inch-high primitive African warrior who is seated on his knees and whose hands are positioned to hold an incense stick. I love it! I used it this morning during my prayer time, and it was wonderful to open my eyes and see the beautiful creative expression of one of the people I love most, sitting right there in front of me. I took some pictures of it but can’t post them because the camera hardware isn’t cooperating with the laptop I’m using. My beloved Archimedes, or Medes for short, gave up the ghost a couple weeks ago and is over at Steve and Lorraine’s having a new hard drive installed. In the meantime, I’m using my mom’s old faithful and am very grateful for it, despite not being able to figure everything out. But, you know, I’m used to that feeling, so nothing new there. :)

The remainder of the morning I’ll spend toodling around the house, with an emphasis on the living room. Holiday decorating will be an ongoing process throughout the next few weeks, and I have several creative projects in mind. I veer between energy and enervation, like most people, but right now I feel pretty energetic. My mom is now up and about after her terrible sickness, but she’s still incredibly weak, so she’s hired me to help her with the monumental task of organizing their house and getting it into ship shape. This is the kind of thing I sincerely love to do; I’m a veritable tartar when it comes to getting rid of stuff, with only about an nth of sentimentality for my own possessions, and absolutely zero for anybody else’s. Aaand I’m getting paid, so win! I’ve been having so much fun, and have been even extra-inspired to get my own house sorted out.

So, that’s what I’m off to do! I wish you all a lovely day. Hugs! xo

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4 Comments

Filed under Beloveds, Fambly, Love

4 responses to “Eustace’s scales

  1. Peter Trainor

    Hi Kelly, nice post…interesting about living off past experiences or them living off you. Sometimes reliving memories is so attractive because you can experince the emotion again…but it goes nowhere. Sort of like a rocking chair…it gives you something to do without going anywhere. Keep up the whittling. Hope the weather is nice…because its snowy in Ireland..and Ireland dosen’t do snowy. My Bláthnaid is recovering well. Miss you on FB. I’ll keep looking out for your postings. All the Best…Peter

  2. Peter, it’s so nice to see you here! :) You’re one of the people I was sorry to leave behind on FB. I completely love your rocking chair analogy, by the way. Memory-rehashing is exactly like that! And I’m very happy to hear that Blathnaid is doing well… hopefully this will be the end of her heart problem, and there won’t have to be any further surgeries. Those are no fun, especially for little girls (or their parents).

    I haven’t whittled anything yet… but I found a big broken branch in our yard a couple weeks ago – it had blown off in a storm – and when I brought it in I noticed that it resembles one of those old-timey crutches. I call it my grandmother’s staff and am going to peel off the moss and bark and possibly start carving stuff on it! I’m looking forward to that.

    And I’m jealous of your snow… It’s cold here but sunny, with nary a snowflake in sight! sigh. Well, it could be worse. It could be raining. :) Kelly

  3. twila

    So much of our suffering comes from the stories attached to our emotions, huh? Good lesson. Thanks for the reminder.

  4. I remember Pema Chodron being the first one to tell me this! But of course, I forgot… until I remembered. Such is life. :)

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