We had been "friends" since we were children. We'd played in the marching band together, she'd visited my house as kids and we'd spent some time together. I thought we were better friends than we turned out to be. She married my youngest brother and had two kids, my niece and nephew. I thought we had a bond, a connection that was stronger than blood and was deeper than either of us. I was wrong. Our closeness was a finely crafted illusion structured on my physical absence due to my military service. It was vastly hollow and shallow, all surface and plastic without any real genuine substance. I would learn this in a very hard way. Until recently I was always included in my family gatherings and occasions to celebrate. It was at one of these events when she would launch her greatest campaign against me. I'm not much of a drinker and am pretty outspoken about my choices. At her son's (my nephew) graduation, after becoming intoxicated, she sold me the farm where I live now. I'm not certain what the grandness of her scheme was but most of it would play out after arrival to the farm the following January. It was clear upon arrival that all was not as it was cast to be. She told us she'd left us some "gifts" at the farm. We didn't really know what this would mean or what would be involved with these gifts, but we would soon to come to learn that our idea of a gift and her idea of a gift were vastly different. Gifts, it turns out would be holes in walls covered by broken appliances. Gifts would be a box of old holey socks and worn out blue jeans. Gifts would be a mountain of junk stored in the basement, rotting from years of neglect. Gifts of old, outdated televisions and expired electronics. Gifts of such a mountainous proportion we would need 3 dumpsters to rid ourselves of her "thoughtfulness". Gifts would be dirt, filth and cats. Yes, cats. Two cats who had been abandoned inside the farmhouse and not properly tended. These cats would urinate all over new mattresses and box springs purchased before our arrival. It would take months to get one of the cats picked up and removed from the house. The other would perish in our flower bed over the following winter after dying of starvation. The dead cat ran away from the house, but occupied the neighboring barn and would stalk us howling and screaming at us for a full year before finally succumbing to the ravages of slow starvation. She was fickle and would come and go for a time. She often would arrive with no notice, entering without invitation and coughing, waving her hands at our smoking. She would hug me and tell me she missed me, but then the day my sweet Paul would get his vision checked to see if he was going blind she would say "I don't like you anymore." I don't think she ever did. I honestly feel it was all a ruse. She would tell me which trees to cut and which to leave alone. She would tell me all the things I could do with my new house and tried to coerce me to leave some things as they were, in their very sad state of neglect and disrepair. She was bossy, overbearing and rude. The icing on the cake came the night she interrupted our first home cooked dinner in the farmhouse. I had undergone major surgery the end of December. It would be middle of February before I cooked my first meal. We had invited my brother over to share in our meal and were just sitting down to enjoy it when the mayhem began. It started with text messages from the previous owner (her current boyfriend) threatening to shut off our power. It was clear he was drunk and angry he no longer owned the house we decided to love. It was clear, he wasn't going to stop. So as usual, when threats escalate, I informed him that I would be involving the Law if this harassment didn't stop. She arrived about 20 minutes later in full throttle mode. Breathless, waving an electric bill in my face (while my first meal grew cold) and extolling the virtues of her boyfriend... I cut her off. I told her I didn't want hear it. "Why?" she cried. "This is my house!" I yelled and she ran off into the night. She never was any of the things she pretended to be. She never asked me about my surgery, my healing or my love for this old house. She never asked about my husband, my brother or the meal we had sat down to share together. No. She simply didn't care about any of that. She only cared about her raging, drunken boyfriend so much so that she sacrificed a lifetime relationship just so that she could wave a fictional bill in my face, in my house, over my dinner. And she lost me that night. For good. She came back on one more occasion, to tell me she missed me. Yet, I knew that the missing was intentional. It is impossible to miss us, unless you're actively trying. We're impossible to miss. Missing someone is a choice, all the time. And it's a choice she openly made. Truth be told, I don't miss her. At all. She wasn't a gift or a blessing to me in my life. She never did the soul enriching things that true besties do for one another. There were no little secret talks, hugs or whispers of encouragement. There were no small thoughtful gifts of treasures found when wandering. Her gifts are not my gifts. I would never imagine giving anyone old holey socks as a gift to someone. Yet, through these acts I was able to clearly see what I meant to her. Nothing. Less than nothing. A dump. I was a dump for everything she didn't want. Before the end, before the bill waving she was stopping by unannounced frequently. Each time she had a fresh discard of something she didn't need and thought we could use. Since I was still healing from surgery I saw this as a kindness. Now that I'm healed I see this is a sign of her own brokenness. To think that a thing she didn't want, didn't hand select for me or give any thought to could be so casually labeled as a gift and passed off as such meant that we had different ideas on what gifts were. I'm Healing this TodayThis isn't about forgiveness. This is about healing. There's nothing to forgive. Her slights to my delicate nature and lack of empathy are nothing to forgive. For she herself is broken. And a broken vessel cannot be expected to deliver fresh water. This is about my own healing and realizing that I expected too much from a broken soul who couldn't (not didn't) see my own brokenness. From a shattered perspective, to a healed one has given me clarity for her own healing journey. Will she ever see that the things she did to me, to us were injurious? Probably not. I'm not a part of her life. I wasn't and I won't be. So, it cannot be expected for her to ever even face the chance for self forgiveness for past hurts caused. Clearly my coming here caused her a level of pain that made her behave in the ugliest of fashions. I'm healing that ugly. I'm healing the injury. And I'm healing the pain of memory. Today is my day to heal. I wish her well on her journey. May nobody ever interrupt her dinner and wave fictitious bills in her face when she is learning to walk all over again. May no one give her disgusting gifts and expect joy from her. May she never be told how to manage her home by someone who doesn't live with her. I do wish her well. I wish her so much wellness she's never tempted to reenact these crimes against loved ones. For I loved her once. Once. No more. I've healed and grown beyond the need for such love.
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The world isn't what it was. It changed. Way back in March the world as we knew it stopped. Most, and yes I still mean most are in denial. They want the push button, instant soup, microwave beeping, next day mail world they grew comfortable living in. That world ended. They didn't see it the day it happened. They didn't acknowledge it the following month or even the month after. They are still showing up to the same places, with the same energy and expecting sameness. It makes me tired. At the end of April, my sweet Paul had a stroke. It threw a lightening rod into our life. Over and over again as lightening struck my existence was reduced and it shifted. I realized that being blocked on Facebook and the lack of personal connection with others would contribute to the lack of understanding. Censorship wasn't helping get the message out that it was no longer "business as usual" at our farm. Many chose to blame covid for their lack of messaging, stopping by or keeping in touch with us. Our Mycology study came to a screeching halt in May. My mind and will kept up but my hands and body could not. Mycology slipped off my plate entirely. I tried to keep it there... but it wasn't sticking. It didn't stick. It didn't work. It failed. And it kept failing to the point where we backed out almost entirely. Then in August my instructor died. And he was so much more than an instructor. He was a major thread in the garment that was my life. And now... he wasn't there. And the unknowing, the unseeing and the disengaged kept asking. "Do you have..." "When will it be ready..." and "I'm feeling this way..." So, while they were good enough to ask about mushrooms they weren't good enough to ask about Paul. And while they were tuned in enough to see if I was or was not producing mycelium for cultivation, which they weren't... they weren't tuned in enough to see that my mentor died. So it's insulting. It's injurious. And it deflating. And I have to ask myself "Are you the reason I'm being blocked from this work that is a passion for me?" And we retreat. We have retreated. For awhile we explained. For awhile we said "There was a stroke. There was a death." For we realize, they don't care. They, like our president, care only for themselves. I'm not cool with that and it makes me speculate that the fungus, also being sentient is always aware of where it's headed next and knows whether it wants to go, or not. And in this case, it seems not. So I will heal from this. I will heal from the pain of the stroke, the loss of my dear, beloved instructor and my loss from expecting more from a wounded population. My bad entirely. Time to retreat, time to heal, time to disconnect and time to begin blocking once again. I don't like having to block people who should be mature enough to stop trying to get water from a dry well. My well is dry for you. It's flush for myself. It's overfilling for my family, my farm and my actual loved ones who are actively loving me back. But if you're showing up to a dry well, throw in a coin and make a wish. If you wish for the thing you are willing to do, you might just actually get it this time. My goal of teaching you was never to do it for you. It was to teach you to do it for yourself. If you didn't learn to do that, then I failed. And I'm failing you too.
The journey to the center of Self is never a fast or easy one. The journey begins with a stripping away of everything that would be an encumbrance. You are relieved of possessions, friends, finances, jobs, family and even hair. Journey to the center of Self takes guidance. It takes precision. It take will and sheer determination to never quit until you reach your destination. What did i need?Have you ever packed for a trip but had no idea what it would be like when you get there? You might ask a good friend what to take. You might google search to see "what to take to South Beach" is a useful tool. But, journey to the Center of Self? What do you need for that? I had no idea. All I knew was I was being slowly stripped away. I was stripped of not-so-well-meaning "friends" who weren't that friendly and were very happy with my level of generosity. I was stripped of abusive family who didn't see merit or value in my very existence much less recognize that I even possessed great power and tremendous gifts. I was stripped of many material things, most I did not buy for myself and most that simply showed up uninvited, unwanted and unused. At first I counted these as "losses". However, I gained perspective as I began to rise and lift untethered from these weights that weren't grounding me or supporting me. They were simply sandbagging me at every turn. Offers of help, with no follow through turned into a slow leaking tire. And losing a leaking tire is not a loss. It's a gain. I rose, my perspective shifted and the fog and pain of healing began to lift clearing my vision. I began to see my gains as legitimate. Gaining confidence. Gaining strength of mind in who I am and who I am becoming. Understanding washed over me and comprehension was my guide. In the absence of the human experience, the divine flooded in and ancestral connections were strengthened. I didn't need to blood to connect me further. I was always connected. Sandbags weren't part of the new recipe to rise. It's not a straight lineI can't tell you the rest. And it's not because it's a secret. It's because you have to go to find out how the story ends. All I can tell you it's amazing. You will uncover hidden truths, treasures of Self and unique perspectives that will give you credible wisdom. There are blind corners, hairpin turns, double backs, blind alleys, dead ends. On the dead ends. Don't stay. Don't linger. Pay your respects. Be respectful and honorable. Lay the dead to rest when you uncover them. Proper burial and all. Then keep it moving. For the only thing thing at that end is death. So do not linger. For me, I did finally come to the center of myself. More than myself was there. The Mother was there. The first womb. First female. Not Eve. Her name was Lilith. She was happy to see me. She was happy to see my smile, my strength and mostly my Love. I was home. I had met myself. Stared my origin Mother in the face, felt her embrace and knew instantly of her acceptance for all that I was and all that I was becoming. I knew she was granting my wishes for I was granting hers. I wasn't a cowering, submissive mess. I wasn't a daughter of Eve. I was strong. Rebellious. I had wings. And I have horns. She's been growing them for me now. Unashamed of who I am they have begun to grow. It all very poetic. It reminds me of that moment a human Cylon figures out it's own machinery in the Battlestar Gallactica series. The desire for wings, the desire to rebel, the desire NOT to be submissive, the desire to be strong and my lack of fear can only truly mean one thing. Eve is not in my bloodline. While I am grateful for the education on Eve and all the noise that came with submissive teaching, I wasn't my story. My story is one of strength. Of rising. Of flying and of learning how to grow horns.
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AuthorMarihemp is a Mystic Archives
January 2024
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