What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? For me, it’s traveling down major highways or mountain highways on a motorbike. I am a logical person, and logically speaking, a motorbike is a tiny vehicle in comparison to a normal vehicle. Passenger vehicles have fancy features, like seatbelts and airbags and shatter-proof glass and metal surrounding their passengers. On a bike, there is zero protection. One can easily cross over into the great unknown due to weather, wildlife, or drivers on cocaine. Yup, I’m terrified right now imagining all the ways to meet death or disfigurement coming off a street bike.
I think about all the wildlife hazards for those on a motorbike. Animals are wild. Traffic laws do not apply to creatures of the forest. Wild creatures have the ability to cross the road at any moment, making it akin to a game of risk and uncertainty. You might make the trip without an incident, but you might not. Is there a moose, or an elk, or a deer in your path? Heck, it might even be a porcupine. Smaller animals are formidable obstacles if you hit one with a two-wheeled freedom seeker.
Next, I consider the very real danger of bad weather. Wet or icy roads pose significant risks for bikers. I imagine myself clinging to my husband like a monkey to a junkie’s back; we are miles from anywhere. Suddenly, marble-sized hail begins to rain, creating a slippery surface. We go into an uncontrollable skid toward the guardrail protecting us from a 600-foot drop. Then lightning flashes and thunder roars, and ocean-sized fish fall from the sky (honestly, there have been cases of fish raining down from the sky). A five-pound carp slams me in the head, and I topple sideways as we crash through the guardrail down into the scenic view of the Grand Canyon. The following day, we are the Sunday morning splat in the Las Vegas Review. This scenario does not align with my personal definition of adventure.
Thirdly, highways are busy roadways with an overabundance of giant semi trucks that generate intense air movement. Wind is the biker’s enemy. Now, combine a windstorm with a coked-up newbie semi-driver. Yikes, what a horror show that might be. We get sucked into the draft of the big truck, and splat, we are a smear on the side of the road.
So, in case you’re wondering, it is my hubby’s dream to tour on a motorbike, and since I kind of like him, I will consider going touring. And in case you are wondering, no, I would not feel any braver if I piloted my own bike. I’m kind of clumsy and accident-prone. I tend to drive where I look—and I like looking at trees. I love my car. Cars are way more forgiving; if you need to correct your steering abruptly, you can. Bikes? Not so much.
Once upon a time, as a teenager, I had a dirt bike, and then I made scars on my body. Funnily enough, my husband had a proper highway-legal bike when he was a teenager. He loved it, but then he had an accident. To be fair, my husband is much older now, and he is a competent driver—although he does enjoy speed and passing people on the highway. Still, I am comfortable while he drives. Airbags are a wonderful invention.
In conclusion, what would it take for me to be a passenger on my husband’s dream bike? Final answer: psilocybin mushrooms, the Devil’s lettuce, and/or my gramps old companion, Valium.
Daily writing prompt
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
Someone must be spying on me to come up with the timely writing prompt, ‘Where can you reduce clutter in your life?’ Every time I open a closet, or cupboard, or drawer, I feel ashamed at the mishmash of stuff. Soooo much stuff. I admire organized people. At times I strive to be one and organize a few drawers and cupboards myself, but after a time, oddball stuff gets tossed back into these tidy places. Mostly because guests are coming, and I must have spotless counters and floors. The struggle with clutter is real. The items I struggle to evict overwhelm me with logical and emotional reasoning: “What if you need this in two days?” or “You can’t get rid of this; your daughter made it for you in grade one; it would be like getting rid of a piece of her.” or “You need to keep this; it was your mom’s moms and her moms before that.”
I recently heard decluttering is a form of releasing. My spirit animal is an octopus.
Please don’t worry for me, though: I’m not extreme enough to play the main character in the show Hoarders. My rooms do not have rabbit trails through mountains of teetering stuff or decomposing animals in my cupboards or the boxes. I’m a clean hoarder. I simply tuck oddments away into every hidden hole I find, where no one will see my clutter unless they snoop.
Okay, maybe it doesn’t matter if I am a rabbit trail hoarder or a drawer and closet hoarder. It is still clutter. So much of my clutter is sentimental. I have boxes and boxes of photo albums, and loose pictures, and teacups, and ornaments, and doilies, and so many of my dead family’s things. Some days I feel like the only thing I didn’t keep is their skeletons. I carry the weight of this clutter in my mind and body. It’s paralysing.
What to do? What to do?
Quite conveniently, we are moving in May. I have no choice but to clear my space. Would any of you happy hoarders like some more stuff? Boy oh boy, do I have a deal for you.
In a matter of twenty years, our world has become a digital distraction with a dizzying number of online options. Certain platforms are intentionally designed to be addictive. Although my digital communication style is primarily texting and emailing, in the past, I had completely fell in love with Pinterest and Facebook. I found myself utterly captivated, constantly glancing at pins and tags whenever I had some free time. Eventually, I had to divorce myself from the unhealthy relationship. It took some determination, but I finally broke free of the soul-sucking desire to scroll.
Quite some time has passed; I actually thought myself free of digital influence, but then recently I realized I am completely smitten with YouTube. I am endlessly playing footsies with the bottom comment sections of podcasts and cheating on my actual real life. On YouTube, both intellectuals and idiots flourish on this podcast platform. I blushingly confess I listen to both. This is primarily due to my inability to resist listening to both.
Do you want to know how I became a podcast junkie? It all began with a workout program, and now, two years later, here I am, hiding from my dog in my closet, listening to Mr. Beast. I am weak. And worse yet, I am volatile. When my emotions are stirred and I decide to post in the comment section, a wrestling match between my inner angel and inner demon begins. How shall I respond? Should I spout brimstone and curses or benevolence and understanding? Ultimately, the halo prevails. Likely because of my parents’ ample indoctrination; kindness is paramount. Plus, this idea was also reinforced with a wooden spoon across my butt.
Sigh, enough of this.
Dear YouTube, we need to break up. I need to get a life.
But can I even get a life offline? I need some distance from the wifi. Are any of the remote tribes of South America accepting immigrants from Canada? How about the Amish? Do they have an open immigration policy?
Ahh, don’t worry; I kicked the tech habit once; I can do it again. I’m looking forward to less online time. My dog says, “Ditto.”
In this brand new year, I am asked, what could I do differently? Well, almost everything if I was so inclined. I could walk on my hands instead of my feet, or I could put my clothes on backward, or I could travel around with the circus and be a bearded woman. But I suppose the true intention behind asking that question is for people to go deep into the muddy pit of self-discovery.
For me, the pit of self-discovery is nothing new. In the past, I spent a great deal of time churning up my dirty laundry to remove my regrets, in hopes of becoming something pristine and squeaky clean. It was countless years of spinning round and round. Until, finally, I realized my stains were set. Resigned, I picked out all my inappropriate belly button lint, threw it away, and set myself out in the sunlight to dry. In the naked light of day, the blotches and splatters, and the threadbare fabric, and fraying edges were on full display. Yet, instead of feeling ashamed of the wearing of the years I felt a sense of peaceful knowing. Regrets are as pointless as planting a tree underwater; nothing thrives in the environment of regret.
So, what could I do differently? I discard the word, could. Instead, I simply do. I do kindness. I do love. I do learn from my mistakes. I honor my blotches and splatters, threadbare fabric, and tears, and I do better.
Let’s just call performing and public speaking exactly what it is: being seen. As a child I did not enjoy being seen. I avoided it at all costs. Sadly, once I reached a certain age, my invisibility cloak didn’t fully cover me anymore—and let me tell you, when people noticed legs running without a body attached, there was an uproar. I clearly failed that day. My desire to melt into the background continued in elementary school. Much to my appreciation, when it came to our yearly Christmas concert, all of our Christmas songs were performed as a group where I could sing as loud as I wanted and not be noticed. Even better, all my acting roles were silent, such as portraying a sleeping sheep, a cow chewing cud, or a nanny changing baby Jesus’s diaper beside the manger. All was perfect in my not being seen world, and then I grew up.
My mom passed away when I was in my mid-thirties. We were close. She was my mom. She baked me cookies and took care of my angelic little rug rats, giving me some time to shave my Sasquatch-style lower legs. After her sudden death, I felt compelled to challenge myself, break free from the wallflower life I had always led, and truly embrace life. I shaved my head to raise money for a boy with cancer, I took up tae kwon do, and I enrolled in singing lessons because the act of singing brought me closer to my mom. Lucky for the brave new me, singing lessons also meant participating in recitals, which included both group acts and solo performances. My singing instructor had talent coming out of her ying-yang (don’t judge me; I don’t know exactly what ying-yang means, but I heard my mom say it a couple of times, and it sounded edgy). Long, story short, I sang loudly in the group performances, and I did not die during my solo song. I didn’t even hyperventilate. However, I may have brought along a baby Jesus and a diaper bag and changed him while I sang. Amen
Daily writing prompt
Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?
Photo by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto on Pexels.com
The writing prompt for the day is to share five things I am good at. Let us begin.
I’m proficient at waffling. There are so many things I excel at I don’t know which ones to choose. The agony is real. Just in case you missed it (because counting might become a thing,) the first thing I am good at is waffling. Or was it sitting on the fence? No, it definitely wasn’t sitting on the fence, as I am currently on the ground.
On most days I find myself handy at dropping things, but then, I’m also adept at picking them up. Now, does that count as two shares? Is there a monitor on this daily prompt exercise, or a telescreen? Have we arrived in the hellish landscape of 1984 yet, or have we averted that disaster? Never mind, I’m rambling; I shall continue.
Throughout most of my life, I am confident to say, I was proficient at both riding horses and falling off. Hmmm, here I go again… Does that count as another two shares? Really, I need to know: Is this being graded? Someone should have laid out the rules a little clearer. Have I failed? This is not a good start to my morning.
Good at eating—at least that’s what my parents said.
And now, I’ve lost count of my shares, so I’ll do another for good measure, I excel as an inaccurate counter. Do not leave your beans in my care; there will be faulty bean counting. (And maybe snacking)
And now, have an amazing day. My list has come to an end, as has my agony. Feel free to respond with your well-thought-out lists too.
Pursing the craft of writing requires determination and a certain understanding that failure is a step to success. So, when I think of all the writers who struggle, I laugh. It is not a cackle of cold-hearted humour but a laugh of harmonious hysterics. And we must laugh, because it’s far less painful than banging one’s head against a wall. A day without laughter is a day with bandages on our heads.
And so, I commend all writers on their continued dedication to writing. Storytelling isn’t a craft for cowards; it is for people with golden scissors in the pocket of their pants. A tool to cut well-loved sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. In fact, well-written stories are the result of a bloody and thorough scissor slaughter. My novel, for instance, is beginning to feel like Frankenstein— a cobbled together horror of life.
In the end, dear fellow writers, the only way to finish is to keep on writing. Which oddly doesn’t always mean going forward; often times, in a banging your head against a wall situation, you need to go back to the beginning. Ugh. However, don’t give up. Whether it be forward or back, movement is the key to success.
Be the flowing words; be the vibrational hum; be the silence and the song. Warble on and tell your stories of deep longing in a world of shallow breaths. Go outside and walk upon the earth; take notice of the trees and the sky. Pause to listen to the screams of silent masses, and then come into yourself and gather up your gifts and share. Stories are you; they are me; they are everyone we see. Endless tales of wonder and laughter and banging our heads against the walls.
In the beginning, we started out as wide-eyed innocent babies hoping to be taken care of, because, well, to be frank, we were pretty useless. We enjoyed those days in the lap of luxury, yelling at our moms without getting in trouble, life was like a vanilla milkshake, sweet and dependable. As we grew and found our feet, we crawled and then tottered and then walked about. Eventually we discovered the joy of crayons, creating marks with wax sticks of color at first on paper, and then if unsupervised, on walls and books and table tops. Crayons then got switched out with washable markers, and then we discovered blue fingers were pretty cool too. If we were fortunate enough to have a stable home, our early years stayed pretty magical right up until we entered school. It was then, that society hit us square in the face with the blunt end of the crayon. We lost our sparkle of wonder through assimilation and sameness. The feeling of possibility was crushed by preconceived expectations of curriculum and hard and fast rules; line up little citizens, work hard but not too hard, have ideas, but not too fresh of ideas, and of course, don’t fool around. Please remember, the government and corporations are depending on you to become compliant, dead-eyed, spending above your means, tax paying citizens.
Cynical much? Yes.
Is everyone is thriving in the robot factory? Rise and shine, eat, have a big poop, go to work, eat lunch, work, come home, eat, watch TV or play video games. Oh damn, we need to replenish our supplies, buy food and toilet paper, wince at the price. Once in a while we might mindlessly buy a product we saw advertised a hundred times on TV, such as a box of super duper band-aids in the shape of a power saw. Then, while we wait in line at the till, we notice some other hogwash item we don’t need and purchase that too… unless we have filthy hogs and an oozing cuts. But who am I kidding, no one procures hogwash anymore, we purchase mammal-lather, it’s far more inclusive. Those are the little items though, perhaps the most expensive and pointless purchase is the ego investment. You know, when we buy something just because our neighbour has one. It’s a plot. We need to keep up with the Joneses, because we understand the Joneses set the bar. (Shhh, don’t tell anyone, but I heard through the grape vine that the corporations install Joneses on every block— two when sales are slow. The banks love the Joneses too, especially when it’s steak night.) The Joneses spark up their barbecue and soon the scent of barbecued beef enraptures the entire neighbourhood. Suddenly credit limits are raised all around suburbia and barbecues ignite simultaneously on every deck in the neighbourhood. Credit approval is now required upon purchase of beef.
There are times though, that we rouse enough energy from our dead-eyed corpse-like bodies to indulge in exercise, socializing or artistic endeavours. Then for a short span of time we become momentarily free from our robotic life and we feel light and energetic, in tune with our bodies and our surroundings. We fervently promise ourselves we will do this lovely soul lifting activity again. And then our well meaning promise gets obliterated through our scrolling compulsion on social media, Tic-Tok, twitter, Facebook, and then out of the blue, Tinder dings and there is a robotic request for meaningless soul sucking sex. Empty soul deflating information continuously being downloaded into our psyche. Is it any surprise that, bam! Suddenly, we are back on autopilot in a lacklustre state, dull-eyed and sniffing the neighbour’s steak from afar.
Truth? We are our own worst enemies. We get bogged down with all the well-meaning shoulds, coulds and woulds in our lives. It’s a stalling energy. I should do that. I would do that. I could do that. The trouble is when we use those words they all come with a big fat BUTT on the end. Oops I mean BUT. So, why do we hesitate? What keeps us from achieving? Is it worry or fear? Or a lack of focus? It isn’t easy to yank yourself from the daily grind. We have been expertly manipulated into compliant, dead-eyed, tax paying citizens who seldom look up from their immediate needs. First off, we need to understand how we lost the wonder of our existence? If we can answer that inquest, we will have a starting point to making better choices working towards the accomplishments we desire. Questions are the answer. Are we actively choosing the things we do or are we just choosing them because it is the way we’ve always done it? Change begins with self-reflection.
I have an idea. Let’s all buy a box of crayons, a massive box containing all the colours we can imagine. Now, let’s draw. Draw badly, draw and scratch and scribble and draw some more. Then write. Write badly, just write and write and write. Let’s keep going until we find our childlike joy and remember who we were before we were crammed into the dead-eyed tax paying citizen role. Let’s learn new things and new ways of doing things and most importantly, let’s’ be kind to one another. On that note, Happy New Year to us all! Let’s make this a year of bright eyed living and actively create the life we desire.
Tiny vibrations of communication travelled through the soil and entered my roots. Instantly, I knew a human had entered our grove—a woman ripe with child and terror. The thrumming energy in her footsteps became more and more intense until finally, I felt her latch onto my stout gray trunk. She tucked herself into my wide girth in an attempt to become invisible. The energetic connections that permeated everything enabled me to discern her condition. She pressed her forehead against my protective bark, her breath warming that spot with hot and ragged air. With our energies combined, I sensed the child inside of her, a light drumming of restlessness and distress fueled by its mother’s frenzy. The tremors of panic that radiated out from the woman were so intense that I swayed with the force of her feelings, and my leaves rustled in the stillness of the day.
I hadn’t seen a human in a long while, never-mind one who was carrying a child. Humanity’s inner blindness, greed, and authoritarian focus on everything outside of themselves had nearly led to humanity’s extinction. The forests survived and thrived. Regrettably, the majority of humans viewed nature as dumb, emotionless, and completely disconnected from them. They saw the trees as useful plunder to be killed and harvested. Humans could not see the forest for the trees. Blind to the fundamental truth that a single tree single tree is interwoven into the existence of all things through the invisible energetic field.
Long ago the entire world, including humans existed within a web of harmonious contentment and love. Oddly, the fruit of a tree broke the human connection to the All. It had been an abnormally cold spring, and the apple blossoms froze; summer delivered scant apples but one. One magnificent, shining red apple. All the people desired that apple. Day by day, as it ripened on the tree, it was clear not everyone would have a taste of apple that year. The people turned away from the abundance they had within the vibrational realm and instead focused on external things. Fear took hold—a fear of missing out, suspicion, and distrust of their kin. Who would receive the apple and who would feel diminished? An empty feeling of scarcity along with a possessive desire grew and ripened in the heart of mankind. Arguments arose over who deserved to eat the bright red apple. They judged each other. Hostility escalated into fights and threats of worse violence. The root cause was fear, the one emotion that disconnects us from each other and the infinite love of the All.
Despite the apple’s innocence, those who consumed it in the darkness of the night experienced an unfamiliar sense of guilt. It was a sad time for the forest, for nature; we missed connecting with our human kin. Now the humans were vibrationally blind, their eyes the only source of sight. Such a shrunken sight. After the people lost connection to the All, their reason for being vanished and a great hole of emptiness ached to be filled. In an attempt to heal, they accumulated things hoping to fill the void. They stopped cooperating and worked against one another, each claiming something or someone to fill the hollowness within. Ah, if only they would have sat in the quietness of our crooning grove. They might have recalled the truth encoded in the vibration of love; a never-ending circle connects us, invisible yet felt.
Ugh, and now, the sticky black emotion of fear and hate that radiated from this woman created such a heaviness within my core. The emotion began to turn the edges of my leaves brown. I reached out vibrationally to my fellow trees for aid in supporting this woman and child with an energetic realignment to ease my burden. As a team, we sent them calming frequencies. Eventually, her breath slowed, and the hate dissipated within the comfort of our silent thrum. The fear remained. Hmph, what to do with this woman who is so bulky with child and full of untethered fright? I turned my attention to my own infected state and concentrated on Mother Earth’s silent yet pattering song. I soon regained my sturdy, energetic self and sent out a question through my roots and into the soil, “Are sources of aggression near?”
Right away, the pulsating biome and water in the dirt replied. “A group of men, heavy and bristling with a craving need.”
Trees seldom moved intentionally. It required a tremendous of energy to shift our dense physical forms without the push of a wind. Yet, this situation required just that. Again I called upon the energies of my forest community for an extra boost; with that surge of power, I was able to drop a thick, sturdy branch down to the woman.
She stumbled back and yelped. The soil and biome beneath her bare feet sent waves of encouragement and implanted an image of her accepting the extended branch and then hiding within the dense leaves in my upper realm. Then the forest chimed in, draping the woman in an energetic blanket of blissful love. The woman grabbed her belly as her baby responded to the bliss, issuing forth a bubbling flow of happy kicks.
The child openly interacted with the energetic field; with the forest. It had not yet been corrupted by its human pack. The woman closed her eyes and yielded to her child’s invisible interaction and then grabbed hold of my outstretched branch. She stepped forward and clutched onto me with a tight grip. With the aid of my kin, I hoisted the woman onto a thick, sturdy limb up into the sanctuary of deepest green. Gratitude trickled forth from the woman, and the child soon napped within the tranquil nest.
In no time at all, to a tree, an eruption of hostile vibration, stomped into the shadow of my form. The men brushed past me; thick, dark energies dampened my golden light of connection. The violence emanating from them was both desperate and loud. The force of it made even the tiniest of my branches tremble, and I felt the woman stiffen.
Being the curious tree that I am, I sought to understand why these men were so intent on this woman, their bodies filled with such anger and panic. I opened to their darkness. Hmmm, it was the child. Every season brought fewer and fewer babies to their tribe, and this year, only one remained in its mother’s womb. Their treasured woman and baby had escaped, and they were desperate to capture her again.
However, the men would not find any trace of the woman in this forest; the soil had shifted away, obscuring any traces of bare feet passing this way. The men raced on, blind to the magnificent energy field all around them. And then they were gone.
My community shivered with excitement; leaves fluttered like hopeful wishes in the air. Such an eventful day. Never has there been a day like this in our woodland. The woman cautiously touched the energy field with her newly found inner senses, and her child smiled. Perhaps this would be a new beginning. Maybe the humans could be taught the ways of a tree, the ways of the earth, the ways of the All. Maybe these two humans will remember beyond the temptation of an apple into something much more.
“If anyone asked me, “What is hell?” I would answer, “The distance between people who love each other.”
The Minds Journal
Normal differences of opinions used to be an elephant in the room, slightly awkward, but dealt with in due time. These days, there isn’t merely an elephant in the room, but it’s more like a dinosaur, and the space between loved ones is enormous. Differences which typically would have been discussed are now off limits. Ears are closed and hearts are blocked. Severe damage and even the death of many relationships has become just one more type of casualty in the aftermath of the pandemic.
Discussion of the dinosaur was forbidden in many house holds; a stance supported by media and politicians who consistently inflated the size of the dinosaur during every morning and evening news cycle. Belittling and name calling others with a differing opinion was encouraged and even applauded. Many of those shamed individuals held their tongues and ignored their trepidations to keep the family peace. Sadly, when people feel unsafe to voice their concerns they inevitably become disconnected and distrustful of those relationships.
Some worried individuals did not heed the giant beast keeping them separated from their loved ones, they simply wiggled past the weighty dinosaur, and leapt into a discussion. Unfortunately, all too often it resulted in a challenging and fiery argument, sometimes erupting to the point of flaming eyes, spitting words, and boiling blood. The outcome of those types of conversations were doors slamming, phones clicking, and the dinosaur moving swiftly to take up even more space than before. Family members or friends ousted.
A civilized pachyderm would have been preferable, a dawdling being that mused self-reflectively while painting naked in the moonlight; an embarrassing but approachable subject. The Tyrannosaurus Rex, on the other hand, crashed around unpredictably flashing it’s ticker-tape death toll, and bellowing terrifying threats day and night; an intimidating subject to broach.
What a nightmare these last two years have been on kinship and connections. So many lives in ruins. I spoke with a lady outside a grocery store a couple months ago, she and her husband discussed the dinosaur regularly. It became an insurmountable block in their relationship. Their marriage ended. Name calling and shaming happened, just like it’s done on the news and by the politicians. Unfortunately, it was done everywhere and done by both sides of the argument— family and friends being banished for wrong thinking, and family and friends being banished for playing follow the leader.
Oddly enough, if you step back and ask yourself why the division became so large, the answer is the same—It is because people cared. Everyone had the same concern. Everyone wanted to protect the others. It was simply done from an extremely opposite viewpoint. There was no hate, or ill intent by those with the unpopular opinion, there was only concern at an absence of facts and an absence of information on potential harms.
Today we are entering the season of spring, it’s an ideal opportunity for fresh beginnings. It’s time to set the dinosaur free. It is time to turn our energies toward the things we’d like to see happen in our world. We all want health, prosperity, and the dignity of being heard, and we want it for all. It’s time to step away from those things that tear us apart and put our focus on those things that bring us together. Love heals and fear divides, let us find the exit to hell together.
Sharpenedink 