For the past 3 or 4 months I’ve been living with a faulty smoke detector. It was been beeping non-stop, day and night. 

I’ve been getting out of bed 5 or 6 times a night to push the little button to reset it. It lasted a couple hours at first, then the time between beeps decreased, until finally, it was just a constant whine.

It frayed my nerves unlike anything I’ve experienced. The constant noise and interruption was almost too much to take.

Of course, it was a dead battery. I knew this – and I tried my very best to pull that sucker down to replace it. As it was plastered to the ceiling and jammed against the wall moulding, I had no idea how to make it stop completely. So I just kept pressing the button like a good dog.

Months of this beeping. Months. I seriously thought I was going to lose my mind. 

I had my step stool permenantly placed under the bugger, and attempted in vain to pull it down, to twist it off, to hack at with with the vacuum. I needed a man, someone strong and knowledgeable to just make it quiet.

I’ve lost sleep, had a constant headache and been irritated more than I care to admit. But the beep! beep! beep! didn’t stop, and neither did my annoyance. What a massive pain in the ass.

Until, at last, I post photos on Facebook… and Yamel gives me a bright idea. And it worked.

God be praised! Allah! Buddha! Christ! Jehova and all his witnesses! Ja! Krishna! Mother Earth! Father Christmas! There is peace in this house once again!

And now all is quiet and I can hear myself think. I can hear Echo’s dainty footsteps on the carpet when she tries to stalk me. I am quiet inside and outside. I am sleepy and know I will slumber interrupted. I am so grateful for good ideas that I don’t even know how to express it.

It’s like love. When all the noise stops, the love just flows so easily. And that, my friend, is exactly what is happening. And it’s been held up a bit … so it’s rushing in fast and strong. Oh, peace, what lovely, soothing, comfort you are. 

It’s like hearing blue and green and lilac all at once. If they made a sound, it would sound like this …

Why is red associated with so many negative things? People “see red” when they’re angry, we’re “in the red” when we’re in debt.  It’s fire, it’s danger, it’s a stop sign. Red.

See, I’m more of a blue/green person, but I’ve been seeing a whole lot of red these days. And I don’t really like it.  Thankfully, I know it’s temporary.

If I were happy all the time, then I probably wouldn’t really appreciate it. But it’s when things are difficult and stressful, that I can forget my own harmonious bliss. Bad shit happens all at once it seems. Bad afternoons turn into bad days that turn into bad weeks … and before I know it, I am the dreaded grumpasaurus. 

I have one thing on my side: I’m aware that it’s all me. It’s not you. Not you, or you, or you. I try SO hard not to take my bad days out on people. Well, ok, I’ll be honest. I don’t take it out on people I like. If I’m having a crapola week and someone who naturally just annoys the crap out of me starts poking me… I get aggressive.

Not angry, loud aggressive. No, if I’m going to unleash on someone, I’ll do it in looks and in words. I will calmly unleash the honest truth at that moment without a single care for censorship. And I’ll look ya in the eye when I do it. I don’t even need to curse. I’ll just make you feel really small and stupid.  Then I smile a satisfied, evil smile. 

I’m scary. I’ve been told that I’m intimidating. I’ve made overgrown men cower and apologize for things they never did. It’s a skill. 

But I want to use my powers for good, not for evil. See, that’s why I’m glad that it’s atypical for me to be confrontational or blunt or curt. The people who know me, know that I’m just human and having a shitty ass day. And those who don’t know me, will eventually get an apology in one form or another. I’m aware when I’m being a bitch, I just hate having it pointed out to me.

So, I’m going to soak my body in a hot bath scented with rosemary and chamomile and lavender. I’m going to put on some soothing music, Liquid Mind, perhaps. I’m going to pour a glass of red wine and read my favorite book. And I’m going to let go of all this red and anger and frustration and wash it all away. 

Tomorrow is another day. Another opportunity. I’ll get it together…

I have endless questions about love. But right now, I’m wondering … is love about having faith or is it about letting go?

Ok, a little vague, I know. But it’s hard to describe. If any one of my three sisters would actually pick up their phone, I’d be talking this out instead… but alas, everyone else has a life.

So, I’m in love. He’s a good man and completely worthy of my love. But he has habits, deeply ingrained and comfortable. And they stand in his way. They stand in our way.

We’ve talked about this, him and I. And we both agree he needs to do some work. I’m already blessed by the fact that he’s willing. Not only for himself, but for us. And so, I wait. 

And wait. And wait. And wait and wait. 

There are months that go by and very little gets done, as far as I can tell. We agreed on a “to-do” list. And while he has taken steps, he’s accomplished nothing. In four months, not a single thing can be fully crossed off that list.

Does this realization make me impatient or observant? Am I rude to point this out or realistic? Are my expectations too high? Am I full of illusions that he’ll actually do what needs to get done? Is he just full of ideas that will never come to fruition? 

You see, I want to believe. But my belief is not based on fact. My faith is based only on what he tells me. And he says a lot. But I don’t see much action from here. 

Does that make me a bitch for saying that? 

They say, give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day – teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for lifetime. And all I’ve wanted to do was help him learn to fish. But he hasn’t even picked up the pole yet. He keeps talking about it, he wants to, but there are always reasons not to… money, time, other people, etc.

So I wait. I believe he’ll actually pick up that fishing pole and get to work like he says he will. 

But he hasn’t yet. And I’m concerned for my faith. Do I keep standing here, waiting? Or do I turn away and hope he’ll get it on his own.

Oh, love, don’t you know patience is not my forte?

It’s not just legend folks, the great grumpasaurus does indeed exist. I see them everyday. You probably do too. They’re not as rare as I once thought, and when I come across them, I’m really unsure how to handle these creatures.

You know them by their negative attitudes, their complaining, their endless frustration at life. The littlest inconvenience makes them crazy and loud and bang things around. They “hurrumphff” and sigh audibly, roll their eyes constantly and say profane things about people who piss them off.  In fact, just about everyone pisses them off all the time, and repeat offenders are subject to obscene hand gestures.

Now, I like to calm nervous animals, but these grumasaurus’ are wily and seem to be unsatisfied by any positive, reaffirming words or help that I can offer. To me it seems, they like being grumpasauruses.  Even a high-strung kitty can be soothed by a soft pat, hushed reassurances and a treat or two.

I did have success once, cohersing a large grumpasaurus to smile with an oatmeal raisin cookie, but the effect was short-lived. And I can’t keep such a supply of cookies with me at all times … just think of the ants (and other crumb-loving creatures) I would attract.

Anyway, now I just give them a wide berth … space to roll and stomp in their own misery. What else can I do?

My only problem with this species is their effect on the people. You know, those who have a relatively good handle on happiness. Granted, they have issues of our own, but they deal with them. And sometimes, they deal with them alone and quietly. But when the grumpasaurus comes around, their problem is everyone’s problem… and often, that becomes too much to bear for the quiet ones. 

This is when I become like the grumpasaurus and puff up, all angry and righteous. But I have no real power to challenge a true, seasoned grump. I just don’t have it in me. But I feel bad for the people they trample, the waste they leave behind, the feelings they hurt and the idiocy of it all.

But then, I get over it and go on my merry way. But really, what can be done? Isn’t it about time these ancient grumpasaurus’ evolve like everything else on the planet? 

Oh, bother.

I remember being a baby, not having words or full control of my limbs. I remember laying in my crib, seeing the colors and furry creatures surrounding me, trying to focus on what was beyond the bars.

I remember I had the same voice in my head then as I do now. And I remember remembering before I was there, in that crib. 

I don’t bring this up in conversation a lot, but it’s something I want to get out, only because it has been a constant image in my mind for as long as I’ve had one. And before I get too old, I’d like to illustrate it, before my synapses lack their firing skills and it’s all gone. I may have written about it before, but that, I don’t remember… funny how the brain works. 

An interesting question I like to ask is, “What’s your earliest memory?” I ask, selfishly, wondering if anyone else has pre-birth memories as I do. And if they ask the question to me, depending on how they answer, I may or may not divulge the exact truth. 

Because my earliest memory is of not being “here”. And when I’ve said that in the past, I’ve gotten a lot of “uhh-huhhh’s” and sad, sorry looks. But it’s the truth.

I don’t know where it was that I remember being. I do recall not being alone, but not visually seeing anyone either. I couldn’t see with my eyes, I don’t think I had eyes per se. But I was safe and loved and being called. 

I remember feeling very alert and keenly aware that I was to go. And I was shown exactly where that was. And my vision was granted, and I saw people. Lots and lots of people kneeling and praying. There was a large room, red velvet and gold and the tops of bowed heads. 

And then I could hear quiet voices, offerings, pleadings, whispers for forgiveness. I didn’t hear so much words as feel emotion.  And I knew where I was to go. I saw my Mother before she ever saw me.  There was no time in that space…but I knew she was where I was to go, and I knew exactly why.

I don’t remember actually being born, but being diaper-clad and immobile I do. I remembered that red place, the feeling of the “before” and I’ve carried it with me all my life. 

My family was Catholic and I can recall my first reaction to going to church. I don’t know how old I was, but I was being carried. It was the incense and the dark wood, the red velvet and gold that jogged my little brain. Here, here is where I met my Mother. I loved that church.

I didn’t understand the purpose for going to the church. I figured it was all for me, so I sat and felt the connection with my memory. There was a choir and I loved the music, the priest spoke in gradually ascending tones that sometimes scared me, but I was messmorized by the feeling of just being there. 

I ended up going to the elementary school attached to the church, and at the end of first grade, that church burnt down. I was sad. Even though we had a short year and no more school for months, it was like a part of me was gone. 

I didn’t ever believe in any of the Catholic teachings. I never took the bible as anything other than a book full of stories. I aced all my tests and kept high grades and repeated what they wanted to hear. But inside my heart I knew that whatever they considered God just wasn’t out there. The belief that we are all born sinners never appealed to me. I knew quite the opposite. But I didn’t tell anyone that. I knew this man named Jesus didn’t want to be worshipped.

I knew I was not going to hell for thinking so, and my soul wouldn’t end up in purgatory if I wasn’t baptized (even though I was).  I didn’t believe Adam and Eve ever fell from grace or that women came from the rib of a man or that the devil was there at every turn daring you to sin.  I didn’t believe in the devil or hell or evil.

Despite the religion classes and daily masses, the memorized prayers and forced penance, I always kept in my heart the knowledge that all this pageantry was just that – a show. And I played my role, but kept what I knew to myself. Even though I didn’t understand exactly what I knew,  I was sure it was much larger than could be contained in words or a book or in one man.

And life goes on, a new church is built, I’m being banged over the head with rulers from overzealous nuns for non memorizing my times tables. I’m surviving my parents divorce and a mother in rehab. I’m introverted and stuck in my thoughts, every time I open my mouth I get strange looks, so I speak very quietly, very little.

They tell me I’m “special” because my vocabulary is off the charts. I’m smarter than they think I should be, but I never felt special in any way. Just confused as to why all the adults in my life did the exact opposite of what they wanted ME to do. I withdrew into myself for many years, and I held onto one thing: my faith in my source, God. Whatever you want to call it. 

And we had conversations. I spoke to him a lot and he replied. Sometimes is it was a her, or a them… but it was always there to answer the questions I had. It was always there to remind me that I had purpose. But I couldn’t remember what it was anymore, and I felt lost. And I was told time and time again, “Patience.”

I’ve never been very good with patience…

But then my mother comes home  sober, Dad leaves and things being to even out, in an unsteady but forward-moving way. I liked my mom this way. She started to call me her angel at the most odd times. She’d get drifty and quiet and say these things and at first it made me self-conscious. I didn’t like too much attention. But soon enough, I remembered that I was her angel. I was sent here for her. To be an integral part of this familial process.

I wasn’t even 9 when I realized how important my role was, it blew me away to know and to remember that I chose to come here. This family, this time, this body, these circumstances. 

I couldn’t handle it. Seemed too unreal, too “out there”, even my above average word choices couldn’t describe what I felt. I let myself get weighed down by self-imposed responsibility. It almost broke me. Thank God for time… give time, time. And indeed all things will be clear.

And I aged and life goes on, and I’m older and full of new freedoms, but faith and god and remembering is always with me. I went on a quest for many years, delving into multiple religions and faiths to see if any one had even a fragment of what I had in my heart.

I took a piece here and bit there, for there have been a lot of good words written on faith and humanity and the nature of man and the universe. But none of it compares to the volumes that i have stored in my memory …if only I had complete access to it… there would be no need to write.

But it’s all still there to this day, my conversations with god, mother calling me her angel, me being overly verbose and slightly withdrawn… and the memories of before here. All still here. And the quest is still underway, only now, I don’t have to go it alone. Thankfully, communications as they are, make it much easier.

I wasn’t always aware of my role in my own life. I always thought life just happened to me, and so I reacted to it. I didn’t know I had the power to choose differently, I didn’t know changing my mind was the most powerful tool I’d ever be given.

When I was about 19, I was given a copy of “Awareness” by Anthony DeMello. I read it straight through one sad night when I was at an emotional crossroads. I didn’t want to feel like shit anymore. I was tired of bad things happening to me. I hated my life. But that thin, little book really made me think, and his writing was so entertaining, that I didn’t feel like I was being preached to. He wrote: 

Suffering points out that there is falsehood somewhere. Suffering occurs when you clash with reality. When your illusions clash with reality when your falsehoods clash with the truth, then you have suffering. Otherwise there is no suffering.

And so I began my journey on finding truth, weeding out all my false beliefs and taking control of my thoughts.  I realized, I didn’t have to be unhappy just because things don’t happen the way I want or expect. I began to open up to the possibility that things happen for a reason, a good reason. And even if I’m not aware of that reason at the time … eventually I will. 

And on any journey, you meet like-minded people following the same path. And when we recognize one another, it makes the journey that much more fulfilling. I don’t have to do it alone, in fact, none of us can do it alone.

I find there to be so many more people taking this course lately. This makes me incredibly happy. We’re waking up, we’re feeling our connectivity, we’re finding our commonality and we’re working through it together.

Even in the smallest ways, every choice we make creates something. The awareness of this powerful creative potential makes me careful, but not hesitant. It keeps me vigilant. And when I forget, there is always some guide to remind me. And when you forget, I’ll remember for you.

We’ve all had conversations where the person talking says, “You get what I’m talking about?” or “Do you understand what I’m saying?” … and we’ve all nodded and said “oh, yeah”, even though we had absolutely no clue. 

We say yes because we don’t really care to understand and want to change the subject, or it was just way over our head … and we don’t have enough interest to ask for clarification, or we pretend to be smarter than we are. I’ve done it, you’ve done, we all do it.

But what if that person was trying to tell us something really important? What if we zone out on a really integral lesson, being placed right at our feet – but we’re just too lazy to pick it up.

Every single day holds potential to learn something new. It’s out there, all we’ve got to do is pay attention.  Wouldn’t it be nice if we always went about our days and nights with open minds and hearts?  … but we don’t, we’re human. 

I am a student and I am a teacher. All I can teach is what I think I know, and I am hungry to learn things I didn’t even know existed. Unfortunately, I am consistantly faced with the same lessons over and over. 

I guess I’m just not “getting it.”

And I’d really like to get it. I want to understand. I’m open to changing the way I think and what I believe, if it would advance me on my path. But there seems to be so  little guidance sometimes. And I find myself trying to work with what I have, but times like now, it isn’t enough. 

I ask for help, but that hasn’t turned out well. I think I must live in a very strange bubble that nobody can relate to. Because I’m not interested in advice that involves any kind of revenge or anger or retaliation. I just want help processing difficult emotion without causing more harm.  I think I’m asking for help from the wrong people. 

But where are the ones I need? Where are the people who can listen to me without judgement or debasement? Who can I speak my truth to that will look past my words and just see me and my desire to heal the situation?

It’s really kinda sad. Thank god for god. Because right now, that’s all I’ve got.

I am only human afterall. For as much strength as I have, I am just as weak. 

I tend to bear the burdens of others better than my own. I am the listener, the mender, the inspirer. I mend the broken bits and make them whole again. I’m quite skilled at doing this for others, not so much myself. …but I am learning.

There are things in my life that I have done that I am not proud of. I have sad memories, but I’m happy to say that most of them have been resolved. I don’t like when things fester and bubble over. I want a solution, and even when I am mired in misery, I focus on that. 

I’ve always wondered why I’ve always been such a good friend and yet I haven’t had many to return the kindness. I’ve worn this, like a badge, for years. It’s the story of my life.

I give. And I give. And I give. And just when I need a friend, I am turned away, judged, demoralized, crushed back into the very grave that I was reaching out from.

When I was in junior high, I had very few friends. And those I had, many where carry overs from elementary school. I didn’t participate in a lot of social activities, shy as I was. But one sunny afternoon, I had a chance to go home with some childhood friends after school. 

There were 3 of us. But I soon learned it was 2 against 1. And I was the odd man out. Even after all we had shared years ago, even though our families knew one another through PTA and school events and church, they still duped me into coming back with them so they could kick my ass.

Funny how I was so naive. I thought we were friends, we had shared history, we even laughed and joked together as we walked. Her mother served us chips and soda before we went upstairs to do “girl” things. 

And then they started pummeling me. They punched and kicked every part of my body except my face. I recall the kicks to the lower back especially, how they make my legs go numb and I fell to the floor. I didn’t ever see it coming. And when my cries became so loud, her mother ran upstairs and dragged me into the bathroom, where she tended to me. And begged me to tell me what happened. But I didn’t know. I had no idea. For some reason, I was the object of anger and fury and I sat bleeding and bruised and sore. And I refused to tell her that it was her darling daughter and her best friend who just kicked the shit out of me for no reason.

I went home, I limped home and tried not to cry, but I did. Mostly because I didn’t understand the cruelty or where it came from. I suffered alone with that. Never told anyone. I avoided those girls for the rest of my schooling, which was another 4 years. 

Strange, just when you think you’ve made a friend, they’ll kick you down. I don’t think I ever did anything to deserve the beating, it just happened anyway.  The pain remains, but the questions do not. I don’t care why. I just don’t want it to happen again.

I am the creator of my universe. I have a totally unique perception of this world, and with my meager tools, I make my way through. 

I’m thinking about the manifestation of dreams. Making real the thoughts I have. 

I’ve been told, “Thoughts are things, choose good ones.” And so I try to do just that. I avoid idle gossip, I avoid toxic people and situations, I even change the radio station when the song playing doesn’t make me happy. And I don’t stop until one does.

I’ll be honest about being stubborn. But I’ve come to realize, this thing that I’ve been branded as is more akin to tenacious. I am tenacity embodied.

And these dreams, oh, these dreams seem so much larger than me right now. Isn’t that how they start? Beguiling and impressive…

But I am not afraid to dream big, and there are some dreams that I’ve held onto since I can remember remembering. And those dreams are the very ones that seem the hardest to achieve. Or so I think. At least, they seem the farthest away. But I could be wrong if I wanted to be. 

To manifest dreams, one must first have a thought, a desire. And then the unending faith that it will come to pass. We must see it, hold it, experience it as if it were here now. And before you know it, you’re living the dream. I can say this only because of my own experience with creation. It must start in the mind for it ever to grab hold of the heart.

Faith is essential in this process. Without it, no dreams can pass into reality. Faith is one of those words that can be so easily confused and diluted. But faith is surprisingly easy when you have desire, true, strong, desire.

And that’s where tenacity comes in. I am tenacious in my faith, I hold fast to it and it has never let me down. Faith for me is not “god”, it is a mere knowing that I am responsible for all of what I perceive. God is a part of it, in my experience at least. He/she/it/they – whatever. God is the source of my tenacity and allows me the willingness to own it.

And so I dream … of things big and small, beautiful and gentle. And I will keep on keeping on, until every last thought I desire has been manifested, and when that day comes, I don’t need to be here anymore. 

The manifestation of peace can only be attained by forgiveness.  (me)

It is a harrowing and sometimes painful process, but it is essential if we are to move forward, in any significant way. 

I didn’t really understand it when I was first presented with the idea of forgiveness. I thought I had pretty much let go so many things that had dogged me through the years. I was strong, I was smart, I didn’t need to forgive. Honestly, I didn’t feel like I should have to. Why should I forgive? Damn those people who hurt me. 

But my life was still idling, I was circling around and around through the same dark forest, going nowhere, and I desperately wanted out. I was told, “Forgive, and move forward.”

I was advised to make a list of all the bad things that happened to me, and who do it to me. And I did, one rainy, introspective day I sat down and put pen to paper. And damn if I wasn’t a crying, sobbing mess within 20 minutes. 

I never went back to that list. That was attempt #1. I became so emotional that I totally relived all the shit that I had denied myself from feeling. And I didn’t want to go back. I threw in the towel and the pen, and went on with life as if I was perfectly fine.

But I wasn’t. 

And it was obvious, because I wasn’t truly happy. And I could feel this unease. And so, I tried again. Stronger and more aware of the feelings that can arise. I sat and wrote my list. And I cried, and I got angry, and I relived all the hurt, but I put the shit on the page. And when I was done, and couldn’t think of any other trespasses against me … I slept.

I avoided looking at that list for weeks. I had recalled much of what I put down, but I didn’t want to look at it, in my own words. I didn’t want to see all my life’s disappointments in my handwriting, I couldn’t look, I didn’t want to see. 

But I kept my list safe, and filed it away for a day when I was feeling brave. And finally, that day did come.

I had an evening alone and a bottle of wine – and I was feeling quite ready to let go. So, I dug out my list and I read each entry out loud, one by one. After each sentence or paragraph, I said “I forgive you.”

I cried a lot that night, but I made a conscious effort to let go, because holding on was doing me no good. And I looked to The Course for guidance, which it always has. And it says:

If what you offer is complete forgiveness you must have let guilt go, accepting the Atonement for yourself and learning you are guiltless 

And I think that’s what it was all about for me, getting over the guilt. And I so wanted to be guiltless. It wasn’t so much what had been DONE to me, it was what I ALLOWED to happen to me, and what I allowed to EFFECT me. 

The forgiveness process that I went through was more about forgiving myself than anyone else. And I would never have guessed that I needed to do that.

We always think external influences are to blame for the unhappy turns our lives take. But now I know, it’s me. All me.