Cosmic Glue Disasters.

 TImagehorhe ability to face adversity heart-on is a gift many seem to forget our species innately possess within our toolbox of survival. Missed opportunities for awareness far outnumber those we perceive. To understand the meaning of the mess our consciousness presently finds itself mired in is probably not by chance. The daily muck of being human is the jelly inside any poet’s donut they eat to tread the dark waters of their personal Mariana Trench of emotions. Masochistic by nature poets are our species trumpets of human disorder. They write down the joy sometimes, the stings and slings, forever.


Synchronicity is evident if one is willing to pay attention to life and pass over the dead birds in the road. Accidents, be they sublime or tragic, are points along the time continuum where we can excel in our steadfastness of honor or succumb to a corroding metal can of hidden ache we harbor within our hearts.


My personal angst over the separation of myself from others is mine own. No other human can change my feelings except by being present in a shared particular space and time. The tears dribbling from my green eyes are not for one particular reason. For me to undergo sadness I require a whipped up swarm of unhappiness. Why go there? Suffering is a cloak we wear to push off being resident within an atmosphere we refuse to change. No pain. No gain.


Detachment is the key to well being. IF one is lost in the pain for too long the pawn of madness smiles and places shackles on our souls. Some can escape through faith and others by torturing oneself or another, and too many by enabling a sufferer. The enablers find relief by focusing on the other so intently – as their distorted path to not be aware of the angst within them selves. Mostly, these drama-driven lost adult children never receive the two by four of awareness and spend their lives in the shadow of someone else. They are not content but parasitic-able to what they falsely believe = suffer for the good of their obsession. A personal martyr to a living person is an addiction. I know this experience. It was the basic demented plot to my first very short marriage underpinned by becoming addicted to fixing this certified genius. The drugs he provided became my slave and my salve and then almost my owner. Luckily because of a stronger sibling, my brother, I escaped my soul sick purgatory. My sense is I will never return to hell on Earth, this lifetime, or the next. No pain. No gain.


When I sit in my grief today, and yesterday, and let us be real, probably tomorrow, it is for a few moments and even at its happiness-shattering peak no longer than a couple of minutes. The wave of separation comes over me in deafening silence. I tried fighting these sufferings with about ten million different self-imposed mind spaces and by keeping myself glorified in too busy activities. None of these faux cures work. The more I struggled to prevent the great discomfort within my heart pulsations the stronger their hold on my knee jerked consciousness.


Not very quickly, I realized a path of least resistance would semi-release me from the worse of the unpleasantness after a few moments. For a while, I lived in this self-endured fairy tale I would – if not today, at least next week, finally go through a 24-hour period without any moments of despair. This turned out, of course, another lie and a con as the trickster of grief found triggers even I, an artist, a birder, a writer, a lover of life, a gardener, an oldster sober person, did not know existed in my living milieu.


As a visualizer by creed if not emotional makeup, I see in my mind’s eye what I am to do, to create, to write, to build, to do, and to enhance. One would think with this well-honed ability I could visualize my heart feeling no angst.


Another twist in the karmic spin, I cannot seem to imagine myself out of this sorrow pit. Maybe, and I state this with no deep conviction, after Arthur’s memorial Oct 25th and the next day dusting his ashes across a Striped Bass blitz (as per his will) I will not feel these months of crap could have been avoided. How? If he would have listened to me and begun treatment with an adept doctor in Costa Rica. Another voice at the round table of my knights of inner life says, “Fat chance.” King Arthur did it (read his entire life) purely as Frankie sings, His Way.


Of course, I married Arthur because he was an adept creative independent, super articulate, beyond witty, with a deep soul, a communitarian, philosopher, overly brilliant man who ‘got’ himself and most importantly, ‘got’ me. Finding a mate in each other even with its one atrocious pang of malcontent (none of your business to know what it was) meant our celestial relationship was epic if not in the societal category of power couple. I state this not to impress the reader merely to inform how intense and vast was our coupling.


Stupidly, I operate in the realm believing this style of expansive brutally honest love between a man and a woman is the true North basis to pushing forward our species toward global peace.


In all honesty, I am on the edge of another one of these trysts and believe the separation befalling this one feeds off the primary lost of Arthur, and vice a versa. As a former mental health professional (humanistic art therapist) who spent time in therapy as both therapist and patient I could provide an outline Jung would accept but there seems no reason to do so. It is what it is. I am powerless. Never so more evident than this gorgeous perfect weather Sunday morning – building busy as usual, the adhesive glue I was applying under a short piece of trim bamboo went ballistic spraying its goo everywhere. I keyboard this revelation with pieces of yuck glue stuck to my fingers and nails wondering what panacea are being offered. Assignation is needed? I am not the appointment maker for this so over due rendezvous my tummy has sent me a message. I can no longer stomach the separation.


Losing my grief is like Pacific game fishing? I am in no mood to explain this metaphor, now. After the frustration level subsides, I might discover the patience to explain it to those who have never been anglers, or maybe not. Hopefully by then, the glue on my fingers is worn away from spilling my guts.


Meanings arrive in our hearts in their own annoying periods, never the one we propose or seek. Letting go allows God to do His/Her work. Solutions to healing a heart riddled as if Swiss cheese is a matter of perennial faith. How blessed are we to know, even when we do not, love is the food and beverage of life. Without hope in love fulfilled, I believe I would walk off into the jungle and become the Amelia Earhart of Alfombra, Costa Rica.


To dream of knowing love greater than what I experienced with my beloved Arthur is either a golden fool’s errand, or a saving manifestation of God’s love, or both.


What is the never desired what will be will be is a place I cannot go in my mind’s eye because the potential for disappointment is a set-up to get drunk or high. Expectation in the format of my current singular being could also be another dumb stab by me of keeping the hungry wolves of death at the threshold. The barrier is thinning, as is my skin. Soul translucence, like government transparency, is not all it is cracked-up to be. My savior is staying in the here and now. Today, the monkeys were my teachers. They know not what their tomorrow is as they hang around the canopy in the instant. Most importantly, their pattern of repetition is dependent on an eco-system they resonate in without judgment.


Peering into a glistening pool of our heart seeking a get-together with someone akin to our essence is a miracle of happenstance. Eye locks we experience seal the deed. Synchronizing its actual materialization, in this situation, has a hefty duty to pay both here and in the hereafter. The reward is not a view condominium at the Treasure City of the Everlasting.


My living manifesto is coming to its conclusion. The signs are not good, nor bad. They just are. IF I am allowed to fulfill my final heartfelt wish then blessed is or blessed is not. I almost relinquished my explicit need to control my life some years ago and everyday attempt to re-visit this acceptance. While also not a pleasant experience to let go and let God, as my ego inhabits a continent, I eventually conclude love exists to teach us the highest attributes of our three weeks (life) on Earth.


IF I am proven wrong or wholly righteous in my assumption love conquers all adversity, this revelation’s actuality, and past due emergence lies in a new sacred spring with pyramids on a smoggy horizon and constellations rising amongst the cosmic desert dust.


Never sure if the abeyance is a vision of my past, or my future. What is clear in the sky blue of the tropical nature day, the greenish glue on my fingers is another odd message – stick to the course, no matter how frustrating and suffering in the moment. Maintain your verve by feeling these nasty bits of grief and then release them like ethylic balloons. The sword is double edged. One lip is the honeyed sweetie, and the other the bleeder, yet they both cut through the crap.



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