Vintage Shivaya: Richness

29. January 2012 · 2 comments · Categories: blog · Tags: , , , ,

{It always bears asking: what is true wealth? When times are tough financially — which is often in my life — I have to remind myself of this question. “Richness” is a vignette from The Reluctant Tarot Reader. Enjoy.}

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One friend has $700 worth of repairs on her car.

Another wonders how she’ll pay the rent to keep her cafe open.

Another has stopped eating meat because she can’t afford to buy it.

And another is blazing forward with her intuitive biz, better than ever.

I’m all for Abraham and the ‘law of attraction’. I love positive thinking — but not at the expense of acknowledging struggle.

Struggle is different from wallow. Struggle is empathy because yeah, I’ve been there. Time and time again.

Saturn is here roaming around my chart in this particular lifetime to teach me about money. Which means I’ve known wealth–and long for it again.

I’ve had to re-think and re-tune my ideas of richness, though. I wouldn’t be living in VT if I wanted to be successful on a strictly green basis. This is the state of healing, good vibes and gorgeous vistas. Not necessarily the land of fat cats & fatter wallets. Of course, it gives me pause when I hear about friends and the ensuing frustration when I can’t write a check to help them out. Wouldn’t that be great?

I want life to be easy. For them. For me. I’ve known plenty of rich people who struggle in their souls–but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Hey, I’m not going to be one of those healers who’s all la-la about abundance. Not having money sucks.

I wonder why we’ve chosen this particular piece of paper to make the world go round?

I wonder what we can do to ease the stress of expense?

Sure, there are ways of being frugal. Or ways of spending like you don’t care. Or staying somewhere in the middle. But it’s the sense of ‘not enough’ that haunts. Where does that come from?

My needs are always met. Always. And when it comes to money, my bills are paid. It may be at the very last minute that cash arrives, but it comes. I have to keep reminding myself, though. It’s like I have this perpetual amnesia when it comes to fulfillment — or maybe I have a slight addiction to worry.

Either way, I keep being shaped by living in a world that requires money. It’s pretty odd. This year, I’ve made it my goal to be more like water, less like rock. To willingly receive support — whether financial or other — and make this ride smoother. 2011 is the year of smoothness. That includes coinage.

The law of attraction can’t work until I have compassion for where I am, right now. And that is a life well-lived with a pretty low bank account at the moment (“low” being a relative word, of course.) That contrast is either a thorn in my side or the magical place where everything transforms (5 of Pentacles, anyone?)

Because I do love the essence of money. I do love the ease it brings. I love tipping well. I especially love a Saab, Audi or BMW convertible. I love beauty–and money gives me access to certain types of beauty. I love paying my bills and having plenty left over.

And I love how Saturn teaches me to stay in place long enough for the lesson. If I resist, he just hangs around even longer until I finally get it. It’s about always having what I need but acknowledging the struggle. Enhancing the picture. You can still have enough while enhancing the picture. It doesn’t take away from the fundamental beauty and form. Every painter knows that.

Every painter also knows when it’s finished — or time to move onto another work (I’m the type that usually barrels through, tearing out my hair until it’s done. Big surprise.) The ‘law of attraction’ may not resonate for you. So what? Find what works. Find what brings ease. Trade in your car. Refinance. Be grateful for every little thing. This works wonders for an anxious mind.

Know that this too, shall pass. It always does.

Or just look up at the beautiful sky, take a breath and say, “Gimme the money, honey!”

The Words Remain

23. January 2012 · 5 comments · Categories: blog · Tags: , , , ,

“You clearly don’t know the first thing about writing a paper.” She handed me a stack of 8x11s filled with red marks. I thought I even saw a smirk creep around her lips.

I was 23. Two years earlier, the top tier English programs rejected me. I decided to give grad school a shot again after taking time to meander around Cape Cod.

Simmons, City College/CUNY and Colorado State all offered me a place.

Colorado won out. Blame the mountains. And here I was, red-faced and grasping a paper that I swear, burned the tips of my fingers.

And swear I did. Internally. It was new, this cursing thing, as I explored the vulgar world that lay outside the walls of my Christian youth.

Fucking bitch. What a pathetic woman! A sad, has-been writer teaching a class of competitive English students. I don’t know how to write a paper? I had a 4.0 in English! I was a TA! I don’t know how to write a paper?

I promptly left the class and never returned.

But that was my way. Leave, with a “fuck you” trailing behind.

It didn’t stop the embarrassment from settling into my bones, where it would swoop up again in a galestorm when faced with the slightest criticism. Who I was. How I wrote. The way I dressed.

It hurt.

I always considered myself a writer. Before anything else. Harriet the Spy started it. That shy, geeky girl was me: notebook tucked around her hand, observing the world with a wisdom far beyond her years. Still separate from the crowd, trying to comprehend it all.

My journals saved me.

They were the place I explored all of the voices: God’s, a shouting father, chattering girls, the boys who ignored me, my orange cat. Those crisp white pages with perfect alignment kept the chaos at bay. It was where I could wander in safety.

And then there was that one journal entry that changed everything.

I was 13. Endurance. That was life then: endurance. If I can make it to 18, I can leave. Hike the Appalachian Trail. Go to college. Leave and never come back.

My journal and God heard my innermost thoughts. But even then, I trusted my journal more.

Until the night I left it in the family car, after falling asleep in the backseat from hours on the road.

When I woke, she wasn’t there with me.

And then, my father’s voice.

The voice that meant everything was about to come crashing to a halt, and I quickly assessed just how hurt I’d be after his rage was over.

He called me outside and it wasn’t even a minute before my back pressed against green metal siding. I could feel the sparks of spit and naily pinches soon after. My father hit where he could — palms open so that he wasn’t actually beating me, as he was a Christian man — and I covered my fragile breasts. I was nearly his height but hadn’t learned yet the ways silencing him through the power of my eyes.

“What is this?” he screamed, shaking my journal in front of my glasses.

I knew which entry. It was the newly written one, the one with the list. Who I hated.

They both were on it, Dad and Mom. Dad was #1.

He didn’t stop there. He thumbed through my journal, commanding me to read certain portions, including the list of people I hated. It seemed that he had availed himself of the entire book, which included my secret thoughts over how it would feel to kiss a friend of my brother’s .

I wept as one condemned. My humiliation was complete. My father would look at me with triumphant eyes whenever he had the chance —  because indeed, he knew all of my secrets.

And I swore that day that I would never write my inmost thoughts again.

Except that’s the thing about writing: once vulnerability locks up, everything suffers.

And when your writing is called to task 10, 20, 30 years later, that young girl may still be sobbing against green metal siding. She may still be forming a fuck you in teenage scribble. She may be walking out of the classroom where no one cares to stop her.

But the words remain, patiently waiting to be liberated.

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