Running through fields…

We are all on journeys, especially those of us who suffered very young. In a world of separation and abandonment, that is all of us.

We all know what it feels like to live in a world where we are not safe, where we do not have a place.

We all need a place. All of nature is about finding its place, having a place. The wedding cake of niches is almost infinite. To live without a place is very hard.

The first hint I got that the world was more layered than my little mind was getting I picked up the from the old ones in my family- the bastards. I had a few old, mean, and warped ones, you probably have a few in your family as well. They had suffered and were angry. Life had taken so much from them. They had dreamed, but their dreams had been taken away, one by one- replaced by nothing. They told me this was how they felt.

But something happened to them, as they got closer to the end of life.

I remember the fire spitting anger of my aunt Sylvia, a little woman who had outlived and inherited the tiny wealth of half a dozen husbands and older relatives. We were a family who had nothing. Artists. She lorded the little power she had, money, over us.

“I am going to give my money to…”

But she gave me a teaching as the end approached — What happened was- she got beautiful. One image is burned in my mind, I remember watching her hold, in her paper hands, my big strong one-eyed brother’s head. He had come all the way from Florida to be here. He was the one who had pushed away from all the family. Gone his own way. He was another one with a will of iron. He had suffered an old man’s fate very young, learned mortality very early from cancer that threatened to eat his eyes and his brain at nine months.

My dying aunt held his head, laying on her own deathbed and whispered, “I remember holding you, day after day, as they poured radiation into your eye and your brain. We wanted to save you. All us old ones in the family, beyond reproducing, held you, because there was no apparatus that could hold you, more precise than our hands and lead covered laps.”

Then she kissed the boy she had saved on the forehead and smiled at me.

The devil, Auntie Sylvia, turned sweet just before she died. The same thing happened to my brutal Grandpa Joel.

It will happen to us all I think, in the last nanosecond of our lives perhaps, a moment when we surrender all we thought we were, but are not. We will all get sweet. Then the end, is not as much a loss, in some indescribable way…

This is what we need to know more about in this time of massive change. This moment; the moment we re-enter the field. The moment we discard all our foolish baggage, leave the Matrix, and re-enter the field of everything- the box that holds all boxes.

I felt the field being with Auntie Syl as she left us. I felt it when this deep sadness, I have had at my core, forever, began to lift. I have a friend dying now, and he has not relinquished his anger. Or, more accurately, he is doing so slowly. I am watching him struggle to release what he thinks will save him and keep him safe- but won’t.

If this endlessly repeated effort, in life after life were sung, it would be an ode to blindness, to the phenomenal capacity of humans to see false safety.

Plastic is in my bloodstream. Yours too. A million stupid human decisions over the last 90 years have put it there, there and between every grain of sand on every beach across the world.

In the 1960 most scientist saw no value to old growth forests and today still, most scientist are still trying to look at problems like physicists, attempting to reduce the world into tiny discrete parts and learn the secret of the small to know the all. They are trying to reduce and separate, to find the small interactions and relationships that explain the big. That is not how it works. As systems get bigger, they tell a different story, one that is not accurate in reductions.

The modern day Homer sings of blindness on top of blindness, of reaching for the safety in separation and failing. What worked when we were gentle in our footprints has turned into profound blindness in the modern age; in an age of interdependence, relationship and complexity.

My life, everyone’s life are affected by the same winds. We have created enormous structures of trauma and we live inside of them. They do not go away. Do you think WW2 is over? Or Slavery? Or the black hand? No. They are not. They live within us. The American Dream is a perfect example of a myth, that is broken at its core but still lives within us.

All our American Dream heroes are slaveholders. Actually, we all dream of winning and becoming slaveholders. To have others labor for you at little cost is the definition of being rich and the function of our money and laws. To receive more than you give. To give paper that means little to you but everything to the slave. We dream of being a ‘clean’ slaveholder, or to remain hidden from the truth.

(This is the Walton Family, they look like nice people…)

So, a young soul gets born into this sea of madness, this a sea of brainwashing, and dreams of connecting. For a long time he is like a hungry ghost, never being able to find the connection! It is pretty classic now. It is every Disney movie, actually- the semi-abandoned youth. I was semi-abandoned. Not maliciously, but structurally. The laws and thoughts of my time conspired against me. My mom got misplaced, separated from me. This compounded the damage, as there was so much I did not receive. My evolution was stunted. The thinking now, about parenting, is the parent’s function is to give the child a sense of belonging, of connection. The child builds on this. Now, think of all the abandoned souls traveling beside you every day. They come home tired, turn on the Screen and seek, in stories of separation and violence- their own healing.

Writing this, I want to fly up and see my boy in college. I want to run up to him and hug him. I miss him so. We raised each other. Me out of time, and him in it. I wanted him to know that he had a place in my arms. I hugged him every day. I gave him ultimate acceptance. And he was an oddly wired one. He would have been destroyed by my childhood. I grew up in a kinder time, looking back on it, but still, spent so many years in pain, lonely, and alone.

We are hardwired to connect. We bond. It is a great pain when you can not get the bonding you need. It is part of the recipe for being human to bond. It’s absence distorts your very soul.

We live in a sea of distorted souls. What a waste. What blindness…

Anyway there is hope, and deliverance and the transcendence of separation, it just takes a hell of a long way getting there, and it gets its feet dirty and it’s hands soaked in blood, semen and tears, but we can get there before the end, long before the late date flowering of my Auntie Sylvia.

My own ego was a most stubborn thing. I wasted decades struggling to learn what I could teach you now, in a moment, in a whisper- if you hear it. My nut was hard to crack. Our communal nut is hard to crack. Maybe yours will crack easier.

The thing about nuts is they are soft inside. All of them.

There are so many glorious lives that never get sung about. Henry was one such life. When I met Henry, and he awakened, it sent me on a path. I started searching for Henry’s safety and ended looking for all of our safety.

The crazy thing is I found it. It is easy. So easy. But you have to be safe, well nested, before you can fly in this manner.

Can I make you safe? I think I can. Just touch the dirt. Let me tell you a story about dirt; dirt is not what we have always thought it to be. Dirt is a million years of life in every handful. Dirt is way alive. Dirt is millions of years of bug poo. All nutrients on the planet come through the ass of a bug. This is not a glamorous thought but it is true. Life is so much more related than we want it to be. The answers that lie before us are easy, but they are not simple.

Ours is the story of lots of people finding safety.

Trauma is not good for humans or life. It is good for despots and the separators, the slaveholders. I want to turn the world on its head for you. I want you to imprison your heroes and worship the very least of us. I want you to discard your dreams and be more than you have ever been and also, much, much less.

There is an investigation into awakening that all lonely youth go through, that Ayahuasca whispers, that death and music try to teach us about, that forest biology is trying to teach us; simply put, it is this- there are infinite expressions of life, but none are separate. We live in a field. We will die. Kind of.

The amazing thing is you can find your safety, your place within the field in a moment. It takes no effort. It is not a doing. Separation is a doing and separation is not true. We have been trying to make it true, to cement it with brainwashing, and with computers. But it is not true.

You can enter the field.

There is no separation, even though we think there is, even though we want there to be. We don’t want to enter it; we want to live our lives as kings, queens, and slaveholders. But something as fragile as song can wake us like it woke Henry, or a story. If we resist long enough, Death will teach us, like it taught my Auntie Syl. In the end, we all return to the field.

This has taken me decades to discover for myself, and I could have found it in a moment. Maybe you can…