My “Do” Drops

From My Story to My Life as a Channel, some of my “Do Drops.”

Let me explain…

Not really Memoir. Not the totality of My Story.

But definitely what I might call “Do-ings” as my Life progressed. And this certainly had a fair share of “do drop”-ings.

Dropping, for instance, some religious beliefs.

And dropping, too, some notions and firmly resolved habits such as being a pleaser, saying “Yes” when “No” was the answer from my gut.

Dropping the need to be considered a “good girl” rather than my “authentic self.”

These were not easy for me. (Smile) Perhaps you have them, too, and can relate. I suppose we could call them “Life Lessons.” Or “Rungs on the Ladders” of spiritual growth and evolutionary consciousness. On the way of “Devein-ing” and “Kaledoscope-ing” and “Divine-ing” our being—right here on earth.

Here is a snippet from 2012. It might be interesting that a dozen years ago (as of this writing), I came across, in the scan of Self, some truths and points of belief in awakening.

8/18/2012

Isn’t my life —

Isn’t my life rather like parts of yours? Introspection. Inspection. Blithely dragging the rope of my days beyond the months and lingering in the years.

            I had so hoped this time/life to fight through the “cruels” and the innate need to please and be a “good girl” to all the people who just did not understand me.

            For sure, I didn’t understand me, either. But why were those beleaguered growing-up days so filled with emotional turmoil and pain? It was all so—well, dopey, for lack of a better word. The way I was made fun of. The way I expected it to keep happening. And the fact that it did not disappoint. It—life—I flunked life. Didn’t I?

            Kept trying to leave bread crumbs for someone to follow into the thickened forest:  me. Crows of self-dislike came, swooping them and using them as they built their nests. And any crumbs left after their pillage, the insects cyanided had dragged away. Harvest baskets filled.

            Always, always, for as long as I can recall, I have been waiting for rescue. Where in this world is my prince, for God’s s sake? It’s been so distressing to man the watch tower. Or watch the man (men) tower for those who never come to me. 

            Felt guilty, hell, feel guilty, that it is such a sore point for me—still. I always felt like such a loser. I stuffed within me all sorts of folds of my tyranny against myself. How damaging has that been!

            Never thought I’d be accepted. Certainly, I wasn’t in high school, except perhaps by at least some of my teachers.

            Traditional world war—was inside of ME—as I put on and wore my mask. Afraid to make waves or even ripples in any way. Otherwise, the laughter of others might have been even louder. I am, in so many ways, forgiving of them, even of me—for all I struggled through.

Then to now.

            So, I ask you once again:  isn’t my life something like yours? Perhaps not the same shade of grey or black, but inside, were you not frightened of your own alienation—whatever form it happened to take?