Beyond the Looking Glass
The Wise Whys (PHRASE USED ELSEWHERE!_)
Through physical, emotional, and mental challenges, I have had setbacks like every human being. They are far from easy. The very latest, two years ago now, has been long-lasting and left me disabled. I can function, but my mobility is compromised, as I am unable (yet!) to walk without a walker.
It is my prayer, my hope, to live long enough and to be healthy enough to at least prepare the messages from Spirit that I have been entrusted to bring through for publication. And, if it isn’t too much to ask, I would hope for more time to pen other writings, from poetry to essays to memoirs, to teach about living on earth while walking with those in Spirit. I am no pious person. I am not highly educated. But I do have Emotional Intelligence and an opening of my heart to Spirit. Yet, at my age, it is not motivated by building entrepreneurship. Not about getting a luxurious car or place to live. No. It is simple: I still have the dream of lifting people up and adding to their life force through the gifts of channeling and writing. Being an HSP (Highly Sensitive Person), is not a character flaw but a “trait” that has made me who I am.
Nonetheless—
I have needed to look Beyond the Looking Glass. The shadowy, billowy, and now more elderly figure that greets me when I look at my Looking Glass makes me turn away.
The “mission statement” on my work resume was my goal wherever I worked: “To make a difference.” It is still my motto—through this capsule version of me (this work), which is my “resume” that I send out to you. Not me alone. But with all of the words that accompany the goals of the Souls who have shone a light with their experiences and their desires. With all my heart and will I can muster, I desire to bring forth some new information or solidify information you may have thought of or known in your soul.
I have come to understand my purpose:
to love myself—whether anybody else does or not!
For a Highly Sensitive Person, this is not something that necessarily comes easy. In the last 15 to 20 years, I have found my quest is to know myself—not just my belief system (religious and otherwise). But to experience life—partially to serve others, but also is the sole journey of my soul to find me within. As The WisdomTeachers and My Friend say, to find the divine in oneself. That divine-ing oneself is an essential, if not noble, pursuit. (Have to say—it’s not for the fainthearted.)
For, when you get down to it:
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 to fight through the cruels—all those other people who just did not understand me.
God, I didn’t understand me, either. But why were those beleaguered growing-up days so filled with pain? It was all so – well, dopey (or dumb, foolish, moronic, uneducated, asinine, or any of dozens of words). The way I was made fun of. The way I expected it to keep happening. And 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 dislike came, swooping them into their nests. And any crusts and vestige crumbs left after their pillage, the insects 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, and for those who have never come to rescue me.
Felt guilty, hell, feel guilty, that it is such a sore point for me—still. I often felt like 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 wasn’t in high school, except perhaps by a good deal of my teachers – at least some of them.
Traditional world war – was inside of ME – putting on the mask. Afraid to make waves or even ripples in any way. Otherwise, their laughter 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 in your inside—were you, not frightened of your own alienation—whatever form it happened to take?
From Apostle to Apostate
My belief in God has teeter-tottered.
Memoir on death
Memoir on Grandma
Memoir on Mary - School of Education