Changes in the Wind
Been thinking about the concept of new beginnings and realize or maybe I “feel” that “beginnings” aren’t really what we make them out to be. It’s all cyclical really. We like the idea of new beginnings, and we create ways to mark them, but I wonder if there ever truly is a new beginning?
There are circles and spirals. Unending, holographic, interconnecting circles and spirals. Cycles within cycles of mysterious quantum events. That’s how I view the big picture or the Grand Scheme. At least from my current perspective.
I’m not obsessed with “wind.” Just to comment on the whole “wind” theme so far. I came to the name of Dancing Wind about seven years ago during what some would call “a dark night of the soul.”
It’s rather a long story as all stories can be, but let’s just say it was one of those times when you just let go because there is absolutely nothing else you can do. You know those times when a lifetime of issues and challenges, worries and thwarted attempts to be in control just hit you all at once.
It’s not that you want to let go. Your ego doesn’t want you to stop dancing to it’s oppressive tune. To me, the ego is like one of those gun slingers in a spaghetti western. He’s always there somewhere pointing a gun at your gut and saying, “dance damn ya dance.” He doesn’t care if this keeps you totally stuck and preoccupied with survival only. That’s what ego wants. Always.
Anyway, back to the this name of mine: Dancing Wind. Like I said, I was raw. The ego could not stop my letting go. It was frightening as hell, but it was one of those times when you find yourself inbetween worlds. There is grief. There are sobs and tears and feelings of hopelessness. But there are also feelings of being close to something profound. There are little revelations. There are big revelations. There is a rare kind of excitement. Colors are more stark and stunning. The senses are keen. It’s as if you’re seeing and feeling in another dimension…out of time and out the constraints of the usual.
Little things evoke tears. There is a crack in the armor so that everything can come in all at once. The moment is almost pure in a way because there is no filter. There is nothing to stop the feelings from coming to the surface.
We were at the ocean and were to be there for a week. I fought and fought to keep up the facade that I was fine. That I would be soothed and healed and wonderful here at my most favorite place to be–the sea. Oh, the folly of expectations.
Instead of being able to walk the beach for hours, as I did as a kid, I was not able to even walk to the ocean’s edge without horrible pain in my body. Something I’d been living with for years, but something I’d never fully grieved, I guess.
During this week by the sea, I let go–as I said–after an extremely rough “beginning.” After a couple days, I began to accept that whatever I needed to do was what I was supposed to do. So instead of feeling disappointed that I could not walk by the sea’s edge for miles and miles, I stayed in the hotel room and read; watched and heard and smelled the sea from our hotel room balcony. I watched movies. I cried. I wrote in my journal. I did Tarot Readings. I cried. I went downstairs for lattes and very brief walks and “sittings” on the beach. I cried.
We were at what seemed to be a fairly self-contained seaside resort town, and so I told my daughter she was on her own. There was nothing else for it, but to trust the powers that be and let her go. I gave her lots of money and turned her loose. She was delighted, of course.
Our cell phones had no service on the coast, so she really was on her own on a real vacation for the first time in her life. We did go to dinner together most evenings. We got dressed up and I hobbled to one restaurant or another. At dinner my daughter would tell me about her awesome day, and I would listen, and laugh as she recounted her experiences.
After our week was up we drove inland to a little isolated valley in Oregon to spend time with some friends who lived very comfortably in the lovely and quiet country on their expansive farm. There’s a long story to the circumstances surrounding our previous almost yearly visits to the country and to our friends… but wait…am trying to get to how the name Dancing Wind found me.
I spent a lot of time in the guest room at our friends’ lovely country home. My daughter was out and about exploring the meadows, ponds, creeks and woods. I was still in a fragile state…”on the edge,” as some would say.
One night late as everyone else slept, I was doing a reading and journaling and crying. All of a sudden in the soft glow of candlelight, I wrote something in my journal, and it didn’t feel like it was me writing the words. Something told me to switch the pen to my non-donminant hand. I did so and wrote some more.
Then a really strange thing happened. A voice in my head introduced himself and said he was my Spirit Guide. “Yeah…right,” was my first thought–or maybe not my first thought, but close. I suppose my first thought could have been: “At last. At last and finally you’ve gone over the edge.” Nonetheless, as I was still in a strange state of what might be termed “crazy grace;” i went with the flow. I started asking “him” questions. The answers came to me in my head. I didn’t get it all down on paper. At some point I just had to stop writing and listen. And listen I did.
This “Spirit Guide” was a person who I had known only by having heard him speak during several interviews on a radio show I listened to regularly. I had heard him speak maybe 3 times over the course of a few years.
Then this person died mysteriously. Or at least that was my take on his death. For some reason I had felt a strong connection to this man each time I listened to his voice and his expressions on the radio show. To use the “woo-woo” lingo, everything about him resonated with me.
I continued to go with the flow each night, lighting my candle in the darkness, in the welcome silence of the country. I let these strange dialogues take place. I took breaks and went outside quietly to look at the stars–to look at the milky way in a night sky that somehow felt Holy–something that you can never see in the city.
It was while I was looking up and searching for “my” constellation companions amidst so many many more stars than I was used to seeing, that this “Spirit” told me one of my names was Dancing Wind. Dancing Wind. He told me why this was one of my names. But that I will save for another time. Of course there is an ongoing story to all of this. An exotic story actually. One of other times and other places. Times of love and death, sorrow and joy. Again, it is a long long story…always is, right?
Ok. So we spent our time in the country, did country things, and drove on home. It’s always good to get home after a vacation, but this time for me, at least, it was especially good to be home. I shared my “encounter” with my daughter on the way home. She kidded me about it and made me laugh. She knows her mother is a free spirited mystical type, and always a true hippie at Heart.
A few days later, I was looking up something on the Internet which was totally unrelated to this deceased man who was claiming to be my Spirit Guide. I’ll give him a name so I can simplify my references to him. This will not be his “real” name because this is a very personal thing even still. My daughter included, I’ve told only a couple close friends about him. I’ll call him David.
So, instead of the website I was expecting to come up, a picture of my alleged SG, David appeared on a website that was all about him and all about his “work.” I took this as some sort of sign. I live to see signs. I see and feel them everywhere. But I still didn’t trust that I wasn’t totally nuts, and making all this up. Yet and still, I wanted to be open. I am compelled to be open to all possiblities. I am compelled to being open to other ways of being. Being closed is not an option for me.
All my life, I’ve lived with bipolar brain chemistry. Decades of long and deep depressions. Wild visits to impulsive times of misunerstood mania. And learning the ropes took a long time, as you know these things do. This learning process, this learning the ropes deal is something we all come to know intimately here on this earth while we dance our dance, walk our walk, and talk our talk.
I never ever considered myself crazy though. And certainly things were always crazy- feeling. It wasn’t easy, of course, to believe I would not one day snap or something–end up dead by my own hand or at the very least in a mental institution. But I never did go completely off the deep end (whatever the hell that means), and I never did end up in a mental hospital. There were many times when I yearned to do both.
Not that I didn’t blame myself before I understood what depression or mania really was. Not that I hadn’t come to think I was fatally flawed because I couldn’t ever seem to “find” a balance or an understanding of what was really going on. My life had been a roller coaster ride underscored by fear–lots of deep seated fear. My life had been (and still is) a continuous high wire act; a toe dance on a high thin wire without a net below (or so I thought). I had lived most of my life in a state of fight or flight. I think we all do this to some degree as we navigate this strange and wonderous place in space and time.
But I’d survived. I was still here.
As I look back on my life and times now, I feel like a true veteran of earth school, a hard core survivor. I figure that if you’re still here, you are a survivor. Surviving is not a small thing.
I had always been on a Spiritual path.
Always. From a very young age, I became a student of all things Spiritual , Metaphysical and Supernatural. I mean a serious student, reading and studying every book on these subjects I could find. By high school I’d read every book in the occult section in all of my surrounding libraries. In my twenties and thirties I studied in earnest, reading the classic philosphers; Plato, St. Thomas Aquinus.
I’d studied Blavatski, Regardie, even Christian Mysticism including a pair of delightful and prolific authors–F. Home Curtiss and Harriette Augusta Curtiss whose subjects ranged from the “elementals” to esoteric, in depth studies in the Tarot and symboloby. Theirs were books were filled with wisdom and resonant truth–The Key of Destiny and The Key to the Universe, Realms of the Living Dead. There were the mystical poets: Whitman, Blake, Yeats. Rilke. Contemporaries such as Robert Bly, Kenneth Rexroth. And the Tao Te Ching, of course, and Ram Dass’s, Be Here Now.
Back to my SG, David. There he was on the computer monitor. Instantly I knew him. So as I said, I took this odd occurrence of his site coming out of “thin air,” as some sort of sign. I began to seek other signs. But seeking a sign is like a figurative oxymoron or something. Signs find you.
One day I decided to ask the Tarot if David was really real. My personal deck that I love and use exclusively for myself is not a traditional Tarot deck in the sense that imagery is expressed much differently than the more traditional decks. The major arcana cards have different names. Is my Spirit Guide real? What do I need to know about these experiences I am having? Am I nuts or what? I centered myself as best I could. I grounded myself whatever that means. I shuffled the cards. A card fell out of the deck. It was named “Spirit Guide.”
…to be continued New bloger’s note: I have gone over and over this entry correcting mistakes and inevitably fine-tuning thoughts and sentences. If I continue in this manner, it will take me a month of Sunday’s to make one entry. I am a writer and this is what writer’s do. But somehow, though I’ve skipped the steps of learning “the way” to blog; (is there such a way?) I find I must draw a line in the sand for myself and let some mistakes stand. it’s either this, or never get past the first entry.
Namaste, Dancing Wind