Magic

A month ago a Mephistophelian magic-worker was stalking me.  It was his dark trim beard and his seeing into my fearfulness that told me he was after my soul.  He warned me that he was going to “get me,” and that I should go prepare for this certain outcome, but he said this calmly, almost playfully, without pursuing me just then.  I too had superpowers, and I used them to prepare a defense.  I fused the doorways shut to my hiding place with electric heat that came from my fingers.  He disguised himself as a friendly blonde chap and fooled me into letting him in, demonstrating that he could get in whenever he wanted, laughingly amused by my efforts to keep him out but still not actively chasing me.  I escaped to an abandoned building, where I discovered a mighty, organic, double-stalked (heh) power-generating plant that was providing energy to the entire compound (it was even, I realized, powering my own magical fingers and my stalker’s shape-shifting ability). 

In this morning’s dream, the same Mephistophelian fellow and I were working together making an inventory of magical objects in an abandoned apartment late at night.  I would describe the object, he would write down my description in his notebook.  He was the specialist/interpreter, I was the witness/testifier.  We were to fully describe and safeguard the objects, almost like a forensics team.  Many of the objects were masks, invested with powerful energies, some of them quite sinister.  They had all been deactivated for the moment, but I sensed I could not, while describing them, gaze at them too long with selfish interest.  If I invested any degree of my own fascination into the examination and description, any kind of admiring energy, this would activate them, with unpredictable consequences.  There was one in particular I hoped to avoid awakening, as I felt a lot of destruction would be unleashed if it opened its eyes.  But it was the most fascinating to me.  I tried my best to be careful and neutral while describing it.

The magic specialist and I went to the basement of this building, the laundry room, to have a chat about the inventory away from the sleeping but potent masks.  I told him of my fear of awakening the masks while testifying about them.  He was not much taller than me, solidly built, and he was younger, in his early thirties.  He had the trim beard of my earlier dream, the same slightly receding hairline, and the same sense of certainty and fearlessness in his demeanor; he reassured me that he would confront and neutralize anything that got awakened.  He demonstrated his method of neutralizing dark energy by placing his right hand over my heart while looking into my eyes and reciting a forceful incantation that would banish any demon.  I knew I could trust him completely, that he had gone harrowing in dark places before, was partly supernatural himself, and that he understood these demons and had the power to neutralize them; and I felt relieved, safe. 

I Am

In this morning's dream, a young boy with long wavy hair rapidly sketched a self-portrait using charcoal.  Instead of signing it with his name, he signed it "I Am", and held it up for me to see.

I'm grateful for my dreams.

 

Secure

Yesterday, I was driving Daniel home from Mathnasium.  In the back seat, he was going on at length about his progress in Zelda (a video game that involves quests and problem solving).  In a single description of an adventure sequence, my nine-year-old used the words “clever,” “vast” and “facility.”   I can’t believe how linguistically comfortable this kid is.  

I’ve been struggling creatively and logically, lately.  Let me ask this child whose mind is quick and unencumbered and who likes words as much as I do:  What is a good theme for a puzzle?  His idea was a good one.  In writing out some possible theme entries, I hit upon a twist that might be elegant.  I checked potential theme answers against the database to make sure this puzzle hasn’t been done.  I’m letting the cluing style develop at a natural pace, checking my facts, making sure I’m not generating disconnected bullshit or incomprehensible nonsense.  I might be back in the game.  It remains to be seen.

What else is there to say?  A powerful inflation took hold of me recently.  I have ping-ponged between poisonous insecurity and delusions of genius, the whole time being undisciplined and chaotic in my process and in my communication.  When a validating mirror was withdrawn, things got a lot worse for me.  My heart has been literally aching with self-doubt, envy, fury, despair and love.  I just had to sit with those things and let them exist.  When I say “literally” aching, I mean this: a clenched burning in my chest most of the day, a physical sensation.   But also this underlying intuition:  Something important is happening.  Let this fire burn itself out and see what remains.  Something will remain---the thing that's true, the thing I need.

Insecurity

  

     

       This is my beautiful demon

       born inside the tenderest injury

       in silence she grew tentacles

       and little baby teeth  

       what she really is

       what she can do

       is excruciating

       the more I tug and scratch at her

       the deeper she’s digging in

       I can only hope she dies in her sleep

Puzzles

                

             On earth as it is in heaven.
             Don't deny what has happened to you.
             What you've done.
             Error and malfunction, let me see you.
             From the beginning we've been locked together.
             You knew where this would end.

 

Recently there has been a theme emerging in my life:  Error revealed.  False premise revealed.  I’ve been lucky that these mistakes were small to medium in size.  I could handle them, or someone could help me fix them.  What I’m noticing is that the number of errors revealed to me increased dramatically within a compressed period of time.  The errors were not all committed in that compressed period of time---some were committed earlier.  But they were all revealed in quick succession.  Perhaps I shouldn’t say all.  There surely are more coming.

At any given time, I am busy either solving or building a puzzle, literally and metaphorically.  I’m hardly the first person to begin to see that life itself is (is like?) a puzzle, and that the grid (my life puzzle is a crossword puzzle) with one or two fixed theme entries existed before I became conscious.   Initially my interaction with the puzzle is as a solver.  I see that something isn’t lining up with choices I’ve made so far.  Some choice isn’t working, isn’t right.  There’s an impossibility or a nonsense that’s bothering me in that corner.  I’m not sure which of the colliding assumptions I’ve made is creating the problem.  When faced with this I can: (a) ignore the error and leave that part of the grid alone, maybe even avoid looking at it, hoping others don’t notice; (b) insist that all my choices have been right and that the grid, with its irrefutable and neutral evidence that something is wrong, is the one lying; (c) blame the pre-existing theme entries (born with certain challenges I had no control over) and absolve myself of any accountability for my own solution attempts, deciding that those fixed entries were so bad to begin with that I can’t solve the puzzle or it’s insolvable---i.e., give up; (d) identify the mistake through open-minded, objective, sometimes painful or difficult self-examination (which sets up a new array of possible actions).

That’s solving.  Now I’m into constructing puzzles.  I see that I have this grid, and that I can more consciously fill it with things I enjoy and want to see in a puzzle, and write the clues!  The empty corners contain infinite possibilities; the filled or partially filled corners contain things I might or might not choose to change.  Isn’t this wonderful?  Here’s the rub.  Whatever energy I bring to the solving process shows up in the building process.  I can build in a mistake and think I’ve created something golden.  I can anchor a lot of good things onto that golden error.  The error must some day be revealed; it can’t stay unnoticed forever, it will bear a strange fruit, and depending on the degree of the error, I’ll be faced with choices I don’t welcome, similar to the choices I faced in solving, only more authority is required of me.  I know I authored that, I can't deny it, and I know I’m the one to answer for it.

So you have a puzzle and you see the error you’ve put into it.  What’s next?  Imagine an ideal version of the puzzle.  That grid exists, and you can build your way to it with good tools and the right energy, just as a number of sculptures exist in a single block of wood or stone.  Understand what energy led to the error, and recognize when it’s back at work in you.  Train your brain to recognize the energy patterns in your life that have not worked and avoid giving them space or fuel.  Keep them out of the grid.  Choose your next entry thoughtfully.  The first premise must be the best; it must be double-checked for truth, it must be genuine, as so much else is built on it: things you value, things that will be hard to give up, generating regret.

This is what’s involved in making something (a puzzle, your life) beautiful: 

• Discipline.  Self-discipline, following best practices, being thorough, being conscious, learning from others, teachers and friends.      

•  Instincts.  Knowing something isn’t right, and paying attention to that.  Knowing something is right, and embracing that, trusting that.

• Honesty.  Acknowledging where you’ve erred or gone off the grid, confessing.

• Work.  Diligence, tirelessness, purpose, working through the tough stuff to get to the good stuff.

• Faith.  Believing that an ideal grid exists and that the puzzle you’re solving or building can be almost that good.  When you lose faith, you become disorganized and sabotage the puzzle.

The ideal grid can be revealed.  It can be nearly realized, or more closely realized.  I can find my way to it.  But this requires: Discipline, trusting my instincts, honesty, hard work and faith.

Behold

             beauty being in the eye

             of the beholder

             I behold you now

             you are beholden to me

             I must hold you

             you know you are beautiful

             in my mind's eye

             that my heart's treasure

             is held in you

Cookies

Daniel came home from baseball in a funk.  The umpire made bad calls.  He got hit with the ball twice, once in the helmet on a bad pitch, once in the cup on a bad bounce.  Their side never got past first base, though they played their best.   He struck out at the end of the game.  After moping about for a good while with this cloud over his head, unwilling to practice piano, feeling put upon by life and high expectations, he came up with a long, furiously delivered list of things he was existentially not happy about.

(1)  There is no fun in games where the rules change in the middle, or where there are no consistent or enforceable rules because there are no officials and everyone just does what they want until there is no possible outcome and everyone disbands.  These games are unjust and a huge disappointment.  [This has been a long-running theme this year: unsatisfactory pick-up games at recess; but somehow that day’s game of baseball became emblematic of the injustice of bad or absent officiating generally.]

(His middle name is “Justice”; what did we expect?)

(2)  Why is life all about work and being too busy?  It shouldn’t be that way.  There should be more time for recreation and having real fun.  [Good point.]

(3)  Why does everything cost money?  And why isn’t there ever enough money?  Why is it so hard to get money?  [Good question.]

(4)  We should be able to make people come into our life when we really need them.  [Actually, that does sometimes happen…  but what do you mean?]

(5)  He wishes he had more friends, people to play with.  Really, he wishes he had a sibling.  [True tears were falling.]  With a sibling, when dad and I are too busy to play a game, he’d have someone to play with and not have to hang around being bored all by himself.  [Ouch.]  

So.  Everything I was planning to accomplish last night… making progress on the knitting puzzle, getting the dishes done, rehearsing the song I’m working on, hula-hooping… that whole constellation of things I needed to do…  I swept those off the table and let myself imagine what might actually belong in that space.  

Let’s bake a batch of cookies, shall we?  And so we did.  Daniel interpreted the recipe, did all the measuring and stirring, rolling the balls of dough in sugar and cinnamon, and flattening the balls on the cookie sheet with the bottom of a drinking glass.  I did the prep, used the hand-held mixer on the wet ingredients and removed the hot cookie sheets from the oven.  Dad came in pretending he was going to eat all the cookies before they had sufficiently cooled, and we shooed him away.  Like the old days.  It had been a long, long while, in kid-time, since we’d made cookies together.  

While tucking him in, I spoke the usual endearments and kissed that spot just below his ear, where I also like to be kissed, my favorite spot.  Beautiful boy, mama loves you.  “I liked making cookies,” he sighed.  “And I’m not sad anymore.”  

Same here, kid.