Some days I just feel like deleting my LinkedIn account. I check it once or twice a week by now. I haven’t deleted it because you never know where the next gig will come from, and you don’t want to cut off any streams of income, no matter how dried up.
It’s “recommended” jobs make no sense and are so off target it could be considered comical. Tragicomical. Irritating. Frustrating.
Then it’s the smugness of some of the “we who have got healthy careers”, and the ones looking and trying really hard any which way. Networking, interacting, writing quality content regularly – and still getting nowhere. It’s like two worlds rubbing up against each other and the divide is painful to observe.
I wish I could pinpoint what it is but I can’t. I only feel it, and it feels off and makes me feel sick to my stomach. I also wish I could just dismiss it as “just not for me” and move on.
So many of my friends are looking for work too. Sending out tons of applications. Hundreds of applicants for every position going; everyone of us looking for meaningful work that pays a living wage. We shouldn’t have to fight for it, that’s just not right.
Bringing your own ideas to the table in the absence of viable employment, there are so many things I COULD do… Locally and otherwise. What stands in the way is the bl**dy relentless marketing required to possibly gain traction.
It’s like when you vow to run a marathon or cut your hair off to raise money for charity. I’m doing the damn training and running/lopping off my hair; on top of that I have to convince people to part with their money, AND chase them down after and sweet-talk them to actually pay up?
Clearly I haven’t got the necessary right connections to get a foothold. It’s NEVER what you know, but WHO. And above all, who knows you.
You could be one of the best violinist in the world and still struggle to make a living if your options were reduced to busking, as a social experiment organised by Washington Post back in 2007 showed, when Joshua Bell played incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, two days after filling every last seat in a theatre in Boston, where ticket prices averaged $100usd. You can be outstanding at your art but without being able to reach the right audience, timing, and recognition, it’s darn hard to make money off your art.
“Gods don’t like people not doing much work. People who aren’t busy all the time might start to think.” Quote from “Small Gods” by Sir Terry Pratchett.
You could replace “Gods” with “politicians” or “people with a lot of questionably acquired money” for a thought experiment…
I wanted to add something else about observing one of my “superpowers” intensify recently, but I don’t know how to put it into words. Feeling energies and vibrations from…a lot. Airplanes passing overhead, documents (handwritten, available online), and so forth. I don’t know what to do with it or make use of it, but maybe that will come too? Is it a superpower if it has no clear use tho?
#Making a living
#Launching new ideas in a conservative society
#F’kin exhausted already
That’s true, all well and good, but in this world we all need money too, to eat, to keep a roof over our heads, blah blah blah. You know. Later. Over and out, Catpaw
I love my fountain pens, writing with them is such a sensual experience. In more practical terms using one avoids getting cramp in my hand during long writing sessions, and having a pen you refill rather than dispose of is environmentally friendly. I’m an INK hoarder: I make sure I use every drop of ink.
Ink in Mexico (besides Parker Quink) is hard to come by, and very very expensive. I have in my “collection” black and blue Quink. That’s it. Even the Lamy Mx shop only sells blue, black, and red.
Sometimes I see a couple bottles of inks in more exclusive stores in beat up packaging and it makes me wonder… did it come off the back of a lorry…? To that I’d say…likely. You see, sending ink to Mexico is prohibited. Yes, you read that right. SENDING INKS HERE IS ILLEGAL. I only just found out
If you order fountain pen ink, or if your gift wrapped pen comes with a cartridge or two, it gets confiscated. You’re never told, allowed to appeal, or informed about this. Imagine that. Fountain pen ink as contraband.
So how did I find out? The manager of the courier company asked if I wanted to pay “arrange to have it picked up by another courier in the USA at your own cost (to deliver within the USA incl return to the seller), or we can destroy the package without extra cost to you.” I angry begged them not to destroy my beautiful pen, to open the package, remove the ‘offending’ two ink cartridges (same as you can buy in any office depot), and send me MY pen to my delivery address (as I had paid for). He agreed to put the idea to his boss. Apparently no one had ever asked that before. Probably because we’re never informed, given the option, and our parcel just vanishes, traceable or not.
Over the years I’ve ordered pens and ink (from UK, USA, and AliExpress) and several of those parcels have gone “missing”, and in hindsight I realize, those that did all had ink in them
I’m glad I know now, and gutted at the same time. I won’t be losing any more orders (and money) confiscated without a word, but WTF?
(The same goes for yarn for knitting and crochet. The yarn and everything else in the package is confiscated (read stolen) by border control. Random, I know. Probably some outdated law from around the time of the Mexican Revolution.)
So I’m asking you, anonymous reader, if you know someone who is coming to Cancun this holiday season; if you have inks you don’t use and no longer want; do you want to bring and donate them? I can pick them up at your hotel, and if you really want to play with this, in a brown paper bag and wear a zorro mask! As I mentioned, I have basic black and blue. Sometimes you see red ink for sale, but it is all insanely expensive (think a week’s earnings for a small bottle.) I personally love turquoises, shimmers, and oranges (Apache sunset) and I’ll make sure they all go to good homes.
The pens in the photo are my favorites; Pimio Picasso Malaga 916.
We’re driving around, me and dad. Places I have never seen – not that I’d remember. Dad tells me there are a lot of artists – and by that he mostly means painters, visual, multi media perhaps – living in this coastal area… He lets the information hang in the air as I say uh-huh or something equally eloquent to signal I’ve heard.
I wonder how they can afford to, with new looking cars parked out front, house and all.
I also wonder where I went wrong.
It is a pretty area, and it doesn’t call to me. at. all. There is no pull. Places look perfectly fine – but I feel nothing.
I wonder if I could live there. I scan the energy and nothing blips. I feel transparent like a ghost. People look cheerful, content even, going about their lives, and I feel no kinship to anything. Secretly I had hoped I would. At last. After all, some of my ancestors lived in the area.
For I don’t care for what gives their life meaning to them. What makes life worth living, or at times enduring. I don’t understand that which makes them tick; family life and after school activities, sports-day, and routines. And I feel intensely envious and like a giant failure at life. It’s like that part of my software was never installed, not even a factory version. I feel defective or deficient in what they take for granted, the relatability to family life and bringing up children, the natural order of things.
I want so badly to find somewhere I want to stay. I tear at myself, at my mind and my heart, in search of a key that will unlock something, to let me understand. Allow some imagined escrow to wash over me like an avalanche of love and belonging, friendship and help.
I seriously doubt I’d find kindred spirits here, they weren’t there before, and I don’t think they have moved in during my absence. Just salt of the earth people living their family lives, each in their own way.
And because people buy artists, or charisma, rather than art, I guess my lovingly crafted creations would continue to go unsold.
For extreme outsiders who aren’t “cool” or relatable don’t waltz into the kind of employment needed to allow you to live comfortably here. And don’t tell me about doing what you love and what you make will fly of the proverbial shelves. It’s a myth. Monetizing hobbies will suck the joy out of what you used to love. It will slowly turn it into work. Unpaid work. No. Made with love does not work for freaky. “Be yourself” is not enough, it never has been. Wanting more than what’s beyond the scope of the village and the nearest towns does not sit well. UNLESS you return a success, triumphant. A person who has “made it” and want to go back.
If I go back, does that mean that it’s over, the beginning of the end of everything I wanted and dreamed of? My chance and opportunities at making a life my way somewhere else expires?
Finally the escapee has been caught and brought back. Chastened and told to be thankful; ‘so many people what to live here now’. Except me. As soon as I could, I set out in search of my tribe and what I had spent my life up until that point longing for; somewhere I wanted to stay, fulfilling work, and I’m still searching.
Will I ever find the strength and funds to leave and start over somewhere else again?
I recall as a teen landing back in the big city after visiting parents for a weekend, the high of being back, the persistent glow of hope that something I want might come my way here, and at the same time something tore inside me. Gratitude to be back, mingled with an undefined feeling of guilt like oil and water in the pit of my gut.
I recall countless bus and train journeys, watching through the window the passing land or cityscape, occasionally feeling such profound spontaneous gratitude that I did not have to step off, that that was not my destination. That I didn’t have to make my way home anywhere around there. It all felt so…wrong. Energetically.
Sometimes places looked quite pleasant, only to have that gut-wrenching deep despair hit me. In me, not the area. Energetic mismatch.
Wiser or more jaded?
When you move a lot, your safe space becomes something else but your home, something you can bring with you, your music collection perhaps. Pieces of music and the emotions they invoke supply that feeling of connection, familiarity, a virtual hug. When you let go of almost everything you own what you do have becomes precious.
One evening, out of curiosity, I compared what I listened to when I first moved here, and it was startling. It didn’t feel like bliss, but hope. Faith that life would continue to improve now I was in the right place.
I expected to find my feet and my stride, friends, and meaningful work. My happily ever after, travels with my love. I was ready and gladly gave it my all. I did not anticipate loneliness, extreme isolation, and the impossibility to learn the language proficiently.
I wouldn’t say I made a mistake, I’ve had experiences I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on, but I feel done. Cooked.
Now I want to experience the counterpart, what I thought I was heading into; connection, in person friendships, joy.
How do you look forward, when there’s nothing to look forward to?
How do you get your life back on track? When you hardly have enough spoons to get you through the bare minimum of the day as it is?
Moving just three blocks in June meant leaving behind the opossums I’d become so fond of, and made me cry. I want to hug my cats and never ever let go… Leaving them behind is absolutely out of the question.
Can one write oneself out of the hole you find yourself in? Does the pointless tears ever stop coming? So many questions, so few answers.
I wrestle sometimes with crippling separation anxiety. So much so, I hardly know who I’d be without it. I struggle to appreciate beauty in the moment because the thought of it’s fleetingness is agonizing. I am aware enough to know this stems from trauma, in my case from an other lifetime, watching the first earth blow up; losing almost everyone dear; and never able to go back. Nothing so far has managed to shift this.
I even feel angst when I read friends who are travelling and meet others for an evening and no contact details are exchanged. I hand mine out at random instead of asking people for theirs.
At times my world seem filled with “what if I never —–again?” What if I never get to see and spend some time with this or that friend again, – or these days – never get the chance to meet at all?
Not being able to separate myself from the anticipation of having it ripped away again robs the moment of joy. Torn apart, over and over, and no amount of tapping I’ve done has managed to shift it. It’s like a bottomless well. And to complicate matters further this happens over possible future events too…
That and lack of visual memory. I can read my words describing to myself the gorgeous bright stars flying at night high above the clouds; the Himalayas painted gold in all their glory, passing over Ireland at dawn showing exactly why it’s nicknamed the emerald isle, etc. I can’t picture it, and on either occasion not having a camera to hand to capture a pale impression of it for posterity, breaks my heart.
When you love people in many places you end up like me, Fractured. Pieces I can never reclaim.
My apparent inability to ‘be in the moment’, ‘live in the now’. Even as a young person I was always living in or for the future. Learning anything that could be of future use, for when I can leave school and this place behind, go in search of MY life.
And now, having failed to find home, and for the most part also tribe, I feel lost.
Where the summer is short it is precious.
The woman I read on IG wrote about the end of summer, how her kids go back to school soon, and this was the last weekend away from the city and the humdrum of everyday life. She started her micro-blog when the pandemic first hit. I found it a lot later.
It reminded me of the unbearable end of summer holidays as a kid who hated school, (or at least the bullying and demand to ‘conform or else you will not be allowed to play later, as an adult’).
It’s hard to wrap my head around; at the time I read it we were still in the midst of summer here, with months of hot humid heat to endure. The steady stream of drops of sweat making their way down my spine at regular intervals confirmed this, the burning sensation on my face whenever I strayed out of reach of the fan.
I miss enjoying the summer, or perhaps the shared experience of it. I enjoy the winters here so perhaps I ought to look for new friends in New Zealand or something.
The hurricane season was very active, I can hardly believe we’re in the middle of November; this year has been one long exhausting fug from the get go. For the first time ever I didn’t even look forward to the autumn, my favourite time of year, it’s just been TOO uncertain and a feeling of constant brazing for (and trying to outsmart) what may be served, even for me who can’t abide routines. I feel drained and exhausted, and unprepared for everything.
I look again at her photo, the lit candles on the windowsill against the deepening blue, the last colours of dusky twilight, the sea view. I cry.
No doubt she has worked hard for many years to build her life and get to where she is today, but so have I and countless others. And I have nothing to show for it. No successes, no shoals of friends to celebrate my birthday or other milestones with, no treasure island.
The last days of summer, the end of things. I don’t know why it always hurt so much? The tears I never cried, my stomach in knots. Time being something you never get back. Anxieties galore.
“LIVE LIFE! This isn’t a dress rehearsal” I once had a key-ring proclaim. Thank goodness for that, I couldn’t deal with having to do this all over again.
When the longer evenings and the cosiness of autumn returns I greet it the same way my mother used to greet spring. A kind of return of life, rather than light A time of rebooting; evening classes commence, new projects, enthusiasm at work.
Everyone knows daylight is important to your health, and as someone who’s experienced the long dark winter months where you only see the sun for an hour of two on your day off work – if it’s not raining or cloudy that is – I get it.
S.a.d. is a very real for a lot of people.
But we forget darkness is important too unless you are terrified of it I suppose.
In the dark resides the opportunity for reset. It is so much more than sleep.
Friday evening. Snapshots flashing by. Not pictures, but Memories. Moments. Feels.
After the boundless joy of being together once more the moment we hugged at the arrivals at the airport I can’t help but anticipate the pain of being ripped apart again
Time so precious it felt like I didn’t even have the time to enjoy it in the moment it took place Too fleeting, it comes with built in sadness Just store it away to be able to live on later.
Us in the car with your dog, going to the Redwoods Driving along the coast, I’ve never seen vineyards like that before
Smoke from fires in the distance creating a haze and other worldly feel in the valleys like a heat mirage it played tricks on the eye and mind. A small holding or a ranch, and a visceral, gut-wrenching recognition I swear I’ve been here before but it wasn’t in this incarnation…
The Golden Gate Bridge, shrouded in mist, so unexpectedly icy cold on the hill by the monument. Up and down the hilly streets of San Francisco! So unreal. Walking along the seafront after the sun had set listening to the breaking waves connecting to something much larger than us, through space and time with long gone people who have experienced the same breathtaking display by Gaia. Listening to LeVar Burton tell stories, and better still, muse about life.
Farmers Market, Sushi, Thai, and Burmese food so much Brie! and heirloom tomatoes tasting of California sunshine all the things I can’t get where I live. Talking for hours seated among the plants on the balcony at night. Everything we wanted to share and say So much – – – and never enough.
Now it feels as far away as the international space station our chats condensed to snippets over messenger or email. Why is over a decade of solid friendship not enough in the eyes of the law? Why does other kinds of love that does not involve sex or lust not count? Why must borders and politics keep friends apart? Why can’t people live where they want? Not when we’re just people, not wealthy or “special”. I live in a different economy and a world away I couldn’t buy the condo opposite yours even though it is for sale.
What would I not give to be back on that balcony right now but I’d only pour out the pain of these last few years and no matter how sympathetic a listener it is something I don’t wish on anyone, coz it feels endless, a bottomless pit of tears, hurt, and grief.
So I’ll have to make do with the memories of a few precious days spent together with my bff.
Not click-baity but descriptive. Diving right in here. The book I’m re-reading speaks about finding your kryptonite, which you can have in more than one flavor. This is early childhood needs that were not only not met, but made wrong, bad, unacceptable, or shameful, and that the young self then internalized so deep down it takes some real excavating to uncover. And identify it is a must if you want to heal and set yourself free.
One need many – or most – toddlers have is to feel that they are Special just for being, so I chose that to pick apart this Sunday.
I have not studied psychology and I am no authority; these are simply my observations that I’m sharing in case they help someone or make you curious.
What is special, anyway? If “everyone is special” “in their own way”, perhaps we need to redefine it, but not here, not today, not by me. These are adult semantics. If we are all inherently special – what happened? When did it stop? When does worth become dependent on usefulness, achievements, talents, or amassed skills? Is it socialized out of us? When does being cease to be enough to give us worth?
When being is no longer enough to be seen as valuable, and those who at a tender age have not had their inner fill of feeling special by their caregivers, can get lost. For Somewhere, around here, it morphs into Special FOR something, and we start chasing Achievements, while at the same time feeling little or at least not what we had hoped for, and feel invisible, unvalidated.
You really can tell when someone had this need satisfied – they have no velcro when someone tells them they are being a special snowflake. They are confident and sure of their innate worth no matter what.
A young child has simple needs. When those are unmet by the caregivers in such a way that the child feels rejected and that they themselves are bad for wanting it, it gets stuffed down. This could be anything from “the look” to verbal abuse or a physical thrashing. The need becomes equated to “I am unacceptable”, and internalized with shame. To ask no longer feel safe. Your kryptonite has a special twist (which you will need to read the book to fully grasp.) Shockingly early it becomes our humiliating secret, a secret so shameful we even hide it from ourselves. It becomes what I termed The unspeakable.
We then grow up feeling empty and hollow, subconsciously hoping to encounter a sip of something undefined, or at least something that numbs the inner ache or craving for a while. We constantly look for anything we believe could passify that emptiness, that grawing hunger we can’t seem to satiate no matter what.
As an adult the person (subconsciously dying to feel seen as Special) would never ask even if it is what they want the most. The reaction is not to seek attention but one of resignation. The unspeakable has become the unthinkable, the “I.Would.Never”. All while secretly hoping to be recognized and receive the validation they crave.
And because the wound is hidden so deep, should the person dare to ask it either goes unheard, or more likely receive a response that matches their imprint; and triggers the same emotional response the child self felt when they asked all those years ago.
So now that we’re adults, how can you fill that need for yourself?
Why do we need to deal with this early wound we have a hard time even defining? We can’t receive until we recognize and heal.
It’s impossible to meet a need you do not know you have, so first you need to identify your spin on this, your Kryptonite. And these ones are stealthy because by now they are at the bottom in the back of the shed that is your subconscious, your op-sys.
To do this you need to connect with your true needs and heal the early pain, the pain that taught you not to feel your need/s because doing so was not safe or too painful. (Tapping or breath-work can help with this.) A need is an extreme want. In this case, I want, and I will never ask for. Something that even unspoken makes you want to run away screaming rather than utter out loud. Anything to not have to relive the pain and humiliation.
I’ll use myself as an example. I can think of many quirks, but nothing, not even put together, makes me qualify as Special. Not in That sense. Not Unique. Worthy of more. Every time I recognize something unusual or have an insight into myself, there will be someone ready to smack me down like a game of whack-a-mole. Ready to belittle, mock and make fun of (and this is not even my main one). “Oh no, they’re being Special again.” Unique qualities become next to shameful, least it make for another opportunity to poke fun at me for. I feel embarrassed. Doubt creeps in.
Maybe the observation is nothing. Maybe the knack is worthless. Maybe it’s nothing, and not even there anymore. Absorbed somehow. Maybe I imagined it in the first place. Maybe between now and When – it evaporated and I can’t even remember… what it was, what made me think it was unique, what made it exciting… Imposter syndrome strikes again, Jante hot on it’s heels. Don’t think you are in any way special…
And yet, if I contemplate if I could meet others I consider special, who I look up to, like The Dalai Lama for example, it stirs up a primal yearning so intense it gives me virtigo; long lost hope gets reignited and a part deep down cries See me! Notice me! See me as a soul, not as a body or a set of skills, ideas, words. Just recognize me as a shining soul that has endured so much. See me! See who I am underneath the sticky fingerprints aquired over the years as incarnated. Recognize me – the true me – in a sea of souls.
I am hardly alone to feel I’m being lost in the sea of humans, where a few are trying to use everyone else as a stepping stones to “get ahead” to the next level. A kind of elbowing your way to the front of a running crowd where it is not so packed. Where you can breathe a bit easier, and jog or run without stumbling on and bumping into other runners trampling on your heels at every step. Only these days our unsatisfied need takes the shape of chasing likes and followers on social media.
Everyone knows – at least in theory – that we are all unique expressions of the divine, but mental knowing doesn’t cut it when our inner child feel abandoned and hurt, and thirsts for what they never received.
The world is full of people needy for what they did not receive as children. It can be hard to give what you wanted but never got. I do try, but most of the time it feels like giving from an empty tank. You are prepared to gift that last fuel in your tank just to be appreciated and thanked, because you desperately want someone to fill yours. You wait for your chance for years, decades, only to be told to step aside and make way for others now…
Gaslighting can harden and toughen you up – or make you trust no one. I can no longer tell if it is a genuine compliment or a dig, I anticipate the knife to twist or evaporate. If an invitation is to share, or to be the joke. The freak to be the entertainment. I find I almost expect to be poked fun at or laughed at.
I don’t deal well with being poked, put down, and made fun of. It’s not simply that I “take myself sooo seriously”; I don’t know how to be any other way. It’s the way my needs were (not) met.
So I’ve burned myself out being hyper-vigilant for decades; wonder which one of me to send to open the door or deal with a situation. Which stance to take, what level of importance to assume, which voice and pitch. Sometimes this is a conscious decision, but it is always an emotional calculation based on a balancing act involving fear and safety. Because kids soon figured out who is in any way unusual or vulnerable, and pounce.
The question that remains is How [quickly] can I release myself from these limitations? How can we once and for all banish the mocking voices that pipe up uninvited with their contemptuous questions along the lines of What makes you think… What makes you so damn special? Why do you think you deserve special treatment? Why do you think you’re so special you could…
What makes you think you could… Why should You get …? Why would something like that happen to you?
To that I can only say, I have no idea. But I am working on it.
The book that sparked this off is called Unblocked by Margaret Lynch Raniere and David Raniere.
As a tapping practitioner myself for over a decade, and someone who has also gone through The Personal Peace Process without feeling I made sufficient progress, this book makes sense to me, it was my crucial missing puzzle-piece, and I warmly recommend reading it. It helps if you have knowledge of Tapping or EFT.
I also recommend reading Unseen Academicals by Terry Pratchett.
I’m not a minimalist, as anyone who knows me in real life will testify to, but neither am I a hoarder. I just have a Capricorn moon, I’m craefty, and on a budget 🙂 I take care not to hoard, but, this is Mexico, and a lot of things are difficult to come by affordably, and a lot of the time you see things once – and never again. If you think you’re going to need it in the foreseeable future and have the funds – get.it.when.you.see.it. I’ve always avoided fad things, everything is acquired with long term in mind, never the ‘once use and bin’. It’s with the environment in mind more than finances.
I have always had a really really hard time letting things go – unless it’s to someone else who will make use of it. This encompasses everything from worn clothes I still wear (because they still do the job when I’m at home), to small mementos and whatnot, including pens that have run out… Throwing away perfectly serviceable stuff in a world where so many has so little (and I’d happily gift it) – things I paid good money for – just because I have no idea how to find and give it to those who could use it… it’s just… feels so wrong on so many levels.
But, it doesn’t stop there. My stomach used to tie itself in gut-wrenching, painful knots when I needed to “clear out”, waaaay over the top. I realised there had to be more to this, and I was ready to find out. So that’s where I started Tapping (EFT, Emotional Freedom Technique), not knowing where this was going. Within a minute I was sobbing as feelings started to well up. It was so twisted and convoluted I’m including it in case it helps someone else understand themselves or someone close to them.
This is where I ask you to Get your tissues ready. If you were looking for a content warning, this is where you click back and go find something else to read. It’s painful but at least there is a healing outcome to this one. Here we go:
Throwing things away to me feels like telling them I don’t love you any more, even when it isn’t true.
There is just limited space and weight allowed in my suitcases, and what gets brought along is always a combo of most likely to be needed, and a couple of sentimental things.
I get that gut wrenching feeling every time, that of telling someone (or in this case something) you’re not important enough, new enough, good enough, for me to make space for you. I feel the rejection viscerally. Why am I not good enough any more? When did you stop loving me? What did I do wrong? From everything.
It is as if what is being rejected is piece of love, offering itself to me, and I tell it to go away.
Breathe! Breathe! I tell myself.
Then, a scene from another lifetime unfolds in my minds eye.
I see an old horse, and I know it is mine. The horse can no longer do the work it used to, and needing the stable to house a new, younger horse, one that isn’t lame and can pull the cart that pays for it’s keep and that of my family, I have to let my old friend go. There is no possibility to keep both.
My old friend, helper, companion. We’ve been through so much together. It breaks my heart I can’t let you live out your days in a green meadow somewhere. I feel like I am rejecting you when it is the circumstances making it impossible, and it is breaking my heart in a way that it never recovered in that lifetime.
The same heartbreak I see reflected back at me in my old horse’s eyes, the hurt, the confusion, the rejection, the betrayal. I was loyal to you, I thought you loved me, I loved you, I did everything my body could for you… I helped you, in all weathers and in all conditions. I was always there for you, and you send me away when I can no longer work for you? When I am no longer young you throw me away? Was that what I was to you? A tool, a machine? Just one more possession? I thought we were a team. I loved you.
I cried, really ugly cried, tapped and felt it all without running away. I howled and wailed in a way I don’t think I have ever allowed myself to do ever before. It felt like me and it didn’t, at the same time, and went on for what felt like hours.
I tapped until the wails became sobs again, and slowly subsided. I was utterly exhausted, but also felt the release as it let go of it’s painful grip on me. My non-corporeal (in spirit) horse in that had been with me throughout, nodded it’s head in approval before nuzzling my pockets in search of an apple or carrot.
We’re good. Centuries have passed, and I now look forward to one day meet with my old friend again, in or out of body.
This is the kind of hurts we’re healing and clearing in this incarnation; things that got stuck, the most difficult situations, the experiences we were unable to heal and resolve within the lifetime we had them.
The emotional imprint (also called blueprint, or overlay) will keep showing up in various forms until we give it the time and attention it needs and deserves. Yes it can hurt like hell, but in the end it allows you to feel a lot lighter. Less restricted. You have re-written your own programming if you like.
It is not so difficult for me to throw things away any more, as long as it is done mindfully and with discernment – don’t want to be contributing too much to landfill etc.
(Also perhaps worth mentioning is that I loved horses at a tween, but never allowed myself to get real close or get too attached to any one.)
Not all Tapping is as dramatic as this. Some is downright miraculous though. If you want to give it a go I recommend contacting a trained practitioner (if it feels like a big issue) because the emotional support is comforting to have if it gets intense, but you can absolutely do it on your own later, or with a trusted friend. Then teach it to your children. It’s a great tool to have in your emotional toolkit, and works best on issues where there is a stress component.
It looks like my ex-to-be moved out last night, and I have until the end of the month to find somewhere else and a way forward. I know no one else in this city (Cancun). This isn’t where I moved to for love over a decade ago, this is where we ended up for (his) work.
I am open to suggestions; work online and hang around here until October when I can fly the cats out safer (the heat). I’d rather relocate if I had something to leave for (work, or housesitting, renovation etc) and somewhere to go; am open to where, and what to do. I’d welcome something new to take my mind off things. If I can find a way to fly the two furballs that have kept me sane all this time in the cabin. Thanks to brexit I can’t go back to the place I have friends and contacts, and I’m feeling scared and lost.
I’m sorry if I’m not the most cheerful and person right now. I’ve repeatedly had the rug pulled from underneath for the last two years, going through a divorce, daily anxiety attacks and questioning my own worth. That’s what happens after working for yourself doing anything and everything for a decade . But if you give me a chance I can tell you this. I’m not always like this. Just going through the worst time of my life. It won’t last forever. I’d employ me, and befriend me. I’m quiet, reliable, and dependable. I’m resourceful. I may not look strong right now but hell I am, I’ve survived this far. But there are days when it all feels so overwhelming I go to bed hoping I won’t wake up. I’m a good listener. I believe in being kind. I must have some good karma ready to return for all the people I have helped in my life?
6 degrees of separation in this world. It only takes timing, for the right person to register and make a connection. I’m still here; that means I’m not done. Somewhere out there is the right fit and someone looking for someone like me. Is it you or someone you know? 🐾
I am going out on a limb here and being vulnerable so please go easy on me. I see memes with words like the one above making the rounds from time to time, they were much more prominent a decade ago.
This morning I had a dream where I made a new friend just days before leaving here, and that reminded me of how I have on occasion spent 5-6 hours having an amazing conversation with someone, come away feeling elated, only to never hear from them again? (I usually give my contact details, instead of asking for theirs). I thought we got on like a house on fire – how did I get it so completely wrong?
But get this, I want friends. Everyone want friends. If we as a species haven’t learned anything else from this last year, it is that we need each other, and we all want community in some shape or form.
I haven’t made any friends in C’cun, (and it’s not from lack of trying, except these last 18 months I simply have not bothered). There. I said it. The thing I am the most ashamed of having failed at in my life. Why is that? Why is it shameful to move somewhere and fail at making new friends locally?
I realize I am in an extreme situation here, but I want friends, wherever I eventually end up, not just acquaintances or drinking buddies etc. Introvert friends, to do introverted things with.
I’ve never been good at making friends, and now…talk about out of practice. But *I want to know where I’m going wrong*, because everywhere I go – I will be bringing myself, my insecurities etc. It’s been very lonely years here. I don’t want the rest of my life to be too. And my experience simply is not like the meme above, and I want it to be.
I think it is almost impossible for someone who attracts new friends with ease wherever they go to understand what it is like on the other end of the spectrum. And how absolutely excruciating the experience is to feel rejected by the world. You hear about people making friends absolutely everywhere and anywhere so why not me? What am I doing wrong? Cats and dogs like me so I can’t be all bad?
Andino Andina is a spec-fic solar-punk story of what happens when you get the chance you didn’t dare to dream about – and decide to take it? When you decide to trust in the face of fears and doubts?
Jacqueline – a 30-something cat guardian who is determined to live life her way – is about to find out. Her life as a freelance translator and animal communicator on the Costa Maya in contemporary Mexico is alright but not particularly exciting. That however is about to change.
For in a parallel existence there is a place called The Republic of the Andes. Here the South American continent was never devoured and divided by conquerors and developed solar technology centuries ago. Enter Field Agent Bron who is… no one really knows, but all of a sudden life got a lot more interesting than Jac had ever imagined. If you ever suspected you’re a freak and too sensitive for this world, this is for you. Because somewhere, what you’ve been thinking of as your freak is almost prerequisite…
COPYRIGHT LIZ ROSALES GATOTEPRESS 2014, 2021.
If you are a publisher and would like to read the full manuscript, contact me. Thank you.
I’ve thought a lot about this but never shared about it because it felt too personal, embarrassing even, to admit out loud, but here goes. For me it was never about partying and drinking. It was accidentally finding community when a fickle world turned their back. It was hard and crazy work and it saved my life when I wanted it to end, so I wanted to tell you a little about it.
It was about travelling, camaraderie, constant improvising and flexing your creative muscles. Very little box to think outside. It was about helping each other out, and looking out for each other. Wearing more than one hat, feeling useful and being seen as an asset. Being part of something bigger than you, and together facilitate an experience for others.
I loved the nomadic life, where no day ever looked the same; discovering and seeing new things. The feeling of freedom. Meeting random people you felt an immediate affinity with. About going somewhere.
The thrill of driving onto the ferry and knowing you’re on the road again! Knowing you can deal with whatever life throws at you with what’s in the pockets of your cargo-pants and shoulder-pack, except maybe spiders.
Seeing new places, and returning to old ones. Reconnecting with people, who felt like long lost friends. Seeing each other again and catching up felt so good.
Falling in love with a velveteen jacket and handmade jewellery, or discovering a new sandwich at a service station for lunch. Discovering world music. Pizza by a beautiful lake en route somewhere.
Sitting around a campfire, before or after the event, before you break camp and move on to the next destination, and set up once more…
Be given an improvised dreamcatcher by an old hippie because they heard you had a bad dream (I still have it). Losing five cigarette lighters in one evening, being given chai by a stranger, and singing old hits with a bunch of strangers in a field…
Washing your hair in a public toilet somewhere in Copenhagen – or was it Belgium, or France? The feeling of being clean with clean hair and clothes after a hot shower when all you’ve had for 5 days is babywipes.
Listening to your favorite chillout collection of music, driving home through the night, everyone else asleep. Headlights, white lines, and black tar rivers… Too much coffee, cola, and haribo bears, longing for salad, vegetables, sushi, and a hot bath. Then the moon rises to keep you company… https://youtu.be/9N40ghQ4z0Y Danya – Frederick Rosseau, from The Karma Collection.
Beer or mugs of hot tea around a potbelly stove as the nights got darker and colder and the season is drawing to an end. Until next time…maybe next year… https://youtu.be/6SxhzWZrGmg Autumn is here – Craig Armstrong – Weather storm, The Karma Collection.
It was never about drinking, bands, or party-drugs, those aren’t my thing. Those were my least favorite parts. The things I just put up with.
It was some of the best times in my life, but after nine seasons it was time for me to move on. New phase in life. Like now. I have two cats this time, famously neophobic as a species, they want a homebase. So do I. New friends. A workplace that appreciates me. That stuff.