Thursday, May 28, 2020

2020, The Year of Clear Vision


It sounded so illustrious on January 1, 2020. The year of clear vision, we thought. The polarization of 2019 behind us and the age of enlightenment ahead.


Now we have mud-splattered glasses. We’re breathing behind masks, our hands are chaffed from frequent washings, we don’t touch a stranger or a friend. Used to be, we shook hands. We thrilled at a touch. We patted each other on the backs. Playmates intertwined fingers. Heck, when we were kids, we shared chewing gum. Isn’t that gross?

I sneezed about 15 times, just thinking about a test my husband had. He went into the hospital for a procedure they had postponed when the virus struck. Now they have reopened their doors to selective treatment. Because he was in the hospital, he had to have a virus test. They pushed a probe up his nose and into the back of the throat (Achoo!). 

Well, we know one person who DOES NOT HAVE THE VIRUS. 

From this, I found that there are two texts for the coronavirus. 

One is the one my husband had, testing for a live virus.

The other is a blood draw that tests for antibodies. Somehow the person had, does have, or sometime in the past had a similar coronavirus and has built antibodies.

The trouble is the tests have sometimes been mixed, sometimes not, and even the epidemiologists have trouble collecting data. So, here we are, not knowing what is up, left, right, or sideways.

I had decided on the last blog, not to mention the virus, but here it is again. It just keeps popping up. 

I had a meltdown last week—everything bothered me. The dog must have caught my energy and barked (brayed—he is a coon-hound) at every little thing, the bikers on the street, the fly on the wall.

I’m more centered now—spent yesterday in my truck (my office on wheels) reading and writing, punctuated only by a bathroom break. 

I received a comment on my site where the person commented on an old blog, (Bless them.). I wondered what I had said. (“The Universe is Holding Its Breath,” May 4, 2019)

After checking, I found that I had talked about Jean Huston using the word “Quantum Field” as a place to reside. She spoke of Margaret Mead, the anthropologist who stayed with her for a time. As they walked, Mead was railing on the fact that she had a paper due the following day, but couldn’t find the material she needed. 

Along came a former student, who stopped, and said,” Dr. Mead, you probably don’t remember me…”

“Oh, I remember you. You didn’t complete your term paper.”

“Well,” said the student. I went on to graduate school anyway, and I’m working on (whatever). 

It was the very thing Mead needed.

Mead grabbed her by the arm and said, “You’re coming home with me.”

After that experience, Huston asked Mead how she got to be so lucky.

“Because I expect to be,” answered Mead.

“She was in the Quantum Field,” said Huston. She didn’t hold back her anger (for enlightened people ought not to get mad), but she BELIEVED.

“Tell me,” wrote the poet Mary Oliver*, “what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life.”

Don’t wait for the next life, do it now.

It’s time we rise up as people. It’s time we stopped following protocols that some say will help us, although we aren’t too sure. (If masks help, why are we also distancing?) However, we follow. Instead, we should say we aren’t going to hunker down and let fear control our lives. We aren’t going to allow our entire world to come to a standstill, and our livelihood become trashed because we fear of contracting the flu. 

Yes, we’ll take precautions, but we will stop running scared—making us afraid to look at each other for heaven’s sake. (Some data says that our risk of contracting the disease is about the same as our risk of an automobile accident driving to work. And then we see graves in Brazil. What in the heck are we supposed to believe?) I don’t know, that’s the trouble, we don’t know.

Aren’t you tired though, of companies warning us, “Stay Safe,” “Be healthy. “Stay Home—save a life?” 

Those, now cliché’s, are the thing to say—it’s nice. It’s saying there are there for us. It’s treating us like children. It keeps fear, contagion, and the possibility of death, constantly in our faces.

I guess I’ve reached the not-being-nice part of my life when I realize I might be gone tomorrow, and I want to see the world flourish whether I’m here to see it or not.

It’s hard to think we have anything to protect ourselves from when I see the absolutely glorious green fields and flocks of birds. I hear the flowers laughing—not at us, at the sheer joy of being alive. Those flowers will wilt and die, but they are enjoying the moment.

But not us. We don’t know how to do that.

I don’t want to be foolhardy saying all this, but I worry about how easily people are controlled. Wave a virus in front of them, and they all scurry for cover.

I went into a bar to buy an iced tea yesterday. You had to go inside to buy a drink, for the food trucks outside didn’t serve any. Inside on the TV, I saw a jockey on a horse, on a track, wearing a mask. Really? 

He was outside in the fresh air, no one was spitting on him, and he needed to breathe unencumbered to make that run. (Maybe he hadn’t pulled his mask down yet after being with the pit workers. And it would protect him from the dust kicked up by the horses. There could be a reason.) 

Did you know that the Native Americans used to set fires? (How about that for a non sequitur?) I think of that as I look out over a flat green field that lies in the Willamette Valley. 

The Native Americans would burn areas to allow new plants—eatable ones—a chance to grow. Up the I-5 freeway a bit, there is an area called Camas Swale where the camas flowers grow.

The camas have an eatable bulb that the native Americans collected for food. After a burn, the camas would come in, and the People would mark the tiny plants for the next year when they could harvest them. Their marks also showed other nomads coming through the location of eatable plants. 

Do we have an eye on the seventh generation, as did the Native Americans?

What can we pass on?

We can mark a camas flower for others to find.

Yesterday another wonderful reader commented on a blog I had written on October 10, 2017. Maybe you remember reading it, but I had to be reminded of what I had said.   

“Ever since I heard the writer/ researcher Michael Tellinger say, “Our purpose is to raise the consciousness of the people,” I said, “Yes. That’s it.”

“This is the top purpose, you might have sub-purposes, like pursuing your dream of becoming an artist, or building a hospital in Africa, but first and foremost, we ought to uplift the consciousness of the people that populate this planet.

“We do not need to fix people; we need to assist them in fixing themselves. One by one, if people popped out of their limitations, the world would be transformed without us lifting a finger. And we could say that rarely do we find a broken person, only people in want of something.

“Evidence of my claim is that hordes of people are seeking healing experiences, joining consciousness-raising groups, and studying Quantum physics to understand where they fit into the cosmos. People throng to Tony Robbins events with the belief that their lives will improve because of it. Millions follow the TED talks with presenters encouraging us to live our dreams, follow our bliss, and live the life for which we were born.

“All this tells me people are hungry to know and to understand where they fit into the cosmos. People throng together to bring fresh water to Africa, to begin a peace movement, to stand up for green movements, promote solar energy, animal rights, clean ocean, and healthy forests.”

See, people do care.

And now we are faced with a new challenge. What are we going to do about it?

The Summer Day—Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Camas flower

Friday, May 22, 2020

Psychic Thump

"Let us live so that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry."—Mark Twain.

Have you ever said, "Gosh, I wish this writer would take longer to get to the point?

Hee hee, bet not. Try reading some of those ads where they believe if you stay on their site for three miles of text, you're more apt to buy. It drives me crazy.

Have you spent the last couple of months shuttered up in your house?

I hope not.

This spring is not to be missed. 

The tree in our backyard looks like it has grown a third since last year.

The wild irises on my daughter and son-in-law's property are in full chorus. (Mother's day 2020) 

The world is laughing in flowers. The rhododendron we cut down two years ago upset the lady across the street for she lamented, "That bush was 60 years old." Well, we left a stump and look at it now. Maybe it will make the lady believe in reincarnation.

The birds are reproducing like they believe the world will continue.

I tried to get a picture of our neighborhood Prince Charming when I found him behind our house with his tail unfurled. As soon as I approached with a camera, he dropped it. Probably he was hoping for a lady peacock, poor baby. On our block he’s the only peacock. 

Okay, after all the wonderfulness out there, I wrote an entire blog on dilemmas, looking at the world right now, how I felt about world conditions, how they were forcing us into being vaccinated, how the Big Pharma was, in 1986, released from responsibility of any illness or deaths from their vaccinations. I found that nearly six million children under the age of five die each year, yet the majority could be saved by medical treatment or prevention measures.  I wondered what the “truth” was. Was there a big scary virus out there out to get us, or have we been fed a bill of goods? I wondered if human beings were worth saving.

And, of course, I was screaming that we are!

 Gloomy stuff.

And then I got a psychic thump on the head.

This morning I was wondering about manifesting, and affirmations after I read of one lady who won the lottery by visualizing that she would win. She “saw” 112 million dollars, she affirmed the numbers. She visualized what she would be wearing when she won the lottery, and how she would use the money.  She wanted to gain custody of her brother’s five children after he was killed in a car accident

She won the lottery. And she won the custody of the children.

So, I wrote down an affirmation for my book, Where the Birds of Eden Sing. As soon as I completed writing it and closed the file, another file popped onto my screen. It was written in October 2028, in One Note. I was writing in Word, not One Note. Where did that come from? The title was: I Don’t Need a Water Purifier, but I Need This...” and it was about manifesting.

I posted it on

To the point.

So be it.

And then a few minutes later the lady from across the street who had worried about our Rhododendron being cut down, knocked on my door. That was the first time ever. She is extremely elderly and rarely gets out of her house, I have met her on the street. “I’m in trouble, she said.”

She had gone into her back yard and locked herself out of her house.
There was a key in a shed behind her house, she said, but she couldn’t get into it. 

I could see why. It had a sliding barn door, that was off the track on one side and gouging into the ground. Luckily the door was standard size, not a big barn door, and I managed to open it big enough to squeeze in. 

We got the key and opened her door.

She said: “When I saw you on the Bobcat, I wondered what in the heck you were doing, then I read your memoir and figured you could do anything.”
I was shocked. “You read my book?!” (The Frog’s Song)

“Oh yes, I loved it. I’ve been to the Big Island, didn’t live off the grid though, and the restroom at Black Sands Beach wasn’t so good.”

“I think they have rebuilt it since you were there,” I said, “It had a good restroom.

Poem by e.e. cummings:

I thank You God for this most this amazing / day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees / and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything / which is natural which is infinite which is yes.

I Don’t Need a Water Purifier, but I need this...