Posts Tagged ‘Wisdom’

Time

January 10, 2011

Time! by Sharon Martini

Today time whizzes like a dragonfly’s wing.

Tomorrow it could flow like molasses.

But one thing is for sure.

Always, and without end, time passes.

(What will you do with your allotment?)


All words and art © Sharon Martini. All rights reserved.

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‘Love, my unique personal love story is writing itself’

September 14, 2010

Dear Love,

I have been thinking a lot about you lately, Love. No, I am not submerged in some fiery new fascination. Quite the contrary! I have been pondering how you have appeared in my life, Love.

As a little girl I knew you well, Love. All pink hearts, apple pies, deportment and discipline. They told me. I knew it to be true, in-between. Then Love, you told me, “I beat you because I Love you. Never mind the welts, they will heal and you will be strong, steadfast; a person of whom I can be proud. Besides, it was the same love that grew me, and look, it did me no harm, I am fine.”

Is it standard practice, Love, to declare (on tape no less,) “Don’t take any shit from my daughter!” on her wedding day?

I grew up, (well, I had several birthdays,) and you Love, became red roses, opened doors, chivalry, providence and protection. I believed them then too, in-between. This time because I needed to.

Doesn’t the traditional “fairytale” wedding vow state, “In sickness and in health…?” So why Love, did you leave me fearing your care in the event of my incapacity?

“All you need is love.” Says the song. Has anyone ever asked what kind of love, Love?

Remember when you used to insist, “I do not want to hear you say, “Can’t” because you can. You forgot to tell the truth Love, that anything I did accomplish needed to remain behind you, in your shadow.

It was you Love who held me, manacled-by-man, arms behind my back, as you instructed love to beat me, break me, put me in my place.

“I love you!” You shout, type, tell, proclaim, at every opportunity. But then you shut me out, Love. “Send me to Coventry.” That is what we call it where I am from. “Of course you know I love you but you may not come in for your presence renders me invisible. Might you bend, shuffle, dim?” You confess in inebriated verbosity, Love.

Love you have a multitude of faces, forms and fundamentals. You are not always kind and you are most certainly not always nice. Quite frankly, Amor, you have been for me, to use English vernacular, a royal pain in the bottom.

So Love, the purpose of this letter is to bid you adieu, so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye. I will no longer accept you in my world as you are. Yes, I am fully aware that there will be consequences for my brave, or foolish, decision (only I shall know the final outcome,) but I need to take the risk. For Love, it is, at this juncture in my life, do or die my darling.

I know the love that I need is out there in the ether, in the air! Love that laughs and likes little old me — warts and all. Love that is communicative, caring and kind; that lingers with neither hurt nor smart; that is affectionately loquacious both in silence and in song. Love that will share time, and breath, and space with me — willingly and wantonly.

Do you know what I believe, Love? I believe that this love, my special, particular, peculiar, kind of love, lives inside of me, and even as we “speak,” Love, my unique personal love-story is writing itself. It is up to me. In fact, it is only me, Love, who can publish it, set it free.

Throughout my years of acquaintance with you in your various guises, Love, the most sacred lesson I have gleaned is, “Love is the key to liberation.”

I am using my key, Love. How about you? Have you the courage to set it free?

This column was published in the August, 2010, edition of The Southwest Community Connection newspaper.

Dreams are personal messages to help guide us

June 30, 2010

To dream is to invent, aspire to, conceive of or imagine; to daydream. A dream is a series of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations occurring during sleep. It is funny (or is it fundamental?) the dreams one remembers, and when one remembers them.

I must have been about four years old. I had been fast asleep in bed when something roused me from my slumber. Suddenly, peering under my bed, I was face to face with a large foreign feline. This was no ordinary, domestic, English kitty.  No, this was a ginormous female black jaguar. Her shiny black fur glistened in the dark, and the huge golden yellow orbs that were her eyes flickered and sparkled as she observed me. This leopard had business with me, not my brother, or sister, nor the baby in his crib blissfully sleeping nearby. Her gaze coolly conveyed this as she lay there speaking loudly in palpable, powerful, persuasive, panther silence to little me.

“MUMMY!” fear finally kicking in, I ran screaming to my parents’ room. I breathlessly told them what I had seen. My mother brought me back to my bedroom, all the while insisting it was nothing, only a dream, she said. But then, upon entering my room my mother, her back pressed against the wall, stood terrified, as if she had seen a ghost, or maybe a giant black jaguar, with luminescent sun saucers for eyes, lounging obsequiously under the bed, waiting patiently for what was rightfully hers, namely me. Then, visibly traumatized but having finally reclaimed her gross motor skills, mummy commanded me to get back in bed and promptly departed. We never did discuss that dream.

As an adult, at a time in my life where I am actively seeking my purpose, traveling solo, single-mindedly to spiritual awakening, I find I can dream on demand. I can meditate and conduct spiritual journeying. Whenever I employ one of these practices I always find myself surrounded by, and protected by, black jaguars. Often, I am the black jaguar.

The jaguar is a mystical magical beast, the queen of he jungle; a lady of the night (lunar not lascivious.) She is the dark mother, aligned with femininity, earth, death, darkness, rebirth, harmony, balance, and acclimatizing. She is solitary, strong and sonorous. On reflection, I recognize that in many ways she “looks like” me. I am a dark mother. I am solitary (even as I attempt to not be so much so.) I am strong, and if I do say so myself, I have a unique, rich voice.

I have come to believe that my dreams are personal messages, nocturnal missives for me from Goddess/God/Universe/Spirit, to help guide and teach me. To help me find, meet and claim myself. Many indigenous and ancient cultures believe we have spirit guides, animal alter egos whose qualities and characteristics represent our strengths, weaknesses and the pieces of ourselves needing the most personal attention. They believe for healing – spiritual, physical and emotional, wholeness – one must communicate freely and often with these animal angels and creature gods.

John Sanford, in his book, ““Dreams, God’s Forgotten Language” confirms my belief with his argument that God converses with us in our dreams, but we have forgotten how to hear. Far-fetched? Fantastical? I do not think so. Fundamental, I say.

I believe, a dream, a vision, a nightmare, a hallucination even, or imagination, is God/Goddess/Universe/Spirit, talking, attempting to guide, calling us to conversation. A dream is the primordial open invitation to dialogue with deity.

Still, don’t take my word for it. Close your eyes and dream. The gods and goddesses are whispering your wisdom and waiting patiently to dialogue with you.

A version of this column appeared in the June, 2010 edition of The Southwest Community Connection newspaper.