So, I have been going through some major, MAJOR reorientation of my own self-ness. I feel as though these breakthroughs are very specific, and are about some deep set programming that I have been wrassling with. I have something I have not really dealt with or acknowledged surface, just about a few days ago.
When I first came across Design, and I discovered I was a projector, so many aspects of my life made sense, especially around conditioning from others.
*Why I was always exhausted by others (powered by the sacral of another)
*Why I felt swayed by others (conditioning from all my open centers)
*Why I always felt Like I had to do it myself, or alone ( super slaved to the desire to be recognized)
*Why I felt shut out alot (offering advice when it was not requested/invited)
*Why I could not feel my own ‘reason d’etre’ (open center conditioning spackle from others eclipsing my actual definition)
…and that’s just for starters!
After I began to work with my Strategy, a certain part of me died. Until discovering Design, I thought I was living such a vibrant life, and after being told I needed to ‘wait to be asked/invited’ I felt secretly horrible. A certain part of me was stunted or subdued. The ‘go getter’ and the- to use the language of Design, ‘the conditioned manifestor’ part of me had been slain. but that felt like no victory. There was a part of me that felt deadened or some of my fire had been snuffed out. It was a quiet agony of disappointment, and what felt like a terrible misfortune. Like a burn that never really healed, which when brushed or stubbed, reminded me of what happened.
I had to wait, for the other. no more initiating.
I have been grappling with this for three years, and I have no peace with it. Until now.
A part of my soul felt sullen, I felt as though the things I used to do were now ‘off limits’ or incorrect. Oh how wrong i was! oh, how wrong…
Design is a tuning, a refinement of how we make decisions in our lives, and how we can become so much closer to ourselves as beauty, its almost staggering. But, so many of our habits and patterns are so deeply ingrained that we don’t even realize how much these inlaid concepts affect us.
Inlaid is the analogy I used b/c it is similar to the inlay on let;’s say a wood cabinet. The wood of a cabinet is so perfect and beautiful in and of itself, yet someone chooses to add to the wood’s intrinsic beauty what they think is beauty. to see the wood in its natural state, unfettered, untouched, is what Design seeks. in the case of humans, as a species, inlay is not so good.
Why do I know I am wrong? How can I tell that this ‘silly’ waiting process is effective?
The ‘go getter’ is slain. and this is good, b/c I now seek myself, rather than fixing those around me. I inhabit my own body, and my own internal clarity. I know what is open in me and, after a significant amount of scraping off what people have ‘spackled’ into my open centers over the years, I can FINALLY feel my own internal compass, and its powerful navigational skills.
The sullen feeling of not being able to do my own thing has been transformed into what I call ‘buffing’ for projectors. I am working on myself, not initiating into the world, but what I do now, is for myself. It is not to please, invoke, tease, problem solve, cajole or attract, but simply for me.
How did this come about? A Slam. A poetry Slam.
My first one actually…
Not an empty seat in the house, all focused on six poets. The stage awash in mediocre lighting, and poorly tuned monitors. Backstory. Poetry seeped into my heart in high school through Robert Frost and Yeats, and took full residence in my soul in college. I gratefully blame Ted Walker, an English poet for tuning me into Phillip Larkin and through a survey class, the passion of the rhyme. I’m sure he would fully accept that blame, and I still need to send him a postcard and thank him. As of recent I only occasionally scrawl something and hide it in a notebook or a folder in my computer, alas…
the crowd was in great anticipation of being washed with rhymes and stories, yet I could easily feel their restraint and scrutiny. it was a slam after all and acuity is raised. Each poet significant. each piece crashed through my mind like a freight train. Yet the crowd held back.
they held themselves back. I could feel it.
for the love of the rhyme, and all that is profane, why?!
I no longer question, I observe and chew slowly, spit when needed and then swallow gently.
There is no ‘way’ in poetry, especially slam. may be some framework, but not enough to warrant the lack of reaction i was getting from the room. (when it comes to crowds, I am a lightning rod now, and its a challenge to ‘head out’ for the evening sometimes!) The Poets were hurtling their words at us and I was open armed like a city kid on hot pavement in front of a hydrant in late July. Then I could feel the lock, the binding, the hasp falling away. The lock of an idea of who I thought i was capable of being dropped, and rattled on the auditorium floor. I took a deep breath, and my shoulders rolled back.
My freedom is my own, and to whatever degree I embody it, is up to me. wow. fuckit, Its all mine. ALL mine.
My old manifestor self that pushed, arranged, and conspired is now dead. there is no grief.
Just my own self making my own way through a way that asks me to simply find my own energy for my own life for my OWN reasons, for MYSELF. All that clearing and cleaning over the past four years, and i had a classic ‘ah ha!’ moment.
They’ll see me, and if its cool and ok, then they’ll ask me to come out and play.
My own game is afoot. Whew!
This killer monkey is gettin’ D a n g e r o u s!