How to Survive Among Ghosts WHO EAT INNOCENCE

Monarch ghosts, Patriarch Ghosts, Mother Ghosts, Father Ghosts, Grandmother Ghosts, Lover Ghosts, Friend Ghosts, Demon Ghosts, Pharaoh Ghosts, Queen Ghosts, Cousin Ghosts, Self-Ghosts, Family Ghosts, Religious Ghosts, Scientific Ghosts, Political Ghosts, Intellectual Ghosts, Stupid Ghosts, Co-Worker Ghosts, Public Servant Ghosts, City Ghosts.

 

Imperfection and Failure can be beautiful.

 

Never fight for a spot in a ghost’s life. Accept that, indeed, you are surrounded and cornered. Relish your corner! Build a small fortress - a utopian sliver lined with bright colors. Here, you are Parent, you are Friend, you are Lover and Creator. These roles and tasks for yourself are Journey. And the end of the campfire story goldens the heroes and heroines because their eyes were opened as they noticed themselves exactly as they existed and loved themselves fully with imperfection. Pure compassionate Love! It is renewable light- a tower of energy that invites the impossible, and unites other like-worlds.

 

What is health in living as the fluidity of circumstance within and without ever change, ever threaten ever entice, ever pressure?

Notice, and Return. Notice, and Return.

 

I notice self-pity, and return to my utopian corner to feel comfort and love.

I notice my anger, and return to my bulwark, keeping its toxic effects away from anyone else. Its magical benefits teach me to further notice the whys and the truths within the corner of myself.

I notice when I want to escape above any other desire, and gently, compassionately, stay with myself, so that I am not alone.

An hour, two hours. . . feelings change - this law you can count on within your bright tower. Parent your world. Teach yourself to stand firm and to be a rock during the emotional storms, driving out demons of fear. Feelings pass. Trust this anchor inside. Notice, and return.

 

I notice, I am chasing Other Worlds - jumping into someone else’s creation of reality, instead of finding completeness in the peace of my dear corner. What is preventing me from living at home, alone, inside myself? I notice that have been jumping toward danger - once more becoming a feast for ghosts and in the process of becoming myself a ghost. I am blessed when somehow a force pushes me back to my own corner, but I do not know this until slowly, my weight returns. After the shock of this reality calms, I take a wobbly unsure step toward once again embracing my corner. I mindfully look around and, slowly, endeavor to do some things here. Small things. I quietly hang up a piece of homemade art on the wall and look at it. I softly create a humble meal and notice - it’s delicious. Soon, I put on a song and dance to a pot of tea.

 

The eyes of the stars twinkle with delight, watching me, giving each other a knowing nod of joy as I grow. Keep noticing how wonderful it is, they whisper, and keep living there fully! Do not tell us the year you think you were born. Instead tell us the story of how long you have loved your corner, which is your body and mind, and what you continue to notice there. Every moment is golden, and as beautiful as a dance. Do not explain to us what is “good” or “bad,” just tell us how your utopia of love for yourself is a source of strength and protection. Tell us the stories of how you noticed what came, and how you stayed with yourself and your tower. This is your light. The power lies in observation, returning to self and making choices that create a beautiful star.

 

Centuries pass.

 

Suddenly, I am astonished to notice, my world moves with me. My universe is not permanently fixed here as I had always presupposed. I take an unsure step through a sea of ghosts and my utopia stays connected with me! The sea divides and cannot harm me.  

The eyes of the stars see me grow, and it fills their existence with joy. Do not tell us the year that you think you were born, they say. Tell us the story of how you one day walked through ghosts and remained whole. Tell us the story of how you noticed the worlds of ghosts and felt safe and not alone because you were no longer one of them, but alive and reborn. 

I wonder how the boundaries of my utopia function. I notice my curiosity for ghosts' lives. I do not think they have any safety except to attack. Their utopies seem more like living hells, and I notice I feel compassion for them - not superiority. I have learned to return to my own corner and nurture my inner home no matter what I hear or see outside. I create Nurture by staying with myself - staying here at home, and allowing my sacred truths to surface. I should never be sure I know all there is to know or rigidly define myself, I think.  

Ghosts begin to knock and knock. I do not know how to respond. I thought I was grown up. I thought I was strong and smart. I notice I am unsure of how to choose fluidity and openness and compassion and yet protect my beautiful home within myself. Is it wrong to protect my home, myself, at all costs? Is it arrogant or selfish? Is it hurtful or hording? I am . . . confused. I allow ghosts inside. 

Hellish wolds merge with mine until I no longer recognize the home I have made. 

My art, 

my songs, 

my tea! 

Soon, I find my utopia destroyed. 

I am without a home. 

I am kicked and punched. 

I feel sick and ashamed.

The more I try to emulate the world my ghostmasters have created, the more they desire to eat my flesh. I soon realize. . . I am a ghost. 

I have been here before. I remember this. There is no understanding of compassion for me here. Perhaps I should try to be the most powerful ghost, consuming masses as I wish. But I remember a feeling. It was a habit of humility and effort, accepting my imperfections and it led to humor and joy. I look up at the stars, chained to a damp wall, bedraggled, one foot eaten, a hand severed, and hair loaded with lice. I see the soft twinkles above. No ghost can eat the stars, I think. I feel comforted by the healing white lights. Is it too late for me to be a light once more? 

I look at myself in this corner. I am in a cave. All is quiet. Do I have the courage to believe that it is not arrogant or evil, in any way, to protect, cherish, love, understand, enjoy, notice and learn about myself? A ghost cannot do this. A ghost cannot be mother, cannot be lover, cannot be father and cannot provide joy or healing. Still, I am afraid to believe this. Why am I afraid to believe this? I notice, I am afraid to accept the reality of ghosts. I notice, I did not protect my utopia. I did not protect my health. I did not protect my safety. I did not protect my existence! I say my name and I love myself. I love myself! I truly hold myself, and cry, and listen to myself. I encourage myself. I ask the stars, towers of bright light, please help me return to myself. Teach me how to keep my world, my life, my inner light whole and strong.  

My prayer is done. Nothing happens, but I feel lighter. I notice I feel a glimmer of light. The days are like a thousand years here. I am hit again. I want to hate. I want to escape. I want a drink!  I notice I want these things. Why do I want to hate? My mind cannot find the answer. I feel calm. I notice a bug on its back trying to get up. I watch it for a long time. I bump it with my toe and it rights itself. It stops as if to ponder what to do next. Suddenly the corroded chain that held me captive has fully run its course. It drops. I realize that I have gone unnoticed for centuries by the ghostmasters.  

I dare not draw attention to myself. I enjoy my freedom in this corner. My bug becomes my little friend. When he visits I laugh. I truly enjoy its funny ways. I am thankful for my space and this peace. I begin to grow healthier. My flesh begins to return. I notice my self-pity from time to time, but then return to the memory of how much I enjoy my little bug friend. I can now use both hands and all fingers and my hair is healthy and long. I am grateful. I feel a tower of love inside me. Soon, I am healed, and a crystal fortress of joy and light surrounds this corner. I relish my corner.  

Centuries pass. 

I notice, I am afraid to walk again through the ghosts. I am afraid! I accept this fear and paint a watercolor of it. I fold the paper painting into a jungle gym for my bug friend. What will happen if I walk again? What will I cause? Who will confuse me? Will I be able to protect myself? 

This is my age, you see. I am not really sure of the true year I was born. I want to walk secure withn myself, content, full of joy, and find other crystal fortresses. I want to find other corners full of light. I do not know what will happen, but, I will notice and above all cherish and return to my existence, my home, my heaven. I will listen to myself and nurture myself. I will enjoy myself and humbly not look to ghosts for the measure of reality. If I fail, I know I can grow again. I wonder how many times the towers in the sky fell and grew to be so strong and so bright. I am still a child. 

Sorrow is how we learn to love. Your heart isn't breaking. It hurts because it is getting larger. The larger it gets, the more love it holds.   Rita Mae Brown

   

January 2013