Thursday, February 23, 2017

There is a Last Time

There's gonna be a last time.

Ready or not, there will be a last snowfall.

Remember last post, when I wrote I felt a name change coming on?  Shortly after I admitted that, I admitted something bigger. 

Post Widowhood needs to scoop you all up and wish you well.  I'm saying Bye-Bye.

I've outgrown it.  I don't feel 'post' widowhood, 'post' recovery, 'post' relevant.  Yeah, it's all 'post'.  Yet it's all 'beginnings'.  History has given me wings. 

The eyes I have found here have felt more real and loving than physical eyes I once searched as I asked "Are you with me?"  With your company, my own eyes felt the answer.  You have been a new mirror for me, replacing that rusty, dusty, fusty, musty version in my head.  Your words have had enormous impact.  I don't know if this was exactly what you intended, but in real life now, I'm genuinely warm toward people I feel warmly toward, and genuinely off-putting to people I want to be off-putting to.  The congruence is absolutely relaxing.  I laugh often.  And offload my opinions in other places.

But I'm all talked out here! 

I was worried that the digital sphere would swallow evidence I existed when this blog falls silent.  So before posting this final message I assembled physical evidence, and a PDF file.  Hah!  Yesterday two full color volumes from Blog2print arrived.   Five plus years.  262 posts, pictures and comments.  Volume One, 2012, 2013 and 2014 - 206 pages of gorgeous evidence that I existed.  Volume Two, 2015, 2016 through January 24, 2017 - 340 pages of proof that I really had a lot to get off my chest.



I promise - my words will continue to pop up your blogs. 
Love you all!

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

I Feel a New Name Coming On



Underneath my blog's web address, blog names pop up, like babies.  I'm on, like, my fourth one?  They disappear and I forget them.  Only one I remember is Waking Up Every Day.  Must have been my favorite baby.   Way back, five years ago, one blog name, Post Widowhood sufficed, if I remember correctly.

Kissing the Air might pop up.  Or maybe Real is in Here Someplace

What's in a name?  Everything.  All redirect my attention.  All set my intention.   Each take a shot at some sacred cow living inside my head.   And to this sacred cow, each says

Don't get your knickers in a twist, my dear

PostWidowhood is a jab at Post Season angst, if you've ever wondered.

Flawlessly Ordinary takes a jab at a particular sacred cow I grew up with.  It may also be a message our culture perpetuates:

"You, my dear, feel left out, because you are left out.  Why?  Because you are...ordinary.   Only extraordinary people of extraordinary deeds deserve attention and respect." 

Flawlessly Ordinary takes aim at this asinine belief that ranks people.  Whether it made any sense to you, it inspired me.

It'll stay up there until my knickers stop getting in a twist when someone acts superior to another.  Do people realize the damage they do acting superior?  Far too many people feel ashamed of themselves because they believe people can be ranked. If I or someone feels they need to recruit another to their point of view because it's superior...

Uh, oh.  I am feeling contractions.  Some name for this blog is pressing to come out.

The fellow leading the seminar last Saturday, planted a little seed.

"You don't get out of here alive."  We all agree, no?

Well, Dr. Alexander now believes, after his Near Death Experience:

"Nobody gets out of here dead."

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

These he also said, and I do agree...
"We're conscious in spite of our brain."
"Hardships are gifts."
"Just as all politics is local, all spirituality is local."
"Souls arrive knowing they will be dumbed down."
"We're here to play by the universe's rules, not our own rules."

But this one? 
"Nobody gets out of here dead"

Sunday, January 22, 2017

The Sounds of (my) Heaven in New York City

New York, New York...It's a wonderful town!
I could name this post 'Sounds of my Heart', because feeling my heart and soul is all that matters to me these days.

(Note to all: I'm taking a stab at leaving in what I edit out.) 

In the bowels of Marble Collegiate Church
Question: If you had a chance to learn a new skill you had no talent for, would you?  For most this >>> Listening to the sounds of heaven in one's heart <<< is second nature.  In an uncluttered soul/ heart, so I believe.  When haven't you felt the stirrings of a love that escapes physical boundaries, leaping into the puppy at your side, or man in your bed, or the sun on its path?  It's the inescapable joy of existence. 

(Don't you wish I was editing?!!)

So this past year especially, but really the past decade, I have been clearing away inner clutter so that I can choose my existence instead of it choosing me.  To put it bluntly, I walked away from the schoolyard that prison-yard alpha b***h birthed me into. I am now learning my P's and Q's in a schoolyard of my choice.  Soul school.

I so wanted to photograph the screen ad before this one - for the Sex Museum.
Which brings me - which brought me - to New York City yesterday. But before I get to that, I want to tell you.... there's this strange phenomenon that happens to me as I drive into New York City.  I calm down.  My entire nervous system relaxes, melting into arms so wide.  I pondered this a little as I drove down the West Side.  I spent many years driving down the Sawmill across the bridge into upper Manhattan, then down the West Side Highway alongside the Hudson River to Greenwich Village to the hospital for my husband's cancer treatment.  My body recognizes its rhythms and relaxes.  'Course back then, I had my buddy in the car.  Yet I still feel I have his gorgeous company as I drive in.  Driving in yesterday, Saturday, morning meant next to no traffic, although I first checked to see where the Women's March would be held so I skirt around any of its congestion.

I started in at 8:15am and was there by 9:15am.  Now the stars have to align perfectly or that doesn't happen.  I live a whisker over 50 miles from NYC's beautiful, beating heart.  The stars aligned beautifully yesterday.

Dr. Eben Alexander
The management of my soul - my heart - is what I went in for.   Have you guys read "Proof of Heaven"?  Published in 2012, it recounts the 2008 Near Death Experience of the Neurosurgeon Eben Alexander, M.D..  He had quite the ride into heaven during his week long coma, when his brain had no sign of life.  Yet, he was conscious.  With nary a functional cell in his brain, he was fully present in this other non-local consciousness.  (Isn't that an intriguing word for God?)  Against all odds, he came out, and took some time grasping the enormity of what this meant.  Conclusion: The brain is a filter for consciousness, and NOT the creator of consciousness.  This formerly materialist, agnostic scientist has a lot of post-NDE evidence that love beats at the center of this universe. 


Hearing his story wasn't what nudged me to register for his all day seminar at Marble Collegiate Church on Fifth Avenue.  I hoped for guidance into this ultra real experience.  I've been entering this new sphere of heartfelt existence ( really, what anybody having felt unconditional love from their Mama has in their heart ) and want to live from its directive.  Dr. Alexander has partnered with a brilliant woman, Karen Newell, who, together with another sound engineer, has created sound meditations.  There have been a number of sound technicians and composers who have created aids to meditating; that is, sounds that occupy and kind of 'jam' the thought center of our brains, to enable us to allow expanded contact with our soul instead of our conditioned beliefs and created identities.  Hers have allowed Dr. Alexander to access a taste his ND Experience of non-local Love consciousness.   I sure want access to this state of being.  While I have beliefs and earthly identity, I prefer they be at the service of my soul.  It's the orientation I choose.  Being a erratic meditator and pray-er, I need all the help I can get for this mystical experience.  These Sound CD's are training wheels for meditation..  Sacred Acoustics Technology here for the whole story.

Dr. Eben Alexander, Karen Newell, my fellow meditators, New York...all made for a delicious, heartwarming day.  We engaged in two deep meditations.  Now, at home, I've created a sacred space...well, finishing up on its good start, anyway.

I'd like to leave you with Eben Alexander's words from "Proof of Heaven"s Afterward:

"Memory, Plato argued, is power.  And it is memory that brings us out of the false definitions of ourselves that earthly life can lead us into.  But we have to remember to remember.  Here are a few ways that I hope will help you to do just that. [each topic below he expands upon.]

Number One:
Remember the Limits of Words, and Remember Their Power

Number Two:
Remember Your Brain's Limits

Number Three:
Remember You Are Not Alone

Number Four:
Remember That Faith Leads Toward, Not Away From, Truth

Number Five:
Remember That You Have Been Here Before

Number Six:
Remember That We Are Going Somewhere

Number Seven:
Remember That We Make Our Own Reality

Number Eight, Nine, Ten:
Remember That You Are Loved, You Have Nothing to Fear, and You Can Do No Wrong"

Sprinkled throughout are photos of a day in New York.



Smiling at 'ya,
Flo

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Loving What's Arising



My new outlook is growing legs.  Scratch that....my new 'IN'look - me loving who I am deep within - is growing legs.

Which leaves me, now that I feel splendid, to wonder...What to unveil?  My words here have always aimed to reach their target in someone's heart.  My blog writing has always edited the banter that spills out.  I try to drain that swamp, so if at all possible, you see my inner heart, that love lump in my chest, opening.  Above everything, my inner love lump wants to meet your inner love lump.

Earnest I am. 

But what if I'm not a swamp?!?

Might you want to know the circumstances my little love lump lives in?  I'm secure enough to ask if you're interested.  So here's to spilling.

I've begun making big changes in my living quarters.  I've now begun giving my home something more than the rummage sale d├ęcor that a very clever but second-rate person 'deserves'.  This fall I hired someone to paint my small library, and yesterday I hung a beautiful framed reproduction of Rembrandt's Prodigal son on its wall.


This painting is sacred to me.  When I was on tour in St, Petersburg, I stood transfixed before this immense 7 x 9 foot painting.  Though they tried to bustle me along, I wouldn't leave without buying its reproduction and carrying it all the way back across the Atlantic.  You see, I am the prodigal daughter. 

Back to circumstances...
My kitchen is its original 50 year old self, with replacement cabinet doors I polyurethaned twenty-nine years ago in our basement, in 1988.  Given that NO dust could fly, all doors were shut.  I gave myself one doozy case of pleurisy.   This time, I'm playing it safer, not doing it myself.  850 square feet, half of my first floor, is going to be remodeled to suit this woman.  I plan to age (?!) in place the next twenty years at least.

Last Saturday an architect, draftsman and builder visited my house.  Despite visiting lovely new kitchens and perusing kitchen magazines and stores for two years, I have never developed a case of kitchen envy.  So plans stalled.  Last week - finally - it all came together. I need a Zen kitchen, aka a Disappearing Kitchen!  O.K. I do cook.  Here's the look.



With a few walls removed, all 850 square feet can resemble the first picture - open, uncluttered, ample windows, with floor to ceiling cabinets.  Hallelujah, the builder does exactly this sort of remodeling.  The architect is more of a traditionalist, but we'll all work together.  Besides, the architect is the son of my best friend.  Presumably he'll want to do well by Mom and he'll rest assured I'll want to do well by 'mom' as well.  His standards are high; he's now finishing up Ivanka Trump's Manhattan home ( as site manager, not architect).

Clearly I'll be spending my inheritance... 

Are you guys at all interested in the circumstances of my life?  If you want to stay in the loop with me, could you let me know? 

Sunday, January 8, 2017

It's QUIET in Here



I adore winter.   I adore snowstorms.  As long as the power stays on.  Soon the snow blowers, including mine, will break the 13 degree silence, but for now we live under this pristine white blanket. 

Sixteen tabs are open on my computer.  Two of my ninety-two Kindle books are open.  One paperback - "The Map of Heaven" by Eben Alexander, M.D. is almost finished.

Countless CDs - maybe two hundred - lie on the chair, and on the couch next to me, leaving me just enough room to sit and stretch my feet out on the coffee table.  My cat is upset.   He can't curl up beside me, so he perches on the couch's arm, then leaves, stopping briefly to glare at me.  It's temporary!  How can I make him understand?  The CD cabinet was too heavy to move out of the hallway into my freshly painted library without emptying it.  Over the holidays I added two dozen CDs to my collection.  CD's on the couch, the chair, in piles.  ONE boxful is on its way to Goodwill.

The shelves are still bare, two weeks after they were painted.  How long should you let paint cure before putting stuff on shelves?

It is  a w e s o m e l y peaceful behind these eyes.  I have been meaning to tell you this for days.  Not knowing HOW to tell you, though.  How does one tell about an absence?

The PTSD pinball machine I was trapped inside for 58 years is G O N E.   Yes, the balls, springs, levers and flippers.  Felt like me, with me all the time.  Some call it our Inner Critic.  Just last month I discovered the co-host in my head and named it the Mad Hatter.  That Mad Hatter was playing my pinball machine for all it was worth.  Making me crazy!  This was when I realized.... someone inside me must be independently observing the Mad Hatter.   the  'Real' me.  Hello?  sweet Flo!

You've probably experienced me differently here.  Not completely addled. I wrote right through my Mad Hatter's antics.  Now the Mad Hatter is gone.   Took the pinball machine with him.  Where?  I don't know.  On another planet?  Do I care?!? I can't even relate to it except in some dry historical way.  Victim 

Celebrant!

It really took 'going back there' and redoing the ending for me.  Not everybody needs that, do they?

Goodness. Why does bad stuff happen in the first place?  Maya Angelou didn't speak for six years after she was raped as a child.  The attack I endured had not one finger touching me, yet its surgical precision stripped me and delivered its load of shame all the same.  What happened to me was a bit like what happened to the developmentally disabled young man in Chicago recently, lured by a [false] friend into an apartment, where he was humiliated and pummeled.  The emotional pummeling, will that heal?  Will he ever trust again?

My pinball machine and Mad hatter were born one spring day in 1958 or 1959.  One can say that day put the icing on the cake, because the cake had already been baked.  Evidently that's the day my core belief shifted to 'I am developmentally disabled' and never shifted back.  Until 9 days ago.  Argh!  I spent my whole life trying to disguise a false fact!

Unlike Maya Angelou, I spoke afterwards, but no longer as the 'real' me - after all 'I' was developmentally disabled.  Thereafter, I spoke as a 'pretend' person, playing the part of a pert, unflappable doll.  I rarely uttered a peep.   Sometimes in life, in those rare moments when the stars lined up, I was Missy Pert.  Like on my wedding day, when my family was nice as can be.  But afterwards, even basking in the glow of a husband who pretty much adored me, the levers and flippers never ceased reminding me I was really a fool underneath.

But I'm not.

Here's what's I discover in my Celebrant's heart:

We can't escape the realities of life when we open our heart.  We will be prejudged, critiqued, misunderstood, laughed at.  By some people.  Blind people.  Tell them how you feel, but be prepared to leave these folks if they aren't taking you seriously. You can love them from afar. We will also be invited, appreciated, enjoyed and belong with some folks.

Conditions of heaven are rather spotty on earth.  When necessary, move your chair.

Forthwith, I will be mapping out heaven and earth.  Any tips?

Uh oh.  Here comes my cat again.