Freaky Friday

Submitted for your approval...

On Thursday, I wrote about the Law of Attraction.

Yesterday (Friday), we were getting bad weather so I was flipping around the local channels to see if anyone were breaking into programming to give an update. Oprah was on the CBS affiliate, and the topic of her show was...the Law of Attraction. With Martha Beck, who I've written about recently. At one point, another of the guests, Louise Hay, said "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear"...which was the name of my post from Thursday.

Yesterday (Friday), we received our latest issue of Consumer Reports in the mail. They were comparing small SUV's. On the lead page of the article was...a green Subaru Forester, which I had also mentioned in my Thursday post.

Before the mail came, I was looking online at different cars, thinking perhaps we'd be able to replace my husband's failing car with a lower-priced Toyota or Honda. I checked heavily into the Honda Fit Sport. In another section of Consumer Reports, they did a short article on the SmartCar and gave it a horrific review. Instead of getting a SmartCar, they suggested instead that you buy...a Honda Fit.

Today, hubby and I went to Menards (a home improvement store) to pick up supplies for a repair job. On the front window, there was a placard announcing a sweepstakes to win...a Subaru Forester (and they showed a green one). I wanted to enter but you had to have a Menards' credit card, which we don't have. I'm tempted to get one simply to register for the car.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear

I've noticed a sudden upsurge around me of the ideas espoused in the book, The Secret. I haven't read the book myself but from what I understand, it talks about bringing things to you through the power of intention and visualization and good thoughts.

My best friend and her husband have recently written blog posts about this phenomenon, and my mother - who has been trying to sell her property for three years - said the other day that she'd heard a radio program about writing down what you want to manifest in your life, so she put pen to paper and wrote out specifics of what she wants in a land sale.

Being a fairly analytical person by nature, I decided to allow myself time to ponder this topic, and I found that I'm on the fence about it.

I'm not sure that I can totally buy into the idea of "If you can believe it, you can achieve it." At least not in the way most people probably interpret it, e.g. "I can have anything I want as long as I believe in it hard enough and keep a positive attitude about it." That thinkin' and hopin' and wishin' and prayin' will draw your heart's desires to you.

For example, I'd like to win the lottery. I've even stated (and my husband agrees with this, which precludes the necessity of bopping him on the head and absconding with a winning ticket) that if I won a ton o' money, I'd give most of it away to reputable charities. Neither hubby nor I are extravagant people, and that wouldn't change simply because we suddenly had the wherewithall to BE extravagant. We would get new cars (sensible sedans or small SUVs, not $60,000 pieces of vehicular eye candy), pay off our mortgage, pay off my mom's loan and buy her a new house, repay a loan given to us by my parents-in-law, bestow gifts upon family and friends. That's really about it. No mansions in Monte Carlo, no outrageous bling, no gold-plated toilets. Just simple comforts and donations to charity.

I have the best of intentions and yes, we buy a ticket each week. (This isn't like the joke where a guy curses God every week when he doesn't win the lottery, until God finally says, "Dude, meet me halfway and buy a ticket, already.") So how come our numbers don't come up? My intentions always include the caveat, "As it harm none" but I can't see how our winning the lottery would harm anyone. I'm not prescient enough to know everything that might happen. Maybe having $150 million would eventually cause harm to come to me, mine, or someone else, and that's why we never come close to winning.

I would also like to have a new car for my husband. He drives a fair piece to work and back each day, and his 11-year-old car is starting to throw shoes too frequently for comfort, which impacts both his mental health and our fiscal health. At the moment, we can't afford to plunk down money for a brand-new vehicle so it would be nice to even win just enough money to buy him a decent car. How would having a reliable vehicle hurt anyone? Would he wind up picking the one lemon off the new-car tree, only to have its brakes fail, causing him to get into an accident that left him paralyzed for life? Again, I don't have a crystal ball that would show me all the possible futures of this scenario, so I can't really say if this wish is totally benign or not.

Despite my skepticism, I do find value in thinking positively. I'm not Christian and I don't believe in the process of prayer. To me, prayer smacks of getting into a cosmic drive-through lane and yelling an order into the clown's mouth - Ronald's mouth to God's ear, as it were. I'm a Witch, and the basis of magickal spell work is to focus your intention about a particular need and release it to the Powers that Be. I used to think that perhaps Someone was listening to my petitions but now, I'm not sure I believe that anymore. I will still imagine a particular deity when doing a spell because it helps my focus if I have a physical image to lock on, but I don't think the idea that there's a S/He out there paying attention rings true for me these days.

Perhaps the REAL magick of focused intention lies in the fact that it opens your mind and your consciousness to a multitude of possibilities - possibilities that you would be blind to if you had a negative attitude and/or closed mind.

When we're alert, we notice our surroundings. If I say to myself, "For my next car, I'd like to buy a green Subaru Forester," I can almost guarantee that I'll start seeing green Foresters everywhere. Did people run out and buy that particular vehicle because I had the thought? I highly doubt it. (If my thoughts possessed that much power, there would be scores of people bursting into flame.) It's because my mind was focused on this specific object; I became visually sensitive to it. Those green Foresters were always on the road, I just never noticed them because it hadn't been important in any way. Once they held an interest for me, my blinders came off and the cars lost their cloaking devices.

I don't totally discount the idea of "believe to achieve." I find a great deal of merit in writing down your desires because I think this process shapes and hones your thoughts into a razor-sharp image. Saying "I want a new job" is nebulous at best and creates a fuzzy picture that will dart in and out of your line of sight like puffs of wispy smoke. Saying "I want a new job that pays $18/hour, has flexible hours, allows me to have my own office, offers a pension plan and 401(k) and medical/dental insurance, is located less than 10 miles from home, and has opportunities for advancement" gives a solid picture of what you actually want and helps you zero in on finding it. Does this mean you'll actually locate a job like this? Maybe, maybe not. But I know you have a better chance of making it happen if you program your internal radar to pick up signals that may guide you to it.

When I wanted to find a mate, I kept a journal which was comprised of letters directed to him. In the journal, I described what I wanted in a mate - physical attributes were listed, although non-physical traits were more highly prized. In 2001, on the day after Thanksgiving, I told the Universe it had 18 months. I was ready for a mate, dammit, and I expected him to show up in my life within a year and a half.

He showed up in December 2001.

Did the Universe harken to my pleas? Or did stating my intentions so clearly simply flip a switch in my brain and prime my psyche to be ready and able to accept this gift of a mate, almost as though turning on an internal sign that read "Pay attention, stay open to possibilities, notice everything"?

I like to think that *I* deserve the credit for my successes, rather than being like those folks who stand up behind an award podium and give all the accolades to God/Deity. Is my stance selfish? I like to think that it's self-affirming. *I* changed myself and did the work in manifesting a desire - shouldn't I take some pride in that and give myself a pat on the back? Shouldn't that make me feel good about myself? I dislike it when people give God all the credit for the good things in their lives...but take full responsibility upon themselves when something bad happens. What's that about?

I still believe in magick and serendipity. I consult my divination cards (with good success). I think I have been "given" specific totem animals for a reason. I think magickally charged items (stones/candles/wands) possess a good measure of power. I know that my cat Tommy was a familiar - a magician's assistant, if you will. I find great peace in gazing at a full moon, an aspect of Goddess.

However, I'm starting to believe that magick comes from within, rather than from without.

Slobberhounds and Englishmen

My father was born March 19, 1934, a sturdy mix of English/Irish with a good dose of Minnesotan thrown in as well. In homage to his heritage, he was a fairly stoic man who kept most of his emotions close to his vest. He was free with his laughter, but I don't remember that I ever saw him cry. I only recall ever hugging him twice - once before he left for the hospital for surgery and then again when I was about to leave home for Texas.

Remembrances of my dad are jumbled and scattered and don't seem to follow any type of linear movement.

When he still farmed, I remember that he accidentally plowed up a rabbit burrow; he called to me from the field and as I met him, he placed a baby bunny in my hands. I took good care of Ginger; unfortunately, after we moved him to a pen outside, he was killed by what I think was a weasel.

Dad was in a band with his brothers called "The Country Boys" - he played bass but I assume he could play lead as well, since we had an acoustic guitar in the house. I imagine I got my musical talent from him, if such things are indeed hereditary.

He never outwardly showed love to the cats we owned, who invariably liked to climb up into his lap to catch a nap. But when he didn't think we were looking, he would reach down to pet Smokey or Eddie or Duncan ("Old cat," as Dad called him) and he never put them back on the floor.

He liked to grill, even in the dead of winter. Mom and I liked our hot dogs burned to a crisp so Dad would stand out there in the cold, eventually bringing in a plate of hot dogs...only to be sent back outside because the dogs weren't black enough. Once, he made chicken on the grill, and fussed that it had turned out too dry. Reaching the dessert portion of the meal, he asked Mom if her cake were dry. She said, "No. You didn't grill it." He took her jibe in good humor; if I remember correctly, it nearly put me under the table with laughter.

He was diagnosed with colon cancer in either 2001 or 2002 (I think it was 2002, but would need to check my journals for confirmation). He had colon resection, which he went through with flying colors, and was placed on an oral form of chemotherapy medication. My best friend Melissa was returning to Texas for her wedding in October 2002 and my parents made the trip; they considered Lissa an adoptive child and wouldn't consider missing her big day. They were staying in the same hotel as Melissa and Dan, her husband-to-be. My mother is the type to make the bed and to tidy up when she stays in a hotel. I told her that she didn't have to do it; the housekeepers would take care of it.

I remember that we were all in Lissa and Dan's room, and Dad was sitting in the corner. I could sense that he was bursting to tell us something, could barely hide his Cheshire grin. I said, "Okay, Dad, what are you dying to tell us?" He proudly and gleefully said, "Your mother made the bed." He was so excited that he could tattle on her, his eyes twinkling and crinkling up as he laughed.

The cancer didn't shrink as much as his doctor liked, so he was put on stronger and stronger forms of chemo which took a greater and greater toll. Come the first part of November 2004, he was in the hospital. His body had had enough, it had been decimated by the poison; after a hospital stay of a couple weeks, there was nothing more that could be done and he was moved to a nursing home.

Mom called on November 28. She said that the nursing staff said it probably wouldn't be much longer - considering these folks knew their business, I didn't doubt that they were right. Mom told me I didn't have to come, which wasn't even an option. My now-husband Eli and I were in the car and at his side within minutes.

A death watch is never a pleasant experience. I kept willing Dad to go, silently telling him it was okay. He was suffering, a hollowed-out shell of his formerly robust self, and he needed to leave the pain behind. Every time he would breathe out, our eyes would travel to the bed. I can't speak for Eli and for my mom, but I think all of us were probably begging him not to take another breath.

Finally, it was so. Like doctors in the medical dramas on TV, I automatically looked to the clock to note the time; it was 2:13 p.m. [I found out later from Mom that his father had also died at 2:13 p.m.] The next few moments are a bit of a blur. I think Eli went out to summon a nurse; I don't recall if I hugged Mom or just stood near her as the nurses came in to verify his passing. They quietly left the room to allow us some time alone. Mom and I were crying, hugging, and I was telling her that it would be okay. I moved to Dad's side, leaned down to kiss his brow, silently whispered to him to have a good journey.

Sunday night, the evening of Father's Day, I dreamed. I was at the church where I work, and there was a wake in progress. I was sitting in the room reserved for the grieving family members. There were people all around me, but I don't know that I recognized any of them. I looked across the room and noticed Princess, my dad's beloved bloodhound, stretched out, eyes just as rheumy and jowls just as slobbery as they had been in real life. I moved to her, reached down to pat her on the head, and in my peripheral vision, I noticed my dad sitting in the corner. He stood and I walked to him and put my arms around him. I can't remember if he spoke. I think I may've said, "I love you" before I woke up, noticing as I came awake that I was crying, much as I'm doing now as I write this.

My aunt (Mom's youngest sister) Susie has sensed my dad before. Out of the blue, she's smelled the cherry pipe tobacco of which he was fond. Just recently, she had an experience where a strange misty smoke appeared in her room and swirled to form the faces of four people, of which my father was one.

I've really not had any experiences of my father since his death, either subtle or blatant, that would alert me to his continued presence. I like to think my dream was his way of saying, "Princess and I are alright."

Don't Shred the Children

Our new shredder at work has a pictograph of a child with the universal NO sign (circle with a slash) across it. I can only assume that means we're not supposed to stick kids in the shredder. There goes my to-do list for next Tuesday, shot right to hell.


That story has nothing to do with this post, other than the title. It just tickled me for some twisted reason.


It's been a little over a week since I had my epiphany and, happily, it hasn't worn off yet. I feel quite buoyant and very "clean," if that makes sense. My psyche feels refreshed. It was like I was coated in the soot created by my job-related negativity and letting it go was like loosening a shower that washed the grime from my soul. I feel like a different, better person. I'm sure the folks around me think I've smoked too much crack or something, given my turnabout from massive pessimism to calm optimism.

Last Friday, just days after I took my first steps into the light, my newly born attitude was put to the test. I decided to celebrate the end of the work week with a feast from Taco Bell. [Shut up. Amo quesadillas del filete.] As I got out of my car and started the trek across the parking lot, I noticed three young girls - maybe 18 or 19 years old - heading for the building ahead of me. They were giggling and fairly boisterous.

Immediately, before I even had time to think, my emotional reaction was one of irritation. Bam, it was just there, my body tensing in response. Oh great, I'm going to be stuck in line with these squirrelly kids. Lucky me.

Seconds later, and much to my surprise actually, another voice popped up in my head. Those kids are going to act however they act and there's not much you can do about it. You can choose to have a bad attitude about it, or you can choose to have a good attitude about it.

I chose to have a good attitude and walked inside.

They were hovering in a little pod near the front of the otherwise-unpopulated line. When they saw me come up behind, one of them said, "We don't know what we want yet so you can go ahead of us."

Say what?

I stepped ahead of them and placed my to-go order, then stood aside to wait. They were no more obnoxious than any other customer. But I know if I'd had a crummy attitude, they would've seemed like spider monkeys hopped up on amphetamines and triple espressos, screeching and yawping and winging feces at each other.

One by one, they placed their orders (which were also to-go) and moved over to wait. After being told the total of her meal, the last girl looked at one of her friends and said, "My total is $6.66" with kind of a wide-eyed I'm-not-sure-whether-I-should-be-freaked-out-or-amused-by-this look on her face.

I may've heard her friend's response incorrectly, but it sounded like she said, "That's the mark of the bitch."

I laughed about that all the way home.

Stars Shining Bright Above You

I'm currently halfway through Martha Beck's latest book, Steering by Starlight. It's about rediscovering your Purpose in Life. According to Martha (and I have to say that I agree with her), we Know what our Purpose is early in life...but then we grow up and the pressures and responsibilities of the real world come along, burying us and our Purpose. We drag ourselves to work every day, making widgets so we can afford to pay the rent, but we really want to be an artist or a dancer or a theoretical physicist. The mundane needs eclipse those of our soul, and we grow further and further distanced from our true selves.

I have felt this way for quite some time, slogging through various books (Refuse to Choose by Barbara Sher and Now What? by Laura Berman Fortgang have given me a wealth of knowledge) in the hopes that something will create a spark and help me rediscover who I'm really meant to be.

Memorial Day week, I was on vacation. Sunday came and with it, the knowledge that I had to return to work the next morning. It didn't surprise me that I had insomnia that night, nor did it surprise me that I was quite angry Monday morning after getting to work. Angry that everyone but me can come and go as they please. Angry that some of my co-workers are exempt, don't work 40 hours most weeks, yet get paid for 40 hours. Angry that the administration there isn't very proactive. I was indeed the Grumple who stole Christmas. Grumpitty, grumpitty, grue, indeed.

Tuesday morning, I was alone at work, so I was able to read a couple chapters of Starlight. Martha was talking about how people create their own prisons with their thoughts and beliefs. "I can't leave this job or I'll be a failure." "I can't leave my abusive wife because no one else will want me and I have to stay for the kids' sake." "I can't become a sculptor because I won't be any good and I'll starve to death because no one will buy my creations." We convince ourselves that we've already failed, even though we haven't even tried. We keep ourselves in our cozy little ruts - even if the ruts are awful, they're familiar. We convince ourselves that we're trapped, never noticing that the cell door is wide open.

I sat and pondered what I read and I swear to you, I had an epiphany. I could almost literally feel my mind expanding, feel new lobes popping up all over my brain. It was a weird but wonderful experience.

I thought about my attitude toward my job, thought about all the negative stuff I was stewing in...and I just let it go.

Instantly, I felt so much lighter - mentally, physically, and spiritually. Like this Atlas-ian weight had just fallen from my shoulders and my soul. I felt free.

Don't misunderstand. I still have issues with this job and letting go of stuff didn't make me into a Pollyanna. But for now, I'm not festering and being toxically negative and constantly complaining. I still want to follow my bliss, there's no mistaking that, but I don't feel like I'm dying each day I go to my current job.

Moments after I had that revelation, I had an urge to walk through the building. As I was moving down a hallway, I noticed a wild turkey right outside the window. She's been around before, but I'd never seen her before Tuesday. In Native American tradition, Turkey's medicine is "Give Away." This relates more to giving away material possessions, but I also take it to speak to giving away emotional/mental stuff that doesn't serve you any longer. I thought it was totally fitting that I saw her after I "gave away" a lot of my mind clutter. Seeing her felt like a celestial pat on the back, like the Universe was saying, "You chose wisely, you're on the right path."

So. Onward and upward. I'm finding that it's a lot easier to fly when you remove the self-created shackles that are binding your wings.