The Daily Mystic

Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

We have a tendency, as humans, to believe that ours is the highest, best, most intelligent expression of Creation. Alas, our civility blinds us to the wonder and elegance that a loving Creator affords even the most humble inhabitants of life. For whatever reason, I notice the little things, the small details of Divine Intention that assure me that the least are loved as much as the greatest. Would you like a tour of my neighborhood?

The residents of these small abodes are anonymous. Yet one must admit that the landscaping touches and homey architecture tease the imagination into wondering whether squirrels . . . mice . . . or faeries dwell within these earthen domiciles.

Are they furnished? Do tiny candles light the nights? Do celebrations ring through these cozy halls at the turning of the seasons?

Somehow, I'd much prefer such questions remain within my heart ~ unanswered ~ no illusions shattered ~ limitless possibilities for my mind to explore.

Do you suppose there's room in there for me?

Owl Eyes

The woods lay soft and muffled by the oncoming storm. Nothing stirred ~ even the pine needles gave way to my shoes without protest. I chose the westerly deer trail midway down the bowl, rounding a thicket of bearberries just above a broken tree. Suddenly, soundlessly, a Great Gray Owl rose from her perch on the stump and disappeared into the woods on whispering wings.

She was huge, nearly as tall as the broken pine, which had splintered about three feet from the ground. Never one to ignore blatant omens, I finished my hike, then looked her up the moment I got back to my computer.

As it turns out, my intuitive gender specification, �she,� was correct. Owls have been connected with the Divine Feminine, the moon and the night since the Old Stories were told around peat fires. Owl is about mystery, vision and magic ~ the silent messenger between the obvious and the illusion.

Many clairvoyants possess �owl magic.�

Most specifically and universally, the owl represents �the sight beyond illusion.� Owl people have the gift (or curse) of hearing, not what is said by others, but what lies hidden in their words. Those over-sized owl wings are necessary to elevate the �seer� above the disenchantment of �white lies,� small deceits, and out-and-out bald-facers that inhabit the daily discourse of human interaction.

She is silent, too. Just as owls are bedecked with fringed, downy feathers along the front edge of their wings to mute their flight, Owl people also have the gift of silence. Many an unspoken �B.S.!� and �give me a break� pace endlessly within the Owl person�s mind, because her �secret-keeper� temperament will not let her speak them.

Wise ones say that Owl comes into one�s life to signal the need to open one�s eyes and study the situation at hand. One needs to silently observe and discern truth from fallacy ~ to trust one�s own intuition, which does not lie, rather than the human ego, which does. Finally, it is said that Owl spreads her healing wings to comfort those who are wounded by their own self-deceit.

Pretty heavy stuff. A Great Gray Owl took my breath away with her sheer magnificence. Beyond that. . . I cannot say.

A little footnote: This morning, I hiked early to be back before the rain sets in. I took a different path, looking for a sittable log from which to observe the valley. Purportedly, a new family of Lynx moved into the valley, and I would love to see them. Anyway, as I settled down on a smooth log, I noticed an owl feather nestled beside it. Evidently, Owl will make sure that I remember the lesson.

The Vortex Voyage

Anyone who knows me even remotely well knows that folks don't come much more woo-woo than me. They also know that I am a tolerant person, for I believe that God speaks to each of us in the language we best understand. So, I offer the following, not as a critique, and certainly not in ridicule. Rather, I offer an observation on the human soul and its eternal quest to touch the Divine.

I just returned from Sedona after a twenty-nine year absence. Back in the day, Sedona was a breathtaking, but sleepy, valley that emanated tangible holiness simply by virtue of its existence. Today, it is a bumper-to-bumper, million-dollar-estate, art-and-enligntenment mecca intertwined amidst some of the most magnificent scenery on Earth.

Oak Creek Canyon is the pilgrim's way, the induction from the mundane into the magical. Each switchback unwinds a little of our everyday consciousness in preparation for the impossible vista of the valley. There, no matter light nor time of day, The Rocks stand gracious and sacred among this generation of humans. And the humans come, as they always have, to touch the power that materializes the ancient dreams of gods into the red rock sculptures of Sedona. I have not studied its history, but have no doubt that ancient shamans and leaders of spirit revered the place, and that powerful visions were to be had by those who ventured humbly into the valley.

It's a little different now. Seekers flock to Sedona, intent on a tangible spiritual experience that will set them on the right path, heal the body or the heart, or manifest their wildest dreams. They look for answers and salvation, and many of them have little clue as to what to expect or how to receive it.

We, too, were curious about the "Vortex Experience," even though we've had our share of encounters with vortex energy over many years in many settings. So, we bought our obligatory vortex map and manual and headed, as did everyone else, it seemed, for Airport Mesa. Maybe 75 people crowded atop a rock, some with hands raised, others, looking around, a few in obvious meditation ~ most of them waiting for the vortex energy. As if it occurred like a geyser.

And that, I think, describes the greatest disservice done by the world's organized religions. Every dogma casts God (at least their god) as the sneaky Bad Cop, who drops in and out of our lives to shake things up and collect his requisite groveling ~ an unpredictable force ~ the jealous, vengeful Mystery of Mysteries.

But this I know is true: The Grace that grows a tree does not require the tree to kneel. It requires only that the tree accept its "tree-ness" and allow the ever-present flow of Life to make it so. Yes, trees do fall to clear-cutting, fires, and Christmas, but on the whole, each tree experiences the fullness of tree experience with neither question nor fear.

Humans, being creatures of different conceit, have infinitely complicated our relationship with our Source. Thus, the penance, the I'm-not-worthy-ness, the globalized guilt and of course, the dogma. Which is why, I suppose, so many questing souls converge on power places, like Sedona. They come seeking that one, profound, spiritual event that forever eliminates our earthling fears and questions.

Alas, that was never part of the deal. Oh, we do manage occasional earthshaking moments of infinite Oneness, after which, we become our little mortal selves again and forget. We forget that Life, itself, is the ultimate spiritual experience. We forget that each of us is a completely unique walking, talking vortex ~ God's notions refined and cloaked in human guise.

There are holy places on Earth. Certainly, Sedona is one of the holiest, and not because of her present burgeoning popularity. She has always been a sacred place, perhaps because part of her magic is to remind us that she may be grander and more ancient, but as intentional expressions of the Divine, we are no less magnificent.

Why the Lie?

One of my dearest friends lied to me the other day. Found himself in the midst of a tale that I was not supposed to know about, so he pulled a moot lie out of . . . (I�ll be kind). . .thin air and launched it straight into my heart. There it remains, cutting and writhing, an ugly thing, meant to spare him shame, but shaming us both, because he�s too stubborn to unspeak it.

He should know better, too. We go back a long time, and he�s seen first-hand how badly lies work on me. They set off my full array of alarms, and no matter how smooth or well-rehearsed they are, untruths arrive with a fanfare of wrongness that I cannot ignore. No matter how desperately I wish I could.

So, here we are. My friend blithely convinced that he pulled it off, that I am none the wiser to his cracked integrity. And I, left to deal with the refuse he dumped on me, wondering, truly, how good of a friend he can be when he so easily dishonors me by counting on my stupidity.

Sadly, we�re awash in a culture that has lost its regard for the truth. Varying degrees of lies ~ from TV commercials to State of the Union Addresses ~ are beamed through the ethers at hundreds of thousands of dollars a minute. And most Americans gobble them up, mentally paralyzed by either apathy or denial. Thus, ignorance is their bliss.

But not mine. I learned early on that our personal power is linked directly to our integrity. Or as my Wiccan friends say, �A witch is only as good as her word.� The Bible says it, too: �In the Beginning was the Word, the Word was with God, and the Word was God.� Accordingly, all of Creation was launched on the strength of divine integrity.

So, it truly boggles my mind that people so casually compromise honesty. At best, it buys a little breather from personal accountability. At worst, it launches wars.

As for my friend ~ his adversarial relationship with the truth is a relatively recent thing. And, as I said, we go way back, so I�ll cut him a little more slack. But if the lies and dishonor continue, then I suspect the love and trust that make us friends will dwindle away, and so will we.

Way Woo-Woo

I confess. I believe in miracles and magic and all the things most folks wish they could believe in, but dare not. I came to this attitude naturally, mystic-born as I was. Even so, I�ve backed my strange purview with decades of study that began with The Bible and continues on well past quantum theory and elemental magic.

Books occupy every cranny of my home sweet home, with nary a romance or mystery among them. Oh, there�s fiction, to be certain, as I�m a firm believer that fiction is a powerful tool for teaching and for social evolution. Since my particular interest is consciously applied quantum principles, a.k.a. magic, my fiction collection comprises popularized myth, fantasy, and science fiction. But the bulk of my books are non-fiction explorations into how Mind interacts with matter to create our experience.

For the record, I�ve conducted my own experiments and have experienced unequivocal personal successes ~ all quietly done in private. The ol� take my word for it, it works kind of thing. Only I knew what I knew.

Until the other day.

Ah, a brief digression. Despite my broad definition of existence, I tend not to give too much stock to �evil.� That it manifests is obvious. But I give it no powers beyond any other expression of energy, except to say that, weighted as it is with human superstition, �evil� is naturally and strongly attracted to human fear.

Which was all a very nice theory until the election of 2004. Not only was the outcome a crushing blow to my heart, my country and the earth, the whole fiasco reeked so strongly of �wrongness� that I spent a solid week examining what I knew and believed and anything else I could find on (for lack of a better term and the one that turned up some interesting search results) �dark magic.�

Most of what I found confirmed what I already believed, that �dark magic� has no effect unless one accepts it ~ say, by fearing it or giving it creepy unnatural power. I did learn that certain groups, who believe they profit from fear, have the technology to generate constant electromagnetic dissonance. So, conceivably, even a conscious person could tire enough to experience what feels like existential �wrongness.�

So, here�s where we tie it all together. The notion that any �vested group� could do such a thing sent me on a righteously indignant cleansing tangent. I used alcohol and sea salt, eucalyptus and sage, sunlight, moonlight, and fresh clean air. And then I set wards around my land and house. Simple little natural devices programmed to deflect any untoward energy or intent and disperse it into the light to be cleansed.

I�m guessing that�s when my house disappeared. Oh, it�s real and tangible to me and my friends. But according to the satellite image my son located the other day to direct his friend to our house, the place does not exist. The new house next door is clearly visible, as is the new house across the street. Even our driveway shows up in the photo. But the space my house has occupied for the past thirty years is filled with trees and shadows. My life-long dreams of being �off the grid� have been fulfilled. I�m just not sure what to make of that.

Big Medicine

I�m not totally daft . . . at least not in this regard. I�ve been ranging long and far in my recent hikes, right past the old tin mining shack and up the long aspen glade that loops west and back up the hill. And every time I�ve returned from one of my forays, I�ve told my hubby, �There�s something really big down there.�

I knew it wasn�t the big cat, as we haven�t heard her caterwauling for weeks. Besides, whenever she�s around, she makes my hair stand on end. I thought maybe it was a bear, as bears carry a strong �beware� kind of energy, which I definitely feel while navigating the marshes and thick stands of aspens. But this �beware� wasn�t quite the same. I simply couldn�t put my finger on it, and wondered if it was just my imagination.

Nope. Moose are on the loose!

I had just finished my afternoon e-mails when I caught a hint of movement in the woods outside my office. Rather I should say, it seemed that the entire forest shifted a bit. Then I saw a big brown leg and rump that resembled a horse�s backside. Then it moved again, and I saw the unmistakable proboscis of a moose. No. Two moose ~ a mother and her baby (�baby� being a description of age not size, as the little one was as big as a donkey). Mom and baby trotted past my house, across the dirt road and into the woods on the other side. Then, startled by my neighbor�s dog, they circled back and trotted up the road, giving me a magnificent view of their magnificence. Finally, they disappeared into the ravine to the west of my house.

In my twenty-one years on this hill, I have never seen moose. So, naturally, given my mystical bent, I wondered at their significance and looked up �animal totems.�

Moose is one of the most ancient and unique of all �power animals.� A bull moose�s bellow can be heard by a lady moose a full six miles away. Her response puts him in the mind to bulldoze anything that stands between them. Thus, two aspects of moose power are determination and �presence.�

Moose are also masters at camouflage, and despite size and apparent gawkiness, they move unseen and unheard through their territories. Thus, have they earned the name �shapeshifters� among shamans and mystics.

The massive antlers the big guys sport symbolize the crown chakra and openness to higher wisdom.

Since moose calves are born with their eyes open, it is said that folks who carry �moose medicine� see things with exceptional clarity on both inner and outer planes of existence.

Moose wisdom acknowledges the truths denied by the ego and finds parts of the soul that we hide from ourselves. Moose are symbols of confidence, determination and strength. And moose always reminds us that unkind criticism and nitpicking wound the spirit.

Finally, in apparent contradiction to all that strength and power stuff, Moose is a primal feminine force that is both deeply maternal and symbolic of death and re-birth. Some say it�s because moose can submerge underwater for long stretches and then reappear, seemingly out of nowhere.

So . . . now, as I walk through the woods, I ponder the lessons of moose wisdom to discern how they apply to me. Surely, such creatures would not manifest for me to see unless they brought me a lesson. Oh, and I remain on alert to ensure that I never come between mother and baby. For hell hath no fury like a riled-up moose mom!

Loveable Sociopaths

My good friend, Bob, does not feel empathy. I don't mean just in certain instances or under specific conditions, I mean he does not understand what it's like to walk in anyone else's shoes. Ever. Nor does he aspire to, because the concept mystifies him, and he claims that it is a basically meaningless exercise. I personally think it scares the crap out of him.

Men like Bob often find themselves filed under "sociopath." Fortunately, Bob and his eerily-similar friend, Michael, practice compassion, generosity and ethics ~ almost to the extreme. Which, to those in the know, is mind-boggling. They function this way, because they understand the Universal Law of treating others the way you wish to be treated yourself. Besides, it's important for them to see themselves as heroes, so they are both great contributors to society and dedicated to humanity. They are brilliant, too, for the most part. Except for those times when it's imperative to accurately see from another's point of view.

Then they're completely clueless. They are so transfixed by their own conclusions about life, they literally cannot see things any other way. Thus, all of their assumptions about how and what other people think and feel are based on their personal perspectives, fears, ambitions, and biases.

Oddly, Bob and Michael consciously choose to remain emotionally semi-conscious in life. They cannot blame painful childhood memories, as both grew up in enviable situations with doting parents. Neither endured the trauma of war. Both were "golden-haired" boys in their respective careers. And their failed marriages merit pragmatic shrugs, at best. (Can you imagine trying to establish an intimate relationship with someone who "shuts down" at the first sign of intense emotions?) They choose emotional lock-down, because they've convinced themselves that feelings degrade their intellect.

Children and nameless masses are Bob and Michael's preferred comfort zones.

Children flock to these guys like they flock to ice cream trucks. It's a sight to behold. I suspect that Michael and Bob revel in the emotional simplicity that kids' abject honesty and spontaneity provide. Thus, the guys can temporarily abandon the tedious 24/7 strategizing that dominates their brains. They embrace their child-selves to get away from it all. Kids love the big boys, because they become furniture, adventure rides, monsters, goof-balls, athletes, magicians. . . the wackier, the better. It's a gift.

Bob and Michael also have that gift with people en masse. Give 'em a crowd, whether it's a staff, a congregation, or an audience, and these guys come alive. Both of them have incredible life experiences, and as I mentioned earlier, are brilliant, so they have a lot to share. And they do it with panache. The milling energy and emotions feed them, without demanding any understanding. It's the perfect venue to love and be loved unconditionally, without the mess that generally accompanies intimacy.

I wonder when, or if, Bob and Michael will realize that they are not sparing themselves anything, and are in fact, depriving themselves of half of life. All those icky emotions contain important information for the soul ~ information that will make its way to their consciousness sooner or later. They both know that "what you resist, persists." They may not realize that resisted emotions ultimately become excruciating. Open up, Boys. It's for the best.

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Screams in the Woods

Did you ever get an out-of-nowhere feeling that stands your hair on end? The other morning just before dawn, that feeling woke me from a sound sleep. Then I heard an unearthly scream that sent creepers up my spine and made me feel prickly all over. Another scream came from east of the house across the road. By the time I jumped out of bed and looked out my window, the screams sounded right outside of my office. I ran from window to window, hoping to see the creature, but wraithlike, it slithered through the shadows up the ridge behind my house and dissolved away over the hill.

The internet confirmed my suspicions. The invisible screamer is a female mountain lion, and she�s madly in heat. Unlike a typical big cat, she moaned and caterwauled all through the broad daylight, spooking deer and stirring up all the dogs in the valley.

And to think that I�ve been walking the woods, blithely unaware that 120+ pounds of riled-up feline lurks amid the trees.

I cannot stay out of the woods, though. All winter long, they called to me, even when the snow or wind or temperature kept me housebound. But now that everything is waking up and new life is stirring, I must be there, enfolded in the magic.

Oh, you can bet that my vigilance is honed. For now, I�ll take my hubby and my longest walking staff. But nothing can keep me from Nature. It�s as essential to my life as air and water.

It is the surety of earthy things that helps me keep my balance. Come summer, I�ll be barefoot out among the pines. Were it not for the encroachment of �civilization,� I�d be barely clothed, as well. Digging my toes into the dirt, breathing the mingled woodsy perfumes into every cell, and opening myself to all the nuances of the living Earth do more for me than any pill or potion.

Even the wildness of that restless lioness adds a delicious element to the experience. As did the bear (as big as a Volkswagon), the elk (as big as the bear), the king stag (as big as the elk). And the wolf, who was magical. I delight in the fox�s eerie cackle and look forward to the seasonal choirs of coyotes, too. They are fur beings, come to teach me something.

You can bet I�ll ponder that lioness energy in its rowdiest form and see what�s in it for me. You can also be certain that I�ll watch my back until I know that the big cat has moved on.

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Choose Peace

Today, I made it to the lip of the valley and back, only once setting foot in snow. The way was soft with promise and scents of the awakening forest. I first paid a visit to Ripley, who rests in a little pine grove that I can see from my kitchen window. Then up the gentle rise and north along the crest, the warming earth springy beneath my feet. It's odd, I suppose, that no matter my route, I always end up at my tree. And today as I stood there, I realized why.

The tree is an old, gnarled pine, tucked into the slope of a narrow bowl just over the ridge from my home. Her roots sprawl out into an earthy lap where I have sat through many a mental debate and once curled up in hopes of dying. Mostly, though, I stand in reverence, as is due this small plot of God's imagination.

My secluded perch faces me due North and affords a panoramic view of the rolling glen that ends just above the water meadow. Nature has reclaimed most of the mining destruction, smoothing away the pits and piles, draping them all with pine needles, bearberry and juniper. The world is cushioned there ~ traffic sounds muffled ~ breezes stilled ~ creatures discreet in their doings. Such bliss to stand in that potent silence, beyond the din of the everyday.

No wonder I jumped at the clatter of underbrush crackling and the whipping of branches. I expected to catch the tail end of the buck whose path I often cross, but there was no trace of him. I took a step, my eyes and ears pricked for the source of the crashing. And there before me, about five yards away, a lady Flicker flapped and rattled the dry branches of a downed pine, warning me away from her nesting area.

What a spectacle she made of herself, puffing her feathers and splaying her feet. She glared at me, daring me another step. I stopped in my tracks, rooted myself to the earth, and harmonized my breathing with the forest. In no time, Lady Flicker cocked her head, smoothed her feathers and returned to pecking the anthill beneath her:

Peace Restored. Peace emanating from the groggy woods. Peace implicit in the land.

I wondered why peace resides so seldom in the hearts of man.

Ah, but that is an illusion. Reality does not belong to grown up nasty boys who plot violence to fill their moral void. Those who see nothing as sacred ultimately reap their own disregard. Those who substitute hubris for humanity forge their own demise. Their only art, and a temporary one at that, is a loud and noxious voice. One that demands an equally resonant alternative.

And protesting will not do. In fact, anti-anything energy feeds the very thing it opposes. Locking eyes with that ruffled Flicker elegantly captured the power and simplicity of pro-actively Choosing Peace.

In this and every moment, Choose Peace.

Vocally and passionately, Choose Peace.

Make no exceptions, Choose Peace.

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Defining Mysticism

My self-referenced mysticism invokes amazing responses from educated people who do not understand what I mean, and they tend to file me away as either woo~woo or wicked. Ah well, that's always been the case. Throughout history, mystics have been tormented or revered, sometimes both. Look how many came to gruesome ends, only to be canonized after the fact. Today, mysticism occupies a special new category in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual~Fourth Edition,which describes and codifies psychological disorders for billing purposes and government identification. The mystical experience, by the way, falls under the Religious or Spiritual Problems heading.

So be it. Abraham Maslow, the proponent of self-actualization who created the Hierarchy of Human Needs, claims that transcendent states, like mystical experiences, occur universally. Other luminaries like William James and Andrew Greeley agree that the mystical experience is common and need not occur within the context of a religion or psychopathology.

No doubt, the mystic is misunderstood because definitions are so difficult.

The ineffable literally cannot be put into words, and clumsy approximations of the mystic's wonderment simply do not suffice.

I once described a walk through my woods as feeling like I walked through God's thoughts. It humbled me, and I ached with delight to see each little detail as a detail God so thoughtfully provided, an offering of love to this earth child.

It is not the ordinary way of seeing the world. But then, I do not see anything in the world as ordinary.

No doubt there is a physical relationship between my bipolar brain and my mysticism, and no doubt, such is the basis for the common psychiatric view that mysticism shares a tenuous border with schizophrenia. The prevailing attitude is that if the mystical experience is intentional and positive, it's okay, but suspect. If the experience is accidental or unwanted and somehow negative, then it's a pathology and warrants caution.

As for me, I appreciate whatever cerebral misconnections confer this splendid perception of life. Yes, it renders me strange. Yes, there are times when I'm stunned by the snow-blinding chaos of the "outside world" and wish to flee to the sanctity of my woods. Even so, I wouldn't trade my weirdness for anything. Whenever I choose, I can turn my thoughts inside out and keep company with Creation. It's sacred space I carry in my heart.

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Holy Semantics!

I�ve been lurking, of late ~ eavesdropping on the myriad of on-line message boards hosting hot debates about the identity of "God." The recent, alleged "moral values" election evidently ignited our mass human consciousness, so the internet is rife with attempts and refusals to establish some spiritual commonality.

If we could only get over that name thing.

Alas, the most striking characteristic of the current cyber quarrel is the chronic conviction of the people who are posting the messages. Be they Christian, Pagan, Muslim, or "Other," their rabid defense of dogma does little to bring anyone closer to God and much to deepen the religious chasms that sunder one human heart from another. And it seems that all this righteous ruckus boils down to, anyway, is an eternal dispute over semantics.

Think about it. Over the millennia, official human history (vastly different than the unofficial version) references thousands of names for a male deity. When one also recognizes the manyfold ancient and sacred Goddess names, as well as the more obscure divine monikers, one realizes that humanity is absolutely awash in different perceptions of God.

How can only one of them be right?

Just for a moment, let�s suspend our devout defensiveness and look at this whole name thing with some logic and compassion. First of all, we must remember that every indigenous culture is defined by its environment. The native animals and vegetation determine the cuisine, the architecture, the colors used in art . . . ad infinitum. The intrinsic value of anything is relative to the local resources. Even linguistics and cultural metaphors spring forth from the landscapes and seasons.

How, then, can we expect the inner symbology of a Tundra-dwelling man to mirror that of a Tahitian girl if the very dirt beneath their feet is different? How can they possibly squeeze an abstract concept like God through limited words that are constrained by imperfect translation?

Further, since each of us occupies a very circumscribed position in reality, how dare we presume to speak for All That Is?

A friend of mine says I have a convoluted mind, and I believe him. It�s not an insult, either. He simply means (and rightly so) that I see patterns and relationships in the world at large where others see only randomness. To my peculiar perspective, there is no discrepancy between quantum physics, elemental magic, and mainstream Christianity. All of them say the same thing: Your faith determines your experience.

Everything else is dogma or cosmic semantics based on the truly disheartening notion that God has an ego as fragile as man�s.

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Intelligent Design

It felt like that first gasp of air after nearly drowning. Following weeks of sub-zero weather, deep snow, and shrieking winds, an unseasonably warm day beckoned me into my woods. There was plenty of snow still about, some of it too deep to traverse, so my way wound around the drifts, taking me down paths I rarely wander. Not only that, foraging creatures, large and small, had rearranged the landscape, and so many trees had fallen to the savage winds that the forest seemed all the more strange. But it yielded some sweet surprises.

I've collected bird's nests for years. I often find them when I wander, and sometimes people bring them to me, too. They are fascinating works of natural art, and they are magical, as well. More accurately, bird's nests are powerful symbols of the mechanics of everyday magic. Study one, sometime.

While hiking yesterday, I found a huge nest that had blown down from a tree. What an amazing creation! It's constructed of pine needles, dried grass, leaves, assorted dog hair, bits of dryer lint, carpet strings, scraps of newspaper, and feathers ~ all woven together and set with mud. It was originally molded atop a tree branch where it met the trunk, complete with a flap on top to conceal baby birds from would-be predators.

Such magic!

Oh, I know, most would chalk such architecture up to instinct. Blind, uninspired obedience to Nature's reproduction mandate. But I have heard them singing as they work ~ chattering back and forth as they build their nurseries for birds-to-be.

And that's just the beginning of the magic. Patience, ingenuity, and joy all coalesce in light-as-flight bodies to conjure something out of nothing in an elegant perpetuation of life.

So when I hear the yammer about "Intelligent Design," I look to my bird's nest collection, knowing that such magic is not confined to a distant and unfathomable God. In truth, it resides in the furred and the finned and the feathered. It resides in us. And it manifests in beautiful, unlikely surprises ~ like bird's nests.

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Walking Between the Worlds

My rare and fleeting dreams first suggested the notion. Of course, couched in the language and wisdom of dreams, they stirred my heart, not my brain. Days afterward, I ached to return to that phantom Oneness, to retrace my dream steps back to that sacred space of real magic . . . occasionally wondering at what point wishful thinking turns into Magical Thinking: the psychopathology. After all, nothing in my mystical life suggested the kind of direct connection to Creation that my dreams conveyed.

Not that the concept of "creating my reality" was new. I had studied that for nearly two decades, to little avail. Evidently, the traditional approaches required a logic I did not possess. Despite my earnest efforts, I remained painfully estranged from my own life.

All the while, Nature bided her time, waiting for who I thought I was to erode away, so that I could recall who I Am.

Indeed. The seven years of therapy and endless prescriptions intended to mitigate my wild mood-swings somehow accomplished just the opposite. The ordeal left my brain and body so compromised that my post-it-notes barely outpaced my bruises. Officially "medication resistant" and disabled, I retreated to my forest home to face the shambles of my life with no help, no hope and nowhere to turn.

Then my hubby inadvertently changed everything. On a whim, he brought me a copy of The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Amidst those 876 pages, I discovered the Primal Mother and the premise for a beautiful, balanced spirituality that supported my mysticism, my studies and my mental "dis~ease." I even selected my own circle of deities to reflect my values, passions and aspirations.

Thus, I came to The World Between the Worlds free of dogma, superstition and the confusion of someone else's myths. After years of hypnosis therapy, I easily hushed my talking mind and imagined my awareness as a pebble in a silent pond, sinking deeper and deeper into the Mystery. At last, I gently settled within the Holiest of Holies . . . that potent place between the worlds of "ifs" and "buts" . . . the sacred space of Now.

"The point of power is always in the present moment." ~ Louise L. Hay

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The "M" Theory

We recently watched a science documentary about parallel realities, string theory, eleventh dimension theory, and (gulp) "M" theory. The "gulp" was not mine. It was universal among that particular group of scientists, though none of them actually used the "M" word. Two of them used "mystery" or "mysterious," and one coughed out a muffled "mystical." In the end, they avoided using "magic" and settled for "membrane." This membrane being something so thin as to be cosmically intangible, but tangible enough to comfort those scientists, who cannot bring themselves to even contemplate consciousness, much less consciousness with a capital "C," and even less so, magic.

Such safety in a theorized "thing" that, perhaps, can be dissected or measured ~ such terror of a manifest Intelligence, which cannot.

Are we gods-in-the making? Sinners? The detritus from colliding membrane packets? Does anything we think or do have relevance on any level?

Ultimately, we each must come to Eternity in our own way. As a mystic, seeker, and habitual student, my spiritual wanderings have taken me on most well traveled roads. I even have seminary diplomas and such. But my favorite trails are the obscure ones, the ones less dogmatized, on which the individual soul is free to express its fullness and its affinities.

My love of elemental magic was as immediate as it was fated. I must explain, however, that this is a system purely of my own making ~ kind of like rogue scientific theory. It is my personal assemblage of archetypes, most of whom have no historic or logical relationship, except in my worldview. Even so, they allow the mystic in me entry into the hallowed realms, whereas more traditional prayers and gods require that I leave that part of myself outside.

As for the magic, itself. . . it is simply consciously applied quantum physics. The candles, incense, music, images, etc. are psychological devices that help me entrain the frequency of my mind to the frequency of the Natural World. Combining that resonance with focused intent creates amazing results ~ answered prayers, insights, magic. All religious ritual intuitively employs the power of such focused intent, successfully guiding millennia of flocks to whatever ends their shepherds prepared.

My path is far less woo-woo than the uninitiated may imagine. True, I do use the typical witchy trappings mentioned above, and I acknowledge the archetypes with whom I am working. Beyond that, however, I understand, unequivocally, that only with a clear mind, pure intent, and my harmony with Creation, can I enter the World Between the World and connect with the living magic there.

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Magic and Me

Certain inevitabilities run through my life. The timing is never predictable, but a traditional phase in every new friendship is that hope-I'm-not-offending-you query, "You're a witch. . . Aren't you, Kitty?" Either that, or witchy kinds of quips, followed by wide-eyed silence.

The truth is, I do not consider myself a witch, nor would most devout witches I know consider me one, either. I do not follow anyone else's dogma, not even my own. I am a mystic, and I perceive Life as a flowing montage of micro/macrocosmic observations that impress me as energy trends and probabilities.

When I was small, I did not have the words of course, so my attempts to describe energy whirling beneath the grain of our oak dining table prompted only chuckles. By the canny age of twelve, during a midnight drive with my parents to Yosemite National Park, I decided better than to describe how the road began and ended with our truck's lights ~ or explain that it only existed while we were watching.

I did not tell them I was sure that the plants and trees talk amongst themselves. Nor did I mention that lies strike me like palpable blows, or that anger and fear glow like psychic neon.

Despite my secret-keeping skills, the adult authorities in my life decided it best that I be dosed with Valium. And since I did not understand the ramifications of that and felt I had no power to protest, in any case, I set my mystical little fourteen-year-old feet on the path marked Mental ~ a stigma that has lasted five decades.

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Wake-up Call

"And indeed, you know," he said. "I believe my record in terms of the level of taint that's there is dramatically different from either of them." ~ Arizona Rep. John Shadegg.

This is his platform. His raisons d'�tre for ascending to the role of House Majority Leader of the United States House of Representatives. A lessser "level of taint" makes him the perfect guy to lead the legislation of our future. Which is for sale, evidently, and grounds for some of the multiple and mounting felony indictments against the recently resigned Representative from Texas, Tom Delay. It seems he may be otherwise engaged for a couple of decades. Thus, his varying-degree-of-taint wanna be replacements are vying for the job.

If this is the pick of the litter, we ought to give thought to our national expectations. We've handed the keys of the kingdom to a bunch of kinda tainted folks who gleefully squander our economy, our environment, our freedom and our children on the altar of their one true god ~ Fear.

The worst of it is, the political duplicity out there reflects the self-deceits that reside inside of us. Otherwise the spectacle could not be part of our experience.

How many sacrifices do we make in preparation for some dire "what if?"

If we magnified them a few hundred million times, what would they look like?

Would that we could just ignore them until they go away. But they won't. They can't. It is metaphysically impossible to inhabit a less-troubled world until we become less-troubled individuals.

Sages, saviors, and now, scientists know that our experience follows our attention. What we dwell on comes to dwell with us. Our mental thugs precede the elected ones. Our faith in lack precedes our credit card crunch. Our betrayal of self spawns our every heartbreak.

We obviously have the wherewithal to populate our lives with mis-creations born of our unconscious thoughts. Thus, it only stands to reason that consciously directed intent should yield preferable experiences. Like the difference between a sputtering flashlight and a laser.

Some call it science. Others call it faith. But I say that we live in a magical medium where miracles and wonders are the norm. All you have to do is learn to stay awake in your life and use your mind, rather than allowing your mind to use you.

Stay tuned. . . There's much more modern magic to come.

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Let There Be Peace . . .

Believe it or not, I used to regularly attend Sunday School. In fact, I was the pianist, because I so loved the hymns. Granted, today I would have a bit of an issue with the gender specificity of God, but I still love the hymns. My eternal favorite is Let There Be Peace On Earth. (� Jill Jackson and Sy Miller)

And let it begin with me.

Looking at the "outside world" such idealism seems beyond impossible.

Not so.

Peace on Earth? Increasingly, Yes.

By Andrew Mack

Wednesday, December 28, 2005; Page A21

The world is far more peaceful than it ever was.

By 2003, there were 40 percent fewer conflicts than in 1992.

The number of genocides and other mass slaughters of civilians dropped by 80 percent since the mid-1990s.

Core human rights abuses have declined in five out of six regions of the developing world during that time, as well.

After five decades of inexorable increase, the number of armed conflicts started to fall worldwide in the early 1990s and (with a glaring exception or two) continues to decline.

So, why are we not celebrating?

It's sad, but true, that the global media, especially the American media, spend far more time, resources, and content on wars and fear than on peace. Headlines announcing peace might generate ho-hum sales, whereas the old standby, terror, translates to a robust bottom line. At present, a handful of conglomerates own most American media outlets, including corporate entities with major profit centers dedicated to defense and war machines. Anyone see a conflict of interests when it comes to spreading peace?

We do know, thanks to a study published this year by the Rand Corporation, that United Nations peace-building operations achieve a two-thirds success rate. They are amazingly cost-effective, too, spending less per year on 17 peace operations around the world than the United States spends in Iraq in a single month.

Thus, Gentle Reader, it falls to us to hold the vision that peace is not only possible, it is probable. And we must act on that vision. After all, the progress we've seen toward peace during that past decade and a half has been done on the ground, not in the marbled halls of special interest. It is up to us to connect with humanity in all of its wondrous diversity and insist that the leaders follow the people toward a future that nurtures ourselves, our Earth, and our children.

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The Alchemy of Excellence

It never fails. I return from The IBI Free Enterprise Forum and am immediately besieged by the same question from the "Left-behinds" ~ those folks who could not or would not make that leap from wishing to doing. "Was it a good Forum?" they ask.

What can I say? I�m coming up on a dozen Forums and have not attended a bad one yet. In fact, I cannot even imagine what a bad one would look like.

Excellence is so much the standard at The Forum that the only variables are the people, and somehow the alchemy of each class always works. Once in a while I hear of a disappointment, as humans are human. But I also know that if the student seeks the counsel of IBI faculty, managers, or staff, or in some cases, Berny, the perceived disappointment most often becomes a win. Even I am not exempt. This Forum was particularly difficult for me, because I am still not at 100%, and I was exhausted before I went. Even so, it was magnificent.

I got to watch hardcore realism surrender to the wonder of The Forum. It was truly delicious. One morning, one of our folks rushed up, all shy smiles, and announced that "it was worth the price of admission just to have breakfast with Berny. I got so much." And then something akin to "Man, does he have contacts."

I spent some time working with Lynn and Berny and the other club managers to formulate new policies in anticipation of IBI�s growth. Yes, it was tedious at times, but it also beautifully exemplified the power of working in cooperation.

I was privileged to visit with the former head of National Lampoon, who delivered a brilliant class on making competition irrelevant and is the nicest, classiest guy you�d ever want to meet.

As for our new grads ~ they really should be blogging about their wins, because there are some spectacular ones. Besides, you should know who these folks are and what they�re doing to change the world. Which, more than anything, sums up every Forum for me. As one new grad put it at our Graduation Celebration, "This is not just your business, people. This is your life!"

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FAO Swarz of Business

I recognized the glazed eyes, the stunned expression, and the impossibility of a simple "yes" or "no." Kind of like a kid in FAO Swarz for the first time. When I repeated my question, "Are you getting what you need?" He shook his head and said, "I think so." Paused and mumbled, "Maybe." Nodded and said, "I'm not sure."

Yep. The guy is clearly on Forum overload. But not to fear, it will undoubtedly get worse, and then in a dazzling instant of clarity, he'll grin and realize that he now has business tools beyond his wildest dreams.

That's how it is at the IBI Free Enterprise Forum. The wealth of information, contacts, and opportunities absolutely boggles the mind. Of course, all those resources eventually settle into a manageable state, and our new Grad can get down to the business of doing his dream.

Even now, (this being my 10th or 11th Forum) I am amazed at the sheer magnitude of offerings here. This Forum Faculty includes giants from the television, movie, and publishing industries; cream-of-the-crop attorneys, who specialize in patents and intellectual property protection; a licensing guru of epic reputation, a branding specialist of global renown, and strategic planners, who hobnob with the Fortune 100 guys.

This is not your father's business convention.

This is a place where vision becomes reality and the human soul finds nurturing. This is a place where paradigms shift.

Wish you were here?

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Flower Child Dreams & Wins

I remember thinking, as we drove home from our first Forum in 1202, that IBI was like all of my Flower Child Dreams, come true. Granted, if one looks at the outside world, one finds that it's anything but peace, love, and understanding. Yet here, within the energy of The Forum, one finds all of the aforementioned. Here, diversity is a blessing, because it's recognized as an asset that adds to the perfection of the Whole. There are no barriers of age, religion, gender, or race, because we have chosen to see through our hearts, rather than through our social conditioning.

This is Sixties idealism, all grown up and changing the world with the very tools we found so threatening forty years ago.

Huge wins today, and it's only Tuesday. A returning grad and his scattered team closed a major round of funding, in addition to securing a sweet, strategic alliance with a big, BIG name personality.

A new student met Mr. Right. No, she already has a charming hubby. This Mr. Right is a giant of heart, integrity, and experience ~ not to mention formidable connections ~ who appreciates her vision of creating beauty and dignity for physically challenged youngsters.

Another hard-working grad received her first major funding. . . strategic alliances everywhere. . .

Wish you were here yet?

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