All of them hungry and demanding your attention.
I’m inside an oven at a carnival.
I am made of putty and I’m an aerialist.
My putty hands on my putty partners heads, two of them.
While in the yellow, well lit oven.
Outside, a crowd of faces.
Cheering, all of their eyes on us.
I breathe in pride and honor.
I will preform.
I take my place at the platform and plunge into the tiny pool.
My body is straight and angled and yellow, as I go down.
Rows and rows of levels down.
Until I I reach the tiny pool.
But there is no pool just the idea of one.
Just a point.
But there is no pool.
And I’m glad I can type in the dark.
Because there is no point.
I am a god on a rock and my hair is feathers on end like a peacock but black like from a chicken.
My body is the rock.
And my belly is a red mouth with its tongue sticking out…several tongues layered, in one mouth all pointed and sticking out almost making a HAAAAAA sound.
OK, I Had to go inside and take it in the insights that were demanding me to attend.
I came back when it started to feel too much like a dream and less like she was telling me something.
First I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
That was ok.
It was when I looked back at myself that I needed to go lay down.
I found her housecoat and used it as a blanket.
I was scared because knew this house has so many of her experiences.
This is where she keeps her fear.
But I laid in her bed anyway because I trust her.
I know that inside of her is a beautiful warm, loving heart.
So I laid in her bed and I closed my eyes and I saw my life and made contracts or agreements.
Grandmother is very clever.
She shows me pictures while she does what is necessary.
I get a screen.
Visceral, fluid and often-beautiful images, but then there’s the body.
The body does it’s own thing.
It squirms and shivers or mine did while I was watching this beautiful fluid show, just for me.
Light blue tubes of living paste, undulating and sliding into itself, appearing as others.
Grandmother is very sexy and metaphorical.
She tells me that it’s just me.
That, that is who I am and that she just shows it to me.
I have a hard time believing it.
How could I be so clever?
Plus, she has such a palate.
She is the muse.
She has the ability to paint a reflection of me, in my mind in a way that I can have an experience of it.
This is where I need to take my insight and use discernment.
Grandmother is not a god.
She is a portal.
She is an artist.
She is a healer.
What she shows me in an artists’ interpretation…and a quite accurate one.
She shows me what is hidden.
What I’ve hidden.
And she exposes it.
She is relentless.
She cleans it out.
Jesus. How dirty am I?
Is it possible to have an experience where you show up and it’s all good? “Nothing to do here. You’re good. You haven’t accumulated any guilt or shame that needs to be processed. There are no secrets you are keeping from yourself.”
Seems impossible but then there’s Andrea.
She took the same amount and is feeling nothing but a glimmer.
So, there’s that.