Hypnosis Cloud

I always feel my words need music, like I need to live and write and feel through all of the senses. Maybe these words need this song: Truth and Bone, Heather Nova

I’m having a good cry full of a grief for living in a time I wasn’t built for, can’t acclimate to.  I cry for my slow blooming, time marching on, the time I have left, and for a body that might not ever keep up with my dreams …and these dreams will ache like unfinished puzzles in the story of my life.   It seems there is nothing I can do fast, partly because my body won’t let me, but also because everything I make, create, find the bravery to share… takes time that this world doesn’t have for me.  Tasting a dream at 50 has its hurts.  I got my head in the stars and my hands in the same damn dishes that grow out of nowhere.  They always slam me down to Earth.  I hate them. I hate my hamster wheel.

And social media.  I hate that, too.  I think about how it’s so hard for me to adapt.  I think about how we could use it in order to break it, if enough of us were awake.  But then I tell myself there are good things, too. I tell myself that it’s me who is broken …that my nervous system is frayed, and I’m just walking through this world without skin. I can’t look at animals suffering and without homes.  I can’t look at how we give women messages that it’s okay to age even as I fight the countdown on my own life with a multitude of lessons from the wise on how to age backwards. But you know I must, because I got a taste of a dream at 50 and kids who need me in a world that feels upside down, and because societal and generational pressures got to me, too.  I can’t think how to make myself relevant and in most ways could give a shit less if I am. That’s not true. It just sounded a little rebellious. I made myself invisible for so long, and maybe I just don’t want to end that way.

I did Quantum Healing Hypnosis once… because that’s me, always seeking healing, understanding.  I was put on a cloud, floating, floating, drifting, floating.  I like clouds. The point was to come down off my cloud, to stop where I felt called in order to explore past lives that might offer glimpses into the patterns I carry into this life…you know, for healing.  You can look in some mighty strange places when there are no easy answers.  Not so strange to me, though. I’m not sure I’ve ever been at home in this body, especially without skin.

So atop my cloud, I stopped over what felt like the French Alps …a quaint little village in another time, except it was empty, seemingly recently abandoned.  No people.  And oh yes, I did look.  It seemed made for gnomes.  I went inside one of the houses.  No one.  Only loneliness, which has forever been my companion, because I don’t know where or how I fit, even when surrounded by others.

My only instinct was to get back up on my cloud and stay there for all of eternity.  Look at the suffering from there. That might be easier. But then I had the urge to float up.  Up. Up.  Into the black, but it didn’t feel dark.  It felt like holding.  Resting.  Because I’m not sure I’ve ever really been held. Here on my cloud in the black, I talked about my children as mirrors, so similar in our makeup, in our sensitivity.  I understood I could give them what I needed but never had, and perhaps in so doing, give it to myself.  That feels like healing. Right?  Well, it was.  It was the beginning.

I also talked about bringing old things back.  Good things take time.  I think it’s okay to love things when they are sculpted out of our souls and sorrows.  I hate it when people say things don’t matter.  In my dad’s house that used to look like music sounds, guitars once hung on the walls.  Now guns do.  I guess you can imagine he isn’t there anymore. The few times I stayed with my dad, music used to float into my morning dreams. It could have been Tango in the Night or Voices Carry or the strum of his guitar. Things matter.

So here I sit, wiring old lights, listening to old songs, finding old frames that look like the passage of time, loving my old things.  I think about how we cheapen words like authenticity and trauma and everything else you might find in a big box store, “art” included.  So fucking unromantic to live in a time that holds no love for slowness.  You know, it isn’t time that flies.  It’s us.  And our children can’t anchor to the chaos.  No wonder they all have anxiety.

Could we all just stop and look at each other and say, “Tell me how you really feel.”  Everything is a marketing ploy now.. even being real, and how real is that?  Authenticity is now a branding strategy, and it makes me feel sick. Makes me want to check out, but I suppose we are all slaves to the system.  Even me. 

If this is a midlife crisis where I get to say whatever I want, sign me the fuck up. I might make a .99 cent store of musings on Substack, because nothing is .99 cents anymore, but everything is cheap.  Anyone interested?  I thinned the veil with a glass of wine to access these thoughts, …so I’m not always sure I can get to them. But I’ll give it a try, and I’ll be really authentic while doing it. Here I am.  I’m here. Trying to do the opposite of keeping myself small.  Taking up space and trying not to say sorry for it.