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Archive for the ‘Being Psychic’ Category

If you know any Virgos, I’m sure you’re already aware that we tend to have very busy, restless minds.

Because of my busy-busy Virgo brain, and in spite of all my spiritual and philosophical training, I have finally given up on traditional empty-your-mind meditation. Now I just let the thoughts run, and pay attention only when the nattering gets interesting. (Nattering is one of my favorite British-isms, snogging being the other. Nattering is superficial chatter.)

I’ve found that the two pastimes which elicit the most fun and useful nattering are showering and long drives. The shower usually unearths great writing ideas; while I’m driving, my monkey mind latches on to whatever’s passing by and spins off from there, sometimes with pretty silly results.

This particular train of thought was jolted into consciousness the day we left Banff, British Columbia and my brain was looking for diverting but not dangerously absorbing things to tinker with as I drove. (In case you’re wondering, my daughter Julia, navigator, critter manager, advisor and heavy lifter, is unable to drive due to disabilities … so that’s my job).

What triggered the mental journey was a truly gorgeous deer crossing sign which showed up for a brief period somewhere in eastern British Columbia or western Alberta.

You see signs all over the US, wherever deer or elk present driving hazards, and until that day I’d never seen anything but the homogenized leaping stag pictured below that I supposed every state must buy from the same source.

The unique Canadian deer crossing sign I saw that day had all the power and iconic punch of a cave painting. It was spare, evocative rather than realistic, and I wished I could have stopped the car to take a photo for posterity. It truly was a work of art!

I later googled “deer crossing sign” and learned that there are some other styles, and hundreds of both athletic and overweight versions of the homogenous, ubiquitous stag, and even duck, goose, otter, squirrel, horse and rider and turkey crossing signs, but nothing to match the Canadian cave painting version, sorry to say.

This, of course, started me thinking about my habit of always checking out deer crossing signs, especially in remote areas, to see if someone had gone to the trouble to give the deer a Rudolph Red Nose. I typically judge an area’s cultural personality based on whether or not the deer have red noses.

If there are people living there who are willing to go to the local office supply store for a sheet of big red dots, and then travel around in the dead of night decorating deer crossing signs just to make travelers smile, then that’s a place I’d probably like. In Humboldt County, California, in Redwood country just south of the Oregon border, which I explored thoroughly over a 16-year period, I don’t recall ever seeing a red-nose-less deer. And I loved it there.

The cave-painting-esque deer sign appeared for only a short distance on our route, followed by signs identical to the ones in the states, and then followed, once we entered Saskatchewan, by an odd creature with deer antlers, a blobby, moose-like snout, and not a red nose in sight.

And then, back in the states, we returned to the homogenized leaping stags, and I resumed my traveling pastime of assessing locales based on the state of the deer’s noses.

Until we reached Maine, where the first thing we saw was a big sign – words only, no images – cautioning us to watch for moose on the highway … and I haven’t seen a deer/elk sign, with or without a red nose, since we arrived.

I’m sure there’s something profound to be made of this, beyond warning me that we’re not in Kansas any more, Toto … but I haven’t figured what yet. When I do, I’ll probably post it.

Anyone out there have a deer sign story to share?

Well, it’s time to start re-packing for our move-in Tuesday. Talk to you again soon!

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Goddess Fortune continues to smile on us.

Not only are we presently wallowing in the lap of luxury at the Marriott Residence Inn in Scarborough (Sheba is modeling the chaise below, just to give you an idea of the wake-me-up décor. And in case you’re with Marriott, she didn’t get up there again – promise!) …

… but, after just three days in Maine we found a perfectly wonderful place to live.

As you can see below (don’t forget to click on photos if you want to see a better resolution version), I’m not going to have to search for ways to actualize my determination to Get Back Into Shape Immediately.

We have been gifted with the Stairs from Hell, and what you see in these photos is only the beginning, since we’re on the second and third floors. After arriving at the front door, you climb another steep set of stairs to the main floor, and there’s yet another equally steep set up to the bedrooms and second bath. I anticipate slimmer hips in a month or less, and not a dollar spent on a Stairmaster.

And why are we moving into such a rigorously demanding condo? Besides the charming appearance?

My California friends may want to sit down for this part. We are getting 1,000+ square feet, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, a huge kitchen, expansive living room, back deck and mud room for $725 a month. And, no, I didn’t leave off any digits. $725! And we were paying $1,500 for a poky and highly unsatisfying 1 bedroom in the San Francisco South Bay area. Not only that, this is a very quiet cul de sac, and at a high enough elevation to afford a great view of oncoming weather. And new insulation was installed in the spring.

Here we have beauty all around, a very large patch of woods in our back yard. Our hunter kitty Sneakers will be in heaven, and so will we. And if I ever feel the stairs are insufficient exercise, I can hike through the woods to the “Y” or head down to the playing fields across the main drag.

It was when I asked about those incredibly daunting stairs that I first heard a stock Maine saying which I’ve already come to understand has many layers of nuanced and complex meaning, and which is always delivered with a charming mixture of affection and exasperation:

The phrase? “Well, this is Maine, after all!”

I’ve gotten that answer so many times I’ve lost count … a few I remember are when I asked about a glitch signing up for Comcast telephone service, when my daughter Julia and I searched store after store without success for some sleeping bags to tide us over until our stuff arrives from California (3 weeks minimum), and when I suggested to the Portland Whole Foods deli manager that they might want to sell the terrific parsnip pancakes I found at other Whole Foods across the country. Actually, what the deli manager said was, “Well, don’t be surprised if you have to wait a year or so. This is Maine, after all.”

To add interest and challenge to all this good fortune and delight, I’m finding that, in spite of early Mainers’ assessment, I am going to have to work on a couple of areas in order to really fit in, so far most notably on my sense of humor and my style of driving.

I’ve never been honked at so much in my life (and not just when I’m not sure where I’m going, or when I’m trying to squeeze a largish car down freaking impossibly narrow streets), but – hey! – maybe it’s just the California license plate. So far ours is the only one I’ve seen since hitting New England, although I have seen some Washington state plates.

Also my ironic humor is usually greeted with blank faces and/or confused silence. Very disconcerting!

But everywhere we go we drive next to or over waterways, and the ever-present woods actually began to turn color on the Equinox yesterday.

My favorite moment so far, though, occurred while we were walking thru the charmingly quaint downtown of Bath yesterday. I looked up to see a man silhouetted against the water visible through the wide open doors of a very old warehouse-like building, and he was actually hand fashioning a wooden keel rib for a large boat! It was like seeing a woodcut come to life.

It’s too bad I didn’t have my camera, because I swear the photo would have been an award winner.

We’re moving in to our new place on Tuesday, so the next few days will be busy with packing and provisioning (not many gluten free stores in that area, but plenty around Portland). I do have one more silly story to tell which I’ll upload for tomorrow, and then the next post depends on when our internet is up and running.

Till then … may your fall be abundant and full of beauty.

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Okay, where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?

Or, more to the point, why were we so rudely interrupted?

Well, let me tell you!

First, my apologies. I promised a lot and haven’t delivered, and I hate it when that happens. But I have been taking lots of notes, and have several interesting stories to tell, so perhaps that will make up for the lack of news recently.

Now, as to the why …

While we were in Banff, because of the complicated logistics of traveling with two people with special diets, plus a large dog and 2 cats, I had to start planning the next stages of the journey right away. My daughter Julia and I were looking forward particularly to seeing the part of Canada surrounding the Great Lakes, places like Thunder Bay. But it was like beating my head against a wall.

There was a three day stretch of look-at-the-scenery driving where I simply could not find any pet friendly hotels or places to get the food we needed … and at that point I had literally run out of protein I could eat without uncomfortable backlash. And I wasn’t having any luck figuring out where to get it before Ottawa or Montreal.

Then, to cap it all off, we realized that my prescriptions (and our elderly dog’s) would run out in a little over a week.

And, finally, three mornings in a row, I was awakened with a phrase running through my head which seemed relevant … especially since most of the really important personal input I receive from my guidance comes that way.

What was the phrase?

Well, if you’ve read Tolkein’s The Hobbit, or seen a cartoon version, you probably remember that the wizard Gandalf showed up at Bilbo Baggins’ house one evening out of the blue with a bunch of rowdy dwarves intent on dragging Bilbo off on an adventure. When asked if he’d like to join them, Bilbo said something like:

“Oh, dear me, no! Adventures make one late for dinner.”

That’s the phrase that was waking me up at 3 am. To me it meant, essentially, that timing was getting important, and that it was time to quit fooling around and get where we were going, or we’d miss our “dinner.” It seemed to me that it meant that housing opportunities, and job opportunities, would be missed if we didn’t get our respective rear ends in gear. We’ll see if my interpretation is correct … I certainly am not up for anything like Bilbo’s adventure at this point in my life!

Yeah, yeah, I know Bilbo’s adventure rocked all of Middle Earth … but, when you think about it, things would have been easier -at least in the short term – if he had stayed home, though of course we would have missed out on one of the great stories of our time. Tough choice.

Anyway, I shifted planning gears … and, amazingly, as soon as I started looking at a route through the US to Maine, it was simple to find housing and the food we needed. Plus the journey would be a week shorter. So, okay, that door opened when the other stubbornly remained closed, so we headed for the US border with all speed.

(And crossing the border will be featured in a future post … “Being Different – the Good, the Bad & the Ugly.” A tale full of sound & fury, I promise!)

We raced at an angle from Banff through Alberta and western Saskatchewan, crossed into the US in North Dakota, and sped through Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Massachusetts, New Hampshire in 9 days … and we finally arrived in Maine yesterday. A blur of cheesy hotels and occasional gorgeous scenery highlighted by periodic philosophical spinoffs, some worth telling (at least I think so!)

During that whole drive I kept wondering why I wasn’t excited. I mean, I was about to achieve a 40-year dream, so why was I feeling so grim? The grimness must have been the result of grinding through 8-hour driving days and marginal accommodations with reluctant pets … and because of lingering feelings about our border-crossing experience …

… because it lasted until about 5 minutes after we crossed the border into Maine, at which point I felt such a lift that I thought I might end up with permanent goosebumps, I was so flooded with energy and emotion. And the first couple of stops we made for prescriptions and other necessaries, when people found out I was from California, they said things like, “Huh! Well, you look like you belong here.” Music to my ears!!!

Julia isn’t quite as excited, because getting her settled is going to be far more complicated and time-consuming, and frankly she isn’t looking forward to the amount of hard work she has facing her to prepare for the GRE and start pitching herself to the research programs where she wants to study … but she’s rolling her sleeves up and getting to work tomorrow, right after we scope out currently available housing.

That brings you up to date. Next blog posts will be about some highlight experiences, and a couple of fun and silly philosophical rants about things like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. And a bit more about some things we really liked about Canada.

Thanks for bearing with me! I hope you’re well, and that your life is giving you clear signals.

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When I realized that towing a trailer behind the car meant driving 55 or less for the whole trip, I thought I’d be constantly frustrated.

Maybe it’s because my Dad was a Marine fighter pilot, and he’s the one who taught me to drive … perhaps it rubbed off … but, for whatever reason, I’ve always driven right up to the edge of the speed limit – and my reflexes – and a little beyond. I’m one of those who always sets my cruise control at 7 miles over the posted limit. One traffic cop (years ago, before I was a mom driving my daughter around) told me that I’d been passing other cars like they were nailed to the ground.

So I was amazed to discover that being the slowest on the road and not being able to do a darned thing about it is actually quite wonderful. Restful, freeing, conducive to deep thinking, and – best of all – just slow enough that I could really look at the changing scenery, and even notice view points soon enough to take advantage of them.

I mean, think of it! No embarrassment, because people couldn’t think I was an idiot (well, not fairly, anyway) since I was towing a trailer, and everybody knows vehicles with trailers have to poke along. No physical tension as I geared up to control the car when taking a mountain turn well above the speed limit. (At least, since the advent of cruise control, I don’t have to watch for cops … often.) No strained watching the road beyond my current slow-moving vehicular obstacle to find enough running room to pass in relative safety, and then tensing up and metaphorically pushing with all my might until the pass was safely concluded.

Instead, I had time to see new things on frequently traveled roads, time to just set my dreaming mind free to wander, and time to remember happy moments from past journeys.

Cultural ecologist and magician David Abram, author of The Spell of the Sensuous and Becoming Animal, tells the story of traveling by Jeep with an aboriginal shaman in the Australian outback. The shaman wanted to share his myths, but they discovered that the stories did not unfold properly at jeep speeds; they were meant to be shared in walkabout. In my case, the stories arise at 55 mph.

One of my favorites, one I hadn’t thought of in years, was the time my first husband drove us from Highway 101 at Paso Robles west toward the Pacific Coast Highway, and Cambria, Carmel and Monterey. I’d driven the Big Sur route before, it’s one of the most gorgeous and treacherous drives I’ve encountered (especially headed south in dense fog), but Ernie’s route was new to me. He got a big grin and started fiddling with the tape deck (yeah, it was quite some time ago), popped in some rich and fabulous symphony, and then drove along, looking smug for a few minutes. Then, just as the music crested, so did the road, and I was treated to the juxtaposition of a perfect musical moment and mythically beautiful, rolling hills softened further by oaks clustered in their feminine creases!

Another sight took me back to the first World Healing Day on December 31, 1986. The Healix Center in Orange County, CA, where I worked and taught at the time, hosted an all night event – because for this event there was no convenient “rolling” coordination of noon in each time zone. That time, everyone joined in prayer and visualization at the very same moment – which meant 3 pm Moscow time, and 3 am in California.

Amazingly, when dawn broke there were still nearly a 100 people there, and we were led in a closing ceremony by a young shaman woman from one of the Pacific Northwest tribes. The two things which stuck with me were her getting a good laugh when she referred to her “sacred Bic” (Harry Dresden, anyone?) while lighting her pipe, and her initiating us all into the Fireweed Clan.

Fireweed is known as a pioneer species because it can thrive in areas which have been devastated by things like forest fires. Years after the Mt. St. Helen’s eruption I visited, and fireweed was everywhere.

Since that morning in 1986, fireweed has become a messenger for me. When it appears, it comes to tell me “yes, here is the place,” or “yes, this is the right direction,” or “yes, all will be well.” Fireweed doesn’t promise ease and grace, but it promises not only survival, but a thriving future.

When we got to the state of Washington, in spite of the fact that I’d seen it before, I was shocked again to see the trashed and brutalized areas of clearcutting on either side of the highway. Honestly, they look like bones and bodies strewn around a war zone. Not that California and Oregon don’t clearcut, but usually it’s done offroad, and behind a polite curtain of trees and hills.

My mind automatically spiralled off into adjectives like “barren,” “devastation,” and “desolation” … until I saw the tall, fuchsia spikes of fireweed. They lined the road and appeared here and there around the pitiful stumps of ancient trees. And then I noticed all the other new plant life, even in clearcut areas only a few years old, and I was reminded that life goes on.

That doesn’t excuse slaughtering elder members of one of earth’s species, but it reminds me that even after the most terrible human acts, toward our own or other species, life somehow finds a way to continue.

By the way, the most powerful and touching case I’ve ever read for why ancient trees should be allowed to stand together in healthy ecosystems is in Joan Dunning and Doug Thron’s From the Redwood Forest: Ancient Trees and the Bottom Line: A Headwaters Journey. There is a chapter which traces human history as it paralleled the life of a redwood. Read it, and you’ll never be the same.

Today we’re visiting Hurricane Ridge, and tomorrow Lake Quinault, so I’ll entertain you tomorrow one of my favorite stories about my Dad, and report our travels later. My Mom and Dad are much on my mind because they made this trip possible, and it’s dedicated to their memory.

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Yesterday morning I awoke to the sound of rain. Not the pitiful sprinkle that used to send Sunnyvale, CA sissies screaming for cover, but the kind of steady, friendly soaker that I’ve missed sorely since we left Humboldt County just over a year ago.

I lay there quietly, aware of my daughter Julia and the critters snoozing deeply and peacefully, and felt my spirit begin to expand, refreshed by the steady patter and fragrance and soft air.

And then my reverie was shattered by a horrifyingly familiar sound – a screaming, grinding skill saw, behind the hotel! Rather than leaping around like a madwoman on the bed, shrieking and tearing my hair out, and scaring everyone out of their wits, I calmly followed the noise, and found it loudest next to the bathroom. Climbing up on the toilet, I opened the window and saw –  ohmygod, ohmygod – a huge construction project just across the road, and a big guy sawing through the sidewalk directly in front of me.

By the time I closed the window, of course everyone else was awake, and Julia and I tried to decide whether we wanted to laugh or cry about it. Then I had an encouraging thought. If life really is an oracle, then the fact that this was new construction rather than renovation might be a sign that we’re making progress. (Esoteric, I know … but bear with me, here.)

Heartened by that thought, I called the front desk of our motel to find out if, since this was Monday morning, the excruciating noise was going to go on all week … because, of course, if it was, we were going to have to move on. Happily, the owner had already built a relationship with the construction foreman, and he learned that the rumpus would be continuing for only another few minutes, but would we rather move to another part of the hotel? He would be happy to help us carry our stuff. We waited an hour, and when all remained quiet, we thanked him for his gracious offer and decided to stay put. Which so far has worked out just fine.

To bring you up to date:

Since my last post we have traveled up the west coast on highway 101, through the rest of California, through Oregon (more about this later; we stayed one night in Coos Bay and one in Tillamook), and reached our destination in the Olympic Peninsula, Forks, Washington, Sunday late afternoon.

As far as I knew, Forks was just an old logging town. Little did I know (until my youngest sister Anne informed me) that we’d wandered into teenaged vampire territory. Turns out we’re in the land of Twilight, and, at Annie’s request, I got to enjoy myself sorting through mountains of really tacky souvenirs to find a couple of the worst to send her.

We’re staying at the Forks Hotel, a slightly funky but (obviously) customer-oriented place full of fishermen and hikers. We’re on the edge of the Olympic National Park, within an hour and a half of Lake Quinault (140+ inches of rain a year), the Hoh Rain Forest, the reservation home of the Makah whaling tribe, as well as Port Angeles and Port Townsend, which is one of my favorite towns in the whole world. We even got glimpses of the rugged, snow-capped peaks of Hurricane Ridge, up on the northern edge of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, on the way.

As you’ll see, we seem destined to linger here, spending a couple of days planning and booking hotels and ferries (Labor Day weekend coming up!), and a couple of days meandering through the sights before we head into Canada.

Now, about the Runes.

As I’ve mentioned, neither Julia nor I have felt well for quite some time, and it begins to appear that at least Sheba, our dog, was also affected by whatever it was back in Sunnyvale. Up to now we haven’t been able to do much more than content ourselves with just putting one foot in front of the other, heading north, planning travel times, booking hotels, plodding along.

Then, a few days ago, somewhere in Oregon, probably Coos Bay, an odd thing started happening. Even though I don’t use oracles much in my personal life, I can’t resist collecting Tarot cards and iPod oracle apps. In addition to weather, shopping lists, to do lists, great games, and all the other app-paraphenalia it’s so easy to collect, I have the Voyger Tarot, Mayan Astrology, I Ching, the Creative Whack Pack, and Runes. My app uses Elder Futhark Rune interpretations, which is somewhat different than what I’m used to, but Runes are great for answering quick questions, so I use it occasionally.

However, back around Coos Bay, the Rune program started popping on every time I turned on my iPod, something that has never happened before, with any of my apps. I even tried leaving the iPod on email or weather when I turned it off … but, nope, there was the Rune screen again, every time I turned it on.

Not being a big believer in coincidence, I decided it was time to ask the Runes what they wanted, so I did a quick reading … and wished I hadn’t. The first reading was generally ominous, so I asked specifically about the next stages of the trip. Ominous. Full of hail storms and dragons. S**T!

I decided to ignore this, but it obviously festered beneath consciousness for a while, because as we drove that day and day after I started remembering some of my other niggling feelings about the next stage of our journey. Every plan I’d made just didn’t feel “right.” I talked in the first post about my internal guidance system, and I guess I just couldn’t get my compass needle to steady itself on a particular plan. No sense of disaster … just “not right,” and “not the right time.” Booking ferries across Puget Sound? Not the right time. Not the right ferry. Go into Canada Monday? Not the right time. Wednesday? Mercury’s retrograde till the 27th. Not the right time, etc etc etc

Then, on the way out of Tillamook, it came to me to just quit struggling to be wholly rational, because that’s not who I am (you’d think I’d have figured this out by now). I asked Julia how she’d feel about lingering in the rainforest area until Monday the 29th, resting, hiking, doing laundry, letting the pets (who had been rioting for 2 days!) settle, and she was delighted.

So, here we are, in God/dess’ country, with time to rest and think and explore some extraordinary natural wonders.

Oh, and by the way? I did another Rune reading about how the trip would fare if we paused in Forks (teeny-bopper vampires notwithstanding) and what did I get for the final, outcome Rune? The empty-headed (excuse me, empty HANDED) leap into the void. Guess this (and the new construction?) means we’re finally on the right track!

You should probably hear from me more often this week, too. I have two other blogs roughed out already, so until next time …hope you’re well and that life’s interesting.

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The day I began my blog I had no idea that the light I saw at the end of the tunnel was actually an oncoming train. Fortunately, it missed us by a hair, but we have been madly buffeted by roaring, clattering and gusting wind as a juggernaut of awful possibilities thundered by mere inches from our noses.

Perhaps if I hadn’t dared the gods with my initial comments about how the chaos and uncertainty of a leap into the unknown keep me fit and refreshed, the past 10 days would have been easier to navigate … but probably not.

I think the real problem lay in two things: first, we were being pressed from behind by potentially damaging circumstances which couldn’t be mitigated, and second, the gifts which I depend on to navigate successfully through life seem to have been blunted to the point of uselessness.

For those of you who don’t know, I’m a professional psychic. It’s one of the three ways I support myself, the other two being writing and management-level office work, and I have for most of my working life cycled through those three modalities as opportunity and whim dictated.

When doing readings for others I’ll often use astrology, Tarot and even numerology, but in my own life I depend on feedback from the world around me to let me know if I’m headed in the right direction, and when it’s time for a change. Jungian psychologist Jean Shinoda Bolen said that there’s so much meaning in the everyday experience of life that it can be interpreted like a dream, and I have found this to be true.

Even more, I’ve found that in my case, if things are going well, then I’m headed in the right direction. If the going gets hard and heavy, then it’s time to make course corrections, and keep making them until the road smooths out again. And often small events, ones most people would consider insignificant, will quickly validate when I’ve made a good course correction. A bird flying past my windshield, a serendipitous purchase at the grocery, a casual remark by a passerby … when I’m alert, that’s normally all the guidance I need. And it works! Usually.

However, for the past year, nothing I’ve done has achieved that shift in energy and circumstance which signals to me that I’m back on the right track. It’s been a complicated, slogging uphill grind since I moved with my adult daughter, Julia, from coastal Redwood country in far Northern California (Humboldt County) to the San Francisco South Bay area, where she spent the past year on a stem cell research scholarship at Stanford University.

A quick bit of backstory, here. My family has allergies and intolerances, and mine (I thought) manifsted mostly with foods and chemical vapors like formaldehyde and petroleum (yep, that foundational chemical of our culture). But when I got to the Bay Area the problems exploded in all directions, to the point where I couldn’t function normally. Foods, chemicals, odors, freeway exhausts, pollen, dust … all of that and more could lay me flat in an instant. Not only that, but it has affected my daughter as well.

Of course, a typical allergy symptom is mental fog, and mine has seemed debilitating this year. I was fortunate to find a truly outstanding allergy specialist who not only believed me (the first M.D. who has), but found a couple of simple, straightforward ways to treat and manage the worst of it until I could get out of the cauldron of triggers which the Bay Area proved to be for me. Of course, part of it involved staying indoors, doors and windows closed, and HEPA Blue Smoke Air Purifiers cranked up high – which, since I’m a fresh air fanatic, I hated!

Even with treatment, though, I’ve essentially been flying blind for a bit more than a year, wrapped in a numbing fog, completely without the sensitivity and mental acuity which I have depended on all my life to inform my choices and decisions.

So, I guess we’re talking about a rock and a hard place, here. The allergies are the rock.

Tomorrow, in “The Gory Details,” I’ll tell you about the hard place, the combination of circumstances that developed into a full-blown speeding train that, as I said, barely missed flattening us. Or at least that’s how it’s felt.

After that, you’ll be up to date, and it’ll be time for musing and reveling in beautiful scenery as we travel up the coast through Washington state, across Canada, and back down into New England.

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One of my favorite oracles – Ralph Blum’s “Book of Runes” – has a tile (Dagaz-Breakthrough) which beautifully describes one of the major themes of my life as an “empty-handed leap into the void.”

When you take that kind of leap, you jump into the unknown without a safety net, heading out into your future without a plan, job, place to live, or other props, surrendering yourself to the forces that are moving through your life. Empty handed leaps are accompanied by chaos and uncertainty, and they require that you stay in the moment, and center yourself like a martial artist, ready to move in any direction in an instant.

I do this often in at least one part of my life – job, relationship, location, even my name – and I find it both terrifying and refreshing. My timing is dictated entirely by intuition, usually in response to increasingly intense inner pressure to head toward something new, to create room to learn and grow. It certainly keeps me mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually fit, and I’m never bored for long!

The title of this blog is typical of my youngest sister Anne’s inimitable and ego-busting version of anything I’d prefer to take seriously, and, like most of the times she comes after me with a pin ready to deflate my ego balloon, it makes me laugh while also wanting to swat her.

This blog begins with a journal of the biggest empty headed leap I’ve ever taken, a move from northern California to New England, for no other reason than that I’ve never been there, it looks beautiful in photographs, and it promises to be very supportive astrologically. Oh, and it’s closer to several of the universities where my daughter wants to pursue her Ph.D.

There probably won’t be any more posts this week, because it’s getting harder and harder to find my computer under the boxes, bubble wrap and anxious critters.

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