My time finding my main home in Santa Cruz is up. The living room has flooded. The over grown traffic has driven through my partnership with ocean-air! Winds usher me to another town. I will continue to offer sessions to clients in the Santa Cruz area…but am making my new home elsewhere.Flashing Back. 1983. Someone hands me three hundred dollars unexpectedly so I leave for California.
I drive into “visitors’ day by “accident” and am welcomed. My feet feel fully at home. My heart is loose and wild. My eyes are open as I haven’t yet seen enough to wish to hide my consciousness under the covers at dawn. My dreams are plentiful. My heart, a ladle of warm orange squash soup has no reservations on giving all I am. And my voice, which will be criticized for the youthfulness until I am about thirty five, flows out with offerings of words, the best gift I can think of.
People call from round the globe to tell me “this voice saved them, soothed them, loved them, freed them.” Funny. The voice was never really “mine”. I love borrowing it though. The universe gives us each a tone for our time here. The tone ripples from the heart each time life throws a kind or corrupt tap into the heart’s eternal regions. The voice than sings, or speaks, or shivers, or hugs. Others are touched. We come to earth to touch one another by being ourselves. Really that’s it.
And so my Santa Cruz decades opened me, as I opened those around, as life’s strategy played us all like keys on a piano. I wrote plays. We danced, sang, and enacted the musical creations on stage and off. We all write plays. Every single day is full of plays. Each day is a musical event. Hear the birds, the air, the thoughts passing through that brain? The brain is a music staff for the composition. We were sung by the innocence of our Creator who planted us here. We gave all we could. Fast-forward a decade.
Each of us has changed costumes. Many changed names. Service found more refined forms. Still, we fit into our town like hands finding warm comfortable gloves after years in raw snow. The ocean danced to the rhythms in our own hearts. The abundant organic gardens kept fertile soil for our feet. We gathered from other galaxies, other times, other cultures remembering the many rituals we came to share. We shared. We opened doors. We opened universes. Grasshoppers tap danced on the window sills as we on the edges of life itself.
The truth about those of us who came to live out our dreams no matter what, that many others benefit is the glorious truth. We often are the compost! Yes, the dreams propel immense love which creates service in form. From this many sip, taste, enjoy, nurture, nourish gobble, feast, indulge! The ideals tossed into philosophies and projects come with a sorrowful toll. The purity is lost again and again so behind the circles we meet to cry our disappointments. We turn to one another’s shoulders. We begin again.
I can hear the ancient songs and dances still at play. What we planted here has called forth a multitude of new faces. I am in awe of the wisdom the ancient yet young ones already carry at arrival! Chaos of the sixties and its joyous child the eighties, has given a precious birth! We had to work so effortfully to build an arena for these truths to be evident! The traffic has run over some of my dreams, while the gifts life gave me in this sweet seaside town are beyond measure.
The love and care my mate, friends, and family have gifted me are overflowing in my eyes, yet the betrayals life delivered beyond explanation. As it is for us all. So I digest it all in this heart, preferred and non-preferred, until I love life again. I let go all reasoning so the love keeps creating.
Many jump on the waves we bring forth as the cycles are endless. We build by night and are told about our own creations by day as they become fast food! So the dreams, become the eternal washing machine. We lose more than we take. And as we lose it, bit by bit, more and more we fill clean, clear, deeply washed into a vast zero that is love full. My heart has cried as often as it has sung.
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