Once Upon a Slug

 

Once upon a very sluggish, non-writing season, my ability to put anything on paper seems to have all but dried up. The minute I sit down at my computer to continue my story, the Laughing Gods show up and start ridiculing.

You think you’re gonna come up with something interesting? It took you nearly the first quarter of a hundred years to grind our your last book. You think you can do it again? Hmmmfff.

Then I excuse myself, give in, and take up something less frustrating, like cooking, cleaning, writing holiday cards, or poking through my files of quilt and cloth doll patterns. I avoid writing like the plague and sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to put my thoughts on paper again.

Meanwhile, I satisfy my never-ending curiosity about the expanding Universe by listening to interviews of relatively new and unknown spiritual leaders like Barbara Hand-Clow, Corey Good, David Wilcox, and a growing list of such others, whom I stumbled upon on Gaia TV , my latest door to spiritual growth.

My next book (if it ever comes about) will include my interest in such nonordinary entities such as UFO’s, Angels, and  Spirit Guides. It will describe how my insatiable appetite for  spiritual growth has brought me to such practicess as Shamanism and consulting the Akashic Record. To name only a few.

Some family and friends have long since grown leery of me because of these unconventional interests. Exploring and pioneering these ideas has consumed me since my exit from the convent. I acknowledge that I follow an unconventional spiritual path. The important thing is, I’m finally able to abandon the opinion of others in order to do so.

So it really doesn’t matter that I’m currently not recording my path on paper. I trust I will eventually be able to take up my pen and share more of my unique story again.

 

 

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Bear

Dont’ know about other self-proclaimed “Extroverts,” but my outgoingness turns contemplative this time of year. Like Bear, I yield to winter’s encroaching darkness. I resist engagement and hunker down. I meditate, read, craft, write.

Or disappear into the Void.

At the moment however, I’m attempting another book. I presumed I’d dumped all baggage of having previously been a nun with my first book.

NOT.
The memories continue downloading with a vengeance.

So I write.

Where’s It Gone?

Where’s it gone?  My self-esteem. Don’t know if it’s because I spent so many years in the habit, humbling myself or if it’s simply because I’m human, but my sense of self-worth fluctuates downward a bit too often. I recently called a halt to my floundering three-year relationship with my significant other and I’ve been scraping bottom more than usual since. Funny thing how I measure my worth through someone else’s eyes–that someone who has rejected me.

Though I tap, use affirmations, read uplifting messages, and meditate daily, I spiral downhill. I rely on the steady encouragement of close friends, and yet still struggle. The face in the mirror looks back at me with sadness, even though I smile. “Oh well”, as Mom used to say “This too shall pass”.

I can only hope.

Today’s thought from the Sedona Journal of Enlightenment provides me with hope:  “Bring your hands to your heart and feel within every cell of your body, ‘I am divine love.’ Can you feel that? Allow every cell in your body to recognize this. From this divine, compassionate action of receiving you already comprehend and trust the gift of you. You are divine love. You are divine. You have always been and will always be.”

Chewing My Nails

Yes, I’ve submitted my Once Upon a Convent manuscript to several publishing agents, and just received a request for a detailed proposal . I’ve put off an immediate response because of the amount of work this kind of document entails. I’ve finally begun though, and am determined that one way or another, my book will be published. My story is a unique revelation of the guts of what went on behind convent walls in the mid-twentieth century, and deserves to be shared.

Stand by. You won’t be disappointed.

Oh Lord, I am not worthy

Mountain Love

Somehow, I presumed the sending off of my memoirs would flush me of some of those pesky habits I carried from the convent so long ago. But it hasn’t. My sense of unworthiness prevails.

Not feeling okay.

Or good enough.

Like a sudden gathering of clouds, a darkening overshadows me when I least expect it.

I blame the convent, where I developed the habit of gazing inward each day, and examined my sinful self for every possible imperfection. It wasn’t enough to skim through the Ten Commandments in search of sins—impure thoughts or feelings of jealousy. I was also taught to look for slight infraction against the rules. Talking too much, running in the hallway, and gawking around during prayer were inadmissible faults, and needed to be publicly admitted on a daily basis. Like a monkey, diligently hunting for and picking at its body for fleas, I daily searched for—found—and developed a long list of—my daily failings. Had I not discovered at least a few faults, I would have been guilty of the more serious sin of pride.

Years later, my spirit has learned to expand and soften, but I still I work at accepting my imperfect and fault-ridden self.

It had not come easy. . .

this letting go,

this allowing.

Even today, I hesitate at being proud of,

or thinking myself good enough.

It has taken a lifetime.