Sheila Winter Wallace

I thought that I would gag as I read Sharon Kirkey’s article in the Ottawa Citizen of Monday, June 1, 2009, entitled ‘A bitter ill? Psychiatrists push to make embitterment an official mental disorder’ [Re: the DSM - Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, psychiatry’s official catalogue of mental dysfunction]. Yes, I felt like I would gag… and then I laughed with huge indignation when I continued on to read the term, ‘post-traumatic embitterment disorder’. Who’s selling what?

Who and what defines ‘normal’, pray tell? Who and what defines ‘disorder’? When can I not own my experience of others and situations/events, as well as my experience of myself in the presence of others, situations/events… two uniquely different things? Who decided the parameters around a Bell Curve? How does what I feel inside of me, where I live, become the platform, according to external referencing - what someone else thinks - for ‘mental disorders’?

If a loved one disappears from my world and I experience an intensity of feelings about that, then am I mentally disordered? If I invest in a business that, ultimately, bottoms out and I choose to declare bankruptcy… and I have feelings about that… does that make me a candidate for a pill? If I choose to lay down my head - anytime - does that make me apathetic? Who and what determines, ‘compulsive, pathological, over-eating, hoarding and dysphoria’?

Like bill collectors who engage in harassment to meet quotas so that they can hold onto their revenue streams, I have got to wonder if the ‘working groups composed of more than 120 scientific researchers and clinicians’… ‘drafting diagnostic criteria for mood disorders, anxiety disorders, personality disorders and psychoses’ aren’t ensuring that their own jobs are not on the line. 

Or is this one more attempt by ‘enlightened’ ones, to control collectives through greed? One hears it daily in the language of ‘not enough’… not enough what? The paradox is that there is nothing enlightened, in my world, about categorizing my frame of mind. And… the would-be ‘fix’ is most certainly never about love… the nominalization by which so much ill will has been directed to the earth and her peoples. I am giving you this pill because I love you; if you love me, then you’ll do this for me; when you engage in X, you’ll prove your love for me. Where is respect, integrity and generosity of spirit in any of this?

I know that I live in a holographic universe. I know that I create my reality out of my illusions - my dreams, my imaginings, my visualizations. As well, I know that my personal world is made as I say so, as I choose. I know that I am not my body. I ‘need’ no proof of that. I nursed patients long enough to know that when the spirit chooses to depart the body, it has lost none of its vitality; I was fully present to the beauty of that in the first time that I witnessed it happening… the choice to exit is just that… a choice. I wonder just how many external diagnoses form the platform that binds the promise of life renewed, improved and Self-managed to the lie of not that? That lie will continue to kill us, if we do not wake up to it. That waking up, too, is a choice. In a holographic universe, I am whole, you are whole, we are not broken, and what presents is never, ever about what it is about. Too out there? Not likely enough!

If I choose to subscribe to the allopathic constructs of the DSM, then I’ll reinforce a world view that says that we are broken and require fixing… that says that we ‘need’ [as the limiting notion of survival that can harden to an inalienable truth in an externally referenced world] control at all cost. That is what ‘therapy’ has always, in all ways, been steeped in. Is it any wonder, then, that our health care systems are self-destructing in the genius of chaotic response to the ‘fix’ - whatever it is in every solution-oriented moment - perceived and applied as required, as the ‘right’ thing. These systemic structures are predicated on Newtonian constructs - the ‘fix’ must be applied to what is perceived as broken. The question is…’Who is doing the perceiving?’ Science knows that the observer always affects the observed. This is as true of science as it is of the assumptions in which ancient and esoteric wisdom finds its roots/routes.

Here’s the thing: the proclivity to apply the ‘fix’ has become, in and of itself, an addiction. Then, paradoxically, the addiction is the ‘fix’.

I know that the nature of the body is to Self-regulate and to Self-sustain; yet, it is rarely something that we ever consider giving it a chance to do. When we invite and allow for that, we can easily give up the notions of ‘broken, needs fixing’. As the organism that contains systems that contain organs [more systems] that are comprised of cells [yet, more systems], the body already carries, within itself, the resources upon which it continually builds itself. We can live a long time without food, we can live a long time without water; however, we can live only a short time without breath. Significantly, If I am holding my breath, my body, in its genius, will know to close down its systems; it will refer its ability to choose to the domain of the hindbrain - where my life is about survival [in contrast to living fully], its attendant energetic signatures [that we have learned to identify as anger, sadness, fear, guilt], and defaults to history and habituation. I will have short-changed any frontal lobe capacity inherent to my on-going development, expansion and evolution, by holding my breath. We do it all the time. Have we ever taken the time to notice when we are not breathing, when we are breathing and what the implications of each are for living with vibrancy? Have we ever taken the time and the curiosity to notice just how many ‘living dead’ we are present to in our lives? When we hold our breath, we become the living dead… it is a form of enculturation. If that isn’t reason for embitterment, then I don’t know what else is! However, we create our own embitterment, and so many other Self-descriptions, by mindlessly forgetting to breathe and  by binding our thinking to the belief that what presents is, by the label we have given it, the truth cemented as fact, instead of malleable as opinion. Ugh. In the coma of that fallacy, we write our own demise. When, on the other hand, we refuse the prescription of that lie, we honour our right to live fully and autonomously.  The descriptions are only true for me, if I say so. I don’t need a diagnosis, a diagnostic, a pill, an inhaler, or therapy; I just need to claim my right to breathe. Breathing is the pump that conditions the electrical wiring in the body to transfer information. Breathing, consciously, is a choice to transform. 

We keep on creating new ‘therapies’ including diagnoses, diagnostics and medication to ‘fix’ what is, in no way, broken. As such, we continue to contribute to the systemic bankruptcy of our own lives… systems that we call the economy, health, work, enterprise, government, church, relationship, family… and the list goes on and on. All we have to remember is to breathe… consciously… and to wake up to the genius of whom we are as a species.

Yes… as human beings, we are genius, plain and simple. We are not our bodies and our bodies are organic, massive, brilliant, biological processors of energetic data. We are already designed for greatness; we inherently, whether we are awake to our creative potential or not, designed ourselves to be Self-regulating and Self-sustaining relative to our own internal processes - even before we arrived here.

Forget the DSM. What presents is never about what presents. Hmm… I wonder what new diagnosis the ‘working groups composed of more than 120 scientific researchers and clinicians’ will have for/about me, once they have read my point of view. Not worth contemplating and too funny not to consider! Amen.

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Well, I was The One in the group of seven on that most recent Saturday morning. I thought that I was complete with the conversation and, then, I was triggered by a story that carried mammoth implication for me in terms of how I had lived my life. The tears and the noise inside of me came in the torrent of a tsunami and all I wanted to do was to collapse my body into myself, in the recoil of certain nausea. However, I knew that, if I went into that place where it is so easy to hide my face, to not be seen, to stifle the noise, I would likely die…again.

The paradox is that, in the hours following - more than 24 hours to be exact - dying, as a means of getting away from ME, again (I have lived this so many times before) seemed like the easy way out, relative to other options unknown, out of mind and not considered. Dying to save my life? Some genius, I think.

I could not stand the intensity of the fire that was running though me - felt like scorching embarrassment, shame and shunning myself - me as fractal of my own family system - for, yet again, my perceived impropriety of arriving for my own life. Huge grief fuelled by seething rage underneath it all.

I am not, yet, fully done with it… I know that there is still more to be metabolized in itself. Good thing. Nothing for me to do but to choose to stay present to the reverberating feelings of chaos - what feels like the terror and rage of humiliation inside - and to breathe. In this dynamic tension that has felt like the death of me, I am choosing to feel, hear and see the GodForce that I am. There is always, in all ways, more.

What occurred to me, as I breathed myself through this state on Saturday past - God, it was ugly - was that, yet again, in the face of others, I had dropped into feeling inappropriate, small, insufficient. Neurological entrenchments run deep… until I, as my own new, gleaming shovel, uncover myself to wake up to pathways that I can now see.

Later, as I stayed present to the huge movement inside of me, I continued to run that pattern of dying, in the many following hours, as the easy recourse for safety as an inside job. I have raced that track all my life; I learned well from my mother, who would lean up against the fridge, when I was growing up, her forehead resting on her arm, and ask, ‘Why can’t I just go away?’.

Well, the truth of it is that she did… her compliance to propriety compounded to her own regret was the cancer that killed her. I don’t care how one chooses to look at it, it was the genius of suicide to me. ‘What genius?’ you ask. How many of us will die to be right?

Dreaming the dream of living a full, exciting and joyful life - and choosing death to change it for the better. Craziness! I do not believe that, in physical space and time, it works that way… or maybe it does… if one considers that creation ultimately propels itself by the void contemplating itself. The void is considered nothing material and all things potential. Paradoxically, ancient space knows that I AM both physical and potential, at one and the same time. It helps when I remember that; when I remember whom I AM.

Double binds of our own making - damned if I comply and damned if I don’t comply. A prison in and of itself - and a death sentence. I think that the Maori have got it right! Live fully, live alive, live awake, mindfully live both your entrance and your exit  and everything in between as a celebration, then leave the planet as the Joy that you are. Nothing proper nor improper about that. It all just IS.

So, I thought I was done. Then, this afternoon, when I read Louise’s blog that spoke to regret for a life not lived in respect - for me, not rigged (rig = Louise’s mnemonic for respect, integrity and generosity of spirit), for both its physical presence and its potential, the wave of tears moved again.

Only this time, it’s different; I am allowing myself to stay present to the absolute rage that I am evoking as I am reminded of the shame, the disgust, the powerlessness that I have felt over the duration of my life - and in those moment’s, as well, on Saturday, when many, I believe, simply wanted to escape the truth of their own experience in the presence of mine; and, who, in the face of that, chose to hang out with me. On the holodeck of my life, I have created some stunning projections.

I have a face and I have a voice. It is not important to me that you know that. It is important to me, alone, that I know that… and that I claim it… that I now ‘grok’ it for me and in me.

I see you. I hear you.

I see me. I hear me.

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Raising Consciousness through The Body & Intuitive  Self-Trust

I do not have a specific number to put to the legion of times in my own life that the barometer, which is my body, has provided me with information that could easily have changed the trajectory of my experience, if only I had paid attention to them and aligned my decisions with them, first and foremost.

Inside, I knew… yet, paradoxically, denied what I  felt as organically sound to the very integrity of my well-being, in favour of the conditioned ‘safety’ of what I thought was expected, what was considered ‘right’, ‘logical’, ‘rational’, reasonable. Eventually, that rebuff of my body’s natural genius became the unnatural default for moving through my world… and that reversion became the path of least resistance… mindless and, most of the time, significantly short of satisfaction.

Now I stand my ground in the ownership of my emerging future as alienated from that old, historical (and… I might add… hysterical!) way of moving through my world.

For aeons, it seems, I have been asked to share what I have created out of that, which I have learned and discovered - the artistry of which has further invited me to learn, discover and create even more. I invite you to consider a new experience for trusting the information that your body presents; for trusting what you know… inside, where you live… to sustain your own Self-truth… and to waken up and claim the master that you are.

The Power of Presence:Trusting Your Body to Lead is your opportunity to discover and claim, once and for all, that internal knowing that lives within your body, your own infinite nervous system, which once awakened, becomes magnetic resonance for more. This experience is nestled within the life-altering WEL-Systems® context for change that invites you to engage your body differently. This program is an invitation to discover the magic of your own vibration in connecting with yourSelf and others in intuitive hands-on/hands-off approach to the body and its energy fields.

You’ll attend this program because you want to implicitly trust the intelligence of your body over all else; you want the clarity of being that only arrives with that trust. You know that the ‘gut’ never lies. Perhaps, you know nothing about the body’s ability to lead and want to realize more for yourself. Perhaps, you have experience of the body and energy, yet desire a greater framework, a paradigm shift in thinking, for transformative practice. Perhaps, you are interested in initiating an ‘energy’ practice and do not where to start. Perhaps, you are a nurse, doctor, coach, body/energy ‘worker’, parent, grand-parent, or caregiver who wants to simply embrace the truth of whom they are… inside.

As a Certified CODE Model Coach™, I am pleased to be your guide on this journey toward the truth of whom you are and what your body is; through the brilliant arena of animating tissue that your body is to Self-regulate and to Self-sustain… the living bio-processor for more that awakens consciousness.

Register now and discover that your body undeniably speaks the truth of your experience… and that you can always, in all ways, trust it. 

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I spent quite an amazing morning with my friend, Louise, in a powerful conversation that will manifest as a CD that speaks to what is important to me in my attraction of others into my life, so that we, each, become more, as we engage. 

Prelude to the CD, I arrived in the office, knowing that I was on the verge of yet another expansion in Being whom I am. I was not sure just what that was going to look like and how I was going to experience myself; yet, I knew that I was on the cutting edge of something both critical and wonderful to how I would continue to move through my world that I am creating.

Toward the completion of Louise’s interview of me, I spoke of ancient teachings that have always communicated notions of remembering the lineage that backs any Initiator as they introduce new ways of Being into their worlds… and, yet, paradoxically, where Being is mindlessly translated as doing (note the smaller case!)… and where the ‘Initiate’ can do nothing on her own without the reference to what is past and external to back her up (consider what presuppositions are present in the words, ‘back her up’!). While I knew, consciously, in the moment of its expression that I was speaking to ‘Remember whom we are’  in our genius as the Quantum Biological Human™,  I still remained unconscious to my own habituation (not only within the context of esoterica) that other lineage was, somehow, superior to my own and that the past, somehow, still served as the driver for both my present and my future.

What came to resonate with me, instead, a nano-second later, was Louise’s maxim: Be the Lineage. Present choices (can they be otherwise?) for future creations. Forward-facing movement ahead that is inspired, in and of itself, toward the manifestation of meaning… in contrast to backward-facing motion forward that struggles, in and of itself, to ‘find’ meaning - yet never actually achieves its intention, in its proclivity to default to what it already knows as untenable as its path of least resistance. How can one move toward manifestation when she is faced in the opposite direction? Ultimately, she’s actually moving away from it. Perhaps the habituated search for meaning lies in its own habituation…which lies in its own habituation… which lies in its own habituation… and so on. I am learning, quickly and resolutely, to remain awake to those times when the sheer subtlety of the bumps, relative to history, that show up as ‘obstacles’ in my chosen road, could force me into an unwanted detour, simply because I diverted my eyes from really discovering the view ahead.

Amazing! All was revealed to me, in the close of our interview in these three simple words: Be the Lineage. An open, honest, clear and direct expression of (now, having found and claimed my unique turf) standing my ground, Being the Lineage that I am creating in every breath.

Be the Lineage means Be Me. It is the only thing, in my world, that is worth remembering. There is no past to that.

Thanks, Louise, for you willingness to redirect. Ancient Space that Awakens the Sacred is never about remembering lineage as history; it IS about Being the Lineage in present space and time, focused on my continually emerging future and being clear about what holds meaning for me.

Be the Lineage. These three exquisite words serve, now, as my newly-claimed, conscious currency in standing my ground for the more that I can become. 

Be the Lineage. Be Me.

What a marvelous way to live! 

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I will initiate my third pass at Decloaking and Living Authentically tomorrow, my first edition of this particular experience for 2009. I find it interesting that the group of women is very small and that the women who have committed themselves to engage, like me, are older. Not that that should mean anything and, yet, I have a knowing that, with them, I am going into a major archeological dig that will unearth wisdom and living metaphors of a quality that I have not yet considered. 

I have engaged with so many women on my way to this opportunity. I know that, some times, the timing is just not in the cards for them. I also know that, often times, it is; yet, they will not or cannot take that plunge into the living seas of their own lives, so that thy can become more. The fear of the unknown can be palpable. They will make it about the money and the time… and, yet, I know, from my own first hand experience, that it is not, ever, really, about those things. I also know that, if I can fool myself into thinking that it is about the thing(s) that it is not, then I’ll delay springing open the  lid to the ‘jack-in-the-box’ that I feel resident in my eternal, internal physiology. Much better to look outside of myself than to own the ‘jumpiness’ that I feel inside.

It is much easier, now, for me to remain out of judgement about other people’s choices. What is, from time to time, not so easy, is to not make it about me, when, in a holographic universe, it is all about me.

So, what do I mean by this?

After months of engaging with others in the invitation to invest in their own lives, two have committed for this Decloaking. I would be lying to myself to say that I had not wanted a larger number to engage, this time, in this conversation. And yet, the number stands at two. And these two women are willing, now, to fully ride their unique trains on tracks down into and through unknown, underground terrain. I am committed to my own rigorous ride with each one of them.

More women, more trains of thought, more to cross-reference, more to create. Two women; yet, not only, two women. If it is never about the numbers, per sé, and if the numbers are simply feedback, then what do I get to learn from this? So… I think that I’ll make it about what it is not, in order that I may self-discover what it IS about. Who knows? At the end of this search by way of my fingers on the computer keyboard, I still may not have a clue; yet, even if I won’t, I will… and, even if I don’t, I do.

So here is what I can imagine is up for me, in my underground journey, this week to come: 

The number 2 relates to peacemaking and personally clarifying the limits of my own responsibility. I have spent most of my life making the peace for others in order to keep a most uncertain peace with myself. I deemed keeping the peace my responsibility, and, therefore, others did, too.

Co-operate, co-operate was the undeniable call of my life and one that I followed to the max for others, yet to the barest minimum for myself, for my own internal harmony. When and where did I learn that it was either them or me? What was the genius in that? It was always so much easier for me to simply keep the peace; then I would keep my responsibility. It became easy to self-manipulate to make the fit. In a holographic universe, I, then, became the model for and the object of  the very manipulation by others that I  so abhorred.

I was the ‘nice’ one, the ’shy’ one, the ‘logical’ one, the ‘right’ one, the ’sensible’ one, the ‘team’ player. I was also the one who hated confrontation, so I would do anything to create the external harmony that I ‘needed’ so that I could feel safe inside. I was also the one who could only say ‘no’ if my core values were pushed to edge of what felt like certain death - a ‘no’ that I would declare with potent rage.

My self-esteem was so measured by others reactions to me, that it was just easier to say ‘yes’ when I wanted to say ‘no’. Everytime, I engaged the unwanted ‘yes’, I died a little bit more. Because I learned to control myself in these ways, I invited unwanted control by others.

Astrologically, the 2nd house relates to the sign, Taurus, and its ruler, the planet Venus. The aesthetic, the beautiful dogma of ‘thou shalt’ and ‘thou shalt not’ that ruled my ears, my mouth, my lower jaw, my chin, my vocal cords, my neck, my throat, my thyroid gland, the base of my scull and everything by which I was nourished. I felt powerless to express, much less voice, the truth of my experience. How often has the peacemaker really been the one who felt impotent to speak, to draw her own line in the sand?

Huna symbology speaks to its second sign, Uli Nana Hewa,  as the feminine that brings the calm to right the wrongs. Again the peacemaker. The promise of Uli is as the examiner who knows where and when to draw her own dividing line.

And last, yet not least, Archetype 2 in the major arcana of the Tarot, is the High Priestess, the domain of the unconscious mind, resident  as the body’s uniting intelligence, that is the brilliance by which we self-manifest through the dualities of peace and strife, adjustment and maladjustment, as responses to what presents in every nano-second. The peacemaker shows her face again.

There is much to behold in the resonance of Two. I think that this week, to come, is about me uncovering and declaring a new and a sage peace in me - that peace that knows its delivery by its own birth in every moment - that peace that knows voice and sound as essential to the call for life.

Two plus one (me). The three of buoyant communication (3).

Bring it on.

Sheila.

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I am sitting here and I am unsure exactly what I am going to discover about myself, in this moment, as my fingers engage the keyboard. I, actually, have not got a clue. I feel the call to write. I just know that some plan is coming together and that I am in some large swell of I do not know what. 

I found myself out and about, today, running some errands and preparing for my trip to Halifax later this week to facilitate a Huna retreat at Oceanstone. I moved through my day well, and , yet I found myself becoming increasingly aware of waiting, impatiently and irritably, for something - again, I do not know what.

In physical space and time, I could make it about all of the lines that I have been waiting in… grocery lines, return lines, exchange lines… and the disrespect that I feel, not by the people who serve me, but by the beliefs, values and attitudes that structure those lines and keep me waiting. Opinions that  demand complacency to ‘Well, this is how it is, what are you complaining about? That’s the way WE do it. This is the way everybody does it. Shut up and wait in line.’ Coma that sleds subscription to the basest of life’s ho-hum components, as if I, in the waiting line of many, am just some mathematical fraction that can be reduced to its lowest common denominator. I can’t stand it anymore; more like, I WON’T.

Today, I woke up! I stood in the last line that demands that I go here, go there, go here again - only to convenience the bottom line results of those who would save a buck by disrespecting me and my resources. I got clear that what I see and hear as deemed ‘respectful’ is, so often, experienced by me, as undeniably disrespectful and discourteous. 

I am not a buck to be saved. I am not an element of time that can be squandered for the fiscal comfort of systems designed to keep human beings compliant. I am not a cog in the wheel of arranged incivility to keep people asleep.

I observe people in lines and I observe people serving those people in lines. Both are engaged in the coma of ‘customer service’… lines to do the ‘right thing’. ‘For whom?’, I ask. Is anybody even awake?

Well, I AM. I know that, when I do not claim respect for myself  in every nano-second, then no-one else does, either. So in physical space and time, I am choosing to take my business elsewhere. I am voting with my feet. I am taking my life, in every step that I take, into those places and spaces that respect my GodForce as the Sacred that I AM and not only for what I have to give… the resources that I bring.

The paradox to it all is that, where I know respect, I gladly deliver my resources… and resources keep finding me. Respect intersects with resource; disrespect intersects with dearth. I am now clear about my chosen intersections. They know green lights, movement and flow; the others know only stop-lights and waiting, waiting, waiting.

While they may write their own manuals, their own ‘how to’s’ for customer service, I am certain that, generally speaking, the so-called experts influencing that field, have forgotten their own self-respect, if they ever knew it.  I know that they’ll create differently, when they own respect for Self. I can no longer wait for them to potentiate their own consciousness in order for that to happen. My own claimed self-regard is mine only to pave a life of compassion for mySelf and for others as the vehicle that enters my chosen intersections. Go! Move! 

My self-respect IS my compassion for me and for others. Now, that’s my notion of service; incontestable reverence for mySelf and for others. It all starts with me, first.

My respect for myself knows no greater veracity than the truth of my own divinity. That truth waits for no-one.

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I received an email from  Iris Shields, portrait painter extraordinaire, this morning, directing me to an interview by Mercatornet, entitled Hunger for Beauty. Iris thought that I would enjoy the read of this. There are no accidents in my universe, so I read and I noticed my experience in my own body of what I both appreciated and did not relish in the read of the article. The writing of this started out as an email response to Iris. In the writing of this, I have uncovered another blog entry. This is the magic of my own autopoiesis: I respond to the genius of what I feel, and a blog is born - fully in the knowing that what presents is never, ever about what presents! Here goes!

Iris, I read this and, at some point, in the article, it struck me that Alice Ramos has become captive to her seemingly voracious intellect while in some denial to the intelligence (as opposed to intellect) of her own experience. My mind read, which I trust.

MercatorNet: Let me give an example of a contemporary aesthetic controversy. An Italian gallery is exhibiting a crucified frog named “Feet First”. For any Christian, it’s quite offensive, but are there any other objections to it? The museum curators have declared that it is a self-portrait of the artist “in a state of profound crisis”.

Alice Ramos (Interviewee): Let me begin by saying that for a Christian, “Feet First” is offensive because the cross is a symbol of the Christian faith, a visible and material sign that we belong to Christ, and so the crucifixion of a frog robs the cross of its deepest meaning and mystery and trivializes what is sacred. In addition, we normally object to taking concepts, events, what people do and say, out of context, precisely because we rely on contexts to make concepts or events fully intelligible. In this example of contemporary art, the cross is taken totally out of context: that Christ, perfect God and perfect man, voluntarily accepts death on the cross–death which is not the last word since Christ rises from the dead–in order to save men and women from their sins. The idea of crucifying a frog doesn’t make sense since frogs like other irrational animals are incapable of moral action and do not therefore undergo punishment. Only persons are punished for wrong doing; only a God that is loving and forgiving would permit the crucifixion of his only Son.

I find it amazing that the interviewee has chosen to incorporate the pronoun, ‘we’, into her response, as if ‘we’ are all in agreement. I find THAT repugnant. How many times, in my own life, have I ’softened’ (more like diluted) the power of my own veracity in the expression of ‘we’, as if, by entering the lie/lay of the collective, I could and would  make myself, ‘right’.

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It seems that I am, now, once and for all, face to face with my own rabid force for self-irritation with no idea about what drives it. I only know that, from time to time, in a nano-second, feelings of  ’I do not know what’ surface from deep within the pit of my stomach and I know that something, some information, is available to me, in that blink of time, that I, in the near past, indisposed myself to, by my own self-denial. It is not the flash-in-the-pan experience of it making itself known, inside, that consumes me; rather, it is the gnawing, like a beaver with its formidable teeth on wood, that ridicules, chunks and slivers the grain of what I know is not true, yet have carved out to be otherwise in my life.

And… as I sit here, I am noticing what is going on in my world - the patterns and traits that I, now, count as antitheses to customs that have gone before - and… I know that I can, no longer, engage what has, to this moment, ceased to be true for me.

To make anything about what it is not buys a sure ticket to a Dodger’s game; that is one game of ball that I can do without. T’aint no home run, when I am immersed in the diversion of dodge ball - and what a diversion it is! In this particular stadium, my mind is not my friend, the players know no distinction between the infield and the outfield, and the game ends in innumerable foul balls. There is no resounding vibration that arrives with the ‘grok’ of understanding in the body, as occurs in the powerful, sonic interface of the bat colliding with the ball; in the ‘whir’ of the sharp, cutting-edged sound of the ball slicing through the air; and in the noisy and rock-solid clap of the ball as it arrives in the catcher’s mitt.

I am done. I have no clue what I am going to create in the game of the rest of my life, yet I know that I am done with the Dodgers and foul balls. I have changed playing fields… for good. 

As I continue to remember - always, in all ways - whom I am as unique space, signatory to I AM THE ONE up to bat in the field of all space, I know that I am now fully awake to choosing differently: new players, teams with which to engage, games, bats, balls, umpire (me), uniforms (buck naked and decloaked as my gear of choice), fields and stadiums… all expansive, open-air, real grass, sun and wind, organic and natural. In that space, I am choosing to engage with umpires who respect themselves, first and foremost, as integral to their own generosity of spirit. I know some pretty amazing umpires who field their distinct games in that call. The bellow of the umpire, who is fully alive and fully engaged in her game, is, without doubt and often, hugely irritating. That yell  is what changes the nature of the game. That call defines life!

Why have I spent my earthly time believing that it was wrong to feel irritated, qualifying that force as something that it is not? Irritated space manifests. It can’t not be other than that.

I think that I’ll pay another visit to the dam, inside, and pay homage to the beaver and her genius. She has not just been masticating and digesting wood in the swamp, she has been carving out new bats to irritate successive new games. I just never noticed.

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Since I wrote Freedom Tuesday, I have had a couple of revelations for and about myself. I am grateful for the information that I freed up for myself on the way to Freedom Tuesday… and, it seems, that even more is being freed up in me, for me and by me, now that I have declared personal bankruptcy, now that I am moving through it’s process, and now that I have posted my signature to the legal documents; my signature as in every word, I think, speak and write, casts a spell. I know that there is more that I shall uncover.

My body has been suffering the flaming, burning attributes of heartburn in my upper epigastrium, into the chest, and all the way up into my throat, for some time, now.  As well, my body knows catarrh and post nasal drip in my throat as well as TMJ (temporal mandibular joint disfunction) in my right jaw. All of these physical symptoms are signs of something in me that has been making its presence known for eons. In my world, this symptomology as information in flow in my body, is metaphoric for all kinds of considerations that have been out of my awareness. However, there is one thing that I know; my physical body weight has increased, while my inability to eat without the resulting pain of heartburn has also increased. It is getting harder to swallow the very truth of my experience, moment to moment…. and the more that I participate in the programmed and forced gulp of that, the greater becomes the discomfort in all areas of my world. What is more, as I consider the implications for all of this, relative to living a physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually sound life of my own design, I am also aware that I have lived with long-term sinus congestion, to a lesser or greater degree, depending on how my view of what I can create conflicts with past ‘promises’ that I made to externals in the lie that I was promising something greater for myself. The pain just keeps on getting fiercer. 

Physiology is always the final frontier for the bankruptcy of life that shows up as dis-ease states in the body. Thank the GodForce that I am, I am way past believing  that dis-ease is good, bad, right or wrong or that it is the fault of… whomever/ whatever. What I do know, for sure, is that I feel either comfortable or uncomfortable. Either way, I get to shout, ‘Here comes my life!’ It is all information for me to discover more about myself. It is also intelligence that, for me, once known and validated by me as my truth, may precipitate my choice to choose to design my life differently… and I may choose to not choose… it is always a choice, whether I say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

That is where things get really incendiary for me. What is the very truth of my knowing that I keep so under wraps, that I morph into the earth of the big, heavy, densely woven blanket that serves to extinguish the contagion of flames that I am as my own life force? What is it that I am igniting in me that I am so quick to extinguish as potentially aired and bellowed truth, yet, continues to enflame the very tissue of my body as I push the veritable fox of my knowing deep down into its underground lair? Like the master flame thrower in the circus, I have become accomplished at stoking the flames of my own expression into submission within the vulnerable avenue of my own pharynx. Like the accomplished chef, I know just when to open the valve on the pressure cooker of my belief, in just the ‘right’ amount and in just the ‘right’ time (only, for me, the paradox is that there is never a right time; there is perceived, if not illusory, safety in there never being a ‘right’ time) to not release the entire pot of my heated experience to external appetites. All the while, I release my steam under pressure of culturally ingrained expectations, in myself, by imploding inside me. Like Lucifer standing at the gates of Hell (with both his invitation to me to enter and his expectation that I will), I punish myself  in the stoke of my own flame; I become devil to my lies.

There is an old proverb that declares ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’; more significantly, I think that Hell knows no fury like a truth scorned. I am a woman who has scorned her own truth to the fires of her internal hell… so much so, that I suffer the physical fire of heartburn’s volcanic lava flow. Everytime, I swallow the truth of my experience IN MYSELF, I just apply more pressure to the closed release valve of the cooker in my fire centre.

So… on to the breaking of my heart. As a nurse, if I were to subscribe only to the allopathic view of heart attack, the ‘brutal’ chest pain that I have been experiencing, occasionally, since 2004, would, symptomatically, signal that my heart is in deep ‘trouble’. The truth about this, for me, is that the internal blitzkrieg, in my chest, is information in flow… or not; it has felt like massive artillery fire in me! I undertook all of the ‘necessary’ allopathic tests, 4 years ago; nothing to write home about. However, the faster my acceleration into my own expanding potential, the faster, more numerous and more intense the energetic strikes are becoming to what I can no longer hold as true for me in my life. My heart knows. As the force of my own grasp of personal power intensifies, the very coeur of me can no longer remain caged to notions of what I used to hold as true and right and core to my being. My prison is provoking its’ own opening, by firing and melting the locks to its own gates. Flame, hot enough to melt the cage bars, knows, inherently and by extention, that it can forge something new upon the anvil of what it has not yet considered. The truth is that, once I know that prototype for intensity that I label ‘pain’ - and all, which that model represents - it will rapidly present itself with the volatile and rampant insidiousness of ignited and hidden chains of dynamite. Isn’t that how we bring down buildings? Do we not consider that feat of engineering to be an art form? The Dragon who, intuitively knows altitude and flight as essential to her very nature, yet is tethered to her confined cave in such a way, that, ‘try’ as she will, she just barely gets her feet off the ground, before she realizes a forced landing, due to the strength of the ties that bind her, ultimately knows struggle and despair. I have been that Dragon. And… everything… EVERYTHING… has looked like a tether to me.

 I DO breathe fire; that is what Dragons do. The pain and the breaking of my own heart stops when I fully embrace me as the cage, the bars, the flame, the anvil, the cave, the dragon, the fire, the tether(s) and everything else, known and unknown - and remember that I own all of it. Not good, bad, right or wrong. It just is. I own and I AM the ‘ism’. Like the Devil card (#15) in the Major Arcana of the BOTA Tarot, the joke is always on me. The chains that tether the polarities of creation to the illusion of the devil (in reverse, ‘devil’ spells ‘lived’, what we value as historically ‘right’/'rite’ in our experience) are so loose around the shoulders of the man and woman, visually presented in the archetype as representative of energetic dichotomy, that they, themselves, could easily lift off those binding links from around their own necks, themselves, if only they were willing to remember and to embrace whom they are. Yet, they continue to forget; they persist in engaging the fiction of their lives.

Nothing is real, unless I say that it is. Like the Dragon, I am tethered, only if I say so. Something for me to stay aware of… always, in all ways. When the ‘experts’ could not help me in the context of me wanting, needing to know… whatever… for my own salvation, I learned that the words of the apprentice, the adept (the non-expert who is truly the expert in and of her own experience) would always hold true for me: If I can imagine it, then I have got it. In other words, it IS what I say it is… in my world. I AM my own adept.

My physiology is a consummate by-product of my state; my state is evidence of my thinking - what I hold as true for myself - both known and unknown; my thinking, when I invite it to be so, is nourished by my potential - what I do not yet know about myself. Therein lies my key for life and my key for death. When is one not the other? It is all, still, key. It is my choice to live or die; even if I do not consciously make my choice, I AM still making my choice. Crazy, yet, still, true. If, as the Dragon, I believe that I can fly only so far and only so high, because I haven’t noticed the tether around my ankle - even while I continue to ‘crash and burn’ - it might be useful for me to wake up to my own fire that I can engage and direct to burn away the illusive notion of the ankle strap … or not. First, I have to realize that I am the very restriction/constriction that I want to remove; I will have to ‘fire’ myself, first, in order to reclaim the altitude that is critical to my full wing span and flight.

In my world, I am in discovery of all of the tethers. As in a heart attack, tethers feel like a constriction around my chest - a tourniquet that pressurizes air space, breathing space. In the concept of ‘heartburn’, it forces the regurgitation of what will not be swallowed, yet one more time. I can tell you, in no uncertain terms, that acid reflux, is evidence of what refuses to be ingested… and the conditioned ’swallow’… just one more time… again and again… becomes increasingly harder and more insulting to the tissue. And, if and when, that is not RIGGED (as Respected for its Integrity and Generosity {yes, Generosity} of Spirit in what it provides for me in my own self -discovery), then the essence of whom I am will, in its own genius, find more potent ways for me to choose… life or death. In the course of my life journey, I have walked with the living dead. I have also walked with those who were fully alive, even in their moment of transition, of ascension. The former chose death, even as they walked the planet, as if in limbo; the latter chose life, even as they were leaving. Fundamentally, for me, it gets down to my own self-engagement and self-expression. Whom AM I becoming, as I AM engaged IN this life, yet not OF it?

In the external search for those who lived by their own internal law, yet were likely considered to be acting in criminal fashion (contemplate the metaphors, here, for living authentically!), the posters of the wild west exhorted, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE! I want me to be FULLY ALIVE… and, so I CHOOSE… that, for me.

On this, the first day of 2009, I CHOOSE life. Plain, Simple, Period.

Aloha,

Sheila.

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Today is December 2, 2008. Today is Freedom Tuesday. Today is the day that I have declared, though signature to an application for bankruptcy, that there has been a rupture in my financial accounts. Today is the day that I acknowledge, by the vibration of my signature, that I am done with carrying the burden of life-depleting and deadening financial debt that I have wrestled with for more than 6 years… ‘do the right thing screaming into my ears’ at one with its synesthesia to the on-going, tension, terror and nausea in my stomach… relative to the establishment of a business in the United States that knew insolvency as inherently core to its structure, even before it was open for operation, as the energetic cornerstone to its masonry of untruths. Today, after 4 months of research, due diligence and consultation, I respectfully (of me) kept my appointment with a trustee to claim my financial freedom. Freedom Tuesday! I am done with the application of the fire-extinguisher of constant and never-yielding debt to my life force. I AM my own fire, alive and in flame, as essence to myself. Instead of putting out fires, which has been my known proclivity, occupation and pre-occupation for the last 6 years (indeed, for the entirety of my life in this incarnation, at least - and inclusive, yet irrespective of money, at one and the same time), I now claim my GodForce, first… and finally. If not me, then whom?

So, I present, in the words to follow and for public consumption, what I shared, recently, with 15 other separate and cherished life-forces in collective - all of them women and all of them dedicated to their own personal evolutions - as fundamental to how they move through their worlds. These women and two others with whom I shared this information over the phone, know that what presents is never about what it is about… ever. Writing this article, then reading it aloud, as the vibration that I am in my world, to the women with whom I have shared this information, has been critical to me being decloaked and declared that I am choosing me and my life, over all else, first. I AM not debt nor am I (a beast of) burden. I AM.

I know that what I have written has already changed lives; as I have already indicated, it is never about what it is about. I consider it my honour to share this with you, as its reader. I invite you to take your time and to allow yourself to own your experience of the reading and whatever moves inside you. Breathe long and deep. In that wave, you’ll find your salvation and reclaim the very genius of whom you are. Mahalo.

My Experience of Bankruptcy Relative to My life and The Seven Logical Levels of Thinking

I am 62 years old. I am realizing that I have lived an extraordinary life and it has been a life of search for my own fulfillment, even though, until recently, I did not know what that was. After a prodigious run, ever since I can remember, of looking outside of myself for my own salvation, I now know who I am… and, I am not what I have been told that I was. And… at this point in my life… it’s been a long time coming… the thing that I most feared for my own security is the thing that I now choose to declare in the embrace of what is potently possible. I am financially bankrupt. In physical space and time, the numbers tell the truth of a life of insolvency. My financial accounts are the final frontier and the visible indicator of my own past denial of my own self-knowing, self-trust and self- belief. 

It is just a matter of days before I legally declare bankruptcy and apply my signature to whatever government documents require signing. My signature that I will gladly place on the documents will notify my world that I am finally done with the historical habituation of ‘trying’ to fill myself up with what has ‘gone missing’, if I had even known what that was… an illusion. My signature will draw my line in the sand between what was and what I, now, know to be true: I AM all that I require and want; I AM first; my life is first; my life is meaningful; my life IS; I AM. The greatest gratitude that I now have is that I have actually found myself out and own that I have lived a bankrupt life. That reclamation is the portal to myself as my own self-sustenance. My physical signature to those external forms is the vibration of me decloaked and declared that my personal credit is awakened, uncommon, singular, and unique. It is a rare and different place for me to stand. External creditors will not and cannot stand to hear such a declaration; it hooks into their own fear and their own greed. Aggregate interest rates demand compliance to externals and prostitution of self. 

No more. No way. I will no longer play the game of satisfying the external so that I can BE who I already AM. No more dancing to the music of the Pied Piper into the default of my own history. I’ve got my own pipe, my own music and my own choreography; my dance is my art in my every breath.

The dictionary defines bankruptcy as insolvency, liquidation, failure, ruin, financial ruin, receivership. The words ‘Insolvency’ and ‘receivership’ are the terms that I personally grok. As a metaphor, for me, ‘insolvency’ has meant me not knowing and owning that I am inherently my own solution… as if there was something that ‘needed’ solving… which, in truth, there is not. Because I believed that I had to pay for ‘solutions’ - all of them external and mired in technique - that were outside of me, I bound myself to a life ‘in receivership’ - and not my own. Interest compounding in every waking moment of the accelerating avarice of ‘not enough’… not enough connection to self, self-identity, freedom of expression, self-trust, personal power, flow, and internal safety… that is expressed through the addiction to externals… ‘maybe one more course, one more drink, one more muffin, one more hand-out, one more cigarette, one more, one more, one more’… including the self-perpetuating disappointment that re-installs itself again and again though the tenuous yet finger-pinching grasp of ‘once this is gone, there is no more’. And then, there is the self-perpetuating addiction to the fear, the terror, and the outrage that is the emotional musculature as the trellis that supports fault and blame, the wrong, the bad, and the ugly - the baton that we we think that others will beat us up with. Why would they bother? And yet they do,‘cause to admit otherwise would demand that they face their own fear, terror and outrage… and embrace their own undeniable grief…. And, on and on it goes.

I live in a holographic universe. I look outside of me and I know that the awakening (yes, the awakening) that is being experienced in the financial sector of the current global experience is rapid and sure. And, while I know that it is all unfolding as it should, I also know that, for me, it cannot happen fast enough. The genius in overwhelm is that final surrender to the ease of no struggle, the giving up to self, is phenomenally breath-taking. And… what it means, for me, is that everything that I observe outside of me, I have projected into view. I can make it not about me; and, yet, joyously, it is all me. The moment that I own that in the fullness of my physical, emotional, mental and spiritual experience of myself, I claim my resurrection and my salvation. Nothing broken and nothing to fix.

My declaration of bankruptcy has shown up in my finances to grab my attention. For others, it may demonstrate itself as a tumour in the body to make itself known. Others may find themselves ‘stuck’ in a conflicted relationship, the abuses of which demand an unwillingness for further tolerance.  Each one of these scenarios demands action… or not. No action, perceived or otherwise, is still action. The action always comes when life is recognized, no matter what the consequences are, as preferable to death. It does not matter what presents, what the content is. The process is always the same. I am either moving toward ME (ME as GodForce) or moving away from ME (Me as Godforce). My intention is my law. The illusion of bankruptcy self-realizes when I forget that I AM GodForce and live from the platform of my past history; when I move away from ME as Godforce; when I forget who I AM; and when I forget that my solvency lies in my own self-trust. 

62 years of internal conflict projected through an external reach; outside in: I knew, without words, the essence of I AM Ancient Space that Awakens the Sacred, carrying within its magical vibration, the truth of me as Simple Aloha and Simply Unshakeable; I learned very early to not trust that, to not trust my own I AM as safe and secure. I talked about the glass half-full, yet lived the glass half-empty. I modeled that self-withholding in my near drowning by baptism at the font of sheer terror and rage. I denied it for all of my life - until now; the members of my family of origin, in all of their extensions, were not happy campers in their own skins; they lived out their own rage and terror in the suppressed fires of their own unconscious willingness to know not that. My parents’ personal bankruptcies showed up as cancers in their individual capacities to act for themselves. They each succumbed to the receivership of cancer.

JMRW died of diagnostically ‘unsure’ cancer of the pancreas; Her already huge abdomen and stomach just got bigger and bigger to accommodate the increase of ascites (fluid) that was overtaking it; my experience of myself as I remember that is, ‘Wow!’ What a brilliant way to face the bankruptcy of my own disconnect - I just did not get it at the time. Keep my fear under wraps and, maybe, I would live to see another day. 

EHW died of osteosarcoma of the lower ribs that migrated to the lungs. My experience of myself as I think back on that is that I no longer want to die to be right. Pretty surprising and yet it has been in the shadows that I have cast by my own light, all of these years. 

My sister, A, has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s - yet, she does not shake with tremors. She lives with a disability pension - she has to stay ‘disconnected’ from her body in order to not know the lie that she has lived and, as such, literally, limps though her world. My experience of myself as I contemplate my experience of her is that I am done with limping through my world and I am done with disconnecting from myself . 

My experience of my sister, B, is that she has fought the majesty of her intelligence and her size all of her life with a meanness that perpetrates the addiction that she has to her own terror and rage. I disconnected from B aeons ago. I experienced  her as both dangerous and fraudulent and I experienced myself as scared and disgusted in her presence. The genius in my own experience of her is that, for once, I could identify what was NOT safe for me. I am also reminded that I am done with addiction to terror and rage; that declaration means that I am up for more discovery and metabolism of what I have yet to know about myself.

It looks like I have declared personal bankruptcy in my experience of my family of origin. 

I am also considering the other areas of my life that are bankrupt because I prostituted what I really wanted or did not want to what I believed would keep me safe… safe meaning that security resides in ‘fitting in’, ‘doing the right thing’, being ‘nice’, etc.

When I run bankruptcy and insolvency through logical levels of thinking, this is how it plays out for me:

Environment: There was, for me, no real safety at home. The conflicts were hidden, yet palpable. There was a united front that was a lie. As I am writing, my letters, as I type, are getting all jumbled up and I cannot seem to correct them without making more mistakes. My home was bankrupt of compassion for the genius that I was. Pretty hard to feel any sense of safety, when what I heard was continued judgements around intellect and speed. Like I am doing right now, correcting my letters, I was constantly correcting my place, my story, my life. It flowed into everywhere, including school. I was hit twice by cars and once by a street-car by the age of 5. I experienced no safety at home or at school. It spread into the places that I worked. And there was never space to be me. Just a huge hole in the bedroom wall where I rocked and rocked my ‘troubles’. Bankruptcy was the rupture of my environments.

Behaviour: Sexual abuse at an early age, still mixing my letters, and re-correcting as I express what I have to say. My fingers running together, colliding into each other and into my keyboard. I feel sick to my stomach and I feel the tension in my body, the burn in my mouth, the tension in my occipital base and my shoulders. The TMJ has been making itself known, now, for days; the right pinna is sore to the touch and the whole inside of my right ear is responding to what is coming out onto the page. Again, correcting the letters. Dangerous to express and yet I remember that I am no longer a child; I am 62. Spankings with a paddle stick that was designed and labelled as a ‘fun’ thing. No fun for me and I still resent the humour as a lascivious attempt to make the ‘ownership’ OK - as if to mitigate the ‘guilt’ of discipline that was expected as ‘right’ and ‘responsible’. Oh, I think about how I made that ‘nice’. It was safer not to talk. I am vibrating inside as I write this. I am so angry at the insolvency of it all. No respect for the sanctity of my life. I may have been the only one who understood the concept of reverence. And I was the only one who understood the power of words. Amazing how innocuously liquid yet offensively slippery words become as they dribble out both sides of the fraudulent mouth. If that is not bankruptcy, then I do not know what is. Difficult labour and Caesarian Sections. Babies being delivered before they were ready to come on their own. No voice. No dance. And, with my second offspring, not even permission to initiate his own delivery. I knew something about surgery; I knew nothing about delivery. I was scared. Afraid of being over-extended and not being able to deliver, to perform at the end my exhaustion. That is how it had always been. Over-extended to beyond exhaustion. Then, I would wear the struggle like a badge of honour. Over-extended. Over-draft.

Capability: Something I had; at least, I knew, at a young age, how to leave home. I have always been good at contemplating exit strategies - just could not always get them to work - to my advantage. That was the story of my life.  I was invited, by my mother, to leave with a suitcase at a very young age, then allowed back into the house. Some lousy strategy to get me to behave. Left me feeling unsure about anything. Left me feeling uneasy and unsure that anything that I could plan would ever be right. Being myself was dangerous, yet there were no strategies that were full-proof for the realization of success, whatever that would be. A big tummy that ‘needed’ filling. There was never ‘enough’ comfort. The bankruptcy of incapacitating myself in the uncertainty of ever ‘doing’ the ‘right’ thing and the fear of doing the ‘wrong’ thing. Getting burned no matter what.

Beliefs, values and attitudes: I heard the sarcasm behind the verbal diatribe of ‘slow’, ‘speed queen, ‘Lady MacBeth (out, out damned spot)’, simple, not smart enough, ‘Polly Anna’ (I was always able to find something good and beautiful in the ugly, yet was ridiculed as being naive for that capacity to value). Belief in an external God was dangerous, at home. No belief in an external God was dangerous at school. I could not win. I had to take risks in other ways to ‘make the grade’, to be accepted, then I would look smart. I kept reaching outside of myself and overextending. I am aware, now, that over-extending was a modeled value and a modeled behaviour. It seems to have shown up in so many areas of my life. I would get myself into ‘trouble’ and then bail myself out only to repeat the pattern. Chronic and repeated over-extension made for the insolvency of struggle. Chronic and repeated struggle fostered over-extension and insolvency. It was a never-ending, closed loop. Work harder, struggle more, then run out of air.

Choice: I found it better to shut up and put up than to risk the fear of exposure. I required struggle and extension to make a sound, to be heard. I learned to keep the lid on the pressure cooker, but to be very careful so that the sound of my steam was not heard when I released the pressure that was building up inside of ‘yes, that’ and ‘no, not that’. I endured lots of sore throats, catarrh, post-nasal drip, ear infections (especially on the right side) and TMJ, especially on the right side. A deftly handled spear can cut sound. I had that pretty much under my control. That control was yet another form of struggle that was symptomatic of my entrenched terror. I was afraid to speak my truth and afraid to speak a fraud. It was easy to start believing that one was the other. It was safer to stay quiet. It was the brilliant liquidation of my own vibration by over-extending my capacity for silence fueled by fear and rage.

Identity: My visions and my dreams did not count. I would never be able to have what I dreamed of. Day dreaming was my exit strategy at school, and I was ridiculed for it. I was identified as the one who did not pay attention. I was paying attention - only to what I wanted to pay attention to, not to what I was expected to pay attention to. So much of what I was expected to pay attention to was sheer monotony. Still is. Sometimes I simply vacate my awareness to what holds infinitely more appeal to me, yet I feel the duality of ‘patient irritation’ (how can irritation be patient) when my attention is interrupted by mundane, practical matters. I just want to be left alone, much of the time. I learned well from my mother… only I do not retreat into the bowels of the ether to the depth that I expect that she did. I just hated who she was when she would snap out of her reverie. I was usually on the mean end of that return. It is not that I cannot go there; I just do not want to hurt the way that I felt hurt… more like maligned, more like scathed. God, if I could not trust my vision(s), my dreams, my potential, then I would be bankrupt of my own sight. 40 years of glasses and 10 years post laser surgery. Until NLP and the laser surgery, my visual acuity was pretty much earthed. It was not OK to dream and I could not see. Yet, God help me, if I could not ‘see’ the solution at hand - and I often couldn’t. My own solutions were far too simple (that was considered slow and dumb) and not of this world. I suffered intense and chronic, frontal headaches as a teen-ager. I bankrupted my potential by denying my dreams to what others wanted instead. No more.

It is getting easier to write as I stay at higher levels of thinking. My fingers are way less inclined to collide with each other. I do not feel like I am in such pressure, in such a race in this place. It is easier.

Connection: I was unable to embrace the safety of my own genius which would have been key to knowing and to remembering who I am and my connection to myself and to others. I have never been able to see or understand what others see in me or experience with me. It is only in the last 17 months that I have been test driving that connection and actually decloaking by degrees, more and more and more. In vibration with the speed and the urgency of engaging my own world as I now know it, my personal decloaking is accelerating.  I would not have been able to speak to a declaration of bankruptcy even one year ago. I can now and I own that connection; it is, simply, that, at higher levels of thinking, I know that I am never bankrupt and that insolvency is pure illusion. I know that, as the I AM that is Ancient Space that Awakens the Sacred, I AM the one to speak to personal bankruptcy and insolvency at all logical levels. The declaration of my personal bankruptcy is the declaration of the reclamation of my personal freedom in physical space and time. The paradox to this is that, when I stay connected to who I am, I always know my freedom. Ancient Space that Awakens the Sacred can know nothing less than that. What a base line for personal emancipation!

I find it interesting that I have been at my computer most of the day and there has been a dearth of email today compared to what usually lands in my inbox. It has occurred to me that I was intended to write about bankruptcy, insolvency and receivership without interruption. My writing about personal bankruptcy will find fruition when I apply my signature to the necessary documents in the week of December 1. The very act of putting my signature onto the documents will signify the close to a life chapter of searching for personal solvency outside of me that I could not recognize, identify and/or own inside of me. As I have been writing away, two ‘no’s’ to the November Decloaking invitations that I extended to certain women have shown up in my inbox, following on the heels of one last evening. There are still some women whom I am waiting to hear from. In any event, I will have a group - as few as 4 including myself and, perhaps, 6 or 7. It will be what it will be. As I wept, I was reminded that, as Ancient Space that Awakens the Sacred, I am the one who will assist women and others to awaken from the insolvency of a bankrupt life where compromise, compliance and prostitution are all equivalents for each other. I have spent my day writing about bankruptcy relative to my experience of my life… and I know that there is still more to be revealed to me in what I shall further discover about myself. I just know that, in this time of advent, something new is emerging for me and in me.

As I have said before, change the content and the process remains the same. It doesn’t matter whether it is a cancerous tumour, a contagious disease, an empty relationship, a financial bankruptcy; there is always so much genius in the information presented. I am so thankful that I am now associated with women who are awake and want to stay awake - and who are creating space, movement and flow for themselves. The last 3 months since I visited the lawyer about bankruptcy represent, for me, the reflective time that I have taken to learn and to sit in the middle of all that is comfortable, yet uncomfortable, at the same time, about bankruptcy and my impending declaration of it and signature to it in physical space and time. Sometimes, my intellect starts badgering me about ‘why not now’… and then I know/remember that this upcoming session of Decloaking, for me, is my intensive test drive for what is to come. Once I have signed the documents, that declaration will be, without question, in the public domain. It means that I will be buck naked about it; I will have nothing more to hide. And I am allowing myself to know that it will be so welcomed in awakening the full potential of the collective sacred. I will be in the inside of it, able to extend and to reach out with infinity, knowing the sacred truth of the reality that I am creating, in order to easily dispel the illusion of, ‘No way, not that’. Until I am on the inside of that, I cannot know what it is like to be on the other side of where I stand now. My signature will be my line in the sand. Pretty amazing, I think.

You will be conversing and writing at Whispers from Within and, in full support of that, I will be signing the bankruptcy papers that represent the final ‘laying down’ of  history and past burdens - and that also represent my claim to my undeniable ownership of my rightful emancipation - my birthright and my rite of passage.

Amama. So be it. 

Sheila Winter Wallace

Written over the days of November 21 & 22, 2008

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I am Decloaked and Declared.

Sheila.

Please note that Decloaking and Living Authentically and Whispers from Within are programs relative to Women and WEL-Systems®. For more information, visit www.WEL-Systems.com.

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