I saw a Facebook post this morning: a young woman celebrating her birthday with a Cannoli. Apparently, a Cannoli – a really good Cannoli – makes her cry. For reasons unknown, it inspired me to write about crying.
Then I lost the post ... searched for it ... couldn’t find it. How will I write if I don’t have more information about the young woman, about the Cannoli? These are the desperate questions a writer asks.
Then I saw another post with a quote from Eckhardt Tolle, and misquoting, since I can’t find that one anymore either, “You are getting exactly what you need to grow your consciousness.” Thanks, Eckhardt.
So, Cannoli, Crying and Consciousness. Here’s where I’ll begin and see what comes of it.
When I was a little girl, I’d always cry if I saw someone else crying, even if I didn’t know them. My father would turn to me and remark, “Why are you crying? There’s nothing wrong with you.”
It was a judgment, not an observation.
I was highly sensitive even then, feeling the energy in the emotions around me and taking them in as my own and yet, de-sensitization seemed to be the way to get through my childhood.
Fact: my mother was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis a few years after I was born. This crippling illness took its toll on her, my father and our family unit as her mobility decreased. People would stare on the street as we walked slowly along, a cane and knee braces advertising that something wasn’t as it could be. I glared at the people who stared because I didn’t like the staring. It made me want to protect my mother. And shutting these people down was the only way I knew how to protect her when I was little.
Fact: There was always accommodation in our household because of my mother’s illness. As I reflect back, it was never really expressed out of love; more out of obligation, it seemed. “You made your bed; lie in it” was one of my father’s favorite sayings. When I chose to divorce, my father remarked, “What’s so wrong in your life that you have to leave? If I can stay, so can you.” I didn’t stay, by the way.
Fact: we moved to an all-Jewish neighborhood when I was little giving us the distinction of being the only Roman Catholic family for miles because my mother wanted to live in a ‘good’ neighborhood. Yes, I had friends; one who invited me to Seder and holidays; one who lived across the street and we’d communicate through our bedroom windows, alerting each other to a “call” with our flashlights. We’d put on plays in her garage, singing, acting, dancing.
There were also the ones who drew pictures in chalk of a fat naked girl with crosses for nipples on the sidewalk and hurtful words that I don’t recall after so many years; Funny, I can’t remember the words or who did it and yet, I can still remember the hurt.
Okay, we were all bullied as children at some point or other, or so I tell myself now. Back then, who had any consciousness about bullying? It felt so personal, so, for many of my own reasons, I learned to live with my defenses going up and down; up and down; letting people in; shutting my sensitivity out.
Small things are still like an arrow to my heart. I can turn on TV and catch the last 5 seconds of a commercial – you know the ones, designed to tug at your emotions. I cry before the regularly scheduled programming comes back on! 4-3-2- and there go the waterworks.
What does this have to do with Cannoli? Back to the birthday girl and the Cannoli. This beautiful young woman with tears in her eyes, holding a Cannoli with one bite missing, made me cry. It was a beautiful, unguarded moment of life. A connection to pleasure and vulnerability. It reminded me that little things make up a big thing and if a million little things can bring me joy, or move me to tears, then that’s a big thing wanting to happen. I also can’t let the big things that happen in life shut down my sensitivity to the little things. Not knowing anything about consciousness as a child, I offer myself complete forgiveness. As an adult, well, here’s where consciousness comes in.
I define consciousness as the ability to see past our stories into a bigger space where so much more is possible. An opening into mystery.
As a child, I never questioned the stories of my parents. Life was hard. You keep your promises, even if they become obligations. All real stories for them.
There were stories I questioned, though. Crazy moments in time and why I remember these stories and not others, I can’t say because I don’t know. Dare I call it consciousness without someone interpreting it as ego?
First story: I was little and sitting with my mother and her mother watching TV. An actor of color came on the TV and, back in the late 1950s, how many actors of color were there? Yes, you and I are probably thinking of the same person right now. My grandmother spoke up immediately, saying, “There are so many ‘colored people’ on TV” or something very similar to that. So many? Seriously? I remember turning to look at her and absolutely hating her in that moment. This wasn’t a story that I could accept and now I realize that I actually refused her story, and I refused it on a cellular level. How did that story get rejected when so many others were embraced? It just did.
Second story: When there was a death in the family, no one was allowed to watch TV, listen to music, laugh … nothing and nobody … until my father decided we were done mourning. Music was always a solace for me and I never could understand why we would deny ourselves something so comforting in a time of deep sorrow. Now, I realize it was because there was an obligation to mourn; to stay sad. It was required. You were either happy or sad; never both, and certainly not at the same time.
Consciousness tells me that I can be both happy and sad; I can grieve and rejoice, as difficult as that sounds when I write the words. I am all this and more. Today, I smile at people I don’t know. You know that moment when your eyes meet a stranger’s eyes and you hold eye contact for a moment? Most of the time, people look away as if saying, “oops, you caught me looking.” I smile. It unnerves some people and engages others. I’m in it for the engagement. I am not obliged to look away. Neither am I obliged to smile. I do it because I want to.
So, what does it cost me to cry? (The original title of this blog)
It costs me very little. At the risk of inconveniencing others, it costs me more not to cry: to write my own stories and feel deeply for someone else, for myself, for the world. Happy tears or sad tears, it makes little difference.
So, Cannoli girl, happy birthday. Eckhardt Tolle, I really do love you. And to friends and family, if you see me crying for absolutely no reason, know that I’m having a really good time and that I’m acting out of love, not obligation.
At the risk of losing friends, this came out of me this morning. I had no idea what was going to come out. It was this. Know that it's not about you. It's about … well, read it.
It’s My Birthday! Donate.
My friends have celebrated a lot of birthdays lately and, on Facebook, that suddenly means everyone is asking you to donate to their favorite charity.
The charities are all worthy of donation ... and yet ... I’m wondering if we haven’t gone too far with asking for money. This is not about our friends. This is not judging our friends. Let me make that clear.
It’s about being conditioned to believe that, with all the money each of us pays into our government(s), little of that money goes to support the things that we believe are worth supporting.
We’re living with the barest, basic necessities and getting further and further in debt just trying to stay afloat. It’s like a family that just about pays the bills each month, getting those phone calls that ask you to donate just $10 to a cause after you’ve told them you have no money to donate. Well, it’s just $10 ... listen, if I had $10, I’d be fixing the sink right now. What about that don’t you get, telemarketer??
We are a global family in debt. Spending on things that may keep the government going but doing a lousy job keeping the country or the people going.
How do we define a financial ‘luxury’ in this dichotomy of culture we live in? No matter who your bank account says you are, these luxuries seem to be disease, recovery, disaster relief, saving the forests and animals, the Arts, women, food, water and other natural resources, kids, seniors, education ... wait a minute. Read that list again. Aren’t these things part of the necessities of life; the things we’ve worked so hard for?
Shouldn’t these things be included in what we contribute to our governments’ budgets with spending planned to meet the needs of all of them? I’m not asking the government to hold a lemonade sale or a car wash. I’m asking the government to explore its own budget to understand where the money that citizens pay into the government goes. Isn’t that what a personal financial planner would do for you?
Oh, maybe it’s your salaries? There’s a starting point. If you’re making more than me, and, as a citizen, I’m being asked to donate to the necessities of life in addition to what I pay in taxes, maybe that’s the problem? Need time to think about that, do you? Go right ahead. I’ll wait.
Budgets are scary and, in the end, they’re easy:
• Gather your financial records
• Record sources of income
• Report on all expenses
• Notice where the gaps are
• Break expenses into 2 categories: fixed and variable
• Adjust expenses
• Keep reviewing your budget
Here’s the place to look: “Break expenses into 2 categories: fixed and variable.” We’ve lost sight of our values in preparing our global budgets. If a government believes everyone – and I mean everyone – should have enough to eat, then feeding that nation’s population needs to be in the budget. And not just Rice Krispy treats; real food. Maybe you cut back on military parades and giant, fucking walls because people are starving. That’s like a family saying to their kids, you can go hungry another week or two because Mommy and I really want that jet ski. Right.
If the planet needs renewable resources, help existing businesses transition rather than promise them that they’ll see a comeback; like coal. We’re all eager to go down into the mines again, right, and start pumping that dirty black shit into the atmosphere? Raise your hand if you can hardly wait.
Governments can do more to help new businesses that want to offer renewable resources start up. It’s like a family saying they’re going to keep buying the popular, sugared cereal with the weed-killing chemicals and metal fragments and a bunny that makes eye contact (no joke. It’s a marketing technique.) with your kids because it’s cheaper and down the first aisle they come to at the food store. Walk a little farther. See the future in your children.
Now, all this makes sense when you care about the future; when you care about the next generation or future generations. But we live in a hand-to-mouth world because our governments are greedy, fearful and without a roadmap of the values of the country in which they govern.
Not their fault. Not blaming. We are living in the age of consequence, created by those who did not understand. We can no longer afford those ‘who do not understand’. A variable expense. Our future is at stake.
So, getting back to birthdays, Facebook and donations. When I can I will donate to your birthday because we’re not living in the age of understanding yet and all these causes are worthy. When I don’t donate, please know that if I had $10, I’d be fixing the sink right now.
Peace, love, and light to you for reading this far, and especially to those who didn’t.
- Linda Lombardo, 8.24.18
PS - When I posted this on Facebook, guess what came up?!! Add a Donate Button. Add a donate button to your post to raise money for a nonprofit, and we'll take care of the donation processing with no fees. Select Nonprofit. OMG.
When I suggested “Giving the Devil Back the Darkness” as the title of a coaching client’s book, as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I wanted to stuff them back in.
I was incredibly curious about the idea of giving the devil back the darkness! I could feel tears welling up in my eyes as if those 6 words were like an arrow to my heart. I half hoped the title wouldn’t resonate with my client and, eventually, when another title was chosen, I was thrilled.
Whether or not I believe in the devil (I don’t) seems immaterial. It was the concept that intrigued me. Giving the devil back the darkness.
To begin, let’s align around the perspective that there is such a thing as the Devil (now a proper noun for the sake of this conversation) and it’s the Devil who gives us the darkness in our lives. Why, though? What does the Devil hope that we do with the darkness?
The answer comes back that the Devil hopes we use the darkness in our lives as it was intended: as shadow, gloom, blackness, joylessness, intense hopelessness; evil, even. When you use the darkness in these ways, the Devil knows s/he (Anthropomorphizing, now) made the right choice. A big thumb’s up to you from the Devil, by the way.
Time out for a quick perspective check: If this resonates at all with you, how do you feel knowing that you’re using the darkness exactly as the Devil intended it? Let’s add, that if you use it really well, the Devil may just give you more darkness. Oh joy ... uh, joylessness. How does that feel?
What if you were in choice about how to use it? What if, instead of becoming like the darkness, we engage it with the intention of finding the light, the brilliance, the joy and hope, and the compassion and humanity? What’s possible then? Not an easy task, I know, and yet a choice we are always free to make.
What if we gave the Devil back the darkness, like the peel of apple, savoring the juicy, ripe fruit for ourselves?
I make up that this ticks off the Devil. You’re not using the darkness as s/he intended it to be used. “You just don’t get it, do you?” S/He asks.
And in that moment that you give the darkness back to the devil, the Devil has no more use for you. You are ‘unfriended’. Perhaps another perspective: the devil cannot exist in your light. S/He is reduced to dust, crumbling away without your energy.
So, the next time, you’re offered darkness, imagine yourself giving it back; handing it over to the devil, saying, “You just don’t get it, do you?”
Giving the devil back the darkness.
I consider myself someone who never leaves anything unsaid. In fact, often, there’s a little voice in my head saying, “Okay, you can stop talking now … or now … or maybe now would be a good time to stop talking … please.”
Yet, I suddenly find myself with a shortage of words about where we are in the world today. My radio dramas, even the on-air conversations that ‘awaken, inspire and activate’ have stopped. I don’t know how to do those things anymore. I’m past the point of meaningful conversation into WTF is going on??
Just this morning, I saw a post on Facebook about – what else? – conflicting viewpoints about America’s politics. I realized in that instant that we are living in parallel universes, so tragically disconnected. Otherwise, how is it possible that we see things so differently? Even more so, how is it possible that we attack each other and our physical personas when our political views differ? “Put her in a dog cage and send her to Russia” or “If you still support him, you are all ignorant assholes.” There is even the one that I cite in my upcoming book, In the Souls Waiting Room, of someone calling Trump a “tangerine-tinted, trashcan fire”
We are nothing if not clever. Sometimes, expressing our disdain with the wit of a Noel Coward or an Oscar Wilde – brava/bravo, by the way; yet, often, expressing our disdain as if we were raised in a gutter.
There was one other comment that struck me, and even though I’m not a religious person; deeply spiritual, yes, I had to stop and ponder.
Here is the quote:
“When I read comments sometimes, I am speechless and would love to ask people, what would Jesus say about your comments?”
Truth be told, we don’t care what Jesus would say, even those who claim to live in his image. Living in the age of WTF, we’ve moved past Jesus; we’ve moved past any connection to a gentle, compassionate human who taught love for all beings, except those money-lenders. He didn’t much care for them, did he? Some of us still pine for Barack Obama’s so very human, approachable presidency. “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” And some would argue that those 8 years were their very personal living hell.
We are not at a loss for words. We are at a loss for meaningful words. We’ve forgotten how to talk to each other in a way that connects us and moves us and heals us. The divide grows wider, deeper, like a ripe peach that splits until the heart; the pit, is revealed. We usually throw those away, don’t we? Who wants to eat that one?
There is a shortage of meaningful words, just as there is a shortage of clean water, clean air, housing and food. No, they are all still there. Someone is hoarding them, buying them all up and feeding them to the starving masses a little bit at a time, keeping us hungry, thirsty and home-less. Keeping us needing them, whoever them is.
There is a shortage of meaningful words, just as there is a shortage of compassion and action for our children around the world, the environment and all sentient beings that are caught up in the profit-machine we’ve created.
What started as an exploration of my own shortage of words suddenly feels global. What more can I say? How loud can I get? Even more so, “Is anybody there? Does anybody care? Does anybody see what I see?”
Instead, I withdraw into my silence. Feeling deeply this shortage of words that might be mistaken for apathy or inaction. There’s a little voice in my head saying, “Okay, you can start talking now … or now … or maybe now would be a good time to start talking … please.”
 http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2016/11/05/here_s_everything_samantha_bee_has_called_ donald_trump.html
 Joni Mitchell, Big Yellow Taxi, 1970
 From the Broadway musical 1776, Is Anybody There?
The other day, the words on my Hay House calendar hit home.
“I have a great relationship with money. It loves me and fills my pockets.”
No. Not even close. I’ve been in a struggle with my money story all my life: from not having it and wanting it, to having it and letting it slip away, to having barely enough, to having not enough, to feeling shame and deficit because of it.
You see, I’ve believed that money isn’t real for a very long time. That it’s a made-up thing. It started out as shells and cattle; stones and salt (yes, salt), not bills and coins; certainly not checks and credit cards. If you had something I wanted or needed, I could trade you some pretty shells for it. If I had something you needed or wanted, you’d offer me some unique and lovely shells, which, in turn, got you the thing you wanted.
At some point, the business of ‘government’ chose to be the sole creators of money because, not unlike early religious organizations, “government was created to control a population larger than those who wished to control it.” If you control money, you control the people.
There’s a true story about early money; shells and stones: “An example which takes this tendency to the extreme is the rai stone, used as currency on the Micronesian island Yap. Not only do these huge wheel-shaped carved stones not have a practical use, they are also far too large to be practically transported. Instead, the Yapese keep an oral history of each stone owner, and the value of the stone was determined partially by its historical heft. In one instance, a rai stone even sank to the sea floor, but remained in the economic system of the island. Islanders would simply agree to transfer ownership of the stone without ever having to see it for themselves.”
So, it surprised me the other day when I had a realization; not about my money story but about money’s story about itself. Systems thinking. “A system is an entity which maintains its existence through the mutual interaction of its parts.” What this means is, if we’re talking about money, money should have a seat at the table as an entity unto itself. Otherwise, it’s just gossip, isn’t it?
While there is so much more to say about systems and governments, for now, let this suffice.
So, what does money think about how it’s used in today’s society? I asked it that very question and here’s what came back to me:
· Money is in pain about how its story has changed; “WTF, Humans?” was the energy that came back to me after asking the question.
· Money never wanted Humans to suffer because of it, or the lack of it or the surplus of it, either
· Money sees the greed in the eyes of Humans who hoard it and use it to brag of their wealth; those who ask so much for their product, service or work that others have to gulp before they say yes or have to say no because the price is out of reach.
· Money realizes that the story has gone too far in the hands of Humans for money to change the story, even as a system
· Money wants to be used for good, to create more good
· Money delights in service and stewardship; it has a “let it flow” attitude that always finds its way back to the giver
So, with that, I’m learning to change my money story. I am its ally; not its enemy. It is my ally, not my enemy. I will never again see money as something made-up; I acknowledge its existence as a vital system within our systems. If I use it benevolently, as it would like to be used, it will come back to me as something unique and beautiful, not a trophy that separates me from the rest of Humanity; a connector to Humanity AND the planet AND all living beings.
Ask me about my money story. Here’s what you’ll hear:
“Money is a system; an entity unto itself that holds at its core an intention of generosity and abundance.”
“I use money as a loving extension of myself; caring for my needs, yes, and caring for the needs of others and the planet.”
“I have a great relationship with money. It loves me and fills my pockets.”
Linda Lombardo, 1/25/18
Once upon a time, there was a wall. It was an ancient wall that had been there so long, no one remembered why it was there. The beings on one side of the wall wondered, "Was it built to keep us out or to keep something in?" The beings on the other side of the wall wondered, "Was it built to keep us in or something out?"
No one had the answer.
The curiosity on each side of the wall grew more and more intense with each passing day. There was a hunger in some to know just what was on the other side of that wall. It must have been something terrible (or maybe wonderful?) that caused someone to build this wall so long ago. What was it? Scientists from both sides reported that if you stood near the wall and touched its smooth stones; if you pressed your ear to the stones, you could sense the energy on the other side; you could almost hear something moving. There was something there. But no one wanted to be the one to find out exactly what or who it was.
Everyone took sides. Some felt it was too dangerous to remove the wall, especially without knowing what was behind it. Some felt that the wall must come down because there was something there. The bumper stickers and tee shirt businesses boomed with speculation. Social media enthusiasts lost more friends than they could count. Politicians won and lost elections.
Yet, nothing changed. The wall and what was behind it remained a mystery to both sides of the wall.
One day, a young girl was at the wall with her classmates on a school trip. The teacher was reciting the long-ago written history of the wall: that it was created by someone many years ago; to keep something in or something out. The wall was part of the history of the people and the planet. Don’t touch it; don’t step too near it. Photographs may be purchased at the gift shop after the tour. Please stay in line.
The little girl noticed something, however. She noticed a tiny shaft of light coming from the wall. It was so tiny, no one else had noticed it but not everyone had the advantage of being a little girl and only 38” tall. She left the line, despite the teacher’s warning and peered through the tiny, tiny hole. Much to her surprise, another someone peered back at her. She gasped and stepped back. She looked around and noticed that her teacher was going on about the wall and hadn’t even noticed that one of her pupils had disobeyed and crossed the line. So, she peeked again. So did the someone on the other side.
“Hello.” The someone on the other side said.
“Hello.” replied the little girl.
“Are you a monster?” She finally asked.
“No. Are you?”
“No. At least, I don’t think I am.”
“What are you?”
“I’m a little girl. I’m a person. What are you?”
“I’m a person, too,” the small boy voice responded.
“What’s your name?” The little girl asked.
“Joseph. What’s yours?”
“Beanie. It’s short for Beatrice but no one calls me that.”
“Why is there a wall here?” Joseph asked.
“I don’t know. I was hoping you knew.” Beanie answered.
By now, the teacher noticed that Beanie was missing from her group. Very soon thereafter, Beanie felt a stern hand on her shoulder.
“Beanie, come away from the wall. It’s dangerous. Didn’t you hear me say that?”
“But it isn’t dangerous. There are people on the side; just like us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Come away, Beanie, before there’s trouble.”
Beanie was led away by the teacher, but before she got too far, she turned back to the wall and that tiny shaft of light.
“Bye, Joseph. I won’t forget you!”
The teacher was visibly annoyed.
“There’s no one there, Beanie, certainly not a person named Joseph. The other side of the wall is a very dangerous place.”
Suddenly there was a voice, small and distant, as if a wall separated them. It was Joseph.
“Bye, Beanie. I won’t forget you either.”
The teacher was stunned and stopped in her tracks. Was it a trick or had they discovered the long lost secret to the wall?
“Come, class,” she called to the rest of her students. “Come see what Beanie has discovered.”
And the lesson that day took a decidedly different turn.
Lately, I am aware of the small lives around me: butterflies, dragonflies, spiders and most profoundly, snails. Unlike the creatures that fly, I often forget that there is life on the ground; simple, quiet life. Sometimes, when I leave the house going to the car or the backyard, I manage to take only a few steps before hearing an ominous sound… crunch. In that moment, I realize that I've stepped on a snail. A small life ended. I ask forgiveness and pray its next life includes a harder shell.
I forget about the small lives on the ground because my mind is on where I’m going, not where I am, although try explaining that to the snail.
I realize how easy it is to be where you’re going and not where you are. Have you ever looked around the house and realized that there are objects that haven’t moved in ages? Moving things to dust doesn't count, by the way. I’m thinking about the found button on the counter, the blender, the jewelry you wore throughout the week, taken off and carefully placed on your dresser to become its own little work of art by the end of the week. How often do we navigate through our homes unconscious of what’s around us because we are focused on where we are going, not where we are? Hurry up and get somewhere. Where?
You're asked, “Where are you going?” yet when is the last time someone asked, “Where are you?”
My thought this week is to be more present; to be aware of where I am and, if I'm not, ask myself that question. Perhaps if I did that more often, if we all did that more often, there would be a lot less ominous crunching in the world.
Certainly, there would be a lot more snails.
- Linda Lombardo
Bombs are for people who have lost the art of using words to convey their desires and intentions.
Bombs are for people who acknowledge no other story than the one they've made up, even if it's a lousy story.
Bombs are for those who have lost their connection to everything and everyone; for people who have forgotten that they are no more and no less than another.
Bombs are for people who want to own and control; who don't want someone else to own or control more than they do.
Bombs are for people who think the solution is quick and final; not realizing that bombs create a void that will quickly be filled by another threat, and another, and another.
Bombs are for people who are in the insecurity of security; who build walls, only to realize that now, nothing is certain or safe.
Bombs are not for people.
First published 12/22/12.
It’s taken me a week to find words for the unimaginable tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut. Now that I’ve found words, I’m surprised at how they are revealing my personal perspective of being.
This is not a political blog. It is not a blog for improved mental health care. Important to say what it is not, since so many, in their personal sadness and outrage, are saying what it is. And I’m not making those blogs wrong, by the way. If you read on, you’ll see.
I believe that we are spiritual beings in human form; we are here to explore, to test, to feel and mostly, to remember that we are one and connected. We have created this life called human and become these wondrous beings called humanity. Imagine our spiritual life on another plane: formlessness, perfection, peace; oneness. What if … and here we are.
Believe or don’t believe. This is only one perspective and as I've heard said, “Some things are true even if you don’t believe them.” I’d like to believe this is one of those things.
The children of Newtown, Connecticut changed the world. The shooter changed the world. The teachers and the shooter’s parent changed the world. We talk about changing the world, our governments talk about changing the world and these 20 beautiful babies, 6 teachers, one shooter, and the shooter’s mother really changed the world.
And Now What?
I don’t usually meditate, although I tell myself I should and in a rare meditation yesterday, I had a vision of the world moving forward from this terrible human tragedy of Newtown: a busy city street with masses of humanity in the middle of an ordinary day … and I saw the children and others, like a scene from City of Angels. They walked with us; some sat together in humanly-impossible places; watching us, curious as only children are about the impact they had on the world, on us, on you, on me.
I heard their voices, “I hope this one remembers; he is going to do something amazing”, “This one is thinking about us right now and wants to really listen to her son tonight”, or asking, “Did you see them all yesterday in a moment of silence for us?”, “They were all connected”. And the words I hear most – because now I hear them without meditation - are “I hope they remember. I hope they do what they felt compelled to do when they heard”, “I hope we really did change the world”.
I hold those who lost their lives and their families in Newtown in my heart; I honor them first in a so very human way. Both the horror of the moment and the loss of life’s promise are unimaginable to me. My body physically shields itself and moves away from even the thought of that personal threat or the parent, who heard the news about a child who would not be coming out of the school. Secondly, I honor the courage of their souls to commit to an abbreviated human life; sacred contracts made and realized. The commitment of those souls to truncate their human lives is beyond my words right now. The words I have: courage, wisdom, sacrifice. They all got the lead in the spiritual play. We are merely their supporting characters in this event.
Here is the impact it's had on me: now I know and knowing, cannot un-know. I am called to remember and act from my very soul. I remember and the world stays changed. I act and I change the world. It is my sacred contract to call myself forth; call us all forth, not only in remembering, in acting for positive, peaceful and radical change in the world; however simple or big it is for you or me. The only thing that will make this a truly senseless event is if we all go back to the way we were before it happened.
Will you remember? I know you will. Will you act, in whatever personal, peaceful way has meaning for you? I hope you act from your hearts.
Remember, they are among us.
Post-script: As I completed this blog, I received an email with this poem. I don't believe in coincidence so I want to share it with you:
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
From Essential Rumi by Coleman Barks
In love and light,
Linda Lombardo, CPCC
Among Us is a professional printed giclee from an original painting by Jeanie Tomanek. Used with permission of the artist.
In the Souls Waiting Room began with this blog, first published in January 2016. Here’s the blog in its entirety:
Imagine that you are sitting in the soul’s waiting room. This is the waiting room where your soul and all souls sit and wait with their little tickets until their number is called and you go off to become an Earth*ling in the Realm that we call Human.
Before that happens, though, there’s a list; a list of the souls purposes that are needed and available in the Earthly Realm right now. The list is designed to keep things in balance, although on occasion someone screws up and we end up with too many politicians or cicadas. This list is recited out loud by someone of extreme importance in the soul world –- the Keeper of Soul’s Purpose -- and the Keeper says, “Okay. Here’s what we have available. We have … working for children’s rights. Takers? Any takers? Who wants it” And everyone’s raising their hands, including you, because we all know how important children’s rights are. And someone gets picked by the Keeper, who then moves on down the list. “We’ve got a spot for hunger in the world; an advocate to end poverty; and help people grow their own food. Who wants poverty and hunger?” Everyone’s raising their hands – they can’t wait. They’re going ooh, ooh, pick me, please pick me. And the Keeper picks the person who is meant to do this work by a higher power than those of us raising our hands, or even the Keeper.
This goes on for quite some time: great purpose is offered - fighting corruption in government, building homes for the homeless, slowing climate change and more; there are even some, Colossal Purposes, or at least that’s what it’s called in the Souls Realm; those purposes that require incredibly courageous souls whose soul (sole) purpose is to activate Humanity itself through emotions of sadness, grief, anger and outrage. In the waiting room, all souls gather in reverence and silence when one of these souls is chosen to honor that courageous purpose.
At the same time, you’re anticipating that you’ll hear the thing that you’d like to return to the Realm to experience; your purpose. And you’ve got choice; you can always say no by not raising your hand; you can always wait … the caveat is that if you don’t raise your hand, you’ve got to wait until the next group gets called. And while you’re willing to wait, you’re also feeling a sense of urgency and excitement about being back in the Human Realm … because, like others, you’ve been there before and know just how beautiful it can be there in ways that the real world; the soul world can never be. Both are exquisitely beautiful, yet so different.
So, the Keeper of Souls’ Purpose keeps reading from the list and people are raising their hands and getting up and getting on line to the Realm. And then the very important Keeper of Souls Purpose says “Aright, there’s one last one on the list.”
You see the Keeper’s head shake for a moment, and then you hear a sigh. “Okay. Some backfill. There’s just beginning a big movement towards consciousness in the Realm. There’s a Sixth Mass Extinction that’s already begun. Hopefully, you’ve all read your email. Humanity’s on the brink. There’s a calling for everyone to become a Conscious Evolutionary if Humanity is going to survive. And here’s the thing: this has never been asked of Humanity before. So here’s the purpose description: a big yet gentle voice that’s going to stand for Conscious Evolutionaries everywhere; amplify the voices of the ones already on their paths and teach the ones that don’t know how yet to get on a Conscious Evolutionary path, find what awakens, inspires and activates them into a life purpose for the sake of something bigger than themselves. You may never be famous or rich and this will be something you cannot not do.”
Silence. As you look around the room, nobody’s raised their hand. And you’re sitting there and sitting there, thinking, “oh crap, somebody raise their hand. It can’t be me. It can’t be me. Please don’t make it be me. Ah, shit.” You know?
“Am I really going to say yes to this? I don’t know how, for Pete’s sake. I know I probably can do it and yet, I was hoping I could go there and be a bee keeper or gypsy moon dancer or a someone who paints seashells and rocks” … and suddenly, in that moment, torn between urgency, reluctance and excitement … your hand goes up … and the Keeper of Soul’s Purpose smiles and says, “You got it, Conscious Evolutionary; the Voice of Evolution.” As you stand up and get into the line to go to the Human Realm, you shrug and say quietly to the soul ahead of you, “Yeah, well … maybe a Reluctant Evolutionary.”
That soul leans in and asks, “Why, what were you hoping for?”
“I don’t know.” You say, “Maybe a bee keeper, or a seashell gatherer or a gypsy moon dancer.”
“What’s that?” the other soul asks. “What’s a gypsy moon dancer?”
“I don’t know.” You say. ”I was going to invent it.”
“Well, maybe you could invent this one, too.” The other soul suggests as the line begins to move.”