A Peek Into the Kinda Wayback Machine

Whooooo are youuuuuu....?

I spelunked an old notebook during yesterday's very blustery evening in this City of Angels ~ caressing and turning its soft-worn pages, enjoying the warmth of penciled words from times gone by ~ and discovered within it a small reservoir lit with rediscovery and reaffirmation, in the form of a small collection of poems from about fifteen years back, which I'd wholly forgotten about and doubt I've re-read since recording them, until last night.

It was kind of curious, actually. For one, I had no memory of writing them. Full stop. Although I'm 1,000 percent certain they're written in my own hand (tangentially, as a big bonus, my sweet and then-little artist-girl doodled all over them.)
And slightly unsettling, too, this realization of having No Recollection of composing them, because it's not like I am or was a pill-popping drunk who managed to write while suffering blackouts (well, except for that lil'phase while under the tutelage of the University of California, but, you know... it was the 70's.)

Whatever... somewhere, somehow, in the middle of the mindblast that was mothering a then-preschooler, working full time in a stressful office job, paying bills, doing housework, not eating well or exercising enough, getting sick a lot, and trying to figure out who the heck I was and who I was married to anymore (a common parenting phase, in my experience), I actually managed to find some self-time for reflection and writing.  Miracles do happen, even if you might have zero remembrance of them.

The other curious thing was finding how gracefully these 'til-last-night-tucked-away-and-forgotten inscribings synchronistically, serendipitously complement and reflect what I regard as a mission of Pollyanna Grounding's emissions: Spreading Light and Love around 3rd Rock. Giving it. Showing it. Living it. Glowing it. Singing it. Taking it. Bringing it. Making it. Tending it. Sharing it. Blending it. Daring it...

Photo Credit: Joey Vugalari
Punchbowl o'er my shoulder
makes me happy...

As I return to writing with a passion not felt since the dazy days of young adulthood on this particular plane, coming upon the old verses last night co-incidentally revealed (and supported) a clarifying consistency in expression of my basic life philosophies, articulated through poetry, that literary sphynx of illumination for the ages. I guess it shouldn't be a surprise to see such synchronicity manifested, given the universal notion that opening doors and windows of opportunity generally leads to paths of opportunity (which lead to more doors and windows to open). Rediscovering these poems in particular was like settling in and grounding to a comforting, rock-solid ledge within my sense of internal stability.... a safe place from which to observe ~ and engage as I choose (or when I must) ~ the seismically shifting sands of our present times.

Anyway... as I revisited within an old notebook an aspect of myself that I thought I'd forgotten existed at the time, Hub cradled his iPad, noodling with a rhythm strumming app he'd found. He improvised a beatnik-style accompaniment while I read aloud, and a nook in the corner of our warm and cozy living room spontaneously sprouted into our own private poetry jam (much mo' sweet and juicy than a "slam").  So, yeah... now we won't be able to say we've never done that (with snaps to my main man for finding ways to keep it fresh after thirty years).

In reflection, it was Johnny Mathis Wonderful Wonderful. And I gotta give a big ShoutOut and ThankU to Life as I count the enormous blessing that such moments, dripping in sensuality, actually result in my life. I'm sure that if I had only just met my husband, my heart would be skipping and pounding in anticipation for his phone number to pop up into my ringing cell phone's screen (or for his friend request to come in on fb, or to get an email... probably not a fax... though, come to think of it, that'd be real hoot). Unquestionably, last night I found romance and restoration in re-experiencing my own words ~ inspired aloud to the beatnik beat of a dear one ~ in the process becoming reinvigorated and refreshed through re-steeping in once-upon-a-ponderings spoken anew.

Photo credit: Google Images
MAD about the Professor...!

Everything old really is new again.

And I'm reminded now, again, of that Einstein quote about play being the highest form of research. One corollary, I'll take a gander, is that research is the highest form of play, and its apex is that place where the examiner reaches a suprasexual state of synergistic, vocational arousal ~ asking questions, checking facts, wondering while wandering in a direction that points to an answer that's in alignment with our own soul's compass ~ a state of flow where connecting the dots leads to answers that have a habit of revealing larger questions that, in their turn, beckon more exploration.  

Similarly, in recent years, I keep hearing from wise spiritual guides of the value in questioning what we think ~ to fact-check (and heart-check) our beliefs as we can ~ the better to live an authentic life for our own self.  In recent hours, rediscovering aspects of myself I thought I'd forgotten (but who are nonetheless intimately familiar) is like documenting corroborating sources that support the authenticity of my own soul's journey, whatever it is, and wherever it's leading.

And wherever that is ~ day or night ~ I can look to the area of Orion's belt and ask my Daddy's star, Alden Dale, "Set the course, Colonel?" Now more than ever, I know to trust my heart when I hear his rich warm voice answer with a big ol' smile infused through it, "You bet, Kid. You bet."