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| Ease My Mind |
Friday night I dreamt of pulling a bag of peeled oranges from the bottom drawer in the fridge. I wanted to give them to the kids, but then noticed they were covered in black spots and rotting, so I threw them in the trash. After reading dream interpretations of oranges, I was excited. Oranges are a sign that something great is going to happen. But mine had those little, teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, rotten spots.
Last week I saw a psychic healer, the one whose book I read, Journey Into Grace. In the book, there were a couple cases where she cleared evil entities from people, and of course my boundless paranoia needed to know if there was something lurking within me.
The session started by us sitting on a a giant bed, and I told her a couple of my deepest secrets, shit that weighs on my mind. She was laying on her side, with her hand holding up her head. I felt at ease, considering what I was saying. After the chat, she started her healing by standing over my head. She then knelt, eye level with my head, and chuckled, saying I have an interesting energy. We talked about things she was seeing as she worked her way down my chakras.
The session started by us sitting on a a giant bed, and I told her a couple of my deepest secrets, shit that weighs on my mind. She was laying on her side, with her hand holding up her head. I felt at ease, considering what I was saying. After the chat, she started her healing by standing over my head. She then knelt, eye level with my head, and chuckled, saying I have an interesting energy. We talked about things she was seeing as she worked her way down my chakras.
At the end of the session we sat back on the bed, and had a discussion. After easing my mind, by letting me know there aren't any evil entities, she asked how I felt. I replied, good, my auto-response, but after thinking about it, I answered, I feel sad. And I strangely did, like really, really sad.
She said that is normal. In fact, she said I might find myself randomly breaking down into tears the days following our session because she brought up so many repressed emotions.
She then reassured me my goals are inline with my destiny, and told me, "You have such a quirky, funny energy, and your so soft and intelligent." Flattered, I smiled and said thanks. I felt like saying, "I bet you say that to all the ladies!" while flipping my wrist.
I admitted, maybe I just needed to tell someone this stuff, and she didn't deny that. She gave me a list of books to read, and asked if I want to join her feminist yoga club.
The days following, I shed random tears, and felt somewhat disconnected. In the end, it was therapeutic. I'd compare it exactly to therapy. I'd also compare it to a 5th grade slumber party, but only the part where everyone huddles up on sleeping bags and spills their secrets, without any fear that comes along, like Why'd I say that to big-mouth Marge!? She's going to tell EVERYONE. Fuck! I was under the influence of an extra-large Slurpee, I didn't know what I was doing! Whaaaaa!
After two days of being a curmudgeon, my husband asked if I'm depressed. I let my inner-goth-child shine, when I retorted, "I feel like I'm on the verge of a breakthrough."
It occurred, Saturday night. When we went to dinner, and I told him about an idea for a story. As I started talking, more and more came to me, and I spun a great little web right then. JK Rowling once said the quickest way to kill an idea is to talk about it, so when I started to tell the story, and my husband's eyes glazed over and he said he was confused, I chose to ignore his reaction, and said, you can't kill my idea, and took to paper, where I'm translating it from this glob in my head to a cohesive story, following a timeline.
Today I'm starting a Master Cleanse. Since hearing it's going to rain Halloween night, I decided I might as well eat the candy I bought for trick-or-treaters, and our turning into The Icecream People, has made my skin look like a hormonal teenager, pimpled as fuck. I need to shock my system, and then get back to a non-dairy life.
A friend posted a picture on Facebook from our freshman year of college, and my skin looked absolutely radiant. My twenties, although it was a time I neglected to deal with my emotions, was a time where I treated my body like a damn temple. I don't think I ate a piece of cheese between the ages 19-29.
This morning I woke up from a strange dream. I was in a room with a bunch of people, everyone was sitting on couches that were set up in an oval formation. A friend of mine, who died shortly after college, was laying with his head in my lap, and we were talking about how he's changing his ways, to be more healthy and safe. It was so fun and casual, but sad when I woke up, since the changes we were talking about was how he died.
I don't remember crying about his death then. I decided to move. Thats how I dealt with things. When life got complicated, I just made a fork in the road, and went in a different direction.
Having kids is melting my frozen heart, in addition to melting away any regard I held toward dairy intolerance. About my oranges, and how they were not exactly a pristine omen of prosperity since they were speckled black with rot. It turns out, dreaming of fruit that is not fit to eat, is a sign of a project which has not yet been started. Which was quite perfectly timed with Scorpio entering my house of creativity, and my great idea for a 90's homage femme thriller that lightening bolted into my brain when I started talking about Lifetime movies on our infrequent night-out-on-the-town Saturday night.
We defied trends, since last week we saw a Pixies concert. Twice in one week, its unheard of. When we got home, I said, I have a lot in common with Black Francis. My husband said, Oh really, whys that? And I said, We both always have whores on the mind.
She then reassured me my goals are inline with my destiny, and told me, "You have such a quirky, funny energy, and your so soft and intelligent." Flattered, I smiled and said thanks. I felt like saying, "I bet you say that to all the ladies!" while flipping my wrist.
I admitted, maybe I just needed to tell someone this stuff, and she didn't deny that. She gave me a list of books to read, and asked if I want to join her feminist yoga club.
The days following, I shed random tears, and felt somewhat disconnected. In the end, it was therapeutic. I'd compare it exactly to therapy. I'd also compare it to a 5th grade slumber party, but only the part where everyone huddles up on sleeping bags and spills their secrets, without any fear that comes along, like Why'd I say that to big-mouth Marge!? She's going to tell EVERYONE. Fuck! I was under the influence of an extra-large Slurpee, I didn't know what I was doing! Whaaaaa!
After two days of being a curmudgeon, my husband asked if I'm depressed. I let my inner-goth-child shine, when I retorted, "I feel like I'm on the verge of a breakthrough."
It occurred, Saturday night. When we went to dinner, and I told him about an idea for a story. As I started talking, more and more came to me, and I spun a great little web right then. JK Rowling once said the quickest way to kill an idea is to talk about it, so when I started to tell the story, and my husband's eyes glazed over and he said he was confused, I chose to ignore his reaction, and said, you can't kill my idea, and took to paper, where I'm translating it from this glob in my head to a cohesive story, following a timeline.
Today I'm starting a Master Cleanse. Since hearing it's going to rain Halloween night, I decided I might as well eat the candy I bought for trick-or-treaters, and our turning into The Icecream People, has made my skin look like a hormonal teenager, pimpled as fuck. I need to shock my system, and then get back to a non-dairy life.
A friend posted a picture on Facebook from our freshman year of college, and my skin looked absolutely radiant. My twenties, although it was a time I neglected to deal with my emotions, was a time where I treated my body like a damn temple. I don't think I ate a piece of cheese between the ages 19-29.
This morning I woke up from a strange dream. I was in a room with a bunch of people, everyone was sitting on couches that were set up in an oval formation. A friend of mine, who died shortly after college, was laying with his head in my lap, and we were talking about how he's changing his ways, to be more healthy and safe. It was so fun and casual, but sad when I woke up, since the changes we were talking about was how he died.
I don't remember crying about his death then. I decided to move. Thats how I dealt with things. When life got complicated, I just made a fork in the road, and went in a different direction.
Having kids is melting my frozen heart, in addition to melting away any regard I held toward dairy intolerance. About my oranges, and how they were not exactly a pristine omen of prosperity since they were speckled black with rot. It turns out, dreaming of fruit that is not fit to eat, is a sign of a project which has not yet been started. Which was quite perfectly timed with Scorpio entering my house of creativity, and my great idea for a 90's homage femme thriller that lightening bolted into my brain when I started talking about Lifetime movies on our infrequent night-out-on-the-town Saturday night.
We defied trends, since last week we saw a Pixies concert. Twice in one week, its unheard of. When we got home, I said, I have a lot in common with Black Francis. My husband said, Oh really, whys that? And I said, We both always have whores on the mind.
In Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, Hero is compared to a "rotten orange." A shameful insult because no one wanted to be called a whore back then. (Leave it to the old-timey-to-modern-translation-experts, but orange = whore)
Were all whores to some degree, taking that metaphorical dick for money. Hell, traditional whoring is in my lineage, but being a rotten whore is an entirely different thing.
The oranges in my dream were already peeled, and to me thats a great sign, It shows Im not trying to hide whats within my mind. To look at an orange, and its promise, delicious fruit, but then peel it and find its rotten, and inedible, there is an accompanying feeling of loss.
The mind, hidden within our physical bodies, is potentially blemished. We don't see this mind, that continuously gets misclassified as the brain, but there is the fear of the unknown, unseen, and much like my concern over evil lurking within me, I want to be sure the whores in my mind don't poison the entire thing. My mind's little rotten spots make me quirky, give me a bizarre sense of humor, and can make me feel a little too sad at times, but without them, I'd be a ridiculous bore, and that, to me, is by far the worst fate, a thousand times worse than adult-acne.
The best thing to do with rotten oranges is plant them in the ground, so more oranges will grow. Many of those oranges will end up rotten, as well, but they too need to be replanted. Nurturing the rotten orange, perhaps that has been the meaning of these last few nights. Either way, I've started my project, I'm dealing with emotions I stuffed away, and I'm always holding onto the prospect of great things.
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| My greatest thing, pigged out. |
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