Category Archives: The Fire Swamp

how I stare death in the eye and laugh at him; from the pits of despair, the dark side, hanging out the bloomers

Thank Goodness for the Goddamn Mirror Principle

In the following blog, I talk about energy work which may tweak some people out and rape which is contextual but may be a trigger for some. I’m not asking you to believe in the modality – I am using it to illustrate a more aerial principle. I am also not advocating that we do not hold perpetrators responsible for crimes. I am addressing the energetic impressions that impact our collective conscious when breaches in humanity occur and how to make long term personal peace with them. 

Dove in flight

I was in an energy modality training recently, and we were working through some energetic clearing. The story we were working on involved a priestess who had been raped by a priest, resulting in a pregnancy. The energy that was blocking the person in question and needed to be cleared was that the was influencing the soul of the yet-unborn baby from the mother who was in this situation. As the story was unfolding, I had a visceral reaction to the priest in the story. I literally wanted to stand up and strangle him and call him names that started with and ‘F’ and ended with an ‘ucker.’ And granted I couldn’t do that because it was just the name ‘priest’ written on a white board. It was bizarre to me how visceral this reaction was because the story wasn’t mine – it belonged to someone else.

I told the instructor, “I am having a serious reaction to that character. I am in massive judgment, and I want to strangle him. This makes no sense as it is a word written on a white board.” She asked me to check in and see if energy in me had some connection to that particular priest. No. Then she asked me if I had been a similar character in my past. Yes.


“When we run into roles that we have played in past lives and we hold residual shame or self-hate for the roles that we had in hurting people, we often have strong reactions,” she explained.

It was time for lunch.

After lunch we returned and the patriarchy came up. While I like the idea of actual mature, whole men very much, I am not a fan of the patriarchy. It represents to me the power-over dynamic that controls people through financial and emotional means. It exploits our planet for the sake of profit. It shames the poor and blames them for their poverty. It trains the masses to be passive and compliant. It defines bold, direct, powerful, and sexually expressive women as hags, sluts, dikes, and bitches. It likes submission. It colonizes, appropriates, inflicts, and consumes.

Not a fan.

After lunch the patriarchy came up. Again I had a visceral response. “There it goes again. Not a big fan of the patriarchy,” I said.

“This work teaches us to not be in judgment because it is likely that in past experience, you have been a part of perpetrating the patriarchy,” she explained. “Remember the goal is to acknowledge, research what needs to be released, and release it. No judgment. Just find out what allows it to hold on and ask Spirit to clear the energy behind it.”


Holding on to the energy of feeling righteously indignant feels so much more satisfying than offering up broken pieces of our experience up to the light for clearing and release. But only at the ego level, it turns out.

The drama of righteous indignation fuels gossip and chat groups, clicks, and factions. Us vs Them. Tension. Accusation. Hatred. Hierarchies. Regulations. Scarcity. Fear.

When we operate, instead, from the belief that the discordant energetic underpinnings of any challenge can be cleared, educated, and released to their perfect origin of unconditional love, we are left with a quandry: what to do with all the possibility and open runway?

It turns out we often derive benefit from our judgment and our very own blocks:

  • With judgment, we can identify ourselves – but against ‘other’ instead of ‘as part of’
  • With victim thinking, we can escape responsibility and blame – at the expense of maintaining personal sovereignty and power
  • With hatred, we can cloak the vulnerable feelings of existential separation we feel – while causing more separation
  • With indignation, we can feel righteous – but be robbed of joy and peace

It’s expensive, holding negative power in our bodies and thoughts in order to fill these shadow needs that our tender egos insist we fill. Instead of using those visceral reactions we have to people and circumstances to trigger shadow reactions, we can use them to self-reflect.

This is how the process looks, before and after.

positive and negative reactions to triggering events

I am reminded of a modified version of the fake Buddha quote, “Unforgiveness is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.” It just doesn’t work like that. We die instead.

What if our hatred of other people is really just a reflection in the mirror about what we need to be able to forgive within ourselves? What if the biggest offense we need to forgive is the harshness that he hold against ourselves as it we see it manifest outside of us? What if we looked at points of tension as sacred gifts of insight that could guide our active participation in making the world a better place?

We might find ourselves happy. Aligned. Filled with joy and creative energy.

Money, You Aren’t Money at All

I am doing a 60 day challenge in which I write love letters to money. This is a fascinating and alchemical process as it is in an online forum with about 200 other people. We are exploring our money lineage, the stories we tell ourselves about money, and the connection between identity and personal abundance. Of course this is right up my alley. Here is a recent post:

Image found on a lovely article about balancing chakras by Jennifer White on MindBodyGreen:
Image found on a lovely article about balancing chakras by Jennifer White on MindBodyGreen:
Hi Money,


You aren’t really money at all. You are a reflection of my internal world, and you manifest in a variety of ways that connect the everyday to the sacred: romance, money, opportunities, friendships, and a feeling of connection with Source. Or is Source also a reflection of me, or am I a reflection of my perception of Source? At any rate, a relationship with you is a relationship with myself. The magnitude of honor I exercise in/to/with my intuition, pullings, and desires creates the capacity of intimacy that I can maintain with you.

The level of challenge that ‘you’ present by not showing up when I am cuddling with my poverty mindset kind of turns me on. It tells me that if you are different from me that you hold the firm requirement that I show up in my BIGNESS. And if you are me, then that indicates that deep down I believe in myself enough to have faith that I can get to my BIGNESS consistently. Why else would I set up such impossible circumstances for my life? And frankly, with all of my loved people safe, what else would get my attention so profoundly? THIS is the kind of relationship I have been looking for. An energy that will support my push forward into BIGNESS. Insist on it.

You are a magic bastard. Strong. Worthy of me. Sense of humor. Interactive with me at a deeply psychic level. You don’t strip my identity – my desire for you facilitates its development. If I want more of you, I have to become more of me.

What a beautiful little puzzle.

On Narrowing

The thing that rocks about getting older as a woman is that I quit giving a crap what other people think about my choices. I guess you could call it bitterness or adrenal collapse, but whatever it is, the idea of other people defining what works for me just begins to seem – I don’t know – untenable.

Take Facebook. Recently an acquaintance messaged me and asked me if I was always so kind. I responded that I had always been a people pleaser, but lately being kind was coming from a place of sincerity. I thought it was a great question but came to find the next day that she had intended the comment as an insult. Since I’m about 34 years away from 8th grade, I didn’t spend the time to over-analyze the drama. I just blocked her.

A preference for the quieter path of neglect leading to apathy will probably always be my default: it somehow seems more civilized than the social media equivalent of murder. But you know what? I don’t need to fight people who misunderstand me or want to pick fights.



There is a certain appeal to being all things to all people. Eventually though it is exhausting. It’s like not being able to go to sleep at night because I am afraid I might miss out on something. There’s generally hell to pay the next day.

Danielle LaPorte recently wrote a line in a poem: “We change our names so that a reality that we don’t want will let us in the door.”

When we spend our time becoming adept at changing masks to fit into other peoples’ ideas of who we should be, we neglect becoming all of who we are.

Tell me about how you commit to becoming more of yourself.

I’m Taking My Ovaries and Going Home

Screen Shot 2014-06-21 at 8.00.55 PM
Those ^^ aren’t really my ovaries.

When I ditched my ex in my early 40’s I was damn hot. Owned a business, had a paycheck, was working out with hot trainer and fellow Scorpio, Sean, and no we never had sex. I thought that early 40’s would be a good time to wipe the Etch-a-Sketch clean and start fresh. Who knew what a pain in the ass this was all going to be?

The ensuing trampage was good for my ego, and given that I emerged without another pregnancy or any STDs, all in all, I think it was a solid phase. I made some decisions that might not have been in my best long term interest, but then none of them stuck, so no harm, no foul. But part way through that, I began to think that it was really quite tragic that here I was in my sexual prime and circumstances did not look to be falling into place for the subsequent long term relationship (LTR). Part of that is my penchant for married guys and the other part is that I don’t like intimacy. Admittedly, there may be a connection.

Through a clever twist of the Universe married guys can’t have intimacy, so they are great. They leave feeling better about their wives and they get a little attention, and I leave feeling like there I went and played the role of unpaid marital counselor again. At least that’s what I tell myself when I am finally at the end of my patience and accommodation. It used to feel like a leg sever and now it’s more of a mild flu. I may never make out on a couch while watching TV again. It’s all just too tiring.

I think in our 4o’s, we are all becoming aware of the buzzkill of mortality, and it pushes us to want to not be alone. And if you like sex as much as I do the thought of not having as much of it as you want is its own buzzkill. I penned my thoughts about dating back in November. I think it might be really true that I don’t want to attract romance to my life. I have invested a lot of breaths and thoughts assuming that I was looking for love. Maybe I am just looking for me.

And, god, please don’t feel sorry for me or think this is an opening to date. Seriously, if you were available I would sabotage it, and if you aren’t, I really am done with married guys. And if you are reading this and judging me, I have to ask if you didn’t see the title of my blog and get put off there.

I had a high school boyfriend contact me this week out of the blue to tell me he was having lustful thoughts about me. I thought, “Buy me a house or leave me the hell alone.” That’s kind of the thing. I’m done playing and making self-destructive choices, and I don’t want anymore of the game.

This is probably because I gave another good college try recently that I thought might be a go. There were some key differences. For one, I really like this human. The thought of emotional intimacy around him didn’t make me feel like vomiting. He sees me fully. I have liked other humans very much also, and I don’t want to minimize the good things that I have shared with anyone, but this one made moves to be with me and he was kind of local. But situational logistics and realizing I was in tryouts for replacement girl made moving forward untenable. I am pretty proud of myself for giving love at least a partial shot though. And thanks, me, for the clever reminder to never ignore my intuition again.

Wise people say let your heart break open in love. “Don’t close up. Risk!” That sounds like cardboard rattling in my head. I have extended as far as I am willing to go – at least on this last one. Sorry about the mixed metaphor.

I may revisit this down the road, but for now, even though this means I will probably die with a dusty vagina, I am taking my ovaries and going home.

6 Things to Do When Maslow’s Hierarchy Becomes a Clusterfuck

Drawing from the Comedy Channel (
First world modification of Abrahan Maslow’s framework that prioritizes the needs that motivate human behavior. Drawing from the Comedy Channel.

Circumstances can trigger volcanic disruptions in our lives.

We are embarking on journeys of creativity and then it hits: job loss, divorce, death of a loved one, or existential crisis. This creates a clusterfuck in Maslow’s hierarchy.

In this age of shamanistic positive thinking, it’s easy to feel inadequate when the load feels heavy and visions of self-actualization are abrogated by fears about how to save the food in the freezer in the event that the electricity gets shut off.

How do the resilient recover? How do they keep from slitting their wrists when the path to rebuild feels impossibly un-doable? Well, lucky for you, I have a blog and an opinion, so let me help you navigate this path.

1) Excise toxicity. Put a moratorium on everything and everyone who is an energetic black hole. Start looking for people who have breathed through the volcanic ash and are living bigger than you are comfortable living. Cling to them. Lurk in their online communities. Grok them. Let them know they are an encouragement to you.

2) Breathe. and exhale fully every single time as often as you can. Read this great blog from Jen Violi on breathing.

3) Survive. Do what you have to do in order to survive each day. Stand in line to get food stamps and health insurance for your kids and cry when you get back to the car. If you compromise, forgive yourself and more forward. Do the next right thing. This is training camp, and it can be really hard. Just keep swimming – it won’t be forever.

4) Get clear. While you are heading into your cocoon, determine to spend your time in there getting clear on what you really want – even if it seems impossible. Write it down. Try it on. Feel what it will feel to be in your new ‘space.’

5) Ask for help. We all need it. Let yourself be that person and welcome the lesson of vulnerability and need.

5) Shift your story. You aren’t a victim tossed by the winds. You are a proactive agent of growth and you didn’t expect such a strong nudge into the next chapter. That’s okay. Let the old story have its place and then let it go. Begin to write a new one.

6) Choose you. Commit to what you want. Know that it may very well feel like swinging from one jungle vine to the next without the next showing up quite yet. Choose you anyway.


Tail End of the Fire Swamp and Pending Integration

I get caught between the energy healing, Law of Attraction way of thinking and my own emotions. I feel vague guilt about not being able to feel my way into prosperity or happiness. I get it – it makes sense. I’ve watched “What the Bleep Do We Know?” I’ve even lent it out.

Where the rubber meets the road, though, I just cry a lot. About dolphins in captivity and pictures of butterfly eggs.


The world is too big and beautiful and loud and it feels like this because I have been shut down for so long that the stimulation overwhelms me. The challenge to participate in it alternately creates a siren call toward my power and a compulsion to binge watch Netflix. I am afraid of my power. Still. I am afraid that am being asked to be bigger than I can stretch to accommodate. I am afraid I might miss ‘the thing’ that I feel like all of this wrenching reidentificaiton is preparing me to integrate with.

My Paid for Friend says this is a sign that my emotional reserves are growing. I have the capacity to feel and it is safe to do so.

If our intuitive intake machine is supposed to look like a bowling ball with a couple of holes on the top to filter information through, my hard exterior is non-existent and I am left with the string ball inside and nothing to protect it from overwhelming overload of sensory input. I retreat to sleep to provide the buffer I need between the world and my overactive brain.

Whether I’ve turned into a blazing introvert or whether I’ve just come to terms with the idea that I’ve always been one, the idea of people exhausts me. Telling me I think too much and am too much in my head is 1) true and 2) dismissive. Come be in my head with me and help me make sense of the landscape.

It is miraculous. My intuitive soul knows the rational string ball of my mind is preoccupied with the room of mirrors and it continually leads me into the version of me I am careening toward. And someday they will integrate, says My Paid For Friend – the powerful intuition and the blazing intellect.

She says I am perfectly at the wrenching part of the journey where I utterly destroy the container that got me here and reconstruct an identity out of meaning and symbol, feelings and compassion. If the journey to mental health and integrated living is a bell curve, I am on the tail end of the fire swamp and getting ready to start living through the Intuition and not quite so much sabotage. The Mind that has held the reigns doesn’t yet trust the Intuition and so the battle in all the areas one expects: love, creativity, life management.

It’s fucking messy. And I cry a lot.

Family Dinner Uncovers Crap Factory

Remember the movie with Bill Murray where he wakes up repeatedly to the same day? Probably in my thirties, I could have told you how the plot wound up, but this many years later what sticks is the emotional roller coaster he went through as events iterated ad nauseum. Getting outside of self-imposed limitations feels like that. But I have learned how to spell nauseum.

I’m trying out the “Law of Attraction” as a filter to for my self-management. The idea is that our subconscious and underlying beliefs draw to us the stuff of their imagining. That is terrific for people who dream of ponies and fairy sparkles but I’m up against a rough neighborhood. My conditioning has me convinced that I can have love OR success and certainly not both and quite possibly neither. So when I start heading toward success in one area, the wheels fall off in the others. It feels like that movie.

I was at my sister’s for dinner the other night, and my mom was there.

Cue the cellos.

“How is school going?” she asked.

As things go, school is FANTASTIC! I am back in it. My days are filled with research and interaction, technology and writing, ponies and fairy sparkles. Gold stars. Real ones like “Can I use your assignment as an example for my next class?” Expansive ideas — real ones that can lead to cash flow. But when Mom asks how school is going, I am suddenly in junior high. She isn’t asking me how school is going. She is asking me to justify my value. I’m 45 and she’s 83.

(And shut up, she is too. You don’t know her.)

Panic. Look to sisters for immediate assistance — nothing. Each of them takes another peanut butter bar. In “I Dream of Jeanie” would Jeanie have been able to disappear if she’d had to move her nose manually?

I’m pretty sure something really stupid is going to come out of my mouth and I imagine my lips glued together. Not sure what to call ‘IT’, but IT is happening again. Fighting against the magnetic vortex of suckage that IT inevitably brings makes me need a peanut butter bar something fierce. Don’t talk, I tell myself. Just don’t say ANYTHING.

“School is going well. I enjoy it very much.” The straight, honest answer escapes before I even know I’ve spoken. But it was innocuous. Hookless.

“But how are you doing?” Outsiders might classify that as genuine concern.

“But?” “Are?” “Doing?” Meanwhile, I am taking the first of many bites that will soon become half a pan of peanut butter bars and trying to count how many simultaneous attacks the woman can launch. Three at first count. My mother accused me of lying, told me she is surprised when I do well, and let me know that to her my worth is based on my performance. Hmmmm…

“I am doing well. I enjoy it very much. I have turned in all of my assignments.” Goddammit! You saw it coming, didn’t you?

“Oh, good, you have! Does your teacher like you?” Not even kidding. A clapping point for turning my work in?! A professional journalist who designed my program is giving me gold stars and my mother wants to know if I’m popular. And that still has weight. Yep, definitely middle school.

I subscribe to an email list that sends out monthly reports about what are the energy trends happening in our world. This month is about identifying beliefs and patterns that spin string balls from the crap factory. I have an impressive collection of crappy string balls. For sale, as it happens. It is too painful to think of these as attacks coming from the person who was hired to play the role of Chief Nurturer. Instead they are a gift from the gods to illustrate the insidious confusion and sick messages that sabotage my move forward in health and vibrancy. The idea is that if I can recognize them, I can address them and begin to strip them of their power. None. Too. Soon.

I married my mother and called her by my ex-husband’s name. But how do you divorce your mom? And still give her some honor. Are we required to do this?

We all have them: these voices of simmer down, stay small, and who do you think you are? The people who are threatened by our big-ness. They remind us to not be dicks to people we have influence with, to encourage toward audacious living. So next time you hear the cellos, just put the dessert out of reach and wiggle your nose. While we are finding the voices that pull us in the right direction, we may have to build these muscles in a vacuum. But we are not alone. Follow your passion, be unreasonable in your beliefs, and for the love of peanut butter bars, learn how to shut up when you don’t want to say anything. That last one was to me specifically.

The book isn’t quite finished

It’s been a BIG while, really.

And I’d like to make a categorically sweeping statement of insight which will make you sit in your chair and think, “Good God! She’s got it sussed. Rushing over to buy the ebook post haste!”

Who knew you had that British accent? But the book isn’t finished yet. Actually not even started yet either–except for the line about how an authentic look behind the emotional curtains in an unhappy marriage can be a real picnic ender. (I’m at peace with the failed marriage, and the line was really fantastic. I must track that down!!) It will probably wind up being about a middle aged woman who re-writes her life, while making peace with the term middle age. I like to push myself.

The other inspired one was about a lady whose annoying teenage neighbor woke her up as he took a short cut through her yard. She rushed outside to shoo him away just in time to realize that she was butt-ass-naked. “Hey Lady, nice tits!” he says as she growls her way back inside. That lady has to practice the multi-layered coffee drink she orders from the very cute barrista that somehow always gets her off her game. (It was conceived over a decade ago and I think he’d have to turn out gay.) Single tall skinny white chocolate mocha. Single tall skinny white chocolate mocha. Probably to make her really awkward, the Adonis at the coffee bar will be mixed race and make some reference to her order. She’ll undoubtedly snort in such a way that it triggers her nasal congestion untowardly. And take up yoga. Or get a body piercing. At which point the neighbor boy will undoubtedly reappear.

That makes a story about gawkiness (she’d have to grow up at some point) or midlife bildungsroman, (the only term besides complementary schizmogenesis to emerge from  college without coming directly from Cliff’s Notes. It might not be used correctly. Don’t judge me.)

There’s always porn, though I’d have to use a pseudonym. Maybe a How To book on masturbation. Given the recent craze about 50 Shades, it’s pretty clear there’s a market. And it’s not like I lack practice. Reading. I mean I did read them all. So if a tawdry tale of bodaciousness appears written by someone not with my name and I am suddenly wealthy beyond imagining (and I present in a consistently flushed and relaxed state), my dear readers will have the missing piece. (Does one ‘come out’ as it were to promote a book on masturbation? How does one explain that to the children who will eventually scratch their eyes when they finally put the topic and its author together as they figure out how they got through college without loans? You know you’d read it.)

Hey, don’t judge me.


Wanted: Alchemy Tutor

I sit in the driver’s seat, behind the windshield, parked at the drive in, watching a movie. I drove here myself and paid to get in. No bucket of popcorn sits on the seat beside me, just a roll of toilet paper eponymically doubling as Kleenex. Must be a drama. A beautiful woman with soulful eyes takes up the screen. She faces the audience and asks questions. When the questions are of interest or I know the answers, even I holler out responses, from behind my windshield at this movie. Curious entertainment—like interactive dinner theater with tempered anonymity.

“What do you have to contribute?” comes the next question. The woman had summarized the responses she’d received from the other audience participants and made an observation. “It strikes me that you look at work as a way to get to free time instead of looking at work as a way to contribute.” Apparently a segment of the audience is wrapped up in figuring out what it is going to do that is both financially sustainable and soulfully call-worthy in the longterm. This group probably gets that it will have to earn some tenure as a Starbucks barrista–or the equivalent thereof–before finding a way to integrate all levels in Maslow’s hierarchy.

“What do you have to contribute?” comes the question again. Wow, I am NOT going to participate in this question, I decide from behind my windshield and a new growing haze. Inside my ‘head’ I feel the equivalent of scores of hands pasting playbills all over the inside of the windshield as quickly as we can peel off duct-tape to affix them. My eyes grow foggy. My head tilts to the left and I start to drool. Just a little. From multiple layers of mental shunting deep, my higher bits try to remember the question… They come up with nothing. Who drove me here?

“I don’t understand your words,” I whisper with my eyes closed. Did someone slip me a rufie? I open the window just a sliver, so that the flow of oxygen to my brain will continue in the event that I lose consciousness.

“We therapists call this pay dirt,” my paid for friend (may she live forever!) says with a gentle smile. I look up at her tentatively with only one eye—still hiding behind the other one. Maybe she’ll forget I’m here if I don’t open both eyes? I am sitting in the chair I have been sitting in weekly. I don’t like it here right now. The room is muggy. My cheeks are damp. My chest constricts. I feel clammy. Did I pay for this stupid movie? And what was the question again?

“’Pay dirt’ as in ‘vein of gold’,” she offers peaceably. “I am throwing you this lifeline so that you do not abandon all hope. We are getting really close to some dynamic understanding here.”

“Um, I can write. I can make people laugh. I can make people think?” Sounded like that came from a little girl place, tentative. Must. Fight. Back. Torrential. Tears. What the hell is going on?!!! Breathe. Reinhabit my body. What is going on with my body? Well, what’s going on is that a simple question just sent me into shock. I feel like my core is empty. I have fear. What if there is nothing inside me? I see a circular storage area in my soul where an identity ought to be found and it appears to have not been installed. Not nihilistic as in there is no God and I have no purpose; more of a realization that God exists and purpose exists; I just don’t know if or how I fit in.

This makes me sad; it SCARES me. That must be why my cheeks are damp. I have signed up to be parts in other people’s plays, to meet expectations that other people find acceptable, to follow codes defined by others, even to find safety and order myself. To align with the family code that seeped into my bones when I wasn’t paying attention. I escaped overseas to look for ‘it’ there. All this to find a place to belong and be okay. But all that effort didn’t build the reflection of the Creator, my style. On the ground before me now I see a flag indicating that I claim this place, and LIGHT BULB: I don’t know what that means. This empty space is kind of daunting.

What if it isn’t empty? Maybe what I’m looking at is the characters of a foreign alphabet that would make effortless sense to me if I had grown up using vocabulary from and been educated in the symbology of that tongue. Maybe I just lack the skills to discern this site before me, this foreign soul of mine. How have I survived this long without nailing these very elemental pieces in me? Worth, purpose, identity, and belonging, most notably. Where is the box of tools that will help me spin these strings into gold? How will I learn to weave these spells?

Maybe my soul’s storage berth isn’t empty–but seeing the contents of my dreams and desires in base relief threatens my limbic survival regimen. Mr. Monkey Mind. The family code that states, “We will never have that kind of luck (resource, skill, dynamic creative outlet, rich sense of belonging and contributing),”–the subtext of which cannot help but be translated as “if you pull it off, you’re not one of us anymore.” Seriously, I’m 44, and ridiculous spoken and inarticulated family codes have that much power over me? I need some freaking vodka.

Today I have a little bit of envy for the folks that have the resources to do mid-life crisis the theatrical way: lipo, sports-cars, boy toys, featherlifts. But I’m smart enough to know that in the long run, my plan is more authentically sustainable even though I don’t have an inkling how it’s going to work out. Or to at least it comforts me to frame it thusly!

(Pulled the LIGHT BULB clip off youtube. It comes from the movie Despicable Me. More shameless pilfering of copyrighted material. Please don’t send me any money)

Not Quite Ready for the Apocalypse

A post in which she crushes your mellow by taking on black and white straight up

I don’t have a degree in anything financial, and truth be told, I don’t balance my checkbook (yes, I know how much money I have, give or take), but I’m pretty good at math and if I’m not mistaken, the fundamentals of our economy are fucked. Sorry—that’s not a very nice word, but they are fucked. And no matter which float in the puppet parade you receive your candy from, none of the people on the float can fix it, no matter how lovely their smiles. The float makers have all of our resources pledged to foreign nations to secure our debt. Be sure to vote.

Sorry to be the harbinger of doom, but any whiff of financial intelligence would have led you to this before it finally hit the talk shows.

Been watching this coming for a decade or so and this knowledge was a huge piece of our decision to roll real estate profits into a cash flow business. Thought we could ride it out with a recession-friendly business. Pay off the business with our last few pieces of platted properties, own it free and clear and start investing in properties again, this time funded by a cash-flow business. Wonderful plan until the real estate market tanked about nine months ahead of our prediction and the local land-lending bank got seized by the FDIC, forcing all of our properties into receivership. We aren’t the only people that got taken down by that. (You’re welcome, all the other banks who received federal money for which you haven’t accounted.)

Had reasonably defensible property with a pond (for water, stocked with fish) that could provide shelter for scores of people, I really wanted a hydro generator and battery panels. We had / have buckets of food, oxygen protectors, non-hybrid seeds, go bags, water purification, an ex-marine neighbor with a garage full of reloaded ammo, chickens (until the raccoons feasted on them), fruit orchard (until the beavers demolished it–night vision motion-detector camera caught them in the act, courtesy of ex-marine neighbor), a tofu maker, a hand crank clothes washer, books about trapping game, growing grains, and making moonshine, wool blankets, non-slime vegetable fermenter for pro-biotics, books on preserving food without refrigeration, salt licks, awl for sewing through skins (not kidding), freeze-dried ice cream (also not kidding), medicinal herbs and books on how to use them, a community of like-minded folks who were / are investing in their real world skills for the event of a massive meltdown. Home schooling curriculum from pre-school through college. Canned butter. The list is but a sampling. I figured my role would be strategic recruiter of Team Remnant, librarian, comic relief, and newsletter writer for the gig. How I will miss my iPod when all the batteries are dead. Some other things that require batteries too.

My point is that when I say I have walked away from apocalyptic preparation, I am not blowing smoke up your ass. I have a ham radio license. I make my own soap.  I can sprout grains and make them tasty enough to eat. And I have enough spices stored to prevent appetite fatigue. No, I am not a Mormon. I just read. I’m strategic. I’m a survivor, and I steeped in prophetic writings from early adulthood.

Politically I am too cynical to be a Republican or a Democrat or a Tea Partier. I think the Occupy movement is a lovely social experiment but if those folks were the ones that could catalyze a movement of effective social transformation, they already would have been hired by corporate and would be making mojitos for their friends while taking vacation on the public dime. I think there is wisdom in social assistance because some people need it and the others need to be mollified so they don’t begin violent riots. If only we had money to provide it sustainably.

Slit your wrists yet? Me neither. I can see political realities in which biblical prophecies could become plausible realities in short order. I see that people would throw silver and gold in streets for just a loaf of bread. (What tastes better when you’re hungry?) I can see Israel leveling Damascus pre-emptively to stop an attack, the whole world putting them in a huge time out, Assad magnanimously stepping onto the world stage, the great mediator with a humble little office right on top of the Temple Mount. If you aren’t familiar with the prophecies, that’s when the trailer becomes the feature. If you aren’t, it makes for interesting reading. Makes one really want to vote for the Mayan scheme and go out in a blazing orgy sometime in December of 2012.

This angst is behind much of my angst. So when I am worrying about money and resource and job skills, it isn’t just that I am wanting income. It is the added pressure of wanting to figure out a way to build up enough resource to be able to…. What? To hide? To hole up in a compound and sneak though unscathed. And I can’t anyway because I am vulnerable everywhere. And my compound is in foreclosure. I live in town now as a partial renter. I have no storage space. I have no rescuer who hunts and fishes and gardens and wants to take me and three school-aged kids on, who has figured out how to transform his diesel truck into something that runs on sunshine and sparkles.

I would lie if I said I could let go of the preceding paragraphs. But I can’t. I choose not to think about it by which I mean I do my best not to fixate on it. I do my other emotional work to try to get to the place of being a whole me, grounded, clear, and ready for a partner or a dream life. Just in case life keeps rolling. But in the background is this pending expectation, and the awareness that I am not ready for it. Honestly, this is one of the pieces that kept me anchored so long. I had to ask myself, if we have only a few short years, is it worth it to try to reclaim me? But if we have more than a few short years, can I afford to not reclaim me? I walked away from my structure despite this. This fear. This fear of facing death and being alone, overwhelmed and unprepared, side-swiped by the end of the world as we know it (TEOTWAWKI). I am not sure how to make peace with this and/or if I must.

This is the Black of the black and white. I notice it today. This grand over-arching theme of pending doom which drives me to get perfect (white) and thus able to respond successfully in the face of the adversest of adversities.

I wish I were worrying about retirement. Retirement sounds easy compared to feeling negligent for not being committed to mastering field surgery. Back to the cocoon with this mellow crusher… I need my cape back.