A Rebel, Angels, Inspiration & Holidays

I went back and forth this morning, wondering, is today the day? Will I write something for the blog and publish it or not? I’m in the bedroom, sitting on top of the spread, surrounded by yarn and pillows. It’s super quiet. The sun is shining brightly—finally!— and this room feels extra comfy, filled with the warmth of sunshine. I didn’t want to stop crocheting to come here. I kept telling myself, ten more minutes and then maybe. Maybe.

Besides, I wasn’t sure what I’d say, wasn’t sure where to begin, what I might write about first. I already wrote something for publishing last week. It’s a bit of a tome — yes, longer than this one— and still needs some editing touches. And I thought, there’s no preamble to the thing. It’s the kind of essay where I just jumped right in as if I never left, as if my blog posts had continued, uninterrupted, routinely appearing and I wasn’t mysteriously absent for three months.

So I said, Nah! Not yet with that essay. I want something here for the record about my noticeable absence. 

But I have been dragging my feet all week with this avoidance. It’s been so long. How do I actually begin? Finally, I told myself the same thing I always say whenever I am in this typical writer’s predicament: just start typing. Just begin. So here I am. Typing. 

Fuck. Still nothing.

Gimme a minute.

How about, where the heck have you been woman? Why did I just disappear like that? Yeah, okay. These are fair queries, a good place to begin.

It wasn’t my decision. It was my angels. If you don’t believe that, I can’t help you. You’re invited to stay, of course but from this point on, I am talking to the believers, those who understand what it is to know that deep inside each of us, there dwells a Soul with Other-Worldly connections.

Way back in September, during one of my meditations, I got the message to stop blogging here for at least three months. And I wasn’t allowed to make any pronouncements about it, just stop blogging. I don’t think I have to tell you how I felt about receiving such a message. If you’ve been reading here for a while, you know how I am. My first instinct, the very first reaction I have whenever ANYONE (or spirit or angel or what the fuck ever) tells me what to do is: rebel. Resist. 

Huh. Look at that. The sign says, Turn Off Cell Phones Beyond This Point Really?! I’m not even allowed to put the thing on vibrate? Huh. Go fuck yourself. Oh. Look at that. No U-Turn Permitted Whyyyyy? Says who? Blow me. I’m u-turning. Hmmm. Would you look at that. The mattress tag says, Do Not Remove Oh brother. Where are my scissors? Snip snip that shit right off.

I’m sure this rebellious nature of mine is some kind of mental defect resulting from the occasional trauma of past seasons of life, all those times when I felt powerless over my circumstances. What can I say, it stuck. I like to rebel. It makes me feel happy and safe.

Ah, but meditation-inspired guidance and manmade rules are two completely different concepts. Manmade rules — which include instructions provided by both women and men— tend to be heavy with flaws and randomosity. The motives behind those rules and restrictions are not always Maria-friendly. But when a message comes through from The Universe in my meditation— knowing how loved I am by my own Essence, knowing that my Essence is connected to everything in The Universe, and understanding without a doubt how much The Universe loves me and wants me to win—I usually am more prone to listen and follow through with messages from my angels. 

But! More often than not, I resist at first.

Three fuckin months?! Whaaaattt?! Are you sure? That’s a long ass time to be gone from the blog. 

As usual, my reaction is always met with silence, loving silence, yes, but silence nonetheless. 

And it never fails. Whenever I get the message to do a thing, no matter how perplexing it feels at the time, it turns out to be magical and amazing. It always reaps rewards in my work, in my relationships, in my finances, in my general life and/or any combination of those things. So most of the time I listen to the angels.

Apparently, I needed the blog break. Not because I was tired or worn down by blogging. I love it here, it’s one of my happy places. Being gone from here was an exercise in discipline. I’ve learned, every once in a while I must submit to changes because change—similar to seasonal transitions— is a crucial part of life. Our responses to the inevitable changes we each so often face help us to grow as individuals.

I also learned some time ago, along this creative journey, the comfort zone is not my friend. Nothing interesting, inspiring or outstanding happens in the comfort zone. And every so often I am given a refresher lesson on this nugget of wisdom. Thus, the blog break.

I keep growing and meeting new sides of Self I’ve never met before. It’s kind of cool, actually. For instance, last year, around this time, I blogged a bit about how much “I fuckin hate the holidays.” My feelings have changed about that. Not a lot. But there is notable movement of the needle on my haterometer (I totally just made that word up).  

I get it now. I was traumatized by those lunatics I used to work with. I spent seven years working in an office where the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays were treated with a frantic, frenzied fuckin mania. 

Before working at that place, I was a normal participant of the holiday tradition. I had no beef with the holidays. I had grown up celebrating Christmas and Thanksgiving with my family. I mean, okay yes, we weren’t a functional or necessarily healthy group as far as families go. I don’t mind admitting that. But I can recall no traumatizing memories linked with the holidays. My memories of the season are decent. For example, my grandmother and I used to share a childlike, gleeful love for Christmas music.

I grew up and went on to continue celebrating the holidays with my own future family and loved ones, no problem. All of a sudden I am dropped into a new season of life where I am having to bear witness to an unprecedented holiday mania. Picture the original Terminator movie, the way Kyle Reese is dropped out of the sky—naked!—to fulfill his life’s assignment of protecting Sarah Connor. (Apologies to those of you who have never seen the movie. But that scene totally captures how it felt for me) Except, Kyle Reese knew why he was there. I wouldn’t understand until years later, like NOW, now that I am looking back. One obvious reason is writer’s fodder.

At the office where I used to work, the natives became restless during the holiday season. I had no idea it would be this way: that I would have my own routine affinity for the holidays usurped, violently ripped away. It was like having someone poison my otherwise loving dog, inspiring him to bite me viciously on the leg. Those co-workers became manic with the holidays, especially at Christmas time. The office became charged with loud talking and activities. Over-done Christmas decorations were on display immediately after Thanksgiving. 

When you walked into the front office, where the reception area was, it looked like the building threw up in its own mouth, over-loaded with Christmas displays. (All these decorations began with Halloween paraphernalia). The first year I saw all this shit I was a little stunned. I was like, What the fuck? It felt like I was in the midst of a Stephen King movie. I said nothing, but my wide eyes might have told on me a little. In response to my wide eyes, a co-worker had smiled at me indulgently and said, Oh yeah, this is how it’s done around here. In my head I was like, Kill me now. Just fuckin shoot me.

And then! There was all the loud talking. Nearly every day for the twelve damned days leading to a holiday that I never had a beef with until I was suddenly forced to frolic with these lunatics. Yes, it felt like I had no choice. My only other alternative was to alienate myself by judging and refusing to participate. (That didn’t happened until the last year when I was so helplessly full of rage, that I just could not go on. But that was in the end.)

The loud talking. Every single morning. Christmas talk. Talk of gifts acquired for a niece, and then a nephew one, and then a son, oh! and I found the perfect gift for my mom and my god-daughter. Oh the cacophony of loud talking women, clearly competing, over-zealous, supposedly filled with Christmas-Spirit— Every.Fuckin.Morning. Oh my god, are you trying to kill me or whaaaattt? What is this? What kind of punishment? I thought this was a workplace? What kind of fuckin zombie-land dimension did I fall into here? 

Whew! 

So last year, when I wrote how much I hate the holidays on the blog, I was still shaking free of the residual trauma of that seven-year season of life with otherwise amiable colleagues. Time has healed me of much of the office-place wounding. 

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t just the manic holiday behavior of former co-workers. My disinterest in the holidays is cumulative, filled with years of patriarchy messaging which I continue in detangling from. No, I don’t formally celebrate the holidays  anymore. But I don’t mind participating in holiday activities because it provides opportunity for family time. My loved ones get time off, they all come home (sometimes), and we get to relish in each other’s loving vibes and good energy for a while. 

Nowadays, during this time of year, I can actually return the season’s greetings to strangers and mean it. That’s because I’ve been able to spend much more time alone sans the bullies of the holiday season attempting to brow-beat traditions into me. It feels good to be me, living life in this way: on my own terms. 

Now when I hear Christmas music my teeth are no longer set on edge. Now I remember the way my grandmother used to light up at the sound of Christmas music, the way she has passed her love for such music on to me.

And so I bow to my angels, thanking them for knowing what’s good for me, thanking them for always knowing exactly what I need. I thank The Universe for that time in my life when I was made to feel so uncomfortable among the co-workers, that a needed drastic change became my only real option. 

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Sheesh! See what happens when I sit myself down and just start typing? (Not bad, grasshopper.) But now it is time for me to skedaddle. My love people are here, more are coming and I’ve got shit to do. Nothing crazy, no major prepping like in the old days when I was lost to myself, worried about perception, trying to look like super woman, trying to be the hostess with the mostest or some such fuckery. Now it begins with me. I come first, always. So it’s back to showing myself a whole lotta love, starting with crocheting. 

 

Presently, I am making an incredibly lovely, truly girly pullover sweater for myself. It’s beautiful and the very act of crocheting it makes me oh so very happy.

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I shall return …. eventually. I love you, reader. Thanks for stopping in and following my journey. I hope you are enjoying the season in whichever way it lifts your heart.

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