Yesterday, I was perplexed. Riddled by personal anxieties and distractions about health & symptoms on one level, and concerns about the nail-biting election on another level, I wanted to find a way to be present to the public within my means. I had imagined going live, posting an “ask me anything” in my Story, or providing some words of solace in the feeds. I could hardly manage to type or write anything, save for a response to a cousin’s question about our grandmother: who would she have voted for in 1952—Ike or Stevenson? My response to this question, the one text I managed to send, a lifeline to an ancestor, reconciling the American past with the American present and the interdependence of the two. The need to call upon those who have come before and to examine who they were & are: if those ancestors were bigoted, for instance, have those prejudices dissolved now on the other side? And, having transitioned over, are they now reaching across and providing counsel in a way that reflects the innermost essence of their genius, trying to catalyze our ability to communicate our own geniuses in this monumental moment?
Petrified, somaticizing symptoms, brewing garlic tea, skeptical of the fish that had been sitting in the fridge for a few days, wearing tense smiles with an intention to nurture my loved ones, wondering if I was hearing ringing in my ears that signaled a pounding fever (I’m fine), or simply too much noise from refreshing the election results on my phone, I scribbled out a shadow horoscope— more of a prayer, that came through an inner guide. And so, I begin the process of being here for you all by telling the tale of what was shown to me, and will leave this post at that:
An old giant with a blistery, hunched back calling themselves Grampy (or maybe Grammy?) asked to enter from out in the cold. He proudly proclaimed how cranky he was, saying he’d been through it all, and that the bumps & scars on his back were proof. In this visitation, I saw myself, birds-eye view, as in a dream, and my demeanor was as a child at a table waiting to hear it all from the Elder, being soothed & nourished by experience, finding pockets or holes to jump into within the stories behind that aged, dirty beard, seeking breathable respite from the fog of undesired outcomes. The giant swept his hand across the table, knocking the mead-filled copper cups down, cranky as hell. “The people should get some rest,” he said. “Anger won’t do them good tonight. Save energy for when it’s needed soon.”
He stood and revealed a huddle of scorpions in a strainer, saying, “I’m showing you my elixir for election nights.” He boiled the scorpions into a hot cocktail and we both drank up.
Everyone I’ve ever met and known, and everyone they’ve ever met and known, and so on, drank up, filling up with the reserves to regenerate on the deeper levels—staying power, calm, hot ice, and the nutrients to head underground to transform what needs changing at the core.
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