Excerpt: The Mountain Moved Me – book (coming soon).
The glimmers of grieving me.
Should I have to shoulder the costs of man made problems from the ‘will of god’ (keeping god lowercase purposely)? Or should I just focus on grieving?
I just moved a mountain full of stuff.
My stuff….ing.
My cushy insides, as spectators walked inside my womb not knowing how to even shop. Ironically this is the opposite problem of the lower 48 – ‘how to shop’. But here in Alaska as a local all you do is weigh your NEEDS. “Wanting” on the other hand is frivolous, an expensive habit, shamed within the great northern territory of abundant wilderness. If it didn’t come from the land, it doesn’t make it into our homes. Our homes, being part of us.
We’ve been shattered into a million glimmers. My stuff-ing spread out into naked seeds for someone else’s plantings. Making it FREE, is my begging them to take it, because I can’t rebury these parts of myself in a landfill – the cost is too steep and possibly insulting my intelligence.
I am still alive. So it seems.
I look around this storage extraction and feel gratitude even though it took some serious circus acts to get people to take this free stuff, creating ways for them to use it for themselves even if it makes its way to the trash. Yet here I am, trying to manage 20 piles of leftovers at the end of the long weekend. And then I notice, some are still shining me. Dull glimmered household experiences manifested as stuff of us Wishstars asking, “don’t you want me or don’t you need me any longer?”
I put these things out for *sale because society told me to. If I had the space, I might not have. Actually I mostly wouldn’t because they still have life in them. Am I still inside them? Even when I’m happy to give them to a new home? Pawning off my belongings, making room for me, but much like a happy dog, these things just won’t leave.
And now I have only days before I must be out of storage. Literally moving on…. To what I do not know.
My problem, or rather THE problem is I cannot afford this.
I cannot afford this bereavement. I did all the upstanding acts of being a good human, of not taking advantage of, or costing another, or being a dependent, yet all life is ASKING of me is to do just that!
I am deeply embarrassed, over and over again.
RECEIVING is life’s awake nightmare.
As an American citizen, this can feel like black tar flung upon in the ownership of being a citizen of the USA. This is what you grow up to believe life should be like. “Welcome to the land of the __(starts with f, ends with d)__.” We believe we’re free. And we’ll damn well protect that by whatever means we see fit. But… then the inevitable happens. The part where we keep trying to cut our cords wanting to be responsible for only our autonomous self. That interdependence word sounds way too earthy and restrictive. We want to KNOW we can survive our doomsday, by ourselves!
As our earth crumbles beneath our feet, so does the fraying of our red belaying lifeline. Our problems don’t end if we do. They’re just carried, with even more weight. Many times survivors’ guilt isn’t really what we think it is. I don’t have that guilt per say. I don’t have, “it should have been me” feelings, but instead I have “would it have been easier for society if it was me also?” Would I be this much of a burden, taxing the system in asking for help, over and over again? Feeling deep embarrassment while also righteous rage that the system that claims to work is functioning at 10% capability. This cost of us being alive and the shame perpetrated within this system, one of which we’re scolded as yearly slashings on my beaten back.
I am being mutilated daily, but I cover it up with creative wear.
The fiscal cost of being alive sure doesn’t feel like freedom.
“All I want to do is do my job.” The amount of times we mantra these words makes our mouths dry. We are the most entrepreneur geniuses of make-do people that I promise you, you’ll probably ever meet. We are the people that go beyond limitations cast upon us and turn rocks into rainbows. But still, we’re working with dense matter. And no matter how magical one is, this consciousness within the boundaries of form can only move within the context of the speed of time.
Game over?
Maybe, how we’ve been playing it.
This brush with death; death of the system, death of how we lived, death of ownership, death of isolated needs, death of trying and making do, it can all go to hell in a handbasket. It’s a lie. And possibly a coined American lie that we have an allergic reaction to when being voiced. Can you feel the rage, within? Or are you just mad at me writing this? Check yourself.