Every once in a while, with gaps in time that stretch for eons, someone like you comes along who instinctively trusts their inner senses more than their physical senses, the unseen more than the seen, and whose life-insights are so piercing that they unwittingly blow the entire model of spiritual evolution to smithereens. “Gabriel, did you register beweaver’s epiphany yesterday? Raise expectations on all human beings another 72 gigatrons, and tell not a soul.” How do you do that?

hahahahaha. God help us all if I am the barometer and the bar. While I certainly do trust my inner senses a great deal and I do make decisions based on them, and some folks don’t like that because they do sometimes find my insights to be piercing, there is no doubt, NO doubt, that I am still evolving. Boy Howdy. And that my insights are just that. MY insights. They might not mesh with your insights. And I’m okay with that. My insights change all the time because I do grow and change and my point of view comes from a different angle, even as early as tomorrow.

Life is nothing if not constant change and swirling energy.

I do write this blog in the narrative style. As if I’m talking to someone, you maybe. But that is just my writing style from years of short stories and university training for fiction writing. I write as if I am talking. But make no mistake, I write this for me. To maybe go back a year later and see how things have changed. A barometer. For me.

Up until recently I had a blog on LiveJournal. It covered many of the topics I cover here. It also covered the last year of a relationship that recently ended, the ending of another relationship, a death in the family over Yule/New Year’s, the introduction and sad but subsequent un-introduction of a new cat, and the sad and unexpected death of a different cat. December and January? SUCKED. None of these things worked out the way I thought I wanted. Not in the sense that society normally considers Working Out. Someone did die, nothing to be done there. No way to save the relationship and its demise, while painful, was totally necessary. While it would have been nice if the new second cat had got along with my first cat, that didn’t happen and while sending the second cat back to their foster home sucked, it was what had to happen. But everything does always work out. Just not usually the way you thought you wanted it to going in. But coming out? Peachy keen. Because I know that I am always grateful coming out of pain, I face it full frontal and walk, head to the wind and flames, right through it. And honey? It’s RAW.

When all of this stuff subsided and I felt like I was back on track with my life and that healing had begun in earnest, that I could lift my head, my eyes, up to the gentle sun and once again hear birdsong, I decided to permanently close that chapter of my life. I closed that blog. (which is linked in my blogroll on the right if you’re dying of curiosity and for me to refer back to as necessary). What I didn’t do at the time was close the comments. Woops.

About a week after closing that blog an anonymous comment came my way. (uh huh) They said that they had read all my entries and that I was nothing but a victim, that there were holes in my story, and that I was all over the map. They felt sorry for me.  Whoa.  Eeeew.  That I needed their advice to make sure I grew up. Paraphrased but that was the jist. Which just made me laugh. They must have missed the posts I wrote about how I felt so all over the map, that one day I wanted to kill, the next I wanted peace, I felt like a victim, I felt empowered, I felt sad about the cat thing and didn’t know which way to go blah blah blah. I mean really. I laughed, I cried, I raged, I softened, I did magic none of it baneful, I wrote my butt off until I didn’t have to write any more. Holes in my story? As if I was writing to please the occassional reader or to create an enduring and accurate history. As if this was something other than a place to get through my life, joyously if possible but rageful if necessary. As if this was the Cessation from the Union and I had to make sure I didn’t leave anything out so that folks 100 years from now could review the facts and know they were accurate. uh huh.

And I got to thinking. What is a journal for? What is MY journal for? What is its purpose? I’ve always thought of journals as a way to process feelings. Or a scrapbook. A way to write it all out good bad indifferent. Not a place to prove how cool I was or how healthy or how nice or how smart or artistically creative or dare I say it, witchy. Some blogs these days are all about that. For me, this is a place to say whatever I need to say so that thoughts don’t fester inside me and eventually kill my spirit. A timeline of my art projects, progress reports. It is about getting to the nut of a problem and, hopefully, finding a solution. To show my absolute joy that the robins are here or that the hibernation has begun. To acknowledge my spiritual connection with nature, to discuss magical practice.

It isn’t about truth with a capital T Truth. It is about what is true, small t, for me at one snapshot in time.

When it comes to human emotions and processing grief, most of us run the gamut of emotions. Elizabeth Kubler Ross tells us that the process generally has five stages. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. And that these five stages are not linear. Nothing in this universe is linear, we just created this world to LOOK linear so that it was easier to process information. Same as the grief proceess theory. Which I happen to agree with. So sometimes you might move backwards, and maybe back and forth, for awhile. Bargain, Angry, Deny, Angry, Accept, Bargain, Angry. You get my point.

Being human, I expect myself to be all over the map when dealing with the loss of a lover, the loss of a friend, the death of a friend and family member, and the loss of two pets (one through death and one through it just not working out) . Its a frikking roller coaster ride for crying out loud.

That anyone would be so silly as to think that every single detail would end up in my journal in order to make it easier for them to believe boggles the mind. That anyone would think that I would not, briefly or otherwise, feel like a victim when my lover betrays me publically boggles the mind. Just because I feel like a victim sometimes it doesn’t follow that I AM a victim. Har! As if. That anyone would think their opinion was of any matter to me in my own process boggles the mind, especially someone who is so cowardly that they remain anonymous. hahahahahahaha. Delete.

Here is what you get from me if you read this blog. The raw truth, small t, for me, that day. Period. One snapshot at a time. One day at a time. Comment if you like. But don’t think for one moment that your opinion on how I should process anything really matters. Unless I say it does. Which I will only do if we have met f2f or created some kind of trust bond. Not if you are an anonymous coward.