Under the Dome

I have no hand. I have no body. Bodies aren't real. Bodies are dreams.

The Last Station

Wow.

I was the Countess.

In the panic stricken time leading up to this, I felt every terror the Countess felt as she watched her husband turn away from her,listening to Chertkov and all the Tolstoyans who believed him to be a messiah, a buddha.

There are differences in our details, but we were sisters in fear. Our heart's dearest companion was turning away to find something more than we are/were/could be.

Part of the way I "do poly" is to ask "Are you getting your needs met?" If the need that is not getting met is something I can provide if I know the need exists, I will do it. If it is something I am not capable of providing, I will do what I can to help my partner find that thing.

But if what he needed was not-me, was Everything, how could I possibly fit into that.

And, for the Countess, he was Everything. How devastating to find that Everything rejects you. That your Universe find you insignificant. Your fear, your love, inconsequential.

At some point, I asked Joe, "Where does your wife fit?" And, as Tolstoy ignored the Countess' fear and confusion because it was inconsequential to his understanding, he ignored me.

I Googled "Buddhas' wife". He was an asshole to her. Her fear didn't matter. He was out of it and that shit was insignificant. Less than a dust mote. She sent their child to him to ask for his birthright and Buddha made the child a monk. What else is the birthright of the Universe?

So, Maya lost her husband and her son.

Countess. Maya.

I recognize that pit of fear. I know that story. The Singularity isn't as varied as we might think, I think.

And those characters didn't have anyone to tell them that it's OK to let go. Because, it was so obvious, it wasn't worth bothering with. Because that wasn't their script.

I wish I could give them a hug and tell them it's gonna be OK.

I suspect they wouldn't believe me, either.

Oops!

A coworker was getting her panties in a twist about something and I almost said "Why are you getting so worked up? It's not like this is Real."

Lesson from Meeting.

During one of my more active Seeking periods, I took an Anthropology of Religion class at the College of Charleston that was taught by a Jamaican Quaker. You can't participate in that kind of class without exposing your perspective. What I heard from John Rashford about the Religious Society of Friends intrigued me. So, I read about Friends and started going to Meeting.

The Charleston Friends Meeting is very small. 10 in the room was a good Sunday. We'd go for a month or longer with no on moved to speak. But every time I went, IF someone spoke, s/he spoke to what was in my head/heart at that time.

I never worried about it if I missed it when someone was moved to speak. I was in a groove that let me flow with when I should be there and when following a distraction was ... OK. I was there when I needed to be. I heard what I needed to hear.

I flip the switch of this blog, and the other one, off and on as I'm moved. Sometimes I feel exposed having it out here. Sometimes I feel like no one will ever find it unless they "need" something from it.

I learned from Meeting that sometimes all that's needed is a small thing. A piece of a poem. A prayer. A song. An image. An essay may be right. But my little blips may be, too.

Or not.

Addendum: When I was Quaker, I was moved to speak in Meeting 3 times. It was never optional. As much as I tried to sit still, to refuse that it was my turn, the words demanded to be said. The Universe moves us as it will.