The suffering self leaves the driving seat


The eye was very painful the whole night until ca 5am. There were coagulated  morsels and strings of something that looked like resin around the eye.
“Infection”  said intuition.

I asked myself what I wanted with this creation.*** There were many layers: there were definitely perks with going through pain and being a good girl, i decided that it certainly  justified wine etc. afterwards.

And this identity is, as most of my readers here will have noticed, A HUGE part of  my identity – what I call ME.

I looked at the wine bottle on the kitchen sink and realized that choosing wine and “comfort” I had completely identified with that wrong-minded identity. “My” justification was ” But I DESERVE it.”

Which I is that? The separated one. The suffering one. The small self. And I was radiantly aware of myself as a role – beliefs I have taken on through parents, teachers, ancestors, society – in short, the world.

I had taken her on, like an old costume -I had NOT acknowledged the Self in me who had experienced the great realizations under the knife. By choosing to tell myself “I DESERVE this now” I had failed to see  that this suffering-me believes that suffering MAY at least justify being comforted. That is her perk

Which is really a cost!

And of course, that victim -identity can have infections.
I know that my true I cannot.

As long as I mainly identify with this girl, I will never wake up.

I realize that I chose that suffering identity last evening who took her comfort from wine and food. And that is why the eye hurt so much and looked so infected.

It was my thinking that was infected. The thoughts themselves are neutral – but the moment I attach an I am to the thoughts, I have declared it to be my identity.

I reached out to my Way of Knowing-group on Facebook and asked for prayers –  for affirmation of my true Self, my true I/eye.

Within 1/2  hour my eye healed. ♥ Pains gone. Slightly red, but no more gunk oozing out. What an enormously important lesson I gave myself: you HAVE inner parts/patterns – meaning, they are in your soul as memories – but I AM the One Who chooses what I will identify with. To be aware of the little one and comforting her is so very different from believing I AM her.

 

*** In “the Way of Knowing” by Jeshua, channeled by Jayem, Jeshua teaches us that as sovereign souls we create our response to everything that happens to us. When we make choices out from the separated self, we choose out of fear and anger and confusion, and we may choose to “suffer to atone for sins.” Choosing from Self is always choosing to see with Christ’s vision – looking for the eternal Love within the perpetrator.

 

 

 

comfort

 

 

 

Blue is Playing

Blue is my inner guide on my journey to remembering my Self. He truly enjoys playing  – giving me hilarious synchronicities, as Jung names them.

I have my alarm clock set to nine am, and yesterday I turned the alarm off. Still, this morning it alarmed! It is a type that sounds the alarm 50 times before it stops. I  picked it up and looked at it – and it was set to OFF. I said, “now listen.You are not supposed to  sound the alarm when I have turned you to off.”

It stopped in the middle of two repetitive signals. If it had had a face, it would have blushed.

Now, how many of you will believe this? I wonder. Maybe the ones who have followed me for 6 years.  So maybe ONE 🙂 The rest of you may laugh as loud as you want. But I tell you, I would not have lasted as long as I have without “synchronicities” as this as long I worked on When Fear Come Home to Love – ca 25 years, without Blue dishing out these weird and wonderful syncs I have called Blue is Playing. You may write it in the search field to find more.

Now, the reason he does this is – to me – who is a sucker for symbols and looking at the world as a reflection of my mind – the reason is, that I have now understood that “setting the alarm” points to me continuously playing out disaster-thinking: I have black belt in it. I find myself continuously imagining new (or old ones), painting them out in details and feeling them in my body. And lately, I have watched me like a hawk and swooped down on them really fast – within a second or two – AND I have also told my mind that I now choose to turn that  old defense off.

Like last night.

That’s why it blushed, you know. The alarm clock.

OK, one more:

I read in A Course in Miracles: “I have created all I see.” I look out the window: there are two boys passing the window, and one of them has exactly the same clothes as the costume I made to a very famous marionette my husband made: Titten Tei.

Here he is with Julie Andrews, visiting Norway – terrible quality, but still…he is talking to JULIE ANDREWS, people.

So…the Titten Tei’s voice and puppet-player  died some years ago, so now he hangs on my wall with his little violin.

Ah. You see how clever I have been I hope. Not to mention my passed husband who in fact crafted the doll and his marvelous spunky spirit, together with Birgit Strøm.

Nough about that – here is another Blue is Playing:

I walk to the Culture Hall and tell myself inside:” I love myself  as I am now.”

The girl in the cafe has a white T- shirt with black writing: ” I love myself just as I am now.”

I know. Not very likely.

OK the last one – a notch more plausible:

I sit in the bus and pray silently ( aren’t you happy I do it silently):

“Lord, let me see with Your eyes, Your ears… and so on. I don’t think he has a body, though – but symbolically, he might see and hear, i have decided.” I look up, a big van is passing it has a logo with big black letters: “Thirst for the best.”

You have to admit that was a nice one.

Puppet on a String

Welcome everybody! Take a seat. You too, father, I want you to sit down. This is not your group, you are not leading it.

Everyone: the task today is to notice your judgments about what is going to happen here – and see if you can let them go. If not, just notice that you want to keep it.

Yes, it is dark in here. No father, you really has nothing to say in here. And Ian – I will not have you lecture me on all I do wrong.

Out of the blue, a vast storm of meanness and vicious rancid lecturing, invectives and sewer language spews out of me. And then, my judgments: Ohmygod now you all see what a klutz I am, I can’t even find adult words, no control, no control at all how utterly pitiful…

Then the evening show starts:

On the wall, behind Father’s Chair, stage lights are appearing under the roof. A small girl – just a toddler – is suspended by a line and a hook that is slided from left to right. She is also bumped up and down, like in a mini-bungee – jumping as she slides toward the end of the line

This can’t be right? She’s just a little girl – where are the theater workers who set this up? No – where is the cruel director? How can they treat a small child like that?

Sit still, group, I will take care of it

“I am right here below you – if you fall, I will catch you “

Without a word she lets me know that she will proceed to the end of the line.

Her costume is cream and white – so delicate – she is one I love with all of me. As she is jumped from left to right, she becomes older – at the end of the line she is about 13 – and I watch her suddenly freeze to ice. There is no child present now – just frozen terror in a child’s form.

I loosen the hook and take her in my arms. I look her gently in the eyes, and gradually she comes back into the body and says, dreamingly “It is so strange how I suddenly became terrified.”

“You forgot that you were just a character in a play” I tell her, and we sit down in Fathers Chair. “You thought you were this girl on a string.”

“Is it over now? “ she asks.

“I have you now” I say. “You are my little girl, you know.”

My father’s face darkens. He looks away, and black puke violently pours from him. I remind the group to watch their judgments and let them go. Let it be. Let the black vomit come out. Let him purge himself.

It is shame. We all know it is. We have all been there. Eons of black asphalt dung shame. Its acidity erodes a hole in the floor, and he disappears down into it.

Or does he? There is a young man standing where The Father stood. An easel with a large canvas is before him, and he start to paint with precise strokes. He knows his excellence as painter.

We see:

Heaven. Vast and calm ocean, not even a slight ripple, mirrors the sky.Horizon almost invisible. Small white rowboat with two persons: father and daughter. Silently fishing on the big ocean of awareness

Pesta

Yesterday I was led to Pamela Wilson. On this website she suggests that instead of asking ourselves “who am I”, we ask our “parts” “who are you?

Quote:

“Now, if we are not who we are, how come everything else is who they are? Wouldn’t it make more sense to say, “Well, if I’m not my role, maybe nothing else is its role.”

And rather than wondering what that role is, just ask it directly, “Who are you?” It’s so much faster than trying to figure it out.

You don’t ask it, “Who am I?”

One of thought’s functions is to project onto you, because you have no form. It has to come up with projection after projection, and just in case you relax out of your role it has to create an diversion, quickly.

So ask it, “Who are you?”

Curiosity is the way wisdom gets revealed inside. It is the forerunner of wisdom. Curiosity arises and, if you sit with it, connected right underneath is the wisdom. They are not two.”

Yesterday I sat with “something” that wanted to justify its constant anger. I welcomed it in, and opened my heart completely to it. “It” felt so loved. I felt so much love.

This morning, the usual leg-cramps and tensions were intolerable. I remembered to ask this “something” that was the source of this agony who it was. It answered: “I am Plague.”

Here is an image of her:                 Drawn by Theodor Kittelsen. In 1348, the plague came to               

Norway. It took 60% of the population. As a child, i  was drawn into Kittelsen’s evocative images of strange beings and trolls and figures from Norwegian folklore. Pesta ( a nickname of  the Plague) has a broom and she brought horrible sufferings and deaths – and nobody was saved where she visited.

So now I talked to something in my mind that called itself Pesta – something/somebody that believed in the role of the bringer of death.

Abysmal loneliness. Hatred of itself and everybody who fear and hated it. A belief that this was a role that was given to it and that it had to take – nothing else was available for this, not possible.

I invited it to sit with me, and it did. I gave a willingness to be wrong in the minds decision to choose to identify with such a role. The warmth of truth was allowed to shine on it. It wanted nothing else than to be included in my mind, to just BE without being hated.

Each time I remember this “session” I feel deep release and relaxation.

And gratitude for the possibility to meet whatever who comes up to be blessed and seen, so the roles can slide off and I can see Life underneath the costume: just another forgiveness-opportunity. Not for Pesta – for my mind’s need for scapegoats for guilt.

costumes and masks

“The unpleasant feelings you are feeling are all different flavors of resistance. They are just masks – or requests for Love. Take off the ragged costume: just a little fear. Just a little resistance – just a little ignorance. Just see the light under it – just be willing to see it shining through.

That’s all that matters”

Please note that nothing written here is intended as medical advice. Readers who think that they need help with a physical or psychological condition are advised to seek a qualified opinion.

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