Personal interests and observations that have almost nothing to do with the New Age or the ancient Maya but are still imbued with Natural Time synchronicities
I created this section of my website for basic, impromptu blogging: my experiences in Natural Time that don’t fit into daily or wavespell-oriented augury but want passionately to be expressed. I buried this section at the dead end of a bookmark bar and gave it a quixotic title, so if you found it, it’s only because you’ve looked over my site exhaustively and still seek more. Then, I hope it’s a gem that inspires – which is how I qualify art when I encounter it in the world.
Every Blue Storm year is an election year in the United States. This year, it’s an election that seems worldwide in its reach. It’s a situation that pushes my Natural Time practice into abeyance, so that my first thoughts when I wake any given day are not where I’ve arrived in the Tzolkin, but a remembrance that I am a woman, in the last clutch of patriarchal society.
We each have had a response that’s uniquely instinctual to the election results of Yellow Crystal Seed, in the Self-Existing moon of the Blue Spectral Storm year. The way American patriarchy splays its imperious, violatory accusations allows an array of ethnicities, races and gender identification to respond as if attacked, degraded, hated.
I am a woman, and a Blue Overtone Storm. So when I wake to the remembrance that I live in a hostile, ignorant – and I’ll even dare to say wrong-minded – socio-political milieu, I summon a fierceness that has never before taken root in me. While I have been victimized at several junctures by sexual predation and abuse, I feel now I have survived it, and am empowered to fight back from that strength.
This to me defines the core of the Blue Spectral Storm year. People are being allowed to feel the truth of their own convictions, without backing down. Factually, a multitude of angry, self-described victims voted for a leader who promised to institutionalize their wrath, so they empowered their own beliefs in a powerful statement of self-preservation. They wanted to tear down the existing bastions of public policy and civil service, and so the surge of a 13-year wavespell crashed into whitewater.
Others with less to lose, it would seem, didn’t vote, didn’t care as much as those who felt disenfranchised. I cared a lot. I cared for the women in my family who have been waiting, my grandmother being 98 and my mother 74. I cared for the women in my family, in waiting: my daughters, 18 and 22, who are also legal Mexican and Native Americans.
Where were the African-Americans? They didn’t have the interest as when Obama was involved. But I had the interest, the care on their behalf, and voted passionately for Obama’s presence as the emblem of the end of slavery. That is a woman’s nature, to offer support and compassion. There is not always reciprocity, and that’s familiar to women, as well. In every race and class, women are subjugated to patriarchal attitudes of supremacy. I feel as flinty as steel from watching how once again women were sacrificed.
So the storm I am surges, and the year surrounding my own storm self has its own voracious will to flatten what it finds in its path. Feminine nature is more like a mountain than a skyscraper, unlikely to be altered. Any human can posit that they are part of the planet rather than the passing moods of the sky. In this way we can seize our place in the current swirling destiny, and in some sense be still. I love the analogy in every Blue Storm day, wavespell or outlying year, of finding the center where it’s most calm.
This particular spread of words is for me to gutturally reveal my anger, my frustration, my pain, my retreat from the crowd of the human condition in order to only assess my own experience. I can’t handle the disappointment of the masses, nor the delusion. I just have to sit on dirt, a couple of times a day, and beg for peace and presence to come into my body. I am not there yet. I am fierce with friction, ready to blame or counter-assault anyone who would diminish my feeling response to this latest blow to feminine power – which is only trying to assert itself in equality.
Natural Time, if we must mention it for this to be relevant on my Mayan calendrical site, is couched in the origin of feminine divinity. Everything starts in the vessel of Red Dragon, the sacred, oceanic womb. I have found White Wind days and White Wind people intolerable for a while, a year or so. That is the celebration of the father, air and sky brought into each infant at birth, their first oxygenated breath. It’s ‘reality’, instead of closeness and dependency (co-dependence) in their mother’s womb. It’s not the fantasy of always being merged and intimate, but a brusque reminder there is space between people, difference. And so often men elongate the space, or masculine attitudes do, to situate many of us to feel also abandoned.
The resurgent mother comes like a cloak to warm and shelter us. That’s what I’m watching for, these days. It’s become so obvious to me she’s needed, that I am ready to throw out the male assignation of divinity – ‘He, Him’ – once more. I don’t declare there is only a female god, but that consideration of there being both feminine and masculine divinity must become internalized in me, so I can lean into Her for support and reassurance when the air is thin with lies and bluster.
I will thank Hillary Clinton for standing up within the witch hunt. She is White Galactic Worldbridger and I will never be sold by liberal ideologues that she lacks integrity because it is her Galactic nature to live by the Golden Rule. I will note that ‘stronger together’ still means something to me, in her stead. There’s a Trumpist t-shirt monger who has made a batch with the taunt, ‘Still with her?’ Yes, I am! Especially as I write from the White Worldbridger wavespell that began the day after her concession speech.
I have been playing with the phrase, ‘Be still with her.’ It’s an instruction, of course, with a few angles. Be still and know, with her. Be still, at the center of the year’s storm. I so wish this woman peace and quietude, who was not allowed to win and be equal in worth, to be better than, making America greater than it ever has been or could be without women in power.
For a long time my path in Resonant Truth, and Natural Time, was an inner seeking of divinity, and a fortress against the average human life offered to me in this incarnation. I come out of childhood trauma, and instilled patterns of suffering have taken on a will of their own since I came of age. I know how to put myself in harm’s way, because it’s a touchstone of early violation. And I have been a rampant, reeling self-abuser in my own denial, by my own design.
My orientation to the Mayan calendars as reinterpreted by Jose Arguelles changed in the afterbirth of the lauded 2012 Winter Solstice, when all eyes were focused on Mayan prophecy and seemingly nothing happened. I felt relieved to be away from scrutiny and assessment of my spiritual practice from a hoard of onlookers, and so many characterized the passage as ‘the end of the Mayan calendar’ so they also assumed there were no further day signs to follow, wavespells to surge and fall. I spent that luminous day, Blue Crystal Hand, edging up the steep coastal range above my hometown, aching with blisters, invigorated by strange light aspects in the sky, and ultimately consumed by the darkness of the year’s shortest day. Famously, in my own personal folklore, I didn’t attend a meaningful fire ceremony, a countercultural circle of spiritual purpose. Rather, I recovered from the hike on the couch, watching a documentary about a racecar driver who died on his last ride, and yet in legend he lived on to be the focus of my meditative attention. There is no clear end, was the prophetic refrain.
I don’t have constituents or clients in the number of so many New Age sages. I don’t care enough about translating this spiritual practice to auditorium crowds or sessions that cost the same as attorney fees. I care in the other direction, a contrary opposition to that way of teaching metaphysics and mysticism. With my time away from trumpeting Natural Time at the heyday of the Mayan prophecy portal, I have turned back to normalcy, as best I can embody it. I am essentially healing myself back into humanity, from strange turns that started my young life by the description of sexual abuse. It’s much more interesting to me, of the Blue Storm tribe, to see and embody change, than to try to gain stasis, whether in terms of material comfort or grandiose reputation.
Lately, I feel in the passage since Winter Solstice 2012, approaching four years gone, I simply have done the preparatory work necessary for the fiercely troubled time of the Blue Spectral Storm year. I spent the last 10 years, starting in Red Magnetic Moon, recovering memory of my incest experience, and attempting to purify my body and soul of its karma. That means mostly undoing the aftershock, the ways I quake myself into new trauma as I try to manage the reverberation of the original wounding. I have these self-destructive coping mechanisms that seek to suffocate an old rampant ache, and I must attend to their undoing, replacing them with self-caring attitudes and activities, with daily rigor.
Natural Time still is my anchor to earth, to each arising day. I color my life with its primary hues. But I am in the world, connecting to suffering I recognize, seeking stability from those who have it more strongly, echoing their refrains of spiritual purpose, being of service to those who feel in a small way saved when my story is the same as theirs, no different.
As a woman, right now, I am finally in the heart of darkness. I have had so much empathy and care and concern for the obviously downtrodden, whether it is a collection of sick cats trapped in residence with an animal hoarder, or a whole race of humanity in Black Lives Matter, not to mention every heartfelt boyfriend. My compassion stemmed from recognition of others’ hardship rattling my own bones, the chronic ache of disrespect of my own femininity, from within and without. I wanted to save others in order to salvage my own worth.
Right now, though, there’s no necessity for a triangulated triage. Everything is simpler as sexism emerges from its semi-closeted status to become stark. I don’t have to care for others as a way to care for myself, to fight for them because I need to be protected, to be angry at mistreatment of anyone but my kind, which is the female trauma survivor. She is not so different than the male, by any stretch, except in likelihood farther ahead in the pursuit of purification – and compacted in her healing by the frequency of a patriarchal culture throwing more blows even when her heart is returned to peace.
I have sought to forgive, and within that, to forget. But as soon as I am relieved of my own memories of abuse, I see more clearly another’s. I am interested in all aspects of suffering, and its release. But I am not interested in denial that suffering exists and is spread by wretched impulses of vengeance, blame and instinctual self-preservation. I am interested equally in seeing how I exact suffering on others, and how I allow it to suffuse my own being because I don’t have yet an adequate shield of protection.
The posts that arise now at Resonant Truth are not specifically about the Tzolkin day names. I’m 17 years into my daily practice and it’s almost rote, what each tribe and tone offers. I am in wilder terrain with the Mayan code as my tether, but I want to see through more than one prism. I am deeply entranced by women rising up now, the potential for unification where I have myself fought in competition, pitted against my own kind. I don’t have any abstract answer to how we might arrive at headlines like ‘equality’, ‘autonomy’ and ‘empowerment’, but I know I need to put distance between myself and my old learned feminine identification as deficient, worthless and crazy, as trouble.
It’s ultimately perhaps a reclamation of indigenous female power and presence, to be feline-fierce and wear the feathers of the brightest male birds. I don’t want to hide behind a slouched posture of shame, a rigid stance of likely breakage. I want to be fluid like the river, like the rain. And immoveable as a mountain rooted to the great feminine presence of our earth.
And as I practice Natural Time reflection and worship every day, throughout my day, unfailingly, in my life, I will seek now to add the ambience of feminist passion, the fight for gender equality. Through this Blue Spectral Storm year, and until the next Blue Storm year arises. And laced through further Blue Storm instances until the cracking black sky returns us to light. Even as our very presence here as incarnated beings ensures that there will always be shadows on earth, that I will create darkness with my own corporal body as I seek the sun’s warmth. This is the beautiful polarity of the feminine nature, where we hold in our vital bodies death at ever menstrual release, life when it makes a home in our womb.
Right now, I feel gutted by societal disarray, yet blood loss is so achingly familiar. I can feel in the same instance we are seeding the next birth of feminine power, and it will arrive 260 days after the sordid Election Day of November 8, 2016 – when the next Natural Time year begins on July 26, 2017 in the same Tzolkin day name of Yellow Crystal Seed.
My current revelation is already well worn into me, but I haven’t shared it with the world at large. It was two years ago at Christmas that I decided to happen into a church service, inspired by meeting a Catholic man with whom I had so much in common, I was curious to know if we could be considered divergent based solely on our separate spiritual paths.
I attended a slew of masses in a centuries’ old mission in Santa Barbara, built on the backs of all but enslaved local Native Americans. I had been following this mystical Mayan prophecy for so many years, I sank into the pews feeling like an ancient indigenous person broken by colonial Catholicism. I had been alone on my path – other than the online circuitry of Resonant Truth – for such a long spell, I was relieved to practice a faith with others. Like an original Mayan, in my imagination, receiving a Biblical teaching for the first time, I chose to share a concept of god with other humans instead of standing alone as a nearly sole survivor of an esoteric spiritual discipline. I thought seriously of conversion and became enamored with the most basic Christian message of devout love and connection. It really didn’t resonate as different from Natural Time: I am another yourself.
I had, through years following wavespells and categorizing people by their Mayan birth astrology, found a way to be encompassing and accepting, of recognizing the valid differences between people as well as feeling connected by that foundational Natural Time adage that you are my other me. I could absolutely embrace and appreciate rigorous Catholics and was drawn in particular to the Franciscan monks who resided at the mission and made Christianity their entire life’s framework in a way that mirrored my passion for the Mayan cycles. I relied on their austerity and rigor to enhance my own spiritual growth. And I did have my mind blown by Christian rituals and the aura of Christ pervading every stanza of the New Testament. I loved him, this old mythological hero that etherically dwells in every believer. I felt him next to me, a constant companion, and then within me, embedded in my heart.
The man who had inspired my foray into churchgoing told me that my Mayan prophetic inclinations went against Biblical tenets and teachings, was dangerous to his spiritual constitution. I didn’t see him anymore. But I kept going to daily morning mass, trusting that he was a messenger pointing me towards unity with the one of the most universal religions. Meanwhile, he fell into great personal disarray in the same window, and I suspected that the closed minds of some Christians disallow them from being seekers, too stagnant in their spiritual principles. I couldn’t cite in Biblical terms where his study of Christianity had stymied him into suffering, but I could tell, from the Mayan perspective, that he as a White Planetary Mirror was caught in endless earthly self-sacrifice, prone to have his heart gutted in the most public way, unless he embraced the opposite Tzolkin archetype of Yellow Star: a fearless devotion to natural beauty as it shines in the heavens – uncomplicated, everlasting and available to every open eye, the world around.
True Christianity is very Yellow Star. The cross looks like a glinting spangle, and Jesus’ birth was hallmarked by ancient magicians who traveled under the celestial span to welcome his arrival. He was himself a superstar, his bright legacy transcending millennia and crossing both continents and oceans, overtaking other religious dogma, inspiring offshoots that both muddy his teachings and crystallize them. He was a carnal god, a fallen star that stayed aflame and lit ways to walk on this earth. I can’t think of a better way of being human than his.
I took a long time away from ResonantTruth.com because humanity as it expresses itself in the Internet world is very hyper-critical and egocentric. I sit before a machine and announce my various proclamations to the world, enthroned in my own perspectives and insinuating for you to follow. My opinions are paramount, as are visual images of my life’s unfolding. See me, hear me. I started to feel infantile in how I showed up in the world. I took a long break.
I needed the time to discover if I was truly a disciple of the Mayan cycles, or if I were more broadly just a seeker. Since the message across all the lines of spirituality I’ve encountered is the same, of love, could I forego this commitment to an almost lost mysticism and be in the mainstream with the nearly world-dominant Christians?
No. I discovered no, I couldn’t. Because the foundation of cultural Christianity – the way it manifests in churches and in many personal practices – is not that different than typical Internet expressions of opining and oversharing. I need more quietude and active humility than much of church-going Christianity inspires. I like to think of Christ the way he was, trekking over empty desert expanse between townships of terribly sick and lost sufferers, with that magical ability to heal, work miracles. He was not cloistered in a parish but nomadic, stormy, impelled by his convictions, his divine destiny. I just love his essence, and I do so like a celebrity-worshiping teenager: gaga, in a mania, because he offers something star-like to burn through my darkness.
But I need the Mayan cycles to be anything like him: forgiving, accepting, seeing, persevering, courageous, vitally alive, in love with life’s unfolding, which includes a portion of suffering. I need to feel the godliness in everything, but I have to also be aware of the ungodliness that fights against divinity, reviles it. The Mayan teachings identify the shadows that are cast by light. Living a shadow-free life as much plastic Christianity coaches is unrealistic and selfish, what I call hogging the light and pushing others into the dark spaces like a ruthless game of musical chairs. I have to live with understanding of both polarities to be whole.
The Mayan cycles mitigate constant darkness with flashes of light, and infuse shade into the piercing, blinding glare. We can get lost in the light, maybe a false source like electricity which in human experience can be religious conviction and perfectionistic infallibility. Personally, I am much more prone to lose my way in the dark. Yet the Mayan indigenous expression has taught me over and over that moods of despair or ill temper are just a dark night of the soul, and ultimately the sun will rise, a godhead returned to warm my heart.
Christ understood suffering. He embodied it. He claimed to be taking on our suffering so we could be released of it. I haven’t tried hard enough to turn my own pain over to god. I still wear it many days like a mantle. When people go into a spiritual temple and see a castigated hero hanging from a cross, memorialized in an anguishing death, I believe they – like me – say: there I am. His pain is a gateway to his prophecy. I arrived in church these recent years and sat in the pews long enough to understand that Christ died in anguished martyrdom over a few days of a lifetime, but he served and was strong for all the others. His message is of vitality, grace and the power of faith. In the house of his holiness, I healed my broken heart that had nothing to do with that Catholic man, or any human failure. It was a heart shattered by sacrifice, such as the Mayan ritual on a White Mirror day. I learned to limit that scope of suffering to such a small percentage of my life as Jesus, and to make spirituality the spine of my daily existence, as he suggested.
But I choose or was chosen to express that spirituality in the language of the lost Maya – lost like Christ, therefore immortal, available for resurrection in my beating heart. It’s a lonely road. His was, possibly. I don’t expect or have any need for Natural Time to be the next New Testament. I think it’s more likely to be dying out than ascending into prominence. But it’s alive in me, and I express the magic and mysticism it brings me as an act of gratitude, an offering of art. I don’t like the Internet part, even though it connects us now, and I’m not sure I am even at ease with my own human proclamations of the Mayan calendar cycles – certainly I’m in a pulpit or on a pedestal in many moments when I would rather be as humble as Christ and his best disciples.
Yet I feel called. And if you’ve read this long treatise, you’ll know that I am integrating nowadays one of the world’s grandest and notable religions into my daily dreaming of the Mayan calendars. Unification and integration are concepts I wish to embody: In Lak’ech.