Twice this week I have been given a reference to fuel a vehicle. The first was being told that the earth elementals would like to help me, but they needed an offering to do so. The analogy was that they had a pickup truck, were completely on board to come help me, but needed me to cover the gas. The offering was a heartfelt prayer along with food, water, and intentional ritual. I followed the dogma, remaining curious to the technology that I was learning. It appeared to me that the offer was received.
The second, was from watching a video discussing the nature of free will. The young man was saying that free will doesn’t actually exist because the embodiment of spirit restricts the personality to a patterned set of behaviors. Only from the perspective of higher self is there freedom to be outside the patterns. The analogy he used was that our body is the car. It does no good for the higher self to say, “Okay car, you are free to go.” He described the ego as fuel for the car. He went on to suggest that it’s important that the fuel goes into the tank, and not in the driver’s seat.
It does no good for the higher self to say, “Okay car, you are free to go.” The ego is the fuel for the car.
The work.
This week was a kind of spiritual pinball game for me, maybe even the bonus round. It was as if each limited story from my past suddenly got dinged, lighting up old pains one at a time until the bigger pattern of the cycle was revealed.
I guess I win!
It is truly an amazing capacity for humans to experience the complete loss of internal peace from the replaying of an old pain. Once triggered, I felt the energy of the pattern rise out of the left side of my third chakra and create a sort of wall in front of my heart. And, oh the emotions that flooded in once the fear door was left open!
I felt hatred. So many years have passed without feeling that.
I felt humiliated. How could I be so stupid as to make this same mistake in judgement and be deceived again?
I felt disdain. I am an easy mark, and too simplistically minded, just like I was in the past. Always giving too much and being taken advantage of.
I felt entitled. I have brought so much to the table. What if I just take it away?
I felt despair. Life is all of what I was afraid of after all. Here is the evidence.
Currents of the old stories rose up, a retelling of the variables, but without being fully manifest this time. Almost like a homeopathic of my trauma.
The loss of the money. The debt. The loss of the dream. The loss of the home. The acknowledgment of needs not being met. The wandering desire. The question of my value. The death of my animal companion. Separation and redefining of family.
Bonus round.
How old was this story anyway? I started to see older patterns lighting up underneath the stories of my own past. Was this from my parents? Was this from their parents? How many generations of stories are underneath?
My father’s voice apologetically in my ear, “You are like me.”
Which thing dad? Your desire to build your dream and change the world? Your capacity to create community? Your entertaining wisdom? Your legacy of suicidal depression? Your inability to move past your beliefs of “how the world works.” Your deep and loyal commitment to your mate-both sheltering and inadvertently caging them? Your harsh and self-derogatory humility?
Did I mention that I miss you? That I wish I could talk this out with you, and that you could bring sense to it to make it fit this world? It was always the parts of me that were so much like you when you were lost for advice.
Wow. So. Much. Fuel.
If I let it drive, I’m going to burn my whole life down.
Religions and dogma have utility—like training manuals for how to use your car. Sometimes it helps to have someone else show you how to drive the damn thing.
I do remember that time when you were trying to teach me stick shift, dad, and I got so emotional from the pressure of “doing it right” that I got out of the car and left the car in the middle of the busy intersection. You were shocked, but you didn’t back down. You made me get back into the driver’s seat. Only then did you soften up on me. We made it home.
Most religions also have some practice of humility. The Zen practice of 108 prostrations is one that used to work well for me. So simple. No matter how you are feeling, just put your forehead on the ground. Just keep doing it until you are done. It was like a washing machine for my mind.
Lately, I’ve taken to calling for the grace of humility directly. Especially as this hatred, anger, and pride rise up toward others. And, especially if it is toward the ones that I love. This generally results in a sense of being on my knees and stripped bare of all of my fuel.
A friend spoke yesterday about the practice of “turning power, assertion, and anger to be directed for oneself, and not against an enemy.” Thank you Bill Burmester!
This time, can I keep my fuel?
Not abandon the car in the intersection?
Allow myself to feel this power rising up in me as the answer to my earth offering to gain more leverage on the material plane?
Maybe I’m in the earth element’s truck and they need my fuel?
I don’t hate anyone really.
Especially not the ones I deeply love, no matter what life might direct them to need, want, or do.
I want this energy to move down from my third chakra and into my core and my roots. To ignite the fireball of my gut and fuel my action.
It will strip me of my perceived limitations and likely of my perceived strengths. I willingly surrender these.
I want to anchor into the earth and let her cleanse me.
I feel my ancestors rise around me. Holding hands across the generations.
What kind of fuel is this?
Their pain, transformed to power. Lifting me off of the ground.
Holy Shit!
I suddenly need to figure out how to handle a 747!