Even though I’m aware of the spiritual principle of relying on our inner selves and divinely ordained sovereignty to create our positively inclined reality, I’m finding that’s a whole lot easier to do when it’s a sunny day.
There have been very few sunny days here of late. The typical summer weather of Santa Barbara is on full display – May gray, June gloom. Foggy, damp, depressing.
If the sun were shining, I would be in the garden with my skinny trowel, ridding the newly planted drought tolerant “lawn“ of the remnants of the old invasive grass.
But I have zero desire to brave that cold drizzle. Even the newspaper was soggy this morning (cost-cutting measure: eliminate plastic delivery sleeve. Require management to drive a dry copy to multiple residences).
Enthusiasm and a pleasant sense of industry are apparently dependent on sunshine, at least for me, at least in this moment.
This in fact illustrates my current view of the world: it’s very hard to feel a sense of pleasant industry and anticipation when those who control the outer world refuse to relinquish their dominance and continue to stomp right and left over the pitiful dregs of human liberty.
Case in point: the governor of California, after promising that the state will fully open up and most Covid restrictions will expire on June 15, has reneged.
He’s keeping his emergency powers and probably will continue to rule with autocratic decree until he is deposed by recall in the fall – many months away.
So darn close. In a little over a week, I was anticipating the delights of going freely everywhere without a mask, and the plexiglass barriers coming down, and the red tape marks — the stigmata of social distancing — being ripped off linoleum and concrete everywhere. Buh-bye, and good riddance!
The sunshine of my anticipation has become the wretchedness of gray drizzly fog.
On Simon Parkes’s blog today, he posted a short and slightly cryptic note, “So Close…” He says,
It has become rather boring the number of people who have said — “We’re nearly there,” or “It’s nearly happening…”
But today I am now saying that indeed it’s so close, and I’m expecting something very soon to make it into the mainstream.
The first week in June was a partial success, now we just need it to complete so it breaks into mainstream media. (simonparkes.org)
(It’s fairly safe to assume Simon is talking about the release of emails from Dr. Fauci documenting his blatant duplicity with respect to the origins of the virus and his overall Covid response, e.g., privately tells colleagues that masks are useless, but tells U.S. citizens they must wear them to be “safe.” Here’s a good overview from Tucker Carlson of Fox News, posted on Charlie Ward’s website: https://tinyurl.com/yprjmfkm.)
I realize it’s not healthy to allow my equilibrium to be affected by the words I read, the opinions I hear, or the proclamations of the “duly elected” ruler of the little fiefdom I inhabit called California.
There is no insider who is one hundred percent reliable one hundred percent of the time. In that way, there’s a deep similarity to channeled works.
Both the insiders (the ones that I would call the good guys, those who aren’t in it to gain notoriety) and the channels tend to say: don’t take our word for it. Do your own research.
The channelers frequently add, Check in with your own intuition, your inner knowing. Your higher self. However you access your connection with Source. That is where your truth is.
Truth or lies, or something in between. We choose what we want to believe.
After moping around and scowling at the fog for awhile, common sense trickles in. All right, it’s a gray, foggy, wretched-looking day. I’m cold. What can I do about it?
A few brain cells stir, and I think to turn on the furnace. It roars reassuringly, and warm air begins to pour from the vents.
I walk around the house to get the blood circulating a bit.
I pet my cats. I think about eating some breakfast.
This, I think, is the equivalent of making my own sunshine.
For a moment I imagine the governor of California. He’s probably dining on eggs Benedict and sipping $100-a-bottle champagne in a fancy restaurant with linen tablecloths and sterling flatware, or perhaps at a polished banquet table in the governor’s mansion.
Friends and political cronies fill the Sunday brunch atmosphere with well-bred murmurs of the latest gossip and political intrigue. Fresh roses fill the Waterford vases. Obsequious waiters silently serve the piping hot, perfectly prepared viands.
As mandated by the man they are serving, they wear elegant black masks over noses and mouths.
And I imagine beneath the masks, those “servants“ making faces at the ruler of this little world.
Suddenly it doesn’t look quite so gray out there. A sense of humor is a wonderful form of sunshine.
I warm up my day-old blueberry muffin in the secondhand microwave that I scrounged from the curb a couple months ago after my old microwave broke. The kindly neighbor who had put the microwave at his front curb picked it up for me and put it in the back of my aging car.
The muffin is warmed to perfection. The crystallized sugar on top crunches sweetly against my teeth.
Somehow I don’t think Gavin Newsom‘s eggs Benedict will taste any finer than this.