Handwriting is the obvious expression of one's self esteem. I knew this when you first began to write but I did not help you. Your writing horrified me, possibly because it was like looking into your already broken heart.
The Mea Culpa Gospels
Of all the Eggs in all the Universes, you had to attach to mine. Of all the Souls in all the Universes, mine had to call to yours. Can we make this better together?
“Dear Zak - I had a dream revelation just now. ”
I saw you with poor self esteem since your boyhood. Your experience told you that time with you was not important. Your main adult role model, your mom, was a busy woman, looking for a husband to support a ready-made family. Your experience of "less-than" manifested in your terrible handwriting. Handwriting is the obvious expression of one's self. I knew this when you first began to write but I did not help you. I barely remember you. Nothing personal, darling, I don't remember myself then, either.
I apologize for my cavalier attitude toward your well being. I can see much better from my 68 year perspective than I could from my 28 and 38 and 48 year perspectives. I wish I could have been older for you so that you would not have had to lift me up to proper adult awareness, when you were too young to carry the load. I always knew I should have been staying when I was leaving you alone in dingy apartments. But I did it anyway. I was duly guilty, but I didn't care enough to take the bullet and give you what you needed.
I carried the same load. I am barely better than my parents, though. I suppose being relatively sober was a bit better, but I partied, I smoked, I fucked around (oh yeh, they did the "swinging thing" - Dude, it was the fabulous fifties, after all!). We were selfish assholes who had no interest in fostering the future of our species. Children were like party favors; funny and clever and to be left rumpled on dirty table tops for the cleaning crew after the revelers had departed.
My search for the parental cure took me where I needed to go. I poked and prodded and read and practiced and retried and tried again, to fix myself so I could fix my imprinted upbringing in the process. In a godless society, children find it nearly impossible to exceed their parents' achievements because the parents ARE the gods. In the Secular-Nuclear family parents are all we have. You and I were both raised by single mothers.
I have found the cure.
Forgiveness. I have forgiven them. Told them I love them. In so doing, I have allowed myself to be who I really am. Learning astrology turned the corner for me. When I saw my Mother's chart I understood how difficult it was to be her in her time. My handwriting still sucked.
I adored my Mother. She was my Everything. Watching her sicken and sour over time, slowly like a fresh falle apple bitten and sucked by bugs and birds. Now, I am she. All those years hating her effectively sucked her essence into every cell of my body. I embody her.
Now that I suffer from the same afflictions that she suffered, i have compassion for the moaning complainer that used to lie on the couch with her feet on top; wailing about "spinal stenosis and lordosis, blardy blar, blar". We all knew she was faking, right? When we all took pain meds together and the girls treated me like shit, I was experiencing how Jakey's life went down hill. We hated her. She was tragic. You and your family treated me just like I treated my own beloved mother. With disdain, disrespect, dismissal, distance. She was certified nuts, and so am I.
Handwriting Improvement Plan
As a young person my handwriting was lovely and lyrical. People complimented it frequently. In the 90s my handwriting went to hell. It was illegible and weird. I recently made the conscious choice to return to the days of yore when my handwriting was lovely, to make it the wiser version of my previous loveliness.
My handwriting analysis book said it would never be the same again and neither would I, if I attempted to change it. Simple awareness of my "hand" would literally change my mind and that would change my heart and the rest of me, too. So I proceeded to change, repeat, watch and alter until now, when suddenly, I am impressed by my letters on paper. They form words in a lyrical line that makes me smile. I want to do it again! So I practice until very recently, i realize...
These letters come from my state of being, not singularly from my mind or exclusively from my physical hand. These letters emerge from my soul. Writing by hand allows my spirit to emerge. I show up on the paper. it is a blueprint, and I created it. on purpose.
I love it now.
I take great pains to make it just so, to the point of repetition. Pete Peterson lettered plans and ledgers like an artist. I loved to watch him write. Janet Bray Peterson was left handed and scribbled horribly, but she could draw a likeness of you in fifteen minutes or less.
If you write every day, you will understand yourself. If every day, you notice how to improve certain aspects, step by step, you will improve yourself and be proud again, for real, instead of just for show. I know in your heart how lost you must feel now.
I did not fix my past.
You often told me how I fixed my broken past. That is untrue. Yesterday, when you said that, I was still imposing my broken past on you. It broke and the contents spilled out on your short little body, because you were still so young and short. Now you are old and tall, struggling to scrape the last bit of ancestral spit-up from your shirt front possibly with a broken stick
We Came From Different Situations.
I was raised in Middle Class Privilege. You were raised in poverty. I was raised a snob and a racist. You were raised as a liberal idealist, underprivileged and low class. I was proving a point at your expense. I was proving that you don't have to be rich to be good. I was political even when I did not know I was political. In the meantime I rejected my family's offer to send me to college because I wanted to go out and start living my own life, on my own, a helpless girl, a ready victim of circumstance. I dragged you down with me. I believed I was a righteous seeker, but Truely righteous seekers are lonely Archetypes without impressionable children. In other words I was a shitty provider. I always wanted to be a man, but my huge tits got in the way and my wet pussy didn't help either.
We have in common.
I was raised without a future, like a grasshopper who dies in the fall. So were you. It is hard to give a shit about anyone who depends upon you when you are certain that they and you will be dead tomorrow. It is actually harder than anything because you feel so blind and helpless watching them flounder in the surf dragged down below the surface by devouring sea predators as yet unnamed.
Only you can love yourself enough.
You have the Scorpion energy at your core. Your willful poisonous tail reaches up to sting the frog that is carrying you across the river. As you both drown, the frog asks,
"Why did you sting me? Now we both die." you answer wisely,
"Why did you trust a scorpion? Blurp."
You and your wife are scorpions together. Trashing each others' lives, literally and figuratively speaking. I can only describe what I see from the distance of time and space. A long way ago. The intention here is strictly visionary, not insult.
My Scary World
I see my parents' marriage in yours. B is Jakey. Did you ever meet your grandmother Janet Ann Bray Peterson? Well, you have been married to her for 20 years, so I can tell right now you know her intimately. She was charming and bright. Talented and capable until her marriage killed her soul. My father was a good guy. Full of joy. She stung him and dragged him under the river with her. She took his soul with her the day he placed the pillow over her sleeping, drooling face and ended her. He died six weeks after her. That is how I know what happened the night she lay snoring behind him
He was loyal and loving to her even in death because he died 6 weeks later as he knew that he would. She was 54 and he was 59. They loved each other. I grew up praying for their divorce. I could see their separation as a healing for both of them, that I adored. Some may find it a romantic tale. The scorpions all appreciate that sort of tragedy. I forgive it. I accept it. I love it. I share it with you, my beloved sleeper. You were always the better sleeper.
I adored my God and Godessa.
They were my beacons. They taught me to be fearless in the face of life, in spite of having offered me up to it, unprepared. So my darling, this is how you were also offered up to fiends like Roger and Ed. But you were also given to "Ski-er Bob" and "Massage Dude Fraser". That was good for all of us, until he bailed and I brought you "Greasy-Cowboy boot Dude". We met in a bar. As Granny used to say, "Oh dear me!"
You were not created alone.
You come out of a long tradition of Mystery School leaders, teachers and healers. The Shamanic journey requires your suffering, otherwise, how can you heal others? You cannot learn to repair if nothing is broken. I can only tell you the story of what was and advise you as to how I have dealt with the journey on my own. I have had many wise helpers in my day. I have not reached this gentle place alone and it took all my courage to leave you. I promise you; this is not Blardyblar. This is True.
Write on paper every day.
I urge you to write on paper every day. find a pen you like and any paper bag or receipt and fill it with your "hand". Then observe it and do it again. I guarantee it will change you. It will bring you to your center. Find your Center. You can't help others until you find it. You can't care for others if you can't care for yourself.
Find yourself on the paper. You struggles and your failures are on the paper. Your esteem is there. Allow your body to write. Let your mind relax and your "hand" take over. It is magical. You are magical.
I love you, dear man!
Mea Maxima Culpa,