i’ll leave the light on and the key under the doormat

For a good many years now — and use of the term “good” could be debated — I have known myself to be a highly sensitive, empathic individual.

I have wept not only for myself, but for the world.

I have, within the confines of my own body and my own soul, carried, expressed, released and healed, the fears, wounds, and distress of group consciousness. When a friend (whose spiritual proclivities are aligned with a strict Biblical approach) looked at me in amazement and asked, Why would anyone possibly want to do that?, I told her simply that it was what I do and was neither to be praised nor damned.

I admit that I often wished the assignment might have come with a paycheck, but perhaps my paperwork got hung up in the, ahem, Human Resources Department.

There are others out there, many in fact, whose pathways have run parallel to mine. They carry a number of different labels, are vulnerable to an assortment of judgments, and, I am inclined to surmise, are now having an experience akin to my own.

Some will quickly understand what I am about to say, and others never will:

I am done with that and I am now reclaiming the life that I remember having long ago – though I can’t identify exactly when or where or how or why I lost the thread along the way. In fact, knowing no longer matters much.

My ability to see deeply into the hearts of others was factored in. Ditto the relative lack of functional models of healthy attachment with other humans, and a sense of alienation that hovered around my edges for most of my life, even as I moved in the outer world with an air of confidence and a basket overflowing with high-functioning skills and talents.

And now, I just want to have a life.

I have planted my roots in an unlikely yet eminently hospitable place for what I need, and I feel the contentment it brings.

I am about to own my home for the first time in decades, amid a wafting of grace laced with excrutiating patience and deeply sought grounding. For weeks, I have been clearing other people’s dead wood in my yard, and of course, have excavated my own, and the beauty of the bare canvas that is emerging enthralls and elates me. Not one single metaphor escapes notice.

Now I will visit Home Depot ( a mere 150 miles away) and pick out a sledge hammer and a pitchfork and a power drill of my very own and sip from the Holy Grail as it is offered. Questions have been asked; answers received.

Chances are I won’t be posting here for some while (or even longer) – and perhaps not even in this format. Check back now and then; there may be surprises in the offing. Subscribers will still be notified when something new appears.

While cyberspace has afforded me the opportunity to meet some truly wonderful people (like you, perhaps?), I would much prefer to meet you in person, in a proximity that enables us to share our music, our art, our words and our songs — as well as a heartbeat, a wink, a nod, knowing smiles and, of course, a well-placed kiss or two.

For now, I would rather swim awash in paint color samples and ponder life’s profound questions, including “Will these 100-year-old floor joists support an old claw-foot bathtub?”, “Is this 300-mile round trip to the Habitat for Humanity ReStore truly necessary?”, and of course, “How did I ever end up with 4,000 used books in my garage — and what if I want to pull the Jeep in during a hailstorm?”

I hope I have not disappointed those of you who signed up only recently to receive my new posts. There is much here, so feel free to explore. While a great deal of what I have written now bears the aroma of antiquity for me, it may feel new and fresh to you.

Feel free to comment still, or to email me via the Contact Me Now button (way down in the right-hand sidebar), though don’t feel slighted if you don’t receive a prompt, personal response. Words (even mine!) cannot express how profoundly I have been touched by your interest, comments, and wholehearted embrace of my creative work.

If you have inklings of wanting to visit the remote, rural American Southwest in all its dry, dusty, and drought-stricken grasslands grandeur, pull on your boots, drop me a line, and get on down the road!

Remember the lines from the classic movie, Field of Dreams? “Is this Heaven? No, this is Iowa.” Well, I’m not in Iowa, but in my own way, I have most definitely forged my singular version of Heaven on Earth.

Know that, with courage of the heart and deep listenings to the stirrings of  your spirit, you can do the same.  Just let your Heart be your guide, Faith be your guidepost, and Love be your faithful companion.

Be Well, Be Whole,

Rachel