Dissolving Illusions— A Process of Psychological Deprogramming

Fraught with fear, each of us has been the victim of deep programming that has taken place over the course of millennia. With our descent into this earthly plane, we have been sold this story of illusion where we were stripped of divine nature and placed into a universe that was somehow separate from us. Never mind that we contain all of the stuff that the universe is created from, no—we were sold this story of separation, creating disillusionment and amnesia of who we truly are.

Are you ready for remembrance?

Over the course of the past three years, I’ve been diving deeper into the spirituality of my native peoples. My forefathers and foremothers knew of no belief that created division but only of the One true Creator from which all of Creation derives. This Creator could be found mirrored in all of creation, as the patterns in trees modeled the pattern in human anatomy, veins coursing through taut skin make from earths dirt like roots running in the core of Gaia. A mirror of all of creation, reflections posing back up to the Creator. This spirituality forgotten the longer we stayed on this earthly plane and began to create the illusion of separateness through category, different symbols, language, culture and of course, race.

At the core of it all, we are all one, each seeking a place to call home. In their disillusionment, many may search for home in a place, a country, a temple or even a persons arms. Search we may, the answer is certain. As we continue to have this communal experience with everything in nature speaking back to us, our home is and has always been in the One from which we were never separate. In the One whom exists when all ceases to endure, when play ceases to continue and the curtains close. The witness, ever present and ever knowing.

The deprogramming is dissolving the illusion of separation created by egoic chains. The ego wishes to create this illusion of separateness to maintain the arrogant story of self-importance. In truth, we are important because we are One, not separate into fractal pieces each fighting for selfish power and domination. The infinite connection is a birthright known by our ancestors, a hidden truth they’d fought to understand. The true seeker understand that there is no truth to be sought. It has always been within, waiting to be recognized.

And so it has always been. We are here. We are whole. We are one.

Why Choosing Your Truth Leads to Success

How many times has your mind tricked you into choosing things, places and people out of fear of not being liked. Not fitting in. Not getting that job. Not being good enough.

Or perhaps being alone.

Are you tired of gaslighting yourself yet? Are you tired of always choosing others over you? Are you tired of turning away from deep intuitions, Gods simple blessings, the hunches that nurture you to your truest path? Are you tired of walking away from your highest good?

To be in a place of serving your highest good means to be in a place of nurturing ultimate fulfillment. It means to work toward your passion and purpose regardless of initial reward, dedicating yourself to honoring your truth, choosing a life of growth over comfort, expansion over contraction. It means deepening the relationship with yourself so that you can hear clearly the next step on your path. It means lingering in solitude long enough to hear the echo’s of Gods speech. And letting His speech vibrate through your being. That is what truth feels like. That is what choosing yourself feels like. Like Gods kisses are being placed along your spine. When waking up in the morning feels like a gift. When the earth and universe begin to nudge you in agreement, harmonizing with your existence. You are infinitely connected to the whole. Choose your truth.

Choose you.

Awakening the Wild Woman

As many times as I’d died, you think I’d be used to this feeling of rebirth. As I step into this new role, perhaps ancient identity—I find myself expanding in ways the physical eye cannot perceive.

I’d never enjoyed the idea of shrinking myself; of being quiet or silenced; of being docile and meek. Being raised by women daring to run against the grain to return to her nature, I’d been a witness to the unfolding process of the wild woman; as she leaves all that she has known to seek the bounty of the divine.

Marveling at the wild woman, I still feared her solitude as I captured her shadow, the isolation solidifying her lack of trust, turning one’s heart cold and speech bitter. The world shamed her for her lack of submission to patriarchal standards, maiming her an outcast of undeveloped community. She was ostracized, and in her exile was forced to nurture light in the midst of darkness. Her nature always frightened me– the threat of loneliness fastening tightly to my neck, going against my nomadic, communal nature. I ran away from the wild woman even as she beckoned me to a quiet patio to write tales of the divine, placing my forehead upon Gods plentiful earth, crooning in the arms of her bitter shadow until I was forced to see her beauty. Its amazing how stubbornly we run from that which we know can save us.

In calling in her archetype, I honor the nature of who I’ve always been and allow myself to step into the simple authenticity of being me. Peeling away each layer of identity underneath, I discover primal essence and return to the spiritual nature derived from God’s very breath. And in that moment, I realized that the wild woman was only called so because she had the courage the break loose of ego’s chains and do what everyone swore they could not.

Return to heaven by setting herself free.

This is the reopening of the journey of the wild woman.

xx Heaven

Surrendering to Liminal Space

–
liminal space
the “in between”
that moment when waiting for a call
but signals never quite picks up
or perhaps the dial tone rings
reminding you of words you’d wish you’d said
now never to be uttered
it’s the space of nothingness
yet holding each possibility
feet aching over journeys traveled
then noticing the road’s spiraled into a dense river
with no boat to cross
its that moment before the ending
right after the climax
when all that is heard is steady beating in chests
cramping in their stomach
shoulders hijacked toward the crown
sweet, perchance detrimental anticipation
time truly seems to pause in the liminal
steady whispers of “haven’t you been here before?”
“are you excited to see what happens next,”
“or does it haunt you?”
battles unwon but not quite defeated
the waiting game birthing unease,
impatience,
anxiety
in liminal space
that feeling of lack of control
trying to hold on to yesterdays memories
as a means of predicting tomorrow
its like grasping sand between tense fingers
the tiniest shards cutting into subtle skin
insignificant pebbles marking impressionable membranes
only to see its flight thorough diminutive passageways
i suppose this lesson has never been easy
even in quiet moments of recognition
im aware all of the secrets of the universe slip beyond what feeble minds could grasp
if it could grasp anything at all
with a Creator so expansive
so wise, All-Knowing
i suppose all the best surprises are first kept secret
in letting go of the need to predict
trusting infinite wisdom
settling into lifes deaths
i suppose i still am getting accustomed
to breathing in the stillness of liminal space

Xx Heaven

Finding True Love in Death

flowers marguerites destroyed dead — Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

I had always been a romantic. Ever since I was a young girl. I dreamed of being rescued by prince charming- being loved even in the midst of suffering and being saved to live happily ever after. However, the reality of life had other plans.

It’s been three years since my older sister passed from this earth and moved to the next stage in her spiritual life. My grandfather passed away earlier this year, about two weeks from his 87^th birthday. They both always told me to be comfortable in who I was, to speak the truth and to express love while I’d had the chance. Both, flawed as all humans are, but beautiful in the contents of their soul.

While at home visiting for holidays, my mother asked me a bit timidly if I wanted to go with her to the cemetery. “Maybe we could go to your sister and grandad’s grave site but I’m not sure if you really want to..” I’d been procrastinating on going for the whole three years since my sister passed. Other things always came up; I moved from my hometown and as life proves again and again- time truly does foster forgetfulness. On that day, however, I could come up with no excuses. So, I thought “why not?” and drove with her to the cemetery.

Cemetery’s and funerals have always felt so melancholic. It was a dreary day- the clouds made the sky gleam a sickening grey, the rain made the soil damply wet. On pulling into the cemetery, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The grave site was filled to the brim with tombstones, practically placed upon the other, as close as they could without enmeshing the bodies underneath in order to provide space for the person lying next to them. Visiting cemetery’s are always quite sobering: telling the truth of a journey that we must all take.

We first visited my grandfather, placed right by the river which he loved dearly. This visit was filled with joy at the memory of the beautiful man he was, melancholy at the realization that six months have passed since his passing but also pride in that he lived a long glorious life. Soon after, we left and went on the search to find my sisters tombstone. In between getting lost amidst the other graves, the twisting and twirling of the road and the awkward placement of the landmarks, we finally caught sight of her stone and left the car to go pay our respects.

My mother gleefully calls “Hayat, look at who I brought to see you! She’s finally here.” At first, I felt numb to the core, recalling the day that we actually put her into the ground. I stood silently staring at her stone, unsure where to begin or what to say. At some point, I recall my mother whispering “I’ll give you some privacy to speak to your sister” and hearing her footsteps retreat to the other side of the graveyard. It was at that moment, in the stillness of the wind, tears rolling down my face, my head bowed and speaking softly to the wind that I had the opportunity of greeting my sister for the first time in three years.

Life is quite funny. It’s amazing how we search for love and care in the oddest of places. For the better part of my life, I’d been running across lands, states, places in search of a love that was the purest reflection of divinity. “I hope for a love that is accountable, joyful, easeful, quiet, unconditional, patient and Godly.” I created lists of what it would feel like, of how my partner would love me in hardship, hug me in pain, admonish me when I was wrong and be patient in the midst of adversity. But that day, something just clicked. I realized right there, in that moment, where I stood before the sobering truth of death that the love I had been looking for was right in front of me all along.

God bless my mother, the truest representation of love.