Category Archives: Spirituality

Just like aftershocks, the epiphanies continue to roll in, even though Epiphany Quest 2010 officially ended last Wednesday when Vicci and I returned to Austin. I didn’t actually get back home to Florida until Sunday, July 4, because I stayed a few extra days to visit family, so it sort of feels like the trip has just ended for me. Monday, as I unpacked and cleaned my disasterized home, I felt the tremors of the latest epiphany.

First, a bit of background: my husband, Jeff, is the Anticlean. My daughters can (and will!) attest to this. When he cleans, things end up dirtier than when he started. He’s like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoons, with his cloud of dirt surrounding him like an aura, even immediately after a bath. Minutes after putting on clean clothes, Jeff will have tomato sauce stains on his shirt, not having gone anywhere near tomato sauce. So when I say that I came home—after leaving him alone for almost a month—to a Jeff-Bomb disaster area, I ain’t just a woofin.’

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Jeff is a heavy smoker but doesn’t smoke in the house—when I’m home, that is. Apparently he thought keeping the windows open while he smoked like a chimney in my absence would keep it from stinking, but the house smelled like an old Elk’s Lodge from all the stale smoke.

Then, when I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I discovered that at least one glass in the cupboard was going to need to be rewashed because it had tomato sauce on it. For the next week or so, I’m going to have to rewash anything I take out of a cupboard or drawer before using it.

But most amazingly, he laundered a book. He didn’t sort the laundry basket before tossing its entire contents (including a 500-page book) into the washer (and then the dryer) and there were millions of little paper shreddies all over the house, almost as if a down pillow had exploded.

For the record, I gave up long ago being mad at Jeff for making messes like this. He doesn’t do it on purpose, it’s just who he is, just like Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple. I also gave up on the idea that he’d ever clean up after himself in a way that meets my not-so-stringent standards. As I said, he makes a bigger mess when he cleans than when he’s just sitting quietly in a corner.

This ridiculous scene, along with the Pig Pen-esque cloud of dirt one would expect to find in a house that Jeff has lived in alone for almost a month, is what I had to contend with while unpacking and putting my own stuff away—a month’s worth of packed suitcase, souvenirs and other flotsam that made it home with me.

Ordinarily, having to clean up such a mess would have overwhelmed me and hurled me into a world of hurt because I hate cleaning. I’m using the word “hate” about cleaning. I detest housework with a passion that burns to the depth of my soul and, for some reason, it seems to be something that I can’t get away from, no matter how hard I try. A month ago I would have moaned with dismay about being faced with the prospect of such a huge job.

My dislike of housework began when I grew up in a house full of brothers and, being the only girl, I was the Cinderella of the household. That was the beginning of my resentment of cleaning. Then I married a chauvinistic guy who carried on the tradition that I had to be the housekeeper because it was “woman’s work.” (Please note that I am now divorced from him, lo these many moons.)

Not too many years ago, I had a job as the housekeeper at a resort (I really needed the money, and didn’t resent cleaning as much because I was at least getting paid for it). At that job, I truly saw the depths of ickiness that human beings can create. This total lack of concern—on the part of guests who think nothing of the cleaning staff—would boggle your mind.

I remember one particular day, on this job, when I had to clean a restroom wherein one of the guests had literally shit all over the bathroom walls, floors, sink and toilet seat. Later that same day, I found a bloated, dead frog floating in one of the poolside waste baskets. I cried all afternoon and wondered why God hated me so much. Why could I not escape this curse of having to be the one who cleans up after everyone else? And if I couldn’t escape, couldn’t I at least erase the part of my brain that resists it so desperately?

I know, I know. What you resist, persists. I’ve been working for years on becoming Zen about housework and, at 49-and-a-half, I was still struggling with it. Up until Monday, when one of the readings I received during Epiphany Quest 2010 kicked in.

The first “official” reading that I had was at the Berkeley Psychic Institute, in Berkeley, CA. I was very impressed with the reading I received there. I was told that one of the past lives showing up in my field, one that was particularly “lit up,” this time around, was one where I was sold by my family into servitude at a convent. Boy, did my ears perk up! Two of my biggest knee-jerk issues in this life are servitude and my dysfunctional Catholic upbringing, where I learned that because I was in a female body, I was pretty much worthless.

The psychic told me that, during that past lifetime, servitude was the only way I could survive. My family couldn’t afford to feed all of their kids and, being a female, I wasn’t as valuable to them as the boys. In that lifetime, I was grateful to have ended up at the convent, instead of being sold into prostitution. I also felt thankful that I had quiet time for meditation and introspection, living in the convent like that. During that particular lifetime I didn’t resent housework like I do now.

She also told me that Mother Mary was in my field, and that she was waiting to help me. I tried not to roll my eyes. As I said, I experienced a very dysfunctional Catholic training and found it nearly impossible to believe any of that religion’s icons would have my back. So I just made a mental note to think about it later.

Since the reading, I’ve been pondering the servitude lifetime, while Vicci and I traveled the country and had many spiritual experiences (I’ll be telling you about them as they unfold, in future blogs). I found the storyline fascinating. It explained so much! Even more importantly, I pondered it while I cleaned and unpacked, after arriving home.

What I discovered was amazing. I actually enjoyed cleaning the house and putting my stuff away! I didn’t mind at all that the place was coated with a month’s worth of dust and tomato sauce! I was able to see how my efforts made the house sparkle and shine, instead of pissing and moaning the whole time about how much I resented having to pick up after someone else! I realized that I’m the one who wants the house to look a certain way, and if I want it that way, then I’m going to have to do it because Jeff is perfectly content with it his way. Sure, he likes it my way, but not enough to do anything about it. Either way, I’m doing this by choice, not coercion.

This may sound like a no-thing to many people, but I literally felt the shackles of servitude drop from my ankles. I felt light and free, and content to be cleaning my house, to make it look the way I want it to look. What an amazing thing! I never dreamed that I would be able to dust and vacuum without seething with resentment. I feel like a 100-pound monster has stopped sitting on my chest and I can breathe again.

This doesn’t mean I’ll never bitch and grumble again while removing socks from the stovetop, but at least I have stopped feeling like a slave. If this was the only epiphany I experienced from this trip, it would be worth it. But I’m really happy that it’s not. It’s just the beginning.

Yay!

I was initially going to post a blog about all that has happened since our readings at the Berkeley Psychic Institute on Monday, and I will get to that eventually, but I think I really need to write first about the bizarre experience I had this afternoon at a shop in Yreka, CA.

Vicci and I were taking the day off from the whirlwind schedule we’ve been living and just doing some mundane errands: laundry, stocking up on groceries, getting the car washed, resting, stuff like that, when we happened to drive past an adorable little shop that sells organic foods, supplements, crystals, books, etc.

Well, since Epiphany Quest 2010 is occurring at the same time as my participation in the Next Top Spiritual Author competition, I brought several copies of my book and some flyers with the intention of asking permission to post them in bookstores along the way, to gather votes. This is the part of being an author that I don’t necessarily enjoy, because you’re practically begging for rejection (just like actors auditioning for roles or vacuum cleaner salesmen going door to door), but it’s apparently necessary.

So after getting the car washed, we stopped into this shop and I talked to one of the clerks about hanging the flyer. She was very nice and said she’d have to check to see if it’s okay. So I handed her a copy of Shape Shifting—reclaiming YOUR perfect body and of my new novel Be Careful What You Witch For!, along with a flyer and some business cards. I told her I’m not selling anything, that the books were thank-you gifts in exchange for letting me hang the flyer. She took them and went into the back room. About thirty seconds later, she came out, followed by the owner/manager (I’m not sure of her exact title) who practically threw the books at me and snapped, “These don’t fit with who we are and we do NOT sell on consignment!” Then she stormed away, leaving me and the clerk staring at each other with our jaws on the floor.

I said to the clerk, “Well, THAT was a hostile reaction, wasn’t it?” and she replied, puzzled, “It sure was.” I asked, “What was that all about?” to which she responded, “I don’t know, but it was this book she was reacting to,” and she indicated the novel. I don’t know if you’ve seen the cover of the novel but it’s cute and amusing, and I can’t figure out what on earth could be so offensive.

I thanked the clerk for her time, and gestured to Vicci to follow me outside. She was surprised, because we had planned to eat lunch and do some shopping there, but I was freaked out and my feelings were very hurt from being treated so unjustly and rudely that I just wanted to get the hell out of there and try to figure out what just happened. I certainly wasn’t going to spend any money in there!

We went across town and had lunch at a cute little Mexican joint and did some laundry, where I began to experience a migraine aura, wherein I go blind for about a half hour. I had to just sit in the Laundromat and wait until I could see again. All I wanted to do was go back to the hotel and crawl back into bed, but I had to wait until the clothes were dry to do that.

By the time we got back to the room, I could see again, but I was still upset and confused. Vicci suggested I pull a Tarot card. Get this—the card I drew, from my Shapeshifter tarot deck was Two of Swords: Blindness. The book says about this card, “You need to conquer personal blindness and the fear that limits your experience, transmuting and expanding your awareness.” I’m still pondering the deeper meaning of the card and await this next Epiphany.

Tomorrow is our trip to Mount Shasta and the Vortex Tour. I hope the next epiphanies are more pleasant.

NOTE: After posting this, my friend Curtis Folts called me to offer his two cents, and I think he nailed it. Get this …

A similar scenario has happened to me once or twice before, where someone “judged my book by its cover.” They made a knee-jerk reaction and let me know how much they hated the book, just from the cover alone, and this is very upsetting to me, no matter how thick my skin may be getting (Shape Shifting anyone?). Curtis pointed out that perhaps the blindness aspect of this card is my fear of THEIR blindness, because everyone who has read the book absolutely loves it, and the fact that these people don’t even bother to take more than the briefest of moments to negatively judge my work is very upsetting and that is what I dread.

Thank you Curtis!

About halfway through our drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, Vicci and I stopped at a tiny oasis on the side of the mountain called Gorda. It was the only sign of civilization along the incredibly freaky mountain cliff road that we had just spent an hour trying to survive. I saw a coffee cup in the gift shop that said, “I survived PCH” and wanted to buy it, but it was $12.50 and as amusing as it was, I thought that was a little pricy. Now I wish I had bought it, because now that we have officially survived PCH, I feel like I deserve a trophy.

The day began bright and sunny in Oxnard, CA, where we started the day with a tarot reading and a little bit of meditation. I wore some of my Mystic Eye oil, which always makes me feel sort of hippie-ish and connected to my Isness. The early morning coastal air was crisp and damp, and reminded me of what it felt like when I used to live in Sherman Oaks, California, many years ago … alive and fresh. Life was good.

Almost immediately, though, my camera took a dump. I’ve been greatly challenged by technology on this trip, with my computer acting up so badly, and now the camera died. So we spent about two hours trying to find a Walmart to buy an inexpensive digital camera to replace it, since I didn’t really budget in a new camera. I was pretty upset and had a mini-meltdown, because I’m getting a little tired of all the tech probs. I don’t have the time or interest in dealing with such mundane things, but apparently the Universe has other ideas. So we picked up a new camera in Lompoc and headed north on PCH toward San Francisco.

On the way, I had my first major epiphany of the trip. In the movie Bedazzled, Brendan Fraser sells his soul to Elizabeth Hurley (who plays the Devil) and hijinks ensue. Every wish he makes falls apart because he wasn’t specific enough about what he wanted. I realized, after the camera died, that I have always sort of felt like this, that the Universe is out to get me, to trick me into being very very VERY careful about what I wish for. Therefore, that is exactly what I get (we get what we expect life to be, right?). And since, deep down in my subconscious programming, I always assume the rug is going to get pulled out from under me, it always does.

Now, I know—logically and consciously—that this isn’t how life works. I know that there is no one “out to get me,” but apparently somewhere along the line, way back when, I learned that there is. So, Epiphany 1 was that I need to work on that.

Once we got that out of the way, we tra la la’d our way up the coast, looking forward to seeing the beautiful scenery along the Pacific Coast Highway. I’ve driven up the coast from San Diego up to Santa Barbara before, and I expected the rest to look like that. I could not have been more wrong. Our first clue should have been when we saw a sign south of San Simeon that said “Semi-trailers are not recommended north of San Simeon.”

Now we know why.

I’ve posted pictures on my Facebook page of our trip through the clouds, but they don’t do the fear factor justice. Poor Vicci’s knuckles are still white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. A couple of times on this trip it got so intense that all we could do is laugh hysterically. It was either that or scream and scream and scream.

Don’t get me wrong, it was exquisitely beautiful, but we found Jimmy Hoffa up there in Gorda and he ain’t dead. He’s just afraid to come back down those mountain roads. But we have an Epiphany Quest to continue, and appointments at the Berkeley Psychic Institute for some readings to get to! And that’s what we’re doing today—spending the day in Berkeley and getting our “auras healed and cleansed.” Can Epiphany 2 be far behind?

Vicci’s about ready to go, so I’ll write more later. See ya then!

Day Three took us from my parents’ home in the Scottsdale area to Oxnard, CA. It was a gorgeous drive, albeit long, with lots of fun pictures. But we had an unexpected event at the border.

We have already been stopped by Border Patrol and asked what country we have citizenship with, so we weren’t surprised when we had to stop at the California state line. We assumed we would have to do it again. So imagine our surprise when we were instead robbed of our fresh fruit.

I had been asked at various borders before about whether I had any plants in my car, so I’m familiar with the laws involving moving plants across state lines, in order to control bugs and blight. But when the guard at the mandatory state line stop asked us where we were coming from, we weren’t sure what to say. I come from Florida, Vicci comes from Texas, and we have driven through a bunch of states, so Vicci just stated the obvious: “We came from Arizona.” After all, we had just crossed the border from AZ to CA, had we not? The agent looked at her like she was a little slow and said, “Why does your car have Texas tags?”

Well, shoot. That launched the whole story, “Well, she comes from Florida, I come from Texas, we’re driving across the country, but we just came from Arizona.” Duh.

Then came the big question: “Do you have any produce in the car?”

Both of us stared dumbly at each other. Days ago, when we first started in Austin, we stocked up on lots of food for the trip, some of it produce. But have we already eaten it? Is there any left? If so, what? So we both sort of stammered, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

The guard looked at us skeptically, and Vicci said, “Wait, I might have an apple.”

“Where did it come from?” he asked. There was THAT question again.

“I bought it in Texas,” she said. We bought a whole bunch of organic fruit for the trip in Texas. He said he was going to have to see it. So I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed over the back seat to get into the cooler. But first, I found a couple of bananas under a pair of jeans and fessed up. “Here are some bananas.”

He said we could keep those. They were all brown and bruised anyway, so I wouldn’t have minded handing them over to him, just to throw away, if nothing else.

I opened the cooler and found the apple. He confiscated it. I also found a bag of cherries. He took them. I felt like an idiot, after telling him I didn’t think we had any produce, to suddenly be pulling out a seemingly endless supply of fruit, like Mary Poppins pulling things out of her carpetbag.

He took it all but the bananas and let us go. It wasn’t until an hour later, when looking for something to munch on that I found the bag of kiwis that my mom had given us before we left her house.

Oops.

From there, traffic got very heavy as we drove through the Palm Springs area and their windmill fields. We stopped at the Cabazon dinosaur exhibit (the ones that you saw in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure) and had some meatloaf at the attached diner (one of the locals tried to hit on Vicci, asking if he knew her from Denny’s. She said she doesn’t eat at Denny’s. That’s a lie, but who tries to pick up a woman by asking if he knows her from one of them?). We then drove through smoggy LA up to PCH, and eventually stopped for the night at our hotel in Oxnard.

We’ve been driving pretty much nonstop for three days, so we simply collapsed at the hotel, where I battled my computer for another 45 minutes, begging it to start up for me. I got my pics loaded off the camera and posted on Facebook, and we both decided we should eat and go to bed. So I called the front desk to ask what restaurants were close by and was told about Henri’s Café, across the street.

We walked across the street, only to find nothing but a CVS drugstore. We asked a clerk inside where we might find Henri’s, and he told us it was across the street. Apparently we have just moved into an Escher style time-space warp. We wandered up the block, Vicci begging the whole time to go back and get the car, but I saw a cluster of restaurant type buildings just at the traffic light so I pressed her to walk just a little further. We found three restaurants: Henri’s Café, Cabo and Bamboo Stix. All were closed. It was 9:03 and they all closed at 9:00. We were screwed.

But we were in luck! There was a grocery store! It was called Vallarta, and was obviously still open. We went inside and realized that it was a Spanish language store. We were the only white people in there. No problem. They take American money, of course, so we wandered over to the deli counter to order something to go.

They had just closed the deli. In a fit of hysterical laughter, we left the store and sat on the sidewalk outside, because Vicci needed a moment. She lit a cigarette and suggested we take the golf cart that was clearly marked “Security” to go further down the block, to find some food. I pointed at the security guard who was standing just behind us and mentioned that he might take exception to her plan. Instead, she asked him where we could find some food. He gave us that same look that the border guard gave us and said, “You’re in front of a grocery store.”

Once we explained that they had just closed the deli, and we were staying in the hotel with no cooking facilities, he gave us directions to a place a few miles down the road: Denny’s.

We wandered back to our hotel, where we ate string cheese and Trader Joe crackers. We would have added some fresh organic produce to the meal, but that was surrendered at the border.

It wasn’t until this morning that I remembered about the kiwis.

Oops.

Check out pictures from Epiphany Quest 2010 on my Facebook page! The link is over there —–>

I haven’t been able to blog lately because of time constraints and major computer issues, but so far the trip itself is going okay. We’ve been spending our time in the car listening to the Interview With The Universe (by Elizabeth Ann Hill and Glenna Deitrich) and I’ve Got a Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas. Quite the dichotomy, eh?

Unfortunately, because of my inability to get my computer to boot up and get online once it does, I’m not able to log some of the more interesting stories, but one that is emblazened on my mind is from the flight from Tampa to Austin. I saw a woman across the aisle eating an apple. She ate it all the way down to the core, where there was nothing left but the seeds and stem, and the icky hard parts of the apple core. She put that in her mouth and never brought it back out again. I have never seen anyone eat an entire apple like that. Okay, maybe I’ve seen a goat do that, but Continental Airlines generally has goat restrictions. Yikes!

Anyway, I’m posting pictures on my Facebook page, if you’re interested. Yesterday we saw “The THING!” (See the link over there ——>)