Super Stitches

© 2010 by Joyce Mason
All Rights Reserved

 
I’m not that superstitious. I accentuate the positive and avoid giving back luck and bad vibes any more energy than they deserve—when I can pull off, that means none. I also know how to protect myself from a spiritual perspective, and in general, I feel safe.

My Vedic astrologer says I have what’s tantamount to a good luck charm in my chart. Another friend insists I have what she calls magic dust. If she’s right, most of my magical powers are about as innocuous as Samantha’s on “Bewitched.” That said, I actually think black cats are good omens, and I barely wince when I break a mirror. I do admit, even though Mom is long gone; I still get a little nervous on sidewalks when I step on cracks.(“You’ll break your mother’s back!”) Most of my reactions to the tried-and-true jinxes and ‘stitions are lukewarm … except for one that’s red hot. The two-dollar bill.

Speaking of Mom, I inherited this superstition from her. Like my fear of water, I was always highly susceptible to transfer of my mom’s fears. I’m sure this speaks to the depth of our bonding and psychic cords.

There’s a doozy of a story about why two-buck bills gave her the creeps. Her telling of it was so vivid; I feel like I actually witnessed the incident.

My brother Don and our cousin Lee, close-in age-cousins who got in a lot of trouble together as kids, were on some excursion in the 1940s when they were young men in their late teens. They were on joy ride in the country when they parked beside a lookout point with a great view. They were leaning against the car having a smoke. All of a sudden, there was a miniscule movement. Before they knew it, they had barely caught their balance before going over the cliff with the car. One of them had not engaged the brake.

Don was carrying a two-dollar bill at the time. This unusual denomination became Mom’s personal demon, and she would never carry one again. She blamed the bill on her son and nephew’s near-death experience. Frankly, I thought the fact that they were saved was cause to celebrate. If the two-buck bill was anything, it was their good luck charm. Still, annihilating a vehicle isn’t exactly a good day …

… but none of this reason would ever erase this deeply imbedded family folklore from my mind. The two-dollar bill is so rare; I have hardly ever had to face how it turns me into a blithering idiot on sight.

I hadn’t seen one for years until one arrived in the mail for an advertising promotion. Time or People Magazine? Who knows—or cares. All I knew was that a two-dollar bill had wormed its way into my house, and now I had to do something to get rid of it.

I’ll confess outright; I was afraid to put it in my wallet and drive anywhere with it. Irrational, silly, superstitious—whatever you call it, I cop to them all. No way, no how were that bill and I traveling together in a moving vehicle.

I pondered it for a long time. I wanted to do something useful with the $2, but I didn’t want to evoke the Demon of the Two-Dollar Bill. I considered sending it to my niece or nephew in their Valentine, but if the demon got loose, that might harm them. Out of the question. At some point, I realized that if I couldn’t drive with it on me, the farthest I could go with it would be to walk it to the mailbox. This meant passing it onto someone through the US mail. How could I send it to good and avert disaster?

 While I continued to contemplate this dilemma, I got to thinking about my bamboo plant in my Money Corner (good Feng Shui for wealth) and my Greek glass eye to ward off evil … and how comforted I feel by having a Holly plant near my front door, good for protection. I was starting to think, just maybe, that I’d have to revise my self-assessment about not being very superstitious.

One day it just came to me; give it to Haiti relief. The poor Haitians already had all the bad luck anyone could hold for this season of their collective lives. I didn’t see how it could possibly harm further people who were already devastated. I looked up a list of charities collecting money to help the Haitians rebuild their communities. I sent the $2 to Mercy Corps. I’m sure the word “mercy” in and of itself would erase any bad juju and the $2 would be blessed by a wonderful organization that has provided humanitarian relief around the world since 1979.

Now that I’ve handled that unbidden two bucks, I couldn’t help but wonder. Does this mean I have to give up drinking two-buck Chuck?*

~~~


*For those unfamiliar with it, two-buck Chuck refers is wine sold exclusively at Trader Joe’s from Charles Shaw Winery at $1.99 per bottle. My favorite it the Shiraz. Hard to believe how good it is for the price!

Photo Credits: TWO DOLLAR BILL © Savone Dreamstime.com
EVIL EYE (AMULET) © Eliferen Dreamstime.com


Comment Prompt: What are your superstitions? Like mine, do they leave you in stitches when you really think—and laugh—about them?

Blog Comment Contest! Don’t forget to comment for entry into this week’s Valentine’s Month comment contest. Comments on any post qualify according to the guidelines in the original announcement. Need a how-to on commenting? Click on The Cosmos Comments.

Winner of Week 2 Comment Contest: Congratulations to Pop Art Diva of Southern CA who won a copy of my e-book, The Training Tape, in the Valentine’s Month comment contest. Week 2 ran from Feb. 8-14. Comment this week for another opportunity to win!

Get Guidance from Your Dreams!

Mark your calendar for your “dream date!”

April 20, 2009 @ 9:00 pm PDT


Watch Joyce Mason’s lively interview with Dänna Wilberg, host of the Paranormal Connection in the Sacramento area on Comcast - Channel 17. Anywhere else, watch on the web on Access Sacramento. Click on WATCH 17.

Here's a hint: Log on early! The web stream only holds 2000 viewers - if you are unable get online, call Access Sacramento: 916-456-8600. Let them know you want to watch "Paranormal Connection."

Topics covered include tips on remembering, recording, and deciphering your personal dream code. Hear some amazing results that speak for themselves about why you might want to play with your “Dream-Doh.”

Can’t make the web- or telecast or want supplemental information on this topic? Visit Joyce’s Dreamwork page on her Writer Joyce Mason website.

Photo Credit: DREAM © Adpower99 Dreamstime.com

Lethargic? Bummed? Do Something Different

I was in a blue mood for days. I was cranky and tired. I’d never recovered from getting up at 4:00 AM in order to get my relatives to their plane on time, early one weekend morning. It wasn't just that. I was under so much stress—a litany too long to start, much less finish. Then there was the 100-degree weather in the State Capital, and, at the time, California’s energy crisis, the incentive for keeping the air conditioning at minimum to avoid paying maximum electricity bills.

I was in such a funk, I could barely work, and I even admitted it to myself and most of the people around me. I began to discover that two of my other workmates in our row on Dilbert Avenue had also taken a deep physical and emotional dive. I began to wonder if we had sick building syndrome in Sacramento’s newest skyscraper. We had malaise, tummy trouble … a lethargic bunch that didn’t have the energy to give a hoot. (Talk about an energy crisis!)

When I got off the train in my hot, but achingly familiar suburb, I did something different for a change—something other than going straight home. I was almost out of gas, and I knew I’d be pushing it if I didn’t roll over the tracks the half-block to the nearest Quick Stop. While I was at it, I figured I’d roll another few blocks down to the grocery store, knowing I was also on my last grain of dishwasher detergent. And I had let my wallet bleed down to a little loose change. I needed a rendezvous with a money machine. It was too hot to go back out. I figured if I could just stand it for another half-hour, I’d be home free without fear of running out of anything essential—gas, money, or clean dishes. No more icky, sticky heat till the next day.

This simple act of doing something out of routine was my salvation. I really got into grocery shopping. I don’t think of myself as a person who gets into ruts, but I was coming to the realization that I might even be in a ditch.

In the past few years, I have had more than one occasion to rediscover how much I am wed to ritual, and how much any break in my routine leaves me crabby and out of sorts. And I am married to someone just as bad, if not worse …

… and we lived for eleven years with a dog worse than both of us put together. If I missed his walk by five minutes or his tuck-in ceremony by a nose, Bear was all over me, letting me know that his internal alarm clock was blaring. We chuckled all the time about our creature of habit.

The routines and rituals of daily living are a delicious comfort, but too much comfort leads to couch potatoes and prehistoric disease (dragon tail). Depression is another name for a rut, a ditch, a downer. No matter what you call it; you have dug yourself too deeply into the mire of life, going back and forth over the same spot, over and over again.

Give up, get up, and do something different! Do something that goes forward. Do anything but cover the same ground that’s wearing you thin and thickening like quicksand all around you.

How do you think of something different to do, when you can’t even create the spark to jump start your own life? If you can’t think of something different right away—at least do something out of order. Eat dessert first. Sleep with your clothes on. Read the newspaper instead of watching the news, or put yourself on a news diet for the night. (You’ll be amazed to learn that we can live without headlines!) . Skip your usual TV show and listen to the radio—or channel surf and randomly choose a program that’s the same number of clicks as the day of the month you were born.

Juxtaposition … the unexpected … random acts of kindness or disorder … they are rut busters.

When it comes to chasing away the blues—maybe, like I did, on the way to the ATM machine— you’ll be pleasantly surprised to find out that a little change is all it takes.

Woozie Boozie!

Not woozy boozy (long oo’s)—your state after too much to drink. My birth mother Helen coined this cute expression. It’s pronounced woojee boojee (short oo’s, as in the word wood). Mind you, this is the same mother who told me I did not inherit any of my word fun and pun tendencies from her.

Woozie boozie is sort of an adult kitchy-kitchy-coo. It’s something to say when a friend or loved one does something adorable or needs support. It’s ooey gooey love without the tickle under the chin. It says, “You’re so cute,” or “Let me support you, hug you.”

There is no reason to stop this kind of verbal syrupiness just because a person grows up. It doesn’t matter what you call it or how you do it; adults need motherly little there-there’s and cheek pinches from their friends and families, too. Of course, not everyone can stand that much mushiness, certainly not my cats who run off when I woozie them once too many.

Helen signed all her letters with xo’s and WBs for woozie boozie. It has become an family in-joke. We woozie everything, and when Helen died, I got her closest friend, brother, and my husband and I glass heart ornaments for our Christmas trees engraved Woozie Boozie. A world without Helen was bad enough, but a world without woozies is not a place I want to live

Terms of endearment come naturally to me. I have to restrain myself not to call friends honey, dear, and sweetie. Some don’t mind and do it themselves; other’s react a little like my cats or at least a sour puss when I call them “names.”

Pet names, secret phrases—they are one of the charms of love in all its forms. When I was growing up, my adoptive parents called me Punkin—never Pumpkin with the second P. I think we tend to become what we’re called and constantly affirmed, as I was definitely their pun kin, the way I play with words unmercifully. If you become what you’re called, you’d think my sweetest endearments would be grabbed like the last dollar before payday.

Here’s some homeplay (the opposite of homework). What were your nicknames or favorite love words over the years? For a while my sister called me Jobie. Lots of people call me Joycie. I have a crazy affection for hon. (I still have an urge to name an especially docile dog Attila the Hon.)

How have these names and labels influenced you? And how about your nicknames and love words for others? Flash back and forward again with some cool insights.

Have fun with it!

xoxoWBs,
Joyce

Believe Everything You Hear

Last time we talked about two simple tips to begin expanding your intuition—alone time, especially spent in meditation, and learning not to criticize your creations, thoughts, or ideas. These include strong feelings or a sense of knowing that might crop up as you develop your inner eyes and ears. Same goes for any funny little messages you might pull out of thin air.

Let me give you a couple examples. When I used to do tarot readings, using the Motherpeace round deck, I had a special way of using the cards with my clients. First, I’d ask them what images jumped out at them, while I listened carefully. Next, I’d say what jumped out at me. Only last would I consider any classical meaning of the card. Between us, we very often got a closer, more personal interpretation than “going by the book.” The blend of my stand outs and my client’s would give a profound reading of his or her subconscious. My observations often added a perspective or insights--what s/he was too close to a matter to see clearly. The cards simply pulled out the client’s inner knowing with a little help from me as interpreter. Synthesis of an experience isn’t so easy while you’re in the middle of it, especially when it involves strong emotions or complex situations and choices.

I remember one reading in particular where my client drew a card—which one I couldn’t tell you now—but as she did, the old train tune started ringing in mind, The Atchison, Topeka & the Santa Fe. The process made it mandatory for me to spill the beans on anything I “got.” I felt ridiculous telling her about this goofy song.

As we began exploring the context of her situation, it became clear that she was feeling railroaded to make an unwanted change by her love interest. So, that’s what the train song was saying! The mere realization that she felt coerced was the key to empowering her to get out of a gnarly dilemma.

Second, and most dramatic, was my intuition on where I’d find my birth mother. (Complete details of that drama will be in my second book, COMPLETE CIRCLES: More Hot Flashbacks from My Lost & Found Life.) From the beginning of my six-month search, I “knew” she was in San Francisco, only 90 miles away. In the beginning, I pooh-poohed this thought as wishful thinking. “You just want it to be convenient,” I said, talking to myself as though I were completely delusional.

By this time in my life (1986), I was tired of ignoring intuitions that turned out to be true. I figured I had nothing to lose to give it a shot. San Francisco is exactly where I found her, even though she was originally from the East Coast. I had no conscious reason to believe she would have conveniently relocated nearly next door to me. Finding her changed both our lives for the better in a big way. What I would have missed if I hadn’t listened to myself—at last?

Let me reiterate, both of these intuitive “hits” sounded ridiculous to me! Consider believing everything you hear with your inner ear, and if it seems goofy, take notes and realize you just may not have put it all together yet. These intuitive scraps are like puzzle pieces that you learn to fit together with time, trial, and error.

About once a year, I have what I consider a seminal dream—one that lays out something big that’s going to happen to me in the months to come. My dramatic dream in 2006 had a lot of symbols about being on a one-way road straight up. It was lighting up all my fears of success and the responsibilities that would go with it.

But in that dream, a Mervyn’s store was prominent. It drove me crazy for months till I finally figured out what it meant. MERVYNS turned out to be an anagram. Rescramble the letters and you get MY NERVS. I was struggling with high interocular pressure and a possible diagnosis of glaucoma.

To protect your eyesight with glaucoma, you have to lower the (interocular) pressure to avoid damage to the optic nerve. Suddenly, I saw the double entendre! To protect my vision, I had to lower the pressure. This applies to my creative vision, too, and lowering the pressure is why Mervyns—MY NERVS—was beside my road to success. I’d have to tend to my nerves, keep the pressure in my life down, if I were going to pull off this writing life and all that goes with it.

Journal everything! Dreams, crazy things you think or hear. The only way to learn your personal symbology and messages from “The Supremes” is to play with these tidbits. In one of my favorite books on the subject, Higher Creativity by Willis Harmon and Howard Rheingold, the authors pay much homage to how answers bubble up when we’re “offline”—playing, dreaming, or doing something else other than what we normally do. Something right-brained and non-linear. This works the same as the meditation and quiet time mentioned in the last post.

Of course, this is unlikely to happen with one mediation, long-distance run, or ride on the Ferris wheel. Inspiration/intuition loves repetition, even ritual, and I have a hunch this is one reason why knitting has become so popular again. Gathering that wool into a lovely creation allows for woolgathering of another kind. My own Messages from on High are so hilariously delivered, at times, they also keep me in another kind of stitches.

Let me know about your progress in amping up your intuition by slowing down your thoughts … and allowing those really helpful and life affirming mind messages to jump up and be heard.

It Runs Downhill

Note: And now for something completely different—a new blog template for 2008! Let’s start the New Year off right with a laugh and one of the kind of pet pieces you’ll find in HOT FLASHBACKS, COOL INSIGHTS—the book. Here’s Bear in his “Groucho Barks” get-up. This is his alter ego to King of the Hill.


I learned the expression shit runs downhill when I worked for the government. It refers to unpleasant duties passed on to underlings by superiors—or the results of their bad decisions, a stinking pile some poor stooge is forced to clean up. Aside from the bureaucrazy, I’m sure it runs downhill in any big organization. And there are no handy little pick-up bags in a dispenser, like at the Dog Park, vet, or pet store.

Once I retired from government service, it still ran downhill for me. Only now, it’s literal—in my own back yard. Big, steaming links of it. My goofy Yellow Lab drops them daily. I just watch ‘em roll. He likes to pee downhill, too, even if he wets his front paws in the process. What a doofus.

Bear has never been the brightest star in the constellation–although no one who has ever met him would deny–he’s one of the most loveable. Our home is twelve feet above the ground below, the fertile flood plane of a year-round creek. We have dirt and ground rock steps that take both people and pets to the lower level. But Bear still prefers to take the hills directly. Even though illness has made his legs weak, he still shuffles his way down, like an old man on a mission. First, he stops to break wind and enhance the beauty of the hillside with his decorations.

I think I am missing a business opportunity here. With two decks off my house, I could invite spectators to bet on the Dog Do Daily. We could number the rolls and bet on which one comes to a stop first. This would also give me greater incentive to clean up more often. I get busy, and it piles up. Since I know my Inner Monk would never let me put little numbers on the sides of them like baby horse blankets for wagering purposes, I’d have to stick with the daily half dozen—a small enough number to site and track. (Number One is by the tree stump; the Number Two #2 is located by the pile of leaves, etc.) More than that would confuse me or I’d run out of landmarks. And once they’re dried up, the things don’t roll worth a nickel. Who could make any money off that kind of small change?

I am an altruistic person. I believe in sharing, whether it’s time, talent, or yucks. How can I keep a daily spectacle like this to myself? Even if you wish I would have?

I know there is a lesson here. I’m supposed to have the insight edge. Here’s what I think:

My dog is the only one who has his shit together. You let it roll, you take a stroll, and if you act stupid enough, your mom—or some other nurture nut—will clean it up for you. Now you know why one of his nicknames is Poopy Dog. Besides, it takes two to tangle, as my Mom used to say. It gives us overly responsible types something to do-do.

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Hug the Dark

The title of the carol we sang at the Solsisters’ Winter Solstice celebration on December 21 is Holy Night, Longest Night (see Invocation). It's sung to the tune of Silent Night. This is a sacred time for many people and in most traditions. Above all, it’s the time when we can turn inward to see what’s really going on.

Darkness is part of a natural cycle, and when we reach the darkest day of the year on Winter Solstice; it’s time to shift to inner concerns. New Year’s resolutions are one way we do this in American culture, although we still tend to make them outer-oriented—I will lose weight, pay off debt, get a better job. People have more success with these new starts in spring, the natural new year, when our energy rises with the first shoots of plants from under the ground, and we’re more rarin’ to go.

Winter, on the other hand, is the time for reflection, reading, quiet, meditation, and taking stock. Two favorites in our Winter Solstice ceremony are something you can try at home during these last weeks of 2007. First, we do Meditation on Recognition—what do we recognize that we have accomplished and appreciate about ourselves this past year? This is a kind of self-report card, and writing down what we have gained since the last inventory can be a huge revelation. You can include both inner and outer achievements: I’ve been a better wife or mother, I have as many knee-jerk reactions to things, I like myself more. The second is a real favorite. After passing the Yule Log and infusing it with our thoughts of what we’d like to see changed in the world, such as peace in the Middle East; we focus inward. We write down all the things we’d like to release into the Yule Log Fire that are personal, whether it is 20 lbs. or an irritation with a workmate. It is a hoot to watch people line up to burn their lists. Some dump it and walk away, even with a “wash your hands of it” gesture. Others linger to be sure every fiber of paper containing the junk they want to dump has burned to a crisp. Some people have a short list and get to the fire among the first; others write long lists and need more paper.

This year, I plan to mine my journals from the past two years for insights, because it has been a very transitional time for me—from full-time work plus to full retirement from a day job. Even though I plan to go back to work part-time this year, the time off has been like an extended winter where I have finally had the time to be quiet, reflect, and let inner issues surface for resolution. That should be our true New Year’s “resolution,” the kind where we look in the dark corners of ourselves for the stuff that needs tender taking care of. In the whirlwind of most of our lives, it is amazing how many inner signals and intuitions we miss for running as fast as we can. The build-up of issues swept under the rug will ultimately make a big lump of gunk for us to cope with later, often not on our own terms. Illness, break-up, and tragedies of all sorts are often the result of the waxy build-up of untended inner content.

I describe my first year of retirement like getting off a kids’ merry-go-round in the park. You are no longer spinning physically, but it still feels like it, sometimes even with a wave of dizzy nausea. I had no idea how stressed out I was after 36 years of full-time work. I usually did other work on top of that, primarily my astrology practice and writing. My need for complete R&R for a period of time was screaming at me in raised blood pressure—highly atypical for me—crankiness, and a host of other physical and psychological signals. I am so relieved I took my body’s loud advice, even though I went kicking and screaming to rest. It took the first nine months of retirement for me to get that I needed to do nothing for at least a year—or at least as little as possible.

While this may seem like a luxury to most people, especially those of us who are not independently wealthy and have to work for a living, nature gives us opportunities every day of our lives. We just have to take them.

Winter is a time to relish the dark of night and the season of hibernation. Take time at night to meditate and reflect, even if it’s only 15-20 minutes. It can be so replenishing. Keep a dream journal, and encourage your dreams to guide you by welcoming them with intent to remember them. Part of my previous practice, Inner Growth Work, was to help people remember and work with their dreams. If there is enough interest, I’ll do some posts on this topic. Above all, give yourself light duty in the dark months. Read, relax, veg, take hot baths—know that this down time is essential to creativity and accomplishing all you want during the rest of the year. And if this all seems a little heavy to you, remember that you can do light reading in the dark and use the down time to watch funny movies and restore your sense of humor, health, and balance. One of the best articles I have ever read about the role of laughter is How Laughter Works on the How Stuff Works website—a must Favorite for anyone with a computer and a lust to learn and laugh.

Hug the darkness; it will hug you back. Spring will come sooner than you know, and if you miss the opportunity to rest and recuperate from last year’s action, you won’t be running on all cylinders in 2008.

Have a happy, healthy New Year—and a fabulous dance in the light and dark of life!