I impulsively brought Yoda home when I saw him getting bullied by his littermates at a Humane Society/Petco event. All I wanted was some cat food. Spike, soon to be Yoda, was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. He's 13 now with classic Chihuahua rot mouth; the essence of haunted aquarium, yesterday's fish, marinating in a barrel. When he was a puppy, he ate a stranger's used tampon out of a trash can at a job sight. Dutifully, I reached down his throat to pull it out as he was suffocating, warm strawberry soft serve. I had to take a scalding rape shower. He also ate 2, gigantic 80% cocao chocolate bars out of a friend's purse and lived to tell the story. I dress him up like John Waters sometimes because of the striking resemblance; especially with an ascot and pencil mustache, it really pops. He loves cheese, car rides and soft blankets. I want to get a Golden Retriever but Yoda has yet to fully forgive me for bringing Conan home. He's a good boy so I'll spare him the trauma of raising another puppy.

Conan tolerates car rides because he lives for adventure but is terrified of looking out the window when the car is moving so he keeps low. He's the spawn of my mother's bougie Coton De Tulear. I was there for the birth and was the first human to touch him. He looked like an itty bitty piglet. Ever since his eyes opened he's been obsessed with me. I had to take him home because I knew that, by the way he looked at me, nothing else would ever love me like that. Due to experiencing pup-hood in the woke wasteland of Washington State at the peak of Rona, where asshats were wearing 2 masks alone in their cars and crossing the street to avoid us, he's leary of strangers. We make a good team because humans make me uncomfortable too. It's why we moved to the country. But I digress. His favorite words are, "load up," "walk" and "cookie". On death row, his last meal would likely be a hash of cat litter, soiled paper towels and turkey. 

 This is my 3rd Dark Night of The Soul. It's different this round because I recognize what's happening. It's molting season. Burning skin, itchy and tight; penance for the times I've taken beautiful things, wrapping them in my coil until the spark went out. Too often I've failed to recognize this beauty before the corpse of possibility lies cold, buried in the basement. Fear makes fools. Alas, I take heart knowing that, through the shadows and reanimated bodies, there's a promise of lusterous new scales if I am brave enough to see where I must change.

For those seeking Truth we are given these opportunities, through trial and pain, to question our belief systems, fine-tune our behaviors and shed the layers of imprinting that congest our authenticity and connection to others. These others being a crucial point because we are truly all connected and what we do to others we ultimately do to ourselves. The Golden Rule is not some arbitrary law but rather a down to the bone wisdom holding a resonance for anyone who can hear their heart whispering. Yet so many of us navigate this world wearing the armor of belief that we are somehow separate and our choices reflect this. Is this what some call sin? At the very least, I suspect it's a key factor in society being a fucking dumpster fire. 

My first Dark Night showed me how strong I am. My second, helped me find my boundaries. Now, as I write this I'm beginning to understand the gift of Free Will. As the allegory goes, the fall from grace in The Garden was the knowledge of good and evil. I wonder, is responsible use of Free Will the way back to grace?  What feels like a crossroad is more accurately a spiritual ultimatum where I must consciously and consistently make my choice between what is right and what is wrong. One path leads to harmony, the other, certain destruction. There is no grey area for this Grey Jedi. Sure, I'll screw up but as I do I will correct myself as each moment holds a new choice to do better and in consequence, be better.

As playtime with my shadow sways into the 11th hour, I think about what it means to integrate this part of myself; she who rages at the world, distrustful of everything including herself. I can't blame her. I know what she's been through. And I appreciate her for the times where her crude antics and general contempt kept me protected. I just don't need that kind of help anymore; not even on the minute scale where I've been entertaining her. While my eyes adjust to the light, I begin to absorb my Dark Twin, leaving nothing but the teeth; serving as something sharp to remind me of what I've swallowed and a tool for her to chew her way out should I lose my way and need another walk in dark. 

One might say that my Dad was a conspiracy theorist. I saw him as more of a mystic detective, a philosopher with a vivid imagination, a Christian looking for clues and a patriot searching for the truth. He was a dreamer and it was one of my favorite things about him.

From as early in life as I can remember, Pops and I could talk for hours about all the crazy possibilities in the universe and beyond. We’d dig deep into such topics as HAARP, chem-trails, 911, Taoism, Christianity, UFOs, Time, esoteric symbolism in pop culture, Chi, super powers, talking rocks, the theater of politics, the Illuminati, Planet X, the end of the world, etc. During these types of discussions, we didn’t always agree and not every topic was to be taken too seriously; yet ultimately, I learned to see past a veil, in bigger pictures. Pops showed me that anything is possible and that things are not always what they appear to be. He taught me to keep my eyes open and to be prepared.

Some 20 odd years ago, when I was a wee lass, Dad and I had our first chat about the Mayan Calendar, the possible significance of 2012 and what that could mean. In the years to follow it would come up again from time to time. Then as we got closer to 2012, his views became more extreme regarding the timing of things. He wasn’t as focused on the calendar but rather a laundry list of other reasons to suspect that we may be living in the, "End Times". He expressed to me on numerous occasions that he believed a world changing event could occur between the close of 2012 and early 2013.

At times, in the last year or so, Dad seemed uneasy. We’d be hanging out and he’d say something like, “There’s a disturbance in the Force. Can you feel it? The world can’t keep going on like this.” Or I’d drop by and ask what he’s up to and he’d say, while strumming his ukulele or shooting his bow, “Just hanging out, waiting for the end of the world.”

He got his wish just not quite how he had imagined it. On Feb 16th, 2013, Daddy went to bed and never woke up. It wasn’t the end of the whole world, just his time in the world. For anyone who loved him, it was the end of the world as we’d known it.

Part of me hopes that Pops was right and he just had his timing off. As beautiful as life can be, in this crude dimension, it is also a huge mess and I sometimes think this would be a good time to push reset on the whole enchilada. In the meantime, I will shine my light in the darkness and do what I can to make the world a better place, with the tools he gave me. As my father’s daughter, I will also polish the swords he left behind while keeping one eye on the sky…just in case.

Jamie