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Writer Waffle

By Joyce Johnson

To Spill or Not to Spill, Always the Question...

“Silly,” is what my writer’s muse often sends down the chute mischievously. Otherwise a serious, critical minded Capricorn, who does not see life on Earth as funny these days. I wait for my Muse to send down thoughts when I cannot find words, especially for hard truth, to help digest life and steer away from fear. I find that humor is a powerful antidote and “re-balancer.” So is the great teacher, Nature, who demonstrates that all life seeks balance.

Ron is funny; just now shuffled by with our little old dog in his arms to take outside for her morning business. He looks like a big ol’ hobbit with white “stick-outy” bed-head, belly poking out of his robe… barely conscious at this sleepy hour of the new day. Ron is 95% serious but has an incurable inner punster who shoots out sideways. It’s um...scientific. Balances him. Fact: Upwards of a dozen clerks around town know that if his mouth is moving at any checkout counter he’s “punsterizing” the clerks to break the monotony of their day with silly jokes—now and then a naughty one and I sock him, which makes them laugh twice—but it’s his gift to the world. Ron and I were in a Livingston business office the other day, when I heard a burst of laughter down the hall, I knew Ron had visited the girls at the front desk and delivered his gift.

And now for the theory: I believe that if we can laugh, especially at ourselves, it is Homeopathic, an ancient healing practice where tiny amounts of natural element are taken which stimulate the body to heal itself—and healing, like laughter, is catchy and gets all over everybody.

“Consciousness” is much talked about these days; the levels of which are almost as numerous as there are people, seems like. In my words it means: how the mind reacts to stuff and sorts it out. Another definition: it is the degree of awake-ness to, and interpretation of,... Reality? But more head-scratching and yet very telling, is that everyone, almost, has a different personal interpretation of reality. I suspect and suggest therefore that there is not just One reality? Empirical Ron argues that there is only one. But I win because Muse says that all the diversity of man’s free will creates unlimited material from 1000s of years of human shenanigans, to say the least...but provides stuff for our creatives, (and writers) to blather on and on about. We are all creative. Get it?

Writers (and know-it-alls) fall into long-winded preaching or opinions,..but never me….oh not moi…I trim off all the excess waffle and hold your attention with a few dry, safe facts and I am respectfully succinct…keeping the foolish chatter at a minimum—Enter stage left Joyce’s Muse holding a big sign that says: “Liar Liar! Pants on Fire!” and in a Darth Vader voice Muse quotes Earnest Hemingway’s famous advice to writers: “be... economical... with... your... words.” (gulp.)

Dear Reader: I am, and so are all us PCCJournal contributors, privileged by your giving us your precious attention, seriously. It is our hope that we inform you well of events, and of free expression, the Voice of your community—the goal and service of the Journal which is also to give you a lift, and a chuckle. We are many levels of conscious beings—worthy sparks of Creation running around down here, in a complex “plot” on Earth to navigate, heal, grow, create, and find peace. The expressing of our own individual truth is the beginning of healing; integral,...and yes funny sometimes. Please therefore listen to one another, and your Muse, and to Nature, (to trees, and animals who communicate silently if you tune in.) I will conclude with this recent experience below. Excuse the excessive adjectives, Mr. Hemingway. They just spill out, sometimes, you know...

The cheerful little white dog loves to visit the grass under a particular old willow tree whose sturdy big presence many neighbors walk by every day. So wide and thick is the willow’s leafy umbrella, a lot of shade is made that for some reason dogs like to lie down in. Specially thick this year is the grass, too. The little dog went belly down as usual, and rolled around in it joyfully. “What is this joy?” I kicked off my shoes, and walked barefoot on the moist cool grass, mindfully, like with ballet steps, just “feeling” and not thinking. The old Willow’s powerful big arms reach up from his huge, rough trunk and disappear from sight into the lush foliage—home to a community of birds singing together in a choir with the soft breath of leaves stirred by the breeze. I inhaled deeply of the clean scent of sun-warmed sage, and pine. The slight tingling of Earth energy flowed up through my bare feet. Then I surrendered and laid down with the dog. Soon I felt strangely safe, and at peace. No wonder the birds seemed to chirp with joy. They too felt the mystery of consciousness in the serene cool shade of the great old Willow Tree.


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