Category Archives: Betrayal

WAKE UP! Transition to Trump signals time for inner change

There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. ~ Leonard Cohen

A dream woke me up, as they often do.

It’s the wee small hours of the morning and the last refrains of Rufus Wainwright singing Hallelujah is hugging my heart. I need the sacred poetry of Leonard Cohen. To calm me before I write about my rage and sorrow.

I dreamt an old story of Betrayal. I wrote an article about it for the Vancouver Observer. Read it here. Please share the article. I’ve never written anything more important.

“We must all wake up to the power of the divinity within us, and this takes work. It will be the most important work you will ever do”

This election has cracked us wide open.

58471698 - wake up megaphone message. illustration design graphic

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Filed under Betrayal, Dreams, Spirituality, Vancouver Observer

The Dark Truth of Healing

In the wee small hours of the morning….While the whole wide world is fast asleep…..

Frank Sinatra’s soft, smooth voice wraps around me and warms me from the outside as the toasted walnut tea hugs my insides.  My daughter gave me this CD on a September afternoon six years ago, just after I’d been pushed off the end of my world and was desperately looking for something to hold onto.  Something to keep me breathing.   I would light my forest of candles and listen to Frank over and over and over again.

“Once upon a time, not so long ago and not so far away, there lived a King and Queen in a huge beautiful palace.”  So begins the second half of Slumming, the play I’ve just finished as part of the Vancouver Fringe Festival.  I tip toe into this 30 minute almost monologue as my character, Grace, eases away from Britney, the young street worker who has just been raped.  Britney has asked for a ‘made up story’ and Grace is looking for anything with which to give comfort.  The play has suddenly taken a turn into darker territory.

I begin the play as an obviously unstable street person, yet one who is just as obviously not used to living on the streets.  Throughout the almost monologue I slowly lose the tics and characteristics of Grace “the street person” and grow to become the Queen within the fairy tale.  The words I speak hold great power.

The fairy tale is a story of great betrayal and an even greater, darker revenge.  The very last words of the story strike like MacBeth’s dagger and kills any remaining comedy.  The coda of the play leaves many in tears.  There is such power when Truth is carried with strong intention and conviction.

Several days pass and I receive an email from the writer and director of the play.  She writes, in part, “Writing the fairy tale in Slumming — and then watching you render it so wonderfully — has been cathartic for me.  I no longer feel anger towards_____; in fact, I feel nothing.  I feel free.  I keep waking up saying “Free at last!  Free at last!””

 I am so gratified and so grateful to have been given the honour and opportunity to play a part in her healing.  It has also been an important step in my own healing and journey towards forgiveness.  I’ve been working especially hard this past year to come to a place of complete compassion and forgiveness.  To remove the thin sticky threads which keep me from giving and receiving open-hearted love.

The brilliant and mystical Larry Moss says, “The imagination is bigger than anything you can remember from your own life.”  I manifest the truth of this when I play the character of Grace on stage; when I stand over the sleeping King in the fairy tale and raising MacBeth’s dagger on high, “stab the cheatin’ bastard in the heart!”

Throughout the run of the play I greet many friends and relatives at the end of the performance that give me hugs of congratulations and words of “well done.”  Some are wiping tears from their eyes and some chuckle knowingly, “I guess you didn’t have to go too far to find the emotion and motivation for that, did you.”   They’re talking about my own story of betrayal.

And here’s where I’ve stepped into a magical discovery.  As I weave the story of the fairy tale, casting a spell of make-belief, I come to realize that my own painful curse has been broken.  As I speak the Queen’s words of her wounding betrayal I am no longer able to use the power of my own story to drive the performance.  I try and try to envision my used-to-be husband and my own Other Woman, but they keep disappearing into the vapour of the spell, and the engine of the performance threatens to choke and sputter.

Instead, I call upon the incredible power of my imagination and use that to fuel my words.  Instead of the face of my own betrayer, I see the man who betrayed the playwright.  It is he who appears amidst the smoke of the spell I am casting.  And just like that, I discover that I’ve forgiven those that have wounded me.

I have healed my own wound of betrayal so well that now, as an actor, I must use my imagination instead of the tool of substitution.  What remains behind are great gifts; the intricate, delicate and subtle shades and tones of my emotional pallet that I can now use to colour my performances.  This is where my own Truth comes out to play, and instead of wounding it comes out to help in the healing of others.  What is in the One, is in the Whole.

And so, as I sit behind the wings and listen to the gathering audience laugh and talk before the lights darken, I close my eyes and go within.  I ask that my heart remain open and vulnerable and that I paint the words of the play with the blood of my own healed wounds.  I ask to be used as an agent of healing and to honour the words of the playwright.  May I dwell in the breath of the Truth.  May my healed wound touch one within you and so begin your own healing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Betrayal, forgiveness, Theatre

Slipping Sideways And Finding Seeds of a Book

 When you’ve stopped writing for a period of time, say for weeks, or more truthfully, months, then that blank white  page glaring out from the LCD screen of my laptop looks more like a big black chasm waiting to claim my tumbling body as I scream, (wordlessly, because the problem is the lack of words) to my uncreative death.  The black curser buzzing like a mosquito around my head.  Blinking on and off in a repetitive Chinese water torture rhythm in front of my eyes.  The only time any kind of creative muse hits me is at 4:00 o’clock in the morning, drumming words and phrases into my brain just when I’m trying to stop from thinking and get back to sleep.  The adrenal fatigued upstart that my brain is, goes to sleep during the day and becomes fully awake during the night.  Upside down, the words fall out of me and float back up to the realm of inspiration instead of down, down through my fingers and onto the page.  I’m a dried old husk waiting for rain, and my creaky, arthritic fingers don’t have the strength to turn on the tap for the word sprinkler anymore than my cloudy, sleep-addled eyes can find it.  My ass is numb from sitting on my chair pretending to write, and instead spending hours reading emails, blogs, facebook and yahoo news, even people.com.  The only typing my fingers do is to click on the link to see what the celebrities in Hollywood are wearing.

And so I find myself just typing random words, thoughts as they float through my brain, thoughts that make no sense whatsoever, in an attempt to guide myself back to the highway where inspiration drives.  The hum of the refrigerator reminds me that I’m hungry.  The chirp of a distant bird outside and the sun warming my left shoulder (and aging the left side of my already sun-spotted face) makes me want to leave this laptop and take my book and cup of tea to the brown couch swing out on my back patio.  Surely I’ve earned some reading time? – Even though it seems that’s all I’ve been doing for the past month.  Reading everyone else’s words instead of writing my own.

It seems the thing I most want to write about is the thing that is the most elusive.  Betrayal.  And so I betray myself by writing about anything other than that.  Skirting around the topic like the purple flowered cotton fabric that gathered itself around my sister’s teenage vanity, hiding the worn, water-spotted cardboard boxes containing her childhood dolls and stuffed animals.  Memories hidden haphazardly between Chatty Cathy and the regal stuffed black cat from Avon snapped onto her round red cushion, locked securely with packing tape underneath the table.

Edging in sideways.  Peeking through the lashes of almost closed eyes, I can see what I want to write about lurking behind the hydrangea bushes, poking up like a weed in my newly planted vegetable garden, its roots winding around my life like the pernicious ivy I spend hours pulling and pulling and pulling from the ground.  Betrayal is like that.  Once planted, it reaches out and wraps itself around everyone around, and then everyone around them, choking and choking and choking.  It’s insidious like that.    

But what stops me from writing, one of the things that stops me from writing, is the need to somehow honour both the full colours of betrayal AND the gifts received because of it.  To give homage to the damage betrayal causes and to the healing that can follow.  To give full weight to the incredible hurt and destruction, but also to the equally incredible joy and freedom that comes from the inner work of healing.

I’ve come to realize that I can’t do it within a blog.  I’ve never been able to write short, fast and easy to read posts.  Not about this, at least.  I’ve discovered that I’ve been gestating a book.  I don’t know what it will look like, what form it will take, how it will start or even how it will end.  The only thing I do know is that it will be about betrayal.  About my pilgrimage through that dark wasteland looking for the holy grail of forgiveness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Betrayal, Writing