Time Traveler

moon starsI keep forgetting I’m a Time Traveler. Forgetting that we’re all traveling through Time at various rates and speeds, willingly or unwillingly, sometimes in an orderly fashion, other times pell-mell. But traveling all the same. Never standing still (in time), never motionless (in time), always moving, moving, moving.

I know we live in Time, have calendars, seasons, birthdays. I see images of living beings captured in the Past and brought forward into the Present. I see the ravages of time. I see the passing of time. I see and I know, and yet I still keep forgetting.

Death and illness still come as a surprise! Like, how can this be? Like it was never meant to be this way…

These days people generally live longer than they ever have. Death used to swoop down, indiscriminately carrying off young and old, rich and poor. When did old age and death become strange and weird? I know when we leave the body we are only leaving behind a shell that has outgrown its use. But what I know and what I feel can often seem like two different things.

That is why I am taking another look at this watercolor I did back in 1990 of moons and stars and a shooting star. Stepping up into a greater reality. The heavens. The universe… To remind myself of a broader, more expansive view. Then, when I look down again, I see that death is only a transformation into another form (of life, of energy, of being).

And if, as some have said, time has speeded up, or seems to have speeded up of late, our hearts can only beat one beat at a time. So I shall put my focus on that too. Because no matter how fast or slow we are all traveling, as long as we can stay in the rhythm of the heart, and trust the heart, beat by beat, we’ll be alright ~

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Apples and Oranges

apples in a bowlI have wanted to blog about so many things in the last few months—and ended up discarding the ideas before they were even halfway developed. It happens that way sometimes. Like thinking, oh well, this isn’t important enough to share. It isn’t “blog-worthy.” But anything can be blog-worthy! All that matters is at least a smidgeon of passion from the blogger – and the reader will pick up on it.

Yes, we’re always hearing follow your passion, follow your passion—but for those of us who require an audience—we also need to infuse our expression, whatever it is—with passione! (That is “passion” in Italian; it sounds even more passionate when you say it with an Italian accent.)

Eni's OrangesMeanwhile, let’s talk about apples and oranges. These are small watercolors from my (9×12) sketchbook. But there is a richness here. A feeling of plentitude. A sense of yes, there is enough. The apples fill up the bowl. The oranges are stacked up on the plate. It was soothing to draw and paint round things. I did the apples first. What happened was I bought too many. This time of year you can buy them in large quantities relatively cheaply, and you won’t miss a few if you set them out in a bowl to paint. The bowl has been set out for years, though only for decoration.

blue bowlIt is a bowl I inherited from my mother. I remember it from earliest childhood. It was always on the coffee table. She used it as an ashtray. Underneath the apples is a hand-painted picture of a train chugging through the countryside.

The bowl represents the past. The apples are the present. The current harvest. The ripeness of now. The apples are sweet. The memory is sweet.

The oranges are something else again. They belonged to someone else. (And yet I made them mine, didn’t I…) In the end I had to work from a photo as the owner of the oranges started to eat them. But it didn’t matter, as by then I had them down.

Apples and oranges have yet another meaning to me. When we were small, my older sister (who is now gone) said to me, “What is the difference between an apple and an orange?”

When I said I didn’t know, she said, “They’re both red except the orange.”

She had tricked me. And I loved it.

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Coffee Pocket

coffee pocketThat’s right—coffee pocket, not packet, though I’m sure coffee packets exist. Probably in motel rooms, or certain hotel rooms, alongside whatever they’re offering that will allow you to heat up some water. But this is about coffee pockets. I never made my very own coffee pocket before yesterday, and this one needs work, but it does the trick, namely, to hold my coffee container or travel mug in place while inside my bag.

I’ve always appreciated those bags and backpacks with outside pockets large enough for my travel mug. But as this bag I bought last winter didn’t have one, my mug kept gravitating to a lying down position. Which was alright really, as the lid was capable of being screwed on tightly and there were no leaks. But I kept thinking how much better it would be if there was a pocket, you know, in which to insert it so it would stand upright.

You see, when there are so many seemingly unsolvable problems in the world, or even in our own lives, it can be beneficial to focus on a little thing that you can improve. So yesterday I finally did it. I made the pocket for my travel mug and this morning took it out for a trial run. It worked! I guess the next thing to do would be to figure out how to mass produce these handy pockets, assuming of course, that there are other women out there who carry travel mugs in their bags without coffee pockets.

Or maybe not. Probably better to get back to my real work, which is writing a memoir about how I freed myself from the past. This may sound strange, but I didn’t know until recently that that was what it was about. That’s the thing about writing your experiences down; you often aren’t aware of the big picture until you write about all those little pictures your memory bank is still carting around. (Memory pockets!)

One final word about coffee. I don’t have to go out for it. I am currently working from home, in a small office at the rear of my apartment, right behind the kitchen (in the old days it was the maid’s room) where I can make as much coffee as I please. But I like to get dressed up in the morning and join the crowds heading off to work or to school, so that I can have that bit of adrenalin feeling I am heading off to do important things too.

And one final word about pockets. It’s about power. About knowing, in however small a way, that I can make things better/easier/more efficient or whatever, without having to rely on someone else to do it for me. When my son was little I used to make extra pockets for him inside his jackets, and pockets in his pajamas… It’s a Wendy thing. What can I say… Except that the coffee I went out for this morning is all gone and it’s time to get back to work.

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One with the Weather

When I had a television I used to watch Chanel One’s “Weather On The Ones.” And now, on this last day of muggy New York weather, (we are promised it will be cooler and drier by the morning) I have set a goal to be ONE with it. Hot and humid is my least favorite kind of weather. It saps my energy, makes me feel heavy and lethargic. Five minutes after taking a cool shower it’s like I never had one at all.

I’ve heard (in certain esoteric circles) that our thoughts affect the weather. That violent storms are rooted in our own thoughts of violence. That thoughts are things. The expression “thought-forms” means when we have a thought in our head, whatever it is, it takes on a form that can then influence the thoughts of others—near or far. We are all picking each other up all the time whether we know it or not. All these thoughts drifting around the atmosphere, colliding with one another. It’s why we’re always reminded to be positive, so we will attract more positive energies.

This summer of 2014 in New York has been one of the easiest to bear that I can remember. Today won’t be difficult either, as I know relief is in store by tomorrow. But I’m trying to stop myself from longing for the future, even if it is only tomorrow. As soon as the summer began I started thinking as I do every summer, oh geez, I can’t wait till fall! But this year I said wait a minute—why don’t you wish your life away while you’re at it. Be Here Now. And all that.

So you could say I was focusing on my mental process. Meanwhile, I am living in a physical body that reacts to weather. My hair frizzes up. The moisture in the air that curls my hair, swelling each strand and increasing the overall volume, also seems to increase the volume of my body. Regardless of how I look, and even if it is only my perception, I feel fat when it’s humid. Heat expands things, cold contracts. We know this. So it’s no wonder I long for the crispness of fall when I will feel frisky again.

But today, instead of thinking of my bodily response to humidity as a negative, I’m wondering if maybe it hasn’t been a good thing all along. Because I remember seeing this French philosopher being interviewed on television (when I had a television) whose hair caught my attention. As I was listening to what he was saying, I observed the way his hair moved. His hair was longish and wavy, and just as expressive as he was. I can’t remember his words now, only the way his hair moved. How it framed his face, how its personality perfectly expressed the personality and energy of the man. The interviewer, another man, had the short-cropped, combed and sprayed hair you see on most TV anchors. Hair that is always in place, just-so. Hair that never moves. And here was this philosopher, this thinker, with wild untamed—real hair. Hair with personality.

So, just for today, I am going to rejoice in the fact that I am susceptible to changes in the weather. Because, if we live in a world of vibrations then weather is a vibration too. And I respond! I’m a living being, responding to the vibration of heat and moisture in the atmosphere around me. And in case you’re thinking what a fuss I’m making over hair, there’s currently a low-flying helicopter over my neighborhood, back and forth, back and forth, making a lot of noise. I tried to look out the window, but I have window guards which prevent me from sticking my head (of frizzy hair) out. All I could see were the tops of trees and the clouds. Pardon me for being a little jumpy about noisy things flying overhead, but next week is the anniversary of a horrible day, and afterwards the skies over Brooklyn were swarming with all manner of noisy planes and helicopters, setting teeth on edge and making us even more jumpy.

Anniversaries bring back memories. Memories, whatever they are, are also vibrations. It is what it is. Be Here Now. Let It Be. Go With The Flow. See, mastering my unwillingness to face certain kinds of weather may seem a small thing, but it’s all about allowing. Being ONE with what is. And stopping being angry over what is. This doesn’t mean I don’t want to effect change, because I do. I just want to go about it in such a way as to bring in a higher vibration, not add to the anger and fear that’s already present.

Thank you for listening ~ Namaste ~




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An Artistic Recovery

Palette 3I began a new blog today about my stay in the maternity ward, the noisy crowd constantly visiting the woman in the bed next to mine, and how it drove me to distraction. But separating my assorted bouquets into vases containing just one color each, helped soothe my frayed nerves and body. Yes. When things became too much to handle, I rearranged the flowers according to color.

I actually live near a hospital now, with the attendant florist nearby, and still turn away from the assorted bouquets on display, as for some reason they represent chaos, and certainly remind me of the chaos I felt after childbirth.

But today I was thinking about the importance of sorting, and putting things in their right place. Or in the right order. I’m not obsessive about it, but I know how I feel when I lay out my colors in the same order every time, so I never have to think about it. And I know the feeling of going into a painting and not knowing where everything goes, maybe not for a while. And how it helps to know where my colors are, how they’re always in the same place on the palette where I left them. It’s not the same thing as keeping your underwear drawer tidy or your linen cupboard neat. Not the same thing at all. Because different colors represent different energies and different feelings. They represent different vibratory rates.

So the blog I began writing started to turn into something much longer, too long I thought for a blog. And as I had recently joined Wattpad, I thought I might post the piece there. I can add another chapter too, and make it a longer story. This part is really about coming back into alignment with oneself after something as natural, yet traumatic in its own way, as having a baby.

It’s also about learning what soothed me, and gave me a sense of control in a place where I had none. Making art is a way to sort out feelings by expressing what they are. All I could do in the maternity ward was rearrange the flowers, but it seemed that was enough.

You can read the story here: http://www.wattpad.com/66506666


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My Paranormal

space starsOkay, so I had this incredible, out-of-this-world, mind-blowing experience that among other things told me I had to be a writer, and some years later when I finally had the courage to write about this earth-shattering experience (it only took me thirteen years), my advisor at grad school asked me if I had been psychotic!

What a come-down. Then I remembered how at the time, my neighbor from downstairs had asked me if I was on meds, meaning was I under the care of the psychiatric profession, the insinuation being that if not, then I should be. No! I said, wondering why she would think so. In actual fact, what I had gone through had been amazingly spiritual. And as such, had left me with the sense of having advanced in terms of consciousness, not retreated into some kind of la-la land. My head had never been more clear, my self-awareness and awareness of others never more great. But what I learned from the lesson at grad school was that I needed to improve my writing skills so that I would come across as completely sane.

Well, now I have improved my writing skills, I know that to many people I will still come across as having been off the wall. But at least with a full-length memoir instead of an isolated chapter handed in, there will be a lead up to the events. A cognizant account written by a grounded person with a back story. It will be this foundation of a back story that will give the account its validity.

The events of which I speak occurred back in the late 1980s when the general public was still marveling over the phenomenon of answering machines, VCR players and cable television. There were no chat rooms or message boards in which to find kindred spirits and share stories, let alone Blog Talk Radio where anytime, anywhere, you could jump into a conversation or listen to a topic being discussed that hit upon your mishegoss exactly. (Mishegoss—Yiddish for crazy or senseless activity or behavior; craziness.)

So far this lead-in/backstory is over three-hundred and fifty pages with still a ways to go before I get to the summer of 1987. And this is already Volume Two of my memoir, The Nancy Who Drew. But now there will be a rationale behind the events. The tale of a journey that led up to a certain time and place where a paranormal event would be the inevitable outcome. And now, instead of trepidation, I feel excited to share my story. And it’s not just because I no longer feel I’m the only one or part of a small minority. It’s because for the past year I have been listening to a show on Blog Talk Radio called Paranormal Matters.

PleiadesThe program is broadcast from Yorkshire, England, by members of a group called Rainbow Light Foundation. I’ve really come to appreciate that last word, Foundation. With Rainbow Light it means a ‘non-profit’, non-denominational organization, “dedicated to promoting greater understanding of the soul sciences; the links between body, mind and consciousness.” The other meaning for a foundation is, “an underlying basis or principle for something.”

It’s that underlying basis or foundation that is so important for the reader to have in order to find one’s story believable, no matter what the subject matter, but especially when delving into the unknown, borderline areas of perception. And especially now, when the walls between worlds are thinning. 

Listening regularly to the stories on Paranormal Matters (@Paranorm_Radio) has had a cumulative effect on me. Paranormal experiences are those “outside the range of normal experience or scientific explanation,” or outside “science’s current ability to explain or measure.” And this is exactly how the radio show defines itself, as Freeing the mind from the prison of human perception. I represent a case (which I’m sure is not uncommon) of a person whose mind has been freed, but has lacked a solid basis (foundation) on which to draw from. And without that, my poor little freed mind had a tendency at times to spin off into its own realm.

But there’s listening and there’s writing, and then there’s this thing called doing. Last spring I took the Foundation Level course at The Academy of Spiritual Sciences in their Quantum Light Programme, and earned a practitioner’s certificate in energy alignment. While it answered a lot of questions for me, it also created a whole lot more.

That, however, is by-the-by. The main reason I wanted to write this blog is because word has gotten out that we are multi-dimensional beings living in a world of vibrations. And alongside all the nastiness and the suffering, another world is opening up to us. We’ve known for a long time that the transition was going to be bumpy. And the importance of hanging out with those who uplift and add to our understanding. We are brave souls. And I for one, feel more brave the more I trust what I know and trust what I feel.

Brooklyn RainbowA trust that has grown and developed as I’ve listened to Paranormal Matters Radio. Which is why I’m the Admin for the Rainbow Light Forum, where you will find I am called Brooklyn Rainbow. Feel free to check it out and ask your questions.    


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The Dancer and the Dance

I am a medical student, dissecting the body of the past. I cut, not into the flesh and bone of 3D life, but into the subtle body, the energetic psychic body swollen with memories. I watch it bleed. Then I prick it some more. Till all the anger and shame, the bitterness, runs out. And what remains is the dancer, and the dance.

It’s why I love writing memoir. Most people wouldn’t want to keep rehashing difficult or painful episodes from the past. But with each successive draft I am bringing in more light. Transforming the experience into something grand. Without changing a single fact.

Transformance by Nancy Wait (oil on canvas) 1980s http://fineartamerica.com/featured/transformance-nancy-wait.html

Transformance by Nancy Wait (oil on canvas) 1980s

(Prints/cards available at Fine Art America)
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