Printed in the Conscious Creation Journal
March 2001
Wiggling in My Seat
by Sharon Mendenhall
Introduction to this uniquely flavored material: When I was seventeen, I read the book “1984,” and I knew that something would happen in 1984 that would change my life. And it did! A book in the library fell off the shelf and hit me on the head, so I checked it out. Since then Seth not only has spoke to me, he has yelled, loudly. Something about “You Create Your Own Reality, so get a clue, Jack!”
Fifteen years later, when I was just about able to convince Seth my name wasn’t Jack, here comes Elias to hit me on the head with a big hammer. I’m still in the process of getting a clue, but I had to do it my way. Put it in my own words, so Elias would put that damn hammer down. The result was some type of outlandish diary. A diary about me and my jumbled up concepts. I have no other excuse. If I did, I would definitely use it.
I created a reality entitled, “Diary of a Goddess.” It started out just a little at a time, just some random thoughts that I spontaneously committed to electronic paper. But then mysteriously, the chapters started to link together, and some 350 pages later I began to wonder what to do with all this stuff. Some of it is funny, DAMN funny. (Oh my, Spiritual Humor! I always thought that was an oxymoron.)
I’m just a hitchhiker travelin’ through the universe and lookin’ for a good time, as we all are. The diary has been just plain fun for me, and I hope it will be for you also. If either Seth or Elias start hitting you over the head with a hammer, well, I had nutin’ to do wif’ it. You’re on your own.
Reader, beware!
Sincerely,
Sharon Mendenhall
The Cosmic Motion Picture Company presents
Wiggling in My Seat
I sort of wiggled in my seat, as I listened to someone else’s definition of myself. A version of me from their perspective, filtered through their beliefs. It’s hard not to discount myself, I guess I wiggle a little to remind myself not to go there.
Her version was that I do too much for others, compared to others versions that I do too little. No happy medium there, I immediately determined. Can’t please everybody, why bother? She wanted to know why I was there? Inspiration was my response.
And then she wanted to know why I blocked my writing? Hmmm, interesting I thought. I tried to explain that it comes in waves. Sometimes I write till my fingers ache, other times I don’t write at all, just observe. And then she elaborately complimented my writing, which she had read very little of, and none of the recent stuff. I accepted her comments with grace, verbally, but I wiggled a little more. I was discounting again. I knew she wasn’t familiar with anything I had written in the last year. I wondered what she would say if she had read any of it.
She wanted to know why it wasn’t published? I thought it had been. I mean it’s out there, for those who wish to find it. It just isn’t printed. Never has been, no book for people to judge by the cover. A waste of paper and ink as far as I’m concerned. It will change, and keep changing.
I hadn’t been around that much this past year and she had missed me. I missed her too. And then the magic word came, she added, that I was weird.
Weird, that’s a good discounting word. What is weird? Or more like what isn’t weird? I equate not weird to boring. What isn’t weird is listening to someone tell you about all the terrible things happening in their life. I hear it all the time and it makes me want to avoid saying, “how are you?” for fear they might tell me. What isn’t weird to me, is that I don’t want to discuss that anymore, but I guess that is weird to them. After all, it seems to be the main subject for all conversations. What is wrong, victim, victim, victim.
“None of it is wrong, and none of it is right, it just is what you are creating in the moment,” I said. Not the statement she wished to hear. Adds to that weird business. She tilts her head.
I laugh, this is funny. Your perspective of my perspective filtered through your beliefs and listened to by mine. It’s a wonder we can even communicate. Nothing for me to do but laugh, it is humorous to say the least. I talk a bit about perspective, how everyone has their unique own. She understands, somewhat. It explains the laughing, but not completely. Adds to the weird.
Yes, I agree, I am weird, in the context of my own definition. But I’m enjoyably weird, I believe weird should be delightfully entertaining. And I don’t think I’ve ever been labeled as weird by anyone whom I did not think was equally as weird. We sort of have that mirror thing going for us. It’s fun when I recognize it, discounting when I don’t.
Notice, notice, notice, I say to myself. Notice that no one is ever talking about me. How can they? They are always talking about themselves, and using me for the mirror. What disturbs them the most in themselves is what they are telling me they find most disturbing in me. Listen, listen, listen. Don’t discount myself, no need to. No need for defense, it isn’t even about me. Choose how to receive. I can do that, although not as well as I would like. I’m not a major league player yet.
“Shared dream,” I say. Best way I can explain it. Very much the same, other than one is anchored in the thick soup of time. Objects are frozen symbols, and can be interpreted like a dream object. Events are the same as dream events, sometimes confusing, but always meaningful. It is so obvious that we create our own reality in a dream, for dreams exist nowhere in time and space, but so hard to accept that we create our own reality in waking existence in much the same way.
I create nightmares that frighten me until I wake up and realize it was just a dream. I create nightmares in waking reality also, till I pinch myself to remind myself it’s just another dream of sorts. Nothing more, nothing less. Experience. Pinch, pinch, pinch. It is simple, why do we complicate it the way we do? There are no rules for dreams. No absolutes. And dreams are always from your own perspective, for you create them out of thin air.
I had many subjective experiences during my weekend visitation. Many connections and impressions, but one objective experience stands out from the rest. It was a reception, a party, a celebration welcoming a new baby. His older brother, by three years, spent most of his time lying on the couch, somewhat ignored. I was told that he had many problems, and I wondered because at first meeting I thought he was less than a year old. He did not crawl, nor do much of anything, and seemed to be oblivious to the activity that surrounded him.
At one point, later in the evening, his father was holding him upright on the floor, playing with him. I sat next to them both on the floor, absorbed in another conversation with someone else. He turned to me, and started to walk towards me aided by his father, and instinctively I held out my hands. He came to me, put his heart over my heart, and his head on my shoulder. From that moment, till it came time for him to leave, he never once left my arms. Everyone was shocked, his father, his mother, his older brother, and all the friends that knew him well. “He never does that,” they said, “he is autistic. He never responds to strangers.”
They looked at me with the awe that we attribute to a miracle. A child, happy and contented, communicating in his own way, to me. “He doesn’t have any facial expressions,” his mother warned. I hadn’t noticed. I saw expression. “He has heart problems,” his father warned. I hadn’t noticed as he put his heart on mine, there was no problem.
Later I was told that I gave him a gift, but I didn’t see it that way. He gave me the gift, the demonstration of the power of acceptance. I didn’t know him and I didn’t judge him as defective or handicapped. I accepted him the way he was, perfect, and he accepted me in response. Validation that healing is in the power of acceptance.
So eventually the vacation weekend ended. I thanked my friend for the renewed friendship, and the Tumold healer, with enough of a Sumari splash to be weirdly entertaining, rode into the blazing sunset. Hi, ho, onward.
©2000, Sharon Mendenhall. Printed in the Conscious Creation Journal. http://www.consciouscreation.com (Feel free to duplicate this article for personal use – please include this copyright notice and the URL.)
Sharon Mendenhall has been a lover, a fighter, a bareback movie scriptwriter, and much more. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, which is no excuse, and has three children, which is also no excuse. She is a published writer, having written one story, in one book that was published. But you will find her name in italic print if you turn to page 23 of “Expect Miracles” by Mary Ellen. They even spelled it correctly….
For more on Sharon’s Cosmic Motion Picture Company, visit her book on the Elias Web Site at:
http://www.chancenpool.at/Elias/related/cmpc/index.html
Or visit the Elias website directly at:
http://www.chancenpool.at/Elias
For more art from Ragen Mendenhall, visit her site at:
http://www.ragensart.com