Month: November 2018

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Glore Psychiatric Museum ~ “Finding our way”

Glore Psychiatric Museum ~ “Finding our way”
Saturday November 10th 2018 by James AnthonyCurtis

 

Today we visited the Glore Psychiatric Museum in St. Joseph Missouri just north of Kansas City.

St. Joseph is pleasant town, with lovely people, a rare little gem of attractions in US history. Having a commitment we are en route to, we decided on a couple of places that peaked our interest for the day. I chose the Native American exhibit, and Ciara picked the Glore Museum.

As per usual, the universe lines up what we need, even though we may balk at our circumstances. Sometimes I struggle with negative or afflictive emotions, and being in places where tragedy or strong pain was felt, vibrationally I will sense the energy stored in the items, land, and buildings that are still there. Although this happens, Ive received guidance over the years to really embrace the energies, that there are always deeper lessons, healings, expressions coming forth in the experiences that are priceless.

I’m a firm believer in learning from our history, and contributing to the process of healing by emerging myself in these areas of need that call out energetically.
I forget as a healer though, that when in exploration while sighting seeing, the impact things may have on me. This actually works to the benefit of the process sometimes, in that each experience is felt on a much deeper level, when we are unaware of what’s happening, because the mind doesn’t interfere with its analytical inquisitions or opinions.

Earlier in the day when we were choosing our destinations, its also beautiful watching the synchronicity of events that align for our desires of what we need to manifest in our life paths. Everything plays a part in coming to surface what we may realize in hindsight, as perfection is always moving all things together for wellbeing. Our conscious ‘trip planning,’ really is the tip of the iceberg in what happens on any given day.

 So we found ourselves moving through the halls of what was once labeled “State Lunatic Asylum No. 2″, renamed the “St. Joseph State Hospital” in 1899. Built in 1874, the structure has echoes of a medieval fortress, where one might suspect to find all sorts of various torture devices in the damp lower sections of its foundation walls. Although the mind might run a bit with the idea of barbaric treatment as you begin to wander the museum, instead what we found was far more revealing in nature, sinister even, — a vain attempt by our predecessors to understand dark places in the human psyche, and in failing to do so, meet them with brute force in order to bring them in line with societal codes of conduct.

In an introductory video when you first enter the museum, a modern Psychiatrist examines his own methods of treatment for the mentally ill, posing the question, “fifty or a hundred years from now, will the methods I use be thought of as barbaric or inhumane attempting treatment of the mentally ill?

As we walked from room to room, seeing the devices and various forms of treatment used in those individuals that were committed, neither of us had the words to describe what we were feeling. Knowing what I know now, working with many people that struggle with mental health, how many of these people would have been tossed to the wind as ‘abnormal,’ or ‘less than’ in humane consideration? ‘Love,’ seemed far removed from the equation, as each treatment focused more on the obedience of behavior, and awakening the individual to societal norms in thinking.

Though I do not hold those in authority or charged with the care of these people at the time responsible, it is difficult to imagine being flexible with such obstinate thinking. The fact that we are ‘evolving’ is still in debate today, drive long enough on any major highway in the US, and you will eventually see a billboard disputing evolution with a rather narrow view of creationism. And although this may seem counter productive, even resistant, and full of rigidity, we are only being served with a deepening path to practice the love we so much are calling out for in humanities shortcomings.

As I look closely, feel into the history of many of those that were housed at ‘Lunatic Asylum No.2,’ the devices used on the people, the ‘tranquilizers,’ restraints, and many methods of treatment being explored, a story begins to unfold of two lives — both intertwined in the relationship of questioning our sanity. With each whipping, dousing of water, and handling of the insane with brute force, to the more sublime encounters where some small connection might be made, both patient and counselor must have wondered what bridge they were walking on through their chosen life path. As each questioned each, why couldn’t the other see what was so revealing and important in meaning?

On the third floor of the museum is a display of crafts, artwork, and instruments that gave worth to so many in the halls where they stayed. Some venting, others broken in heart, pain pouring forth in expression, and moments of joy in once heard voices having hope of being listened to again. The evidence on this floor was overwhelming, the conclusion of contrast real, that which was opening was being opened by the innocence of love, not by the torture of oppressive obedience. Those place that are so misunderstood, dark to us in nature, even violent in their force, are merely asking for love, the attention we long seek by the demons of our desires. The artwork resonated so much with us, it brought up other great artists of our time, and we were made to wonder how many of them were seeking only to be loved, valued in their journey of introspection, so clearly translated and identified on a mass scale of human canvas in the heart of the minds eye? How many of them were merely seekers, walking the inward road, only to escape incarceration or rejection by a narrow thread had their thoughts been more openly known?

The answer is not an easy one to accept, because it means a shift in each of our personal daily lives. As we draw closer to the truth of healing, expression, and our divine nature, we also meet our ‘mirrors,’ those places we lack conformity with, that are not aligned, asking only to be loved in their cries. As humans we are in a place of unique significance, in that we are both living embodiments of earth and sky, having the capacity for greatness and awe in our movements, but only as we learn to endure our most afflictive of energies in emotion with loving embrace. As we continue to grow into our potential, those parts that come forward in what we may perceive of as ‘insanity,’ are only indications of the higher self we are coming to know as we struggle to maintain some semblance of reality. With each grounding that falls away from under our footing, we are moving inward to the uncertain path, and learning to trust in the universal weight of liberation.

 

 

May you be blessed, may you be opened when ready, free to explore those parts that are asking only to be heard by the love that you already are. May it be so, so it is.???

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Mirror, mirror…

Mirror, mirror…

By James Anthony Curtis

Rain continues this day, as I listen to the drip, drip, drip upon the gutters, grey skies holding true to their foretelling of the mood. It always amazes me how nature can be a perfect reflection of those parts within me on any given day, and when the shift comes, synchronized walls fall as the clouds move to produce the brightness of the sun. But the shift isn’t the goal, more of a byproduct of loves intrepid work in revealing the depths in deep need, each darkness claiming stake for the next round of feeling.

Some days as ironic as it sounds, I just don’t feel like feeling.

SO I wake up, go about my day, as the universe patiently waits for my readiness. Days may bleed into weeks, but not so much anymore, as once quickened, life has a way to coax us back into our attentiveness. I’m learning not to push, to prod myself or others in our chosen life path, but rather to simply allow me to flow as the person Ive come to experience this journey in.

As a healer, I’m very familiar with those coming to me for answers, but answers are different than healing. Healing can manifest in a variety of ways, but Ive never seen it arrive solely as an ‘answer.’ Mostly, healing comes as that pesky neighbor knocking at some odd hour at the back door, or the painful newscast we wince at in passing – wishing the world was a safer place. Deep healing arises almost unnoticed, maybe a forgotten dream in the night, or some ache upon waking for the day, possibly a co-worker saying the same annoying thing, complaining in our ear. These ‘feelings,’ left unattended, begin to work their festering magic, seeping underneath, into the cracks of our soul, until that day comes when we don’t ‘feel’ like going to work, we call off, crawling back into our bed.

And when ready, when there has been enough space created, we begin to examine ourselves, asking those difficult questions, maybe allowing difficult feelings.

The distance we feel, is nothing more than the space we have genuinely created, for love to close the gap between us and us. Oppression, heart-ache, sickness, and death, all reveal this great distance, the one inside that we miss, our infinite selves. But if we allow our demons to work for us, those parts that feel plagued, our eyes will come to know the truth of loves revealing, of each costumed scary character that has come forth, only as an aid to our most desired healing.

Sometimes the most potent feelings are the ones that arise out of our need to be seen, to know that we are not alone, that even in dire circumstances, all is unfolding for our benefit.

So we listen to the rain, feel the grey, hear the wind upon the trees, and allow as we allow, as we are ready to receive. We flow with the river of our true nature, granting passage for life to move as it chooses, welcoming both our resistance, and each embrace, with all the love we wish to be given, as no one else can, as we tenderly, sometimes painfully, hold the heart in all that we feel.

May it be so, so it is. ????

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To the ‘One’ whistling in the dark

To the ‘One’ whistling in the dark

By James Anthony Curtis

It’s hard to accept the arrangement of some fears, they strike with such precision, and depth, it feels as though our heart will stop. “Not being good enough,” along with the torment of “unworthiness, abandonment, and rejection,” can often leave us feeling bruised, bullied, alone…cowering in some dark corner.

But as we learn about bullies, we find that most of their lives they themselves have been bullied, and receiving little to no acknowledgement, only desiring to be heard, seen, shown the attention they lacked, come knocking at our door. Frequently they arrive with expressions of anger, hatred, and accusations of the ground we stand on, taunting us until we fold inward, sinking deeper into depression.

Some days “the fear of not being good enough” lashes out with such ferocity, that it seems as though the whole world has joined with them as a gang of torment, to all of which we feel overwhelmed, bottoming out, and with no room left to recoil, we turn towards our demons. As we face our captors, we willingly succumb, opening the door, inviting the end to be near, showing them in for as long as they wish to stay, abiding with them in the innocence of our heart.

“Come in,” we say, “I will not abandon me, nor resist you,” and feeling their presence, the deep ache, the pain gripping at our soul, they are heard.

Soon, many more of their friends arrive, ‘self-pity, poverty, cruelty, and ugliness,’ a hard looking bunch, from many years of living on the fringe of existence. They lounge wherever they please, mostly choosing to sprawl across the heart as it opens to receive them. But as they do, we do the opposite of our earthly nature, divining a way less seen, and we continue to sit, holding our heart in the midst of their chattering. Tears gently fall upon the cheeks, gravity guiding them down well-worn paths, as the ruin of our guests touches us.

‘Abandonment, rejection, and unworthiness’ complete the crowd now gathered, a full house, yet still we hold true to love, the practice of being with strong energy, and holding the heart, as each of them comes forth to be felt, listened to, seen as no one else can.

Breath by breath, we feel intimately those that are here for acknowledgement, that healing may occur as needed, with each truth of our pain.

We continue by setting aside judgements and opinions about the circumstances of each arising, simply feeling, allowing passage for cellular debris to manifest, releasing as they will; just as a sliver works its way out of the body, so to the creation serves love even in the most difficult of circumstances.

Gently bowing, each of one of our guests depart, moving on as we stand in truth, holding space for them, while loving the heart, tenderly, as gently as we can.

The sun comes forth, shining, broadening our inner chambers, and the room feels lighter, the breath easier, our healing process deeper.

The room is now empty, but somehow we fill more of it, larger, for as we have come know those parts, so to we have come to know ourselves, the one coming forth, the love that we are, for the benefit of all beings.

May it be so, and so it is.????

– From my next book: “Honoring the One Coming Forth”

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‘The brittleness of cold’

‘The brittleness of cold’

By James Anthony Curtis

As the seasons shift, and the leaves release their colors in recognition of the fall, I feel the cold reaching into my bones, searching me out in the deep of the marrow. The wind is howling outside, as it blows upon the branches, tempting the trees with foretelling of winter, and the long dark that is coming in the cycle of life’s matter. I have to remind myself, that this is natural, a part of the journey we have contracted, and that all is well, even when uncomfortable feelings grip my soul.

Although trepidation may visit the weary traveler, it is in these times that we may offer the hospitality of our heart to those places that seek to be heard in us. Fear and agitation are only guests in our house, come to reveal those parts seeking faith in the ground of uncertainty, and if we allow ourselves to abide in the discomfort of our relations with strong energy, going inward as the mighty trees do each winter, we find solace in the space of reflection, grasping not upon the sands of shifting circumstances, but holding firm in the form of our divine unfolding.

With the cold comes a natural contraction, a seeming ‘revulsion’ to the outer world, but inward, we know of something different taking place. In times past, we would come together around the fire, tell stories in the shelters we had constructed, paint upon the walls, and commune with our ancestors around the fire of mortality’s privilege. And although it may seem we have lost this connection, the universe beckons us to travel deeper into the cave of our mystery, down sacred hallways, further than we have gone before in our species.

We will find loss, but only in the derision of our unbelief; for each fate is a necessity in our evolution, in coming to realize those places within us that have come forward to be expressed.

Our lineage will not abandon us, both in future realms and those we may have forgotten from long ago, for we are all pilgrims here, spontaneously embracing our rhythms, called out by our desires. So let us gather together, just as in days of old, tell our stories in the deep of cold’s brittleness, as we warm ourselves by the fire. And may we view the pictures we have painted, come to life upon the walls, seeing our depths emerge, serving us, as what we have chosen, in love’s universe, by design.

May it be so, so it is.

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“The value in our ache”

“The value in our ache”

By James Anthony Curtis

It’s 5:59 in the morning, flashes of light streak across the bedroom window, as rain begins to fall gently on the trees outside. It’s still warm enough in early October to keep the window open, fresh air wafting in natures breath, and in the distance, thunder rolls somewhere in the far hills, moving closer, the morning approaching but not here yet. Now and then a crackling lightning can barely be heard, static building, reminding me of places within, feelings from long ago.

Memories come, water welling up in the corner of my eye, of various precious moments, gone now, ironically as I blink, the tear rolls down across my face.

In years past, there was an old thread of doubt, a sad story that would come upon me, moving me in this theater of remembrance, more of a captor to some sad story. But this morning I Am moved with awe in these places, viewing each haunting, with thankfulness in the heart of compassion. I’m beginning to realize the depth of loss, the fulfillment in its gifts, where joy and sorrow meet, with each utterance of branding grace, and what makes this experience so special, is not the intensity, or the surround of its venue, but the high place from which I sit, looking upon its rarity.

Abandonment, rejection, poverty, and aloneness, are but messengers of greater friendship, the connection to our future self, observing the rules we have laid down, for our liberation of life’s treasure. It wont make sense, its not supposed to; just as the fiddle player moves in rhythm to bandy dance, our ancestors come forth from another time, bringing their melody, through the strings of well played paths. The mind will never figure it out, and will struggle to understand, but this way is for those few, who dying to live, gasp their final grasp, releasing to the nether.

Like monks in some forgotten monastery, we chant our koan in anticipation of letting go, only to come into the fullness of embracing. Prophets will affirm, with each listening as we draw closer, to the one we honor, hold, and acknowledge, when ready we will move forward; finding no solace in our temporary condition, upon this road all things meet, and will converge in harmonic oscillation, until we see the truth of it, played out as one line infinite in form. Yes there is joy in sorrow, blood in the deepest hue of blue sky, if we give way to our eternal life, awakening to point Reyes, in the midst of waves crashing upon our shoals.

So the rains drizzle this morning, reminding me of old, each memory has a place, a divine insight, some just to be expressed. Mother, father, sister, brother, the depressed, yet loved me with such passion, until in a blink regressed. But I know who they are, what they wanted me to see, so in each affliction, rests sweet melody, its not a time for mourning, unless it is, lets begin, with what we digest. For the benefit of all, loss comes, may it be so, so it is, for in our reign, nothing does not exist.

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‘The sword of truth’

‘The sword of truth’

By James Anthony Curtis

Pain is the great revealer, coming forward to present itself in the most uncomfortable of circumstances, bringing forth once darkened parts to gain our attention. Even though it may seem simple enough, like when we burn our hand on a hot surface, or close our eyes wincing to the brightness of the noon day sun, underneath the surface of our sense experience, flows an intricate often enormous amount of wealth in transformation. This ‘wealth’ frequently goes untapped, for fear of what we might find, in the voice of the deep, calling out with pain as its advocate.

Often we turn aside, look the other way, ‘blame’ becoming a watchword for outer circumstances, and in our ignorance, humanity suffers, as we recoil in the sensitivity of each truth which lights upon the heart. But as all things work in an inclusive universe, if we turn away, our movement only draws us closer to that which exists in us, the hidden desires which hold dear our most precious treasures.

What an interesting discovery, that ‘truth’ walks hand in hand with our most painful of life paths, not only as pains’ confidant, but as its closest supporter, and friend. If only John Bunyan had written the mystics path, unfettered from religious dogma, what would he have said from the darkness in his prison cell?

So we move as we feel moved, some of us awaiting the edge, others in transition, each of us collecting what we need for our journey in wellbeing.

It’s funny how it goes, for even in writing this now, relief enters, as the vibration is acknowledged, floating ease-fully to the words upon the pages. Which leads yet to another door, in speaking volumes of our divine nature we have come forward to express in each incarnation. For if we are to blossom, unfold our wings, we must journey as we are called, each of us responding to the thunder within us, even as we may buckle purposefully in surrender; for death awaits no man, and works in cooperation to each creation.

So let us feel, dancing to the pain of each truth, granting passage to the music which life brings us, and if we must, with each ‘selah,’ form our own judgements, opinions, about the circumstances that surround us. And as every horror comes true, remember what we asked for, the shedding skin, as we gain upon each nightmare in full view.

It was never about ‘them,’ they were only participants, its your time, your dime, given solely for this uncovering anew.

Book of Horrors, Volume 1, “It’s your Funeral”