Tag: inner work

Spiritual Teaching

“The spiritual teacher must know every inch of the way, every danger and pitfall, and not from books or maps or hearsay.  The teacher must have traveled it themself, from the foothills to the highest peaks.  And must have managed to get back down again, to be able to relate with students with humanity and compassion.  Not everyone who attains Self-realization can make a reliable guide.”. Eknath Easwaran

I feel like the experience that has been my life has been one of psychological and spiritual cartography.  Every detour felt like a travesty. But, there is no escaping blazing the trails where others haven’t yet trod.  And so, the feeling of travesty dissolves into its unmasked form… leadership.

0

My Confusion Has Become My Contusion

Capable, then incapable, free falling through the chasm. An observer of my fate I marvel at the chiasm.

Broken glass and sassafras I drink a chaotic toddy. Is there no remedy for my war torn body?

On the screen before me plays David Lynch’s, Rabbits. I seriously wonder if anyone else but me can understand their disjointed conversations. The door opens and closes and an invisible audience claps. Thunder claps. A rabbit is busy on the ironing board. And they all wonder at the rain.

My confusion has become my contusion. But, blue was my favorite hue. And, I wonder at the rain.

Resilience becomes a mockery when that’s all you can have. Every single day I’m bathing the bruises in a salve.

I beat my chest like a caged gorilla. There is no outlet for me. They want my poetry to smell like sage and vanilla. But, there’s more that they don’t see.

In my world everything is raw. Pretense and patriarchy are things I can’t afford. Every drop of water I drink I sip through the last straw

0

Preamble to My Pain

Waffling between numb and horrified
I walk stupefied

Living in liminality and trapped by technicality I lie awake at night stunned at my reality

I feel like my body is an alien craft and a tiny, weird, and scared version of me is at the helm.  I live in overwhelm.

I languish in the labyrinth like a woman whose labor has stopped.  Dripping sweat and full of regret I wail at the walls.

I’m losing cognition in this latest rendition.

I feel like an animal experiment.  Torture is my accoutrement.

I can’t outpace what’s been running me down.  I can’t hide from being found.

I can’t get through to the world outside of my skin.  There is no safe space that is my place to decompress in.

Non-stop need and ravaged by greed I am disbursed like chum in bloody water

I write to right.  I think to talk.  I speak my dream. And all anyone does is balk.

I am lost upon the collective.  I am lost within the collective.  I silently drown while people notice I’m reflective.

Cozett Contemplates her poetry…

#cozettcontemplates #poetry #publishedauthor

0

Non-dual Mother’s Day: My First Mother’s Day After Losing My Mother

An observation I’m having for this Mother’s Day since my mother passed away. I’m only now becoming able to put language to my feeling. My mother and I had a complicated relationship. A lot of my life she orbited while my grandmother raised me. And, while my mamaw will always be my true mother, there is a strange feeling that comes with not having my mother in the physical anymore.

Until her unexpected death, I didn’t realize that I had always felt an invisible tether to her. Growing up there would often be months that would go by where I wouldn’t hear from her or see her. But, even then her presence in the physical was still felt. I was still a daughter of a living mother. A mother I could argue with. A mother I could fault. A mother I couldn’t understand. A mother who I watched walk away from me time and again. A mother who played with me. A mother who made me laugh till my belly hurt. A mother who was wild and brave. A mother who was fearless. A mother who was the epitome of the feral feminine. A mother who attended the best rock concerts and took me to one. A mother who taught me how to dig for worms and fish. She taught me how to fall in love with the scent of dry soil after a rain. A mother who believed that going deep into the mountains was a cure for most everything. A mother who taught me to pause and behold the majesty and force that is female. She held to Boudica and Joan of Arc as her own personal role models.

When I got the call from my mamaw upon finding her dead I remember feeling a severing. And, it took my breath. As I processed the screams of my grandmother, and tried to think logically while trying to keep myself from spinning out of control I felt an unwinding happening and then a snap, like a break in fishing line when you lose a big fish.

That breaking feeling has left me longing to try to reconnect or problem solve my way for her to come back. To be alive again and guide her to do her life differently this time. A few months ago I had a dream about her. In my dream I was able to time travel back to when she was 17 years old. I met her in the hallway of a high school. She was wearing bell bottom blue jeans and had long flowing blonde hair with perfectly lined cat eyes. She was on the verge of life as an adult. I ran to her and cried, “mama! Mama! Oh my God, listen to me! Listen to me. I have a plan. You have to do things differently. You can avoid what you’re going to go through but you have to listen to me, ok??” She stared at me like I was a stranger. Which I would have been at that age. My mamaw came through in the dream and I was showing her that I had found a way to time travel back to her to when she was a teenager. I placed my hands on my mother’s shoulders and shook her because she kept looking at me like I was the strangest thing she’d ever seen and she didn’t understand why I was there. She was silent and smiling and I couldn’t get through to her. I felt such a desperation in that dream. Desperate to shake her into taking better paths than she did. Desperate to protect her. Desperate to help her be a better and present mother to me by redirecting her from the hard and tragic life she was about live for the next 40 plus years.

I woke up. The feeling of being untethered from her felt and still feels disorienting. I’m no longer the daughter of a living mother. I’m the daughter of a deceased mother. A woman who was before her time. And a mother who died before it was time. This day last year I was hurrying through a busy real estate work day (I was still able to work this day last year). This day last year I did not know that I had less than a month to feel her here and laugh with her. This day last year I was thinking about how long my work day was going to be and the fact that it would be late before I called her to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day. And, like every Mother’s Day I felt conflicted about calling her. Sometimes I questioned whether I should acknowledge her at all on mother’s day. It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I began to integrate the trauma of being her daughter. But, integrate I did. And as I found myself approaching middle-age and experiencing the healing that comes with distance and time and shadow work I began to behold her more objectively and forgive her. I began to separate the horrors from the wonders without allowing either to cancel out the other. She was both horrible and wonderful. Destructive and instructive. Fun and traumatic. Healing and age brought me the ability to hold space for all the non-congruencies that she embodied. Allowing me to exist in a place of awe and disappointment at the same time without feeling the split of my psyche.

This was my mother. These are my observations. This is the non-dual space I hold for my experience.

Happy Mother’s Day mama. I love you and miss your laughter.

0

Why?

Blindfold me for the battle so I can at least be authentically barbaric
The masses have always hurled in to peril the esoteric

Slipping through the cracks I’ll never look back
But, I will remember my blood dripping through the black

I’m drowning in their cognitive dissonance
While crowning myself the leader of dissidents

With raised fist I’m screaming in to the void
I am my id the cautionary tale by Freud

Primordial and parabolic
I’m a corporeal hydraulic

Telling the story of how modernity is primeval
My nervous system lunging and launching in upheaval

My voice exists on the other side of the veil
But my body is here going through hell

The observation of this peculiar disconnect
That my self-awareness longs to resurrect

Rhyming and timing my sanity like a metronome
Like a daft pendulum the swing is my home

Wisdom that inspires wonder is reputed to be of significance
But the collective seems to relish in the bliss of ignorance

A scathing indictment that leads to incitement
Where even the Socratic of the democratic find themselves affrightment

I’ve simplified my question to three letters, “why.”

0

Soulmate Romance

As I think through my concept of a soulmate, the first thing I think of is the emphasis on the word “mate.” For me, mate, means match, alignment, similarities, and therefore comfort. The soul component is the deeper part of our humanity that the majority of other humans do not adequately or accurately perceive about us. A soulmate, for me, would be someone who does see that part of me with clarity and mirrors back to me the profundity of what they see because that person shares many of the same qualities and perspectives and emotions of my own soul. That person can see me because they have seen their own soul, deeply. It is the element and degree of depth of their own self-awareness that is one of the greatest qualifying factors for me to identify with that person as a romantic soulmate.

As I’ve gotten granular on the semantics of the word, “soulmate” it has occurred to me that I’ve been too willing to accept men who do not match or align with me on a soul level. And, to be perfectly honest, and as I’m told by those closest to me, I am likely too deep for most and therefore unrelatable to a great degree. So, where is love for me? I feel like my depth very much limits my options. Added to that, my “niceness” has always given the impression that I can be treated poorly or not have my relational needs met and they can still have priority and benefit from my love of them. 

I think this post serves mostly as a precursor to an impending perspective and behavioral change. I don’t know what that will look like but if I could describe the emotion of what is gathering in this regard it would be more confidence, less tolerance of bad behavior for the sake of being flexible and making it work, and self-belief. I would say “glow-up” but I feel that term has become banal and I’m growing to despise it for that reason. The next several months of this year feel like they will be an unearthing of the “why” and the “how” I need to change my understanding and behavior of who I am willing to accept as a romantic partner. I think ultimately it will be a massive contrast in how I’ve always I’ve seen things pertaining to being loved. And once that change is done it will likely seem to others that it was like an overnight explosion that completely changed my emotional landscape and personality aspects. But, I can intuitively tell that for as profound and impactful as it will be it will be a process of gentle erosion. One that my body can keep pace with and not one that will cause further non-congruence in my soul. Because it is those non-congruences I think, that are creating the disparity between who I desire and who I actually attract.

Cheers to self-discover, shadow work, and the romance of the soul.

Cozett Dunn

0

Cozett Contemplates Being A Healer

You used to be so nice~ It was because I was afraid of the implications of displeasing you.

You’re so strong & such an inspiration ~ It’s because of my survival instinct and because I’m naturally a good person

You’re so brave~ My nervous system would no longer allow me to tolerate the confines of the box people wanted me in. It was either tear it apart or continue to betray my emotional well-being

You must be an empath~ I’m hypervigiliant. I’m highly attuned to the energy of others because I was traumatized as a child.

As a trauma survivor you find yourself on a continuum. There is a linear space, thread, that runs from your childhood, into your present, and reaches out before you in the time to come. Like a train track you can stand on any point of it and feel the vibration of the train whether its behind you or has passed you. It doesn’t matter if you can see it. You can still feel it its vibration. Its energy.

As if in a dream, you find yourself experiencing an alternate reality than that of those around you, and you’re constantly teaching yourself what’s real and what’s not, what to hang on to, and what to let go of.

People who have experienced emotional trauma have brain changes, similar to those who have had concussions.

Emotions, feelings, are so powerful they can physically reshape the structure of your brain and thereby color your reality. Thankfully, neuroplasticity is a thing. But, healing is something that needs support and takes work. And while the trauma isn’t your fault you are the one who will have to take the responsibility to heal what you didn’t harm. That feels unfair and is traumatic in its own sense.

This is why its imperative…..to not feel like you have to be nice to everyone. Because everyone….isn’t supporting the healing of your brain and nervous system. Everyone isn’t guarding your heart and prioritizing your well-being or creating safe spaces for you or trying to understand the decisions you make.

In fact, most people aren’t critical thinkers. For many it’s never occurred to them how they could make the world a better place by looking through the lenses of others and a lot of people have zero desire to do so even if it has occurred to them. The fact is, that those with narrow emotional experience, narrowed and selective perspectives that require people to believe the way they do, behave the way they do, see the world and others the way they do creates disenfranchisement because it automatically has the implication that there are consequences for people who aren’t like them.

So here we are as trauma survivors. Healing from harm we didn’t create. Creating corners of safe space from spaces that others assume should only belong to them.

I want to take this post and tell trauma survivors how amazing, dynamic, multi-faceted, emotionally intelligent, beautiful, powerful, and expansive they are. You have amazing qualities that evolved on the inside of you. You are an evolved human being. You have space on the inside of you. That space is capacity. Capacity for good. Capacity gives you the ability to receive that narrowness cannot afford you.

I believe that humanity has begun a massive shift. A shift that values emotional intelligence and expansiveness and tolerance. A shift of conviction.

There will be a collective of humanity who deeply hold the belief that it is better to be a bridge builder for every chasm is better than clinging to feeling superior because of what “sets them apart.”

There will be a collective of…us…who deeply believe that to be a healer isn’t something relegated only to licensed professionals or the “spiritually” gifted. Healing belong to humanity. Period. It is expressed in community not division. It is given and received in relationship with those who understand that though we are many, ultimately we are one.

I refuse to be anything other than safe. I refuse to be anything other than a healer. I refuse to be anything other than whole.

And, if you’re not of this same energy you can’t be in MY energy. At all. My health cannot afford you.

The community I’m creating, the circle I’m curating, the reality I’m shaping is necessarily humane, good, sovereign.

Cozett Contemplates the conviction of what it means to be a healer

Yours in emotional intelligence,

Cozett Dunn

0

The Taxi Driver

I’m sitting outside on the patio anticipating the sunset. It’s about an hour out. And it’s a warm winter day. About 58 degrees Fahrenheit. I’m quietly reflecting on who I want to be in 2024. How will I define myself? In what ways will I be boundless and free from definition? My skin is pale and my eyes sensitive from being indoors so much this year. Its like I lived in a bunker all of 2023. Listening to shells drop all around me. Waiting on someone or something to save me. To airlift me out of the hellscape.

People walking their dogs here in the complex have no idea what dwells inside the woman who is sitting on patio furniture gazing silently up at the sun. I have no idea what’s inside of them either.

I hear a car radio, factory grade, thumping coming down the parking lot. At first its behind my back so I only hear it. My mind’s eye begins to project images of what it might look like once it appears in my field of vision. It is factory for sure. Someone is absolutely juicing their factory car radio. I love that. Its likely a sedan. Probably grey or silver with shimmery undercoat that glistens in the sun if its clean. I imagine its probably a 2018 model and has a child’s car seat in the back with Cheetos covering the back floor board. I guess it has tinted windows. All of this my mind conjured before I could see it.

It was a taxi driver. The car was a tiny 4 door. Big, bright, green, logo on both sides. Indeed it was clean. Windows were tinted. As it pulled up to a garage I could hear the 1981 song by Olivia Newton John, “Let’s Get Physical” erupting out of the driver’s open window. I wondered to myself, “who am I gonna see get out of this taxi that’s been BUMPING Olivia Newton John?”

A lady in her 70’s opens the back door and slowly climbs out. She seems active but also a bit frail. Strong but fading. Definitely filled with the spiciness and zest of life. Big smile on her face. The taxi driver opens his door. He’s a white guy and balding. When I tell you the setting sun was beaming off the top of his head….I guess he’s in his 40’s. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that gapes at the bottom struggling to cover a pot belly. Dark, inky blue, straight cut jeans, that look like Wranglers. Black socks with taupe, open-toed, rubber sandals. 2 straps across his thick black socks. Olivia Newton John was still reverberating thru air. I wondered if the music wasn’t so loud it made it hard to hear his passenger. But, they both seemed happy. Pleasant. She’d had a great ride. Maybe the music was her choice? As someone born on the cusp of the 80’s I did enjoy that sound and I’m assuming the taxi driver is older than me and also an 80’s fan. But, something tells me that was her song choice. And, as someone who also drives I would never have the music that loud, or even choose the music. The volume and genre are always per my rider’s request.

He had the energy of a driver who had just started their shift and wasn’t thinking yet about the long night ahead. As he helped the passenger get some things out of the back seat another man comes out of the apartment. Older than the taxi driver, but younger than the passenger. He extends his arm to the driver and I’m assuming was paying and/or tipping him. Maybe that’s why the driver seemed so energetic and happy? Maybe it was the tip? Maybe he felt exuberant from his interactions with his passenger? I wondered at what the source of his joy was. It did seem more than happiness. The scenario tasted like genuine joy mixed with a large helping of abandon, with a dash of ignorant bliss. He laughed with the man who came out to meet them as he rounded the hood of his car to get back in and wait on another fare. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

0

I Am The Cedar Queen

Hiding in the woods my branches like a broom

Hidden behind a veil

I exist in a liminal loom

I am but a shell

Impending winters dark, deep, and long

My sadness evergreen

Nightfall settles in my heart with a rusty song

I am the cedar queen

My arms raised tipped in green tipped in snow

I am planted & there’s no place for me to go

Cedar resin tears and things cling to me

Multi-layered matter grown inward and prickly

Sunlight filters thru neighboring trees and I wonder if they wonder what its like to be me

Moon rise means for many sleep

Yet the silvery light is for me a lunar keep

If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it does it make a sound?

My primordial cries subliminally rise from the frosty ground

The agony of my being alight on the beams

Moon beams or wood beams? Yes.

What has and what will become of me?

I supposed that’s up to the woodsman and the sea.

©️ Cozett Dunn

Chatttown_poet

November 15th, 2023 11:59 pm

0

The Greater The Depth The Darker It Gets: Pioneering The Pathless Path

Whether the ocean, the earth, the cosmos or the psyche….the greater the depth the darker it gets.

Shadows still exist because they are the egregores of our ego. But, their borders bleed into the blackness. Doing the inner work here is harder. You can’t see anything at all. You can’t feel anything at all. You can’t smell anything. And, there is no flavor. Yet it is not “nothingness.” When taken to this depth you experience sensory deprivation and your integration process looks much less coherent than what is trending and being discovered in even the health and holistic wellness world. Things like Kundalini awakening, or plant medicine trips, or exorcisms, carry a busy energy of a human life trying to survive and progress. There is a frenzied, frenetic, frantic, or even euphoric feel to these processes.
And while they all are wonderful rites in and of themselves they are also in and of themselves mere entries into a life that is pure consciousness, awareness. They can serve as portals to important journeys but they are just that….keyholes through which we get to peer into what’s next….beyond the body and beyond the mind.

As one who speaks from the deep….I’m understanding there is a disabling stillness that overtakes the psyche that forces the soul to switch off to allow our spirit to come online. We depart from understanding the world and the people around us physically because we experience a break, a disconnect from the physical even while we are still in the body and we sojourn into a metaphysical knowingness.

From physical understanding to metaphysical knowing. This is the path of shamans, healers, oracles, prophets, and poets. This is where the pathless path begins. This transition is the junction where we meet other souls who are longing to go deeper but need the guidance of those of us who had no choice but to pioneer the poignancy of what its like to live between worlds.

For years I’ve felt a jealousy, a scornful envy even of those who never seem to venture below the surface. The ease that they experience in their unawareness has seemed so unfair to me. And up until my mother’s death, which has carried a level of complexity that no one should have to experience, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why so many people get to walk around having done little to no inner work, existing in pure ego completely unbothered, and untouchable in spite of the harm that their willful ignorance has caused.

But, now I do. I do get it. I believe there is a subconscious mechanism within each of us that will allow us to go only so far into understanding humanity, emotions, spirit, soul, shadow. It is the “thing” within us that determines when it is our own unique time to learn certain lessons. And until it’s time to learn those lessons….these people act as lessons to those of us who are inwardly turned.

We learn how to deal gently with a collective that isn’t ready. We learn how to meet people where they are….without judging who they are. In the end its all about survival. The survival of the body. The survival of the psyche. The survival of the soul. The survival of our spirits that get so attached to the identity of our physical existence and feel terrified at the thought of the moment it loses the body. Because that will happen for all of us. We are all moving towards that moment of no longer being “the us that we know.” The us that is grouchy when we wake up. The us that looks in the mirror and sees thinning hair, banging bods, stretch marks, chiseled jaw lines, on point brows, and unwanted chin hair.

There is life in the deep. Beyond the body. And, beyond the mind. I’m here. But, I’ll be back. And, when I come back…I’m bringing my soul with me. I’m not politically correct. I’m not religiously correct. I fit in no where but because of this I’m equipped to go everywhere. Spreading boundlessly as threads of my energy finds the energy of other wandering souls like mine.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑