When Angels Speak

So, when I first read my angel card last week, I have to admit I was kind of disappointed. It felt a little like a cheat, in a way. Probably more due to my mood than the actual card, though.

It was called Happy Surprise, and said that I’d be getting a surprise soon, and to not try to guess or it wouldn’t be a surprise; to just enjoy it. My first thought was that, of course – we can bend our perception of reality to be anything we want, so if I think it’s going to rain, and then it doesn’t – SURPRISE! The card came true!

However, I had said I was open to guidance, and that’s the guidance I received. Saying I’m open and then shutting down as an initial instinct is the opposite of being open, so I read it a few more times, and then kind of forgot about it.

Which, I guess, could kind of be the point of what it was telling me to do.

There was more to it, as well – about how happy surprises come in many different forms and that I just have to notice them, that my dreams are coming true but not in the way I’d expected, that all of the surprises are gifts of love, and that the world loves to see me happy. I was, like, “Well TOO BAD, World!” haha

Little things happened, which is what I’d predicted, so I didn’t really think about it. Then the lemurs happened, and that was definitely a happy surprise, so false view of reality or angel card guidance kicking in – either way, I’ll take it! Something more happened this morning, but I’ll talk all about it some other time, because the “what” isn’t as important as the fact that I noticed it, and flashed back to the guidance. Maybe I was managing to remain open to it, after all.

Maybe I still am.

It’s funny, the notion of having my dreams come true, because at the moment, I don’t think I really have any. Nothing that feels like a goal to shoot for, or anything like that. I’ve just been kind of floating in non-hope since 2009. I very deliberately stopped making plans, stopped having long-term goals, stopped hoping for anything in the future.

My last dream like that was that I’d become a teacher (check…kind of, in that I got my licence and degree), meet someone who was also a teacher (check – though it didn’t happen at all as I’d thought it would, the fact that we met means it counts), and that we’d start a quiet little happy life together, living and teaching and making a home together. Maybe we’d even adopt a kid at some point, or siblings. It was all simple, but perfectly happy and fulfilling.

That all actually started, I thought, until it all stopped. It felt kind of abrupt to me, but I guess that’s more because I kept trying not to see it as anything other than my dreams coming true. Stubbornness gets me into trouble sometimes. It was a full and complete stop, at least. No person, no home, no teaching. Now I don’t even like people, so I wonder how suited I was to teaching the next generation, anyway. Maybe things just go the way they are meant to go, so that I get pushed closer to being the person I’m meant to be.

The point is, however, that I have no idea what my dreams coming true would even mean to me now; no sense of what they would look like.

Maybe that’s part of the guidance I’m supposed to be open to accepting.

Maybe the angels want me to start figuring it out.


It’s Saturday, and I am exhausted, but as it’s my only day off until Friday, I’m trying to get as much done as possible.  Trying to make the rest of the week as easy as possible.  Or something closer to that, at least!

I’ve got two loads of laundry on the go, I managed to sleep a bit more after taking Brody out this morning (and we’ve gone out again since), I washed what seemed like every dish I own before making breakfast, and I’m attempting to write this – today’s blog post.  More plans for the day, too, but so far, so good!

Except I don’t really feel like writing.  Or, at least, I’m distracted.  I’m having trouble focusing my thoughts and making words.  So this will probably be short, but the goal is to write SOMETHING every day, not to always write a boat-load.  Or to even be intelligent.  Or meaningful.  Just…something.

So here are a few little somethings.

I dreamed about someone the other night; someone I haven’t seen in  well over a decade.  But that person meant a lot to me at one point in my life, and so has been on my mind more since the dream.  Not in a concerning way.  More in a thinking about past and present and how it all might affect the future.  About who I was, who I am, and who I might become.  And just about being glad to have known some people, or to have had some experiences.  Just…kind of a check in, if that makes sense.

In similar news, my Facebook memory feed turned up a post I wrote to try and put into words what Hudson the polar bear cub means to me.  I re-posted the link, and the article has been making the rounds again a little bit, which is cool.  But it has me thinking back on the boy a little more than usual, and how much things have changed since he was a regular part of my life.

The thing I’d intended to talk more about today is Friday nights with the Angels, and what my card said this week.  In short, a woman on Facebook does a thing each Friday night, wherein people comment on a certain post as to whether they are thinking of a question, or open to guidance.  The woman then draws a tarot card for each person who commented within the specified timeframe, and gives a mini-reading of what the card means.  My pally introduced me to it a while ago, and it’s become somewhat of a ritual for us; one that I look forward to each week.

Sometimes the card drawn for me moves me to tears, or gives me something to ponder, or just affirms something I was already thinking.  Believer or not, it’s thus far always been interesting, at the very least.

This week, my card was about Practice, and how I should do something I’m passionate about every day so that I can get good at it.  Logical, for sure, and one of the things I’d hoped would come out of writing this blog every day.

But it made me wonder if this was even doing anything for my writing.  I mean, it ain’t Shakespeare, nor is it particularly creative.  It’s just me babbling about whatever is on my mind.  I’ve already admitted that I consider this to be a public forum, and hence there are things I won’t write about or talk about or even mention on here.  So if I want to become a better writer, and/or learn to express myself better and be a more open person, capable of establishing stronger connections, is this really the way to go about it?  How much of this idea is just me being stubborn, and seeing how long that lasts?  Each time I post, I wonder if I’ll have anything to say the next day.  And I wonder if my headstrong insistence that I post every day will get lost in the frenzy of daily life and I’ll just forget one day.  If so, what do I do about it?  Post twice the next day?  Plug on regardless?  Feel like a failure and stop all together?

No idea.  I guess we’ll see if and when it happens.

Drawing the Practice card last night got me thinking, though.  My first reaction was that it was redundant.  I’ve already committed myself to trying to post at least once a day, so having a tarot card tell me to do the same thing seemed pointless.  Then I wondered if there was something else I could add to my days that would bring a better balance.  Something else I enjoy but need to get better at.  I came up with a couple of ideas but just thinking about it made me tired, and I decided I was busy enough for now.

So then my thoughts turned to the act of writing, and wondering what possible good could really come out of blogging about some things each day, but not others, no matter how important those others may sometimes be.  Am I doing this for me?  To better express what I’m thinking  and feeling?  Kind of, but why not just write it down and destroy it, or toss it in a box or something?  Why put it online so others could read it, or not? Especially if I wasn’t being completely open in the first place?  Would anything change just by writing down what can be seen as essentially just one-sided small talk every day?  Would I grow, as a person and/or as a writer?  If not, then why do it at all?

Obviously writing is a passion, but I’ve always been more about creating fiction than expressing fact.  Especially when I go through those times when I’m not entirely sure what’s real.  I don’t mean hallucinations or anything.  I mean like when I can’t trust my emotions, or my thoughts and impressions, particularly with respect to myself.  Like, logically I know PMS can mess with my emotions and make me feel sad and a little unhinged.  But so can other things.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell where the root starts, and if there’s anything I should do to balance back out again.

And maybe that’s why I’m doing this.  To chronicle, to give perspective.  To learn to share a little more.  But more importantly, it gives me a space to practice being me.  The good, the bad and the ugly.  To stay honest, even in the things I don’t share with anyone else.  Because I often have a lot of trouble staying honest with myself, and that’s a problem.  A bad habit that needs to be broken if I am to become more like the person I am meant to be.

Practice.  It might not make perfect, but it definitely helps us get closer.  So I write.  To practice being me.

And apparently to show myself that even thinking a post will be short isn’t necessarily accurate.  Funny to have more to say than even I thought at first!

Maybe soon I’ll be able to practice saying more with less, too.  That’d be nice.  😉