Jan 2nd, 2004 Dropping Kyra off on New Years eve, I strove to meet the parents holding the teen gathering. Somehow the book came up. I have no hesitancy sharing this amazing experience with friends and family, but these were strangers. And they asked if I was Christian. And I said no but neither were Mary and Yeshua. They were Hebrew. The looks on their faces made me realize why Steve worries so. He’s preparing for crosses to be burned on the lawn when this book comes out. In spite of the controversial nature of my story, I must have faith that all will be well. This said, how hard it is to humanize Yeshua—but to me he was very much a man who felt love, anger, jealousy, joy. Yesterday during our new year’s hike, Steve was in a sweet mood, proclaiming to be able to take care of all of my needs, to never get lost, to provide me food and shelter no matter where, to lick my very wounds if need be. Although I yearn for a more ethereal connection, Steve grounds me to this 3 dimensional reality. After finishing the forgiveness piece between Mary and her mother, I felt great gratitude for how each member of my family, each person who has served to teach me lessons along the way back to the One. So this morning when I meditated on a disturbing scene, I know I cannot judge what seems like an incomplete memory. How many times have I envisioned parts of this story only to sit down to write and what flows from my hands more beautifully insightful than I imagined?
Jan 12th, 2003 Last night we celebrated Steve’s birthday at the Greek restaurant and the belly dancer enticed me to get up and dance by offering me her zils—an ancient gesture of recognition just like when Miriam led the Yisraelites in celebratory dance at the Red Sea. It was amazing and our friends commented on how “tribal” I danced. Somehow I knew how to dance this ancient rhythm, perhaps because I had just written a scene in which Mary danced in celebration of the new moon. At the last science and consciousness conference in Albuquerque, I joined the dance of universal peace and got lost in the ancient rhythms. Afterwards many approached to thank me for my presence asking if I was a professional dancer. Surprised and flattered, I shared my experience with a friend who was a ballroom dancer. She took offense claiming I had no training. True, but at the African drumming circle at the end of the conference, I could not help but dance with the energies. So I danced the drums and the drummer seemed to drum my beat—an erotic meeting of souls through music.