Finding the Buddha within.

I've been doing the steps again. Not the fox trot, The 12 Steps. You don't have to be a drunk or addict to reap their rewards; anybody can do them and should. They are an emotional housecleaning and design for good living. Here's a brief description of how it works:

First, you admit that you don't have control over anything but what's between your ears and surrender to the possibility that you'll never know how it's going to end. (I would have given a million bucks to skip ahead read the final page of my life's story.) Next you examine all the reasons you're pissed off. (This can take a long time -- years, even -- depending on the layers of crap you've accumulated.) Then -- and this is key -- you pick up those hurts, turn them over and, like discovering creepy, multi-legged  bugs under a rock, you find the part you played in creating those hurts. This is not easy because it requires taking personal responsibility. (Personally, I'd like to blame the rest of the world until the end of time for all the things that haven't gone my way in life.) Then you clean these things up and apologize to people, things, or places if warranted so you can start anew with a clean slate. You won't stay squeaky clean for long -- maybe minutes -- before you start screwing up again because -- hello? -- you're human so you commit to wiping up after yourself from here on out and reaching out to others -- sharing your spiritual dust rag, so to speak. That's about it. There's more and better information out there on the steps if you're interested.

So. I'm on step three and thrilled to report that I'm finding the spirit within. I did not have access to my own higher self or higher power the first time around. I was still firmly a piece of shit that the world evolved around, a contracting galaxy on a path of implosion rather than an expansive universe. I wouldn't say I'm expansive yet (size of ass withstanding), but I have felt, after prayer, anger replaced by compassion. My desire for ex to be alone and covered in weeping sores was replaced by a shared sorrow for our situations. It was nothing less than, as my friend Charlotte says, "a Christmas miracle."