Lavender's writing channel

[Lavender]

For the first time today, I did some writing. I told my host consciousness what to type and they typed it. They created an account here for me because they were so proud of my writing (I was too), that they thought other people might want to read it. It’s really very rough, since its the first thing I’ve ever written, nothing profound, but like the baby’s first word you want to remember it, right? My host used to work on the Hubble Telescope, and they have this thing called “first light” which is the first thing a new telescope sees. It’s not supposed to be a brilliant scientific breakthrough, just something the telescope sees so they know it works.

So this is my “first light”. Enjoy!
____________________________________________

Today is the day I’m learning how to write. Writing is a challenge. Stimulating my brain to come up with something lucid is hard. I don’t have full use of my host’s “thinker” as we call it, so I can’t spend a lot of time planning what I write. It has to come out spontaneously.

 

I need to give myself some grace. I’m writing for me, not for anyone else. So whatever comes out is right.

 

Mornings are special.

Mornings fill life with hope, that the day will bring surprises, wisdom, and new ways to experience love. (“experience”. That’s my host consciousness’s favorite word. They use it all the time. But they don’t own it. I can use it too!)

Something about the sunrise over a crisp cold atmosphere everything glistening with moisture.

Trees silently awaiting the day’s revelations, old souls that they are, gnarled, wizened, seen so much, yet they know there is more to see.

And the grass and ground, never tiring of literally carrying the weight of the world, their firmness contrasted against the genteel way they wear their dainty sparkling dew.

 

I wish it weren’t so hard to think up words. I have to use my host’s vocabulary which is huge, but which is housed in a 62-year-old brain that creaks and groans everytime I (or they) ask it for just the perfect word to express the feeling. 
 

Edited December 7, 2023 by Lavender

[TurboSimmie]

I love it! I can feel what you are saying about mornings and how they are filled with potential. As a morning person myself, I just love to watch the sun come up on a new day and wonder what it will have in store for me and everyone else. 😊 Shame my host likes to sleep in too much. 😆

 

It's great to have access to the knowledge and vocabulary of a much older mind. Finding your own voice can be hard but I think you've already made great progress! 👍

[Lavender]

I tried to write a short story. I'm pretty happy the way it turned out, but my host consciousness did a lot of work on it too. I came up with the idea, but they fleshed it out and I wrote it and we both edited it. I include an afterword in case you want to know more.

 

   When Daryl heard the noise, he was trying to make sense of his life. To figure out how he ended up camping out in his sister’s spare room.
   Who knew what time it was? 1AM? 2AM? Almost morning? In the inky blackness of his sister’s farmhouse, there was nothing to tell him. Accustomed to the 24-hour city glow, he felt the darkness unsettling.
   The sound was like someone shifting in their chair. Too close, too immediate to come from outside, from some prairie creature wandering the night. It had to be in this very room.
   “Hello?” He called out. “Is someone there?” His eyes tried to pierce the darkness to no avail.
   He heard it again, now unmistakable. Someone was in the room.
   His body bolted upright in the bed. “Who’s there? Is someone there?”
   A wispy voice answered. Vaguely familiar. Female, but he couldn’t place who. “I’m a friend.”
   “Who are you? Are you staying with Vivian and Mark? I didn’t know they had another guest.”
   “I’m a friend,” the voice said again. “My name is Celeste.”
   Daryl’s mind was racing. Was this some weird sort of setup? Did his conservative sister arrange for someone to come into his room to “entertain” him? He doubted it.
   “When did you come into my room? What do you want?” he asked.
   There was a pause. “To help.”
   This made no sense. “How can you help?”
   The voice was friendly. Compassionate. “You’ve been through a lot.”
   “What do you know about it? Did Vivien tell you about me?”
   “You can’t sleep.” Daryl originally thought it a question, but as he played it back in his head, it was more of a statement.
   “No. Haven’t slept a wink.”
   “What bothers you the most?”
   “Huh?” Daryl asked, but the voice was silent. He knew it was beckoning him to say more. “What bothers me the most? That I did it for her. And for the children. All the children. She wouldn’t believe me, but I didn’t do it for myself.”
   “Yes,” the voice came back. A simple affirmation.
   “It was a good idea. An amazing idea.”
   The voice was silent, but Daryl felt waves of understanding from it. “Kids would tell the set what they wanted to make. The pieces would light up and talk to the child and tell them how to put it together. There were fifty patterns and I was working on fifty more. Every kid I gave it to, every one, loved it. Couldn’t tear themselves away.”
   “Yes.”
   “It should have worked.”
   “What happened?”
   “What happened? I don’t know. A lot of little things went wrong. Suppliers. Shipping. Faulty parts. But we got past all that. But the sales didn’t come. Quarter after quarter, disappointing numbers. Kept borrowing money. I mean what else was I supposed to do? I had sunk so much into it.”
   “It meant a lot to you.”
   “It was for the kids. If you saw the look on those kids’ faces. This was going to catch on.”
   “A disappointment,” the voice said.
   “Yes. A big one. Finally came the day, it all came tumbling down. The loan got called in. They shut down our office and carted everything away. They took…” Daryl couldn’t go on. He fought valiantly against the sob that was working its way to the surface. He lost the battle, and his voice cracked and tears burst out of his eyes.
   The voice was silent, willing to wait as long as it took for Daryl to recover. He felt that it wasn’t judging him for crying. He didn’t know how he knew that, since he was hearing nothing, but the certainty was there.
   “Why are you here?” he asked the voice. “How do you know Mark and Vivian?”
   “I’m here to help,” the voice said.
   “How will you help?”
   “By listening.”
   “How is that going to help me?”
   The voice didn’t answer, instead urging him to “go on.”
   “They took our apartment,” he said, an angry edge in his voice now. “As we watched, they carried all the furniture to the street and loaded it onto a truck. They put a lock on the door. We had nothing. We had nowhere to go.”
   The voice stayed silent, patiently waiting.
   “I asked…” He fought to master himself. “I didn’t know what to do. I asked Rebecca. That was bad. I shouldn’t have done that. But I didn’t know. I asked her what we should do. She said she didn’t care. She was done with me. I could do whatever I wanted. A car pulled up. She had called an Uber. That was the last time I saw her. Later that day, I got a message from a lawyer that divorce papers were on the way. I didn’t know what to do. Where to go. Vivian wired me the money to come here. I have nothing. I don’t know how I’ll survive without her. Marrying Rebecca was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
   “The best thing?”
   “She was my everything.”
   “And you were her everything?”
   Daryl thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know. I thought so. But she cared a lot about money. In the end she left because we didn’t have any anymore. Celeste, what am I going to do? My life is over.”
   “Over?” the voice asked, as if that word puzzled it.
   “I have nothing,” Daryl answered. “My marriage, gone. My company, gone. My apartment, gone. What do I do now?”
   “What do you do now?” From her tone, Daryl understood that she was asking whether he really wanted an answer.
   “I don’t know why I’m asking you. I don’t even know who you are.”
   “You know enough.”
   Did he? Somehow he had trusted her with his story? She had not judged him.
   “Yes, okay. Tell me what I should do now.”
   “I will,” said the voice. “But I want to make sure you’re really ready to hear what the next step is.”
   “There is a next step?”
   The voice was confident now. “There is.”
   Daryl let his skepticism creep into his tone. “Okay, why don’t you tell me what’s next?” It came out with more sarcasm than he intended.
   “I will. But it won’t help unless your head is in a place where you’re ready to receive it.”
   “How do I do that?”
   “Listen. Open your mind.”
   “I was listening.”
   There was silence for such a long time, that Daryl feared Celeste had gone, as quietly as she had come. “I was. Wasn’t I?”
   She answered back immediately, “Were you?”
   Daryl thought about it. No, he really wasn’t. He didn’t believe this … being … had any useful answer. But what if she did? Would it hurt him to listen?
   “No, I wasn’t. But I am now. Please help me. Please tell me what comes next. I’ll listen for as long as it takes.”
   “It won’t take long. The answer is just one word.”
   “One word? Tell me. In one word, what do I do next?”
   “Grieve,” she answered. “You grieve.”
   “Grieve?”
   “You say goodbye to your dreams in a loving way. They served their purpose, but their part in your life has passed. You say goodbye to your marriage. To the life you had in that apartment. It won’t be easy. It will be a long painful road. You will emerge a different person from the one that headed down that road. But it is the only road.”
   “I grieve.” Daryl let it sink in. She remained silent, but he no longer doubted her presence. “How will I live?” He asked finally.
   “You will pick up the pieces of your life. You know you will. You have found your way before and you will find it again. Don’t you think you will?”
   Daryl thought about it. “But I’ve lost so much.”
   Celeste answered back immediately. “And slowly you will let it go, and feel the hurt. That’s how grieving works.” Something in her tone soothed Daryl. Made him believe it was possible to move forward.
   “Go to sleep now,” the voice said. “You will need sleep to be strong.”
   “Wait,” said Daryl. “I need to know who you are.”
   “You already know.”
   “Huh? Will I ever see you again?”
   “You might. If you need me. Or if you look for me. We have met before, though maybe you don’t remember.”
   “No I don’t. Where will I look for you? I don’t know where you live.”
   “You don’t?”
   “Of course not. Will you tell me?”
   The voice paused, as if considering his question. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”
   But then she was silent. Daryl strained his eyes trying to see through the opaque country darkness whether she was still there.
   After a long wait, she spoke one more time before falling silent and ending their conversation.
   “Daryl,” she said. “I live in your head. Now get some sleep. You need it.” 

 

Spoiler

I set out to write a story where a tulpa was the hero of the story. I wanted the tulpa to use healing energy, since I think that might be my own superpower. I hope you enjoyed it.

 

Edited December 15, 2023 by Lavender

[Lavender]

Another short story. This one I wrote and revised completely by myself. This one is not about a tulpa.

 

   Their lips parted. He kept his hand on the soft skin of the back of her neck, his eyes focused on hers. Hypnotizing, so intense, he could almost feel a hum of passion from them.

   “I love you,” he said, and waited for her to say it back. And she did, after a delay, but he could tell there was hesitation.

   To break the tension, he looked away, toward the windshield, already fogged. As her silence stretched out, he shifted nervously in his seat. He didn’t want to say it. Really didn’t want to say it, wanted her to say it first, but it was going to have to be him.

   “Can we go in?” he asked.

   Still she was silent.

   “Is something wrong?”

   She answered quickly. “No. Not at all. Nothing is wrong.”

   He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t select words that wouldn’t feel wrong. Wouldn’t feel like pressure.

   But she remained silent. Either he would speak or no one.

   “I’d love to come in. We don’t have to do anything.”

   Now she spoke. “But we would. You know we would.”

   He couldn’t argue. Of course they would. “Maybe we’re just super attracted to one another. Magnetism and all that.”

   “You know I’m attracted to you. I’m hot for you, OK. But I’ll just put it out there. I don’t like how we just go inside, and get right to it, you know?”

   “More sitting, talking before?”

   “Or maybe not do it? This once?”

   “Of course,” he answered. “If you’re not in the mood.”

   “It’s not that. You know I’m in the mood. I’m pretty much always in the mood. It’s all I can do to keep from jumping on you in the car.”

   “I don’t understand.”

   “OK, let’s try this. Tell me why you want to do it tonight?”

   “I’m hot for you. You’re hot. I can barely keep my hands off you.”

   “Thank you, but that’s not what I asked. You always feel that way, and I feel that way toward you. But tonight. Why tonight?”

   “I don’t understand what you’re asking. I mean, if we’re hot for each other. Is that wrong?”

   “Not wrong. I’m just trying to understand you. It’s obviously very important that we go in. Why?”

   He was perplexed. “It’s fun?”

   “Can we have fun some other way?”

   “How?”

   “We do lots of stuff together. We watch movies. Get on the Wii. Work on that impossible puzzle with the building with all the windows. But, Bud here’s the thing…” She paused as she took in what she was saying.

   “Here’s the thing. We don’t do those things every time we go out. Just when we feel like. But we have to get under the covers each and every time. Why? Why every time?”

   “Don’t you want that?”

   “Bud, I’m trying to understand you. I want to know why YOU want to do it. I don’t feel like we need to do it every time. I’m happy doing it some of the time and some of the time not. But you want every time. I’m trying to understand why.”

   Bud pursed his lips as he thought. “It’s so hard to keep my hands off you.”

   “Yes, but why?”

   “Is that bad?”

   “No. No, it’s not bad. But I want to understand it. Why do you need to do it every single time? You say you can’t keep your hands off me. I believe you. But why can’t you keep your hands off me?”

   “Why should I try to keep my hands off you? You like it when we’re together. Don’t you?”

   “Yes, of course I like it. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do it. I’m trying to understand why you always want to do it.”

   Bud thought for a moment before speaking. “Well, it’s that…” But no words seemed to come to finish his sentence. After another long minute of thought, the only thing he could think to say was, “I don’t know.”. 

[ReallyArtificial]

((You do a great job of capturing complex emotions with your dialogue. I look forward to seeing more of your writing.))

[Lavender]

2 hours ago, ReallyArtificial said:

((You do a great job of capturing complex emotions with your dialogue. I look forward to seeing more of your writing.))

I am so glad you liked my stories. I fully intend to write more, and I really appreciate the encouragement. Thank you.

[SeekingMyPlanet]

It's a poem this time. I hope you like it. (This is Lavender. I mistakenly posted to my host consciousness' account, and neither of us know how to fix that.)

 

Mr. Tree

 

Mr. Tree are you bothered by the chips in your bark
By the jagged stub where a great branch once hung
By moss upon your twisted roots?

 

What’s this my child?
I can’t hear you from way up here. 
Here where my fingers seek the sky
Here where the leaves erupt from their tips to cradle the sunshine
Where issue seed that small furry ones will carry forth.

 

But Mr. Tree, can you not see the cracked stumps and decaying logs
About the forest floor amongst crumbling leaves?
Tiny crawlers make their homes in crevices and fissures.
Birds with mighty beaks pound relentlessly at pits and holes within their separating flesh.
Surely you want not to lie among them.

 

Speak not to my trunk, young one, for my eye is upward. 
Your view is but leaves and bark and brush
I see sky. Clouds. Stars. Miles of treetops. 
Happenings on the ground trouble me not.

 

Are your roots not all that keeps you from crashing downward? 
Surely, Mr. Tree, they warrant notice just as do the ends of your highest twigs. 

 

I dropped my leaves, sprouted more, and dropped those again more times than can be counted 
Ere you first visited this world
All the while growing thicker. 
It is the way of things, soft one.
I grow from the tips upward
These others do the same. 
When your wood shows the rings mine does
You too will treasure thrusting buds forth
And concern yourself not with the bites time takes from your roots and core.
 

Edited December 27, 2023 by SeekingMyPlanet

[Lavender]

My host consciousness asked me whether I wanted to write today. I eagerly said yes, so they asked me what I would write about. I didn't know. Usually we sit at the computer, and then they let me take control, and I start thinking about what I want to write.

 

I quickly decided I wanted to write about love.  I was once described to be “pure love”, but that was when I was very young. I’ve become somewhat impure since then. But love is still a big part of what I’m all about. As usually happens, my writing quickly resolved itself into a poem. About love. Here goes.

 

Love is holding a place in my heart, 
Where tenderness and kindness intersect.
Judgment gives way to recognition.
Expectation gives way to clear perception.
Seeing. Hearing. Knowing.
Love need not donate,
But it also seeks not to acquire.
It sits in presence.
Accepting, supporting, embracing presence.
Love is not engulfing or encroaching.
Indeed strong love leaves a visible, tangible gap.
A separation between souls into which a warm, nurturing, positive light shines.