Once upon a time, there was an ordinary woman who had a fistful of lightning bolts.
Although she woke up every morning with a fine new shimmering bundle clutched in her hands, she was unaware of the treasure she held and unaware that, by the end of each day, her treasure was usually gone.
It was a mystery . . . did the lightning get lost in the bottom of her purse? Did it blow away out the car window? Did the dog eat it? How did she manage to rid herself of this glittering energy?
One morning the woman looked out the window and grimaced at the grey sky.
“What a miserable day,” she said to herself. “I hate Mondays.”
All of a sudden, one of her lightning bolts flew out of her hand, whizzed through the window glass, and disappeared up into the clouds. She was unaware.
At breakfast, the woman’s two kids were flicking soggy cornflakes at each other.
The woman yelled, “You kids are driving me nuts! Hurry up or we’ll all be late.”
With this, two lightning bolts flew out of her hand and zipped into two sets of little ears, where the energy was reprocessed and stored for mischief production later.
On the highway to work, the woman ended up stuck behind a convoy of senior citizens who were enjoying the rush hour scenery at ten kilometers under the speed limit. Feeling homicidal surges of frustration and anger, the woman expressed a variety of traditional obscenities.
Another lightning bolt flew from her hands and zipped into the car ahead of her, where it was incorporated into a bit of pink baby sweater being knitted by the passenger in the front seat.
Finally the woman arrived at work, where her boss greeted her by handing her a list of forty-seven things that had to be done by 11 am.
“She makes me so mad,” mumbled the woman. “She is insensitive and driven and she’s infuriating.”
Suddenly, another one of the woman’s lightning bolts left her hands and dove into a nearby potted philodendron, causing a ripple of excitement among the chloroplasts. The woman was beginning to feel tired.
At lunch the woman said, “To hell with my diet. I have no willpower anyway, and I’ll just gain the weight back.”
She loaded extra sour cream and butter onto her baked potato. A lightning bolt slid down her chair and skittered into a nearby briefcase belonging to a insurance saleslady from Brampton.
Gathered for coffee break that afternoon, the woman and her two best buddies speculated on how best to gain revenge against Verne, who had gotten a promotion.
“He’s been sucking up to management and making the rest of us look bad with that extra work he keeps doing,” complained the woman.
She didn’t notice a tingle as a lightning bolt left her hand and rolled up the hall into the president’s office, where it nudged his putter and helped his golf ball slide into an old coffee cup lying on its side.
“Hmmm,” said the president to himself. “I have an idea.” He returned to his computer.
That night, as she and her husband cooked supper, the woman muttered to herself, “If only I could change careers. But it’s too late and it would be too much work to go back to school.”
A couple of small lightning bolts fell into the broccoli. Her husband grunted.
The woman raised her voice to him. “You never listen to me when I need to express myself. You should be more sensitive to my needs. If only things were different around here!”
A lightning bolt zapped from her hand, bounced on the floor and zig-zagged down the hall, followed by the cat.
All of a sudden, the bowl of broccoli slipped from the woman’s hands and crashed in a magnificent splatter of mushy green, mixed into bits of sharp white porcelain.
“I hate gravity,” she yelled. Her last lightning bolt flew from her hand and entered the television, where it became a dot on Tom Brokaw’s tie.
“I am tired. I can’t do anything right, ” the woman wailed, ” I am powerless!” And so she was.
Part II
Once again upon a time, there was that ordinary woman who thought she was powerless. She was so frustrated by her powerlessness and talked about it so much that she never noticed the bright fistful of lightning in her hand.
As she peered at herself in the bathroom mirror one morning, her frustration built to a critical mass.
It exploded, scattering her lightning and sounding her thunder through the psychic ether.
Her husband twitched under the covers, opened his eyes and frowned. What was that sudden flash coming from the bathroom?
Her kids stopped whining at each other for a moment. What was that far off rumble?
Her cat shivered and stretched with anticipation. Neighbourhood dogs perked their ears and barked.
This explosive burst was so great that one of the woman’s lightning bolts flew up, zapped her behind her right ear, passed through her brain . . .
. . . And she Woke Up. Really, truly woke up for the first time.
It’s true that in the past her eyes had been open in the daytime, and closed at night, in the conventional manner. But now, for the first time, she was Awake.
She smiled at herself in the bathroom mirror. “What sort of a day shall I make for myself today?” she asked, as she wiggled her eyebrows up and down. “I believe I will make a good day.”
A lightning bolt flew up her arm, whirled around her head and spread itself around her in a shimmer of sparkles. A faint, faint glow appeared around her head.
At breakfast, the woman’s daughter could not find her coloured markers. The child shouted, threw some papers on the floor, and began to cry.
Instead of yelling, “The markers are wherever you left them!” the woman got down to her daughter’s eye level, rubbed her back and said, “It must be very upsetting to misplace your markers. I’ll bet you have a wonderful picture planned. Would you like me to help you find them?”
The halo surrounding the woman flickered and took on a slight reddish tint. A lightning bolt left her hand, flew into the pot drawer, and went ping as it ricocheted off the markers, which were (logically, of course) in the casserole pan.
As the woman drove to work, a young guy in a red Toyota cut in front of her without signaling. The woman almost used her one finger technique.
Then she quickly changed to her Three Finger Technique and called to him, “Bless you, young man . . . drive safely . . . and live . . . your children are waiting to be born.”
The young man’s nose itched, and a shiver went right down his back and leg towards the gas pedal. Numerous gleams of orange joined the reddish glow surrounding the woman. Lightning bolts danced on her knuckles as the woman drove on, practising her abdominal lifts and her Kegels at every stoplight.
That morning, the woman’s boss stomped over to her desk and tossed a stack of files down.
“This needs to be done by eleven am,” the boss huffed.
On other days, the woman would have mumbled assent and then cursed her boss’s ample behind as it receded down the hall. But today, the woman was Awake. She noticed that her boss’s flesh tone was pinker than usual, her breathing was faster and higher in her chest, her voice tone was pinched, and her eyes were moist.
The woman followed her boss into her office. “You have such a difficult job,” said the woman to her boss. “I don’t know how you cope with the stress that head office must lay on you.”
The woman’s boss burst into tears. Tea, sympathy, and a non-judgemental ear were provided by the woman for the next forty-five minutes. During this time, flashes of lovely gold joined the red and orange glistening around the woman. The lights were beginning to move in a spiral pattern around her. Her lightning bolts grew bigger and brighter.
By 11:03, she had all the files done. “Hah,” she said to herself. “Now I will go to the Meditation Booth and do an Alpha Process for ten minutes.”
While doing Alpha, she thought of a new marketing idea for one of her company’s customers, added four things to her To Do list, figured out at last why the bathroom shower was leaking, and worked on her third cervical vertebrae.
“Hmmm,” she smiled to herself. “When I do an Alpha Process this afternoon, I will redecorate the bedroom in four different styles and choose one.”
The woman thought again about how glad she was that she had learned the DynaMIND® skills. When the woman emerged, dazzling green illumination had joined the other colours around her.
It was lunchtime. She contemplated the menu, paused briefly at “Baked Potato Oozing with Butter and Cheese to Plug Your Arteries” and then chose “Salad Bar”. She piled it high and found herself choosing lemon juice instead of Cholesterol Delight dressing. Her heart smiled and so did she.
Blue green iridescence joined the spiraling colours around her. A baby in a high chair at the next table gurgled approvingly and tried to grab the sparkles as they whirled by.
At 5:30 pm the woman met her mother at the mall. The woman had forgotten her shopping list.
“Can’t you ever do anything right?” grumbled her mother.
“Ever?” asked the woman. “Gosh, Mum, I have my underwear on underneath my clothes, instead of on my head! That’s something right. AND I picked YOU for my mother.”
The woman’s mother, for once, was stuck for a response. The woman smiled to herself, and a lustrous blue layer began to brighten her aura even more. A lightning bolt leaped from her hand and tickled her mum’s ear.
On a mall bench nearby, a very, very old lady, whose twinkly blue eyes were almost lost in her smile wrinkles, watched the woman and her mum walk by. The old lady nodded slowly, and grinned her approval.
After supper that night, the woman’s son, in an experimental mood, spent some time contriving just the correct launch velocity and directional vector so that when he jumped down the basement steps, his chin would connect with the rail, rip skin, and distribute blood over an inconvenient area. The woman did not yell, although she was tempted.
As she held a towel to her son’s face, she remembered the words of the wise philosopher, Forrest Gump: “Sometimes, shit happens.” Her aura brightened.
Later on, at the Emergency Room, she was so understanding and friendly with the harassed nurses that her son only had to wait an hour and a half for stitches.
As she sat holding her son’s hand, glints of luminous violet flared and grew around the woman. Her son felt a sudden tingle moving up his arm and on to his chin, where the doctor was sewing.
“I’m going to start thinking before I do stuff, Mom.”
“I know you will, honey. From now on, you are thinking more carefully,” she replied.
When her exhausted husband finally got home from work that night, the woman had put away her scripts for “Guess-what-I-had-to-cope-with-all-by-myself-while-you were-working-late-again” and “Here-is-my-list-of-complaints”. She nuked him a pizza and brought him a beer.
Later on, she rubbed his startled neck and kissed his surprised ear. “You are perfectly You, sweetie,” she whispered. Her aura expanded in glitters of violet white, and her husband felt a brand-new sense of warmth and satisfaction.
That night, as the woman sat in bed doing another Alpha Process, she congratulated herself for the times that day when she had consciously chosen her response. Whirling about her were glittering glimmers of color, threaded with bolts of blue-white lightning. The cat, sitting on the end of the bed, blinked and lazily contemplated chasing one of those sparkles. The woman snuggled next to her husband.
“Just for today,” she thought, ” I was Awake. I was powerful. I will look after tomorrow when tomorrow comes. I wonder what I will chose?”
Check out the Light and the Lightning…
by Janet MacDonald Kramer
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