LOVE
- Elizabeth Beckett, author and mystic
- 34 minutes ago
- 13 min read
An Introduction to LOVE
Hello little Lego people. The holidays are approaching and I thought I would pop out one last blog article before I take a break. I might not have, except the world woke up yesterday to carnage. Yes, the shootings. The worst of which was here, on the happy, sunny Australian shores. I thought it was apt to write about LOVE, not only because we are supposedly entering the season for it but because, based on world events, we need to get real. Things are a mess. We need to love.
I was sitting in the garden a few days ago picking my nose and thinking about you all. I’m kidding of course, I cannot possibly think about you all at once. I was thinking about you as a species. The nose bit is true and highly believable. I haven’t communicated the multiversal acronym for LOVE in any of my seven books thus far, and not for any particular reason. Maybe it was waiting for this time.
I explain in a few of my books that English is the multiversal language, albeit a more developed form. A lot of key and frequently used words are acronyms. My books A Memory of Flight and Lucifer extrapolate more on these concepts. So, vegans and vegetarians can you tell me what love stands for? What are you all fighting the world to see change? Who and what are you speaking and acting on behalf of? Animals, who do have voices, just not human ones.
LOVE: Let Our Voice Exist
To love is to let another’s voice exist, even if you do not agree with them. You don’t have to love them necessarily, and you certainly don’t need to love what they are saying or stand for. But we all need to love more. We need to stand in allowing others’ voices to exist. Human, animal, plant, planetary, interstellar, whatever… (for fuck’s sake stop landing on the God-damn Moon, it’s sacred.)When we seek to silence others we are not loving. Removing voices by killing is the most unloving thing we can do as a species little Lego people. (Regarding animals and eating animal products, this concept is far more complicated. Perhaps I will cover this in a future post, but not now little V-Lego people.)
Let Our Voice Exist.
I am going to explain this concept using a profound lesson in love I had this year. Little Lego people need to know that this little Lego lady is not proselytizing from a removed, upper-echelons soapbox. She is right on Earth in Legoland on the human journey of soul consciousness. I need to provide more information about myself. I am not boasting, tooting my tooter, or requesting a pity party, you just need to understand my context better. Again, I never would have gone here if the world hadn’t once again been rocked by senseless mass killings. I somehow knew that rainbow ponies and poofy Angels were not going to be authentic right now. Hopefully my story is. You’ll need to be patient, this is a long one. (That’s why I have included the fancy headings.)
My Horrifying Past
I was born and raised in one of the most broken, dangerous countries on our planet—South Africa—by gun-wielding, questionable parents. When I was fourteen we moved inland to the Wild West of rural South Africa. Apartheid had ended, Nelson Mandela was free, white people were nervous in their beds at night, black people shuddered with shock and started attacking each other, all the other multifarious colors of people in the country just shuddered and locked their doors. When I asked my father who Mandela was he responded with, “He’s a f*cking terrorist.” My father was also a Donald Trump supporter and knew that Hilary Clinton was extremely evil and crooked because ‘someone had sent him an email about it’. You get the picture… Whatever. I’m not judging. He was what he was. Born, bred, conditioned by life events and circumstances beyond his control to become what he became. At some point as we grow older, we can break these moulds and choose to be something different. Free will is real. However, it’s not our responsibility to try and change others or make them see a different point of view. It’s their journey. Besides, that never, ever works, does it? We cannot actively or purposefully change people. We cannot get inside their heads and hearts and rewire stuff. It’s against every law of love that exists in our multiverse. Let their voice exist.
Back to me. My parents sent me to the poshest, most nauseatingly expensive Anglican boarding school for girls in the country because they “Weren’t sure which direction the country was taking… ” This was bullsh*t of course. They sent me there so they could tell their friends I was there. A multitude of other excellent choices existed, and still exist, in South Africa. The education system there is brilliant. I hated the school. Every minute. We were poverty-stricken as a family. I was surrounded by the wealthiest people in the country. We had to wear uncomfortable school uniforms and attend Anglican chapel every day. Yes, Saturdays and Sundays included. But mind you rise with the first bell, brush your teeth with the second bell, tie a real ribbon in your hair (I swear to God, it was compulsory) and don’t walk on certain lawns on your way to church, and remember to wait at every, single doorway for teachers or any student older than yourself. I did a lot of waiting for five years. I still hesitate nervously when shopping and doing errands for people at doorways.
We were taught real etiquette. Enter a room like this. Drink your tea like this, pinky hidden. Lower your elbows. Straighten your shoulders, stand up straight, raise your chin, close your legs, align your feet, make eye contact, engage in pleasing small-talk. Take the nibble on the plate directly in front of you, regardless. Even if it is covered with sundried tomatoes. (I hate them, who invented those?) Eat like this, talk like that. Make sure that you never express your actual opinion or truth, talk too loudly or laugh with your head back showing your expensive teeth. The dormitories were bare, the showers cold, and the food revolting. We had Saturday school after chapel. They ignored us the rest of the weekend; just remember not to cross the front lawns or frolic in the fountain, or swim unattended, or turn on the TV, or enjoy yourself in any way… Basically, do anything, but please never, ever under any circumstances show love. We were raised as miniature colonialists. Society winked at us and told us how lucky we were to be at such a school.
None of this helped me when I was attacked and nearly raped on my parent’s property in one of the school holidays. Don’t be shocked. It was just a regular Tuesday for me. The scene ended with me chasing the perpetrator down a dirt road towards his village with a huge knife. In another lifetime I probably would have killed him, but I let him get away. I remember throwing the knife uselessly after him in rage. I was fifteen. I was questioned by the police. They were nice. They were disturbed. My parents didn’t give a shit. My father was the one who purposefully put me in the situation; a fact that he refused to admonish or apologize for until his dying day. He died last year on Easter Friday. My final image of him was in a nappy with his hair brushed waiting eagerly for his daughter. Even tyrants wither. Something that day urged me to tell him I loved him, and thankfully I listened. He responded with, “Same.” He never could say the words, except once when I was in my mid-forties and he nearly vomited afterwards. His conditioning was too ingrained; his life experiences had taken their toll.
The day of the police enquiry my mother consoled me with the icy disdain and change-of-subject that was my mother. That was a good day. On worse days she refused to pick me up from school or allow me in the kitchen. On the really bad days she threw stuff at me. The sewing machine was pretty interesting. Fortunately, they don’t go far when thrown. The knives were a different story. I remember the one that landed point-down in the wooden dining room table and wobbled, like on a spy movie. I looked up at it cowering behind the table. I was eleven. Home alone with the monster. By the age of twelve she had dropped me off at boarding school and never really spoke to me again. What was wrong with her? She needed to hate. Something, anything. She chose me. What a lucky, lucky privileged girl you are…
I chose to love. Yes, I went off the rails until I turned eighteen. I was a disastrous, self-destructive, misfiring mess. I challenge any human being who has lived my life not to go off-script. But I kept loving. I kept listening. Allowing others to be, including my parents. I was taken aside at boarding school and told my mother had been ambushed while driving through the hills and shot at. She shot back and lived. My father phoned me as a young adult in Cape Town. He had been hijacked while taking cash to the bank. They had kidnapped him and driven him into the bush in order to assassinate him. There is no other reason you will be taken into a bush in South Africa. He had jumped out the car and escaped narrowly with his life. I was relieved and thankful that my parents had lived. I couldn’t possibly muster any real affection for them, but I wanted their voices to keep existing. I loved.
These are just a few, tiny examples from my life. There really isn’t enough page space in the world to tell the whole story. I have presented you with less than the tip of the iceberg. It is the penguin on the tip of the iceberg. The ice goes deep and gets dark and terrifying. Let’s not go there. I have lived through hell so many times I could give guided tours there. I just needed to bring you on board with some stuff. Now for some good stuff, which unfortunately includes more bad stuff. Apologies.
The Facts
What did life grace me with to compensate for all the hell and fury? Well, primarily, I am a gangster-bunny. I am Snowball from The Secret Life of Pets. I was watching it with my partner and said, “That’s me.” Snowball is a blue-eyed, fluffy, adorable, but crazy, creature. He ran the underworld of gangsters in the first movie. He was adopted but emerged as a superhero in the second movie. He is really cute, funny, has no off-button, is mostly ridiculous, and is often laughed at. But who is called when the chips are down? Everybody wants Snowball on their side. He is not entirely effective or controlled when he squeezes into his superhero outfit (with a gap for his fluffy tail), but his sheer energy and determination gets results in any situation. Is he gangster or bun-bun? He is both. I am both. I write delightful stories about faeries, Angels, and dragons. I sooth the human soul with tales of kharmic balancing and fighting for the light. I laugh in the face of evil and would diplomatically ask Mr. Hitler how his German Shepherds were if he came for tea. Bun-bun. Read between the lines. Work it out. No bunny could write what I do, she’s gangster.
I also sometimes have a genius-level of intelligence. I’m not boasting, it’s just a thing. I can’t help it. Does it make life easier? No, it makes life infinitely harder. I have a previous career in African sustainable development. I attained a Master’s in Science degree from a British university without an undergraduate degree. I don’t think my massive thesis was ever actually read by anyone including the examiners, and I quote, “Because I didn’t understand it.” I sat down one day on a deck chair in the garden and wrote a book about Egypt without any background in history, literature, or Egypt. (The Book of Life.) You will find this book in Oxford’s Bodleian libraries and on the reading list of a Texan university.
A few years ago I was ready to begin pursuing a PhD and reignite my scientific career after years of my “side-hustle” as an author. I got accepted to an extremely prestigious course at Oxford University, and again I quote, “Your application was particularly strong and your background and interests are an excellent fit with the objectives of the programme.” There is a waiting list of years for this particular course of study. I attended, and within hours was correcting the lecturers. The atmosphere in the room changed. Perhaps the peculiar author wearing jeans and a floral top was… gangster? I found a supervisor and an ideal project for a doctorate. He admitted I probably knew a lot more than he did about it all. I nodded, unashamedly. On the final night we were out celebrating. Good, clean fun. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was kicked in the head by a man in the ladies’ bathroom who was on drugs. It was bad and extremely traumatic, even for a South African. Did I have a f*cking sign on me? When was life going to cut me a break?
Did I forgive the nasty man in the bathroom? Yes, immediately. Do I forgive my parents? Yes. The people who tried to kill them, and the man who wanted to rape me? Yup. Have I forgiven every narcissistic, misogynistic, chauvinistic, psychopathic person who has ever passed through my life? Certainly. I am Snowball. I have spent a lot of time in the Underworld. I get it. I once sat next to a demon on a long-haul plane flight. How do I know he was a demon? He told me. Yes, I am sorry but like Angels, they exist on this Earth. He confirmed it with the stuff he said, and how he looked. It was kinda obvious. He was nice. I really wanted to move. The plane was full and how could I explain to an actual demon why I wanted to move? I offered him a sweetie and put my earphones in and my handbag between my feet. It was a long flight.
I’m never allowed to lick my wounds for long. Life never lets me. There is an overarching and magnificent reason for my seemingly never-ending lessons in tough love because I chose something a long time ago. This choice was a role in the cosmic hierarchy that was meant to be a “man’s job”. When I applied, they all stared at me and at each other for a long time. I was qualified; in fact, the only one even vaguely qualified for the position. I got it, but it was assigned silently with many believing I had to fail. It’s a helluva job, even for a gangster-bunny.
Anyway, I didn’t fail, but it has propelled me to stratospheric levels of consciousness. I get stuff. Nothing about the human journey shocks, surprises, or flabbergasts me. I do not flabbergast. I am compassionate and empathetic beyond belief. Beyond anything you can comprehend. I was one of the first recruits of the Great White Brotherhood and the Order of Melchizedek. I sit on many other multiversal boards and have multiple roles and responsibilities that would make other souls heave or faint. On Earth, besides all the cleverness I explained, I am in the higher stages of an esoteric order that I may not name. Yes, Illuminati stuff. No, not the Hollywood version. What’s the point bun-bun? The point is that at this stage in my evolution I consider (or considered… ) myself to be profoundly spiritually evolved, open-minded, accepting, unshakeable, and with the ability to love without conditions. That, my little Lego people, is the surest attitude for a fall. And fall I did. Hard.
Snowball’s Lesson in LOVE
One weekend a few months ago I was watching the kind of show I love on Netflix. It was an alternative take on history; a rewriting of the facts that are evident all around us. Then something a little strange happened. Keanu Reeves popped onto the show to chat to the presenter. Yes, it was a little strange but no biggie. I wasn’t entirely sure who he was and called him ‘Matrix Man’ in my head, even though I had never watched the Matrix.
Then the first miracle happened. My partner on the other couch unglued his eyeballs from his phone. He is as spiritual as the golf balls he whacks around all weekend. In other words, not at all. He has many other wonderful qualities, but not an open mind. “Is that Keanu Reeves?” “Um, yes I think so,” I replied. The golfer asked, “What is he doing there?” Snowball hesitated, “Um… er… I have no idea… ” I truly had no idea.
The second miracle occurred. He watched the show with me. He really enjoyed it, but I think he was secretly hoping Keanu would whip out a gun and start shooting the shit out of stuff. Third miracle. He repeated some facts from the programme saying they were, “Very interesting.” I looked sideways at him, Snowball-like. “Um, if you just read one of my books you would know that.” He grunted and went back to his phone.
But my transformation was only just beginning. I was deep into my eighth book, staying up until the early hours, scribbling, and chewing my fingernails until they bled. It was intense. I didn’t have time for distractions. But I was distracted. Something was really bothering me. What had that Hollywood guy been doing on that show? Really? Why wasn’t he off driving fast cars, dating models, snorting cocaine, and prancing about on superyachts like a normal celebrity? It began to gnaw at me. After all, this was my turf. The weird and wonderful, off-beat, spiritual, mind-bending, illuminating… my turf Hollywood.
Eventually I had to know more. I asked my good friend Google. I was entirely wrong about this particular human being, of course. There was absolutely no evidence of my preconceived ideas. In fact, it was the opposite. I was dealing with half an Angel. I admonished that I had no idea who he really was. I had judged swiftly and harshly. Oops. #SorryKeanu
I had been a closed-minded bigot. Me? Yes, you little Lego bunny. I could forgive the gangsters on my journey but seemingly not the bunnies. But it wasn’t my fault that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or was it the right place at the right time? My eyes were opened, far wider than ever before. I was incredibly ashamed, and shocked with myself. In truth, it brought me to my knees. Secretly. I slithered around with my metaphorical tail between my legs for months wondering if I was really qualified to do the work I do. I blithely accept, and unconditionally forgive, the most evil motherfuckers on this Earth but I couldn’t cut “the nicest guy in Hollywood” a break. Oh dear God Snowball.
In recompense I took the time to watch his movies. At that point I wasn’t into action at all, this has since changed dramatically. You will forgive me this because of my harrowing past. I watched the Matrix. All of them. Okay, I understood him better. (But what’s with the yellow bath duckie?) Constantine, which I loved, except for the smoking bit which shocked me. (And I noticed the yellow duckie again… ) Finally, John Wick. All of them. I absolutely loved this series, except for a few scenes where I covered my eyes and blocked my ears. (Pencil squishing sounds, but no bath duckie?) The action was not violent, it was stylized. Wick danced through the sequences. I love dancing and started at three. I could relate. My partner came home and caught me watching John Wick; he would have been less surprised to catch me in relations with the Postman.
In one swift move Matrix Man had opened the minds and hearts of our household. (Except for the cats who really didn’t care.) Was this guy for real? Yup. Did he actually exist as a living, breathing person? Yes. Had he been around my entire life? Indeed. Could I have gained more joy a long time ago by letting something exist that I had been avoiding; was not familiar with? Yes Snowball.
Where did this lesson leave me? One step closer to LOVE.
You don’t need to understand it, be it, or do it to allow something to exist. But then again, maybe we should all look a little closer, just in case…