Protected: Essay: Women’s and Men’s Brains are Biologically Different
Protected: Essay: Re-Program; Moving from Subconscious to Conscious Mind
Prose; Dissolving

Written 9/7/17 I remember writing this. It was a tough one. I was so tired of feeling used.
Dissolve people from my space that do not take care of themselves. I’m not your healer. I’m healing myself from victims and off-loaders. You heal yourself, I don’t heal you. That’s not my head trip, that’s yours.
Dissolve people from my space that think I should be on a saint pedestal just because I have integrity and do good in the world. I’m just a human being that refuses to tolerate certain energy just like everyone else. I’m SO happy to disappoint them when they compete with me when there is nothing to compete with. Everyone is different. Don’t compete with me. Read my book, then compete with the death and suffering that I never hold onto and know how to release. Dare you! No pity. That’s ego too. Compassion is all that’s called for; for me and yourself.
Dissolve people from my space that expect me to lead them into the light and refuse to do it for themselves. I’m not God nor do I want to be. Walk into your own light after I show you how!
Dissolve people from my space that say they care and then try to put me under their boot when they don’t know what they’re talking about.
Dissolve relationship with family members that don’t know how to let go of negative emotion and want me to be as dependent as they are. No. I don’t need to be.
Dissolve ties to people who walk late into a meeting they set up with me and immediately say, even before we begin, that they want nothing to do with me ever again after this meeting. REALLY!? Grow up. There is not going to be a meeting because you want to dominate, not discourse. I don’t work with people who want to dominate. I work with people who respect me enough to be my equal.
You want your power back?… I just handed it back to you because you erroneously gave it OVER to me when I never fucking asked for it!
Dissolve those who are always up to something, say they support you, then they vampire energy from you because they don’t take care of themselves.
Done. Dissolved. Happy to be just human. Happy to never, ever, ever want anyone to put me on a fucking pedestal just so they can try to knock me off to prove something to themselves.
You’re jealous of my strength and achievement? Then be jealous of the death, loss, vampiric sucking, hate, and jealous family to whom I courageously flip the bird to in order to get to this point. I know I deserve to be happy and abundant and not be surrounded by people that want to either worship me or destroy me for their selfish ego purposes.
Go away.
I’m just a human being with friends doing the work I love.
Prose; How the Light Changes
Written 9/5/17
Once the sun comes up, the sun in my eyes charges my brain like a battery.
The position of the shadows on the wall meanders aimlessly to new places like a squirrel trying to find a home for his peanut.
The refraction off of the green leaves will meet its demise when the colors change and drop like so many ancestors on our family tree. Into the ground, they go.
We’re all soiled phantoms, you know.
One day full of light and life, and soon, the Earth reclaims us.
Do you know there hasn’t been one, single human body to escape this transformation?
What happens to our light and life, like that green leaf?
The light changes.
Protected: Essay: Activating the 12 Chakra System
My book “Healer” is published
My first book is available through the Kindle Store. The direct link to purchase it is:
“Our families mean a lot to most of us, but they can also attempt to block or control our choices. Many times, we don’t talk about that part because we feel they provide us with a measure of emotional and social security we wouldn’t have otherwise.
We now know that the subconscious mind is programmed by our parents in utero and through the first few years of life. How can we overstep that programming and move into our conscious mind where we make our own choices as adults?
Seventeen years of hands-on clinical experience with patients taught Lisa many ways to achieve it. She learned how to reclaim power over her life and teach it to her patients using holistic medicine and holistic values, Reiki, and Tzolkin Cosmology.
Synchronicity, not coincidence starts to figure into events. Everything happens for a reason. Once the lesson is learned, it can be released.”
The paperback will be available for sale in early September, also on Amazon Kindle Store. Enjoy!
Prose; I Want the Music a Little Louder

I want the music a little louder,
for our kiss to last longer,
to breathe a little deeper and drink more coffee.
I want more swing to the jazz and a louder backbeat and
to dance a bit longer and sing with our friends,
Let’s finish that bottle of wine and stay together
because tomorrow is not promised
and I have to look at your face as much as possible.
Protected: Essay: Re-Program; Process or Product? Materialism
Protected: Prose; Rear View Mirror
Book Review for “The Lost Symbol” by Dan Brown
(The Lost Symbol came out in 2009, but I found some issues to be pertinent today in this book review I wrote that year)
The previous 2 books that I’ve read by Dan Brown; “Angels & Demons” and “Da Vinci Code” were quite riveting and fast reads, but “The Lost Symbol” rivaled them. In addition, Brown chose to write chapter after chapter as a type of sound-bite; a quickly changing scene to keep the attention of the reader. That was very clever and it worked! The trade-off was character and scene development. Even though we all know Langdon from the other books, people do grow and evolve.
Yet he portrayed Langdon very 2 dimensional and much the same. I got the sense he was really tired of this character and it showed in the writing. This was by no means a visionary work, but it was revealing and fun to read. Inquiring minds want to know! When you open the book, read the fiction disclaimer and then read the FACT page.
There was an advantage of the setting being on home turf; Washington D.C. As Americans, the revelation of the inner workings of our government is personal. Indeed, many of our family members are Masons. Many of our towns have “Masonic meeting halls”. In my hometown, there was a “Masonic Temple”. As a child I was taken by my Mother and Grandmother to many a community concert. But chapter 82, page 304 was especially personal for me.
At the opening of the chapter was the 10,647 rank organ that my cousin, Wayne Dirksen played and built as Music Director for The Washington National Cathedral in real life. His father founded the Freeport Organ Co. and taught him. Wayne was the music presenter for the Cathedral. Then as the characters proceeded into the Cathedral kitchen to reveal a very telling clue about “the pyramid”, I thought, “I wonder how many church suppers my relatives had in this hall and never imagined it would be the setting for revealing part of the secret about The Masons in a best-selling book?” The Washington National Cathedral is a Masonic stronghold-including the altar of the church, and my family has roots there.
What strikes me after having read these three books is in “Angels and Demons”, Brown deals with the secrets of The Illuminati and the Catholic Church. In “DaVinci Code” the antagonist power structure is The Catholic Church and finally, in “The Lost Symbol”-he deals with the secrets of The Masons, but they are protagonists and Protestant. What do all of these institutions have in common? They are male dominated with exclusive male membership. Albeit, DaVinci Code “suggested” the existence of the sacred feminine, but what conclusive power did she have? There was no real proof of her role.
For all the puzzle jumbling, blood, violence, and torture, there has never been a bigger scandal since the time of Christ than the absolute power vacuum of women in institutions of spiritual power. There has never been such an insulting, blatant, patronizing lack of comment on the real mystery behind the reason for male dominance in these institutions. In fact, the reason Dan Brown even HAS a story to write about, even HAS all these mounds of puzzles and symbols to decipher and secrets to root out is because the female has not been portrayed in the real light she holds in the evolution of spiritual power on this planet!
These books lean heavily on the “sacrifice model” to tell the story. That is because they leave the female out. The Bible completely leaves the female out as an equal to the male. And the Apostle Paul and Thomas Aquinas have a heyday denigrating her. That being said, the reason the Catholics can continue to hold power in the world is because their focus remains on the person of Christ and the transforming power of the Holy Spirit, as well as revering Mary. Yet they are the holdout for ordaining women.
For all the Universal ecumenism propounded by the Masons and some Protestants, what do they have to say about Christ? Do they think that he was “just another Master” walking the planet or do they really believe, as suggested in the book, that we could each be like him with that level of healing power and love in our hearts? Not if they keep playing their sacrifice rituals over and over as shown in the book!
Love is yielding, not sacrifice. It is the love that causes one to yield in order to teach a lesson, to further the cause, rather than resist; not sacrifice. The concept of sacrifice is violent and male. His death was not a sacrifice. The sacrificial focus of all the Pagan religions is over. Give Jesus some credit. Most of the time, he did not yield. Take one look at scripture and you’ll see how he laid into the Pharisees and Sadducees when they were wrong; but not at the end. He yielded and it was heinous. It was the most scandalous torture of an innocent man, not just on this planet, but in the Universe. Will this planet ever live it down?
Maybe that’s why so many humans like to believe the cross is so beautiful and venerate it. It’s a type of denial to try to cleanse it of what it REALLY was; abysmal. It seems to me that by venerating it you also approve of the enacting of sacrifice.
Am I questioning Jesus decision to yield; no-of course not. I do question the efficacy and intent of Christ to interpret it as a sacrifice. He went knowingly and on purpose. If it was a sacrifice, he was a martyr. If he yielded, he was a Rabbi and a lover of humans, come to regain power over our planet and vanquish Lucifer. He did accomplish that no matter how much Christians want to keep talking about him. It’s finished!
I am grateful for every single speck of who he was, what he did, and what he said. But I feel, as a follower, that his teaching should no longer be denigrated by organized religion with its pagan symbols and interpretations, much less sensationalized in books such as Dan Brown’s. Power goes to the one who yields in love. That is what Christ did. Neither the Catholics, nor the Masons, nor the Protestants get it. The hubris of the Masonic thinking has indeed crept into the Protestant church. There is a huge misunderstanding here about what Christ actually taught. And to boot, it’s not being taught by the Catholic or Protestant Church either.
Michelangelo portrays the mystery of this yielding in the astounding “Pieta”. I’ve stared at that statue quite awhile to receive its deeper meaning. I’ve thought about all I’ve read in Dan Brown’s books about religion, symbolism, the sacred feminine, antagonist/protagonist, and the real meaning of Christ’s death.
The message I received was the need for “balance”. There needed to be balance brought to this planet between the male and the female. As Christ’s body lay dead in the lap of Mary in the Michelangelos Sculpture, “Pieta”, I see him yielding to the sacred feminine, to Mother Spirit, to his Mother Mary in the hopes that with the release of his soul, she would come forth and help him bring balance to this troubled sphere. Was that his core message? So once again, the two shall become one. He yielded his body to her, knowing that SHE was the author of his life, from which all life comes, in conjunction with The Father. It is the great mystery yet to be unraveled, the great secret yet to be told on Planet Earth, the story that Dan Brown hasn’t told that underpins all spiritual institutions, all symbols, and all religions. Maybe I’ll have to write a book then.
Prose; Publishing Joy
I feel like my baby is about to go off to college.
I’m about to publish my first book and it’s almost time to let it go,
No longer able to control where it goes in the ethers,
Out into the world, warts and all,
Fresh, innocent, never having smelled a book store (yeah right)
Never having gone through the digital or paper mill…
Does that hurt?
My memories, feelings, occurrences, family secrets, pictures,
losses, dates, intimacies, grandparents, babies lost, tears cried,
Oh my god!!!! Why did I write this memoir????
Stop the presses! I can’t do this!!!!
I can’t put all of the truths of my life out into the public for perusal and criticism!
Not that anyone will care…but my life has been interesting hasn’t it?
I wrote it so it sounded interesting….yes I did.
Why did I listen to my FRIEND???? She said, “Lisa, write a memoir”
after hearing me tell stories.
Well, what if no one ELSE is the least bit interested?
This is nail-biting territory if anyone reads it.
I seriously do have many mind-bender stories.
What if people think I’m nuts?
There’s no such thing as bad press.
I’m just…a little nervous I guess.

Protected: Essay; Feel Free to Bother Me
Protected: Essay; It’s Better to Have Loved
Prose; Oblivion

Digital Artist Sandra Bauser
Time fades into oblivion
One memory, one vision of you and I feel whole again.
I remember your voice, your smell, the feel of you next to me.
In time, it was so long ago, yet to my mind, it was yesterday.
My love for you is as natural as my heartbeat.
Prose; Between The Cracks

Between the cracks of the piano keys, where the quarter and eighth tones lie, invisible gems are to be found.
Whole tones (normal notes) have no business here…no one likes them… they just seem whole, they’re really broken; like a million notes in smudged ink all over the page.
I long for these sounds to break the cacophony around me. Dissonance? They are consonant to me. They fill my cup in a parched closet, old wood, dry and brittle, thirsting for moisture. Dusty, unpopular, unseen, unheard by most human ears…
I love those places. Ah…let me sleep there.
“Grand Opening Here”, I run the other way. I’ll come in the middle of the night thank you-when no one is around but the ghost of my Grandpa, and maybe his friend with him. I can write then. Dusty basements, hidden shops, in-between dimensions, cracks, and mortice hide the doorways.
I long for these places to break up the routine of my day.
Little antique stores, old forgotten thrift stores where mom & pop still sit in the chair from 1926, gems are to be found. Patina so thick you can taste the smell of it, musky, soil, brackish dark. Cobwebs everywhere-but it’s all new to me.
I’m looking, for…my friend…a part of my soul that is tragically invisible to the surface dwellers, so odd, so unexpected that it thrashes my back. So impossible, so inconvenient, so much…so very good!
It feels eternally old and yet new to me; New to me because it doesn’t “fit” in my brain; in my plan. My well ordered, hip, sharp, cerebral, sassy, punkish, cavalier brain brutishly, insensitively mocked your old stories, your tradition, your nostalgia, your mischief. I’m not really laughing. I just really, really like the texture of it all-and you.
It has been said, “Your heart is a fickle leader!” Then I am the crumbs in the bottom of the toaster-like the host crumbs in “the cup”. Drink me. I am altogether undone. So be it…
Move to the old that is new!
Take a leap…what seems old is new, what seems new is old. What’s up is down??
It just is.
It aches to feel like a foreigner in my own planet…Always seeking a creative space that is misunderstood, mysterious, and forgotten.
Gorge on my grief and run for cover then…
Nothing is lacking; ever…all of it. The devil is in the details they say. His ears shriek when he hears quarter tones and eighth tones between the cracks; and time is no more. When the notes become whole, he is undone.
2/14/10
Protected: Essay; St. Valentine BeHeaded
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Prose; Shadow

I obscure my darkness to walk through life content, shadow feelings under the bed.
Convoluted darkness just below my navel only, my prescient dreams adumbrate what my body holds in, refusing to release its undulating grasp like a cranky child crying, needing attention and touch.
Male progenitor, emotional vampire and…ironically, my ally as a bridge to freedom in the face of neglectful, unfeeling, autocratic child-bearer.
Tremulous adolescence, when the course succor so needed is vacuous at best,
Cynical vexation felt so keenly in their insensitivity to my easily affected, young, psychic heart. They didn’t even know what the fuck psychic was because it wasn’t in the bible.
What could I have been?
What happy life could I have had if their crispy, mucous eyes had been open a crack?
That shadow feeling could spiral me down so quickly if I focused on it, so I only do it here
for release…because it’s bullshit, and my life is not bullshit, so I’m not filling it with that.
What is more helical bullshit that parental ignorance with an innocent, lovely child born in light and returning to light?
How twisted and contorted can adults get following societies rules, books, beliefs, and materialistic hysteria when they have in front of them a free soul, their child, needing only love by degrees, free roam by yards, food by weight and expression without limit?
The shadow of light is a contrast as a lesson
I’m using it to soar to the heights,
To rip asunder familial right to the soul of a child.
No more,
Whether in love or delusion
each child belongs to themselves only.
Just as roots do not dictate how far, wide and what direction a tree will grow,
so too, shadow roots deep below the ground only hold it in place while the wind, sky, and sun call us ever higher to dance with all of life above ground, storm and calm, for as long as we wish to live.
I hail from you but I am not you.
Feb. 8, 2017, Yellow 13 Warrior
Prose; Skin

The shell of a turtle, a carapace, guards your continuance of electric water, straight to your brain, pulls your vibration down in by degrees.
Your skin like a husk full of ridges on corn smells sweet,
hard to pull off at the bottom, tassles so soft on my face, the smell of earth.
Your arm was warm and pleasant as the first tomato of summer in my hungry hand.
Let me bite into that luscious fruit, so sweet and tangy
or a mango stream of juice down my chin.
I’m distracted, clement smells from your back
Why are so sweet yet so smart and severe?
No end to touch makes my breathing peaceful.
I feel happy…oh god I’m doomed.
Indeed, it only lasted one day and you ripped your skin from me again.
At least you can’t take the memory from me.
Words can never erase actions like skin can never cover feelings.
Protected: Essay: Does Resistance Work?
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