All Systems Go

All systems go . . . is a phrase that was popularized during the space race of the 1960s.  It was a specific person, actually, who used the phrase — John Powers, the public information officer for the U.S. Space Program —  and then it just caught on and became an idiom meaning that everything is ready. 

There is another quote about systems often attributed to W. Edwards Deming of the Deming Institute, but it’s of disputed origin.  Regardless of who said it, it goes like this: “Every system is perfectly designed to get the outcome that it gets.”  It assumes a kind of Z to A way of analyzing efficacy.  So, first you have to identify the outcome you are experiencing. Once you know that, you will know what kind of system you have in place — the system that would create this particular result. 

Many spiritual seekers have done at least some work around the idea of setting intentions, the A to Z way of attempting to create specific outcomes. Current spiritual wisdom tells us that if we get clear on our heart’s desire, set an intention, and then affirm it regularly, we can create the reality we want — the results we want. But what is going on when we set an intention and it doesn’t pan out. Are we doing it wrong? 

Or could it just be that all systems aren’t quite on go? 

I don’t have any ground-breaking answers regarding the intersection of intentions and results. But I do think that if we want to understand the connection between them, we need to first explore the system.  And in this instance, the system is us. 

I find that the more time I spend in communion with my higher self, my divine nature, whatever you want to call your true and unchangeable self, the more my intentions arise naturally, on their own, from a pure place, and present themselves to me.  They are no longer clay that I’m attempting to shape, wet and formless clay that I’m pulling from the mud in handfuls and trying with everything within me to make into something at least presentable. No.  From the place of my beingness, my intentions become like doves that fly down to the ground and land at my feet. They aren’t made by me so much as they arrive and present themselves to me.  In time, they start to fly right into my hand, and then they even begin to alight right on my shoulder when I’m not even paying attention.  As my communion with my higher self continues and deepens, the dove can even become a hawk or an eagle.  In other words, the more I simply focus on my divine nature, the more my intentions create themselves.

My suggestion, and it’s only a suggestion, is to stop trying to figure out your life’s direction or what you should be affirming.  Stop trying to carefully word your intention.  Just for a little while. Instead, go inside.  Go deep inside. Check under the hood, so to speak.  Meditate.  Read Mooji or Michael Singer or Caroline Myss. Do whatever it is you need to do to commune with your true self. If you’re not sure what that is, ask.  Let the asking be your first intention. And when all systems are go, you’ll know the direction to take.  

Just a thought from here at ground control. 

The Rapids

The rubber raft bounces through the rapids.
My knees 
                         squeeze 
               the side of the boat 
               that I ride like a saddle
as we slip down in a trough 
                                                       and then rocket up 
and over, like a roller coaster.  
I’m on the New River in West Virginia.  
I heard a claim that these were the only 
               class V rapids 
               east of the Mississippi, 
though I think there are others.  
It’s like most claims, 
               felt to be more valid if an 
                         only or best or highest or fastest.            
Yes, I’m sure there are others, 
               but not in this moment as I 
                         squeeze 
                         and paddle 
               and adjust my weight
                         in split seconds,   
Feet behind me then 
                                                  pushed forward,
               like bull-riding a river.

When the river calms, I think about the rapids and the claim and the Mississippi.  
I’ve been on her, too, though it was a much gentler ride.  
What she lacks in excitement, she makes up for in size.  
You can’t move consumer goods through the New River Gorge, so there’s that.  
Sure, the Mississippi floods, sometimes in tragic ways, but the flood 
is still the producer of some of the best farmland in the world, bar none. 

At a    w i d e     s p o t, 
our guide tells us we can get out and
                         float.  
We can even climb 
               out of the river 
                              and up that 
                                             big rock, 
                                                            15 feet high 
                                                                           at least, 
and jump from there.  
               It’s safe.  
I roll 
               off the edge and onto my back,
               my life jacket keeping me afloat.  
I lazily push 
                              and kick my
                                                            way to the bank.  
As I step on solid ground, 
I feel 
               woozy
For a moment, 
unaccustomed to firmness.  
I stand still as I get my bearings, 
and I think about how the Mississippi 
               and the New 
               are more different 
               when you’re in them 
than when you’re out.  
               The bank feels the same
               in West Virginia
               and Missouri.  

               And then I think about 
               the observer self, 
               the untouched
               unmoved 
          watcher of experience 
               who sees both the rapids
               and the flood 
               but stands still 
               on the shore,
               unchanged,
               unaffected.  

Then I 
               climb 
                              the 
                                             rock 
and jump back in. 

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved