This morning when I woke up with my head still spinning pleasantly from all the whiskey gingers I downed like a champ last night, I realized: I am a lightworker. Yes the term is hopelessly entangled with some of the worst New Age clichés imaginable. I admit that fully. I don’t care. I’m taking “lightworker” back. Back from the fruity sorts who believe that promoting and propigating love and compassion and snork-the-whiskey-out-your-nose laughter is a serious thing, that it means your soul is ancient or even that it means you have a soul at all, and especially those who say it must necessarily equate to a belief in some kind of over-arching deity.
Yes we like to play with gimungous RPG characters who usually live in the sky or a paradisal abode we wish we could reach, whose generous bosoms swell with the golden milk of joy even as they fountain this same milk from their bountiful nipples and girthy trunks into our eager mouths, us docile supplicants lying supine below them as if in utter submission. Yes that is true. I admit that fully. We love to pretend that these things exist, are real, have substance because it adds so greatly to the play, to the joy, to the energy dance of existence. We can suspend our belief or disbelief for pleasure and then snap back to rationality when the playtime that demanded the suspension it is over, if it indeed ever ends.
It is okay not to believe. It is okay not to believe you are a starseed or that karma has anything to do with your need to extend healing in the forms of love, compassion, free handjobs, etc. Some people just have something inside them, maybe something really fucked up from childhood even, that fuels their need to give, to inspire their fellow upright-walking primates with glorious visions, kind words, heavy soups, inappropriate workplace massages and more.
And yes the term implies a kind of duality between light and dark and the poopie preference for one over the other. The kind of folk that would guffaw over this metaphor are usually the basement cellardwelling types who think it is cool to cling to walls in dank, moist places, slowly growing larger, some undiscovered crevices of their corpulent phosphorescent bodies rotting imperceptibly to their users. They could use some sunshine. These folks can’t laugh at themselves, let it slide and they certainly don’t know how to flow. It’s okay to love “the light” even if you are a freak goth mutant alternative non-conformist. Sunshine is good too and it fuels every thing we do down to the most minute detail. Our lives, our choices to dwell in basements becoming obese while jerking it to barely legal lesbian foot fetish porn, would not be possible without the sun. SO DON’T KNOCK IT. It’s okay to love the light and to want to illuminate and be illuminated instead of keeping yourself from the world, keeping who you really are a secret from the rest of the world.
DON’T BOGART YOURSELF! Step into the spotlight, grab the mic and go crazy with it. Get it all out. It’s an EMOTIONAL ENEMA.
So. Back to my original point. I’m taking back “lightworker” from both the flakes and the people who make fun of them. Being a lightworker means neither that you must be unconventional (or novel) or that you must conform to what other lightworkers believe it means. It certainly doesn’t mean you can’t ever work in the dark, have bleak moods or feel inspired by a gothic aesthetic. You don’t have to be conventional or unconventional to ride this love ship passion trip. You don’t have to be a washed up hippie without a gourd (but don’t under any circumstances discount washed up hippies: they have the best drugs!) But on the other side of that, you don’t have to be a smug, constipated, unrealized fart either.
I am a lightworker. I am weird. Get used to it. Deal with it. You can laugh at me if you want to, but you’ll be the one on the sidelines snickering to yourself and pretending that you are really enjoying yourself, cloistering yourself from others because you are too afraid to show yourself to the world and risk the vulnerability of putting yourself into a new context. Weakling.
Much of this rant doesn’t make sense. Much of this rant has very little internal logic and flits in a carefree manner between topics and tenses. That is okay because I drank a lot of whiskey before writing it.