Welcome Home.

The thing I loved to do became a burden. It was time to push it behind for a while, let it curl up like a tired cat to sleep. In time, it will have been rejuvenated, will have shorn its tiresome aura, its toxicity, and I will be able to love it once more.

Now I can focus on the spirits that matter. I can support, and be there. It's coming home and it's most welcome.

I brought out my cushion (which is actually a giant stuffed monkey) and got down into myself for the first time in a very long while. Almost immediately after the timer bell rang, fat words drifted up to say Hello and the smile on my face stretched from ear to ear.

It was wonderful, and so reassuring to confirm that I am always there even if the ego drags me this way and that.

“This body is not me; I am not caught in this body, I am life without boundaries, I have never been born and I have never died. Over there the wide ocean and the sky with many galaxies. All manifests from the basis of consciousness. Since beginningless time I have always been free. Birth and death are only a door through which we go in and out. Birth and death are only a game of hide-and-seek. So smile to me and take my hand and wave goodbye. Tomorrow we shall meet again or even before. We shall always be meeting again at the true source, always meeting again on the myriad paths of life.”
― Thích Nhất Hạnh, No Death, No Fear

My husband says I am an enigma. He looks at me quizzically. "You're intelligent," he says, "and yet, you believe in chakras and stuff." I love him; he is the practical, realistic one. I am the intuitive one, and a believer of the teachings of many spiritual guides. We balance each other, my husband and me. Eleven years of mawwage tomorrow and how fucking wonderful it is to be right where we are with each other. After the rocky slopes; the slippery slopes, and the glaciers of silence, we are the most connected right now.

Welcome home.

Collectively Speaking

So I read another headline (they're everywhere) with words that serve only to kindle fear, panic, and irrational reactions. By all accounts, the world is in a complete tizzy and it's coming from all angles and sources; above ground, underground, in the air, from the people, by the people...and on and on.

Imagine this....imagine when we've come to a crashing stop for whatever reason. The Earth no longer supports human life or animal life - except maybe the cockroach; it seems pretty hardy. But not mankind. Imagine collectively, the human race's mind as a light entity drifting up to wherever to face some sort of judgment, to look back, to fully realize the enormity and breadth of its existence; its impact, its awesome power.

I like to think that collectively, mankind might feel remorse and think, oh yeah...the mindful stuff, the Love and Peace stuff.  Huh....maybe we should've done that instead.

In that state, I don't think there is any other way to feel. Above the sphere crammed with bodies, its gravity stuck with its flesh and bone population, it is only then that we certainly, definitely feel peace, love and absolute awareness.

I am a bystander. I observe angry people in their cars, hackles raised, ugly faces, boiling blood reactions.  I read trolls in comments whose only purpose is to stir up hatred and volatility. There was a time when I would have jumped right in with them and had my say; flung criticisms at complete strangers to fuel the anger. I have hopped in my car seat like a hot bean at other drivers, and on more than one occasion informed them of precisely how I felt by way of a finger, or a look, or an aggressive driving maneuver.

Now I am older and wiser.  Not meditating anymore, and often forget to be aware, but the work I've done in the last few years has laid a lasting foundation of love, peace, hope, harmony, mindfulness, and ironically, forgetful awareness.

Maybe all who have passed are simply circling the Earth in another realm, all-knowing that there is no deity, no idol. All that exists is pure consciousness and they are biding time until the human race is devoid of that flesh and bone.  Perhaps then, everyone that has ever been in all of humanity, alive and dead, will come together and the light in the Universe will shine so brightly that the darkness mankind created will be revealed.

Perhaps, even now, in the midst of so many crises and horrors, we are gathering knowledge to take with us to another place, in another time, in another dimension, and in another form.

Hopefully we will go there with a better blueprint.

All That's Left is the Apple Pie

What a shake-down it's been lately; sorrow swept in, and with it much chaos. It thoroughly blew up the inside of my house. Shit that I'd been hanging onto with the barest of fingertips snatched from my grip. Things that I had tried to keep in existence, thrashed from the fireplace. It's a shame that it took such depth of grief to clean up. The loss of a person so important, and who left in such a way that I'm not sure how long it will take to understand. Her chapter in my life sits in a red book on a bookshelf *over there*. From time to time I am sure I will revisit as I sit in my comfy rocking chair with the bay window behind and the safest and prettiest of views behind that.

I feel a settling. Am liking the change; embracing the deeper knowing; a new level of self-understanding.

Aware, too, of the layer of hurt that remains as if not all the junk was swept away. Some resemblance of certain things remain. And I am a terrible cleaner or picker-upper; they will likely stay.

I feel the cool, clean, new interior. It feels workable, I can do something here without the old restraint.

Sometimes you go down in order to go up. Or is it the other way around? You blow up to dive down, maybe? Either way, what's left is most welcome. For me, I see apple pie on a farmhouse kitchen table. I will chow down every bite and savor every sweet morsel.

And all around I will hear classical music.

Remembrance

During the Autumn of 2001, I was working for a company that included in its health plan, visits to a psychologist should we ever feel the need. Guided by a voice I didn't really hear, I squeezed in an appointment after a good kickboxing workout, but before I went home to get thoroughly stoned, drink lots of water, eat a pack of cookies, then go to bed.

She was a wee woman with long dark hair, the top half of which was tied back. She wore a dress and the exact same shoes I had at home:  White Mountain clogs, my favorite at the time. Her name was Kerry and as I sat there perched on the edge of the couch, I wanted to flee but knew I had to stay. I confessed to not knowing why I was there except that I seemed to keep sabotaging any relationship I had (hindsight now - they just weren't the Right One). Kerry asked what I assumed were the usual therapist sort of questions:  What was your childhood like? What about your parents?  What were you like in school?  And bingo, like a woven tapestry of ones life, the threads we weave to make up our history become frayed, loosened. Sometimes, as a protective measure we have strung and restrung so many times over and around particular things that we don't even see the pattern anymore. But there is always a string, always a fragment; pull it, and it's quite possible that everything you had worked on, simply comes undone. And that's what she made me do, with one simple tug on a historical thread.

Kerry was meant for me. I have always believed that. We spent eighteen months digging shit out of a nasty hole and filling it back up with good.  Some sessions were angry, some heartbreaking at the knowledge of fresh, uncovered details, some lighthearted, sometimes I'd sit there for fifteen/twenty minutes just staring out the window but she never, ever made me feel as if I were wasting her time. I mean, I know she was getting paid but the relationship never had the 'clock watching' feel.  She was intuitive, compassionate, ethical, and next to my husband, the most important person I've had the joy of dancing with in my life.  Her influence followed me around all the time, unseen but always there. A physical reminder, a gift from her hangs in my car, and has hung in every car I've owned since the day she gave it to me.

On Monday, I learned that Kerry had committed suicide.  It seemed, and not unlike the wonderful Robin Williams, that she had dedicated her life to helping others but couldn't do anything about her own shadowy companion. She was loved by so many, as evidenced by the outpouring of emotion on her Facebook page, and it breaks all of our hearts to think that she believed this to be her only choice.

Kerry was a light-filled, beautiful spirit; spry and twinkly, quick to laugh, but also deeply committed to healing.

Goodnight, sweet lady.

Namaste Dave

Rarely do I have sea-time without having to keep an eye on the kids.  Miraculously, they all decided they were hungry at once and traipsed back up the beach to my poor, tired husband to eat.  I remained in the ocean, blissed out and floating, treading water lightly, or reclining fully to feel the weight of the sun on my face. It was glorious. I wasn't consciously trying to be in the moment, or attempting to grasp a fleeting feeling of gratitude, things I often try to do when I take a few precious seconds to marvel at the horizon. It was enough to just be caressed by the swells, gently pushed this way and that.

 

Not far from me a gentleman also bobbed around, on a small boogie board. We grinned at each other and he said, "It's lovely out here, isn't it?" to which I replied, "It really is.  And it's easy just...to be." He smiled wide and I knew that he knew what I meant. He had an immense, colorful tattoo on his back, about which I enquired.  He explained that he had been to Japan a few times and loved to meditate in their gardens, so over time he'd had a similar scene engraved on his body: soothing waterfalls, Japanese maples, ponds, trees...everything he would wish for in a place for meditation.  I remarked that it was like having his inside on the outside, and he liked the comparison. We chatted for some time, not realizing that we had drifted far from our meeting point, and past the red flag near the rocks, so we laughed and paddled back to where we started, and continued chatting. About yoga, and hotels, and family, and work, until we discovered we'd drifted again. We parted ways at that point; I had to swim back to the sightline for my husband and he had to go find his family. I asked his name; he said it was Dave.  I told him mine and as naturally as can be, I said "Namaste".  He put his hands together and Namaste'd in return.

 

The next day, I was driving with the windows open in the car because it was cool enough outside.  Strands of my hair whipped this way and that, and I had to squint a lot to protect my eyes from both wind and hair. It reminded me of the forces of nature; the ocean, at once giving you enough grace to hold yourself afloat but at the same time, moving you far where you thought you were. The wind, giving you the power to hold yourself steady, yet able to push you around at the same time. The forces of fate; meeting people, kindred souls, not so kindred souls, whoever, wherever, whenever, and for undetermined (or is it pre-determined?) lengths of time.

I met Dave for maybe ten minutes, and unless there are plans previously established before our lives on Earth, it's unlikely that I'll see him again. But I won't ever forget him. Just as I will never forget the elderly lady at the grocery store two months ago who happily informed me of the differences between jams, jellies and preserves (Truth be told, I already knew, but wanted to connect with her because I was feeling particularly friendly that day). I won't forget the woman with the white hat at table 15, years ago; who was so angry about waiting for her lunch that she insulted me, and thought her salad was puny. Or the waistcoated gentleman at table 13, who on our opening night scored a free meal because he was under the (mistaken) impression that his risotto had wild rice in it instead of Arborio. I will remember the father many weeks ago, showing his teenage daughter how to pump gas. She thought it was funny; he was trying to impress on her the importance of the task.  We made eye contact and in a split second, I understood his frustration and showed him that I empathized.

We shouldn't forget the boyfriends, the old friends, the neighbors, or the random people. It would behoove us to remember not just the people who showed care and respect for us, but also the people who treated us terribly, who were rude, or hurtful, or broke our hearts.

Or is it just me? Am I the only one who thinks about this stuff? What capacity we have to hold all these memories! In some way, some small or big way, every one of these people created a spark, a connection. And in some way, it taught us something, showed us something, or maybe just helped to keep us buoyed during a day. I honor all of them.

(Of course, this also applies to people online whom I shall probably never meet in person.)

Namaste, All.

Not Forcing

The Summer of Me took a turn down a different road; the things I had hoped to achieve physically, thwarted by health issues. Perhaps the barriers were raised because the roots of planning grew from negative soil. Soil in a field rife with self-judgment, and skewed views of the way things needed to be in order to be pleased with myself -  if I could just be the weight I want to be; if I could be shape and size I want to be, things will be much better; I will feel better about Me.

Self, the all-knowing Mother, so calm around the bouncing, impatient child Ego, says in translucent tones, "No honey, this is not what you should be doing right now."

Impetuous child. She pouts, thinks she knows better and does it anyway.

It has been "settle down time" for a while. In it, gentle daily lessons and reminders of self-acceptance. Doing as I please in moderation, even though it is often accompanied by a certain unease; breathing into being with the transitory nature of now.

Soon, when I am confident of my health, I will return to the road I had started upon. I should take Self with me; she will be an invaluable guide and a steadying force in the company of a headlong kid.

Mother and Child; Self and Ego.

BritInterrupted

A car needs all its parts to work together to create successful propulsion. Our major parts, if we consider ourselves as a car, would be the physical, the mental, the emotional, and the spiritual. All of these aspects require a cohesion for us to function optimally.

My car has broken down, and sits on the side of an unknown road with two flat tires, and smoke billowing from the engine.

I tried to keep things going, push myself to reach my goals, to work toward an obligation later in the year, to keep up, keep going, achieve the goals, get out, get moving. It started out great; I was gung-ho, throwing myself into this activity and that, but I'm not a new model and will admit to not having had a tune-up in quite some time. Before long, my efforts began to sputter. Essentially I leapt into a road trip without checking my shit out first.

The physical, I have often thought, is a manifestation of the troubles on the inside, and if the current situation is any indication, I must be in quite a disarray.

I asked myself, actually asked myself with the view to getting a response, what I could do to heal? The word 'investigate' came to mind, meaning to sit in quiet dignity and go to source. I haven't been there in a long time; perhaps that is the root of healing. I sat in the darkened office at work, with the rumbles of trucks and reversing beeps outside, and meditated. I asked again, in that state of mind, what I could do to heal. Over and over. "What can I do to heal?"  I threw the question out to the Universe and let it go, having faith that I would be given an answer at some point.

I could say that this part of me wasn't working properly, or the other part wasn't in sync, and I couldn't say when, how or even which one lost its footing. All I know is that it took a while and now here I am, the result of purposeful oblivion.

To return to my favorite horse analogy (because that's totally how I see myself)...this filly needs to stop racing and head out to a nice field to graze for a while (within caloric limits, of course)...and be at peace with the decision. Yes, I'm feeling like it's time to slow right down.

On what may be

Before my kids exit the car for camp every morning, I try to impart some wisdom. I understand that it's mostly a futile thing but I hope that once in a while, and maybe for a long while, some of what I say will stick.

"Thoughts are like flowers and weeds." I said yesterday, "The good, helpful thoughts are the flowers; the negative thoughts are the weeds. Your mind is like a garden, so be careful which plants you water, because what you water the most is what will grow. Would you prefer a mind full of beautiful flowers, or a mind full of weeds?" *crickets.....followed by mama's gone crazy shared look*

"Sometimes not getting what you want is a good thing because it can lead you to much better things you never knew were there." This one made my son eyeroll because he'd not been allowed to buy something on his electronic device half an hour earlier.

I've learned more about myself in the last two years than in all my years. Currently, I'm sitting with uncertainty, fear, worry, and frustration over things that I cannot control. In years gone by, I'd have been a bound slave to the dire link between thought and emotion. I know better now to locate the peaceful light inside, even if it feels like I'm parting a hedgerow that only serves to become thicker and snappier with each handful apart. I can see the light, I can feel the light, I can tap into it, and for a fleeting moment, peace settles in, right there in the middle of the writhing forest. Soon enough, and inevitably, the thoughts swoop in like crows with their chatter and tightness and the white birdlight flies away.  The process ebbs and flows as I work throughout the days to breathe, center, tap in....breathe, center, tap in...

My lesson for the next few days will probably be about letting go of trying to control things. Keeping at least some part of me in touch with the light on the other side of the hedgerow while the rest of me is fretting about something that has an either/or outcome. And pulling from the experience, some words of wisdom for my kids who, one day, will appreciate the little seeds I've been planting. I hope.
 

Manifest my drum set

I'm sure you've heard of the Law of Abundance.

I like to walk at a nearby horse farm that has a long trail through woods, and across fields, and which, at points, neighbors with back gardens. I have walked by the houses and lusted after pools, cabanas, patios and decks. Nothing extravagant, but certainly nice. I have felt jealousy, and bitterness and lack in my heart, and not just at these possessions but toward other peoples' successes. It's how we judge ourselves and each other, even the most spiritual of us who are not monks in a monastery would have to admit to a slight inkling of the ego's darker nature.

It was one evening that I walked by the same back gardens and caught myself having the same thoughts. "When will we...?" "Why can't we...?" "Will we ever..."? "Ugh, These people are so lucky..." It was then that the Law of Abundance principle popped into mind; a practice which I understand but have trouble instituting consistently.

I guess it's a double-edged sword on a personal level; having been in a position of absolute financial wreckage with a family to support, the overtones of which still waver around. It's challenging to maintain the belief that what you want can be yours simply by believing, envisioning and feeling that they truly already are. But, I also have a natural bent toward believing that these sorts of things actually work. In fact, I have a very good friend who practices this manifestation belief daily, and she is quite successful.

 

 

So, I joined a group on Facebook to help buoy my abundant side; took part in a 'manifest $200' for the day and promptly got a $600 bill from the dentist, which is sort of funny now but definitely was not at the time.

I'm not one to be deterred or downtrodden very often so I set about consciously practicing daily gratitude for all the things I have. This is where it begins; truly appreciating that what we have is all we need. We don't have a lot of money but we are able through one avenue or another, to provide a summer of fun for ourselves and the kids. It may not be a Caribbean vacation or at trip to Disney but it's more than we could have done in years gone by. We live in a great, little neighborhood with an abundance of friends for our kids, and with watchful eyes, and texting parents, they are able to stay out until bedtime. We are blessed in many ways, and we are rich with love. More and more these days, I think and believe that I have everything I need.

 

With all that taken care of on a daily basis, I would now like to manifest a book written by me on the bestseller list, and a drum set for my husband. Actually, I think I want the drum set more than the book because watching him practice a beloved rusty skill would be all I'd need.

 

A book would be cool, though, so I'd better get back to practicing, writing, imagining, believing, trusting, hoping, creating, and loving.  Consistently.  Decisively.

Come Lately

Lately I've not practiced meditation, lately I've not written a anything significant. In fact, it's more than lately but how do we measure 'lately' anyway?  By my standards, my journey being what it is, lately is almost two months.

There was a time when I might have felt a pang of guilt, coaxed on by the ego to make me feel bad, to make me feel inadequate, to make me feel as if I have no idea what I'm doing, to make me feel unworthy of being me.

I don't these days.  I'm strong to my core, for it's a place I've visited and come to know intimately. I know I'm there and that my light shines like a beacon for me to find when I'm ready to return.  So, I don't feel any guilt.  If anything, I feel right and 'where I'm meant to be.'

I read: http://findyourmiddleground.com/2014/06/09/accept-the-seasons-of-your-heart/  (I had trouble naming the link so had to post the whole URL) one of my favorite, spiritual, healthy, and loving bloggers, Val Boyko.  "Accept the seasons of your heart." reinforced what I already knew; I'm in a great place with a few niggles from history which, by god, I think will be nipping over my shoulder forever.

However, I'm ok without meditation.  I'm ok with not writing.  I'm ok.  My energies are focused elsewhere.  Not that I can't do more than one thing at once, it's just the way it is right now.

Occasionally I'll stop and check in, usually when I'm at a traffic light, or washing dishes, or cooking, or folding laundry, and feel the smile that flows from the very insides of me right up to my face.

Right there, I know I'm doing what's right for me.

The Game of Life

When I was a kid, my family frequently played board games. A favorite was Scrabble, and later on Upwords. For those games, my Mum kept the letter tiles in a black felt bag; all we needed to do was throw the tiles in, hold the top closed and shake it vigorously. When it came time for each of us to replenish our letters on the rack, we'd just dive in and grab what we needed without peeking.

Life is sort of like that; and has been like that of late.

I was setting my tiles out on the massive, traveling board of Life; connecting, re-thinking, reconnecting, making good or making bad words, with more or less points when the Universe picked up the board, folded it nearly in half and tipped all of my tiles into the bag. It happens, I suppose. The Universe looked around nonchalantly while giving it a good shake then plopped it back into my hand and left with a smile.

Nothing traumatic had happened, just a sense of crawling to a stop with dissatisfaction in the passenger seat. So, I took a step back with my bag o' tiles in hand and busied myself with other, less personal things. The bag was always there though, clack-a-lack shaking in the background; a reminder that soon, sooner, soonest I'll need to return and place my tiles in a more pleasing manner.

How unwriterly of me to step away from my imagination. I might be crucified by some diehards with their pointed fingers; "You must write every day!" I can hear the cry.

How soulless of me to step away from the cushion for so long that I've forgotten the last time I came face to face with my essence.

The platform that helped to shape me over the past while is going through a necessary crumble, and a change is due. Perhaps it's a reset; the letters are present, after all. I'm about ready to reach into the void and arrange them just so on my board. Ready to return to the stomping ground of my soul and look upon it with fresh eyes, and create some new crisp, thing.

Slowly, slowly, play the Board Game of Life.

Mum's the Word

Ten years of Mother's Days.

Y'know that scene in Contact, when Jodie Foster's character is hurtling through the wormhole? That's sort of what our last decade feels like. We're vomiting out the other side into calmer space, and it's still a little fraught (what family with kids isn't?) but holding intelligible conversations with children certainly helps.

I am not a naturally maternal mother, I don't think. I was not the sort of girl who dreamed of getting married and having babies. And when I did meet my husband, we kinda sorta knew we wanted to have kids when we were ready. But, the Universe had vastly different plans and knocked us up before we'd even exchanged vows.

So began our bewildering, mentally unprepared tumble into parenthood.

Now we have an almost ten year old son and a daughter, who will be firm in telling you that she is not just seven, she is seven and a half.

I'm not a coddler or a helicopter parent, but I know how to comfort, and offer solace, and take care. My children are not the be all and end all of me, and I don't think I'm an intrusive parent. They are independent, but never shy away from a hug. They think about stuff, and ask questions. They eat their vegetables, even if they leave the chicken nuggets behind. They do their homework before they go outside. They do as they're told. They are funny, and loving, and spirited kids, each with their own talents. They are selfish, but care about the planet and other people. They are not yet masters of their own emotions.

At the end of the day, I am happy to 'tuck them in' and perform our secret handshakes, play thumb wars and occasionally read to them, even if I groan about doing so, because I'm knackered and all I really want to do is make a cup of tea, sit next to my husband and watch the next episode of The Blacklist. I get exasperated at having to repeatedly remind them to wash their hands after they use the loo, to not leave drinks and snack wrappers lying around, to put their clean clothes away, to do the jobs they are supposed to do, and to be home at 6:30. No, not 7, 6:30...why?  Because the kitchen closes at 6:30, that's why.

It's all really ok; there will come a day when I'll still be reminding them to do their chores, and to pick up after themselves but they'll have curfews of 10pm, and I'll ask them to be careful driving the car.  There will be dates, and broken hearts, and proms, and college, and whatever path they choose after that.  Or no college, if my son has his way.  But he won't.  So.

I might have lost myself for a while there during the early years but look at what I found...a better me, a wiser me, a cheekier, classy, gracefully clumsy, more well-rounded me.

I am not my kids, and my kids are not me.

Without each other though, we wouldn't be the wonderful unit that we are.

Happy Mother's Day. And that includes furkid Mothers too!

A Warrior Knows When to Accept Defeat

There are days in a warrior's life when defeat drapes itself upon the heart; the weight of it pulls the mouth down, and every step feels like drudgery. There is no rising above it on a day like this. It feels so full, and leaden that the only thing to be done is to sit with it, and be morose friends for as long as necessary.

Defeat glums the soul, shrouds the light, and I am a stubborn one; I want it to do so. I want to feel its heavy-handed, tawdry weight. I languish in it, allowing it to seep into the very core of me.

What point is there in all of this? Nothing is getting better. Positivity? Shoo away, put up no fight, but don't cower; wait in the shadows until defeat is exhausted with the effort.

Today, I am done, I am solitary, there is no hope.
It is not hopeless, I understand that; I am simply not hopeful today.

And that's ok.

It's a busy thing, to tirelessly keep the balls of life up in the air. Not just my own, but others' too. I realize that I can't keep up, so they fall, and I fall with them. I catch myself, held suspended in some sort of shadowy between-ness.

It will pass.

It's temporary.

I have not stopped being a warrior; I'm just caving into darkness for a spell.

 

Peaks to Valleys

Carefree to careworn overnight. It's been coming for a while; another rolling wave crashing upon a peaceful shore, threatening the careful facade, and fragile sandcastles.

The same old, same old worries and frustrations that dog us, bark alongside us, remind us of our position of lack, make it so difficult to turn that canine on its head, and find ways to express our needs and wants from a positive position.

The routinely outturned pockets, offering fluffy nothings. Holey clothes, children's worn shoes wincing as for bike brakes. Desperate for respite.

The wave builds. The alcoholic crutch returns. The creeping excuses, and rationalizations. Building, building. Disgruntled. Self-judgment. More wine, please. More chips, please. Enabler, enabled.

And crash...

Tucked away today, in my cave. Tired. Thinking. Planning. Determined. Trying not to berate.

Dammit. Summer's coming. Back on the clean wagon. Must to be fiercely erecting barricades all around to stop from falling off.

I hope I can still see the scenery through the gaps.

Gooses and Ganders

The bodypump instructor looks at me as we're coming to the end of the class. Training our shoulders is the last thing we do with weights. Contrary to her recommendation, I have not loaded my bar. In fact, throughout the entire class, I have put whatever weight I feel comfortable with on that bar. I don't hold with the run of the mill mindset that heavier is better. That the more you lift, the stronger you will become. Sure, your body will adapt over time but I don't want to do that, I'm fine with a lighter weight, and lots of reps. She looks at me, and I see a sort of chiding in her eyes. We are both English too, so there's a weird connection, as if we are comrades and I should do as she does because we are of the same cloth.

I run through a list of silly excuses if anyone should ask, because I feel that everyone sees even though I know that even if they do notice, what they have seen will be forgotten as soon as they leave. I think I can tell them that I am recovering from surgery, or an illness, or that my doctor has warned me to take things slowly. I laugh at myself for doing this, and for second guessing my actions. But it's too late, I don't have time to put extra weight on just to follow the herd. So, I carry on and I can feel my muscles working, and it is good. The next day, and the day after, I know that I didn't slack off really because everywhere is sore anyway.

The other mother approaches the bus stop one morning last week. I am wearing my three quarter length workout pants, sneakers and a sweatshirt. I am planning on going for a run immediately after work, and there will be no time to change. Plus, my boss is out of town so I can pretty much wear what I like. But, I'm conscious that the pants are a bit too flary around the shins. I have never been able to find the regular leggings that fit past the knee. Frankly with my hips, I don't think it would be a good look for me anyway. I watch the other mother but she doesn't notice that I see her look at me from the waist down. I wonder what she thinks. Does she think that my thighs are too big? Or that the pants make my ankles look skinny? Or that I must have the day off because I'm dressed in workout clothes?

Later on, I take my first full run outside. The first for the year. It is hard work. I run much of the course the first time around. The second time, however, I walk more than I run. I wonder how the other mother is so slim.

I am an observant person. I notice the little things; looks, actions, and behavior of other people. I'm good at that. Maybe it's a trait of the writer's mind.

I am becoming more observant of the inside, too. The wagging finger and bullying voice that try hard to convince me that what these people see and think of me is important to me. That I must conform. That I must believe what I perceive. That I must believe what the thoughts are thinking up.

I was easily bent to their will as a teenager and twenty-something.  How glad am I that now, in my forties, I am able to set those things aside and do what is right for me.

Well done burnt bridge.

For a long time, I have fought a battle that can never be fully voiced. It can never be laid out on a table for all to see. It is a private war. I have danced around it in my blog, written about hard-won skirmishes, and weary defeats. It's a sort of thing that I have treated alternately with a delicate hand and a closed fist.

Its presence is exasperating, like an annoying mosquito that won't quit buzzing around.

No matter what I have done to abolish it (think on it, write about it, fight it, silence it, meditate on it, drink, eat), or didn't do (let it be, accept it) it has had me chained to a merry-go-round. I, a colorful filly with great stems raised, ready to gallop, but unable to.

Recently, I burned the bridge to the battlefield that I alone had maintained. It was done with confidence, and without intention of returning to the precipice pleading for the link to be restored.

But, the ego is fearful. It knows I am stronger, and it bombards me with thoughts and questions, and the same old worn out lines. The crackled movie on a fading loop starring the old witch opposite Snow White, except my apple gift is dented, and browned.

What is it afraid of? I think on it....and have to laugh a little because I simply don't know.

I have everything I need inside and out!

It could have been a sad thing to burn that bridge, but by deciding to stop the fight; I am forced to face the truth.

And the truth is acknowledging the dark side of self; specifically emotions such as anger, aversion, and dislike. No more sweet frosting. No more battles. No more black and white, or tussles between good and bad. This is it; the beginning of true healing begins with the belief that negative feelings are as much a part of self as the positive. In this way, the ego has little left to live for, and that's what it's afraid of.

Without the dark, there can be no light. And, the more I calmly let in the dark that's practically barging down my front door, the sooner I will be free of these shackles.

Pick up your tools, child.

Having children is obviously a lifelong thing. Raising them is long too, but at some point you know they will be free to go out and do what they do, to plow ahead, or dawdle along, get lost, get found, get hurt, get healed, make mistakes, likely learn from those mistakes far too long into the future, and generally go in whatever direction they please, or are propelled.

Many times, over these past few years I've wondered at my own "freeing time." It was more of a petulant wrenching than anything else and when I left, it was without any moral guidance, or financial insight, or emotional anchor. I went fleeing, and blind. And I made horrible choices based upon a lack of reference. But, here I am approaching my mid-forties, and I remain grateful to have avoided any consequences from those choices and actions.

(I have to add that I am not being critical of my parents; they provided me a good, safe home, healthy meals, and financial support later on in my life.)

Now it is my turn at parenting, and though I forge ahead with the same blank pages as my parents, I have hindsight and a sort of youthful insight. Yes, we have those situations where my husband and I look at each other and say "wtf?" but we get through them, and in a way that is different from the way we were raised.

One important thing I have taught my daughter (my son rolls his eyes at the prospect) is to name her feelings out loud. It's not important the why's or the situation, it's about acknowledging the emotion.  I explained that when we ignore the stuff that's raging inside, or allow ourselves to wallow in it, this makes it burn brighter, and feel worse. This serves no good purpose.  If we give it a name, we come face to face with the emotion; it is met unconditionally. In this way, it has nothing to fight.  My daughter understood and she uses this technique often to calm herself when she is upset.

It's a factual cycle, I think, that when it's your turn as parent, you want to do a better job than your own parents.  You realize though, at some point along the timeline, that every set is different, and not only did your parents come into the arrangement with their own baggage, their own ideas of 'doing a better job', they also got handed the completely blank manual. My parents weren't perfect, and neither am I, but I feel I'm setting a new standard with my own kids by consciously planning ahead, and planting seeds that they can reap when fully grown.

I found my life tools late, but still with plenty of time to use them for the good.  I know that no matter how much we prepare, and teach, and provide insight, our kids will do whatever they desire. They might end up taking that well-worn path with what we know to have sucker punches hidden behind certain trees. All we can do is hope that they remember the tools they carry that will help fight back, withstand, or get back up quicker, and realize that heading in a different, less traveled direction might be worthwhile after all.

Bob and Weave

Bob and Weave...current companions. Unlike the boxing reference, they lend themselves to a sort of waiting and watching phase.

I am adrift on a banal sea.  It's unsettling so I work at letting it be, which is ironic because letting it be shouldn't require any work.

Reached a creative impasse perhaps; took a dip into the bigger pool and I don't want to return to the small one, where my legs hang over the side and I am unable to immerse myself completely. Taking some time to let the information soak in perhaps. After all this time cranking out little pieces, but dreaming of the next level, I took a successful plunge, and with just a  little more effort. Maybe I'm absorbing, conceiving, ingesting.

Ready to shuck off the last traces of a dead horse; tired of its hanging on, pleading conversations in my head. The back and forth Jekyll and Hyde. Something decisive done there. All that is required now is acceptance of the real truth that some things, some people, some situations will evoke negativity, no matter how I slather it in sweet frosting.

Second chances. I give myself second, third, fourth....many chances. In life, it's how we learn and grow, right? I met a person yesterday who, I just discovered, must be going through a huge second chance. I wouldn't have known about this person's history if their handwriting had been legible but there the story was, on the internet for all to see. Initially, I wanted to find another company, but as the information applied itself, I realized this person deserves my chance, my opportunity. As long as they don't mess with me because this girl can throw a punch.

So, although it may appear that I'm bobbing and weaving in a humdrum sea, I guess there's much more going on behind the scenes. Which is fine; I'll let the outside take a break, eat a Cadbury's Creme Egg, and wait until the little beavers are done catching up.

The Last Day

When I was fifteen, a clever boy was killed. His name was Graham. He was smart, and funny, and creative. And would have grown into a fine, young man. On his way to school, so the story goes (because schools are rife with rumor), he crouched down to tie his shoelace at the side of the road and failed to look either way when he was done and ready to cross. He was hit by a car. Not far from his home. He survived on life support for a few days. Our year (grade) was quietly a-babble with speculation; teenagers wondering, simmering, huddled in groups sharing what little they had gleaned from this person or that person who knew him, or knew the family.

Then the day arrived when we were told, finally, concretely, that Graham had passed.

For most of us it was new territory. Certainly, some had felt the brush of loss and death with an elderly family member, or a pet and possibly, a few had had more intimate experiences. But, as a collective we had never lost one of our own. It was as if someone had detonated a silent bomb and we were left reeling, flailing in the aftershock.

I will never forget the day that our year, the whole year, all roughly 250 of us, walked to the village church from school. It was such a mark of respect, and love for Graham, to all go together. What a sight we must have been to anyone driving by on Church Hill; a maroon snake with white shirts, white socks and ties fluttering. Personally, and I have since discovered that this is common, I felt a mild hysteria, and couldn't suppress several giggles during the route. But, once inside that little church, I cried.  I sat next to Nicola, Jo and Sandra and we all wept. I still remember when his coffin was carried down the aisle; it seemed unreal, unfathomable to us all.

The next day, a few of us sat on a back field with a very cool music teacher whose name I completely forget. He played his guitar and tried to help us be at peace with our feelings. He said, and I recall this clearly even if not his name: "A funeral is like a full stop to the whole thing."

Today was my friend Ken's Full Stop Day. There's been some time since the day he died until now, and in that time, emotions evened out and waters calmed. Today, I have opened myself to mourning one more time, allowed the melancholia to sift around, not in judgment or battle, just letting it be what it needs to be.

Tomorrow is a new day. Profoundly, Ken's death has shown me what is most important to me and as my life moves on, I tuck him away in my heart (which he never really left) and make a heartfelt vow to treasure more of the souls I love.

Bon Nuit

~Because I could not stop for death

He kindly stopped for me

The carriage held but just Ourselves

And Immortality~

...Emily Dickinson

********************************

Heavy-hearted today from the news of the death of an old friend.  He and I had a relationship many years ago that was tumultuous, intoxicating, magnetic; I was young, and stumbling down my own path with blinkers on. He was along for the ride, holding on as best he could. It ended badly. The demise of that relationship coupled with financial and career problems prompted me to make the biggest move of my life, that to start afresh in America.

However, thanks to social media, the passage of time, and hindsight, we were able to find a good footing with each other. All that had happened was well and truly past, and as with such pasts, we came to understand somewhat the reasons for things, we found some answers to those long-forgotten questions. We had gotten on with our lives and had turned out just fine and were so very happy to be reacquainted again as welcome old friends.

He passed last night after a few years battling illness. It actually seemed positive for a while, after various forms of treatment seemed to have done the job. But I guess when the spirit knows its time, when all human avenues have come to a cul-de-sac, death will not be stopped.

We shared our last conversation two weeks ago in which he wanted me to know how happy he was to have been a part of my life. That I had a loving husband and family. I told him to come see me on his way out.  He said he would.  Today I find myself scrabbling to remember dream messages or waking messages from yesterday...but I find none.

I am certain that there is more to the Universe than life on this planet. My friend is a wonderfully warm ball of love and light, a collection of all he has amassed from his time here and he is taking all he has learned to his next life, wherever and whenever that may be.

I weep for him today. As does his family, and so many friends around the world.

It's never goodbye or resting.

It's simply Goodnight, my friend Ken.

Harnessing the wrong horse

Doubt. I named it. Immediately after an impromptu inner pep talk. During the talk, a fact so certain and real lit up my heart.  It brought forth a brief, and not often felt certainty and acknowlegement. Couldn't help but smile. Was allowed to view truth.

Doubt is crafty; often barely heard or seen or felt. The inner dialog hums like the continued strum of a guitar chord and doubt weaves its way in and around the sound.

Doubt is devious. It grabs like a wretched Granny with a bony claw at memories it knows will capture your attention, and throws a harness over the neck of that ill-flogged horse. This only serves to stall progress.

Doubt seeps into life in some form or another. Sometimes it's palpable, "I don't know if I'll have the strength to carry anymore moving boxes." Sometimes it's trivial, "Hmmm...I don't think the chicken's gonna turn out the way I wanted." And sometimes it's a whisper, "Why can't I...?" "I'll never be able to..." "What's wrong with me...?"

The self-doubt prose is so finely honed that we only become aware of it when we question the wheedling whine. We have to confront it, and shove it aside to reveal the treasures it doesn't want to be discovered. It has no choice but to step aside when faced with truth.

The trick then, is to remember that fleeting feeling of gloriousness from a potential met. That solid gold in the heart like light pouring from an open book.

Remember it. Feel it. Doubt will reel from it. And that worn historical horse can go live out its days in pasture.

Resting.

It used to be that I'd pull one of my boss' chairs askew and sit in the dark inner office to meditate. Or I'd find fifteen minutes when I got home before picking up the kids to sit and be still on the bedroom carpet; my fat kitty's presence palpable beside me and the view of the woods known beyond closed eyelids.

I haven't meditated in a long while; the humdrum of daily life clawed me back into waking, getting ready, bus stops, work, shopping, exercising, cooking, homework, dinner, cleaning, housework and now rehearsals. And, somewhere in there a modicum of sleep. It's shameful to say that I have no time to meditate because there is always time; time is here, time is now. I spend hours alone at work; I could easily practice but I don't.

Like a mental, gentle flick of the wrist, the idea is often dismissed.  The irony being that I won't truly discover why I balk unless I investigate.

I miss nature; her sweet warmth and soul-rejuvenating properties. I miss the Sangha. The awful weather combined with my schedule has made it an impossible venture. I miss introspection. Real, deep, swimming-in-your-soul searching.

Perhaps I'm hibernating; resting while I coast on what I know, with my foot off the soul accelerator. Continuing to abide by my truth; offering lovingkindness to all I meet, addressing emotion, and accepting thought. Getting by satisfactorily until I feel ready to go swimming again. And all the while, aware of that tricky voice which speaks up with reprimands about one's lack of 'doing.'

Sometimes I Believe I Hate You.

At this time of physical low, when I feel torn between leaving my work early to go to bed, and call off rehearsals in favor of tea, blankets, my family and couch, I am prompted by an inner voice to remember the reasons for feeling so great and light in recent weeks. It's a natural part of living this life that you experience the tos and fros but it's the manner in which you allow it to happen that makes it a good or bad experience. For instance, you could wail like a banshee and feel tense or you could close your eyes and let your soul waft around, dipping into the highs, the lows, and all the places in between. Of course, some midway point between banshee and ragdoll seems to be the norm.

Recently I took a step forward in healing, and in forgiving myself. In so doing, there became an opening of the heart toward certain circumstances. This situation is far from being healed or on solid ground and it doesn't take but a hiccup for it to cause distress. There is a connecting thread that binds me to this; barely seen but its presence colludes with the mind to seek out any news. This causes thoughts and emotions to furl up the beach like an incoming tide to wash away whatever work I had done to smooth things over.

In my Warrior training, I have become more aware of thought so instead of pushing away these needling contemplations, I imagine opening a door. And, like Buddha to Mara, I invite them in and make them welcome. This is not to say that I engage in their frivolous, flighty ways; I just allow them space and perhaps a cup of tea. In my imagination, they are gobsmacked and don't know what to do; with no mental wall to push against, they have no will to fight, and fade away.

I must remember always, and moreso when I'm feeling under the weather (because that's such a vulnerable state) that whatever I read or see or hear or imagine is not truth. And that I really don't hate you.

Because the only truth that matters is my own.

"There is a huge amount of freedom that comes to you when you take nothing personally." Ruiz

Softly, Softly...

Sometimes when you're lying in bed on whatever days that are yours to sleep in, between sleeping and waking, the mind draws itself into awareness. Done are the crazy roadtrips of the night; the events that make no sense and wisp away into the morning, or perhaps, like me, remnants remain for you to gnaw over. You are content and warm under the covers; floppy, sleepy. But the mind rubs its hands together, ready to take full advantage of your drowse. Little does it know that by opening up a can of worms, it could be presenting a moment of healing.

It was yesterday morning, the kids were home from school for yet another snow day which meant I had to stay home too. I had the extra hour or so in bed, and in my doze, yet with no will to do so, I cycled back to the summer of 2011. I've gone there before, drawn by how I felt about myself and how (I can see now) that was projected onto a woman I called my nemesis but who was probably a very nice person.

We still had our lovely restaurant and our kids went to a private school but beneath it all, our family writhed like chained prisoners. Ultimately, our efforts would prove fruitless but until the day of release, we were bound to keep trudging around on the wheel, grinding away, going nowhere. On a spiritual level, I was nowhere near the place I am today; whatever light that shone inside was shrouded in jealousy, fear, judgment, anger, and hatred. I judged myself against other people. And the prettier, the thinner, the richer they were, the more I could beat myself up.

My kids' school, in particular my son's grade, decided to hold their 'Back to School' parent gathering on the patio of our place. My husband and I were honored but nervous, and I recall, as I was deciding on what to wear from my closet of painfully old clothes, wondering what this other woman, this "nemesis" would be wearing, would she be there at all?  It was a pernicious trail of thought; one that led to my choice of the dowdiest outfit I had which inevitably led to feeling frumpy, inadequate, and clumsy which then led to drinking too much at the table shared with the principal and his eye-poppingly skinny wife. I laughed too loud, I broke a glass, it was noticeable. And this woman was there; tall, blonde, very slim, in a lovely figure-hugging dress. She oozed serenity. I had been to her house for a birthday party; it was spacious and organized. She had three kids and she didn't work and she was living the life I had wanted for my family. I admit that I was so filled with envy, I couldn't see the good in anyone. I imagined she laughed at me internally; could see through my guise of smiles that covered up the "look at us, we have a restaurant and we're as good as you but I know really we're not and you're so fucking lucky." 

This was played out to me in its entirety yesterday morning, and I let it do so. This other woman was beautiful and she had a grace about her, no doubt. But I remembered another time after her father had died suddenly. I passed her in school during a parent/teacher evening, and it was obvious she had been crying; her eyes were red and puffy, and if I had wanted to mentally scoff and say "Now she looks like shit!"...I couldn't. In spite of the green eating away inside, I felt only compassion. I stopped and offered my sympathies. She looked me squarely and sadly in the eyes and thanked me. One soul connecting with another in a time of sorrow.

As I lay there, coming to the conclusion of the playback, the ego wilted a little.  A stronger voice arose uttering the word 'soften.' So I did. I allowed myself to view the patio scene from a perspective of compassion, for the frayed person I once was. I saw this other woman not as my nemesis but as a beautiful woman with a lovely family. The memories softened and loosened their grip. I knew that all I had felt and was still feeling on occasion when she came to mind, was my torch to extinguish.

In that moment, with eyes closed, tucked up in bed, I freed myself a little bit more of the hardness around my heart. It helped me soften toward other things too, and I allowed myself to be open in their direction also.

Another step for my little light. I'm so grateful, I could cry.