As You Are

My daughter is going swimming with her classmates every Wednesday for the next four weeks.  It stirred memories of a time when I was in my teens, and on a similar outing with my schoolmates. Swimming with classmates wasn't a usual occurrence so being on view to everyone in very little clothing was embarrassing.  I wore a bikini, in which I felt wholly uncomfortable, as if my body was simply a mannequin.  Certainly my soul had shrunk into the darkness of a tilted awareness.

In those days, I was aware only of my pale skin, my thin ankles, of the knobby bones on the backs of my feet, of the bump in my nose, and my hip bones. Parts of me magnified by my peers and reflected onto my already shattered self-esteem. I remember sitting at the side of the pool, arms huddled around my waist in an effort to appear smaller, less noticeable. The only reason I had bought the bikini was because my next door neighbor had one in the same design but in nicer colors; blues and purples. I coveted hers whereas the colors of mine were like true leopard spots and I didn't really like it; I felt exposed.

Growing up, I'd ask my Mum if I was pretty, and she'd always reply that I wasn’t chocolate box pretty, like Lisa Miles, who was classically pretty and popular, but that was it.  No explanation as to what "chocolate box pretty" meant.  It took me a long time to grow into my face; like an ugly duckling. I was never convinced by my Mum’s words. Not that she meant any harm, perhaps she didn't really identify with my teen self. There's a whole story there about generational happenings but I won't go into that.

So, my daughter comes to me this morning in her swimsuit which is a little low cut in the front but is okay for an eight year old. I make sure it still fits since it’s winter and the last time she wore it was in the summer. It fits just fine but she tugs at the top and is concerned about revealing the freckle on her chest. I give her a big hug and tell her that it’s beautiful. That she’s beautiful. From the brown fleck in her iris, to her chest freckle; it all makes her unique and gorgeous. She gives me a big hug and skips away.

Among the benefits of age is wisdom. I’ve grown into myself so much that I’m able to accept the bumps and bony bits as part of me, and I love them because they make up the whole, and that whole is pretty amazing. In a world where judgments lurk in the shadows on magazine covers, or commercials, or on social media, it’s important for my daughter to know that she is wonderful just as she is. She may not be chocolate box pretty but I would never tell her; it would be a chink of doubt in her otherwise fierce soul. She needs to know for herself that she is beautiful no matter what marks or quirks she has, and no matter what her peers may tell her. And if I can help build her esteem then I will tell her truthfully that I think every single cell in her body is absolutely wonderful.

My son is a little harder to convince but I’m working on that.

Shall We Dance?

Like the cunning wolf, Ego hangs out behind the treeline calling all the shots; handling us like puppets. We wonder why we think and say and do the things that we do.

This warrior has been resting on her laurels a fair bit lately, allowing the Soul and Ego fine chances to duke it out but this morning I ripped up their unspoken contract into tiny pieces and decided to begin again.

And that's the wonderful thing; there are no wrong turns or endings; the choice is ours to come and go into and out of the soul. If a warrior has done any prior work, they simply pick up where they left off. There's no feeling of drudgery or having a blank page to fill up once more, because the journey was already started.

There's an anticipation in returning to this phase; feels akin to awakening from hibernation. I look forward to present moments, allowing thoughts without interaction, and quality time on the cushion.

Accepting the wolf and the shadows within is a back and forth dance. And I seem to dance fairly well.

 

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.