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.