I was eager to use the dishwasher – to wash the china that I had moved.  Something about being wrapped in paper and put in a box for a few days just seems to require some extra cleansing.

Being the obedient type, and scoring moderately high as a “Fact Finder” on the Kolbe Conative Styles Assessment, I read the manual, loaded the dishwasher, ran the water in the nearest sink until it was hot – as directed – and started the machine.

I was thrilled!  The manual had said that I needed to abandon my expectations of what a dishwasher would sound like.  My dishwasher was special and exceedingly quiet and the manual warned me not to be alarmed if there was hardly any sound – just an occasional bump, and maybe a swish.  My dishwasher used the most modern and technologically advanced methods of sound reduction and the manual wanted to prepare me for the difference.

Truthfully, I had rather ignored that section of the manual – I assumed that the warnings were just hype – but – indeed the dishwasher was remarkably quiet.  I could hear a few noises, but really it was wonderful!  It wouldn’t disturb an intimate conversation or trouble a sleeping baby.

The manual had told me to let go of my preconceived notions and it was right!  I felt one of those lovely bubbles of joy travel up through my body and out through a big smile.  I told whomever I could that I had the best dishwasher.  I was floating.  And one of the best parts about it was that it was such an unexpected surprise.

If I had chosen this dishwasher myself, soliciting recommendations and reading reviews and reports in an effort to find such a quiet machine, the same level of silence would not have seemed as wonderful.  In that case, the dishwasher would have just been acting the way it “should” – and there is seldom any deep satisfaction from “should.”

But, to come into my new home and find such a treasure was bliss.  Before moving in, the only thought I had about the dishwasher was to be glad there was one, and I had a little frisson of pleasure because it was sleek and shiny.  Overall, my relationship to my new dishwasher was fundamentally neutral with a slight positive slant.  And expecting nothing special, good or bad, I was completely open to the happy experience of my new, wonderfully quiet dishwasher.

All that day I enjoyed my new dishwasher:  it was the perfect example of what my life would be like – filled with new things and new adventures that would be better than anything I could imagine.

And at the end of the day, when I discovered that the dishwasher had been so very quiet because – in fact – it was not actually washing any dishes, it hardly seemed to matter.  After all those hours being thrilled with my dishwasher, the fact that it was no longer what I had not expected it to be was incidental.

Maybe the dishwasher is a little bit quieter than most, and maybe it isn’t – it is how it is and that’s fine.  In terms of sound, my expectations now are that it will sound like a dishwasher.  And performance-wise, it could be better.  But every time I use it, every time I hear it, I smile because I remember how ecstatic I was when my new dishwasher was the best dishwasher ever.

I’m wondering if expectations ever serve me, and I don’t think they do, I think they only add weight.  If I’m anticipating something and try to lower my expectations to avoid disappointment, it never works, I just end up disappointed and without the pleasure of anticipation.  And if I expect something to be wonderful, and it isn’t – as so often happens with desserts – I end up disappointed and resentful.

My new dishwasher has inspired me to try and let go of expectations, and try to approach things instead with a willingness to let what comes, be good.  My new dishwasher has shown me that being truly open to new experiences is the key to continued happiness – even, and maybe especially, when the new experience turns out not to be, technically, “all that”.

I haven’t used my new stove yet.  The manual says that it will both bring things to the boil almost instantaneously, and maintain things at the perfect temperature.  Sounds like fun.

The past couple nights it has been warm enough to leave the sliding door open and the bird song is so loud it feels as if the birds are in my room with me.  It is a nice noise, this bird alarm, but I usually hate morning alarms and I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m enjoying being woken up so early by the birds.

It could be because I don’t have to do anything in response to the alarm.  I don’t have to feed anyone, or get up and get going.  And there’s no jolt of adrenaline from a beep or a buzzer, and not even the mild irritation the way there is when the radio wakes me up with a song I like.

But I think I like the bird alarm because the birds sound so joyful.  They sound as if they are all singing their appreciation to have woken up to a new day.  Their song is a sound of wonder and pleasurable anticipation.  Their song holds no memories of tasks undone from the day before, or worry about what’s ahead, there are no yawns, no creaky joints.  There is so much noise it is hard to imagine that there are any bird holdouts desperately trying to hide their heads under their wings so that they don’t have to wake up and start the day.

What would it be like to be a member of such a community?  To wake and immediately contribute to a joyful noise of praise for the world and one’s existence in it?

Maybe, just maybe, if I am able to experience this bird alarm enough, their inspiration will train me, too, to wake on a note of gratitude and love.  It’s a lovely idea.  Many thanks to the sparrows and swallows and finches, the robins and mourning doves, the ducks and the geese and the gulls, blackbirds, and crows and hawks, the jays, and the chickadees, and all the others I hear but haven’t seen, thank you for the example of a joyful noise to start the day.

They came for the first time a few years ago – we didn’t even notice the few dark patches in the upper corners of the windows and near the edge of a skylight – until an unexpected lovely warm sunny day in February when suddenly, there were ladybugs flying around.  I liked them.  I had no idea where they had come from in the middle of winter, but they seemed a sign that spring actually was coming.

When it got cold and dark again the ladybugs seemed to disappear, but once spring did arrive they emerged and gradually found their way out of the house.

In future years when I would notice a little black clump high in the corner of the ceiling, I knew what it was and didn’t disturb it.  As houseguests go, they required very little work – just an occasional rescue from the sink or toilet bowl.

This year something strange is happening.  There is the usual clump in the corner of the kitchen, and a tiny one – I think – in the corner of our bedroom.  There is also, however, a very active population in the upstairs south-facing bathroom and its connected laundry room.  There are constant rescue efforts going on – not to mention a fair number of inadvertent deaths.  The ladybugs are supposed to be sleeping now, but they’re not.  There’s nothing for them to eat (apparently – like all hibernators – they live off of their stored body fat).  They seem to be participating in community water fast.

Clearly, they – like most everything in my life – are here to teach me.  I seem to need to be taught some lessons over and over again.  At some point I may actually learn them!   Here’s what the Ladybugs are teaching:

1. Established patterns of behavior can be changed.  Just because something has always been a certain way, doesn’t mean it can’t be different.
2. And these shifts can happen without a perceptible cause.  Something that was right (sleeping in the corner) doesn’t have to be wrong (note clump in kitchen) for new actions to take place (flying around the bathroom).
3. It’s nice to have friends to play with – or sleep with.  There is a whole community living in my house that I am clearly not a part of.   Am I a part of the community in which I live?  Not so much.  That might be something worth changing.
4. Failure is no reason to give up – even if you get knocked off your perch by a mighty stream of water get right back on if it’s really where you want to be.
5. Tunnel-vision can kill you – literally wear you down until you’re all washed up and go down the drain (see #4, above).
6. Accept the help you are offered.  Sometimes, when you are flat on your back in despair – unable to move – just occasionally flailing your limbs, feeling completely stuck, someone will reach out a hand to you – maybe even a single finger – and that connection will be enough to turn your life around.
7. Small moments of conscious compassion will transform worlds (see #6, above).
8. Death is always with us, as part of Life.  It can happen without a moment’s notice and really has very little to do with you.  Sometimes the only answer to “Why” is “Because.”
9. Live fully in every moment.  Fly when you’re moved to, bask in the sunshine, explore the mystery of the unknown, be an adventurer (see #8, above).And last, but not least:
10. Sometimes, even when you do the “right thing” – and everything that you can think of to prevent a bad situation from occurring, it will happen anyway.  If you are observant, and not complacent with your actions, you may notice in time to salvage something.  If not, your only choice is to watch your regrets flush down the toilet and vow to pay more attention in the future.

So much wisdom from a small spotted beetle,  and how fortunate I am that such teachers abound.

Learned anything from an unexpected source lately?  Please comment and share!

How
Did the rose
Ever open its heart

And give to this world
All its
Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light
Against its
Being,

Otherwise,
We all remain
Too
Frightened.

I’ve been feeling really heavy lately:  feel as though I’m wearing a weighted vest and that my core is full of lead.  That’s probably why my body doesn’t feel right, and doesn’t feel good.  My knees hurt – both of them, not just the one I injured 25 years ago.  My stomach is bloated and my weight is up and it doesn’t seem to matter what I eat.

Of course, it’s a heavy time of year.  The fall is full of anniversaries of loss, and they are reinforced by the trees losing their leaves, the gradual decline of daylight hours, and the falling temperatures.  I don’t like the winter, don’t like being cold, don’t like so much dark.

And, too, I’ve been changing which is hard, even when it’s good.  Change involves moving into the new and the unknown; and that’s not something I have a habit of embracing.  If there is an adventurous part of my soul, it has not yet revealed itself to me.

*            *            *            *

I spent the other day at Vikingsborg – the guesthouse of The Convent of St. Birgitta – where I celebrated my birthday with a week’s stay three month’s ago.  The Sisters – all six of them – have been decorating the house for Christmas.  It is a beautiful old mansion with lots of gleaming wood and tall windows and high ceilings, and a lovely spot for a Christmas party.  The Sister’s mission is one of hospitality, and they support themselves by providing meals and lodging – reservations required.  Christmas is a busy time.

The Sisters have decorated each window and doorway with evergreens, and holly, and red balls, and bows.  There was a big tree in one corner covered with golden angels and small white lights.  Underneath the tree were piles of brightly wrapped packages – but Sister G told me that they were artificial – just empty boxes for show, and for holiday spirit.  “People think the Sisters have lots of gifts!” She told me, laughing gaily.  “You do have lots of gifts,” I said, “but they are the gifts that really count – the gifts of the heart.”  Sister laughed again.

When I walked into the main foyer or “lobby” (a very unsatisfying word for such an elegant space) of the house, Mother told me that it was a good day for me to come because I could help Sister G with her work – beginning to create the nativity scene.  Sister said that every year it is different, and maybe I could help her with some ideas.

I was enchanted.  Have always wanted a crèche at Christmas – we weren’t “religious” and didn’t have one growing up, and as an adult, most of the “commercial” ones I saw were way too expensive, or just didn’t appeal.   To help set one up – in such a place – was magical.

Sister said she needed ideas, but I think her asking was rather an act of hospitality; offering me nourishment of a certain kind.  This year she was building the crèche in the corner of what I call the Parlor – an elegant formal room off of the main hall, but which also has access to the Chapel.  She had placed a table in the corner, created a sloping hill on it, covered that with what looked like felted rug pad, and was trying to prop cardboard boxes against the sides of the stable to make the building bigger.  Above the stable she had hung a dark blue cloth with a cardboard Victorian angel attached to it and some multi-colored lights.

There was a lot of discussion about the lights.  There were small white lights draped over the stable and then also over the grounds and Bill the caretaker was supposed to help connect more strands and do something else I didn’t understand, but he was out roaming the grounds with a wheelbarrow.  I had seen him.  Sister said he was tired of her.

There was another Sister there (from a different order), newly arrived from the Congo, and staying for a week, before heading to California to her new mission – which wasn’t ready for her yet.  (That’s the short version of her story).  And so Sister Jeanne-Marie and I helped cover the grounds of the stable with strips of moss that Sister G had gathered from outside.

I didn’t spend much time outside this trip, because it was very cold, but I know just where Sister had done her gathering – over on the right side of the house (if you face the water) – behind the pathway to my favorite rock, and close to the little round garden bed with the statue of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus.  A very appropriate spot to gather moss for the occasion.

I usually leave St. Birgitta around 4.  It is nestled in a cluster of tiny twisting back roads.  There is little traffic, and no streetlights.  When it is dark, it is very very dark, and I am more comfortable when I see clearly where I am going.  This evening, though, I was late; after a brilliantly sunny day, the sun seemed to suddenly drop into Long Island Sound, and the sky was just left with streaks of rose pink.

In an effort to economize, Mother and the Sisters religiously turn off all unneeded lights.  The porch where I had been working is filled with floor to ceiling glass, and the sun had kept it brightly lit.  Once inside the heavy door into the main part of the house, it was dark except for the chapel – where the Sisters were attending Mass – and the little lights on the tree and surrounding the crèche.

I went in to see how far Sister G had gotten, I had been busy and missed my chance to help put out the figures, I thought.  But Sister hadn’t gotten to the figures yet either.  She had created big steps in front of the table and a path leading to the stable for the adoration, and on one side there was a pond – made from a sheet of glass – because, she said, there were a few very tiny ducks.

I stopped to write a note for Mother – saying I’d be back to see the crèche and wish them a Merry Christmas, but Mass finished just as I was done and I got to chat with Mother instead.

I told her how beautiful everything looked, and how it made me feel happy because my grandmother had decorated the windows with greenery the same way, and it reminded me of when I was little and our family traditions.

Mother spoke about Christmas, and about Advent – the time before Christmas – the time when we are preparing and waiting for the Gift.  Not the kind of gifts in packages she said, they are symbolic of the gift we are to receive.  And all month, she said, we give little things and do little things to open up more space to receive the gift.

Actually, I’m not really sure what she said.  Mother is not a native English speaker, and still has an accent (Indian) and immediate access to a limited range of English words.  She speaks five other languages, but I don’t.  So exactly what words she used and what she actually said I can’t quote – but I know what she meant, and I know what she was telling me.

Mother said the lights were symbolic, too – but that the yearning for light was universal at this time of year.  That even long ago the pagans (who would be me) would celebrate with light.

And this is not what she said or thought she meant to say, but it is what I heard, and why this Convent of St. Birgitta – in the middle of Connecticut’s gold coast – brings me to a place of deep peace:  In the winter’s cold darkness, in times of heavy trouble and of fear, wherever there is even a single little light, we can let it touch our heart and open us up to feel the gift of love.  And that love and that light is of such magnificence that a single touch streaks the gloom with rose and lights a flame within that both uplifts and sustains us.

And so, friends, what I wish for you and what I wish for me, is that every light you encounter: every candle, every bulb, and every match.  Every shimmer of the water, every gleam in the eye or glow on the skin, every bounce in your step – or that of a child’s, every sparkle of laughter you hear, and every hint of sunlight or moonlight or starlight, connect with the light you have in your heart.  Such brilliance will even illuminate the unknown and the hidden dark corners that we fear.   May every glimmer of light seen or felt bring you joy, and peace, and a rosy wave of warmth.

With Love,
Margaret

When I was little, the North Room was where the television was, and a sort of divan bed where my Great-Aunt Berry spent much of her time when she was down from Maine for the winter.  I don’t remember if she watched television, mainly she played endless games of solitaire with miniature cards, and did crossword puzzles too.  And she rolled her own cigarettes, and took her dog for walks, and always had her special package of bologna in the refrigerator, and bottle of gin in her bedroom.

She had endless patience for games of cards with my sister and me.  Only one of us girls at a time, though, the eight year age difference between us tended to limit our desire for the same thing at the same time when we were little.

Great-Aunt Berry slept in a little room downstairs next to the North Room, her room was known as Berry’s Room, even long after she was dead.  It was really only big enough for a full-size bed and a bureau.  I think there was a bookcase, too, but the bed was so close to it that it was very difficult to get the books out of the bottom shelves.

Berry went to sleep early, and got up early, and liked to be downstairs so she could easily let the dog in and out.  Her little room was right off of the Dining Room and so she could always hear what was going on in there.   Once it got cold we had fires every night in the Dining Room fireplace, but not too late, because someone had to stay up with the fire as it burned down – to make sure no stray embers escaped.

The status of the fire was particularly important Christmas Eve, because Santa used that chimney for entrance into the house, and that is where we all hung our stockings.   We were lucky that Berry and her dog slept downstairs, because once they actually heard Santa.

Berry wasn’t sure it was Santa, but Sammy – her Samoyed – had woken up in the middle of the night, and was listening very intently, but she didn’t bark the way she would if it were a squirrel.  And Berry thought she might have heard something moving too – in the house – really she didn’t know what might have been making the noise.

Actually, I’m the one who suggested that Berry had amazingly been lucky enough to hear Santa. Berry was doubtful, said, “You really think it might have been him?  If I had known it was him I would have gotten up to meet him, I’d like to meet Santa.  All I know is that Sammy was very excited and wagging her tail as hard as she could.”

I explained that our stockings had been filled, and the cookies and beer we had left out for Santa had been consumed, so he must have been there, and logically, Berry & Sammy had heard him.  I vowed that next year I was going to sleep downstairs, too.

*    *    *

Of the fours stations available on the television, there was only one with good reception, but it was CBS, and there were football games televised on CBS, and my father liked to watch football on television.

Unfortunately, my father – although not noticeably fragile and sickly like my Uncle Bob – had a lot of allergies, and the North Room of the house was a place where they particularly acted up.  The North Room – as well as upstairs – was where he had “breathing problems.”

So on those fall weekends, and over the holidays, when there were games on that he wanted to watch, my father would put on his fur hat and heavy parka, his muffler and lined gloves, and go outside to watch the television by looking in through the window.  Even as the weather got colder, and even in light snow, he would press his face against the window – looking in – as his nose & ears got redder, and the cold-tears ran from his eyes.

As far as I know, the idea that the television might be moved to another room – he had no problems in the South Room or the Big Room – was so completely foreign it was impossible to conceptualize.

I love that memory of him, and I had forgotten until just now how much he did like to watch football games – I can’t imagine he ever actually played it.  His athletic prowess was from before I knew him, and reserved for games that required a fierce competitive spirit and a measure of individual cunning – like squash – rather than group dynamics and a certain powerful physical athleticism – like football.

I wonder if he would have liked the football drill I had in gym today.  I was practicing being still – in 3-point stance – while ST#1 tried to fake me out and get me to move before he moved the ball.  But the moment he actually moved the ball I was to slam the dummy – my beloved opponent who was directly in front of me – into the wall and then get quickly back into stance.

I adore this exercise.  I love it when part of me gets faked out and the rest doesn’t – like when my leg will twitch forward when ST#1 shouts “Move!”  I love it when all of me gets faked out, I love it when he can’t budge me, and I love it when I hit the dummy so many times I have to give up and just pant.

When my father was alive, the idea that I would do such an exercise – much less “adore” it – was even more impossible to conceive than that of moving the television, and yet here I am.  Kind of makes you wonder what lies ahead!

So I don’t remember why we decided to put my mother’s hospital bed in the North Room, maybe because the North Room was by then a kind of odds and ends room – with no inherited formalities of structure and appearance.  The South Room would have been better, in a way, because it had the nice wide “casket door” exit directly outside.  The South Room was where bodies were supposed to lie – but then the arrangement of the South Room furniture would have been “messed up” – and my mother would not have liked that at all.

So she was in the North Room, in her electric powered hospital bed, during that massive power outage in November of 2002.  I think the power was out for four days, and it was cold.  Every now and then someone would call the power company and complain, “there’s a dying woman here, we need the power back on.”  And the electricity did get back on, the day before her power finally all slipped away.

I remember telling her – at some point in November – that she could go, and that my father was waiting for her.  Even as I said it I wondered why I had, because I didn’t really think my father was waiting some place.  At that time I thought death was “it” – the end of everything.

And we had moved her bed closer to the fire during the power outage, and turned it so she could look out the window – the same window he used to look in – during the holidays when he was watching football on television.

I hadn’t realized until just now, that maybe that’s why she had to go when she did – because she saw him looking in.     She had been missing him for a long long time, and the weather was very cold, and since he still couldn’t come into the North Room, she had to let go of her breathing to join him someplace where they could be together.

She might have had to give him a little tug to get him away from the window.  Sometimes it is hard to stop looking at the things you love, especially when you can’t see how to get any closer.  In this case, though, love was right there.

My husband asked me why – in my entry about Ivanna – I hadn’t written about Cyril – her husband – who for years had said that Ivanna was too fat to be attractive to him physically.  (Later Cyril acknowledged that her weight had never truly been the problem.)

I explained to my husband that the whole fat thing had never really been a part of their marriage, and that it certainly had nothing to do with my piece – which was about growth and self-discovery, and courage.  But, it got me thinking.

(I bet a lot of you are wondering, “Well, was she too fat?”)

We like it when someone’s too fat:  it makes things really easy.  Any problems or difficulties they encounter, as well as any negative feelings we might direct toward them, have no need for analysis – it’s obvious:  they are too fat.

There’s been a lot written about how fat is the last socially acceptable prejudice, because weight is something you can “do something about” – as opposed to gender, or ethnicity – and debate on that issue is easy to find.  The thing I wonder about, though, is why “fat” is such a powerful word, and feeling.

(Some of you are thinking – if you are still reading – “why is she using the F-word so much?  I don’t want to hear about that.  Fat makes me uncomfortable.)

There’s a sense of shame attached to fat that seems special, and I can’t really figure out why.  Is it because fat is associated with “weakness of the flesh” – a sign that the base cravings of the physical have overcome the higher standards of the mind?  Is it because we are all secretly afraid of the power of our own bodies (lets ignore the assumption that fat really has that much to do with our bodies)?

If – lets say – I always genuinely intend to keep my word, and yet over and over again I fail to do what I promise, I don’t think people would view me with the fascinated disgust they do when they see someone with extra padding making a non-nutritionally-supportive highly caloric food choice.  They might say, “oh, you can’t count on her, she never does what she says, she means well, but she just isn’t reliable” about me.  They might even feel that to say I am “not trustworthy” would be a little harsh.  But a person with excess fat and an ice-cream cone is fair game.  Why?

In both cases there is an honest intent to do what we plan (honor my commitments, make a nutrient dense food selection) but in neither case do we follow through.  Even when our “failure” clearly affects someone else, we are not “shamed” in the same way.  Why?  Either situation could be blamed on a lack of willpower.

(So, would you rather be labeled untrustworthy or fat?  Be honest.)

I think my theory – although I’m more than open to suggestion – is that we are more willing to excuse our minds than our bodies, and we do tend to assume fat is completely a physical attribute.  Of course our minds –crafty devils – will skew things to their own advantage.

(Most of us are not really used to seeking wisdom from our bodies and even tend to discount it when it is obvious.  Ever said to yourself, “Wow, I’m really tired, I need to go sleep,” but instead stay up late watching television?  And then, the next day, puzzle over why you don’t have the energy you want?)

Additionally, our physical image is exposed – it’s out there for anyone to view and interpret as they see fit.  Our minds are hidden away and mysterious.  Using our physical image to quantify us is the easy way out – for others, and for ourselves.

It doesn’t really matter what other people do, that’s their business, there’s nothing you can do about it, and their opinions are always more about them, than about you.  But when you view your physical image critically, and use your view of your body to help create a negative self-image, you’re not only disrespecting yourself, but also being a coward.

(Hey – I can call you a coward; I’m a coward too – just not in this particular way, anymore.)

And just because you’re a coward, doesn’t mean there is nothing to be afraid of.  In my world – at least – there are all sorts of things to be afraid of.  And when I was really fat, one of the things I was most afraid of – in a strange way – was seeing who I was without the fat.  I wanted the protection my fat suit gave me – until I didn’t anymore.

All that would have been fine – if unconventional – if I had really looked myself in the eye and been honest about what I was doing.  Said, “I want to wear this outfit right now, it may not look that great, but it is comfortable, and it’s keeping me warm, and besides, I don’t have anything else to wear.”  But that isn’t what I told myself – I figured that my fat suit showed that I was bad, that I was just not good enough.

But that’s me, and during the time I was carrying around an extra 140 pounds of fat, I didn’t really think about it very much.  It wasn’t until I was finally ready to let it go that I could begin to understand how it had served me.

So next time you – or anyone else – label yourself “too fat” ask yourself what it’s really all about.

What are you “too fat” for?  And is it something you really want?  Maybe it is.  I used to be “too fat” to put the tray table down in the airplane, and air travel is really more enjoyable with the use of a tray table.  But clearly there was something else I wanted more than the use of a tray-table (and no, the answer is not “food”).

Or maybe you are afraid of going after what you want, or getting it, and the fat is keeping you from having to really try.

If you can’t come up with an answer, fine, but know that the extra fat is serving you in some way – it is there from your choice – and when a different choice seems better, you will make it.    Fat is a very complicated tool for growth, but it does not make you unworthy, or evil, or a victim – those are identities you – with some social help – are choosing along with the fat label.  Why?

How is the fat giving you a hall pass?  What is it letting you not see?  How is it helping you?

If your body has a higher percentage of fat than it really needs, and you would like your percentage to be lower, you must clean up your fat before you can get rid of it permanently.

By adding emotion and labels and moral value to fat, we change it from a simple monounsaturated pure energy storage system created to help us survive the lean times, to a partially hydrogenated trans-fat that has no redeeming value.

Calories-in-equals-calories-out doesn’t work permanently with dirty fat because the toxins are left in your body.    For greater happiness and lasting change, you must clean up your fat.  You must fully accept it for what it is – make peace with where you are, for a physical change to really work.    Once your fat is clean, you may even find out that the amount you have is just right

Interestingly, Ivanna – healthy, strong, fit, gloriously curvy, and by general consensus all those years ago NOT too fat – has, since asking herself what she really wanted and consciously moving in the direction of her own happiness, dropped twenty pounds without really thinking about it.  She and her body are singing in harmony now, and it sounds really good.

Any thoughts about fat?  Please share your comments below.  Fat is always a tasty topic for discussion.

I believe that all that is is connected, because we all came from some fundamental source – call it a Big Bang, or God, or Universe, or that which has no name:  Source.  And I believe that our natural state, our core, is one of joy and well-being, and that there is great beauty in all things – though I may not always be able to see it – because we are all derived from the same Source.  If there is beauty anywhere, there is beauty everywhere.

Certainly, there is beauty in birds, and none of the birds I had seen seemed to be lacking in any way.

I thought of that huge flock  that had visited my tree.  Had they spent hours self-coaching to arrive at the intention of being in my driveway at 4:15 in the afternoon that day?  Simultaneously?  Was it their purpose to move in great swooping flocks that way?  Was the magic of their journey negated if they hadn’t done it consciously?

I have heard that human brains can, basically, do a lot more than bird brains.  But if the choice is between using my brain to create a state of anguish for myself, and soaring through the air, the big brain doesn’t seem like so much of an asset.  Maybe, just maybe, if birds can create the kind of magic I had witnessed without conscious intent – and I know I am assuming here since I really know little of avian affairs – maybe I would be okay not knowing what I really want.  This was the thought that had come to me:  why do I have to try to be more than a bird – especially when a bird is so beautiful exactly as it is.

And I thought of people that I know – of my clients, and others.  And of how amazingly beautiful they are in the intricacies of their struggles and their growth.  How endlessly fascinating and detailed we are as individuals, and as a species.

Have you ever spent a few minutes studying a single leaf?  Getting lost in the color and the texture and the delicate veining and the symmetry – or lack thereof?  And then looked up and around to see how many other leaves – all equally magnificent – are visible just from your particular spot?  And thought, “never have trees had quite so many leaves,” because surely there is an infinity of leaves and what is miraculous is that you are connected to each and every one?

And then think of how much more there is to easily notice about a person, and then how much more there is unknown.  The wonder of it makes you weep – at least it does me.

I am part of all that, I know it.  And so who am I to think that I should be somehow something more?  And who am I to think that I am somehow not enough?  If everyone else is “all that” – and they are – I must be too, and it’s time for me to start acting that way.

At age 50, and thanks to birds, I am finally really learning about loving myself.

One thing I’m doing is getting rid of all of my conditions – all the you’ll be “good ifs” and “good whens” – and that’s tricky, because I don’t know what they all are.  What I do know, though, is how I feel when I run up against one of them:  cold and small and unhappy and irritable and despairing and in anguish.  Any of those conditions – singly or together – is a sign that I’m not looking at myself with love.   Or as Abraham Hicks would say, that I’m not looking at myself, “through the eyes of source.”

The first condition I’m discarding is a big one, and it’s something I’ve been carrying around with me since I was a little girl – it’s the need to find the right thing to do, which I had internalized to mean knowing, also, who I am.

I’m not going to ask myself those questions anymore:  “What do I want?”  “What are my goals?”  “What are my wildly improbable dreams?”  I know I have wants, and goals, and hopes, but frankly I haven’t earned my own trust yet to be given the answers.  I’ve been imposing too many conditions on myself to be trusted.  No more fighting with myself about it.

And besides, I have a sense of who I am, I’m part of everything there is:  the dust in the sunlight, the webbing of the spider, the leaves on the trees, and the crap of the birds.  And I have everything else the birds have shown me:  the support of the woodpecker, the sharp knowing of the hawk, the warmth and companionship of the little birds, the forward motion of the geese, the ease of the seagulls, and the magic of the flock.  With all this it is more than enough to simply be, there is no need to know.

*            *            *

The next morning, as I was driving along, processing my revelations, I was thinking about my father.  He would have been 79 that day, and he had died – that day – 24 years ago.

I was thinking about how much I had grown in the past few years, and how thrilled and excited and interested he would have been about every baby step of my development.

I wasn’t thinking about how he had taught me about conditional love, and about keeping things hidden; I was thinking about how much we would have to talk about, and about how very very much he had loved me, and about how much I still loved him.

is not easy to drive with tear-filled eyes, so it is good that just at that moment an enormous flock of birds – easily 10 times bigger than the one from the other night – thousands and thousands of birds, swept suddenly across the sky.  So very many birds.

And with the birds my father said to me, “I will show you that I love you still, as I always have, with this infinity of birds.  That is who you are, just as you are also a single feather and that speckled pebble you picked up the other day.  What more do you need to know?  Those are all your wings, and you are flying.  You will always be my little bird, as well as your own huge flock.”

So, when and if it is time for me to soar, I will do so.  A bird is no less a bird when not in flight.

There is a strange and special alchemy about coaching, which is partly what makes it such a rewarding activity.  I almost always am coaching people in areas where I need to work myself, and the insights we discover can always be reflected back towards me – it’s one of the not so secret bonuses of being a coach.  Even when I don’t see it in the moment, upon reflection, the bonus is always there – and often blatantly obvious.

For those of us who continually work on ourselves, it is as if we are a series of Russian Nesting Dolls – we remove one layer and then at some point realize we have another layer of the same thing underneath.  Whether we ever get to the pure soul at the core is debatable, as is whether we really want to.

At any rate, the next day I had my normal weekly session with my coach (Spiritual Teacher #3 – ST#3), and in the hopes that she would somehow make sense of everything for me, and still eased from the flock of birds from the night before, I had had a calm and productive day.

As soon as we started talking, though, all the anguish and despair, all the frustration and confusion came surging back into my body.  I trust ST#3, and she sees me – there is no hiding anything from her, that I know of.  And I don’t want to hide – I want to be honest and see whatever there is to see, at least I think I do.  But something is clearly not right because my body is very cold and giving me strong signals of distress.

ST#3 is a loving and generous woodpecker.  She delicately pecks little holes where she thinks a delicious morsel may be hiding, but then, rather than pulling out the worms she uncovers and eating them herself, she leaves them for me to discover as they work their way out.  So at the end of our session I felt covered in little openings – but nothing was big enough for me to get my hands in.  Didn’t feel too good – actually, I felt pretty awful.

Towards the end of our session ST#3 had offered to hold the secret of what I wanted safe for me if I told her what it was, and I tried to feel what it might be, but couldn’t, and I was both angry and disappointed with myself for my failure.  Freezing cold, both head and heart iced up, I just wanted to get into bed, get warm, and hopefully wake up the next day feeling better – but I had a coaching call scheduled as coach.

As Abraham-Hicks teaches, all negative emotion is an indicator of distance between how the real you views a situation, and how you think you perceive it.  The real me, the greater me, the source of me, the soul of me – however you want to phrase it – does not judge and criticize:  the real me only loves.  I was clearly out of alignment with myself, but too miserable to be able to see even that.

What I did know – absolutely – was that the kind of anguish I was feeling could be a very productive state, and would move me forward, especially if I would accept it sooner rather than later.  So I worked on breathing deeply, and conjuring up good memories, like all the birds I had been seeing, and all the other gifts of moments of beauty I had experienced – especially since leaving the convent – and I began to feel like a very fortunate creature.

As I defrosted, I finally put it together that I had just been given another lesson in acceptance, and – even better – that I had only taken three days to process this one instead of the two weeks it took after coming out of the convent.

It was later, during the coaching session with a client I adore, that all the gifts finally clicked into place.

My client was excited about lots of changes that will be happening soon in her life, and she is eager for them to happen.  We talked about her amazing growth and the benefits she has experienced while being where she is now: in a place where relationships with others have not been very satisfying, her most important relationship – with herself – has become more intimate, more loving, and more committed – pretty cool!

My client has a clear vision of where she wants to go, and it is one of the things I admire about her.  She is noticing signs of her new direction everywhere, and enjoying their manifestation as a clear indicator of her movement ahead.   We discussed her keeping a written record of the synchronicities and indicators she is seeing – both as a source of future pleasure for her, and as a way to ramp up the flow of her positive vibration and keep her in alignment – and I shared that I wasn’t seeing signs of a particular direction, but that I was receiving moments of incredible beauty in unexpected places, as well as clear signals that it would benefit me to concentrate on acceptance.

As I described how a moment of sun filtered through the dust on a glass figurine was exquisite in a way that stopped time, and how a spider had managed to create a spectacular web anchored between the side-view mirror and passenger door of my car – despite an hour of traveling at highway speeds, and then started explaining the birds, everything finally came together in a magnificent convoluted coaching bonus.

I turned fifty a month ago, and used the occasion as an excuse to try and figure myself out.  I knew it was time to really inquire within, get honest, and face whatever truth I had been avoiding.  Surely I had been doing something wrong, otherwise I would have dreams and desires that I could articulate – wishes and wants that I could focus upon and make real.

I decided that if I removed distractions, placed myself in a state of awareness, and consciously set my intention: wisdom would come.  So I went into a convent for a week – an amazing experience – but that is a story for another time.  And at the end of the week I was no smarter than I was before – just more frustrated, because my plan had failed.

Three weeks later I started to want to know again.  I had accepted that my retreat had induced a lingering sense of disconnection with my everyday world, but that was fine.  And that the real point of creating time to be still might simply be to be still, was good too.  But, after all, I am 50 now, and surely it is time to know what I want? Besides, I am actually feeling that I would like to be more – be bigger – but how?

I ask my coach for help.  We both sense that the answer is inside of me; I just need to get it out.  Maybe – since I trust her – if she asks me what I want often enough, I’ll find out what it is.   I have heard that this method works very well; it is truly a great plan, and my coach executes her part of it brilliantly – cocking her head and pecking away with varied inflections and continued enthusiasm for the results.  And at the end of it I feel that I don’t know anything I didn’t know before, although I had actually expressed a few truths, which gave me a sense of virtue.

A few hours later I begin to feel fussy, and then sad, and then a sort of despair.  You see, there was nothing in those wants I had vocalized that I felt excited about, there was nothing solid for me to sink my teeth into and go after with relish, and the only thing that felt revelatory also felt out of my access.  I was angry, and confused, and hurt.  It was the next day that I finally became aware of the gift of birds.

In the morning, my usual schedule had been delayed, so I had time to spend crying in bed, and when I finally left the house it was fully light out.  There are trees that line one side of our driveway, and in one of them was a woodpecker.  It wasn’t one of the little woodpeckers that sometimes are darting here and there, and it wasn’t a grand pileated woodpecker – though I have seen those too – this seemed like a generic, or classic woodpecker – woodpecker essence, as it were, pecking assiduously and wearing a red hat.  My coach is a woodpecker, and it felt good to know she was there, committed as woodpeckers are, to uncovering the choicest morsels in the tree.  Seeing her helped me feel that I was not alone, and that I could relax.

Continuing on my route, I came to the highway, where there were streetlights – now unlit – tall poles, each with a curving neck and a lamp.  On one a hawk was perched – still and intent, watching everything.  There were many hawks at the convent, sitting in the tall oaks, occasionally swooping with a grand flurry to exchange their view of the Virgin Mary for one of Saint Francis.  I know people who see hawks in flight, but I almost always see them poised and alert with their sharp beaks and sharp eyes.  Hawks are powerful with knowing, and whenever I see one I feel special.

And then, on the curve of the next streetlight on the road, was a group of smaller birds.  They might have been pigeons, or some dove-like creature, but I think they were smaller than that – sparrows, maybe.  There was a long row of them, pressed each next to the other, aware – or not – that they might be a tasty treat for their hawk neighbor.  Was there safety in numbers? Or just warmth and the comfort of companionship?  Or does warmth and companionship create feelings of comfort and safety?

At the gym, on the treadmill, I saw a couple pairs of geese swimming in the duck pond.  The fountains have been turned off for the winter, and their places marked with empty white plastic bottles.  In the summer – with the fountains running – there are many geese and even ducks in the duck pond.  And in spring, when the parents parade their new babies, the young ones like to play in that strange space where they can choose to be rained upon, or not.

But now, the pond is covered mainly with leaves, and the geese serenely create pathways through them – from force of habit if for no other reason.  As quickly as the geese clear the water it is filled again with yellows and oranges and browns and some green, but the clearing was there, and the covering is different than it was before.  I know that with time, and after a period of ice, the water will be clear again.

There is a point on my route where a small river enters Long Island Sound, and the highway becomes a bridge.  Often there are seagulls there, as there were that day.  Seagulls sometimes sit on the streetlights, too, but just then they were riding the currents of air.  There are certainly times when they are birds with a clear purpose – usually food – but that afternoon the seagulls were gliding and drifting, letting the wind take them wherever, maybe resting in the ease of not knowing, and enjoying the touch of the sun on their wings.

I pulled back into my driveway late afternoon and sat in my car feeling the weight of a thousand pounds – much of it in my chest.  Even though I had been given so many gifts, I had failed to recognize them.  But I like to sit in my car in my driveway; it is quiet, there is nothing to do, and once I saw a fox.

Slowly, I became aware of a tremendous sound of chirping, and I could see the tree in front of me filling up with birds.  It was too dark to see many details about the birds (and my eyes, now that I am 50, do not provide as much information as they used to) – they seemed to be about the size of a robin, but dark.  Their chirping was a nice sound – not sharp or creaky.  I choose to think they were not starlings.

Have you ever seen – usually in spring or fall – one of those huge flocks of birds that seem to out of nowhere suddenly swoop and swirl up the horizon?  The sky becomes filled with birds as if wearing a patterned scarf waving in celebration.  The birds don’t collide with each other; they are a mass single-minded consciousness, and to witness their flight is to experience magic.

Well, a small flock of those birds – maybe a few hundred – came and settled in the tree (and its neighbors) in front of me as I sat in the driveway feeling weary and confused.  I wanted pictures, and got out of my car concerned both that I would startle the birds, and that I’d get covered in poop.  Neither the birds, nor I, were disturbed.

Whenever I see such a flock I wonder how it comes about?  How do the birds decide when to meet and where to go?  How do they keep together?  How do they know everyone’s there?  Why the journey?  Do they know?  Do we think we know?

The song of the birds made my lungs expand and I could take a deep breath.  The trees continued to fill as the rush of birds became less, and then in an instant they were in flight again and the whoosh of their wings joined with their song to make a glorious sound.

Strangely soothed, and comforted by the beauty and magnitude of something that I did not understand and yet was a part of, I went inside to the cat, whose view of birds is rather different than mine.

Ivanna is one of those people who seems lit from within with a bright golden light.  She is strong and passionate and vital and driven.  She is capable and beautiful and creative and hard-working and fun.  She is both interested, and interesting.  She’s a great friend.

Ivanna will take charge and get things done and she takes her responsibilities and commitments seriously.  She has been very responsible and committed for a long time.  Her daughter is away at college now and is doing well – grown to be strong and independent as her mother had hoped.  She didn’t come home at all this summer and Ivanna is good with that – it’s the way it should be.

Ivanna has been doing her best to take care of other people – and animals – for as long as she can remember, and she has been doing a good job, but they are pretty much all dead now – or gone away to college – and for the past few years Ivanna has been turning more of her attention to herself.

Ivanna is married – still – to her daughter’s father.  Ivanna loves him – they share an amazing daughter, and a roof.  Things are amicable, and for Ivanna at least, completely unsatisfying.  Over the years, Ivanna’s vision of the world has expanded and deepened, her husband’s has not, and the fundamental differences between them have lost what excitement and romance they may once have had.  They went through marital counseling a few years ago.

Ivanna is convinced that things are as they will be.  The question – she said the other day – was whether she could “stand it.”

This amazing woman – fully aware of what she was saying and still saying it with a straight face – was stating her criteria for how she should live the rest of her life. Ivanna is dramatic, and was speaking partly for effect, but her fear and uncertainly about what change might bring was causing her to apply a standard to herself that she would never apply to another.

“I just have to decide,” she said, “if I can stand it.”  Ivanna is brave.  Once she put the situation in those terms, she really had no choice.  A tiny part of her was hoping that her inner voice would speak up and say, “of course I can stand it, it’s not so bad, lets just keep on keeping on, at least I know what’s what.”  But Ivanna’s inner voice said “No.   I can’t stand it.  This is not how I am meant to live.  This is not what I want. This is not who I am.”

And so Ivanna is opening herself up.  She is considering possibilities.  She is facing facts and figuring things out and all sorts of scary stuff.  But as she is doing so, she is also opening herself up to dreams, and hopes, and desires.  She is beginning to unfurl her wings – giving them little flicks to help them dry out.

My friend Ivanna is a great model:  she is speaking what she wants and dreaming big dreams.   She is getting ready to fly.   I want to be brave like Ivanna, too.