Minding My Speak

Hard Work or Effort?

2011-01-21T05:31:00.000-08:00

“If you work hard,” my Daddy said...well, I can't really remember what went on the end of the sentence, except maybe it had to do with glorifying God. But I do remember the 'work hard' part. In word and action, I was schooled in the art of working hard. But all I remember as a result of that schooling is disheartened exhaustion.

And then there is effort. I seem to remember the phrase, “give it your best effort.” And the picture that remains around that saying is one of excitement and joy sometimes, but satisfaction almost always.

Hard work and effort are two different things. Hard work is initiated by the subconscious mind, mired in a pardigm that isn't very effective and executed by the body, whether or not adequate respite from the prior exhausting task is complete.

Effort is the activity of the creative conscious mind, a focus on the desire or goal that has given inspiration. A holding of that goal securely, protecting it from diluting influence. It is choosing, and choosing firmly and fully, sometimes over and over again. It may not seem easy, but it is not hard in the way of 'hard work.'

I used to be proud that nobody could work harder than I. Now, as I turn my attention to the effort of my mind, which gives birth to positive emotion and inspired action, I believe that my pride was misplaced.

A Different Form

2010-12-27T06:10:00.000-08:00

I love words. Frequently they press themselves on me, demanding my attention. So it was no surprise when the word anew came leaping to my mind repeatedly this past week, clamoring for consideration.

It shouldn't have been a surprise to me. Even the physical world around me spoke the word. Yesterday, I woke to find a thin blanket of snow covering all but the warmest spots, and everything looked new. Untidiness was covered and clutter was blurred. Dead leaves and hibernating grass, which had been none too attractive, were hidden. It looked beautiful. It looked new.

Even the season is proclaiming newness. The solstice has opened us to light and vitality, the holiday season has turned our activities festive, and the New Year is only days away.

But while things may seem different on the surface, a nagging suspicion remains, that all the problems that have accrued, all the lacks that remain, all the unfulfilled hopes that languish...none of them have been transformed by the season.

We are taught that change is a constant. If it is always with us, what are our options with regard to it? We can fear it or embrace it, direct it or fall victim to it's whims, find the treasure in it or bemoan it's arrival, aching for what is familiar (even if not very satisfying) to return.

Here's where my word 'anew' come in. Anew means in a new or different form. Evidently the stuff of which my experience is made is the same stuff, however it works out for me. But that same stuff can take a different form. It can make my life anew...or not.

From where I sit, I have come to know that I am co-creator of my experience of life. The thoughts that I disallow, the emotions that I refuse to entertain, the company that I avoid, these are probably old forms for me, and ones that haven't produced what I have wanted to create in my life.

But those thoughts that I enthusiastically and repeatedly choose, those emotions that feel really good to me, that I seek and bask in, and the company of like minded people, whose dreams run parallel to mine, these create a new life for me, obliterating the untidiness, and making an opening for the clutter to be removed.

Here are cues to life anew for me, life in a new and different (and exhilarating) form.

Sharing Awareness

2010-12-22T03:41:00.000-08:00

The thought came to me several years ago. It enveloped me like the warmth of a never-to-be-extinguished fire that lights and warms without end. I suddenly knew what my purpose was. I was meant to share the world as it was given me to see.

Since that time, the world has opened to me greatly. And I have taken steps to share that world, freely, and as clearly as I am able. As I become aware, I share.. This is somewhat new for me. My personal history was one of holding back, not sharing, perhaps because that gave me some advantage, perhaps because I thought that in my reservation I was conserving something for myself that I might not otherwise have.

Last night I set my alarm and got up to watch the total lunar eclipse. It was really quite a spectacular sight. Better than anything on TV. And because the eclipse proceeded at quite a modest pace, I intermittently sat at the computer and researched lunar eclipses. There I ran into an interesting story.

It seems that our American hero, Christopher Columbus, knew a thing or two about lunar eclipses, and it either got him out of trouble or into a bigger cosmic quagmire...you decide. On one of his later voyages, he and his crew were stranded in Jamaica. Not a bad place to be stranded if you can enjoy the comfort of a luxury hotel, but that was not the case for Chris.

He and his band were without provisions, in danger of starvation without some assistance. Happily, the indigenous people were hospitable, and provided them with food, which, of course the natives knew how to grow and gather. After some time, a few of Chris's crew spoiled things by stealing from the natives, who after the affront withdrew their hospitality. Can't blame them.

In dire straights, Chris turned to the reading of his almanac, probably one of the few books he had, and discovered that a total lunar eclipse was immanent. So he used that awareness to his benefit. He counseled the then inhospitable natives that their move to withhold food from him and his crew had angered the gods. So much so, that the very heavens were about to show their displeasure. The moon would turn red, the prelude to a pouring out of the wrath of the gods. The community would be destroyed.

Well, the moon did turn red, and the natives repented of their decision to starve Chris and company. They pledged to resume their support. And Chris subsequently reported that they would be forgiven. The rage of the heavens subsided and the moon again lighted the night sky as it always had. Smart Chris. Or was he?

Chris was aware of celestial events and he hoarded that awareness, using it to his own advantage. In the end, his exile ended and he became our hero. Let us not detail the genocide that he perpetrated on indigenous Carribean people.

But what do you think the story might read like if he had shared the awareness that he had? Would he have been believed or disbelieved? Would he have found an ongoing cooperative way of living with those whose island he shared? Might he have learned something from them? We will never know, but the story would surely have been different.

I don't like the way the story ended at all. I choose not to emulate the example of Christopher Columbus. I think I will just share the world as it is given me to see and know, trusting that a path will open, and that a new and greater experience of being will show up.

Expecting...

2010-12-19T01:52:00.000-08:00

Do you remember when the socially correct way to talk about pregnancy was to say... “she's expecting?” Well, that may have been an attempt to sanitize for children (and other impressionable people) an event that was awkward to talk about. But I think that the language carried something very positive along with it.

Mary of Nazareth was 'expecting' as she traveled to Bethlehem, and as the story goes, soon along side her appeared a supportive husband as well as expectant shepherds, wise men, oxes and asses.

I remember the Christmases of my childhood as being times of great expectancy. There were the letters to Santa, of course, and the Christmas caroling where we carried painstakingly decorated Christmas cookies nested in cupcake papers and packed in tops from emptied greeting card boxes to shut ins and others whose anticipation of the season might have been slightly less than ours. There was skating on the long placid, compliantly frozen river from one town to the next, and sledding down the steep hill at the edge of town until we shushed out onto a vacant Main Street and coasted forever.

Even if the stockings on Christmas morning were meagerly filled, or the presents were modest; even if they got lost in the snow storm of wrapping paper, my expectancy, wrapped in that of family and friends around me prevailed, and made each Christmas better than the one before.

In all of this there was one consistent theme. I approached every facet of the holiday with great anticipation. And!!! All of those around me did the same. We coaxed the season into brilliance, stoked the excitement whenever it might seem to lag, and we did it together. In all of that, I never remember a disappointing Christmas.

Makes me wonder what life would be like if we did that all the time. What if we really expected that our life would measure up to our dreams? What if we were willing to dream at length and in detail, contravening the appearance in our life of situations that didn't live up to the dream? What if we surrounded ourselves with those who were willing to dream with us? What if expectancy saturated us?

Why...maybe we would get what we were expecting...

Reclaiming What Got Frittered Away

2010-12-12T03:37:00.000-08:00

Sunday School was a solid fixture of my childhood years. That, and Vacation Bible School, which was rather like Sunday School all day, five days a week, except a little bit more fun and I didn't have to wear my Sunday clothes.

One of the ingredients in the mix of Sunday School/VBS was singing, usually to the accompaniment of an out-of-tune piano and an inexpert pianist. We sang what we called 'choruses' or what might better be described as 'hymns-lite,' a slightly dummed down version of theology set to music. That was really the best part of Sunday School, because we did it together in a larger group before we got down to the poorly planned, but age specific curriculum of the classes.

We sang those choruses over and over again, and the words ring soundly, and usually error free in my head to this day. I think my belief system was partially founded on those choruses.

One came to mind this morning, and it resonated with a truth that is welling up in me these several decades later. That truth, back then, was ameliorated and tailored to suit the prevailing belief that was being inculcated. You might even say it was frittered away. But it has remained with me, and today I'm reclaiming it, re-translating it and consciously restoring it's truth to my active belief system. Here's how it goes:

He owns the cattle on a thousand hills.

The wealth in every mine.

He owns the rivers and the rocks and rills,

The sun and stars that shine.

Wonderful riches more than tongue can tell.

These are my Father's, so they're mine as well.

He owns the cattle on a thousand hills.

I know that He will care for me.

Sadly, the core truth of that little ditty was lost to me almost immediately. Instead of a great abundance being available to me, I was taught that it was not right to really expect an overflow of goodness, but that it was better to anticipate little. In fact it was really rather righteous to be poor. The rich were somehow suspect, however giving they might seem to be. All this I learned in the face of my much loved chorus.

So, today I am reclaiming the chorus and translating it so that I may access it, and use it as a keystone in the ongoing rebuilding of my belief system. Here goes. (sorry I can't make it a rhyming ditty)

The Universe...amazing!

Utterly complex, no end in sight.

Constantly made of limitless thinking stuff.

I'm an integral part of it...

It is mine and I am it's,

Never are we separated.

With rocks and rivers

moon and stars and cosmos

I am unseverably connected.

Never can I doubt...is there is enough?

Never will I be abandoned or without

water from the well of infinite goodness.

I'm not sure I can sing my translation, but I'm taking it to heart.

What is Truth?

2010-11-25T02:47:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure who asked the question first, but it must have been asked a trillion times, from the beginning of time. What is truth? There might have been a time that I would have gone to the bookshelf in search of philosophical tomes or theological treatises to find the answer. Often I have looked far and wide for answers, thinking that one exploration or another special experience might be what I was looking for. But, no...none of these have worked for me.

Many years ago, the glib conversational response, “this is true,” was heard over and over again, popping up frequently in inconsequential conversation. Yes, it was a clique, usually offered when no more articulate response might be found. But I believe it pointed to something important. Truth is not outside of me, to be found as the prize result of a far ranging quest, it is here, it is now, it is with me, and often more readily recognizable than I think.

In short, I uncover truth when I become aware of what resonates with the genuine me, the open me, the the conscious me.

This does not mean that I am making it up on the fly. For sure, my truth is informed by Universal Law, by truth principle, by beliefs that I have chosen. These are critical, for they give me a framework on which to hang my truth. But as well built as that framework may be, by itself it is not my truth. It evidences my truth. It is home for my truth. My truth emerges from me in resonance with that framework.

Wow! This means that everybody else's truth is not the same as mine. It means that today's truth and tomorrow's may look a bit different. It indicates that truth flexes to meet the world. All this is resonance with me.

Makes me feel a bit more important. A bit more knowing. And quite a bit more responsible. I guess you could say it causes me to be aware.

Your Trial Has Expired - Part I

2010-06-19T05:26:00.000-07:00

I jabbed my computer to 'on' just shortly after my feet hit the floor this morning...then off to the bathroom, and on to the kitchen to put water on for chai. When I returned to my desk, the monitor displayed a familiar message. “Your trial has expired,' it whispered to me insistently. And so began a morning rumination on those four words.

My first thoughts featured me as the one on trial. I saw my dalliances with existence as trials...not the hard-to-bear kind, but the let's-see-how-this-works kind. And those dalliances have gone on for what seems like forever; I have been living a series of experiments with being. They have been just that...experiments. I have tried this, attempted that, tinkered with other things. My approach has been sometimes interesting, often frustrating, and sometimes just boring.

So, my trial has expired, huh? Well, I guess I could expire as well...or...I might just get down to the real thing. I might really live, truly know, actually be.

I think it is time to be. My trial has expired.

Creating Heaven

2010-04-22T05:13:00.000-07:00

the alarm clock rings

sleep opens

simultaneously

the journey bends

side-tracking, no

instead a full fleshed trip

inspired by friends of faith

their soul arms hanging low

with gifts

time is right

though it was never wrong

nor was

angels, clouds and sun

conspire, collaborate

to make heaven

together with my

willing, non-resistant

yes

Vision Expansion

2010-04-19T05:43:00.001-07:00

I sat in the small group anticipating a life-giving discussion. Little did I know...

The leader of the group steered us into a time of quiet and urged us to hold in mind something that we desire...to hold it...to hold it...to see it clearly. My desire came to me easily, and it pleasantly filled my view. Then she asked us to expand that desire, to let it get as huge as it could get...AND IT DID!

My desire was something I have been envisioning for a long time and am eager to see show up in my life. You see, I have a dental challenge, and what I really want is to have complete dental implants, no small thing, but something I have been seeing for quite some time. I have the dentist picked out...the best dentist I have ever had. Only one small hitch...his practice is in South India.

So, as I gave my attention to my desire, and then allowed it to expand...it exploded! Suddenly my quest for dental treatment turned into a trip with 20 friends, an experience of spirit and wellness. I clearly saw our group visiting India, being renewed by a 2 week ayurvedic rejuvenation, tapping into the spiritual energy of the ages, imbued with the peace of watching the sun set over the Arabian Sea, and getting a bit of dental work done on the side. Wow!

And almost immediately, the components to make it possible began lining up, and they continue to do so.

Amazing what can happen when vision is clear, and expansion is allowed.

Reclaiming Integrity

2010-03-28T04:21:00.000-07:00

Never saw a baby that wasn't full of integrity. Come to think of it, it must have been so for me as well. We all burst onto the planet 100% true to ourselves. We knew our purpose - to be deliriously happy in the special way that pleased us.

In due course, we set about the inevitable task of growing up. And here our clear purpose comes into question. Happy babies are just fine, but they have to adapt to a cruel world, so parents and other adults teach them the skills they need.

The foremost skill is the skill of getting along. There are all those other separate bodies and personalities to get along with, and older ones, who have absorbed the counsel of generations and know how to use the system for getting along, will help to teach a baby that system. If only babies will comply.

So babies do learn to comply, (or suffer the consequences) and in learning how to comply they offer up bits of their integrity. Bit by bit they set aside pieces of their authentic selves in order to get along. Innocence is lost early, replaced by judgment of self and others. Creativity is cut back, cooperation is traded in for competition, and play is diminished.

Though it didn't start out that way, by the time a child goes to school, she or he has betrayed much of themselves, probably thinking that every other child fits in the system, and it is only they who do not, who cannot not have their deepest desires and still get along. So it was with me. I sacrificed the parts of me that family and community asked and I was left with a hollow place in me.

You know the rest of the story, the search for identity, the quest for purpose in life, the great sadnesses and the self destructive choices. This is true for all of us.

What you may not know so clearly is that the child remains within us, and even though our real life parenting may not have always served us well, now that we are parents or of parenting age, we can redo the faulty parenting. We can reclaim the integrity that we began with.

All is not lost. The sacrifices we made in our first years on the planet have merely been set aside. They wait for us and are begging to be ransomed. Our mission in life, our fantastic aptitude for cooperation, our predilection for forgiveness, our unbounded creativity and even our sense of play await.

Time to reclaim our integrity!

Time to Shine

2010-03-22T06:33:00.000-07:00

I suppose I just shined naturally when I was very young. It's pretty hard for a young child not to do that. I don't remember it though. I do remember learning not to shine, however. I learned not to shine so that I would not eclipse things more important than I.

I became good at compliance, ready to stand in the wings while the stars of the show recited their lines over and over to measured applause. I learned to know my place in the scheme of things, to be just a child, to let experienced adults take the lead.

And with that posture, a certain sadness set in for me. A sadness that who I really was, what I really loved, how I wanted to be in the world was deemed inappropriate at least, but worse for me, wrong after due consideration.

All that was and is hogwash!

We are meant to shine! We are best when we know and show ourselves completely. We do not eclipse anyone or anything. We only add glorious detail to the picture of life as it is created to be. And our shining allows others to shine as well.

So, why not shine with all my brightness? Imagine the world where we all do that.

Time to shine, friends!

In Praise of Praise

2010-03-14T04:33:00.000-07:00

Praise is somewhat of an old-fashioned word, and an even more old-fashioned practice. And for me, I grew up thinking that it mostly referred to a God quite significantly removed from insignificant me. It was a Sunday sort of thing.

But I am not thinking about that kind of praise today. Today I am engaged with a praise that gives merit, value, even esteem to aspects of my life, and to the qualities that seek to flower.

Praise is the act of making positive statements about a person, an object, or an idea. It contrasts to criticism and banishes blame. And I am focusing on making positive statements about my mind, my emotions, my intuition, and my body.

I praise my mind as the perfect creation of the divine. I praise my emotions as my perfect guidance mechanism. I praise my intuition as my never failing source of knowing, and my body as the incomparably beautiful and infinitely capable vehicle of my vitality.

I praise my every increasing wisdom, my power to communicate, my ability to care, my skill in sharing what is given me, and the growing energy that empowers me; that energy is zeal stirred up by words of praise.

I am unapologetic, and unconcerned about what others think of me. Today I lift my hands in total praise to the divine in me.

Getting into the Gush

2010-02-21T05:12:00.000-08:00

Life gushes. The sea's waves gush shoreward. The droplet of rain joins with others and gushes to the sea. (or directly into the earth) New life gushes out everywhere, in predictable cycles and in spontaneous events. Energy bundles and builds and spews itself out in demonstrations sometimes welcome, but often feared. But life does gush, without seeming limit.

I'm afraid that I have often put myself outside of the gush of life. I have not expected it, I have sat in a stupor, undeserving of its benefit, or I have feared it for I knew I could not control it. In effect, I have kept in place the resistance that keeps it from spilling over me.

But life still wants to gush. I look at others who have accepted the limitlessness of life, and I reason that they are lucky, or that they don't have the hindrances that I do, and my glance into their experience carries a hint of jealousy. I see all that is beautiful and bountiful, but it has only momentary benefit for me, for I soon sink back into the quagmire of my muddles and my troubles.

By my way of thinking about it, I have taken myself out of the flow of life, and have often actively resisted it when I could not get out of it's way.

No more. Today I surrender. Today I flip all the switches that serve to hold back the energy of heaven, the gushing life of great good that flows to and over me if only I allow it. Today I'm risking all and getting into the gush.

Love You Are...

2010-02-16T05:02:00.000-08:00

Love you are...and to love you shall return. Just imagine those words, and how great and all encompassing and uniting they are. Maybe we have gotten it all wrong focusing on dust. Maybe we've been looking at it in a backward way.

For me, being has become so much more than what my religious schooling taught me. Oh, I was given a framework to contain my trials and my struggles, somewhat of a place for properly scaled down hopes and dreams. I was pointed to my physical body, composed of elements from the periodic table, told how exquisite yet finite it was, and left with that very ship to sail the sea of life.

Oh, yes...I was also given the hope that when my body finally deteriorated, I might have put an escape clause into effect, and an other worldly force might pull me up to heaven, where I really could live happily ever after, that is my soul, or some other non-physical component of me. The message that I got most strongly, however, was the one that was reinforced each Ash Wednesday...that my essence to begin with was ashes, or dust, and after a life in which I got to make a few moves, I returned to dust.

Rebel that I am...I have come to know otherwise. I did not begin my existence when I was born, nor will it I end it when someone intones 'ashes to ashes...and dust to dust.' I am so many billions of times more than that. I am as big as it gets, unbounded by time and space as we experience it on this planet. The me that I experience in this body is only a tiny bit of the me that is unlimited, the me that is Love. And that me, the Grand I Am is right up there with the God that is, one with Him/Her and all the others that Are, including you. You might call that unthinkably large idea Love.

Love I am...and to Love I shall return.

Everyday Evidences of Synchronicity

2010-02-02T03:43:00.000-08:00

(Reposted from Soul Hang Out)

Synchronicity has been on my brain lately. I had some idea of it, but I wasn't sure exactly what it meant, so I went to Merriam to check it out. (I like to think of her as my own personal librarian) Well, on this question, she was not clear. I couldn't put it all together.

My favorite psychology pioneer, Dr. C. G. Jung wrote a book titled Synchronicity, and he tells this story about it. "A young woman I was treating had, at a critical moment, a dream in which she was given a golden scarab. While she was telling me this dream, I sat with my back to the closed window. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me, like a gentle tapping. I turned round and saw a flying insect knocking against the window-pane from the outside. I opened the window and caught the creature in the air as it flew in. It was the nearest analogy to a golden scarab one finds in our latitudes, a scarabaeid beetle, the common rose-chafer , which, contrary to its usual habits had evidently felt the urge to get into a dark room at this particular moment. I must admit that nothing like it ever happened to me before or since."

My connection with the synchronistic has been nowhere near as dramatic as that account, but it is evidencing itself nonetheless...in everyday ways. I've settled for a very simple definition of the word: 'a relationship between ideas or events that is not logical.'

That relationship has shown up in my life recently around the topic of healing. The impressive thing is how many times, and from how many disparate places it has shown up...in the chaplain training course I signed up for...in the book a friend sent me out of nowhere...in an off-the-cuff comment about stream of consciousness writing in a letter from someone I knew only slightly...in the writing project I was invited to participate in...and more...and more. Healing. Healing. Healing!

Alright, I get the hint. Healing is on the table. And it got there through a series of commonplace pointers that were not logical. So my journey has taken a bit of a turn, and I am excited about it! As well, I am especially delighted with my new traveling companions.

I have not yet experienced anything quite like Jung's dramatic event. But I am finding everyday evidences of synchronicity.

Nobody Bigger Than We Are

2010-01-31T05:03:00.003-08:00

It was an Elvis song, wasn't it? “Who made the mountains, who made the trees? Who made the rivers flow to the sea?...Somebody bigger than you and I.” And the lyrics go on to extol the virtues of rain, flowers, birdsong, even moon and stars, and as well, to give that Bigger Somebody the responsibility for supporting us on long journeys, curing loneliness, giving relief from despair and being the delivery man for faith.

Why do I feel left out in all of this?

I've never felt more strongly than I do now that God, or Source, or the Universe is immeasurably big and powerful beyond even the thought of any limit.

But I no longer believe myself to be solely an observer of that limitlessness or a beneficiary of the goodwill of a benevolent God. I know, I feel, I believe that I am a participant in that Magnificence; I am so much greater than my prior small view of me.

I've found a name that works for me for All That Is. It's The Big Uanme. (you and me) So now...as big as I can imagine, I am. I claim my splendor. (thanks, Luz) And I no longer give the time of day to the thought that I am separate from you, or from any of All That Is.

There is nobody bigger than we are!

Multitasking Examined

2010-01-29T04:43:00.000-08:00

Many years ago, when my youngest daughter finished her first year of high school, she brought home a report card full of barely passing grades. She was bright and inventive, but she had always had difficulty in school. We spent entire evenings working on simple homework. Her brain seemed to be wired differently than most. “I can't do it anymore,” she declared, report card in hand, and her words impacted me like a dead end sign suddenly materializing through the mist on a dark night.

We tried an alternative school, and that did not work for her. Researching other options, I threw my hopes in the direction of an online high school, with me homeschooling my tenth grader, but I was far from confident of success in helping her complete her high school education.

We chose Biology as her first course...and plunged in. It was difficult for me, God's sake...how could I expect her to complete it? But she excelled...and in the process became my teacher. When she focused on one thing, she got it! And got it well enough to receive an 'A' for her effort. I began then to hear the lesson, and she teaches me still.

When I give my attention to one thing, when I corral my thoughts, and point them in a single direction, I learn...I really live...and I love with new intensity. I can, after all, only think one thought at a time, or do one thing at a time. And if I stick to that, I have a chance at doing it really well.

Makes me suspicious of multitasking!

Putting the Heart before the Course

2010-01-27T12:30:00.001-08:00

“You've got the cart before the horse!” I've been given that counsel more than a few times in my life, and the words were almost always warranted. Somehow things had gotten out of whack, out of sequence – my progress derailed, my goal pushed out of reach because I forgot to put first things first. I had put the power to pull behind what was being pulled.

I've discovered a corollary to that axiom. It arises from the stew I sometimes get myself in when I launch myself into fervent action on behalf of my goals. I make lists of the things I must do, drink another cup of coffee and plunge in.

More often than not, the results of my efforts are unsatisfactory.

I am learning that when I take time to listen to my heart, care to nurture and follow my intuition, and rest in humility enough to delegate and defer to a power higher than I alone, that I discover a course that is always much more effective than my action binge. For when I do touch with my inner knowing, I couple that with my outer know-how in a most powerful way.

The result? I draw that which I desire to me quickly. My goals are honed to meet the genius of my whole self. And I meet so many cooperative characters along the way.

So my new wisdom aphorism is this: Put the Heart before the Course!

Daydreaming

2010-01-23T01:53:00.000-08:00

This is a story I wrote 2 years ago, but I am urged by multiple pokes to post it. Thanks to Luz Aguirrebena for sharing the photo and her encouragement.

Daydreaming

Neal Worthington

God, she felt wonderful. Better than she ever remembered feeling before. Everything that touched her was soft. Huge, light fluffy balls of cotton waltzed slowly toward her, inviting her to dance, and then brushed her with a satiny touch to carry on to who knows where. Hundreds of them, all smiling enigmatic happy smiles, which she could not quite see.

Then...it changed and felt as though a perfectly sweet and smooth liquid, something like butter-colored chocolate milk poured slowly over her, caressing every inch of her and creating the most delicious sensation. Or no, maybe she was the liquid...anyway, it was heavenly.

A sharp sound jarred the peace of her dream. She wished it to stop, but the sound wouldn't, though her only thought was to make it go away. Insistently, it repeated itself, and eventually it formed into words. “Deedee! Deedee!” She didn't recognize it at first, but yes, that was her name, and it sounded so, so harsh. “Deedee!” Then she recognized it as the voice of her father.

“Stop your daydreaming, young lady, and get your things packed. You don't have all day, you know.”

She came back to earth, so to speak, with a thump, rudely disturbed, and not at all happy. But she knew better than to cross father, and she nodded compliance with a straight, yet unwilling face, which, fortunately was turned the other way.

And while father looked sternly on, she turned to her bed that was too hard for sleeping comfortably, but just right for laying out suitcases waiting to be packed, and they were there, yawning open, but still empty. Then, accompanied by a disapproving fatherly stare, she pivoted like a robot and stepped to the open wardrobe. Only after she had deposited a dress in the first case did father leave the room, and her to her duty, which she methodically performed.

It was all so unkind, and had been for quite some time, ever since Lisa, her favorite nanny of all time had left to buckets of her tears. Of course, Lisa had to leave. She couldn't be a nanny forever, and Deedee was growing up. But, oh how she loved Lisa and her cuddles and especially her stories. She had told Deedee a million stories, all of them set in a distant, magical land, and Deedee retold them in her mind every night before sleeping. When she was really young, the stories sometimes took the form of lullabies, but later she and Lisa had sung together as they laughed and giggled, walking in the meadow, swinging in the swing, pedaling their bicycles, and even cooking together. But the lullabies she still often hummed to herself in the moments before dreaming.

Mother she didn't remember much at all; she had disappeared from Deedee's life at such a young age that Deedee had trouble catching any memory of her in the dim corners of her mind. And no one was willing to talk about her. Lisa didn't even know. Father always said that someday he would explain, but he said it in a way that meant he wouldn't speak of it again. And she missed Mother, even though she couldn't bring to mind a single memory of her.

Most of all she missed Lisa. After Lisa left, father had sent her to all the best schools; he had hired Mrs. O'Flannery to take her shopping for the necessaries, to drive her to and from school and to dance class and the sorts of activities appropriate for a girl, in his estimation. But Mrs. O'Flannery did not really seem to care for her, though she was kind and always smiling and on time.

Now even that was going to change. She was going to a boarding school, the best boarding school, of course, but she did not want to go, nor could she even remember the name of the school. She felt like her life had been taken away from her bit by bit, and now there was going to be nothing left. Father had lectured her, told her that she would get a fine, appropriate education, and grow up to be a lovely young woman. Provided that she paid attention, cooperated and applied herself.

Not caring what went into the suitcases, she loaded them and left the closing and fastening for father, who appeared just at the appropriate time, reluctantly nodded approval, and set the cases by the door.

Deedee asked if she could take a nap, not because she was tired, but because she wanted to be alone in this, the only place that seemed warm and possibly safe to her...at least the memories were warm, but even now she felt them slipping through her fingers, away into nothingness. Father assented.

So she stretched out on the big,hard bed, stuffed some pillows round herself for something soft, and let out a deep sigh that felt like her very heart was leaving her.

She wasn't falling asleep, but she began dreaming, dreaming of herself right here on this bed, hugging every available bit of warmth to herself. And as she did she felt herself melting into the bed, which became soft, and she herself became toasty warm. It was almost like the best of times, back with Lisa, listening to lullabies, eyelids drooping.

Then she saw herself getting up, tucking her stuffed rabbit, Polly Anne (which father said she could not take with her) under her arm and walking down the hall to the door that opened to the attic stairs. She quietly turned the knob and swung the door slowly open, then climbed the stairs to the huge open attic with nothing in it except long stretches of dusty boards on the floor, soft sunlight flowing through the small windows on one side, and two lone trunks down at the far end.

One set of windows, not on the sunny side, was bigger and was really a set of doors that opened onto a small balcony. It was her favorite place. She never let father know that she came here. He had found her here once, and forbid her to come again. That was the one rule of father's that she did not keep, but she came here only when it was safe and he was sure not to discover her. It was high up, but she was never afraid.

Today, as she dreamily slipped onto her balcony, she discovered that the softness of the sunlight was the result of a mist in the air, the remainder of a brief shower, she supposed, for the mist hovered around the trees that were as high as her and higher. She turned toward the peak of the roof, expecting that she would need to shade her eyes from the brightness of the sun, but golden light was not what she saw. Color seemed to fill the air. Every color, everywhere. It seemed to be beckoning her, though she could not pin down why that was so. She followed.

Where the roof met the balcony at a steep angle, she put a tentative foot on the angled roof, and it felt solid, like she was walking on a sidewalk, though it angled up steeply. Then she put the other foot in front of the first, and she found that, magically, she was walking up the steep roof, up toward the chimney on top. After a step or two, she was not afraid, she just walked straight up as the colors kept on urging her to do. At first she kept her eyes on her feet, but soon she didn't need to do that, and she began to look around freely, trying to find the source of all the beautiful color.

She reached the peak of roof, stood easily right on the point, and sensed that the color was surrounding her. She put a hand on the chimney to steady herself as she looked straight up, and yes, color was all around. No, now it began to take shape. It arched up away from her, and arranged itself in bands of color...it was a rainbow! Touching down right on her rooftop, a glorious, huge, almost alive rainbow in the most brilliant color she could image, not hazy and indistinct like all other rainbows she had seen.

Then, just like she was urged to walk up the roof, she felt drawn to walk up the arching rainbow. And she did. Though she did not see a hard surface to the rainbow, she climbed the arch as easily as she had the stairs to the attic. The thought came to her mind, “What is it like over the rainbow?” “ Can I go over the rainbow?” There didn't seem to be anything stopping her, so she continued to climb, luxuriating in the color almost like enjoying suds in a great bubble bath. The climb was an easy one, and she was on the top before she knew it. Puffy white clouds, rather like the cotton balls in her earlier daydream, drifted by her on both sides, and the blue of the sky was bluer than she had ever seen before; it matched the brilliance of the rainbow.

And even though the sky was so blue, and light and color were all around, she could see the stars, as brilliant as on the darkest, clearest night. Her gaze was captured by one star in particular, the brightest one, and one with a warm glow about it. As she looked, she could almost swear that she had eye contact with the star, and that it was looking back at her. Then she remembered that she and Lisa had looked at the stars through her bedroom window, and picked one, and wished on it.

Lisa had sung her a song, a sort of lullaby...

When you wish upon a star,

Makes no difference who you are.

Anything your heart desires will come to you.

Back then she believed it. She had wished night after night. And her wishes did come true, and life was perfect. She didn't remember when she had stopped wishing, she just had.

Now, as she stood at the top of the rainbow, staring her star in the eye, she was surprised to find herself bold enough to wish again. So she wished for the land that she and Lisa visited in those bedtime stories long ago. She wished to go there again. When she wished with Lisa, she crossed her fingers, scrunched up her eyes, tried to cross her toes, and wished and wished and wished. That did not seem necessary now, and indeed it was not, for no sooner had she wished, than she felt herself floating, then flying; up above the clouds she rose, unlimited in her movement, as she soared the skies.

As the land of her stories came to mind again, her foot touched down, and she was in it. She was actually here! Everything was more real than real, the grass like the plushest carpet, the trees bowing to her, the soft breeze brushing her face. The streams flowed with crystal clear water, the animals said their hellos, all in their own way. Polly Anne dropped from the crook of her arm and hopped delightedly with other bunnies. Bluebirds flitted along side her as she lightly skipped over the ground.

She reached a grove of trees that stood higher than all the others, and cool, soft moss carpeted a bowl in the middle of the the grove, and in the center of that a stone fire pit stood, with a slowly burning fire. She suddenly felt tired, tireder than she had ever been before. Yes, this was the land she had dreamed of, but her troubles had traveled here with her, and the weight of them suddenly became great. She felt more strongly than ever the hurt of never knowing her mother, or even knowing anything about her, not being able to remember her. The tears that had flowed when Lisa went away flowed again. The cruelty of schoolmates pierced her painfully a second time, and the loneliness that had grown large in her last few years became overpowering. The fact that her father never kissed her, never hugged her, and rarely said anything nice to her crushed her. And with the prospect of boarding school so close, these troubles threatened to press her flat into nothingness, like weights of unimaginable size. In fact, she could almost see them as weights, thrown over her head and shoulders...and then she could. As they became more and more visible, she heard a voice from within her, but not coming out of her mouth say, “just lay them down, Deedee, just lay them down.” She was sure that the effort required would be too great. She wanted to, oh how she wanted to. Then, gathering every ounce of her strength, she lifted them off, one by one, and lay them down. Exhausted, she slept on the moss.

When she wakened, the weighty troubles had moved away from her a bit, or she had moved away from them, she did not know which. And as she watched, out of mid air, a shower formed just above the troubles, and as the sprinkles fell, the troubles began to lose their shape. It even looked like they were getting smaller. Yes, they were truly melting! In front of her very eyes, they disappeared. Totally disappeared. She whispered a prayer of thanks that she had found the strength to lay them down. Now she felt incredibly light, so light that nothing could hold her down, and she could fly away anywhere, any time she wanted. Free...she was free. She thought this might take a while to really sink in, but it came to her quite naturally, and along with her freedom came the gift of believing.

She turned and looked into the steadily burning flame of the fire. It didn't seem to need more firewood, for the wood that was there earlier had not been consumed. As she gazed, pictures of her long ago bedtime stories came to her, stories that took place here in this magical land. The images in the flame were like movies, yet real life, not really from another time and place, but from right here and now, though she had seen them before.

She saw Beauty and her loving father in their distress, and in their joy; the Beast and the prince appeared as one astounding whole person, defying all logic. She felt the walls of the immense castle around her, smelled the sumptuous meals that filled the tables, knew, really knew, the despair and the delight of the story.

She experienced the hate of ugly step sisters. She scrubbed stone floors. And she rode with Cinderella in the pumpkin coach, danced at the ball, was swept up in the arms of the prince, swept away with her before the stroke of midnight. And encompassed by the prince's love again.

She tramped the mountains with dwarfs, lived in their tiny home with tiny everything and shared their tiny, rich life. Too, she experienced the sting of poison, even the death that was but a prelude to new life and supreme happiness.

It came naturally to Deedee, then...the idea that if she would just think a thing, it would come true. She could think being happy and be happy. She could think being whatever she wanted to be (not just what father wanted her to be) and she could be it.

She could feel father love surrounding her, and she could have it. She could feel Mother love embracing her and comforting her.

Images followed of things that she really wanted. A sister. One to share everything with. One who laughed with you when you wanted to laugh, and cried with you when you needed to cry. One that meant you were not alone. One that played jokes on you and pretended to be outraged when you did it to her. One that always remembered your special days. One you could say anything to. One that loved you just for you.

Father love. Love that was proud of you and showed it. Love that wasn't afraid to tell you he missed you when you were away and couldn't wait for the day that you would be home. Love that didn't care how many questions you asked. Love that made you know you were safe. Love that let you make mistakes and messes, and supported you while you made them right and cleaned them up. Love that hugged and kissed and smiled and wanted to be with you for no reason at all.

Mother love. Love you never really had a chance at. Love that soothed the deepest and the shallowest of hurts. Love that always had time for you. Love that told you when you were full of it, and then hugged you silly. Love that was never going to be far away.

Deedee looked up. The sky really was blue. The clouds really had passed. And what she really dreamed really did come true here in this magical land. But she was in a dream, and she knew that. Could she dream in real life and have that come true as well? For the second time today an identical sharp sound jarred her peace. “Deedee. Deedee!” Could she dream in real life and have that come true as well? From within her came the answer, “Why not, Deedee, why not?”

Sidetracked: the Now Thought

2010-01-20T16:40:00.003-08:00

It's so easy for me to get sidetracked. I start a project...it turns in 2 projects, then 4, then 6, perhaps more. But perhaps the most consequential sidetracking I subject myself to is that of thought. That's where it all begins.

I begin with a thought, pure and true, and within seconds my attention is diverted, usually by something less important, I follow that for an equally short span and find myself distracted again.

Call it what you like...scatterbrain, monkey mind, incessant mind chatter...it has the effect of taking me completely away from the thought I began with, the important one/ the main one.

Like a train with a clear destination and schedule, I embark on the main track, the through route, only to find myself shunted off to a siding for a period of indeterminate length. And the journey goes to hell.

I'm working on this with zeal, for I am tired of interrupted journeys. So I've focused myself on being deliberate with my thought, stretching my ability to hold a thought, and to decline temptations to jump ship (or should I say rail) and consort with intruders.

If you will, I'm parking the intrusive thoughts on the siding, rather than the important one...the now thought. I can always get back to them when my now journey is complete.

I've built quite a maze of sidetracks, but I'm not phased by them. Actually, I'm happier than ever before.

Be Careful with what You Say...

2010-01-14T15:06:00.000-08:00

I planned today's work well. I prepared carefully. I listed and gathered all the necessary tools. I knew well what I was doing; I have done it plenty of times before. What could go wrong?

A simple slip of the tongue redirected my day, and I know better than that, too.

The work was repairing a broken window pane. Not rocket science. Just requires a bit of care. So, I went to the hardware store to purchase the glass, having been there yesterday to price it and insure that the glass was in stock.

I frequent the store, so I knew and was known by the clerk. It was a friendly transaction. As he selected the glass I needed and prepared to cut it he commented that it was the last piece he had in that size in double strength glass...better do it right!

Good old congenial me praised him when all went well and the glass was cut. This is when I made my mistake. I felt compelled to make a funny comment and keep the conversation going, so I added, “I just have to make sure I don't break it between now and when the window is fixed.”

Uh-oh!

So here's how the day went from there: I went to the client's house, removed the broken pane, cleaned up the sash, disposed of the broken glass and set the new pane in place. Piece of cake!

Then I proceeded to break the new expertly cut glass...for no reason at all, except for the slip of a tool in my hand.

Why did I even think about breaking the glass? Why did I not steer my thought away from that scenario? Why in the world did I give voice to what I clearly did not want?

I clearly allowed my day that was going so well to be derailed.

I did, however, receive a valuable lesson in all of this, so thank you, Big U. The lesson? To choose my thoughts, and to speak only that which I desire. (even when I am trying to be funny)

Face It!

2010-01-02T07:26:00.000-08:00

The verb 'face' has often led me into dubious dark corners. Whether it projected retribution, (face the music) signaled deception and betrayal, (two-faced) or buttressed a

reality that did not serve me well, (face it!) I have allowed that seemingly innocuous word to undermine my well-being.

I like the origin of the word, which carries the meaning of make or form. I am not compelled to be a passive participant in life. I can be an active creator, putting a face on life that pleases me.

It all depends on which way I face. When I face my dreams and desires, I feel good. When I turn my face from my troubles and worries (some might call it reality) and fix on whatever pleases me, be it real or imagined, I change my life.

That gives me a new take on face it! In 2010, I promise myself to turn away from that which does not serve me, and to paint a new face on my life.

Present or Absent?

2009-12-02T05:40:00.000-08:00

Four years ago, I found myself in South India, participating in the foundation of a school in a small, poor community. The school taught English to all who came. The adult students became my friends, and with them I had many lively interchanges, but it was the children who captured my heart. They were so eager to learn. With only occasional lapses, they were devotedly present to the learning process.

Early on, roll call was eagerly anticipated by the children. They proudly stood and announced their presence, grasping the opportunity to voice a new-to-the tongue unfamiliar English word, the word 'present.' And truly present they were.

On one occasion, the youngest of my students popped to his feet to answer. Perhaps because of his youth, he had a tendency to be easily distracted, his attention flagging from time to time. That day he belted out his answer...ABSENT!!! The class erupted in laughter, perhaps only knowing that the wrong response had been delivered. How he came to learn his unknowing response, I could not guess.

Haris did not seem to be embarrassed by his mistake. His grin never faded. But he earned a nickname that day that stuck with him...'absent boy.'

As I have reflected on the scene from time to time, I realize that Haris taught me an

important lesson that day. In the midst of all the fascinating offerings life gives, I have a tendency toward scattered, if not completely shattered focus. Easily I can unconsciously become the absent boy, however well-intentioned I may be.

On the next page is a story I wrote about Haris and his family...

As I walk through the door opening, out of the bright midday South India sun, I realize that I am a visitor in territory entirely new to me, and I consciously choose to drop my assumptions on the doorstep. As I enter the dim interior, I notice several things, some curious, some that might be slightly offensive if I allow, but I do not. The door, which seals the opening, is raw wood, flat and dirty; it would recede to colourlessness if not for stains of oil and smudges from grimy hands, perhaps discarded food. The walls of the nine by twelve room, in some distant time painted institutional green, are likewise dirty. There is one small wooden table, covered with a brown oil cloth bearing large subdued patterning, three mismatched chairs. In front of two chairs, plates are placed for us, heaped with white, snowy rice, steaming. The dusty fan hanging from the ceiling stands still…a power interruption, not infrequent, nor predictable. Heat seems to smother, sweat beads and drips.

Our invitation had been issued formally six days ago; it was unanticipated. We received it with excitement, relishing the chance to share in the lives of ordinary Indian people. More people are here than I expect…six children, five women, two babies, most of them either squatting at the perimeter of the room or peeking through interior doorways. Smiles welcome, while crinkled foreheads wonder and children fidget excitedly.

The chairs are urged on us and we sit. I make a mental note to just receive the welcome, stop gawking, and enjoy. But something I have not yet noticed will catapult our welcome into a life-altering moment and burn an ineradicable image on my brain.

We have been invited because we are teachers and neighbours; we are staying in this small, beautiful seaside Kerala community, Varkala, and we teach English…free classes for anyone who wants to learn. I began the fledgling school on a whim and a prayer when I sat with a group of community leaders concerned about development in this small neighbourhood. To a man they asserted that what would help their community most would be an opportunity to learn English. The school opened for learning three days later in a vacant building with a new coconut leaf roof, installed by the men and boys of the community. Up to 80 people from the area 200 meters radius to where we now sit come to classes, roughly half children and half adults. Through the barred window of this living/dining room, shutters thrown open, I can see the mud house that is our classroom 20 meters away. The people in the room are our students.

The lady of the house smiles biggest, for we have honoured her in being here. She lives in this four room house with her extended family…eight in all, I find out. Her husband is away for two years, working in the Gulf, paying the bills. He will be apart from his family for 24 continuous months, working as a driver for a construction superintendent in Dubai, but his family will be able to survive on the money he sends home; his children will have access to private tutoring, and with money he saves, he will likely build a larger home for his family when his stint in the Gulf is over.

We are watched by all as we eat our simple meal, joined by Azees, the current man of the house, our 15 year old prankster student, turned serious for this auspicious occasion. I imagine the titters at the edge of the room to be a comment on my beginner’s level of skill at eating with my hands. Rice dribbles to my shirt front, but no one appears to be overly concerned.

The food is simple and delicious, a small dish of chicken curry, the chicken butchered so as to make the parts indefinable, some very spicy mango pickles, a somewhat less fiery vegetable sambar, a warm milk-yogurt liquid that gives moisture to the eventual mix, and a ground aviel, made with fish, for this is a fisher family, and small fish are easier and cheaper to come by than vegetables. I eat my fill, am urged to eat more, and decline despite protest.

Since we still don’t have a great deal of common language, the post lunch conversation drags, and the function seems to be over…until…we are asked if we would like to meet Adeena’s mother.

Adeena is an 11 year old woman-child, a sometimes bright and often distracted student, who is half sister, or cousin, the relationship difficult for us to define. We gladly agree to meet her mother, mother also of Haris, one of our youngest students, aged seven, who was nicknamed ‘absent boy’ when he answered inexpertly during roll call early on in our classes. Now it has become the neighborhood joke, and everyone affectionately calls him Absent Boy, including his mother, we discover.

The mother is situated just through one of the open interior doorways, in the bedroom off the main room, and we are ushered in. I had heard no audible sign, and was unaware of her presence. We slip through the opening into the tiny bedroom furnished only with a bed and a small low table. The bed is dark wood, half covered by a thin, worn pad on which she lays, facing us and the door. This room is on the shaded side of the house, shutters cracked to admit a sliver of light.

As we enter, her eyes slowly open, as though she has been expecting us. She is not surprised, nor curious in the fashion of most of our other acquaintances. Her eyes send us a holy welcome. A slight smile graces her lips, and time stops.

Here is a woman who has been sick for 4 years, victim to an unnamed, perhaps unknown illness. Her hard bed and spare room are her world, from all appearances, yet there is not a hint of complaint or grimace of pain. Her yet beautiful brown skin stretches tight over miniature bones; her weight I estimate to be less than 60 pounds. She has declined all food, we are told, taking only water. There simply is no money available for diagnosis, treatment, or even palliative care, so none has been sought. In India, health care for people without rupees in hand is usually unavailable.

Her name is Amura. Love, I think, and love is what I witness. Her smile turns fully to my partner, where it is mirrored in a magical exchange of life energy. Time stills again. No words are needed, only presence. In that presence they become one; I am a privileged observer, my oneness yet a step away. They grip each others hands, their eyes peer into each other’s souls.

Amura's face is void of any hint of fear. It seems she wordlessly proclaims that love is all, time in this body not the ultimate…the best is yet to come. This image, this feeling...this is my extraordinary privilege. This that I almost did not notice.

She lays 15 meters from where foreign visitors trek up and down the road all hours searching for a unique experience in incredible India. Her only wish, I’m told is that her family be cared for, her children grow up with food to eat and family to cherish. She has learned that life is living, loving, and letting go. On this day, she shares that waning but powerful life with us unreservedly.

This I nearly did not see. I would not have known where to look, but am so grateful to have been included. Thank you, Kerala, thank you heaven, thank you life. Thank you, Amura.

An Attitude Adjustment

2009-11-03T05:54:00.000-08:00

The cashier gently suggested that I might consider an attitude adjustment. But she did it so cheerfully that I didn’t even think to defend.

If you just give me the two words ‘attitude adjustment’… a recalcitrant, perhaps nasty child comes to mind, one certainly deserving corrective action. And usually, if someone would suggest that I was the one in need of the adjustment, protest would spring readily to my mind, if not my lips. Today it did not.

I was at the home center, buying shingles for a roof repair, acting on auto-pilot, I suppose. I smiled as I stepped up to check out, and when the cashier asked how I was, I returned a characteristic reply (for me) that included a report on how messy roof repairs can be, how working on a ladder is not my favorite thing, and that it just had to be done…grin and bear it, so to speak. This I shared with her in my inimitable humorous way, of course.

Then she dropped the bomb! She sweetly offered me another way to look at it…an attitude adjustment. And she did it so sweetly that I did not even wince. I even agreed with her that it was only my perspective that made the job unlikeable.

Thank God for cashiers…and for the reminder that I do not have to continue to look at things the same way as I have habitually. I can choose differently. I can change my life.

First Thought

2009-10-30T05:08:00.000-07:00

I woke a little before 6 this morning. Immediately on waking, a thought came to me...a word. Awareness. Awareness. As I lay with the thought, another word attached itself. Grateful. Grateful Awareness. Today is a day of grateful awareness.

While sipping my chai, the backside of my awareness came to me in flowing lines.

Blindfolded by Choice

I stumble blindly on

feeling my way

awkwardly

urgency moves me

commands my haphazard steps

but why I do not know

I topple, exhausted

compulsion spent for now

despair lurks

then I finger the blindfold

I wear as habit

protection from unimaginable fates

slip it aside

with hands too weak

to untie the knot

light pierces my knowing

uncomfortable and revealing

I snap my sleep mask back in place

but tantalizing images

have caught my attention

too enticing to abandon

raggedly I resume my movement

peeking from time to time

slowly making friends with light

ahhh...

things go so much easier now

let me ever remember