I thought I’d live a bigger life
of sweeping landscapes speeding by,
and neon wonders twinkling bright
against a starless urban sky.
An up-close view of all that is
a searching of the sea and more,
each grain of sand,
each polished shell,
whose chambers whisper to the shore.
I thought I'd climb a castle’s tower,
and punctuate through guarded clouds,
favored with the highest views,
through secret doors concealed from crowds.
All this I’d hoped and much much more,
for words cannot justice give,
the longings of a woman’s heart,
where limits part and hope begins.
Three score and ten—little more,
the gods have counted out our days,
pursued by dragons spewing fire,
and warmed by love’s contented blaze.
The best of years now lag behind,
when muscles answered each demand,
and clear minds snapped with fresh ideas,
ready with a perfect hand.
But now the needle’s eye has closed,
the hand unsteady takes its time,
The castle on the hill afar,
stands flawless in my shrouded mind.
And what remains
is mine to own,
the gold, the dross, the love, the dire;
the journey inward has outrun,
the swiftest feet to temple’s spire.
Christmas in the trailer is so different than any before. It’s so quiet that I feel tempted to buy a used guitar, sit on the porch, and sing to the youngins. Of course I’d have to wrangle some youngins, because mine are oldins, but wrangling youngins might land me in jail. I remember the good old days when neighborhood kids were part of your extensive family, obligated to help you with your groceries, run to the store for you, and, yes, even listen when you sang.
The world has shifted, and for me, Christmas has shifted too. For those of you who don’t know this, we’ve recently moved from our 2500 sq ft home to a 300 sq ft trailer. We sold our furniture and stored our stuff. Actually, I was able to squirrel away an amazing amount of stuff in the cupboards, draws, and tiny closets of our tinny little trailer, but I have no idea where I’ve put most of them.
That’s kind of how I feel about Christmas this year. I have no idea where I’ve put it, or where TO put it, and this is making me blue. Not boohoo blue, but more of a brooding blue. I’m missing the familiar traditions, which I thoughtfully strung around my old Christmases, and because of this I feel a sort of vacancy inside. It’s like Christmas has gone out for a stroll, without telling me, so I’m here on my porch, wondering where it went.
I know that I have to start from scratch with Christmas, but it doesn’t seem fair, because it took me a lifetime to create the old Christmas. I feel totally polarized. Yesterday I stood in the middle of our trailer for 5 minutes holding a string of lights and then put them away because there was no place to hang them, and if that wasn’t crappy enough, I’ve been waiting over a year to finally have a working stove, so that I could make sleigh loads of holiday cookies, but now I can’t because I’m on a low carb diet, which was recommended by my cardiologist. “Oh” you say, “Don’t eat them. Make them and give them away”. That would be like telling a zombie not to go for the brains. I have no self control in such situations.
The truth is that I’m afraid to let go of my little holiday habits because the world has gotten so damn scary. My Christmas traditions helped to cushion me from all the chaos and clatter, like a soft pillow over my head, Christmas muffled out the discord. Okay, so maybe it was a bit limiting, even smothering at times, but I was willing to overlook it because, well…it’s all that I knew. But now my pillow has been taken away, and I’m jonesing on the porch, because that’s the only place I can string the Christmas lights.
I know I sound like a whiny ass baby, and maybe I am, but I’m hoping if I sit on my porch long enough I might discover something profound…that in the deep, Leah silence, I am being called to this very moment, where a powerful light is shining. Sort of my very own Christmas light, originating from a place that I’m sure I’ve been, yet I can’t name. A familiar place where Ma’s hot chocolate never grows cold, color crayons are perpetually pointy, and life is its own answer. A place where one needn’t look outside of their own full heart to find happiness, for love resides within, a generous love that desires to consume fear, hate, and indifference, and is capable of rocketing you into your incredible life every moment of every day. It is the reason for life, which also happens to be the reason for this season.
Wow! Where’d that come from? I must have been channeling George Bailey and Gandhi.
Happy holy days, people. May you discover that you are not as powerless and alone as you might believe, and that your small hands are actually God’s hands, waiting to ease the world’s woes. So go forth and be merry woe easers, and if you’re in the neighborhood stop by the porch for a little eggnog. I’d invite you in but...there’s no room at the tin. Ta dum dum.
I always sensed that something vital was missing from my life. Was it a person? A situation? God? I wasn’t sure, but I automatically looked outside of myself for answers, which, if I were to write a book on how to give your power away, would be titled, ‘Looking Outside of Yourself for Answers.'
I’ve spent my entire life dodging the shadows and measurers, those who delight in defining others. I’ve feared God, myself, and the future—flinching each time life made a quick move.
I’ve wrestled with the meaning of life, invested myself in the study of death, and tried using crazy glue to reconstruct the ashes of 10,000 yesterdays.
As a child I had a fascination with birds, always wishing I could fly high above the stained sidewalks of my gritty life, so high that the stains blurred into bunnies and well kept gardens, seeing the entire scope of existence all at once and finally “getting” it.
Well, after wearing down countless pair of shoes I’ve discovered that I do indeed have wings, and the joy that this discovery has brought into my life is unmatchable.
My wings are the knowledge that everything that I’ve ever needed to live a full, and authentic, life already resides within me, and that the best way to express this life is through bold creativity. Creativity is the voice of my soul, where inspiration becomes conception and concentration flows into timeless meditation.
Actually, I was about 51-years-old when I first discovered my wings, and began writing my first novel, Cosette’s Tribe, and I was 56 before I put brush to canvas, expressing joy through color, so it is never too late to begin.
But oh how tragic it would have been if I had never discovered my wings, and had spent my days anchored to my own limited stories, or even worse, bowing to someone else’s image of me in order to win their love and approval, never becoming brave enough to fly.
Genuine love coaxes us to open our wings. It challenges us to try new things, hushing shame and judgment, while inspiring us to leave our fearful little nests and launch our hearts into the endless blue.
Flying is a practice, and it requires lots of room, so give your wings the space they need to fully open. Breathe. Embrace your magic, and remember my dear one…you were formed from stardust and love; believe the rumors of your greatness.
It's early, and eerie, and I’m getting goose flesh as my morning walk leads me into some really dense fog. I have to push myself across the threshold of hesitation, for who knows what lurks in this heavy haze? And to think, I left a hot pot of coffee for this.
Each day is a gamble, but most days, I’m bright blue with optimism—the sky is mine, as is the sun and the moon. But on foggy mornings, when my faithful witnesses have vanished, and the familiar markers of life have morphed into storybook giants, angry she-bears, and spiky plants with mean points waiting to poke out my eyes, how do I motivate myself to keep moving? Do I continue on only because walking backwards is impossible?
I’m amazed at the amount of faith I have in the moment—this flash of now that calls itself life and holds everything with such casual tension, often disarming me by droning on and on like a monotone math teacher, and then shifting my world with sudden brilliance like so many stars kaleidoscoping from heaven.
I move forward, trusting that the odds are indeed allies.
I was taking my usual walk when I noticed a fallen leaf on the grassy path ahead. I couldn't help but feel a pinch of pity wondering if this leaf knew that it was dying.
I paused waiting for the rise and fall a faint pulse but the leaf remained motionless staring into the dappled underbelly of a former life.
Could it see the flitting birds above whose cares blended well with green?
And what of the greedy squirrels dropping acorns as they ran the soft thuds of a midwinter snack was it jealous of them?
I remained still pondering this gentle slip of gold wishing it would somehow rage against the inevitable maybe catch a swift breeze ride it higher than blue.
While wondering about all these things I respectfully snapped a photo.
The greatest lessons I learned were that I create my own suffering by resisting “what is”, because neither life, nor loved ones, are required to behave the way that I expect them to, and that by trying to change them into something they are not, I am in essence rejecting them.
I’ve learned that without acceptance it is impossible to offer unconditional love, leaving me with nothing left to give but the tawdry offerings of love’s counterfeit—the affections of my demanding and judgmental ego.
It was time for me to drop the belief that I was separate from everything and that in order to live a happy life; I had to protect, promote, and preserve “me”. This belief only perpetuated my self-induced sufferings.
These are epic lessons—ones I’ve yet to master, but I will (for the most part;) do my best to practice them each moment that I’m alive.
Thank you 2013. You were relentless in your lessons, but I know that I needed a good ass whooping to help me get unstuck. I am seriously grateful that you loved me enough to teach me…now get the hell out of here!
I’ve been rising early lately, walking the long halls of the morning, not certain where to put myself. My thoughts are what cause me to pace. Invasive little buggers that hijack me on my way to my pre-dawn pee, unsettling murmurs with spikes and spears, finding the softest places in my heart—piercing the pinky folds where wonder, love, and moonbeams are hidden. I never wear my breastplate to bed—that brassy brassiere that guards my heart—I lay it aside in slumber; after all, a girl needs to rest unencumbered by fear.
These early risings have caused my schedule to shift. What I normally do at 10:am I find myself doing by 8, making my day seem like a long train with endless cars rattling by—leaving me waiting for that bright red caboose to end the sentence and lift the gate. Oh wait a minute. That doesn’t sound inspiring at all. It makes life seem like an endurance test of sorts.
Precisely.
Most days rise and fall with events and thoughts, some self-inflicted, some random— the inner and the outer workings of me coming together to create a life consisting of unanswerable questions, nagging have tos, and yes, bliss. Of course the bliss part of my people pie is relatively small—a sliver of sweet aside a platter of boiled liver and cabbage, and somehow I know this is my fault, but hello! I could barely deal with a 17-hour day and now I have 19 hours. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; but can I really be trusted to carpe diem when I can barely vacuum the carpet?
I’m certain that these early risings have been sent as loving teachers to guide me on yet another divine adventure of how to live joyfully in the moment without judgments and expectations, and I am grateful for everything, no matter how mushy the texture or bitter the taste, but I hope I learn whatever lesson this is quickly.
It just seems I can never get away with anything. It's like my father's the principal or something. Some people skip through life with clean socks and new sneakers, zippidy-doo-da-ing through their day. Why do I always have to have a lesson on something? Oh wait…that goes into the unanswerable questions pile.
Please Universe… send me some fun tests next time, like proving to you that winning the lottery won’t ruin me. I don't mean to whine but I need my sleep!
I’ve kept clear of writing lately opting instead to dip my brush into tiny puddles of primaries and pastels. It’s not that I haven’t felt the urge to write, but rather I’ve grown tired of my own words. For me writing is a reflective vocation where my words spell out the contents of my heart. If my heart is heavy, my words are heavy, and quite frankly I’ve been in such a state of introspection lately that my writing has become an extension of this self absorbed circuitry.
This negative energy has been trying to drain me of my strength and pallor for some time now, so when my friend, Julia suggested that I splash my life with color; I jumped right in. Actually she made me take up painting as a homework assignment for her Getting Naked Class, that I attend. The class has been huge help in pointing the way to the things that really matter. So thank you Julia for giving me an artistic nudge.
This morning I’m writing because I miss it and I’m hoping to discover some tiny treasures, perhaps a clue as to how to navigate beyond the limited default settings of my mind to a place of freedom and intelligence, a place where the past is tucked in and understood and doesn’t rule the day. A place where the future needn’t mirror the past but holds infinite possibilities and endless surprises. I want to be rid of all the senseless gloom and doom and skip off into the land of perpetual tra la las.
By making the writer paint I’ve stepped off of my predictable path. My artwork is childlike and two-dimensional, bespeaking naivety and a clear lack of formal training, yet it is honest and untainted by the measuring madness of the ego or the shortsightedness of ambition. Painting, when I’m not certain how to paint, has taught me that control is an illusion, as are security, perfection, and time, and that I need only be myself—my rag-tag, bedraggled, silly, somewhat gullible, grumpy, and overly-deep self in order to be happy. I am enough.
Surrendering to this truth is like stripping naked in a fabulous boutique. The silks linens and cottons call to me from the racks, but I must remain naked until I’m certain that I’m not using the clothing as a form of disguise or surrogate security. I must surrender to my nakedness as surely as the evening must surrender to dawn, spring to summer, autumn to the callous cold of winter, and finally life itself must surrender, like a startled zebra seized by the committed jaw of a lioness, to the relentless grip of death.
I am convinced that until I can consistently determine the difference between the conditioned voices of yesterday and the compassionate and intuitive words of today…right now, I will continue to get trapped within the webby inertia of identity-dementia, and waste my days looking backwards for the road ahead.
Okay, 2012 sort of kicked my butt. Yes. It was a stern teacher springing pop quizzes on my unsuspecting soul, re-teaching me things I thought I had already learned, only to discover that I had acquired a sturdy mental assent on theory but the lessons hadn’t completely made it to my heart. Like a strategist leaning over a map, pushing little red pins into cardboard mountains, I hovered over my kingdom, protecting and projecting, paying no attention at all to the massive gift from the Trojans being rolled into my foyer.
I had paused at a place of mature complacency, mistaking it for experience, so when this particular quiz was placed in front of me again I had no fear of failing it. It was familiar, and although it contained some of the more difficult questions on life, I was somewhat eager to wear out a pencil or two with my clever answers.
What I hadn’t counted on were the trick questions, and the touchy language being used (with many words having more than one meaning) to convey the questions. Being a somewhat direct person I took the questions at face value, answering straightforwardly. I was overly confident, imagining my certificate of competency hanging smugly above my desk. But then I noticed that things weren’t adding up. I used the old formula when calculating the answers, but it wasn’t working. It had been years since I’d used this method; I figured I had forgotten a step or two. Should I subtract or carry over? Bah!
I was tempted to raise my hand in question, but the administrator had left the classroom, leaving a curvaceous hourglass to mark time, spilling away the sandy hours grain by grain in agonizing silence.
It wasn’t fair. The rules were arbitrary and ruthless, independent of earthly reason. One would have to be God to know the answers or at least a clairvoyant. I revisited the history of the quiz, when it was last given, my mental and emotional status at the time, and noticed that the last time this test was given I was fifteen and sorely disadvantaged. My adolescent perception was that I had lost all when I failed this exam. I carried this loss with me throughout my adult life. I lived in loss, ate in loss, and loved in loss.
Like an amputee, I learned how to do everything with a missing limb. The compensation became normal. I was an accomplished amputee. What more could be expected of me? I was proud of myself. I did well.
But here I was again, trying to pass the same damn test, figuring that with all these years of experience I would pass the exam without having to raise a brow or scratch out a notion. But I was wrong. Once again I’d become ensnared and was facing years, possibly the rest of my life, as a double amputee, for no doubt, I would lose another limb or perhaps even my heart this time.
I was determined to save myself from such a fate and find enough of the answers to earn a passing grade. A “C” or even a “D” would suffice. This went on for many months and then one day, while fretting over the exam, I became distracted by a bird resting on a branch outside my window. The bird was grey with black markings on his head and wings. He flitted along a thin branch, perching at last on a woody finger pointing heavenward and singing as he preened himself into a chubby puff. With the sun cast behind him he darkened into an animated silhouette, a singing shadow, causing me to forget his feathery details, enchanted instead by his sulky transformation and the simple melody of his chirps.
Laying my pencil aside, I left the room and found a soft place in the yard where I could be closer to this happy bird. Closing my eyes, I welcomed his song into my being; evicting the testy tenant with the tricky questions from my mind, along with his convincing rhetoric that I was not enough…I needed something more to complete me.
It was in that moment that I felt an inner peace lifting my soul above my thoughts…a restorative reward for pausing. Basking in this satisfying surge of life I vowed to monitor my thoughts more closely, and not be so quick to believe their dark tales. I could feel the rhythm, the oneness of all creation flowing through me, helping me to grasp the reality that indeed all things serve my path, (whether dark or light) including this current test, for which I shall no doubt receive an endless “A” for, acquiesce.
It may take the rest of my life for me to master this seemingly simple lesson. For the lesson isn’t without but within. The situations may change from year to year but the message remains the same: Be Present. Receive Love. Give Love.
Who’d a thought that a little bird could save me?
I’m sending this amazing love out to all of my dear friends today. May you find courage when faced with life’s many trials and may the truth of your lessons carry you to freedom throughout 2013 and beyond.
There’s a bit of enchantment in the air. It could be coming from the trees, dressed in scorching colors, tossing acorns and apples — shamelessly showing off, or from the cobalt sky as it poses behind the flashy trees, my two pretty sisters, vying for attention. Or perhaps the universe is feeling generous; directing the angels to make haste — sprinkle the magic!
I imagine it’s all of the above, plus a little more: I believe I’ve finally embraced the reality that grief and grace are partners, one taking while the other gives, paradoxical lovers brought together by brokenness and sincerity — I get that I’m actually equipped for this bi-polar journey, where hope rises like the sun, giving birth to the light, and then drops below the bruised horizon, plunging my soul into darkness — for a season. I finally understand that there is a place within my being which grasps the great mystery —that we are timeless spirits, kin to the divine, and that we have within ourselves the resources needed to not only persevere, but to see the invisible, and embrace the eternal.
I experience this magic when I invite Love to guide me through the looming shadows, ministering to me through nature and nurture, sending me serendipitous messages like a secret admirer — a random song pouring like a poem into my soul, subduing me like a strong martini. All things are needful, motivated by love for love. And my path, although strewn with thorns and often blanketed in gloomy skies, is somehow a place of safety…a wayward home away from home.
Ah yes, I speak these things while the sun is high and the calming sway of the martini lingers in my blood. How bold of me to speak so plainly of this enchantment, knowing full well that the ordinary will soon revisit me, leaving dry heaves and dead leaves as the only evidence of the magic…yet still, I will believe.
Saturday evening I was heading north on the Silver Star, a passenger train crammed with a mishmash of adventurous souls traveling over the Mother’s Day Weekend. It was surprising to me how crowded the train was. I assumed that half the passengers were suffering from aviophobia, while the rest were either eager train enthusiasts visiting the Tampa station to celebrate their 100-year anniversary, (which I totally enjoyed) or those whose budgets couldn’t handle the price of airfare. For me it was a combination of two: plus the thrill of being lost in a tangle of strangers, experiencing a certain freedom reserved only for the anonymous.
The train car rattled over the tracks, beating out a rickety rhythm, rocking me to sleep, next to my hushed seatmate, who just that afternoon was still a complete stranger to me—a face with no story, just an extra in my life-movie. But after being sequestered together to a space no larger than a coat closet for fifteen hours, a sort of forced intimacy occurred, bonding this writer to a retired New York City cop with a prickly persona and a heart the size of humanity.
I’m a people watcher; I get my cues and clues watching how people speak to, and about, one another. My defenses rise like steely porcupine needles when I see things that I don’t like: negativity, prejudice, hatefulness, pettiness; all these traits cause me to withdraw into my silent shell—protecting all my soft spots.
Warren was easy for me to read. Initially I could tell that, like myself, he had already withdrawn into his shell; although due to sheer necessity his vulnerable neck and head were poking out, looking around for his seat. His voice was set to “gruff” warning others not to screw with him, stashing his fleshy heart, warm with blood and kindness, safely away within his own shell.
Perhaps it was fate that had decided that Warren and I should meet, although I did kind of initiate things. At first he was behind me looking a bit confused over the seat numbers, but then I invited him to sit beside me, figuring he looked harmless enough. It’s a crapshoot on the train, and the last thing I wanted was to be seated next to Mr. Stinky or Mrs. Crabapple.
We sat politely side by side, both of us taking turns sharing our stories. Two chatterboxes who also happened to be good listeners, creating a give and take as rewarding as an exchange between a kid and an ice cream truck on a blistering August afternoon.
The more we chatted the more I liked him. He spoke with a disarming honesty about himself, and the lessons and rewards he had gleaned from life’s experiences. He expressed immense gratitude for his family—his incredible wife who loved and understood him, and a treasured daughter, smart and beautiful, as he stated, “his best contribution to society.”
We decided to have dinner in the dining car. I guess on trains space is pretty limited because we found ourselves sitting across from an austere looking couple, straight-laced diners, possessing a no-nonsense air about them—Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. Of course at this point Warren and I had sped beyond common niceties and splashed headlong into puddles of silliness. We were like a couple of slap stick comedians sitting at a properly set table, stuffing our nervous giggles beneath our linen napkins, desperately searching for our adult faces—and our table manners.
Watching Warren adjust himself to this couple was like watching the destruction of the Hoover Dam—first the cracks (wine was involved in this stage) then the leaks (humor) and then the flood. No filter “be yourself and screw them” Warren was in full form, and I, being a proper lady, followed his lead until Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself morphed into Mr. & Mrs. Life Can Be Fun, and the four of us sat laughing and talking until the waiter poured our drinks into “to go” cups, and shooed us out of the dining car for closing.
We said goodbye to our new friends, who now sported “yes” faces for the entire world to admire, and then we found our seats.
We sat and talked about how alike we were and how much pleasure we found in cracking up Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. We theorized that fate had accidentally thrown the two of us together, causing a rift in the time continuum, thus allowing us to see beyond the cosmic curtain for a brief moment. We saw that we were secret agents from the other side, strategically placed on earth as crust busters for those who take themselves, and life, way too seriously. We had the same life-tasks and the two of us together were—well, pretty efficient, but perhaps a bit much for one small train.
Eventually we nodded off, our heads silently bobbing in sync with the bumps, as we passed the dimly lit hubs of sleepy unknown towns, their soft yellow lights glowing on yesterdays fashions, mom and pop eateries, and neighborhood thrift stores.
My reasons for traveling north were as varied as my thoughts, a little business—a bit of pleasure, but mostly because I felt an unction drawing me northward. I had to go and find out what life had to say to me.
I had never met Warren before, but by the time my trip was over I felt we had become sure friends, and that our meeting was a sort of divine appointment, the repercussions of which will ripple to the corners of the world touching unknown hearts—forever.
It’s an exciting thing to follow your heart—opening yourself up to an innumerable amount of unknown possibilities, and betting on yourself to find what it is that you need. This trip has provided for me a sparkling opportunity, thus wiping my slate clean in order to write something fresh—creating for myself a new chapter as a woman, author—and friend to Warren.
I’ll keep you posted on my discoveries as I walk, with eyes wide open, into the vivid blue of each Tarheel day. Life is good. Tough. But good.
It’s been a whirlwind of a week with the release of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, and a surprise visit from my daughter and granddaughter from NC. And then on top of that, I was honored with a surprise launch party, sneakily hatched by my two beautiful daughters!
With all these amazing events I’ve felt the steady hug of support from friends and family and the relief of finally sending Cosette on her way. And now Cosette, equipped with an unflappable voice of her own, will find her readers amongst the noisy populace—ready hearts prepared for her tale.
Releasing a work of art is more complicated than I had imagined. I’d been so busy, for so long, with all the tedious publishing details that I wasn’t prepared for the emotional punch that came after the release of Cosette’s Tribe— That was the biggest surprise of all.
My novel was written from a place of healing and light, but in order to write it I had to visit a land of shadows, a place where cherry-cheeked little girls faceoff with villains disguised as good daddy neighbors, and although Cosette’s Tribe is a work of fiction, in many ways Cosette’s steps parallel my own childhood journey. So, when releasing this work I found myself feeling—a bit exposed and vulnerable.
But isn’t that how art is suppose to be—intimate and honest, touching the hidden places and waking them up; inspiring us to see more than the obvious. In sharing this work I’m sharing a part of who I am—what I’ve seen and learned, performing a sort of spiritual alchemy by taking the base things in my life and transforming them into something precious—redemption through art.
I’m smiling now because I know that it’s true, and that my vulnerability is bold and purposeful. I have done it and it is good.
I envision you sitting in your favorite chair, with my novel in hand, escaping for a moment from the clamor and demands of your life. It is my heart’s desire that the valuable time that you take away from your busy schedules in order to read Cosette’s Tribe will be entertaining, rich, and illuminating.
I want to thank all of you for making this launch such a success. Cosette’s Tribe is selling very well. Your love, support, and encouragement over the last year has been inspiring and remarkable.
An e-book is in the works and my website will be up and running in no time. Again, thank you. You guys are a treasure!
Anna Nalick, says it best in her song, Breathe:
“And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them, however you want to.”
I chose this song, Shine, because it just seemed appropriate;)
Closing your eyes for what seems like a moment, you awaken to find that you’ve been transported… carried across a timeless threshold and placed in the arms of an embracing light. This white-hot love, pulsing with the intensity of a thousand suns, slices through the tender folds of your failing heart, releasing your captive soul from its fleshy cage. You surrender, smitten, oblivious to the waning world as it loosens its boney grip from your life.
“Where am I?” You ask, timidly engaging this omniscient soul mate. Whispered answers nourish your hungry spirit.
It’s incomprehensible, this euphoric passage, yet you assimilate effortlessly, being drawn in deeper, immersed in a drenching love that awakens you to your true essence.
Your focused eyes sparkle with clarity, finally open to the breathless truth. You remember this place, and weep with joy at having found your way home.
Spirit and soul join hands, creating a perfect circle of love.
It is a new day.
Dedicated to my father-in-law, Griff, who made his journey home today, February 23, 2012.
I’m inside here…somewhere. My stream of consciousness is as deep as the eyes of God and as shallow as the peppery dust on a city sidewalk.
I study the things that move around me; big things and pointy things; things which are totally out of my control. Some drop downwards like the guilty eyes of Judas, and fly upwards like the surprised soul of the newly dead.
Other things rise faithfully, like the sun on a wintry morning; all silvery white with promise, yet without enough heat to thaw fear’s frozen grip from my pale throat.
And then there are other things that randomly appear, a rainbow on the tail end of a storm, a glad omen, dressed in candy stripes, like a parade flag heralding happiness. I like these the best. Happy rabbit trails with tea parties and grinning kittens.
I keep myself inside myself, tucked in and tamed. I dream from this place and hunt and love. My body obeys my commands, a nod of assurance to move forward and take the risk, or to draw back and RUN! Sometimes I dare myself to dance like a sweaty harlot or prompt myself to pray like Mother Theresa with her bony hands tangled into a holy knot.
I wonder at all of it, the thoughts, the emotions, the dreams, and drawbacks. I wonder at my choices; for I’m not exempt from surprising myself, disappointing myself, and scaring the shit out of myself.
The day is long with ruminations and labor, the night with its epiphanies and nightmares. Who can say what a thought amounts to, or how far a word can go…and this body!
My consciousness is wavy, like the heat that rises at high noon from a tire-flattened carcass in Death Valley, and its content is invisible to all. I speak therefore I hide. I hide therefore I speak. I am not my mind. I am not my words. I am not my body. I am.
Did you ever get an idea and then when you follow through with it it turns out all wrong? “Huh?” You say, screwing your face up into a confused mud puddle. You taste the soup and it’s too salty; you compare the photo to your painting and yours looks like a one dimensional rendition of cartoon meets real world. You date a dream boat only to find out that he has leaks. Not only is he not sea worthy… he’s not you worthy.
Then there are bigger choices…you choose your career based on economics and availability, or maybe you were pressured into this choice by an over bearing parent or a critical spouse. You sign up for classes, ignoring your gut which seems to be screaming “run!” and a few years later you’ve earned a framed document (worth five bucks) declaring you a “fill in the blank” specialist…something you never wanted to be. Now you’re thirty thousand dollars in debt with student loans, and depressed at the notion of spending the rest of your life doing something that drains you…when all you ever really wanted to do was train horses.
Life is full of choices, detours, and unexpected endings and sometimes no matter how careful we are things can go really screwy. This is where the flow comes in. I’m a firm believer in going with the flow. I’m not talking about having no direction. I’m talking about doing all that you can to make something happen and then putting it down. It is at this point that you jump into the river, and go with the flow.
We have limited vision; we can’t see the future; therefore we sometimes have limited dreams. Our plan may sound good, but it just might be less than what we are really capable of. Oprah is a fine example of this. She never would have dreamed that her future would unfold in such a grand manner. God had more in store for her than she had for herself. She did what she could and then she went with the flow.
Right now I’m in the flow with my first novel. I’m doing all that I can do to get it to an agent. I’ve also got some things lined up in case I choose to go with the self-publishing option; although at this moment I’m not ready to do that. There is a little voice inside of me that tries to make me feel anxious about the future of my book. Hell, my little voice doesn’t stop there; it tries to make me feel anxious about everything! But…I’m ignoring that little voice because I’m busy floating on this river.
The point I’m making is this: If life is keeping you guessing, sending you down strange alleyways, or setting up roadblocks, then there is a good chance that life is trying to communicate with you. Keep doing what you need to do, but don’t panic, and don’t push it. When you make decisions from a fearful place you just might end up selling yourself short. Breathe, dance, have a glass of wine, or take up yo-yo surfing! Do anything, but don’t jump ahead of the flow.
Man…I’m awfully teachy today. I must need to hear this stuff;)
My hearts capacity for love is endless. I have all sorts of people and things stored away in there. I love people differently than I love, say…a hot fudge sundae, but nevertheless I love them both, and my love for each doesn’t diminish my love for either of them.
Sometimes I’m surprised by the things that I love. I was never a lover of Chihuahuas because of a nasty bite I received from one when I was about six. But now I have a Chihuahua that I ferociously love. She proudly rides shotgun in my heart with her doggy ears blowing in the breeze and her eyes squinting with satisfaction.
There are seasons when certain people will have a major role in my world, and then the leaves fall, the seasons change, and those people will have moved on and are no longer players in my life. This doesn’t mean that I no longer love them; it simply means that our paths have called us in different directions.
Sometimes people will return to my life after years of separation, bringing with them the gift of a familiar love and a similar path. Walking side by side with them inspires me as we assist each other in completing our earthly tasks without fully realizing the enormity of the miracle taking place.
It’s wonderful, and necessary, to have good people in my life but there are only two people who will remain constants. One of them is me and the other is God. God’s face changes, as does his hands, voice, and stature. He is my friends and family, the people on my path, helping me to make my journey. I love them all and am extremely grateful that they are here…with me. They have taught me how to love myself.
To love yourself, is to love God, and in loving yourself, as is, and then offering that same magnificent gift to others we become in sync with the heartbeat of our lives and the reasons that we are all here…finally coming to a place where you feel complete when alone… instead of feeling completely alone.
Sometimes I’m amazed at how life participates in my life, placing all sorts of cosmic arrows on my path…. right on time, and helping to point me in the right direction. There is nothing more delightful than noticing these moments, and breaking into a knowing smile because you and the universe are sharing a private moment. You’re in sync with life and grateful for the attention.
The guardians of life are generous….and usually subtle. Ordinarily they won’t push through a closed door, but will listen through the door, and slip love notes under it, hoping to woo you in the right direction. I’m not saying that life isn’t capable of kicking down doors, I’m always running to the hardware store for door parts, but in the natural flow of things life likes to speak softly, and listening for that voice is part of learning how to live. Recognizing the tone, the inflections, and being able to distinguish the difference between the voice of your life and the voices of strangers.
Life sometimes speaks to me in themes, it’s so uncanny how life knows what is going on inside of little ole me, and the theme usually coincides with whatever lesson I happen to be learning at the time. If I’m learning to overcome fear then life will lovingly send me quotes, songs, and movies, which speak to me about courage, helping me to grasp the meaning of faith through the scattered clues. Like a child discovering something new, I gather the precious clues… looking, feeling, and tasting everything, until they become a part of me and work their magic, changing my mind and heart, and strengthening my drooping spirit like a well watered garden.
I guess my point this morning is that we are better equipped to live this life than we may think. And if we listen carefully we will see that we’re not alone, but are a part of the whole beautiful picture. Dancing with life takes practice. You must learn to follow, and then there’s all that spinning and dipping. But life is an expert dancer with perfect timing, and will whisk you off of your feet…..and steal your heart. Don’t deny yourself the pleasure of the dance simply because you’re afraid of the stage. Slip that rose between your teeth and tango!
You are standing naked at the edge of a cool river, on a moonlit summer’s night, and dipping a hesitant toe into the chilly bath. Little by little you immerse yourself into the waiting flow until you are weightless, moving rhythmically with the current, your legs kicking through the silky atmosphere, arms pushing and slicing, saturating every part of you, until you are one with the river, baptized and immersed into something much bigger than yourself, and you are free.
Sounds so romantic, but giving ourselves over to something bigger than we are isn’t always so private, or refreshing. Unfortunately life is bigger than us. It’s bigger than us on nearly every level; except for maybe when everything is going along in a predictable manner, and then we somehow fool ourselves into thinking that we are bigger than life. Those moments never last long enough.
Every now and then I have this same dream. I dream that I forgot to put my clothes on and I’m at a public event, spy walking from tree to tree, trying to hide because I am naked….and oh so vulnerable. I wake up relieved that it was just a silly dream, and wonder at the meaning of it.
Well, that’s how life is sometimes. It leaves us naked and exposed… and running for cover. You see there’s a tender spot at the center of our being that is vulnerable and naked all the time. It’s a beautiful spot, but usually going through some sort of transformation, or adjustment. It’s our “me” spot, the core of who we are, and who we are becoming. We show it to people on our terms, in our time, and when we feel it’s appropriate…and safe. But, sometimes we become overly protective of ourselves and unwilling to share who we really are with others. This is usually when life intervenes and points its big neon finger at our “me” spots, causing everyone to stop and see our somewhat awkward, but beautiful nakedness.
There are probably a gazillion ways to feel naked to the world and life knows them all. But that moment of nakedness changes things as we scramble to process our emotions and adjust to the change. We may get angry, or laugh, or cry, but there’s always a reaction and an adjustment period, which results in us learning something about ourselves or those around us. Of course there are usually a few witnesses around to watch the entire process, and it’s at that point that I wonder if I should simply hug them, or shoot them.
Eating life raw can be extremely messy, but oh so delicious, once you embrace your nakedness.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m juggling knives and I’m about to drop everything. I know myself pretty well and I can tell when something is out of balance. Life gives me cues. Like when my favorite jeans are too tight I know that it’s time to cut down on the cupcakes. When I’m snappy, I know that it’s a sign that I’m afraid of something, and when I’m forgetful, I know that I have too much on my mind.
Sometimes good things can throw me off balance too; like when I’m writing a piece that excites me more than usual I tend to write it in my head throughout my busy day. It may sound like a creative thing to be doing, but sometimes it takes me away from concentrating on what is in front of me. The results can be disastrous, like adding an extra zero when I’m writing a check, or embarrassing, like telling the cable guy that I love him when ending our phone call. “Bye bye, love ya!” FOCUS LEAH!
Lately, (like for the last three years) I’ve been getting signals to slow down and take some time for myself. I know, three years is a long time, but I’m a slow study, and sometimes I need life to bite me in the butt before I act. For some reason I feel that my world, and the people in it, will fall apart if I’m not there to hold everything together. But…that’s a big fat self-centered lie! So, I’m taking off my martyr robes and I’m creating a plan on how to take better care of myself… on an everyday basis.
I know myself pretty well, and I’m a sneaking little soul who will find all kinds of ways to hold onto my bad habits, so I’m going to have to outwit myself by doing things that I enjoy doing. Fun homework! Here’s what I came up with.
Taking a long bath is a great way for me to catch my breath and find balance. For one thing, I’m stuck in the tub… and naked, so the distractions are pretty limited. The hot bath water sedates me…allowing the stress to escape from my pores and rise, along with the steam, above me and then evaporate like a forgotten bad dream. Cell phones are not allowed tub-side, but candles and music are encouraged.
Walking is another free and healthy way to find balance. It awakens me to the world outside. You remember outside…endless sky, brilliant sun, and a choir of colorful birds singing acapella from the trees? Outside is such an incredible place to be, yet I often ignore it, choosing to sit in a dusty house, with artificial lighting, and dirty dishes that scream “WASH ME” from the kitchen sink. Yes, dishes can talk. My laundry yells at me as well.
Music is my muse. I can always find my way free from the chains of stress when I’m in her company. Whether in my car, my house, or out at a club, music lifts me like no other, inspiring twirly dances, and hip shaking shimmies. The band King Harvest stated it best in their early 70’s hit, Dancin’ in the Moonlight. They sing, “You can’t dance and stay uptight…It’s a supernatural delight!” So I intend to turn up the music and dance hard, and more often. It’s also a good way for me to drop a few pounds.
I guess what I’m rambling on and on about today is how to stay present, centered, and balanced in a very unbalanced world. My life is like my yard. It’s my little plot of land to tend to. Let the neighborhood go to pot, but my yard will have roses, pebbled paths, and fountains! Of course I’m speaking metaphorically. My yard is actually full of weeds…but you know what I mean!
Valentines Day isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes I think it’s just a big set up for disappointment. I remember, as a child, passing out my hand signed Pepe Le Pew valentines, and saving the mushiest one for my eternal crush, Steven Sweet. Seriously, that was his last name. I may have been only eight, but even then I wasn’t immune to Cupids arrows. Much to my dismay, my love remained unrequited because Steven Sweet had set his sites on the prettiest girl in class….and it wasn’t me.
I repeated this heart numbing ritual year after year because Mr. Sweet and I were in the same class up until Jr. High. You’d think that I would have learned? But, love is love, and Cupid is often a mischievous and cranky little cherub. Don’t let those dimples and chubby cheeks fool you!
Being single… (Or married to an old fart) during this holiday is sometimes lonely, but mostly annoying. You listen to your friends gush as they read you their syrupy Hallmark cards and brag about the rose petal path that they had to follow in order to reach the chocolate, bubble bath, and chilled champagne. (Men will do anything for sex.) You do a mental eye roll and sigh; looking for the closest exit, because you know what’s coming next…a litany of sympathy aimed your way. “Oh! I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t have a boyfriend,” or “Oh, that’s right, your husband doesn’t like to celebrate Valentines Day.” You mumble a sarcastic “thanks for the reminder,” and a few expletives under your breath, and then walk away, all the while wishing that it were open season on saps.
You can’t blame the romantics for gushing, even if some are insincere, but you also needn’t feel left out, because Valentines Day isn’t just for lovers. It’s for everyone with a heart. Valentines Day is a celebration of love. The love you have for family, friends, yourself, pets, life…..EVERYTHING! Love is an eternal and amazing force. Its power changes hearts and lives, and inspires people to do great things! We are all thirsty for love on every level. This Valentines Day don’t miss out. Take a huge swig of love and then pass the bottle on. We all deserve it.
