Caught With My Pants Down

A disquieting thought visited me last night while I was in the bathroom with my defenses down — along with my pants. In my mind's eye I saw a quick flash of a bottomless pit producing some pretty scary echoes (Believe me it was much worse than it sounds.).

I bravely closed my eyes as the image melted away and I came face to face with a silent wall of nothingness — that place of pure potentiality, where both terror and love await conception. By thinking good thoughts I chose love, and chased the terrifying darkness away — mixing it with light until it became as blond as a cup of tea with milk.

It really is that simple. Each moment we must choose between love and fear. Love sets us upon a white stallion and transports us to a place of security and light, while fear arrests us with our pants down around our ankles and hauls us off to the dark wastelands of dread and despair.

The biggest epiphany I’ve had of late is the fact that happiness is a choice, and that thoughts are the doorway to both heaven and hell. Oh I knew this before — sort of, but it didn’t stop me from issuing my mind excessive hall passes, permitting it the mischievous liberty to create all sorts of chaos in my life. I underestimated the ability of thoughts to create concrete reality and overestimated my skills of discernment, for negativity often comes dressed in all manner of loveliness.

Be warned: Hall pass = hell pass. Period!

And why am I carrying this subject forward for your consideration? Because the older I get the more I have to say and the shorter the amount of time I have to say it in. If possible, I want to save you some trouble by sharing my lessons. So there it is.

I have to admit that the older I get the better the coffee tastes in the morning and the funnier the irony of life seems. I mean it’s evident that I’m going to die, we all will, only because of my age I’ll probably go a bit sooner than some of you, so what is there to really fear? Actually, I’ve had more belly laughs over the last three months than I’ve had in ten years. Perhaps it’s just me choosing to laugh instead of cry like when I choose happiness instead of fear. After all, I can hardly change what is, and I refuse to allow circumstances to defeat me.

Or maybe I finally get it — that a certain part of life is to be kept at arm’s length, viewed as a stage of progression, rather than a judgment against myself, lest I judge incorrectly, and carry the needless pain of my shortcomings on my back forever.

Our days fly by like the fanning pages of a novel creating a steady blur of events — our own unique stories. Life is indeed fleeting — a few short years measured against eternity’s looming stature, leaving us to figure out life’s great mysteries — the why of it all. And to leave our marks — the love we gave, that fertile seed amidst the junkyard of stuff that we’ve accumulated.

Do yourself a favor and choose happiness. Life is too precious to waste by living in fear.

Temple’s Spire
By: Leah Griffith 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
the searching of the sea and more,
each grain of sand,
each polished shell,
whose chambers whisper to the shore.

I thought I 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.

Lean Into The Blade

How is it that the most powerful moments—the life-shifting events of epic significance—seem to offer the bloodiest, most repulsive, run like hell away if you can, lessons? Yet one can rarely run from the big-screen reality being played front center, where you are cast as both the adored leading lady and the despised villain. So is the way of the well-intentioned life…day after day, sunrise-to-sunrise—messy, in your face, LIFE.

Do you suppose that maybe God sets up our lessons? I can see him; sitting in his director’s chair with his glasses perched low on his nose, “Okay, this is where she finds something very special. Cue something very special. And…action!”

Oddly enough this serendipitous meeting with “something very special” is just the catalyst needed to trigger an avalanche of happenings—all timely, some breathtaking, and some excruciatingly painful, so painful in fact, that you have moments of believing that death would be a blessed relief.

And what does God say when you’re about to bleed out? He says, “Lean into the blade my child. That’s right. Feel the cut of it; welcome the gurgling panic of your ego as it sinks beneath the ruby flow, releasing its deceptive control over your mind.

In the remote wastelands of your soul, not a drop of blood is squandered nor a bitter tear ignored. Pain, a most ferocious lover, will be waiting to drive you deeply into reality where you will finally discover that the solution you so desperately sought dwells within the very heart of your problem.

So weep until all dross is purged, leaving only the sparkle of your uncorrupted Spirit’s smile—Love, ever waiting to escort you back to yourself.”

Today’s lesson: Never seek happiness outside of yourself for to do so is to say, “I am not enough.”

Oooo! Oooo! Oooo!

Teacher: “Okay class, put down your pens. We're going to have an oral pop quiz! Who can define the meaning of living an authentic life?”

Oooo! Oooo! Oooo! I feel like a kid raising my hand with the right answer. When I get full of something you know it’s going to overflow into my writing. So, here goes….

I am my authentic self and I am living an authentic life. It’s a funny term when you think of it…authentic self, authentic life. Like we’ve been offering our bodies as hosts to alien spirits. But in a way it’s true. Emotional pain can cause us to morph into damaged versions of ourselves. It can begin at a young age, and without even realizing it we can live in this state for most of our lives, often wearing a mask to hide our pain.

Or maybe we do realize that we’re feeling “off” and we commit to working on ourselves, making good progress, but then a strategic situation is placed before us to test our growth, the stakes seem higher than ever before, and we do alright for a season, but when the situation moves outside of our control, we freak out, reverting back to our unhealthy thought tracts—responding from a place of panic and desperation, until we no longer recognize ourselves. Where the hell did the real me go?

I can see myself walking into a busy pawnshop and telling the clerk that I want to pawn myself. Would he pull out a loop and look for a signature? Do a scratch test for carats? I can hear him saying, “Sorry lady, but you’re not authentic. You’re a rather sloppy copy of the rare and beautiful Leah Griffith.”

Huh? When did this happen? How could this happen? Was I the victim of a highly sophisticated heist?

If only it were that easy to detect when we’ve lost ourselves. The term authentic self may be a bit overused but the message remains mighty: You are rare and valuable. There is only one of you, and once you allow life’s circumstances to distract and overpower you, you are no longer free to be yourself. You’re living in, and acting from, a state of fear and bondage.

We mostly tie ourselves up in knots and then blame it on other people, emotionally framing them so as to shine the spotlight of suspicion elsewhere. Of course we don’t do this consciously; it’s the ego at work behind the scenes, protecting its fragile empire of half-truths, fears, and delusions in order to get its way and remain blameless and in charge. You may say, “But they wronged me! How is that tying myself up in knots?” Well, believe it or not, you gave them the rope (the power) when you placed too much importance on their roll in your life. By doing so you placed them on the throne and relinquished your power. They may not even be aware that you’ve given them your power. Or perhaps you gave your power away to drugs or alcohol. And why did you do this? Because deep down you held the erroneous belief that something outside of yourself was capable of making you happier than you ever could.

Oh Dorothy, when will you learn that you have always held the power for a happy life?

Here’s a good question: How does one go about taking back their power?

We lose our power one compromise at a time. Gaining back our power is pretty straightforward—but also a lifelong exercise. You must believe that you are a complete person possessing everything you need, both spiritually and emotionally, to live the amazing life placed before you. You must remind yourself of this every day, and when trials come you must remind yourself even more often. Of course you should welcome, love, and appreciate, the people in your life, but you mustn’t ever override your own instincts or convictions out of fear of rousing their anger or being rejected. Be brave enough to love and support yourself and quit comparing yourself to others.

Here’s the really good part about being authentic. Once you take your power back you can then use it to forgive yourself—for abandonment. Yup. You abandoned yourself. Not on purpose of course. But lets say as a child (before you had the emotional maturity to protect yourself) a parent did desert you, and then you carried that rejection into your adult life. You danced to the old tapes for years; never moving beyond the belief that you were not quite enough…something vital was missing. But now as an adult you are able to see that it is impossible to truly be abandoned by another person because only the inhabitant of a dwelling has the power of abandonment. The Free Dictionary’s
definition of abandoned is: unoccupied, empty, deserted, vacant, derelict and uninhabited. So you see, you would have to vacate (abandon) yourself in order for another person to move in. Only you can abandon yourself and give your power away to someone or something else.

Another way to use your reclaimed power is to forgive those people who have hurt you. Now that you have your power back you can see clearly that the other person was simply acting from his or her own limited view of self and life. You can stop measuring and judging them and freely offer them unconditional love. This is a divine love. Not one based on ego, (as long as they make me feel good, or agree with me, I’ll love them) but based on self-love and self-respect, both of which are divine qualities.

Being our authentic selves means fully inhabiting our lives—living from the inside out rather than the outside in, responding to life from a place of love instead of fear, and then offering the world our authenticity instead of our egos. It’s a nail-biting endeavor guaranteed to humble and test, but for those who want to live a powerful life, saturated with creativity and love, there is no substitute.

Okay, enough of my teachy mode. You do realize when I dole this chit out it’s only because I am learning it myself;)

Have I told you lately how glad I am that you’re here with me?

My Next Big Thing!

My Next Big Thing!

Laine Cunningham, recipient of two national awards for her novel, Message Stick, tagged me for a blog hop called “My Next Big Thing.” Laine posted on her current project, Buy Light and Purple Blooms. Check out her full blog post by clicking here.

Everyone in the blog hop answered ten questions about their latest projects. Laine’s describes Buy Light and Purple Blooms as a women’s thriller. "That is, the story is primarily a woman’s story yet it has some of the same elements as thrillers."

At the bottom of this post, you’ll see the writers I’ve tagged so far. I will be adding more writers throughout the month of January. Hop along to read about more great plans in the works!

My next big thing is a continuation of my first novel, Cosette’s Tribe. Readers have fallen in love with young Cosette and are craving more. I originally intended to write a continuation on the story so I guess this means that both author and reader are on the same page.

Here are the questions:
1. What is the working title of your book or project?

This book is a continuation of my first novel, Cosette’s Tribe. It remains untitled so far but I have a few ideas.

2. Where did the idea come from for the book or project?

The readers of Cosette’s Tribe have become quite invested in her outcome with many requests for a sequel. I had originally intended to write two books about Cosette, her early years and her life as an adult. This book starts when she is 14. I’m still not certain where it will end.

3. What genre does it fall under, if any?

It could fall under many genres, but the most obvious would be literary fiction. It is a coming of age story, which could also fall under general fiction or women’s fiction.

4. If applicable, whom would you choose to play your characters in a movie?

I know very few young actresses so I guess it would be best to leave this to the casting agents.

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your manuscript or project?

Desperate to leave an abusive home life, 14 year-old Cosette challenges the world, risking everything to find the answers to life’s most critical questions.

6. Will your book or story be self-published or represented by an agency?

Although seeking an agent’s representation, I am very comfortable with self-publishing this project.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I am still working on the first draft. So far I have invested a little over a year on this project.

8. What other book or stories would you compare this story to within the genre?

This Boy’s Life, an adaptation to a memoir of the same name by Tobias Wolff, has a similar nitty-gritty vibe and flow as Cosette’s story. I can’t think of a story within the genre of fiction that I would compare my project to.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book or story?

I have been carrying this story with me my entire life. Much of it is inspired by my experiences as a teen.

10. What else about the book or story might pique the reader’s interest?

The setting takes place in a small New England city back in the 1960s-70s. Readers have expressed an intense emotional investment in book one, Cosette’s Tribe, stating that it takes them back to the streets of their own youth. This project, book two, will challenge readers to believe in the magic of serendipity and experience, as they bite their nails down to the quick, hoping for things to turn out well for young Cosette.

Leah Griffith's novel, Cosette’s Tribe, is now available on Amazon, B&N, and also offering signed copies from here.

Laine Cunningham:
Author of several books
Publishing Consultant
Quoted on CNN and Media Bistro
Winner of five national awards
Visit Laine’s blog here.

Laine’s latest book, Seven Sisters is available on Amazon now!

Marie Nikodem Loerzel will be posting after her return from travel next week. Visit Marie’s blog, Rock The Kasbah here.

Little Bird Saves Woman!

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.

Within A Child's Eyes

I hate to admit it, but I’m not feeling very jovial this year, but rather a bit nostalgic about Christmas. I find myself conjuring familiar details from Yule’s gone by, like how the snow felt crunching under my boots as Ma led us along the crowded sidewalks of downtown Worcester, peering into store windows and judging their Christmas displays. One display in particular concerned me. It was a bare-bottom boy lying across his mother’s lap as she spanked him with her big mechanical hand, his red face twisted into an endless squall—forever humiliated. He would certainly be the recipient of a heavy heaping of coal, inspiring a rush of fear that my own misdeeds might be exposed.

Me & Santa I recall the rousing smell of new toys, while taking my turn with a well-groomed department store Santa, dressed in kingly red, ho-ho-hoing from his velvety throne, his all seeing eyes measuring my earnestness, peeking into my soul, exposing my coal-worthy deeds in spite of my new coat and shiny Maryjanes.

Yes nostalgic. The carols of yesterday seem to be carrying bygone Christmases into my present, revisiting the times when poverty nipped every nickel from Ma’s thin purse, and S&H green stamps were the currency of the season. The days of small joys tucked within tough times like diamonds hidden within the folds of an old burlap blanket. I hadn’t yet learned how to be discontented with life, accepting my mother’s world as the way everyone lived, her reassuring words pointing out the praiseworthiness of life, guarding our spirits from hunger and want. Spending contented hours snipping paper chains to drape across our bare walls—turning Styrofoam balls into a galaxy of jeweled ornaments to hang on our tree.

I guess I find myself looking backwards to simpler times because the present seems so complicated—so transitional—so sad. I want to look back to the Rockwellian days, when the sparkle of wonder within a child’s eyes was revered, as was the sanctity of childhood.

My husband Mike & Santa I want to stroll those easy streets once again, mingling with familiar strangers all high on the same holiday cheer. But, I mustn’t fool myself, for even back then evil had a face—clean shaven and reeking of Old Spice. I knew that face. And as I sat on Santa’s knee in front of Ma, I held back my request that Santa would make that face go away, and asked instead for a doll that could cry “mama”.

Blabby Life is indeed a spectral journey, where shadows dance like opaque fairies amidst the twinkling lights of our festivities. These dark stalkers have always been there. They sought to murder the Christ Child, who was whisked away into exile, safe from the blade of Herod’s plan. But this type of evil can never truly win, because the loveless womb from which it crawled has seeded it with barren fear, leaving it no place to go beyond the grave.

If Christmas has taught me anything over my lifetime, it is this: that life takes no break for the holidays. That Christmas is a microcosm of life, a compact version brought into acute focus under the brilliant lights of the season, causing our tears to flow faster and our joys to sing louder. I lost my mother during the holidays of 1998, and five loved ones already this year, including my dear mother-in-law just last week; I’m reeling with the sting of loss, yet I continue to sing the sweet praises of life, inspired by a divine love which expands the human heart, infusing it with the silvery light of hope. This is where the magic lives—within the restorative power of love’s embrace. This, my dear friends, is the spirit of Christmas…our greatest gift to one another.

Whether in mourning or mirthful, let us share this most precious gift of love with those around us, for in doing so we confound evil plans and light a torch in the most desolate of places. Merry Christmas fellow citizens, may our deeds mark the day as good, and compassionate wisdom be our earthly legacy.

Birthdays Buzzards and Rainbows

Monday’s attempt at a birthday blog:

Okay so I’m suppose to be writing a birthday blog and I’m finding that it isn’t so easy to write. I feel scattered. Maybe it’s that I have so much on my mind. Or perhaps it’s my age. Maybe my brain is starting to sag right along with my other assets. Sagging assets. Hahaha! Sorry. This isn’t going so well.

Tuesday’s attempt at a birthday blog:

I’m not feeling very reflective or poetic about my birthday. Having a birthday in December is like throwing a party at Mardi Gras. Everyone is already celebrating. How can you compete with that? My birthday sort of gets lost in all of the holiday hubbub. Yeah. This isn’t going so well.

Wednesday’s attempt at a birthday blog:

I’m sitting here in my summer bathrobe with a pooch tucked in against my heart. It’s quiet and calm. The Florida morning breathes lightly, gentle and vacation like. I’m adding my blessings. I’m also adjusting to losses. Epic losses. Life holds all things in one big pot—the gains and losses, the pretty and painful, the whole thing. God, I’m so sick of myself. This isn’t going so well.

Thursday’s attempt at a birthday blog:

This birthday blog thing isn’t going too well. Last night I dreamt of a sailboat and it was tied to the dock. A voice said to me, “What good is a sailboat if it’s tied to the dock?” I didn’t answer but I knew I had to untie the rope and set sail. The thing is I hate sailing. I prefer walking. But sometimes we are required to sail. So what did this dream mean? Am I supposed to be going somewhere?

Mike’s mother is sick. Sicker than sick. Mike is there with her now. Her days are numbered. But aren’t all our days numbered and we just don’t want to face it. We live like we have endless days. Like summertime and youth are eternal. I’m healthy and have this life to live. I’m blessed. I should be more grateful and active but instead I’m feeling listless. I just want to crawl into bed with my mother-in-law and hold her. She’s too precious to say goodbye to.

This isn’t going well. I’m dried up. I have nothing to say.

Friday’s attempt at a birthday blog.

I have endless miles of white to impress upon. I do. I have endless thoughts and emotions. I don’t however have endless days in which to write my stories.

So, what shall I say then? A birthday blog. Who gives a shit? Really? Don’t we all have birthdays? We expect too much. We’re spoiled rotten.

Shouldn’t I be celebrating every day? Is the birthday thing really necessary? Oh fudge, this isn’t going too well.

What would make me happy on my birthday? What are a few of my favorite things? Puppies, and teapots, and Gumby & Pokey, nice friendly people who say “okey dokey”, crunching dead acorn tops under my shoe, making them pop is what I like to do.

Buzzards and rainbows and pies of all flavors, a friend who will listen and do me some favors, someone who loves me without keeping score, and stays closely by with his ear to the door.

Listening to music while I’m Sunday driving, going in circles and never arriving, feeling as boundless as space and the sea, talking with God as he talks back to me.

Watching the stars blink is better than Vegas, the same stars that made Galileo so famous, feeling a part of ev-er-y thing, makes me so happy that I want to sing.

Eating a donut with jelly and coffee, walking a mile so I won’t be a softy, watching a movie that gets in my eyes, hiding my face so they won’t see me cry.

Blowing a straw sleeve across at my daughter, watching her flinch with sur-prise cause I got her. Laughing while showing my gums and my teeth, ducking the straw sleeve that’s aimed back at me.

Writing down words all jumbly and noisy, letting them spill out like milk on a doily, killing the editor and hiding his corpse, living wide open without any doors.

Stupid song lyrics that wiggle and hover, making me wonder if I need a doctor, to cure me of this so no one will know, that I’m a crummy poet without any clothes.

Whew! Glad I got that out of my system.

So ends my birthday blog. Thanks for indulging this old girl for the moment. It’s been a rough week. And by the way, I was sober when I wrote this. Big mistake. Anyway, when your birthday rolls around (and it will) I promise to be, the sort of friend who listens no matter what you say or sing.

Happy Birthday to me.

This didn’t go so well.