Thor's Hammer

Lately I read a piece that described life changes and unanticipated events with the symbolism of Thor’s hammer.  In Norse mythology, Thor is the god associated with thunder.  His Hammer is one of the most “fearsome of weapons, capable of leveling mountains.”  The author goes on to say that in wielding his hammer, Thor “would be able to strike as firmly as he wanted, whatever his aim, and the hammer would never fail, and if he threw it at something, it would never miss…….”

I didn’t think much of it, until Thor threw his hammer at me and it didn’t miss.  It hit me square in the gut, the second blow reeled me around like a spindle and the third pass pulled me straight up and I landed with a thud.

I didn’t even see it coming. 

Sixteen months ago, I filed for retirement.  The purpose was to allow me to reduce costs to the state and help build the cash flow that was dwindling.  My salary was immediately reduced and the associated costs to of the retirement was erased.  Only four of us knew, our Chief Operating Officer, the Council Chair, Council Vice Chair and me.  Since I had no real retirement date set, it didn’t seem appropriate to announce something when I would be working for a long time to come without interrupted service to my staff or our constituents.

In February, I set a date of December 31, announced it to my staff and to the council.  One council member was upset at learning at a late date.  Another smiled internally because he wanted to find problems with the agency that would jeopardize our program base.  My staff was glum but shouldered on, unsure of the changes that would happen with agency leadership.

By April, I found out that not only was I dead wrong about the simplicity I had attributed to the May 2011 act, but the ensuing furor from auditors, other agencies and the Governor’s office was stunning.  My chair and vice chair were removed for “bad acts”.  I tried to talk to the auditors about the reasoning of financial savings, but that fell on deaf ears.  I had a report run in June that indicated I’d saved the agency close to $100,000 by getting off health insurance as well as the other measures.  I was told to bury it because one line item would be misconstrued as proving rumors that were being spread by gubernatorial staff. 

I left the agency in July instead of waiting for that December date.

Thor’s hammer was already lifting, Thor clenched his fists to get a good grip.

The audit was published this week and the only problem found was my “secret retirement”.  An article came on line from the Portland Business Journal.  I braced myself, hoping that it would be a fluke.  I’d been assured by my media guru that this was not a story of interest by the media.  Nevertheless, Thor’s hammer had tapped me on the elbow.

A reporter called that day from the local paper, giving me a chance to tell my story.  I felt empowered by that.  The resulting article was very fair.  I relaxed

Thor’s hammer raised itself that same day when I heard the story was now on the radio, and being shared on television broadcasts.    The hammer swung me sideways and I had trouble righting myself.

Today the local paper published an editorial about the issue, using me as an example of a flawed retirement system.  Thor’s hammer swung wide, hit me square in the chest and I lay prone gasping for breath and writhing in fear.

Twenty eight years of service was reduced to a single incident and I was personally named as a violator of good practices.  The phone had stopped ringing.  I received no emails or Facebook salutations.  I plummeted into well know reactions of the martyred victim.

But I’m lucky to have friends that are not impressed by victim mentality, nor do they want to nurture those behaviors.  “This does not define you,” my friend K. said.  “What you need to do is focus on the you that is good, and true, and has an open and caring heart.  That’s what matters.”  In my despair, all I could do was jot those words down for later use.

I pulled out the article on Thor’s hammer and read some more.  “…..if you find yourself flattened by Thor’s Hammer, it means you have become mired in the quicksand of fear and reactivity that has made you a target.  You will find that at this time you are…..blaming, attached…………..martyred……judgmental, self-deprecating, full of regret…………..  This is the place of feeling powerless to act.  You got triggered by something or someone and did not stay neutral.”

Stay neutral?  When 28 years of my life is reduced to finger pointing and lifted eyebrows and silent phones?  Stay neutral when I am worried that I will be tarred with this brush for the rest of my life?  Stay neutral when I am now only able to detach from that job that I loved because I have no choice?

Ah………………….there it is.

This event heralds the end of a life that fed my soul at times fed my ego at times, gave me uplifting joy when I could be creative and tremendous downs when I didn’t do things right.  Through it all, I carried the responsibility – sometimes well, sometimes not.

I knew that every single person who was fired from the agency was gobbling up the news stories and licking their lips with glee.

I knew that my ego was now squashed and pulled like silly putty, because instead of a retirement party where the celebration of good things done could happen with jovial camaraderie, I am walking away alone.

Yes, my friend K was right.  It is time to shed the CEO package and learn who I am underneath that entire persona that I developed over the years.

But first I had to grieve.

I am grieving the demise of those 28 years.  I am grieving the loss of the relationships I treasured.  I am grieving the joy of planning new ventures and watching key staff grow into amazing professionals.  I am grieving the death of me as a CEO, the most important persona I had.

I will grieve for a while but I will also begin to craft my own direction for the third trimester of my life.  I will use Thor’s hammer to stand in my truth about this situation, whether it is admitting that I had no idea about how to function as a state agency head around retirement issues, or informing about my intentions in doing it the way I did.  It could be that no one cares what I have to say.  I am a game piece in the reaction game to potential retirement fund misuse.  How I feel about how things have been done is of no concern to anyone.  That is another reason why my ego is stretched and pulled and flattened.  In politics, it isn’t the individual that matters; it’s the end result of the political issue.

In my neutrality, I get it.  Now I need to move forward toward acceptance.

The article goes on to say, “Become neutral as quickly as possible, observe that you always have a choice, reflect on what action you choose to take in your life and then do it.  Use the image of having a Thor’s Hammer as your own ability to choose, intend and take powerful action.  This is it.  Do it now.”

Thor’s hammer will swing again.  I am not fully ready, but I am ready to find out how to be ready.  For now I am working at staying away from blame.  The decisions made were done as best way possible based on everyone’s knowledge and mindset at any given time.  This hammer is swinging mightily for reasons beyond those made in May of 2011.

What is more important is that I learn to be in acceptance of those hammer swings and be as neutral as possible in my response.  It is important that I stand in my truth when I can, but take very good care of myself all of the time.  It is important to heal.  It is important to embrace with open arms the wisdom brought to me on a daily basis by friends who are steeped in the attitude of acceptance and spiritual high-mindedness.

It is important to see a future of new opportunities and not need to know what they are.  That’s the beauty of an ego that is slithering and squished.  It allows new thoughts to come in.  Like a blacksmith’s art, Thor’s Hammer will create the new life with magic and unanticipated beginnings.

A beautiful friend and I talked about those endings yesterday and she sent me this beautiful piece through Facebook.  It is true for so many. 

I give closure to the past
I cut the cords that bind me
I deserve to fulfill my destiny
I adjust to change in my life
I welcome change in my life
My future is full of possibilities
I invite new choices into my life
I live free from struggle and fear
My goals are becoming manifest
I seek and find what I need within me
I release my need to deaden my feelings
I release the past and welcome the future
Change in my life is a way for me to learn
The plan of my life reveals itself naturally
New realms of possibility gleam before me
I accept peace and joy in all aspects of my life
I learn valuable lessons from change in my life
I am in control of my life by the choices I make
I'm ready to live life to its fullest, and life's ready for me
I nurture my inner child, love her and have allowed her to heal
I make every act an act of love, freedom, mastery and hope

The Log and the Stars - Spirit Emerging in the Wilds

I loved my new backpack.  I had purchased all the right things for my wilderness adventure, and would carry that loaded red and black pack on my back.  I’d figured out the lotions, wipes, sunscreens, and other items that I felt would be invaluable for this trek into the Mount Jefferson Wilderness.  My friend Scott, a wilderness coach, was taking me on a journey into the forest under the mountain to teach me how to be in the wild and pristine beauty of Oregon’ forest land.  I had my Keen hiking boots and thick hiking socks.  I wrote about my upcoming journey on Facebook and had a host of “likes” and “You go girl” comments back.  I was all ready to step into the unknown, because I trusted Scott.  I saw it as an opening event, opening me to places in myself. 

About a week prior, Scott asked me to write him about my fears and concerns.  I wrote that I feared that I would not learn anything, or that I might learn too much, and that I would be vulnerable.  Above all, I was very unsure about bodily functions and how those inconveniences were handled in the wild.  He made no reply, I figured he was logging that information as part of his education to me.

Driving to the entry to the wilderness area, I told Scott that I was also concerned about nefarious strangers who prey on defenseless people in isolated areas.  I based those fears not so much on actual experience, but on my own fears and vulnerabilities (and a few movies that I would just as soon forget).  Scott assured me that he has tramped the terrains of Oregon public lands for many years, and has seen no evidence of criminal mischief.

 We parked the car and as we began to organize our things.  A pickup passed us and the driver waved as he drove passed us up the dusty, gravel road.  Within minutes he was back and parked along the road shoulder behind our car.  He got out of his pickup and we saw the pistol clearly affixed to his hip.  He asked where we were headed.  He said he was trying to find opportunities to locate a man who had been missing for over two weeks and could possibly be in the area where we were headed.  Scott made it clear that our destination was significantly further away from where the man was last seen, so the chances of finding him nearby were not good.  The man smiled and returned to his truck, drove it a few feet away, stopped it and did not move from that time until the time we entered the woods.  “Well, how’s that for a great way for you to face your fears?” Scott smiled.  I scowled.  I think I even muttered.

Scott emptied my nifty new backpack and evaluated every item for its utility, benefit and weight.  About 25% was removed and put back in my nifty new backpack.  The rest was transferred to something about half my height, with straps and pouches and a folded item on top that looked like a long, folded yellow waffle.  I bid my wipe and dipes, my face wash pads, my comb (kept a brush) and other items goodbye as they returned to the car  in that nifty backpack and I locked them in.  I left my comfortable car wearing my Capelli hat (supposedly filled with sunscreen), my designer sunglasses (Dolce and Gabana), Chico’s kahki shorts and my “Grow Peace” t-shirt to display my spiritual leanings. Of course, my water bottle was a designer bottle that said “I am peace” on its charcoal covered canister.  That was also left in the car.

 I was ready to get started on the adventure I had imagined.

Scott set the compass using the coordinates from the wilderness map and deemed me leader.  As long as I was able to keep the red pointer in the “doghouse”, we were headed to the lake.  My job was to use the compass at obvious turning points to ensure that we were headed toward our destination.  “Always seek the paths of least resistance,”  he advised me.  I learned that orange or red marks on tree trunks or rocks helped guide us along the right direction. 

 We began to walk through a forest of fallen trees, plant life so strong that it could curtail your journey via “bushwhacking”, large boulders and other varied items that forests rely on but are not built for easy walking.

Then I met the log.  This long and massive trunk was deemed the only way to continue the journey.  It was the size of a large tree, with some parts filled with bark (good traction) and some smooth (not so good in the traction department.)  I estimated that the log bridged a creek that was about twenty feet below.  Scott took my backpack and his own and flitted across the log as though it was a small bridge close to the water.  I knew that others had traversed the log by sitting on it and moving their bodies forward, one scoot at a time.  I also knew that neither was an option for me.  It wasn’t a deal breaker, but I was not going to put myself on that log.  I had to find a way.  It had to be through the creek.

Scott identified the best place possible to ford the creek.  The slope was very steep and slick; the other side was covered with Rhododendrons that guarded the ground against the best of human marauders.  Using ski poles, I slid down that vertical and slippery slope with as much of a foothold as I could muster, and I walked resolutely but quickly in the mid-calf deep water on loose and wobbly rocks.  My shoes and socks soaked up the water like dry sponges, and my feet hailed a huge “thank you!” for the coolness of the water.  “I’d found my way around logs that scared me,” I thought, “that’s how I roll.” 

The pack on my back was cumbersome and heavy.  I found myself hunched over, trying to ignore the weight.  Climbing over logs and scaling slippery slopes was more difficult as the pack weighed me down.  My hips hurt from the burden, my back felt like fire.  I became frustrated and angry, partly at myself for being so out of shape, partly at this heavy, unwieldy mass that was attached to me.  As I tried to find a way to comfortably traverse the rough terrain, I felt my face begin to burn, my legs begin to weaken and my breath become shallow and rapid.  “What the hell is an unfit woman my age doing out here?” I said to myself.  It was the first time I’d questioned myself as someone that was maybe too old.  As those thoughts entered my head, my breath became shallower, my back pain more severe. 

 For most of my life, physical exertion was something to think about, try once in a while and discard to the wiles of thought and plan.  If it got too hard, I had good reasons not to continue, work being the best of all justifications. This situation put me in a “no choice” position that I wasn’t used to. 

“Do you want me to take your pack?” Scott asked.  I hesitated, feeling the failure and the relief.  I weighed martyrdom versus failure.  Then I looked at him with all the resoluteness I could muster in that beet red face.  “Get it off me” I said.  And he did.

As I lumbered through the woods using my ski poles for balance, I watched Scott move ahead with one very large pack on his back, carrying the other in his hand.  My heart sank as I watched him shoulder more than his share of the burden.  I’d let him down.  Coming on this trip was a very wrong decision.  Once in a while Scott would move so fast that he disappeared from my sight.  I figured he just wanted to hurry up and get to our camp so that he could loosen his load.  Abashed, I kept to my journey, seeking ways to speed up and finding none.  I would finally see Scott again up ahead, waiting.  I abashedly forged on.

We entered an area that was less wild, with small scrub pines and tufts of grass along hard ground.  “We’re almost there”, Scott said, and I don’t know which one of us were more relieved.

The camp was amazing, a very wide open area with a smooth rock surface.  Small trees surrounded the perimeter; larger trees provided small oasis spots just a few feet beyond.  A fire pit built inside boulders had been well used.  It was surrounded by stools made from large boulders; a flatter stone provided a comfortable seat.  Other boulder chairs adorned the site.  There were nooks of respite where large piles of rocks gave way to an open space for sitting among small stands of scrub trees.  The ambient noise of the rushing creek gave it the perfect feel of the wilds, yet the peace of the water noises.  Overhead, Mount Jefferson loomed in its black wonder, small patches of snow adorning crannies that held on to the coat of winter.

 Scott set up camp.  I sat in silence, feeling very sad and disconnected.  I was especially sure that Scott was regretting this trip.  My inner being was hunched over in shame.  I should have been stronger.  I should have been faster.  I should have been lither, more svelte and limber, all those attributes that would have made forging the forest effortless. 

 Regardless of how quiet and withdrawn I felt, I could not have kept quiet about the bodily functions that were becoming an important topic to me.  Scott gave me a primer of how to use the outdoors respectfully and I ventured off to find my own place of relief.  I found a beautiful nook in a set of trees about ten feet from camp.  A circle of rocks had just the right décor of brush, the smaller rocks lined around the trees.  It was beautiful.  It became the perfect boudoir.  It was mine.

Once the camp was set up, Scott invited me to visit the lake, explore other creeks and we would return with our water.

We walked to the creek closest to the camp, divided by ground into separate tributaries.  Once again I was able to splash my feet in the cool water.  Beneath the water were masses of earth toned pebbles.  I wondered how such a beautiful array of hues can happen with those lovely rocks.  The water had white hues similar to tiny whitecaps that indicated something was swimming within its depths.  Scott explained that it was the silt from the mountain.

 After crossing the creek, another log came into view that moved across a deeper stream .  It was unavoidable.  I thought of the scene from dirty dancing where Johnny and Baby practiced dance steps on the log over a river.  Suppose Scott and I did the same thing? It was a wonderful thought, and ridiculous.  Instead, I held on to Scott’s shoulders as we cautiously used baby steps along the log.  One part of the log turned out to be a compacted piece of dirt.  It broke off when I stepped on it.  There was a bush in the middle of the log that had to be flattened a bit as we teetered through it.  We were soon off the log and facing the lake.

The lake was a deep green and still.  Small waves of sun sparkle floated in parts of its body.  Along the edges, curry colored earth gave a colorful contrast to the greens.  Around the lake were stands of old trees, once alive with foliage and now gray and smooth from the years of wear.  I called it “the neighborhood”. 

 Further down to the end of the lake were more members of the neighborhood, but they stood tall and proud within the lake itself.  The trunks were the warriors, the guardians.  They made age look beautiful.

 “Notice the entry to this next area” Scott said, pointing to a length of land that was a myriad of brush, fallen logs, stumps, scrub and unyielding limbs.  It was vastly different from the meadow lands by the lake, dotted with lush green plants and brilliantly pink Indian Paint Brush.  “This is called a transition area” he said.  The land where change begins is the land of the most challenge. If you can get through the transition, you can find the beauty beyond.

We scrambled through the messiness and walked along another creek.  This one was clean and pure.  It raced noisily over rocks and babbled its way into pools along the shore.

Scott left me to journal next to a tree trunk covered with moss in the creek.  I was mesmerized by a patch of wood that stood firm alongside the trunk, stopping the flow of water from perfectly cascading through the spaces of the trunk roots laying sideways and re-entering the creek below.  As I scooted closer to the trunk, I noted that the wood had an etching on it that resembled a face.  It looked to me as though it was a feminine face with large eyes looking upward and a hooked nose separating the eyes.  On the top of the trunk was a wood sculpture with a square base and a single pinnacle on top – all covered with moss.  The face looked to me like me.  The structure on top looked like the state capitol, and in that etched wood I was focused on it with a rapturous look.  I equated it to my life over the past two years, my strict attention to the capitol and how my singular focus had stopped my own flow.  I had been hanging on to an imperfect place, stopping the good for my life in order to attach to the political world that had me held with fascination. 

I grabbed my journal and realized I had no pen.  So I reflected on the change of life I had given myself by leaving the world of politics and now sat in a wooded area with clean pure water undulating by me, feeling the presence of wood spirits and again knowing I had done the right thing.  I will work through the grief of leaving twenty-eight years of juicy life, and I will create a new juicy life that flows without strategy and Machiavellian moves.

Scott came back so that we could return to camp.  As we walked by the meadow he showed me coyote and bear tracks, and I thrilled at knowing that they had this wonderful place to enjoy their fall and winters.  We traversed the log and gathered water in the creek.  We filtered the water and boiled it.  We sat in the shade and relaxed.  At one point I asked Scott how long it had taken us to get from the road to the camp, and he said it was approximately two and one half hours.  The total distance was three-quarters of a mile.  Scott said it usually takes him thirty minutes.  I was again saddened and ashamed.

Scott laid a fire with the care and respect given to nature.  He used alternate means of lighting the fire besides a quick swipe of a match or lighter.  He gently laid pieces of the forest within the twigs and built the fire from there.  Then he turned to the practices of the Native Americans, using sage and tobacco and special stones.  It was done in reverence as the sky began to turn an indigo blue and the flames crackled and lit the area with gold and copper hues. 

God put out his jewelers cloth as a canopy over the earth and then filled it with glistening white gems.  There were incredible groupings, the familiar constellations, a planet that seemed to have found its own place right above me in a field of concentric circles, and once in a while faint satellites floated by.  I laid there in my sleeping bag covered with protection garb and watched the sky watch me.  I could hear the wilderness, small crackles, rushing water, the silence only found when the earth is still and all of it, including me, looked up at that starry sky.

I woke to a clap of thunder and then felt the rain splatter on me.  I pulled the gear over my head and listened to the rain hit the tarp like material.  The rain would stop; I’d peek out and see that stars had come forth through the black hole that was the rain cloud.  On through the night, the sky doused me with pure water, and then shone its light on me.  I slept intermittently, not once caring if I got sufficient sleep.  I was ebbing and flowing with the earth’s movements – sometimes decorating with the stellar diamond sky, sometimes cleansing with the pure rainwater. 

As the sun began to rise, I asked for help.  “Scott can’t have to carry my pack back” I said.  “Please help me make this work.”

 I was up the next morning disassembling my bedding and laying it out to dry.  I visited my boudoir and then visited the terrain around the camp.  Scott offered me granola and blueberries and I ate it down.  I was ready to face my demons.  I told him that I was embarrassed about my actions yesterday, and about how much work I’d put on him.  He told me that I had naturally expected trails and facing wild country wasn’t something I could ever have been prepared for.  We talked about my need to learn to be physically fit, now that I’ve left a world where I worked on being mentally fit.  I agreed with him, and admitted that I don’t push on through physical challenge.  It was time I did.

Scott helped me put the pack on my back and strap it at the hips and then the chest.  It was heavier on the right side.  Instead of resisting that heaviness, I leaned into it.  I grabbed the ski poles and put my hat on and followed Scott out of the camp.

There were logs that I had to sit on and swing myself over to traverse.  I would ask Scott if I did those yesterday and he said, “Yes, you didn’t like them”.

There were places of dead wood, moss, and steep places with no foothold that I had to negotiate using my poles and Scott’s suggestions.  I asked if I had done those yesterday and he said “yes, you didn’t like it”. 

Again Scott disappeared and this time I knew that it wasn’t because he wanted to hurry, it was because he wanted to let me find my own way without dependency on him.

We reached that danged log.  I clamored down to my special place through the fibrous trunks of the Rhododendrons and slippery banks of moss and rock.  “Don’t trust the poles” Scott said, “trust your feet”.  And I did.  And I slapped my feet with relish in the cool water once I reached it.  I gratefully accepted when Scott helped me up the other slope. 

We continued our walk, I felt light and wonderful.  I was still beet red; I was still struggling with my breath, but that pack never left me.  And then Scott said, “Look over there.”  And there was my car.  We made it in 55 minutes.

And now I knew what it was like to push through the fear and the hard stuff.  I knew that my body could do so much more than I thought it could.  I was not the pathetic person struggling plaintively the day before, I was an energetic and tenacious woman determined to do the right thing.  I felt lighter, more at peace.

My night with the stars, my time with that piece of obstinate wood determined to stay glued to a place that no longer served, the grace of the guide who understood and showed only compassion and no judgment – gave me the gift of awareness of my connection to the Mother earth that I’ve taken for granted for so long.

It is no accident that I drew a card from a Wisdom Deck named “Earth Song” the day before we left.  It encouraged me to hear the earth, feel the earth and honor the earth.  A friend sent me a poem that turned out to be the embodiment of my experience:

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

© Mary Oliver

I returned home and walked out into the woods behind my house.  I saw them differently, and vowed to offer them to others for respite and meditation.  I saw a sign I purchased at a local art fair last week:  Let your soul hear the earth song.  I sat in the chaise lounge in a special part of the garden to read, and looked up to see an eagle fly gently overhead. 

I received another email before I left:

So Long its been good to know you ---------   because you will come back a different person. I admire your courage and determination.  You touch my heart with your willingness to find the truth.  Go Girl!!!!!!! 

The only item I inadvertently left on the mountain was my Dolce and Gabana sunglasses.  I figure it is because I needed to see things differently. 

It is a very good start.

Overflowing the World With Happiness

I try to distract myself when I use my new Vibrafirm exerciser.  I get that it gets the lymph to flow and allows my cells to replenish.  I also get that it is a fairly decent workout, burning just a tad more calories than a yoga routine.  But I don't enjoy watching myself shimmer and shake, and I am not easily lulled into a sense of nirvana.  I have to have something to keep me focused on my mind, so I pulled out an old magazine received last year and just now pulled it out.  And I'm glad I did.  Here's the great gifts I got from this December issue.

Dr. Allan J. Hamilton, a brain surgeon, was faced with the potential of having cancer.  As he observed his emotional reactions to the tests, then the wonderful news that the tumor was benign, he realized there were ways to live more fully, more benevolently, with the mystical humility that comes with joy of Being.  Here were his ideas:

1.   Keep a journal of blessings.  Every day write down three items in your life for which you are grateful.  Write as much as you can.
2.    Perform three acts of random kindness before noon and three more before sundown.  Hurry.  Make sure you will get no credit for them and that no one else will ever know about them.
3.    Write testimonials of gratitude to three individuals who meant a great deal to you in your life.  If they are still alive, deliver them in person.  If they have passed away, deliver them in person to their next of kin.
4.     Fill out three thank you cards each morning.
5.     Buy three books for three friends and send them anonymously to their attention.
6.     Make three apologies for three wrongs you have committed.
7.     Give three days of earnings anonymously to a charity in the name of three individuals who have wronged you.

I felt bliss reading these.  I feel bliss sharing them.

I'd ask you to report in if you do any of these things, but goes against something else that I read with great glee:

Question, I'm taking classes with a mystic who'd always talking about her miraculous powers.  Is this a sign of her enlightenment?
Rabbi Rami Shapiro:  No.  It is narcissism.  In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus seeks to keep his miracles secret.  Why?  Because miracles are beside the point.  Love is the point.

Let's get out there and love.

Hamilton, Allan J, MD  Making Happiness Last, Spirituality and Health Magazine, November - December, 2011

The Ultimate in Self Love: Assimmilating all of who we are

I got a text from a close friend last week saying “I need to discuss shame”.  S. is a smart, loving and incredibly competent woman.  She is always growing in her field of expertise.  She writes, she paints, and she helps lead meditation groups at the local prison.  She is vibrant and healthy, even after conquering stage four breast cancer.

S. is ashamed of her body.  For as along as I’ve known her, she has been fit and lean, working out with cardio, weights and yoga.  While her cancer had an impact, it was not long term.  She is growing older, and is still beautiful.

Yet, S. is ashamed and angry at her body.  She always has been.  She fears that this self loathing has created some of the physical challenges she has had.  Even though she agrees with me about her many attributes, she cannot come to peace with a body she has tried to “fix” all her life.

Our conversation turned to wonder at how we can be so separate within.  We read the platitudes about how we must first love ourselves in order to see the changes we must make, but that’s a tall order.  Women are raised from Barbie dolls and cartoon characters to believe that women’s bodies should be hourglass shaped and perfectly turned out.  We know how cruel children are to the “fat kids” who are the last to be picked for the team, and rarely invited to parties.  We shape our idea of the perfect self, and then we spend a lifetime working toward that shape.

Somehow, the self separates in those cases when the need for the body to be “perfect” is a continuing goal development activity.  Somehow, the self that we are that gathers family and friends, chooses a career, plans a vacation, decides our spiritual path and pursues our talents is a person we recognize and share with others.  That self has shaped the persona we show the world.  All too often, that self does not feel at one with the temple in which it resides. 

We never say, “I wish my brain was just a little bigger to grasp Quantum physics” every day.  But how often do we weigh ourselves or put on a tight pair of jeans and once again wish our bodies were different. 

How sad it is that the one part of ourselves that people view first is the one part of ourselves that we spend so much money trying to shape into a reasonable, acceptable image of what we want to be.  It is as though we know we have greatness on the inside, but it isn’t worth much until we are proud of what is on the outside.  We feel we aren’t as loveable if we don’t look the part. 

For those of us who swim in that sea of shame, we must face the genesis of the beliefs we feel, and learn to include our bodies into our self love efforts.  We don’t love greatly if we love one part of ourselves conditionally.  We don’t shine our light if we are too busy trying to fix the part of us that we can’t love. 

One message of the solar plexus energy field is that of assimilation.  The solar plexus generates heat.  Fire assimilates any matter into combined material of change (ashes, coal, etc).  “Love who you are, in total” this energy field tells us.  It is what makes us whole.

“Make an altar” I told S., “Ask God to help you love your body as much as you love your mind, your creativity, your love for friends” I pictured her putting things on her altar that reflected her unrealistic ideas of what her body should be (one Barbie doll should do it), and then put images of what would be the most beautiful her.

She cried, thanked me, and we hung up.

I’m getting ready to make my own altar, bringing the same humble requests to my own Source.

That Inner Tantrum

Do we ever grow completely up?  I am asking myself just that, as I remember my day in painting class.

The subject was autumn trees near a lake.  The key was to bring oil on oil into a growing and developing landscape of sky, water, background trees, then foreground trees, then land and pathway and final beautifully appointed trees colored with the hues of fall.

My sky was okay, clouds were a bit suspect but I learned to blend and that was fun.  I forgot to save room for my sunlit water way, but learned how to rectify that.  And then.................it was time for the background trees.  People around the room were dotting and tapping and blending and small islands of forests were rising up to fill the horizon with a breathless landscape.  My own canvass showed lumpy, bumpy and dark unrecognizable space between the "trees" and the water.  When I tried to draw a shore line it looked a bit like a heart monitor readout.  The large forested area to the left looked a bit like a green blob sinking ever so slightly in algae infested water.

By break time, I was frustrated and ready to call it a day.  I refused to draw branches in my forested area, I was so "done".  All I needed was to see people leave for break so I could gather my coat and scarf and head out the door.  I was having an internal tantrum and it was time to leave.  I told the woman sitting next to me that my painting had reached a critical point where it couldn't be fixed and I was going to call it a day.  She heard the little tears in my throat.  When I said it was time for me to leave, she said something about "mature way of dealing" that stopped me cold.  I opened to her suggestions and fixed the algae colored water, as well as getting the horizon a little more recognizable through more blending.  The teacher came over and helped me line the shoreline for depth.  Then my painting partner and I took a walk, talked about other things, and I found my center once again.

Isn't it interesting that no matter how old a person gets, there are still reactions based on old scripts from years ago?  I realized that I was accessing that little girl who was afraid not to do things right, that felt her worth was in achieving at the first try.  I thought about how often I have left a class when learning a new craft seems too hard or when I'm afraid I'm not good enough.  And there I am, a little girl who takes the "bratty" road to get out of the anticipated humiliation.

Today I bless the woman who not only helped me find ways to correct my errors, but called me our on my immature response to the problem.  I bless the fact that she walked with me and honored me, and allowed me to reach out for help.  I bless the fact that rather than avoid humiliation, I was able to practice humility.  Unlike that poor child within who still tries to overachieve, I can now choose to say "I'm enough".

My teacher and my friend gave advice throughout the second half of the class and the resulting painting is good enough to frame and hang.  I'm pretty proud of it.  But even more so, I'm proud of  being open to hearing, accepting help and, just for today, for being a grown up.

The Box

From a dear friend who helped fringe kids find their path, and in so doing found his heart.

Once in a great while the fortunate of us, receive a gift whose value is beyond estimate; a gift so humbling we can never forget.  Such a gift sits in front of me as I write, sitting where it has been for the last 40 years.  It is a small box made of golden oak, finished with untold layers of a hand rubbed finish, applied impeccably with hours and hours of loving care.  

On the open market it might not be considered priceless, but as the years have gone by I have come to realize its value, because I've come to understand how much of a young boy's heart was put in that box.  And, that little boy has never been further from my thoughts than his little box is from me now. 

Mike came to the class extremely introverted and very shy.  He didn't seem to have any confidence and didn't act like he felt his opinion was worth anything to anybody. Many teachers might look at his total year’s accomplishment, one small oaken box, and not give him much of a grade for the year, but in my book he gets an A+.

Early in the year Mike came to school one morning with a dirty oil stained little box and wanted to know if I thought he could refinish it.  It was just after I had shown some of the class how to put a beautiful polyurethane finish on the chess boards they were making.  Mike hadn't had the courage to take on a project as grand as a chessboard.  But now he came apologetically in with his greasy box, standing back from my desk like he was sure I didn't have time for him. But in time he screwed up his courage, wondering whether his box could be "finished" like "the chess boards"?  He asked it like he was hoping I would say no.

The little box he held was a little bit like some of these kids, it might not look like much, but sometimes a scruffy lump of coal can hide a diamond in the rough.  So I told Mike I thought it was an excellent choice, hoping there was something under the grime worth the effort of uncovering it.  With that blessing, Mike seemed eager to begin, and I sent him off to begin the process with a toothbrush and some paint thinner.   

The box had apparently been his grandfathers, who used it for leftover nuts and bolts from 50 years as a shade tree mechanic and it certainly looked like there could be 50 years of accumulation of grime on it.   There was no way to tell what the wood underneath all the grease was. We really couldn't tell whether it would be worth all the work until he had cleaned it up and revealed just what was under their.  I guess at that time I hadn't realized the real value of this box wouldn't be in its wood.

Mike must've spent a week working with steel wool, a tooth brush and paint thinner to expose a great little Golden Oak box underneath all the dirt and grime. It apparently had been part of an old roll top desk, probably a letterbox because of its size, about 8 inches square and 3 inches deep.  It had delicate inlaid brass hinges and a certain cachet about it.   And if my imagination wasn't playing tricks on me, I think Mike was already holding himself slightly taller as the others took notice of what he had. One boy even offered to buy it from him, but unknown to me Mike had other plans.

Now, Mike set out in earnest with steel wool and sand paper, beginning the process of getting it ready for the polyurethane.  It probably took him two or three weeks, and a hundred questions before he had the courage to think about starting on the finishing process.  He would work a spell, and then cautiously approach my desk, standing behind anybody else who might be there, as though he didn't feel his question was as important as the other kids. Then, with a little encouragement he would stammer out his question which I would answer as best I could. Then he would go back to his workspace and I would watch him agonize over whether he was ready yet to start the polyurethaning or if he should work on it a little more.

With plenty of time and patience, there's nothing difficult about putting a stunning furniture-grade finish on any piece of wood. All it takes is a little know-how, and a lot of hours and work.  Mike had the time and apparently the patience to be exacting and I began to wonder what he might be able to do with his little box.  

He would sand a while and look at his box from all angles. Then he'd run his fingers lightly over the surface and then use the steel wool on it. It was as though he already had a beautiful picture of in his mind of how his little box would look when he was done, yet part of him wasn't sure he could actually do it.  Finally, almost a month into his project, with untold hours of patient cleaning and sanding, he picked up the brush and dipped it in the polyurethane.

When putting a finish on wood, the first few layers are put on to build up a base coat so one can send off the high spots, leaving the low parts of the surface untouched.  Then new layers are added and let dry and the process is repeated.  The trick is to stop sanding each layer at the just the right time to allow the low spots to build up, while again sanding off the high spots until eventually you bring both the high and low to one level which can then be finely worked into a glass like surface. 

Watching Mike learn this technique was a joy to behold. He would gently sand a while, then run his fingertips gently over the surface, reading its highs and lows as he learned when the sand and when to stop.  After months of careful sanding and feeling, sanding and feeling, then carefully adding another layer of finish, he began to have confidence in his newfound ability.  He seemed to know where he was going, and I thought he probably had the patience to get there.

Not many kids have what it takes for this process, at least not to begin with. They don't take the time to let the polyurethane really dry or they don't have the patience to spend the hours it takes to sand, re-coat, let dry and re-sand again.  But Mike did and he used all of his waiting and much of his work time to read and ponder. I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking and considering as he read and sanded, then sanded and read.  But I knew he was changing inside just as a little box was changing outside, because he was standing taller, and his progress on the box was becoming a metaphor for what was happening to Mike.

As he approached the stage where he was ready to put on the last, mirror like finish on his box, I held my breath.  These final four or five coats are worked with emery paper so fine that the surface begins to feel almost like silk, as you reach the final coats.  I still have in my mind a picture of Mike sitting there working patiently on his little box reading a book or listening to music or maybe just listening to what was happening around him.  Slowly the little box started to attract attention.  The more he worked on his box the more beautiful it became. The more beautiful the box became, the taller Mike stood.  

By the year Mike was in my class we were beginning to have a steady stream of people coming through to observe.  Someway the word had gotten around about the "unusual program" at our school.  There was rarely a day there weren’t a few students from one of the educational classes at the college or cluster of new student teachers observing.  This was also the year Henry was being considered for the presidency of the new community college, although we didn't know he was being watched at the time.  In addition there were always curious people from the community who had heard about the strange things “that teacher” was doing and wanted to see how he was spending their tax dollars.

As people wandered through the classes’collection of refrigerators, work tables and old sofas, Mike and his beautiful oaken box stood out, like a jewel among the clutter.  They always had comments or questions about his box or his work.  The attention began to give Mike a little more courage, and he began to even look people in the eye sometimes, as he answered their questions.  Occasionally I even overhear him explaining just what he was doing at whatever step of the process he was in.  I think it was beginning to dawn on him that he was doing something special, something other people felt might be impossible for them. 

During the last month of school Mike and his box were inseparable. He carried it with him to lunch; he carried it home at night and back in the morning.  It gave me a lump in my throat to see the change that had come over Mike as he had salvaged a useless little box.  I often wondered what his granddad thought of his bolt box and grandson now.

On the last day of school Mike came to my desk holding his box shyly in both hands.  For just this moment, he was back to his tentative self.  He set the box gently on my desk and in almost a whisper said “It's for you”.  At first, I thought I had heard wrong, but one look at his face and I knew I hadn’t heard wrong.   I watched him for minute and said, “Mike you can't do this, you’ve worked too hard to just give it away.  He stood there and looked me in the eye, and with a sweet, shy smile simply said, “I was making it for you all along.  It's for your chess pieces”.  

As I write this, there are tears in my eyes as l look at that simple but elegant little oaken box sitting on the corner of my desk, still holding my chess pieces after all these years.  It's still as beautiful as the boy who made it. Over the years I’ve never received a more heartfelt gift than that boy gave me that day. What kind of a person would spend almost a year of his life lovingly salvaging an old piece of junk, turning it into a work of art, then so generously give it away?  I know the kind of boy who did it and I would love to meet the man he became.

Mike, wherever you are, it’s time for you to have your little box back, sitting on your desk where it now belongs.  It's warmed my heart over the years, keeping fresh the warm memories of that classroom long ago. It's time now for me to put it back into the hands that made it, back where it belongs.

If anyone else knows of a someone, now in his mid-50s, who spent his 6^th grade year at Phoenix Elementary salvaging a small oaken box, and then gave it to his teacher, please let me know so I can get his box back where it belongs.

Courage

 

Bring anger and pride under your feet, turn them into a ladder and climb higher.               Rumi

This winter has been a time fraught with incredible highs and deep, painful lows.  To test my mettle, the Universe bequeathed me with people who were there to uplift and defend, and people who had my worst interests at heart.  My organization (with me as the lead) was maligned by lobby groups and the Portland paper that thrives on expose.  On the other hand, the primary Portland paper and one TV news paper championed our efforts with great support.  I watched someone very dear to my heart sink to a low ebb, the like I'd never seen from him, and then rise to a brilliant stance with testimony that brought me to my knees.  This time I had one person intent on my failing, not just with the legislation, but with my job.  It was personal.  I left the experience shattered.

Such is a legislative session.  For those of us who have been in the fray for years, this has been a stimulating lifestyle that can make you feel alive and energized.  After taking a week to rest and reflect, I realized that it is not the lifestyle I want any more.  I also realized that I learned more than I had planned.  Forget the strategies and tactical maneuvering, I had to figure out why I was suffering from what I considered to be PTSD instead of leaving with a delighted celebration of passing the bill.

I am a short timer, so I also am faced with leaving slowly from a job I've spent 28 years crafting and living for.  I have no idea where I am going after that.  I've had advisers disappear, contracts end without a product, a disinterest in my business plan, and now know - I just don't know.

As I searched for ways to heal, I was given incredible gifts.  Friends were able to give me insights, and guide me to some personal conclusions.  Books waited for me to find a page and see an answer pop into my awareness.  Uplifting TV shows gently led me to information that helped me dig deeper.  Even one old movie told me to place my awareness on the Highest Level, rather than .  I learned about courage.  I learned about what courage I am required to cultivate to move forward.

I know now that none of this is what is happening in my world.  All of it is what is in my cellular level of memories and scripts.  The personal attacks dug deep to remind me that I hadn't healed the attacks of my childhood.  The accusations flew at me to remind me that I needed to heal the rough times of high school cliques and mean girl maneuvers.  The sadness and exhaustion came from a knowledge that I need to find a solid place to stand, to plant my roots, to live toward acceptance and intention. 

It is not fun digging into the reasons for reactions and decisions.  I find that sometimes I find a sense of despair because it seems bigger than me.  Other times the "aha" of the revelation brings a sense of relief and I breathe easier.  Above all, each day I find a new mantra.  Above all, I ask for the courage to release the ego and learn the joy of co-creation.  I ask for the courage to know that every person involved in the illusion of that session are indelibly connected to me and I to them.  I have the qualities of compassion shown by the Senate President, I can do the same wily shenanigans that were done by those against us. 

The key is to move on with a realization that we are at a time when we are here to embrace the learning, have the courage to find our own accountability, and work together for the good of the world. 

God help us.

New Beginnings

New Beginnings

I began naming my years three years ago.  Every January 1, I would concoct a name that would set an intention.  I didn’t try to contrive a “good one”.  I tried to be simple and accept the name that simply came and would not leave my mind.

The name for 2010 was “

Mysterious Ways

”.  That was the year that I learned of 109 people living in a rest area we were managing, and had to find a humane solution to move them away.  Ten magical people joined together, collaborated on a plan, and by May 1 they were well on their way to new lives.  To date, most are in homes and are addiction free.  One works for my organization.  I ended the year with a sense of wonder and gratitude to be part of such an amazing happening.

In 2011, my yearly name was “Speak Truth to Power”.  I read a treatise written by Quaker women who challenged national leaders to see the consequences of their policies to the poor and weak.  In 2011, Occupy Wall Street sprang forth the beginning of a consciousness that I do not feel will  quietly go away.  In my own life, I learned to confront the “power people” in my own life and stand in my truth, regardless of the political or possible financial consequences.

Having a yearly name has been wonderfully inspiring.  This bird’s eye view intention drives and gives meaning to yearly events long after I’ve forgotten the name I ascribed on January 1.   It is important that I begin to be clearer in my intentions because I’m finding them quite powerful!

To prepare for this year I’ve taken the advice of another columnist and made three lists.

I’ve listed those things that have not served my highest good and that I’m willing to release.  Some of those items will be very hard to realize, since they have been the “go to” remedy for anxiety.  Some items involve people who don’t uplift, but rather bog me down with their demands.  Their hold on me does not come from a healthy place.  Some items involve the caches of things from the past that I’ve always thought of as memorabilia, but now see them as clutter. 

I’ve listed those things that I’ve learned from those items in the first list to find that blessing or new awareness.

Then I’ve listed the new life I want.  It includes some very ambitious goals.  It includes the manifested changes made to discard those items in the first list.  Most of those items that make up the new life require change, a diversion from the way I’ve always acted and reacted.  They are good goals.  I believe in them.  Its time I put the finishing touches on the life I came here to lead with gusto.

I want to teach spiritual principles, so I have to forget negative past experiences and I especially have to not anticipate future failure.

I have to stop turning to foods that do not nourish me when I’m remembering a particularly difficult event of the day, or worrying about an upcoming event that I may not be able to handle.

I have to stop dwelling on a past issue that I regret, allowing that sadness or pain to consume me rather than being openly alive in the present.

In other words, I have to listen to my body and my intuition and begin to live in the now.  To do that, I need to learn to trust in that amazing energy that flows through all of us and provides ways to heal and enliven.  That energy comes from outer signs and messages, and inner wisdom that lies buried beneath all that worry and analysis.  It is ready to allow me to rest in that “cosmic soup” that flows through the massive and infinite Universe just as well as within the branches and buds of the Daphne bushes outside my window. 

When I let go of the analysis of past unresolved events or the fearful anticipation of what could happen beyond my control I open.  It is then that I realize that I only need to breathe and rest in the energy that is there to support me.  I breathe in my gratefulness and welcoming of that Love.  When I breathe out, I rest in the arms of the Mother, the Father, and the All That Is.  I stand on the earth and ground myself and I raise my arms to the unending Wisdom that fills the atmosphere.  I listen to my intuitive self, which is the Self that does not have the ego clutter of control needs and a poor skill set from fear based habits.  I am ready to see things a different way.  I am ready to trust in more than my own limited skill set.

My right to this amazing connection is simply that I was born and I am a soul among many souls that are directly linked to this canopy of Love. 

Every time I remember this, circumstances change in a way that humbles and delights. 

Its time I make it a daily practice, not an emergency back up system.

My name for you, 2012, is:

I am.  You Are!  Bring it on!