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!

God at 13,000 feet (The Art of Being Present)

We look with uncertainty

Beyond the old choices for

Clear-Cut answers

To a softer, more permeable aliveness

Which is every moment

At the brink of death;

For something new is being born in us

If we but let it

Ann Hillman

“I could die Thursday.”  Those were my waking thoughts on a Tuesday morning as sounds of birds singing and ocean rumble filled the bedroom in my beach home.   It wasn’t a depressingly fatalistic thought randomly pulled from the caverns of my psyche.  It was a sobering reality of my choice of activity for the week.  Thursday I was jumping out of a plane.

I’ve always wanted to experience the free flying soar of a bird, gazing over the world unencumbered by airplane window rims and endless wing span.   There seemed to be a higher calling to feel the air bathe my face and float with the clouds. 

Since it was my sixtieth year on earth, it seemed like the time to give it a shot.  So I signed up in June.  I had a month to plan, but I didn’t.  And then I had two days to come to grips with an air flight that had no protection of airplane walls.

Mortality belongs to anyone else.  Once in a while there is a realization that my days are numbered, but numbered only in quadruple digits.  Jumping out of a plane suddenly brought a potentially much shorter time span.  Death might be imminent and I better be ready.  

 In a spiral notebook my service was planned and my art, my books and my clothes were assigned to a list of people who may want them or could distribute them accordingly.  As the words spilled out on the lined pages, I realized who mattered in my life.  I realized what beauty I had and wanted to share.  With a free associative flair I allowed the faces of those who truly rested in my heart to become stewards of my worldly goods.  A trip to Walden Pond was gleefully planned for family to take my ashes for distribution among the chickadees and deep red maple trees.

Gratitude filled my soul about my rich and juicy life, but thinking of jumping from the plane caused my solar plexus to quiver.  “I’ll live lift to the fullest, just in case.” I told God.  “If you could send a reassuring sign, that would really be great.”    

Standing at the edge of the ocean, I opened my eyes to its power.  Wave after wave came up to my feet, lapping at them playfully, always returning to remind me to be conscious of its deep and outstretching waters. 

Chats with my loved ones became even more frequent.  Conversations had more depth than usual, allowing for affairs of the heart, rather than the mundane of the every day.

Once while driving a neighborhood road, a young buck pranced across the road foraging for food.  A neighbor slowed traffic to keep it safe as we watched in awe of his strength and beauty. 

Colors deepened around the hills and the lush foliage of the coastal mountain range seemed just a bit more vibrant. 

Finally, Thursday came. 

The decision to jump could no longer be altered.  Friends came to see me dive, gathering under a tent by the airfield.

Waiver after waiver was initialed, disclaiming any liability of crushed skull, back, feet or arms.  Dying began to be a preferable outcome to the myriad of disabilities for which I would not blame the airfield.  A whimper began in my belly and quickly ascended into my vocal cords as I read and initialed. 

“You are not selling me on this” I stated in a voice that squeaked. 

“It’s a litigious society” the airfield official brusquely retorted. 

Walking to the plane strapped into the appropriate gear took me by my friends.  Looking at their worried faces, all I could say was “remember I love you”. 

The mantra “Thy Will Be Done” began to chant in my head, repeating my desire to let God carry me in His hands.  The plane climbed high and hovered against the blue sky.  My prayer continued.  It was honest.  It was authentic.  It was the letting go of my lifetime. 

The large side panel of the plane opened with a clang, the cold air filled the cargo unit coldly and intrusively.

My tandem partner scooted me to the open panel and advised me to wrap my arms to my chest and lean my head back against him.  “Thy Will Be Done” I uttered…………………………………..

and I leaned back…………………………

At thirteen thousand feet the air smells and tastes like ocean.  Genesis tells of the firmament lifted from the earth’s waters into a “canopy” of heavens.  “It’s true” my mind said as we sailed through the cold and salty sky and the wind stippled my face with lightly tapping fingers. 

There was no more thought of the future, no concept of the past, falling through the air was being totally an experience of the present, and God carried me through the atmosphere as I gazed at the world with wide open eyes.  Flying in partnership with the universe, the world greeted me with a cheer and a wave.  My Mother the earth perfectly partnered with the clear blue sky, the far and wide stretch of green and brown patchwork ground, the majestic mountains bowing to me in welcome, and the sounds of silence with just a hush of wind caressing us, holding us as we flew unencumbered.  There was no terror, simply peace at experiencing the world in its glory so completely.

When the parachute pulled me upright, I felt the sadness of endings.  I would soon become earth bound once again.

As we lowered closer to the earth, I could see small beings waving joyously at us.  I knew I was coming home to my life.  Gratitude filled my heart, for the world I had seen in its total unobstructed beauty, for the people who waited my return with love and relief, for my “new best friend David” who guided me gently to the ground.

There was a death that Thursday.  It was a death to fear of the unknown.  The greatest gift was the resurrection to living completely in the moment, reminded lovingly of the wonder of a world that sustains us; even when we are too busy living to notice. 

On a large piece of paper taken to the airfield are signatures from each of my friends in attendance.  Some wrote short phrases, some wrote prose.  One statement still sits like a beacon on my heart:

“You are nutz.  I love you”

Being earthbound isn’t all bad.

God in the Walls: The Gift of Self Awareness

Self-acceptance comes from meeting life’s challenges vigorously.  Don’t numb yourself to your trials and difficulties, nor build mental walls to exclude pain from your life.  You will find peace not by trying to escape your problems, but by confronting them courageously.  You will find peace not in denial, but in victory.

J. Donald Walters

Rain is pouring through downspouts on my roofline.    Prayer flags are hanging from my trees, drooping under the weight of the water and buffeted by the winds that push and prod plant and tree in my back yard.  On each flag, etched ancient symbols resemble graffiti.  They mean something; right now it’s not clear.

The steady sound of rain on my roof lulls me. Sitting at the computer, my brain seeks focus so that a promise of a written piece is fulfilled.  Nothing seems worthy of capturing on blue and white screen.  My creative genius is bereft, like many a writer, I’ve hit the wall.

A wall……………………………………….my mind begins to traverse in new focus.

Recently, I was verbally assaulted at a business event.  Because this person means so much to me, the words slammed into me with such force that an “iron wall” clanged down in my solar plexus.  It clanged with heavy weight, protecting the softness within.  

Mewing insecurities are huddled deep in layers of well crafted defenses. That protective barricade leaps to the rescue when fear flies from my inner shadows. 

Wall building becomes a talent when the pain experience is so frightening.  Walls of protection have been an important method for me to deal with scary stuff. 

Now walls are holdovers, familiar fortresses with graffiti labels.

There are walls at my job built by huge agencies with limited vision.  Those walls limit progress. Those walls make my job difficult as I attempt to parlay around their strategies and arbitrary policies.  My responding walls are self doubt that has flourished since childhood.  The painted graffiti on those walls say “inadequate”.

Another wall rebuilt itself when I learned that a volunteer activity I eagerly wanted to do was abruptly assigned to another person.  The wall is mortared with disappointment and distrust. It is that recognizable wall of not being part of the “in-crowd”.  Graffiti on that wall spells out “undesirable”.

The wall that clanged at the business event was covered with “failure” graffiti.

Now there is great sadness in knowing that walls built from fear and insecurity have prevent the fully loving relationships that we truly want and need. 

Walls teach us our stories. If open to the voice deep within walls can be tools of healing. By naming the walls for why they were built, they become pliable.  If we take time to lovingly guide ourselves, we would see the graffiti for what it is; age old labels that no longer fit today’s scenarios.  Graffiti becomes the affirmation of a life open to new connections, rather than ongoing isolation.

 Like Joshua, it’s good to find ways to see those walls come tumbling down.

Walls of defensiveness fall when admitting our part in conflict of any kind.  “I’m sorry” is graffiti that opens the heart to soft humility.

Walls of anger become waterfalls when tears melt the coldness of the heart.  “Forgive me” is the graffiti of the free person, letting go of the wrong and opening to love.

Walls of judgment are especially thick.  They are built by those who need to feel exalted, but really feel very isolated.  The graffiti of “I love you for everything you are” marks the shattered stone blocks with bold vibrant letters.

Diminished walls and new affirmed graffiti bring us in intimate community with each other.  When our walls fall, we find our true sense of human frailty.  We lose the need for blame or shame, we accept ourselves as we are, we open to all of life experiences.  Walls no longer make sense.

When we understand another’s wall, we are truly their friend.  How wonderful when we reach out with acceptance and oneness and let a wall diminish just enough to feel the freedom of our heart song to each other.

The walls within me are lighter, just for having been recognized and named for what they are.  Reaching into my deepest being, self acceptance is a soft blanket that holds me in love.  My world becomes much more welcoming.    

The rain has stopped and a gentle breeze now wafts in the back yard.  As the prayer flags dance in the wind, my solar plexus dances with the lightness of Self from this deepening journey. On those flags is the ancient graffiti promoting peace, harmony, acceptance, and joy.

A smile of thanks, a prayerful salute, I rest against the walls of life.

She Loved Food

Everyone felt lucky to know Marcia.   There was a time when we boogied to Johnny Limbo and the Lug Nuts and enjoyed the smaller, “off-Broadway” Portland plays.  She was my colleague at legislative sessions.  I watched on the sidelines as she faced breast cancer with courage and resilience.  She faced divorce with the same flair.  She always wore an impish smile.

Marcia died on a Sunday morning in August, and I tucked that news into the back reaches of my mind, willing myself to deal with it later.  By that Tuesday, “later” was “now”.  Driving down Highway 101, I listened to her obituary read to me over my cell phone.   I was fine until I heard “She loved food”.  I remembered seeing her in the capitol coffee shop in 2003.  She’d gained a lot of weight, and she laughingly pointed that out.  “I sure had fun doing it” she chortled.  I was reminded that Marcia didn’t operate under embarrassment or apology, she just faced whatever came with that sweet smile and mischievous glint in her eye. 

Marcia was gone.  I felt a tsunami of grief rise up from the depths of my soul, and I found myself driving with tears streaming down my cheeks, my chest heaving with sorrow.  I eased my way carefully back to the beach condominium and plopped heavily into the bed.  Through the bedroom window I could see large oak trees and birds fly through them – and I found the scene comforting and solid.  My cells felt anchored down by feelings akin to words like forlorn and cheerless.  I lay for hours, dozing on and off, searching for meaning in this world of pain and despair.

Toward noon I began to realize that when I remembered Marcia, I saw me.  She had the same Kris Kringle balloon tummy that I’ve cultivated over the past year.  She had the same deep crow’s feet around the same green eyes.  She had the marionette lines reaching down from her smiling mouth on the same fair freckled skin.  I realized that I was taking her death very personally.  Marcia was dead.  She would never see Italy again, or play another round of golf.  She would not hug her nieces and nephews or care for her ninety-year old father.  It was done for Marcia, and every day I’m vulnerable to the same fate.  The world hadn’t just lost a fabulous woman; my world had turned upside down with grim reality.

I pulled myself up out of bed and logged on to the laptop, downloading the obituary so I could read it and catch the parts I missed when it was read.  That’s when I got her message and her legacy.  A minute part of the obituary mentioned her career.  What really mattered was her love of travel, theater, music, and reading.  The obituary writer made it clear that she loved golf, and made a point of playing every chance she got.  And, she loved food.  And, she loved her friends (who, like me, will miss her desperately).  She wasn’t important because she worked for Congresswomen and lobbyists.  She was important because she adored life and embraced all things so completely.

I shut off the computer and dressed for town.  I drove to the spa and signed up for a massage. 

The next day I was at the Lincoln City community center at 10:00, lifting weights.  By 11:00 I was in the pool, bouncing up and down with fifty others, laughing and joking and relishing in the aliveness of each man and woman alongside me in the clear blue water.  Later I instructed the massage therapist to lay many of the pacific stones on my heart chakra, because it needed healing.  I frolicked in the water pool naked, and laid my head against the side of the mineral pool as I gazed out over the spit and the distant ocean.  I stood for a long while under the rain shower, feeling the warm simulated rain fall around me.  That night I went to a meditation group and basked in the joy of peaceful reflection and found even more new friends.

It was one of the best days of my entire life.  It is the beginning of many.

I too love food.