Sleeping In

Our son Devin is anticipating the arrival of a much-awaited, new Lionel train to arrive on our doorstep any day. It’s his fixation of this moment—he is telling stories about it, dreaming about it, talking about it non-stop. He’s come up with a town, a village, complete with creeks, wild animals, a whole scene in his imagination he wants in place, waiting for the train when it arrives. He has been confiding this all to his Daddy, confident that somehow, he can help him create such an incredible world.

Before Devin goes to bed at night, he shares his plans with me with a solemn face. It’s intense, detailed and—to me, sounds a wholeheartedly enormous undertaking. I think of the train layouts I’ve seen in basements of others, or at the train shows we’ve attended together. I think of my own childhood home growing up, my brother at almost our son’s age with a realistic plywood platform for his own trains, sprinkled with some green substance of sorts as grass, miniature trees and benches glued on for effect. I describe some of these to my son supporting his dream, then privately in my own mind, with exhaution think of the equipment needed, the cardboard to collect, the plywood to purchase to help him make this come true.

I secretly worry about the time and labor involved, hoping we can really help him make it happen, wondering if he will be disappointed in the end. As I ruminate, he prattles on and on with his plan—a bridge here, cheetahs and alligators there—the vision is intense and I know every detail will be remembered the next morning.

When the sun rises, I stretch—it is a very late 8:00 a.m. I realize my husband has given me an incredible gift on this Saturday—sleeping in. I hear the children up and about, filled with energy. Devin’s voice is filled with laughter, there is jumping and little footsteps of his baby sister Kaya running alongside—she’s saying something about books, Da-Da, and a request for Mommy.

I arise and am greeted with these words, “We did it! We did it! All in one day!” There, on the floor of the living room, next to the sacred spot where the Lionel train will soon be set up is a series of seven pieces of construction paper, carefully scotch-taped together, all in a row. Each piece includes a detailed picture, drawn with Crayola markers, the lines filled with passion, clearly telling a story, and by the smile on Devin’s face, clearly fulfilling all he had bubbled up inside. Here is his complete vision, influenced in no way by what any adult (ahem…yours truly) had in mind as to what it “ought” to be. And he was radiating with the satisfaction and happiness that comes from seeing a dream come true.

I was reminded how when we provide the space and freedom for each individual to express what they have within (including ourselves)—in their own way, we are humbled at how simple, complete and perfect it is, just as it is, with no necessary help or additions from the outside. Often the best thing we can do to help dreams happen is to somehow allow space, respect and freedom so the brilliance that is inside each of us can safely and quietly emerge in its own way. Sometimes it's good to take a break, check out or simply sleep in.

Ode to Pema

I’ve been reading, listening to, studying Pema Chodron lately. One thing I love most about what she teaches is that there is no wrong. It just is. In meditation and life, we just show up in a state of present-ness for whatever exists for us—our feelings, thoughts, existence in the moment.

When we make our thoughts, moods or way of being (or someone else’s) “wrong” or “right”, that’s adding something. Every thought is a choice that can take us closer to realizing our inner state of Buddhahood or further into suffering. Not wrong, not right, just is.

Hmm…..

Or, rather, “Ommm…”

Clearing

I’ve been thinking a lot about clearing lately. Maybe that’s because I seem confounded by piles of paper that seem to appear whenever I turn my back for a moment. Maybe it’s because in the last three and a half years, we’ve moved three times, each time kicking up a storm of has-been clutter ready to be released.

Maybe it’s because for as much as I try to find time to clear, de-clutter and find homes for all the new stuff, something or some little ones always seem to get in the way (ah, the excuses of motherhood…).

Anyway you slice it, on days like this, I feel stuck. Perhaps it’s because I’m not really sure where I’m going. I seem to have plopped into a giant tumultuous river called inner faith and transformation that is taking me somewhere fast (or so it feels) and I often feel like I’m just along for the ride. Keeping your head above water, at least long enough to take the all-necessary occasional breath, seems to be the name of the game.

I often think that the best way to clear one’s path when obstacles seem to be getting in the way is to pause, take a breather, recollect one’s energy and vision, and take stock of what is most important. Perhaps when I am clear where my soul is calling me to go, and find the courage to answer with a resounding “YES!”—I will become filled with a knowing of which piles to clear first in order to get there.

Step by step, inch by inch, moment by moment and we’re off and away!

One Stinkin' Mystery

As I sat and watched the skunk waddle across the back of our yard, I couldn’t help but take pause. It shuffled along with a confidence. It knew who it was and where it was going. It didn’t mind me watching. It had purpose.

I wasn’t particularly looking for inspiration in that moment. I was just loading the car with things, getting ready to soon follow behind with kids. In a moment, we would all be off for the morning routine. The sky was light just after sunrise, a crisp chill in the air.

Messages—they come without warning, most often unexpected. We ask a question and the universe answers, often in a way we would not have chosen for ourselves. Supply dries up, gifts land on our laps, skunks waddle by.

All of it is a mystery. When we think of ourselves as just a link in the chain, connected and equal with all else, the mystery gets really entertaining. We are suddenly in relationship with the wind, trees, creatures, other mothers loading cars—all of us waddling along on our way, amusingly interconnected—players in a carefully orchestrated happenstance.

Could the skunk have had a message, just for me? Could there be a reason I looked up just at that moment and she decided to pass on by? I like to think yes. The truth is, we will never really know. Even as we look back, perhaps thinking the perspective of time passed must somehow offer wisdom, if we’ve ever struggled to find answers—which I certainly have—at some point, we must have the humbling sense that there is much we are not meant to know.

When we consider that perhaps there is no big puzzle to solve, our job instead, becomes to not be surveyors but players, immersing ourselves in the cool breezes and mud puddles along the way--feeling elation or yuckiness in them, whatever it may be for us in the moment. We are freed to have fun with the small bits and skunk-like beings that dance momentarily before our eyes, only to be hidden once more. Like droplets of water in the great expanse of the sea, the landscape is ever changing and so are we.

Surprise and Delight

She crawls on my legs, hands, chest, then pulls herself up to standing on my lap. We are swinging back and forth on the hammock swing together. She pulls the ropes in front of her face, then down again. Peekaboo.

Her little body is strong, the short-sleeve white cotton onesie she wears is snug, showing her baby fat in all its glory. She does her trick again, then shows me a five-toothed grin in delight. Funny.

Then she’s down again to wiggle and giggle and writhe her little squirmy body against my arms, against me, wiggling, squiggling more, more, more. She wants loving.

I comply, my big arms wrapping her in against my body tight. A hug. A big, glorious hug, the kind I wish would never end, the kind that surprises just as her peekaboo game does, the kind that feels good all over as she rests her head on my shoulder, then gently, oh, so gently, which seems out of character for her in this moment, pats.

She pats me. Pat, pat, pats my body as I have to her so many times and I know I’m home. Home.

Then, she’s off! Climbing back up the swing like a trapeze artist, she stands again, grabbing the ropes, this time not with hands but with teeth! She bites and pulls back, delighted at that sound, the feel of that, a single rope between tooth on tooth before letting go. Delight and surpise again. Then she laughs.

She giggles and laughs, a glint in her eye and a nod of her head back and forth, she practices the words “no, no, no.” Did I say that? Was it my words or just the expression in my eyes as I watched her do this trick with her teeth that she could read it wasn’t quite right.

Either way, she knows biting and pulling these dirty rope strands of the hammock isn’t something I would choose for her to do with her new, precious teeth. She watches me carefully, seemingly to enjoy dancing, balancing on that boundary of right or wrong, bad and good.

She takes one more bite of the rope with glee, stomping over this arbitrary line in the sand in this new, mysterious world she’s chosen to be birthed into, and the experience of this rebellion fills her once again with delight and joy. She laughs. We are playing a game.

Then it’s back down again, wiggling and laughing, hugging and patting, and I think to myself the memory of this feeling—this intimate feeling of all-sensing, all-feeling love between mother and new little child is such a gift, one I’ll carry in my heart forever.

I feel so grateful. Her all-body way loving me—giving her whole self to me with hugs, slobber, laughter, pats and baby fat—reminds me what love truly is.

Joy Parade

Oh, the joy on her face as she sees the cat food bowl. It’s a race. Quickly, quickly, her crawling body lunging, going so fast. She gets there before me, her head nodding back and forth. “No, no, no…” she laughs. More laughter, giddy now, as I pick her up, nestling my head into her belly with a tickle and a kiss, making her laugh all the more.

She grabs my hands and leads me on an adventure, taking big steps with my help, here head held high, feet kicking out as she goes. Walking, walking. She is proud and delighted as she walks by her brother, slipping a bit on his puzzle pieces as she trots on by.

“Devin, Devin…” she tries the word. I can tell she’s saying his name instead of some other “D” word by the volume she uses, a call frequently echoing through the sounds of our home, like the fervent search party until he’s been found.

This time, just a boisterous greeting. She struggles a bit with the decision to wave or not to wave. Then, with the daring, gusto and courage that has come to be a marker of who she is, she goes for it. Letting go of my hand, she teeters for a moment, body swaying right then left, left then right palm open then shut, open then shut, little hand greeting him robustly and delightedly, then teetering once more as her hand returns to mine.

We are off again, stepping, stepping, as she kicks her legs out with a smile. A 28 inch parade is happening by.

Sweet Moments

I wonder why I miss her so when I am away? Is it normal to miss her squiggly, wiggly, fun-to-hug body when I get to be with her all the time? I feel so grateful for this as I lay on the massage table for the reflexology, head rub purchased long before her birth, a treat to myself.

A babysitter has her now. I know she is okay and yet in that moment of missing, I want to be with her. I breathe through it, knowing it is breaks like this that make me happy too, breaks like this that make me stronger, breaks like this that awaken my insular world of caretaker and allow me to take care of me too.

I breathe in and the energy swirls around me and the missing shifts from one of longing to one of gratitude—grateful for those moments when I get to hold her, witnessing her little fingers curled around my own, celebrating her jack-o-lantern grin and silly antics. Grateful for just as many special moments with my son, for holding him as a baby to cuddles and intimate moments now, sweet stories told with him in the back seat as we drive together, he now a big boy. Sweet moments, all of them, the harrowingly difficult trespasses of motherhood and the tender love shared.

And sweet moment too is this. I breathe in and out, the acknowledgement of missing making the present moment all the more sweet somehow. For not too long from now, I know this one will be missed as well. And as the massage therapist rubs my brow with a brush stroke and pulls my hair oh, so gently, rubbing my scalp into sublime relaxing bliss, I am lost in the sweetness of now.

The Beauty of Nothing Special

I’m sitting at the old, oak table that has recently arrived by moving van from our previous home in New Jersey. The table is nothing special, and perhaps that’s what I love about it most. Its surface worn just enough so I have no worries about the hot cup of tea I’ve placed on it, alongside the sleeve of chocolate mint cookies—tonight’s special treat.

I watch the sun sink beneath the mountain out the window, the last of the day’s sunlight making the oak wood of the table glow. Soft music plays in the background. My son and husband’s laughter echoes through the front door as, outside, they happily play some game with soccer balls and a favorite red car they have invented together.

Our daughter sleeps contentedly in her swing, occasionally opening her eyes drowsily, locking them on me with a slight smile, then closing them again. Dinner dishes are stacked in the sink, but they can wait. The weekend has begun.

There is nothing special about what is happening around me, yet, somehow I am deeply comforted by it all—the clutter, the chatter, the solitude, the respite. Perhaps “nothing-special” is really the most sacred.

A Fresh Start

As I woke up, I could hardly believe my eyes. The sky was clear and colorful, the Bay was flat. The world was quiet. During the night, my husband and I had woken several times to the howling wind, beating against the house. Patio furniture had been flung about in the wind, our son’s sandbox had filled up quickly with rain water. Waves had crashed angrily on the shore. The storm had lingered through the night, vicious and unrelenting. But, now it has passed. The morning spreads before me like a new canvas, peaceful, calm, wiped clean by the rains from the night before. A fresh start—what a gift.

Full Moon

It’s a beautiful night. One of the greatest. It’s a full moon night.

One of the things I love most about where we live is the incredible view of the moon we have. I love the fact that, almost any day of the month, I know the phase of the moon.

Even more incredible than the view of the full moon are the extreme tides that come as a result of it being here. During low tide, when I am rowing with the crew team, the water has almost disappeared. When rowing in the sea-fed creek, my oar almost always comes up, at some point or another, covered in mud. During high tide, when I am sitting at home, water is lapping under the building where I sleep. As the bay ebbs and flows, I find a quiet place of equilibrium within my soul.

Miniature miracles are all around me, beautiful sights waiting to be enjoyed. The sky is clear. The moon is full. The water shimmers as the light reflects off of it, like a giant nightlight guiding our way and reminding us that the world is a much more peaceful, safer, beautiful place than we are often told.

Sweet dreams, everyone. God bless the moon!

Winds of Change

The fog is closing in. It’s difficult to see even a few hundred feet in front of our home. The sea lions are back, popping their heads out of the water. The pelicans are too, and the hummingbirds. The cycles of nature have returned to the way I remember them—the way they were last summer when we moved to the San Francisco Bay.

It’s funny, when we first arrived here, I thought the way things were was the way things would always be. I believed the sea lions, pelicans and hummingbirds would be constant, forgetting that like humans, animals of the earth need to get certain things done at certain times. Unlike humans (or at least this one!), however, they seem to know exactly what to do when, as if being directed by a flow of energy bigger than they.

Sometimes I envy this simplicity. I would love it if simply by the currents of the sea, the fog or direction of the breeze, I would know what to do, or where to go. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were no pondering, wondering, planning or rational thought necessary to make the decisions related to life?

My life can seem so insular compared to theirs, so tucked away from powerful, guiding life forces. Tucked here inside, sheltered from the cold breeze and fog, I often feel left to my own isolated resources to figure it all out.

But am I, really? Or is the energy of the earth guiding me, just as it is them? Maybe all I need to do is stick my head out of the water, and like the sea lions, watch, feel and listen, and move.

The Wayward Whales

I waited for them by the open window. I was sure they would pass. All the television reporters said they would. The only trouble was, as the night grew dark, I couldn’t see what was above water, let alone beneath it.

Finally, I gave into a few hours of sleep, waking up at 3 a.m. to take up, again, my watchful vigil. The wayward whales, as they called them, who found their way from the Bay to the Sacramento River were never seen again. The whole world had been tuned into their journey, helping them as best they could with antibiotics and banging pipes, trying desperately to get them to turn around and go back to their saltwater home of the sea.

Finally, it had worked. They were on their way back out to the ocean, stopping as night fell, as they often did (or so the reporters said) to play and eat, before starting up their journey back to the sea again. I like all the others tuned in hoping for a final glimpse before they went home. But, in spite of my commitment and willingness to buck sleep for the event, I wasn’t successful. Somehow, the experts predicted, the mother and baby Humpback whale slipped under the Golden Gate Bridge and went home unseen by humans.

What struck me most about the sequence of events was how deeply people cared about the fate of these two creatures. People came out in droves—people who might not have called themselves environmentalists or even animal lovers. We were all tuned in, especially those of us in the San Francisco Bay area where this was all happening. We all wanted a happy ending, a good news story. We all wanted to spread the sunshine of their recovery to each other.

It wasn’t the first time I had kept watch for a wayward whale. A few years before, actually the spring I began my blog, while living on the Delaware River in New Jersey, another whale—this one a beluga—had made its way from saltwater to freshwater. (See April 13th 2005 blog entry on http://www.soulwisdom.blogspot.com/)

What leads creatures like whales and humans to venture away from the pack, to explore new territories, to intersect their lives stories with those of a different species? Is it to receive help? To ask for healing? To give help? To impart messages of hope and joy—like that seen in the eyes of those, like I, glued to the water, praying for their recovery? Or is it simply an unplanned accident of getting off course?

After just having returned from an extended trip back to New Jersey, the home my husband, son and I left just one year ago to “go west” to California, I’ve been thinking a lot of the concept of home lately. I think we each need many things from our homes—comfort, caring from loved ones, a sense of community, safety, security, and also nurturance of our inner yearnings—yearnings for something more, yearning to explore our own potential, yearning for growth.

Sometimes the familiar, the safe, the saltwater we were born into is all we need to fulfill our yearnings for a true sense of home. Other times, we need to venture into unfamiliar waters, however different or uncomfortable they feel at times, to test our own inner boundaries and truly discover who we are and what we deem most sacred.

Experts say, when we stop looking “out there” to feed our soul and realize that we have a home within that is as real of a place as any we have been, true comfort sets in. I have to admit, my internal home is a place I don’t visit as often as I’d like. More often, I am wandering, seeking, reaching out—hopeful, sometimes joyful, sometimes sad. During those brief moments of true happiness when I do visit the home within, however, all my seeking ends.

Safe travels, whales (and anyone else who, like me, is searching for an inward sense of home). I hope you find it. I hope you are well.

The Egret Returns

This article appeared in the January issue of my newsletter Spreading Sunshine. (To subscribe, log onto www.lauriesmith.com.) A few days after that article was written, the egret visitor returned. Here is the full story. Enjoy! ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As I walked out of my bedroom, I could scarcely believe my eyes. There, on the other side of the sliding glass door was a huge egret, stretching her snowy white neck and looking back at me. In my shock, I expected her to startle and fly away. Instead, she just stared back at me through the thin little sheet of glass, just a few feet away.

She came on a day when I was looking for answers. Silent prayers had left my mind—questions about life, about love, about where my life was heading. The egret seemed like an answer from beyond, a message, a whisper in reply to what I hadn’t even realized I was thinking, let alone considered if anyone had been listening.

Perhaps the timing of her arrival was a coincidence, any connection a result of my imagination working overtime, or even wistful thinking. Even so, I couldn’t help but feel as if somehow I had received an answer, a reminder, if nothing else, that everyday magic happens, and that somehow there is a weaving together between my own, simple life and the workings of the divine.

We stayed there for more than a half hour, that egret and I, gazing at each other through the glass. We started our time together started almost as meditation, me too shocked to move, aware of each breath as I stayed frozen in space, desperate not to scare this miracle away. She too stayed frozen, the way animals do when they are trying to assess whether they are at risk of becoming prey, or having an otherwise ordinary day. At one moment, she crept closer, balancing gracefully along the railing of the balcony, first on one foot than the other, making her way closer to the glass, as if to get a better view.

Gradually, as if in a dance of getting-to-know you, we laid aside our guards. I slowly shifted in position to get more comfortable, then walked into the next room to tell my husband of our visitor. She began preening her feathers, as if in the comfort of a good friend with whom she could just be herself.

When she finally flew away, with the onset of sunset, I said a silent prayer of thanks for the time we had together. I wished her well. I thought that was the last I would see of her, and was grateful.

Two days later, while I was making dinner, she arrived again, almost like a good friend checking in. I was just thinking it would be time for some space clearing in our apartment. Time to shake out the cobwebs, get rid of some last lingering clutter left over from the move, time to do a deep clean. Suddenly, out of my peripheral vision, I saw something fluttering and white. She came like an “Amen,” a confirmation that I was on the right path, suddenly appearing just like before. This time she stayed much longer, at least an hour, if not nearly two, watching me closely through the glass the whole time, again keeping vigil.

As I prepared the meal, every movement was aware of her, there, a few feet away, like a dear friend who shows up when you need it most with a good story and a chat, to help time pass.

In her presence, every moment became sacred, the act of cooking shifted from drudgery, to an act of gratitude. Like an hour-long prayer of thank you, I worked away, while inwardly bowing to her as if she were a guru. When she finally faced west, again at sunset, and took flight, I couldn’t help but wish that we would meet again.

Here Comes The Sun

It had been a rainy day, the kind of rain where the water comes down sideways and all you want to do is cuddle up inside and stay warm. We lit a fire and spent most of the day hanging out together as a family. I curled up in a big chair with my laptop; my husband and son played together on the floor close by; the cat strategically positioned herself near anyone willing to scratch her ears.

Finally, late in the day, we put on our raincoats and ventured out in the weather to visit friends in San Francisco. As we drove toward the city, we couldn’t help but notice the bright skies.

“I can’t believe it’s clear here!” I marveled.

Suddenly, a sunbeam broke through the clouds, its light flickering off the bay.

“There has to be a rainbow somewhere,” my husband mused.

As if on cue, the most extraordinary rainbow appeared, its colors shining so bright it seemed as if we could reach out and touch it. The brighter the sun grew, the more brilliant the rainbow became, hanging in the air in front of the city skyline like a vision in a 3-D movie.

“Look at the colors,” our two-year old son chatted away in the backseat.

As we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge, we had front row seats as this glorious rainbow stretched a full 180 degrees, half a circle over the water, continually growing brighter and brighter.

As we finally paid the bridge toll and drove away (attempting to snap a few photos through the windshield), we had changed. The weather had shifted, and so had our perspectives. The day was no longer dismal; it was miraculous.

Something Moved

I was angry, really angry. I wanted to say I felt frustrated, but to be perfectly honest, it really did feel much more like anger. My first impulse was to ask myself, “Why?” I wanted to analyze, understand the emotion, as if justifying it would somehow make it better.

The first “reason” that came to mind was all the things I had on my to-do list, along with the usual self criticism for not yet having done them. Reason number two was technical difficulties I had been having with my computer, like 20 emails in my outbox that had inexplicably disappeared, destination unknown.

In my usual tenacity to “get to the bottom” of the feeling, I even checked Plants & Plants, an astrology newsletter. Apparently, because of the movement of the stars that day, we all would be feeling “dissonance, a feeling of frustration, agitation and annoyance.” Unfortunately, none of those perfectly rational explanations made me feel any better. I still felt angry.

Anger turned inward is depression, someone had once told me. And that was definitely not something I was up for that day. Already I was started to feel sluggish, a lack of productivity taking its hold. Who knew where else the emotion might lead?

I knew the anger was trying to tell me something, something I couldn’t figure out by reading or thinking about it. I needed to give into it. I needed to move. My first impulse was to do something destructive, like perhaps hurl my laptop off the balcony. Fortunately, I passed on that idea and just closed it for the day.

A funny thing happened when I did that. I picked up a pen. And I wrote and wrote and wrote. Anger helped me to write about four blog entries in what felt like mere minutes.

Then my anger moved me to other pursuits. I picked up toys. I picked up the vacuum. I picked up a rag. I mopped, dusted and cleaned. I wiped down baseboards. Sometimes, I threw things like papers into a heap, laundry into a pile. Sometimes I shouted things, like my opinion about all the troubles in the world. (My son was, after all, asleep. It was “Mommy Time!”).

The more I moved, the more I actually started to enjoy the joyful freedom of “being mad.” It felt so good to move, so good to do something productive with all that energy. By the time my son awoke from his nap, the house looked a whole lot better. Better yet, his Mommy was in a much better mood.

The good thing about anger is that, when we can ride its wave, and use its energy to con-struct, rather than de-struct, it can make magic. The next day, a series of synchronicities happened that left me scratching my head in wonder. First, a friend offered to introduce me to someone he knew who he thought might be a good connection for me from the holistic spiritual world.

Then another friend stopped by and asked me if she could read my not-yet-published book. “Why yes, I think I have a copy here somewhere,” I said, sheepishly going into my closet where I had left it angrily in a heap, one of the casualties of my flurry of energy from the day before. Later, someone else asked about some workshops I had taught and offered to introduce me to someone he knew.

It was as if, by allowing anger to move through me, I assisted in allowing a whole series of divine coincidences waiting in a line to move on through. It was almost as if someone was saying, “Oh, so you’re really serious about all those goals you said you’ve been wanting to achieve. We weren’t sure…You see, you just weren’t, uh, well, you weren’t MOVING that much.”

So here’s my new strategy for anger: Move, move, move. When we feel angry, something just wants to move. Throw things out. Clean things up. Break out of a pattern. Exercise. Move your furniture. Make way, and let it come on through. You might be surprised what moves in your life when you do.

One Stroke At A Time

Never before have I felt like vomiting like I did in that moment. I had worked so hard that I felt nauseous. Worse yet, I wasn’t proud of my final result. After 2000 meters on the rowing machine, I felt miserable, inadequate. I was humbled beyond belief.

Then I heard the worlds my close friend Lyen offered when talking about training for a marathon. “My personal best.” Those three little words shifted my view and made me reconsider what I had just experienced.

The truth is, for the first three and a half minutes of my body’s trauma on the erg, I was on fire. Not only did I hit a stroke rater of 2:00 minutes per 500 meters (a rate I had never hit before) but my average for that fleeting period was 2:10 (also a rate I had never hit for even ten seconds, let alone a full three minutes!).

Granted, that is when I was about to turn my stomach inside out. And yes, other team members twice my size were flying by me on our hypothetical “boat” race—machines bolted to the boat house floor. And no, I wasn’t happy with my final score.

But when we set aside right and wrong, good and bad, record or not, and look through the lens of compassion rather than competitiveness, the words come: “My personal best.” Whether it’s a new sport, a battle with an unwanted habit or even brief periods of time we spend each day doing something we said we would, it’s good to celebrate life’s victories.

It can also be helpful to enjoy the “rests” life brings, however brief. The fleeting moments between strokes are when we can reflect on wherever it is in our lives we are getting better than we were before. It is in the moments of pause when we can celebrate where we’ve been, regroup, and become energized about where we are going.

What we’ve done for three minutes today, we may be able to do for nine someday. Now, that’s something to celebrate! The best way to get there, of course, is to keep rowing—not all 2000 yards at once, but one stroke at a time.

Love-Hate Relationship

I’m taking a day off from my computer—a sabbatical, you might say. The two of us haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye lately. I think it’s better that I give it a rest than chuck it out the window, which is the only other alternative I can think of.

They say miracles can happen by simply taking a one-day fast, no food or drink, just a little lemon water to feed the soul. Today is my fast. I’ll eat myself silly, but I refuse to open that laptop. My addiction to it has reached a new level. It’s time to stop.

I walk by it, there on the couch and eye it longingly. “But my email!” my inner demon shouts out to me. “I must check my email!”

I walk by, head held high, strong in my conviction.

It’s not that the computer is evil unto itself, although the though did cross my mind yesterday as it garbled 20 emails and refused to send many more. It’s not that I’m not thankful for what this machine does for me, because I am.

Today’s fast is more about what I’m not doing when I’m on it, like cleaning my house, meditating in the sun, playing with my child or well, uh writing! On the computer I perfect, move around, edit, and work on stuff rather than peeking inside me rather than at it to see what’s happening.

So today, that computer will sit. And I will walk by with a sense of pride that I did it with my pen and paper in my hand, as I chose more peaceful ways to create.

Good-bye for today, dear friend. Perhaps tomorrow you can help me publish all this stuff! The time apart will do us good. Let us duke it out then!

The Cactus

There is a cactus flower growing out of the railing on our balcony. When we moved in, I spotted it and, thinking it had crawled up from a potted plant taken away by the previous inhabitant of the space, figured it would not long after shrivel and die. Not so. Not only is the cactus still alive, it has flourished and grown since our arrival.

It’s amazing to me how this simple little flower is growing off only the nutrients it gains from the wood where it is roosting. Another beautiful gift from the balcony cactus is it ties two sections of the balcony together. From a feng shui or symbolic perspective now, instead of being divided, those in this home are united in a beautiful way. Nature has offered a better feng shui adjustment than I could ever have invented.

All this cactus talk makes me think about my own life. What is trying to grow within me, with only a few hairline roots and no soil? There is something about this sweet little, ever expanding yellow-green flower that makes me think of survival. Even though we may not have asked for them, or may neglect them for years, within each of us are talents, dreams and gifts that long to share their blooms with the world.

They wait. And they wait. And they wait, continuing to live off the minute nutrients they can gain from life’s circumstances until we are ready to give them more. If they are anything like this little flower basking in the sun, while they wait, they’re growing and expanding, reaching out to remind us they exist whenever we look their way, eager to show off their beauty and remind us what life can be.

Pure Paradise

Something happened out there on the water today. As we were rowing, all eight of us novices, at first there was splashing and struggling. We were trying to balance the boat, the loudspeaker the coxswain was using was echoing and scratching with static. There were all-too loud whispers of some team members telling others what not to do. Then suddenly, without warning, for a brief period of about twenty seconds, all oars entered the water at the same time. All bodies pushed forward in unison. All legs pushed against the feet at once with the power we had been struggling to learn to harness for the past few practices.

The beauty was brief. Another boat’s wake passed and all too soon we were bobbing and struggling again, some too fast on the slide, others not using their power enough, some unable to get their oars out of the water, others splashing teammates in their faces. There were bent wrists that should have been straight, talking in the boat when there should have been none, but for a moment, we had done it. We each had the memory, the muscle memory, as our coach would have called it, of working as one. Now we knew where we were going. We had been there and back.

Our brains no longer had to teach our bodies. Our bodies had, at long last, received their marching orders through feeling. With any luck, with the right conditions on another glassy day on the Bay, they could do it again. Perhaps not just for twenty seconds. Perhaps for a full 2000 yards.

One of the many unexpected surprises since uprooting our family and moving out to California has been falling my way into becoming a member of the novice crew team in the local rowing club here. It happened accidentally, was unplanned and unsought. It started with a brief, two-hour introductory clinic that just happened to fit into our family’s schedule without too much upheaval, and happily turned out to be just the break I needed from unpacking boxes and mommyhood.

But to be part of a team? Regular practices at 5 a.m.? Just too much commitment, too strenuous, my head said, out of habit of protecting its long-sought-after sanity and much coveted sleep. Or was it? Like all good things that are meant to be, my body knew what was right. While my head reasoned and analyzed, making the oar of my life get out of synch, my body woke up that first day of practice and decided it was time to get out on the water. Being part of the team became muscle memory and sensing something greater at work than itself, my brain went quiet.

Rowing is something that on any other day, to any other person, at any other time in my life might have seemed difficult. But, as I have become humbled to learn, when something is aligned at my core, it falls easily into place. At just the right time. Whether my mind is ready or not.

Committing to crew was one of the simplest decisions I have ever made. That’s not to say that learning to row has been easy. I’m still too fast on the slide, breaking my wrist on the feather, and many other expressions that I never would have known what they meant before going out for that first practice. But, getting up in the morning, albeit sometimes painful, is always something I feel happy to do. And sometimes, when the water is quiet and still, the sun rising over the horizon, palm trees and mountains outlined in the morning light, the air just cold enough to make me awake enough to notice—well, then it’s pure paradise.

Remembering The Dream

One of the greatest lessons our son has taught me is that we are always changing and growing. Our son relishes and enjoys each stage he is in, then moves on. There was a time he was so into ducks—it was all he talked about. Then, excavators and bulldozers. Then it was Humpty Dumpty. Each time, we thought this was “it”—we had finally mastered what made him truly happy, we “knew” him. Each and every time however, like clockwork, as soon as we think we have him all figured out, he moves on.

As his parents, I think we sort of fooled ourselves that somehow, we were exempt from all that “phase” stuff, the luxury of childhood. As adults, we were meant to stay in place. After all, we were all done growing. Weren't we? Fortunately, something else was at work, much wiser than we. Even though we were ignoring many of the dreams we had once talked about passionately at a much younger time in our lives, the universe hadn't forgotten.

Before having our son, my husband and I had often talked about “going west” –to experience life on the west coast, not just to visit as we had in the past, but to live full-time. Doing so, however, had seemed daunting. How would we make ends meet? How could we let go of all we loved so much? How could we unravel ourselves from our beloved web of connections? And lastly, once we had our son came the pervasive thought, "How can we leave this place that seems so good for him?"

Even though we tried to forget how strongly our souls were beckoning us to try something new, the universe didn't. Last winter, my husband was recruited by a firm in the Bay area in California and unexpectedly, we were being handed a dream we had resigned ourselves to ignore, or at least had convinced ourselves was too daunting a leap to take, too complicated to figure out, too selfish to want. After many long job interviews (and even more arduous interviews between he and I as we dug through the guts of our souls deciding whether to stay or go), he accepted the job.

As we ventured out of our comfort zone in New Jersey with toddler in tow, we found our new home--an apartment we would have dreamed of, if only we had known such a place existed. And, here, miraculously, on the other side of all the decision-making and the U.S., we are living our dream, a dream so beyond what we gave ourselves permission to hope for, we hadn't even fully conceived of it.

The funny thing is, our son likes it here. A lot. Better, he tells us (as best he can at age two) than New Jersey. Of course there are many things and people we all miss. But as far as I can tell, if Barry Neil Kaufman was right when he wrote, "No single energy can be more impactful on this planet than the joy and well-being emanating from one truly happy and loving person," then our decision to move was wise.

Now that I am here in this new place, both in location and life, I remember. This is what I asked for in those silent spaces of my heart when I was ignoring my yearnings on the surface. This is what it feels like to want to live forever because each moment is such a miracle. This is what it feels like to be a small microcosm within the great big orchestration that I call Divine.

As I watch the sun glistening off the water, pelicans flying overhead and my son happily playing with his toys by my side here in California, I give birth to a new dream. May I always remember that life is a series of phases, one new one after the next. May I have the wisdom to celebrate the one I'm in and the humility to welcome the one that's coming. That is my dream. At least, it is for today.

It's Raining Again

It’s raining today—one of those skies-open-up, pouring, beating down rains. I love it. As I look out the window, a sheet of water pours past my window. I hear the rain beating against my son’s window upstairs through the baby monitor. The waters of the river are rising, the world is being washed anew.

I love the rain. I especially love it as I contemplate our new life soon-to-be in California. I know it rains there sometimes. I also know one of the joys of life “out there” will be the sunny weather, the cheery weather, the kind of weather that makes you smile and feel guilty for wanting to crawl under the covers and relax for a day, the kind of weather that calls to you “Come out, come out wherever you are! Come out and play!”

So, as for now, I am curled up on an comfy chair, watching the world through my windowpane. I am enjoying the inclement weather, the rain just passing through, the rain that reminds me how powerful it is to be born anew.

I am continually amazed at how much nature teaches us that we can apply to our own lives. How many times have I wanted to let go of the past and begin again? Nature shows me all you have to do is well, uh, let go and begin again. Just do it! It can be as easy as inviting the skies to open up and let the rain (or tears) fall. It’s as simple as doing the work, then getting on with it.

Not only is it rainy season here in dear ol’ New Jersey, it’s also rainbow season. I have no doubt that after this rain has passed, the sun will break through again with May (a.k.a. Californian-like) cheer, and somewhere between the clouds and the sunbeams will come a rainbow like a gift almost hidden, like a miracle, like so many of the blessings that fill our lives.

Getting Ready to Move

Piles of junk are everywhere in our home today. The usual paper clutter prevails, of course—unpaid bills and unread mail stacked on the table by the phone, shoes strewn in a mess by the door, a child’s happy toy trail like a maze to follow, filled with delights. Then there’s the new stuff—a pile of paper clips and hair fasteners (from a time when mine was much longer) rediscovered within a cute container, cloth diapers in a plastic container without a lid, a carpet pad still laying across the front porch—a trail left during a fervent hunt for products to sell at a flea market now a few days past.

We are moving, an endeavor, which on its best of days requires upheaval and this is definitely not one of them. Best of moving days involve boxes with labels and a sense of accomplishment coupled with neatness and organization, the sense of satisfaction that comes from being almost there. We are in the early stages of this transition, the really messy part of moving if you ask me—the going through stuff phase.

The going through stuff phase, for me, involves coddling, sorting and sifting through each little treasure—knickknacks with names, journals marking a long history of dreams and my journey to them, socks without partners. Each thing I touch these days involves some contemplation, some sadness, occasional self-criticism for still having it or having purchased it at all, some compassion for self, partner and more often, the object itself, a dash of frustration and eventually, a choice—to throw it out, give it away, move it far or to not decide, at least not yet.

There are many benefits to moving. For all the anguish, emotional and object upheaval, there are the moments of tension that bring out the best and worst of us. Long stroller walks with our 21-month-old son listening to his parents debating overhead to bring or not to bring, to rent or not to rent, and most of all, when exactly to go. “Golden Gate Bridge House,” he says with a knowing nod when he hears the adult hubbub begin, then settles back in peace as he zones out our chatter and admires the baby goslings paddling by.

Moving requires digging deep in courage as well as basements, at least it does for me. Moving requires digging deep into the guts of a marriage as well as a house, determining what works, what doesn’t—what we need more of, what we’ve neglected as life has gone by. Moving requires digging deep into one’s soul of resources to keeping moving, moving, moving so one can MOVE, even in the face of exhaustion, emotional and physical.

Moving is a blessing. It brings out the best and worst and is that perfect excuse that is impossible to create artificially—causing one to do that deep inner and outer excavation of one’s reality and sense of what is. Best of all, at the end of the muck sifting, exhaustion and letting go is the ultimate Moving Promise, the best blessing of all—yet another opportunity to Begin Again.

Sewing With Mom

My mother is peering into her sewing machine with a quizzical look on her face. She whispers to me, “Do you know how to thread the needle?”

I had to chuckle. Here was the woman who not only single-handedly sewed three prom gowns for me as a teenager—creations equivalent to the most detailed of wedding gowns, but also sewed everything in my childhood home from upholstery for the furniture, curtains for the windows as well as the most beautiful quilted Gunne Sax outfit I had ever set eyes on—a favorite in my wardrobe for years. I don't think I'm being biased when I write that when it comes to sewing, my mother is not only good at what she does, she is a true artist.

Thankfully, at that moment, my mother wasn’t asking for my advice because of forgetfulness or any lack of clarity. After 25 years of using the same old Necchi machine (an Italian brand, made to last for years--and it did!), she had taken a step up in the world and so had I (thanks to an incredibly generous Mother’s Day gift from my husband when I was pregnant) and we were taking a sewing class together to learn how to use our new-fangled machines.

A feminist in her own right, my mother never begrudged her role as full-time, stay-at-home Mom when I was growing up, but embraced it with a sense of true love. “Homemaker,” she called herself back then with a sense of pride. She didn’t just stay home with her kids, she was a true professional. And like most things she tried, she did it really, really well. She took her role seriously and created for us an amazing home.

It’s funny that I think of my mom in this way since she is now the full-time Executive Director for an innercity mobile meals program in our area, a program she has run for more than 20 years. Again, a master of her trade. Again, working round the clock to get the job done. Again, not asking for special recognition for her efforts or complaining—a role model to me in so many ways. To say nothing of the fact that during those 20 years she has still kept her career as homemaker humming along without a hitch.

I remember the vacuum running in the morning before going to school. My mother used that time to clean the house, before leaving it to go to her "other" job (at Mobile Meals), which would have been enough work for one day for less-energetic people like me and my husband. Then it would be home at night to serve a delicious, customized, healthy meal for a family of six--by customized I mean two vegetarian meals for myself and my younger brother (by our choice), often meat and potatoes for the other four and if the meat du jour was chicken, then something different for my father who was allergic to it at the time. (As I write this, my husband and I have just returned from a night eating out with our son since we were both too tired to cook.)

As I try to juggle my own passions of being present for my son, playing and teaching and enjoying his growth; writing and nurturing the dreams of others; keeping my marriage fun and supportive; as well as my desire for a clean, grounded, happy home in which to do all of this, I frequently find myself marveling at how my mom did it all.

I have a memory of myself in our kitchen when I was about 10. My friend and I are on our haunches, peering into a kitchen cabinet in which bowls are stacked neatly, organized as is my mother’s way. My mom’s favorite mixing bowl, a green one, is teetering as we are shimmying it out to use it for making cookies. Suddenly it slips and crashes to the floor, breaking in two. A sense of deep shame comes over my entire body. My family never had much money and I knew that this particular bowl was valuable in more ways than one.

Just then my mother comes down into the kitchen. Mortified, I explain what happened in a string of blurted excuses. I can feel my friend melting into the linoleum as if she just wants to disappear.

My mother simply says with a smile, “That’s okay. These things happen.” Then she whisks the parts of the bowl away into the trash, directing us to her other favorite one--a yellow one--before she disappears again upstairs.

I still marvel at her calmness. “Didn’t she want to try to glue it?” I wonder, but then realize that my mother, always looking out for our well-being, probably realized that getting shards of china in batter, to say nothing of glue, was probably not a risk worth taking.

“Didn’t she want to holler and yell, and tell us to be more careful?” But then I realize that, always sensitive, she probably didn’t want to embarrass me in front of my friend. Perhaps my mother, ever the teacher, also thought that the two of us taking initiative in the kitchen was more important than any minor mishaps that occurred as we were learning to be independent. Who knows? Maybe it was simply a good day and the truth was that “These things truly do happen.”

All I know is it's a memory I don't forget, most likely because it was one of those rare moments in life when we get complete clarity about something--in this case, my mother's true nature.

And so, it should go without saying that when my mother asked, I was more than honored to be able to show her how to thread the needle on her new-fangled machine.

The Art of Never Finishing

I was sitting beside my son on the couch, watching a Fisher Price DVD of the "Little People." Our friends had lent us this particular one so we could expand our collection during a recent vacation. As it turned out, my son was more satisfied with watching the Little People DVD he had been given by his grandparents for Christmas (and the only one he owns) over and over again rather than branching out.

I, however, was curious. As he and I sat side by side snuggling on the couch before his afternoon nap, eyes glued to the television, I found myself feeling a tad disappointed. This "new" DVD for our family was actually an "old" one. The Little People looked different! They weren't the soft, loveable characters we had come to know and love. They looked stiff, almost like actual replicas of the hard, plastic toys the DVDs were marketing rather than the animated characters in the one WE owned. Even Devin was restless, quickly becoming more interested in his "Big, Big Trucks!" than the usually-addictive flickers of the TV.

Something struck me as I struggled to sit through this older version with my son. Even those in the "bigtime" are constantly reinventing themselves, trying new things. The creative process is about sharing, revising, getting feedback, trying things out. For a long time, I was under the misconception that anything I put "out there" (like this blog, for instance) had to be "perfect"--never to be changed again.

A friend of mine recently told me Caroline Myss (a favorite non-fiction author of mine--and a bestselling one!) was relaunching one of her books under a new title. Again, a change. Again, someone in the "bigtime" taking a leap and saying, "I can do better! I've changed my mind! I like it this way instead!"

I find this all very inspiring. The more creative work I do and the more courageous I become about putting it out there, the more I realize that rather than being a place of completion, the real world is actually the greatest experiental lab there is! Nothing is permanent, everything changes. Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do for ourselves is to get in on the fun.

By the way, this month's theme on www.dreamcatching.net is "compassion!" We'd love to have you stop by and check it out.

A WOW Moment

"Wow!" he exclaimed at the top of his lungs so everyone else in the restaurant could hear. Not just once, but each time the waiter arrived. He was very excited by whatever he was being offered--whether it was a glass of water, a basket of bread or his very own kiddie menu.

My son has seemed to emanate enthusiasm ever since he was born. He runs up to strangers with an endearing wave and "hi" as if to say, "You are so great! I'm glad you're here!" And, like many children, he applauds with delight at a new discovery, whether he's hit a particularly high note during a rendition of "Happy Birthday" or an 18-wheeler catches his fancy out of the window next to his car seat. At 18-months, he's really into celebrating the world.

One of my friends once told me she was trying to cut down on how many compliments she gave her young daughter. Rather than saying "Good job!" or "Well done!" she went through a period of trying to instead say things like, "That looks like fun!"--the idea being to put the ownership back on her child so she didn't grow up looking to outside sources--as so many of us do--for her value.

I liked that idea. I understand the importance of giving a child an inner sense of self-worth rather than an outer one. My friend, however, after a few weeks of trying the tee-totalling approach of avoiding affirmations fell off the wagon. She decided moderation was a better way--a little of supporting her daughter's self-ownership by putting the onus back on her, a little of telling her daughter what she appreciated in the form of compliments--more in line with the "Children Learn What They Live" approach. As the famous poem goes, "...if a child lives with appreciation, she learns to appreciate."

A Chinese proverb is "If you wish your merit to be known, acknowledge that of other people." Or, as my son would put it, his sparkly eyes lighting up--"Wow!" I am continually learning about the ways of the world from this wee one, more so than any proverb can teach me.

During that meal in the restaurant, the lesson came in the form of the smile that beamed across the waiter's face every time he approached our table and he and Devin exchanged effusions of appreciation. As I silently witnessed their encounters, I realized that Devin wasn't just appreciating the waiter because of how generous and great he was at offering us all that stuff out of the goodness of his heart and the description of his job. Devin was appreciating the waiter because it felt good to do so. What a win-win moment the one in which a compliment is uttered can be.

What's Up With Blogging?

"What is all this blogging about?" a relative asked me over Christmas festivities. I paused. The question came as if there was a plan, as if I knew. I wasn't quite sure how to answer because, you see, there isn't. A plan, that is. This blogging is about...well, er (uncomfortable silence)...well, it's just fun. It, uh...(more silence coupled with significant squirming)...well, it just feels right.

I usually like to move through life not by following what others think is right for me, but rather, well, intuitively. I like to figure things out on my own and do things MY way--what feels right in the moment and works best for me rather than what the "experts" recommend. On my more self-judgmental days, this approach to life (motherhood, getting published, etc., etc.) feels rebellious, selfish and fills me with doubt. Other days, I have a gentle acceptance of the whole issue. It's just who I am. It's what works for me. Intuitive feels right. But, I have to admit it's not always easy to not be following a formula, especially when someone asks me what I'm doing.

So here we are. Blogging. It's what my intution said would be good for me, like so many other things that make absolutely no sense and are a far cry from what all the publishing books say I should be doing right now with my time instead...marketing, marketing, marketing, finding an agent, creating a platform, writing proposals not books and I say, "Bah! Humbug." Obviously, they don't know that the life of a mother then writer doesn't leave much for all that and where's the love? Where's the joy? For me, it's here. Blogging. Doesn't mean I won't do all that other stuff someday, but for me, although this blog isn't part of any sure plan, it feels like there is a plan hidden within each post I make--a sneaky plan, an intuitive one, one that just feels right. I just don't know quite why yet, or where it's heading me.

I have learned more from teachers who have been honest about their own "stuff" than I have from polished speakers who seem to have it all together. Somehow, when each of us are honest about our own humanity, everyone can take a deep sigh. It's like, "whew! thank goodness I'm not the only one!" So, here within this blog I can honestly say there is no plan, really, and I kind of like that. I'm having fun.

Blogging is one small act in my life that continually challenges me to be not perfect, but rather real, to not to have it all together but simply to flow. Creatively. Imperfectly. Many blog entries become mantras in my mind and never make it to the page. But when I have a moment--a split second (or more ideally about 20 minutes!) between diaper changes, folding laundry, digging in the dirt with the little one, and doing everything else that makes my oh, so imperfect life tick, I write my blogs. Perfect, they are not. Books, they are not. But they are mine and they breathe life into my dream of being a published author on days when that seems more like a dream than a goal I can grasp.

The only way to go, I think, is to simply keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep doing what we absolutely LOVE (which in my case is writing and creating and blogging) and watch the magic happen! Although I'm not exactly sure HOW, I just know blogging is part of that equation. I love it. It moves things through me, it magnetizes things to me. So, I'm trusting. I'm blogging. I'm watching what happens next.

Circles of Completion

I used to have trouble with completion. It wasn't, particularly, lack of completing things that was the issue, or even gumption or the willingness to work hard. Instead, the pickle seems to have more to do with how much I love to START STUFF! New projects, creative endeavors, big ideas—-I love `em and often dive in with enough enthusiasm for a whole troupe of worker-bees.

When an alluring project catches my fancy, I’m often eager to dance, which means sometimes (just sometimes!) all my OTHER exciting, new projects get temporarily laid aside while I do--until I can get back to them, of course.

That’s why I’ve started something new around our home called “completing the circles.” It started with my husband and I wanting to be good role models for our 17-month-old son. Pick up your toys, clear your plate…good life skills, if you ask me, and good to start young.

As we all know, of course, children learn what they see and not what they’re told. And so, before asking Devin to master this important life skill, we had to do some honest soul searching and self-evaluation.

Life with children is full of project after project, be they our own (laundry, cleaning dishes, wiping his mouth) or his (playing with that truck, this book now, Mommy!). Our home frequently looked like a tornado had hit it—that tornado being us (and that’s US collectively). You could almost map out where our path had gone, from one exciting event in our home to the next.

Now I’m beginning to simply try to complete each task at the time we’re doing it--setting the table, putting out the food, eating the food, clearing the table, putting the food away, doing the dishes--one big, delightful completed circle with nothing to clean up later, no mess to cause our energy to drop just when we’re diving into something new! We’re actually having fun with this whole completed-circle thing. Jim and Devin are getting into as much as me.

In honor of this month’s theme on my website (www.dreamcatching.net) –COURAGE—I’m realizing that sometimes it takes courage to complete things. What will we do with our time when the house is neat, all circles completed? What will happen when we publish that book, finish that project? What will happen THEN?

Other times, courage is not needed so much for seeing something to the end, but having the bravery to “not do” some of the exciting opportunities that come our way, even if they seem “so important.” Sometimes NOT embarking on some of the new circles of activity that distract us—especially if doing so will disappoint others or endanger our sense of busy, self-importance—can require just as much courage as following through.

As we celebrate a year of new beginnings, it can also be helpful to remember that 2006 can also be a year of completions—truly clearing our plate and slate by finishing all those things we’ve been saying we will. Won’t it feel good when we have?

TODAY is a great day to BEGIN closing all those promises you have made to yourself. Have fun beginning—and completing! And HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Waving At The World, Part Two

I thought today would be the perfect day to run one of my all-time favorite blog entries, from way-back around the time this blog was first birthed.

My son Devin is now 16 months, on his way to 17 (months, that is :-). Today we took a long walk together, and just like the glorious day almost half-his-life-ago when this earlier blog entry was written, he was waving at the world--first at a truck, then at a friendly passerby, then at a favorite neighbor.

After our walk, he practically leapt through a window in our living room shouting, "Baby! Baby!" (also with a wave) when he saw another neighbor just a few months younger than he being pushed by in a stroller. I am constantly amazed by this little being who emerged into our lives such a short time ago, and is continually teaching us how to greet the world--with a wave and a smile.

Here goes...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My son is waving at the shower head as he takes his bath. He is laughing hysterically with joy, waiting for the shower to wave back.

He is nine months old, and loves saying hello to anyone and anything that catches his eye.

His newest friend is the set of windchimes hanging on our porch. He even tries to say it.

It comes out something like this.

“Wi…ch…” Again and again. Over and over.

He waves hello to the pot rack hanging overhead in our kitchen.

“Hello, pot rack,” we say, encouraging him as he waves.

“Hi-row, pt..rk..” He says, trying it out, chuckling to himself with delight.

He waves at a neighbor, a stranger passing by, the tree branches overhead.

“Hello, beautiful world, hello!” we say, as he greets the sunny world out his window with a wave each morning.

Devin James reminds us everyday what a joy it is to be alive.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

May we all remember what a great day today is. As Goethe wrote, "Nothing is worth more than this day." Enjoy yours!

Color of Today

The air blew up the river, billowing and bustling everything around us. Fall leaves swirled in big swoops. My hair went every which way as I pushed the stroller against the breeze.

It was an odd sort of day, one that felt more spring-like than autumn, a final hurrah before more brisk fall weather set in. There was a sense of get-out-and-enjoy-it-now energy, as if every living being was aware that the gentle temperatures would soon pass.

Vultures circled overhead, playing in the wind pockets as they surveyed the landscape for their next meal. There was a sense they were hunting not out of desperation as sometimes happens in colder weather, but rather were half hunting, half enjoying the day.

As I cherished the unusual weather, I noticed how many leaves were blowing along my path rather than on the branches overhead. We are definitely past peak, when it comes to the autumn-thing. In spite of the recent spring-like climate and a long, drawn-out, delayed height of foliage color, nature is definitely moving swiftly onto winter ideas.

This autumn has been a unique one for me personally. I have found myself being aware of the seasons’ colors more poignantly than ever before. Back in September before we lost any leaves, the color of the day was bright, photosynthesis green. I seemed to be wrapping myself in it—redesigning my website www.dreamcatching.net with a design that radiated the hue I was seeing everywhere.

During “green season” you would look up in the trees and it felt as if the leaves were positively singing—could that be possible? It was as if they too were having a last hurrah before other things to come.

The next season that consumed my awareness was yellow. One day, I snapped a photo of yellow leaves absorbing the sun. They were at their most beautiful before their edges turned brown and the brilliance of amber started fading to something more obscure.

Finally, just this week, the color in my awareness became red. The Japanese Maples in our neighborhood have reached a crescendo just when every other tree seems to be fading away. The red is so bright it’s nearly fluorescent. I map my walks out now by the trees—these little pockets of maples marking my way that scream—notice me, notice me, cherish me because I am about to go. It happens so quickly, the next time I look—all the leaves are gone, surrounding the base of the trunk in a soft carpet, becoming food for the next crop of leaves two whole seasons away.

As I strive to cherish the newness in each day, I am reminded that like the colors of Fall, today is soon to pass into another brilliant season that, while different, will also bear noticing with joy.

Angels Among Us

I found myself feeling sad this week. Maybe it was because my husband was away for business and I missed him. It was deeper than that, though, a deep sense of loss creeping in beneath the hubbub of everyday life. It wasn’t any one thing, but seemed highlighted by the events echoing through my life.

On Wednesday, for example, I began saying good-bye to a beautiful friend and helper who assists us with cleaning our home. Ausra is returning to Lithuania to her family, something that brings her great delight, in spite of the challenge of leaving. I was struck at how sad I was to see her go, how much a part of the fabric of our family she has become even though we only see her every two weeks.

"I have always liked taking care of people," she said once when I told her how much I appreciated her hard work. “This is not hard,” she smiled at me from atop a ladder, a special favor she was doing for us by washing the windows—in 100 degree humid weather. Before coming here, she graduated from college where she studied the craft of designing costumes for theater. In her spare time, as a hobby, she creates needlework that rivals that of professionals.

We had another woman help us when we lived in New Hope, PA many years ago. Her name was Cristina and she was from Poland. She spoke very little English, but somehow we managed to communicate very well. She was a tiny woman with biceps that resembled that of a bodybuilder. She showed me how she would lift the vacuum cleaner like a barbell to make herself stronger, and how she did handstands in her spare time.

She too returned to her country after a year or so of being here. She too was always cheerful, going above and beyond what she was here to do—fixing a picture frame with a rubberband, bringing me Polish medicine from a small shop in Trenton and refusing to let me pay for it when I had a bad cough that wouldn’t go away.

The other person who has been very much on my mind lately has been my client Michele. About four years ago, I had the honor of meeting with this magnificent woman regularly to give her Reiki treatments as she battled a serious form of aggressive cancer. Within a short year of receiving the diagnosis, she was dying, resisting this idea, while also preparing to say good-byes to her two young sons and husband.

She was another person full of light and love and service. As she prepared to pass from this earth in her own way--at this time of year, in fact--she brought together a whole community of loving women who would meet in her home and learn about alternate ways of healing and improving their lives. She did this not just as part of her own exploration but also to serve, to share with others. While she may not have realized it, she gave as much if not more than she asked to receive.

Michele called me her spiritual healer, although in so many ways, by letting me into her life the way she did, she was really mine. She finally passed only a few days before my husband Jim and I left for our three-month cross-country trip in 2002 and the memorial service was synchronistically scheduled for the day before we departed.

As I was taking my daily walk with my son Devin the other day, thinking these thoughts, I noticed something outside a neighbor’s house I hadn’t before. It was a rock carved with the following poem, perhaps in honor of a deceased pet.

Our hearts still well with sadness
Secret tears still flow
What it meant to lose you
No one can ever know.

There is a magic, I believe, to those people who enter our lives and then pass out of them again, seeming simply like mere acquaintances, but who forever leave their footprints on our hearts. I feel so thankful to have met these miraculous women whose spirits have become woven throughout my life. Each, in their own way, taught me what it really means to be grateful, to love life, and to serve.

Each of us have a story within us of loss—as well as all we’ve gained from those we’ve loved—that is difficult to touch let alone share with others. The greatest gift we can give as we’re on this earth, I believe, is that of ourselves.

The Game

It started with a simple “tap, tap” on the sunroof of his stroller. He was getting restless. I thought the distraction might keep him entertained.

Our son Devin looked up and laughed, surprised to see me up there, looking through the makeshift window.

He wiggled in his seat then reached his arm up high, high, his fingers touching the wrinkly plastic, reaching for mine on the other side.

I pushed the roof back out of the way and, reaching down, grabbed his hand with a silly sound. He screeched with delight and surprise. We played the game again and again.

Then suddenly, he brought my hand down into his lap and became perfectly still, wrapping his small fingers around mine peacefully.

It reminded me of when he was a newborn and would cling onto a finger with his entire fist. There was something so intimate, so miraculous about that simple movement. It was as if he had forgotten it was me back there, pushing the stroller and now that he’d found me wasn’t going to let go.

We walked this way for a bit, holding hands. Then suddenly, not quite satisfied, he wiggled in his seat again. Reaching his hand up, up, up, his fingers found my other hand, the one pushing the stroller and wrapped around tight.

Thinking it was just a passing touch, a fleeting idea, I let him pull it down closer to him, now pushing the stroller with my belly.

It wasn’t a passing idea. It was a sure thing—a focused request. Let’s have some togetherness time, Mom. His two hands held mine as tenderly as could be. With this simple choice, I felt my heart swell beyond where I think it’s ever gone before.

Miraculous moment became mile as we walked like this, him holding both of my hands sweetly, peacefully, silently, happily. And I, hands occupied with more important things, pushed the stroller using only the weight of my body and cherished every single, labored step.

Devin reminds me again and again how simple true happiness is.

Awakening Abundance

As I am preparing for the second meditation class I am teaching (check out my website at www.dreamcatching.net for more information), I am struck by how much connection there is between abundance and self-care.

This week we are focusing on the root chakra—the first energy center in the body, which is located at the root of the spine. According to principles of energy medicine, this chakra rules issues associated with safety, security and money.

Our basic needs as humans are linked to our root, our connection to the earth. How well we fill our own core human needs—eating well, sleeping and having enough money to put a roof over our heads, and feed and clothe ourselves is linked to how abundant we feel.

I find myself coming back again and again to how necessary self-care is. As a new mother, I have heard time and time again the old oxygen mask analogy. We first care for ourselves so we have energy to give. Life gives us so many examples of this.

New parents know how hard it is to help a new little human fall asleep when they themselves are sleep deprived. When it comes to relationships, most of us have learned, one way or another, that if we don’t have enough energy to care for ourselves, we usually aren't giving to others from a clear, loving place either.

I believe abundance comes when we have found a way of living—-be it through our life’s work, or simply in the way we live, day-in-and-day out--that fills us up as well as others.

When we are willing to dip into the well of abundance that is all around us—-be in by accepting the smile of a stranger, appreciating the beauty of nature or remembering how glorious it is to be alive and able to breathe—-we become not a user of energy but a magnifier of it. The more committed we are to filling up with life force in a way that is aligned with what our inner spirit wants for us, the more chance we give that life force to grow.

A Windy Day

The wind is gusting leaves up the river. The sky is sunny. The neighborhood is full of friends, families and otherwise adventurous folks biking, walking and riding against the breeze celebrating this sunny Sunday. After a week of rain, it’s welcome respite.

I find it funny that after writing the last blog entries first about the river being so low and clear (Oct. 4), then about it being hidden by fog (Oct. 5), today it’s roaring, high and muddy from the rains. We’ve experienced our third flood in 13 months and although we weren’t evacuated this time, I’m reminded how life can change on a dime.

Whether it’s through the destructive earthquakes in Asia, hurricanes in the Gulf or rain in our neck of the woods, nature is constantly teaching me to be grateful, patient, and how the adage about the only thing constant being change is so true.

As I watch my son sprouting from a baby into a young boy before my very eyes—my own little patch of nature indoors—I’m reminded how near we as humans are to the changing currents of the outside world, and how just when we think our well is dry, everything can turn and we can be overwhelmed with great abundance flowing our way.

Stretching My Soul

My head was up, my arms and legs stretched as far as they could go, my index finger and thumb around my big toe. It was a yoga time and the position of the moment was a doozey.

I’ve been taking a Hatha Yoga class that has been stretching me physically, mentally and spiritually.

Suddenly, out of the blue, the teacher said, “Wherever you are is perfect.”

Boom. For some reason, my thoughts shattered. I woke up.

Although I hadn’t realized it, my mind had been screaming things like, “Am I doing it right?” and “Oh, gosh, I’m out of alignment, I’m just sure of it." "She's going to see me and tell me I'm doing it wrong!"

Heidi’s simple statement brought me right back into the heart of what yoga was all about for me when it first came into my life so long ago.

At the time I was studying with a very gentle teacher Jane Morris. Jane taught the very gentle, deeply renewing art of Kripalu Yoga. Even moreso, Jane taught--by her raw, honest example--what it really means to accept yourself just as you are.

When I am doing something out of my element, I find I am often very self-critical. I find myself feeling tense. Am I doing okay? I want to achieve. I want to be perfect. It's an old habit, slow to go.

Somehow, a sense of shame about doing things "wrong" once settled into my being and I have yet to get it out. When something reawakens it, I’m plunked in the middle of all the early insecurities and stresses that went along with it way back when.

Then someone says something like Heidi did this morning: “Wherever you are is where you are supposed to be” and the child in me melts away. The adult steps forward—the adult who has learned a bit of wisdom through the trials and tribulations, clearing and cleaning, self-evaluation and self-absorption life has sent her way.

It was so nice to be reminded not only what yoga is all about, but also life. The only way to stretching beyond where we are is to love where we’ve been. Namaste.

(See my website www.dreamcatching.net for a great quote about this.)

Foggy Morning

I had to chuckle to myself as I drove my husband to the train station early this morning. After writing yesterday’s blog entry on clarity, there I was, barely able to see the car in front of me, the fog was so dense. Things were, you might say, less than clear.

In fact, as I drove along Route 29 South, a highway that hugs the river, I couldn’t even tell the river was there. All I saw was thick fog, even more dense above the water than everywhere else.

That got me thinking. A gift of nearsightedness—be it physical, spiritual or induced by some outer force—is that it brings us back to the here and now.

Having a clear view can be delightful. But being long-sighted also means we're able to see all that is necessary to get from where we are to where we’re going.

Sometimes keeping our eyes on the few feet just before our face is what we need to do to focus on the task at hand.

Funny, but that’s kind of how I went through my day today. First, I did the laundry. Then, I had an appointment. Then I picked up vegetables from the organic farm where we have a share. Then I straightened the house. And on and on. During each task, I was focused on it and it only, almost as blind to what was next as the fog made me this morning.

It wasn’t a day for history books (or even a blog, for that matter). Just a day. A day where I put one foot in front of the other. Nothing more. Nothing less. As I reflect back this evening, I feel good. Peaceful. I got a lot done.

As seers, each on our own unique journey, sometimes we’re blessed to only be able to see what’s before us. Other times, we’re blessed to be able to see straight to the bottom—of an issue, one’s soul, or the river, whatever the case may be—and back.

A Clear View

I can't remember the river ever being this clear. In part, it's because the water level is low. We really need rain.

I think the clarity also has something to do with the floods we experienced last spring. The riverbed is still covered with the silt that settled after the waters receded. I think the swift currents of last spring may also have been responsible for uprooting the duck weed that, this time of year, has been known to crowd our view.

As I'm doing my own inner clearing, preparing for the meditation class I will begin teaching in two weeks on letting go and beginning again, I'm struck by another benefit of "clearing out"--gaining clarity. It's funny, but I've never viewed the benefit of clearing in quite that way.

In the clearing process, it is natural for things to get stirred up like the muck on the river floor. When that happens, it's nice to remember that eventually it all settles again. I know in my own life, usually after the turmoil has subsided, things become clearer than ever before.

Sometimes we've gained a clarity about where we are supposed to be, where our souls are calling us to go. Other times it is a clarity about how beautiful the moment is, or how fortunate we are. Sometimes, it is simply an open view, allowing us space to see what is next in a whole new light.

Back in The Water

She had hung from the rack in the back of our garage for the past few years—untouched by water. Yet this year, on a lazy weekend morning, I asked my husband to help me carry her down the steep riverbank to the river’s edge.

Why I hadn’t been kayaking in so long is a string of stories. First, I was pregnant and too round for narrow opening. Then I was a new mom and too tired to think of it. Before that, I was too busy, complacent or taken with the pursuit of other things. I really don’t remember.

On this day, however, as I pushed off from the shore and felt the quietude that only comes from floating so close to the water, something occurred to me—this was the dream.

When I was a child and our family had rented a rough cabin on a New England lake, I had decided in my heart to someday live in a house on water and have my very own boat. Our home today isn’t fancy and my kayak a long cry from a yacht, but it’s exactly what I had desired for so long—a simple, beautiful dream.

I often find myself focusing on sleepless nights, daily chores or dreams yet to come that I forget to nourish those whose moments of fruition have already passed. The true dream is in how we live with what we have yearned for after it’s already here.

Whether the dream is a partner with whom to share our life journey, work aligned with our spirit, a child, a healthy body, money to pay our bills, or something else entirely—the more mindful and grateful we are of it in the present moment, the greater it becomes.

I believe striving, yearning, pursuit and hope for the future give life great meaning. I also believe living a happy life is about celebrating what we’ve got, long after the victories have been won.

As I gratefully took a stroke of the paddle and eased the kayak out onto the water, I felt a wonderful sense of calm. I am in the dream, and I’m happy I'm here.

Miracle in The Laundry

The other day, I had a great lesson in honoring my soul wisdom. The babysitter had just arrived, and I was rushing around, already late for my yoga class, a rare treat for this mom.

Suddenly a voice within seemed to say, “Just pop in another load of laundry.”

“What?” my mind shrilled. “Are you crazy? You’re already late! What are you thinking!” (My mind tends to be rather dramatic.)

Luckily, I honored the calm voice instead of the scolding “shoulds” of my mind.

As I completed loading the dryer (feeling unusually peacefully as I did, in fact), I was greeted at the back door by the babysitter. My son had fallen while outside and needed some first aid. I was glad I was there to help.

Had I not listened to my soul, I would have been out the door a few minutes before, missing this opportunity to offer comfort and care.

After I did what was needed, I suddenly looked at the clock and realized I had missed my yoga class.

“Go for a walk,” the same peaceful voice from before whispered softly.

It was a beautiful day, and going out in the sunshine felt just right.

As I was walking, I received new inspiration for a creative project I was working on. When I arrived home, I was happy for the childcare coverage so I could spend time on the computer, capturing my new ideas.

One thing led to the next, and before I knew it, my day had shifted from one that felt busy to one that felt divinely orchestrated, one miraculous moment after the next.

Whenever I think I know exactly what the “plan” is, I am continually reminded that there is another, more wonderful way. All we have to do to discover it is listen to the divine wisdom within.

The Red Leaf

At first glance, I thought it was a bright red bird. Then I realized as it fluttered, first one way then the next, it was nothing more than a crumbling old brown sycamore leaf--the kind I crunch over on my deck and tell myself, “I really have to sweep these up.”

In a rare moment of relaxation, I was leaning back instead of thinking of all the worried thoughts that usually keep me so busy and distracted. In a rare moment of receptiveness, I had opened my eyes to see.

Once I saw the leaf and realized my mistake, I started watching differently. How could it be that something that usually seemed so ugly to me could actually be so beautiful?

I watched the leaf on its journey. First it fluttered left. Then right. Its fall from above was so gentle it reminded me of a parachuter taking his time.

I started listening differently too. I heard things I hadn’t before. Like a big fish for instance, breaking above the surface. The call of a distant bird and the response of another. The rumble of a truck crossing the highway bridge a few miles away.

The more I looked and listened in this new way, the more I realized this must be how our 14-month-old son Devin experiences life. Magical. Full of surprises. Not littered with leaves to be swept but instead with mysteries to discover.

Devin tells me about his view of the world in his simplistic way (“car, car” with a pointing finger) and I realize that yes, indeed, a car has passed on a distant road. Sometimes he sings in perfect harmony, mimicking the tone of a bird, a laughing child or a tune on the radio. Even without the means to communicate like you or I, he tells me what he hears.

When moments of clarity break through the clutter of our lives, it’s as if life stops and slows down for a moment. I feel as if I have awakened from a deep sleep and become alive once more.

The beauty is that this experience is available to us all in every moment, no matter how long it's been since we’ve been in our real-world slumber. Even when I’ve been immune to the stories and magic happening all around me for some time, I am continually reassured to learn the magic has been happening anyway. Regardless of whether I've been there for the show.

The good news is no matter how complacent or tired or rote our lives become, all we have to do to rejoin the cacophony of goodness is open our ears and eyes, listen and see. Now.

Unloading Baggage

Today, I unloaded the books lining the shelves of a big bookcase in our home. I had purchased it when I started my public relations business back in 1995.

Now, ten years later, its heavy lines feel imprinted with expectations of the past. Big business. Heavy deadlines. The weight of the world.

The bookcase has stood in the room where, lately, I have been doing my writing. Every time I look at it, for some reason I'm not sure of, my energy drops.

There must be better things to look at. Aesthetic issues aside, however, my practical side bargains to keep it—it still works, it matches our décor, it holds a lot of books. Yet its usefulness to my spirit ran out long ago.

Just as I am ready to let go of this—a simple object, or so it seems, seemingly unrelated to the rest of my life—I am also ready to go of other things, deeper things, as real to my soul as this bookcase is to my physical self.

As I symbolically haul this heavy piece of furniture to the curb to load into the vehicle of someone for whom it is more than practical, I think how related and inextricable the clutter of our homes and the baggage of our lives can be.

Things like big bookcases, old habits, holding, fear and following what makes sense over what works well for our truest selves—all of these can be very easy to let go of. Once we begin, we realize we don’t really need to hold on so tight.

As we release and let go, we understand how delicious it can be to fly light. As I look at the big blank wall now before me, in spite of the piles of books cluttering the floor and the questions--where will I now put all this stuff?--I see the beauty of open expectations and the unknown looking back at me.

Sometimes all it takes is an act of courage, a leap of faith and what seems like an irrational decision to the outside world to be able to feel like, once more, we can truly see.

Beginning Anew

It’s hard to believe it’s September. Already. Here we are smack-dab in the middle of the month and it’s just dawning on me that fall is upon us. Kids are back in school. New routines are not just starting, but in full swing.

I am relieved. The summer has been full, fun, busy, and boy, am I ready for routine again--routine and beginning again.

Maybe it’s all those years of being a student, but every fall, I feel a little quiver of excitement. Readiness. Enthusiasm. It’s like the hot humidity rolls away and the crisp air of autumn fills me with a new energy. Invigoration. Newness. Readiness to let go and begin again.

Maybe that’s the inspiration that fed my desire to teach a new class this fall on just that—using meditation to clear one’s own energy—inward and outward—and set into motion what is most ready to unfold. (Check out www.mandalayogameditation.com for more info.)

Sometimes I think we need to do that—mindfully partner with the design of the universe and let the winds of what’s working “out there” work in our own lives too.

As leaves prepare to die and fall from limbs of trees, I am preparing to let go of old blocks in my own universe, old habits, holding and hardness to make way for the softer new.

As there is movement in the air beckoning the heat of summer to soon fade away for another climate—a breath of crisp air--so too am I getting ready to expand my lungs and drink more fully in what life has to offer.

As the nights are growing longer, my inner light seems to be getting ready to burn brighter to shine the way. To shine the way to where, I’m not sure. But I feel the currents of change moving—not just “out there,” but through my very soul.

Spider Walk

I walked along the path and couldn’t believe my eyes. There, amongst the weeds along the bank was a Dream Catcher—like those made by Native Americans.

In the Native American tradition, the design is a large circle, often made of a bent stick, filled with a woven web. At the center of the web is a small hole, often decorated with special stones or crystals. The idea is that if you hang a Dream Catcher over your bed, the web will catch the bad dreams and only the good ones will get through the center hole.

The concept is one that has meant a lot to me, as my business is named The DreamCatching Company. To me, the concept is more about catching the dreams that speak to you within your soul, rather than specific to nighttime dreams or necessarily the Native American design.

Yet, here, as I was walking along the river’s edge, I couldn’t help but be captivated. The Dream Catcher there wasn’t made by humans, but rather by a spider.

Craftily created, the spider had taken it upon herself to weave together the tops of a grassy weed. It was one of those weeds that has a tall stem and then a few sprouts, usually two or three at the top, almost like a long tuft at the top. The stem stayed intact but the tufts had been woven together to meet at the top into a large circle. Within the circle was a web, a perfect Dream Catcher, the center hole marked by one of the spider’s prey, a dream caught.

As I walked further, pondering this “miracle” along my path, I noticed ahead a leaf suspended in air, at least twenty feet above the ground, dangling twenty feet from a tree’s branch overhead.

I blinked, blinked again. Was I seeing things? When I arrived, I noticed that again it was the spider’s handiwork. The leaf was suspended from the long invisible filament. The leaf had curled a bit, like the sail of a boat when it catches air. Within the front of the leaf was another net a spider had crafted to catch its prey, the leaf acting as a backboard for any dream morsels that might accidentally slip through.

I realized on this walk that spiders (who represent the writers of the animal world as well as “the infinite possibilities of creation,” according to the book Medicine Cards by Jamie Sams and David Carson) reminded me that to catch our dreams, we simply have to open our eyes and creatively use the gifts right under our noses.

From Struggle to Flow

It was a blissful end to a mixed-up day. My husband got his schedule confused. He thought he had an appointment tonight but it turned out to be tomorrow night.

What this meant for us was, instead of an evening of fitting in each other, dinner and playful time with our son into narrow time slots, we found ourselves with an open night. Just for us.

We were quick to hop on the boat, the at-first-rainy day having turned to one filled with glowing light. As our old pontoon boat floated down the river, one with the current, a huge pair of pure white egrets lifted off the shore making a beautiful contrast against the twilit shore. An osprey flew overhead. Life became easy.

I was amazed at how quickly an otherwise busy day shifted into one overcome with deep peace. I thought of all the other times my life has shifted from a state of tension to one of relief through happy coincidences, inner choices or both—a situation gone awry passes like water under the bridge and I commit once more to honoring my soul.

With one heartbeat and opening to where life takes us, the world can change and so can we. How easy the shift from struggle to flow can be.