Well, all my hundreds of thousands of readers (and listeners to my blog radio show at www.blogtalkradio.com/isitjustmeor), I want to let you know that this may be my last post.
Now for those of you hundreds of thousands of readers and listeners who also followed me on my first blog, www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com, I know you have read this declaration from me before. I closed www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com once too (only to re-open it a week or so later before it naturally closed itself).
But it feels different this time.
Since I returned from my second trip to San Francisco (to retrieve my heart), I have spent a bit of time trying to find the right fit for my re-claimed pulsating mass of love in the once familiar space left vacant in my Irish body by my heart's unexpected and extended stay at the San Francisco Hilton in Chinatown.
And, even though my heart is safely nestled in its bed and seems to fit just dandy, we don’t seem to be speaking the same language anymore. (Perhaps it prefers Mandarin or Cantonese now?)
We (my heart’s desire to write and I) have lost the fluency, the ease and the bodily resonant vibration with the words of English. Words and writing them on paper doesn’t sing to me right now. It doesn’t lift me to my cliffs. It seems foreign, not of me, external to who I am.
And I ache to feel the joy, the wonder, and the gratitude of it again.
I don’t mean to put any responsibility for this on my heart. After all, I was the one who left it in San Francisco and took several weeks to realize it wasn’t pumping in my chest cavity or consciousness anymore. While it sat in San Francisco, abandoned, I chalked up the emptiness I felt around writing to feeling misunderstood and shot down at the writer’s convention. I thought I had lost my confidence.
I am now afraid that I might have lost a lot more.
At the same time, I recognize that I have spent the past seven weeks in a universally super-sized intensive study program with Barbara Marx Hubbard and a group of fellow evolutionary travelers. I know I am not the same woman who began study with that group when we entered the chrysalis together seven weeks ago. I recognize I am living in a liminal state…the state of between…I am not who I was, but I am also not yet who I will emerge to be. Much like a caterpillar in it’s chrysalis, suspended somewhere between caterpillar and butterfly…not enough of my caterpillar is left to escape the chrysalis and go back to life as it was and not enough of my butterfly is formed to spread my beautifully vibrant Kelly green, sky blue and wavy red wings and gently soar into my new incarnation.
Honest to G the Father, while writing this I had a startling revelation…
Perhaps letting go of the Caterpillar Me means also letting go of the Writer Me.
The pain of letting go of parts of mySelf that I no longer need or want is difficult and sometimes excruciating, but when the the journey is completed and the pain is gone, deeper integration and more profound understanding of mySelf are welcome rewards. That self-generated and magnified light at the end of the tunnel is what keeps me moving through the pain.
But (someone please tell me), where is the motivation to move through letting go of parts of mySelf that I absolutely love and adore? Parts of myself that are shiny and new and that transport me to peace and joy and my beloved God-view?
Do I have to give that up too?
Is Evolving Metamorphosis the surrender of it all? "Good" and "bad"?
And, if that answer is "yes," most importantly to me right now is this.
If a caterpillar has the instinct, faith, intuition and trust to follow its inner evolutionary guidance, enter the chrysalis as one being and emerge from it totally unrecognizable to itself and the world...
Why don’t I?
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Lady-In-Waiting
Seems like all I do is wait.
Please bear with me. I know this probably sounds arrogant, but I have been waiting for people all my life to catch up with me. Those “people” would be my family of origin and the families I created in marriage (the first AND the second time). Here I am (generously) putting on my personal brakes instead of taking flight and following my Heart’s Desire because I am (generously) waiting for everyone else to grow wings (and the balls to use them).
Yes, I know…arrogant.
On the other hand, I don’t think I am the only person on the planet who feels or has felt this way. There are probably a gaggle of women (and a slew of men) out there who agree with me. Perhaps, especially those women of a certain age who grew up as I did in the patriarchal society of the 50’s can resonate with my experience. They, too, could have personal recollections of their mothers and grandmothers routinely giving up their individual, unique identities to become partnered wives and stay-at-home mothers more out of societal expectation than personal desire.
With the women’s movement in the late 60’s, a lot of us woke up to the possibility of a different kind of life. In Fall of 1971, my junior year at Boston College, there was a mass exodus of women out of the Schools of Education and Nursing into the Schools of Business, Arts and Sciences, and Pre-Med. Why? Because we were finally (after much ado about something) allowed admittance to those historically male-only majors.
At the same time, the long-standing paradigm of going to college with the goal of finding a “good” husband was covertly active even in 1971. I don’t think I am alone in spending a lifetime trying to balance doing for others and doing for self, but personally I never wanted to fly solo, without my family, my peeps, my support. So I looked for a suitable husband (twice), and waited for them to catch up with my level of desire.
I’m still waiting, and I’m getting tired of them holding me back.
I met an old feeble-looking woman a few weeks ago. By the looks of her, she could be anywhere between an extremely aged 60 and a relatively youthful 95. At first glance, I pegged her for a victim. It was something about the way her head hung off her neck as if it weighed one hundred pounds. Something about her body language just said, “Pity me.”
The room in which we had our encounters had its own unique ambiance. It smelled as if something was rotting, making it almost impossible to take a deep breath. A small sliver of light came through an open door, but the boarded up windows encircling the room were caked with what must have been decades of congealed and hardened dust and dirt.
The other oddity in the room was the large number and assortment of chairs that were strewn about: a high chair, a toddler seat, an old fashioned classroom chair attached to a desk (with an inkwell!), and several other random assorted sitting devices including the old weathered rocking chair this ancient-looking women was perched on.
I am embarrassed to admit that I had little pity for her. “Sorry, Honey,” I thought to myself, “your decision” because who else but a self-appointed victim would stay in a place like that when there was an open doorway four steps (or less!) straight ahead?
Well, once again, apparently, that would be me.
Because as I thought those words, she raised her head to me, and I recognized my own blue eyes, but charged, electric, and alive. Her gaze grabbed me by the pupils, and refused to let me go. She has more energy, more magnetism, more purpose in those eyes than I can find in my entire body.
I’m sure you’re all way ahead of me and know this already, but I must say that even after several meditation encounters with this woman, I was shocked to learn this morning that…
She is the embodiment of my Heart’s Desire, my Soul’s Calling.
While I have spent the last almost sixty years being uber-responsible and uber-busy fixing, manipulating, and controlling other people’s lives so I can finally stop waiting for them..
She has been waiting for me.
Yes, my friends, by the looks of my high chair, my toddler seat and more, my Heart’s Desire has been (generously) waiting for me to stop using everyone else as an excuse for avoiding my life so I can finally grow my own pair of wings (and the balls to use them).
All she wants to know is this: How much longer does she have to wait?
(Thank you Elizabeth Claire)
Please bear with me. I know this probably sounds arrogant, but I have been waiting for people all my life to catch up with me. Those “people” would be my family of origin and the families I created in marriage (the first AND the second time). Here I am (generously) putting on my personal brakes instead of taking flight and following my Heart’s Desire because I am (generously) waiting for everyone else to grow wings (and the balls to use them).
Yes, I know…arrogant.
On the other hand, I don’t think I am the only person on the planet who feels or has felt this way. There are probably a gaggle of women (and a slew of men) out there who agree with me. Perhaps, especially those women of a certain age who grew up as I did in the patriarchal society of the 50’s can resonate with my experience. They, too, could have personal recollections of their mothers and grandmothers routinely giving up their individual, unique identities to become partnered wives and stay-at-home mothers more out of societal expectation than personal desire.
With the women’s movement in the late 60’s, a lot of us woke up to the possibility of a different kind of life. In Fall of 1971, my junior year at Boston College, there was a mass exodus of women out of the Schools of Education and Nursing into the Schools of Business, Arts and Sciences, and Pre-Med. Why? Because we were finally (after much ado about something) allowed admittance to those historically male-only majors.
At the same time, the long-standing paradigm of going to college with the goal of finding a “good” husband was covertly active even in 1971. I don’t think I am alone in spending a lifetime trying to balance doing for others and doing for self, but personally I never wanted to fly solo, without my family, my peeps, my support. So I looked for a suitable husband (twice), and waited for them to catch up with my level of desire.
I’m still waiting, and I’m getting tired of them holding me back.
I met an old feeble-looking woman a few weeks ago. By the looks of her, she could be anywhere between an extremely aged 60 and a relatively youthful 95. At first glance, I pegged her for a victim. It was something about the way her head hung off her neck as if it weighed one hundred pounds. Something about her body language just said, “Pity me.”
The room in which we had our encounters had its own unique ambiance. It smelled as if something was rotting, making it almost impossible to take a deep breath. A small sliver of light came through an open door, but the boarded up windows encircling the room were caked with what must have been decades of congealed and hardened dust and dirt.
The other oddity in the room was the large number and assortment of chairs that were strewn about: a high chair, a toddler seat, an old fashioned classroom chair attached to a desk (with an inkwell!), and several other random assorted sitting devices including the old weathered rocking chair this ancient-looking women was perched on.
I am embarrassed to admit that I had little pity for her. “Sorry, Honey,” I thought to myself, “your decision” because who else but a self-appointed victim would stay in a place like that when there was an open doorway four steps (or less!) straight ahead?
Well, once again, apparently, that would be me.
Because as I thought those words, she raised her head to me, and I recognized my own blue eyes, but charged, electric, and alive. Her gaze grabbed me by the pupils, and refused to let me go. She has more energy, more magnetism, more purpose in those eyes than I can find in my entire body.
I’m sure you’re all way ahead of me and know this already, but I must say that even after several meditation encounters with this woman, I was shocked to learn this morning that…
She is the embodiment of my Heart’s Desire, my Soul’s Calling.
While I have spent the last almost sixty years being uber-responsible and uber-busy fixing, manipulating, and controlling other people’s lives so I can finally stop waiting for them..
She has been waiting for me.
Yes, my friends, by the looks of my high chair, my toddler seat and more, my Heart’s Desire has been (generously) waiting for me to stop using everyone else as an excuse for avoiding my life so I can finally grow my own pair of wings (and the balls to use them).
All she wants to know is this: How much longer does she have to wait?
(Thank you Elizabeth Claire)
Sunday, November 28, 2010
I Left My Heart In San Francisco
Right off the bat, I apologize for not being in contact for so long, but I lost my Voice. What happened was this:
In 1952 just around this time of year, my mother was reclining on the couch with my father and suddenly felt a sharp pain under her ribs (over and over again). She said to my father, “If I didn’t know better, I would swear that I’m pregnant, and the baby is kicking.”
My mother had already had multiple pregnancies (my older brother and I the only ones taken to term). Leading her to believe that when it came to pregnancy, she knew her body…intimately. So, she ignored the feeling, chalked it up to gas, continued to watch “Your Show of Shows,” eat her butter pecan ice cream, and put it out of her mind.
One month later, on Christmas day, she gave birth to my brother.
Several factors played into her not recognizing she was pregnant: 1) My mother realized, in retrospect, that she had gotten pregnant with my baby brother shortly after having me,and she had gotten pregnant with me right after giving birth to my older brother; Therefore, 2) she was still carrying a lot of previous baby weight; 3) My brother was a very tiny baby (a mere 5 pounds); and 4) Let’s face it…It was the 50’s and the medical community was not as savvy as it is today.
All the while my brother was busy growing and blossoming in my mom’s womb, she went about her business of taking care of an infant daughter and an eighteen month old son, totally unaware of her new baby boy’s growing presence.
In 2009 just about this time of year, I began feeling an inner impulse, a universal kick in the vicinity of my solar plexus (over and over again). I have given birth to several creative projects in my life. I have multiple master’s degrees. I have acted in film, on television, and on stage. I experienced pregnancy at the age of 41 and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Leading me to believe that when it came to creativity, I knew my inner process…intimately. So I ignored the feeling, chalked it up to gas, continued to focus on creating projects outside of myself, and put it out of my mind.
One month later, two days before Christmas, I gave birth to www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com and my first blogpost.
Several factors played into me not recognizing I was pregnant with new possibility: 1) I realized, in retrospect, that I had indeed been asking for a stronger connection with my real Voice; However, 2) being that I am an actor, I thought that the Voice I was asking to be connected to was my speaking Voice (a written Voice was no where in my awareness); 3) My first blog was very tiny (a mere 5 lines), and 4) let’s face it…I was in my late-ish 50’s and not as savvy as I am today.
All the while my Voice was busy growing and blossoming in my co-creative and uniquely universal womb, I went about my business of taking care of my infant transforming consciousness and an eighteen year old son, totally unaware of my new Voice’s growing presence.
However, once I was startled into the birth of that first blogpost, I joyfully birthed many more. I was (and still am) in love with the posts that emerged from me. Each post’s desire to teach me and to (hopefully) help others as we travel our paths to Evolving Selves literally transported me to blissful heights within myself that I had never experienced before.
Like a mother bathed in the miracle of her newborn baby, I fell in love with each and every blogpost Offspring I birthed (all 90 + of them!).
Then, like a negligent mother, I left Them all in San Francisco.
On November 12th, I caught a flight north to a “Writing for Change” Conference in the City of the Golden Gate. The conference was meant for writers who have something to contribute to the evolution of the universe and the agents, editors, and publishers who love them. Naturally I went to the conference with my Beloved Offspring, excited about the opportunity to show them off and bask in the glow of others recognizing their radiance.
One editor told me my writing was (yes, I am quoting here because editors love that!) “Hilarious but neurotic and adolescent.” He wanted to know who the character was that was writing the posts. He helpfully suggested I think about taking on a 14 year old persona of Charlie Brown’s long lost love, the curly red-haired girl, Margaret.
WHAT??!!
I departed the conference dazed and confused and, in packing, left my Beloved Offspring at the Hilton in Chinatown.
And, honest to God, it is at this very moment of telling you my story that I realize why his comments about my Voiced Beloved Offspring threw me into such a tizzy that I forgot to bring them home. The way his comments landed in my body has been difficult to process and release, but I am grateful to him for his point of view.
Because if he had not said that to me, I never would have embodied the sweet vulnerability I feel and the love I have for this process of evolving. My stories are communicated via my universally unique, and perhaps, adolescent and neurotic Voice, yes,
But they are birthed through my Heart…
No wonder I feel so empty…
I left my Heart in San Francisco.
Sorry, but right now I need to leave.
I have a north-bound flight to catch.
In 1952 just around this time of year, my mother was reclining on the couch with my father and suddenly felt a sharp pain under her ribs (over and over again). She said to my father, “If I didn’t know better, I would swear that I’m pregnant, and the baby is kicking.”
My mother had already had multiple pregnancies (my older brother and I the only ones taken to term). Leading her to believe that when it came to pregnancy, she knew her body…intimately. So, she ignored the feeling, chalked it up to gas, continued to watch “Your Show of Shows,” eat her butter pecan ice cream, and put it out of her mind.
One month later, on Christmas day, she gave birth to my brother.
Several factors played into her not recognizing she was pregnant: 1) My mother realized, in retrospect, that she had gotten pregnant with my baby brother shortly after having me,and she had gotten pregnant with me right after giving birth to my older brother; Therefore, 2) she was still carrying a lot of previous baby weight; 3) My brother was a very tiny baby (a mere 5 pounds); and 4) Let’s face it…It was the 50’s and the medical community was not as savvy as it is today.
All the while my brother was busy growing and blossoming in my mom’s womb, she went about her business of taking care of an infant daughter and an eighteen month old son, totally unaware of her new baby boy’s growing presence.
In 2009 just about this time of year, I began feeling an inner impulse, a universal kick in the vicinity of my solar plexus (over and over again). I have given birth to several creative projects in my life. I have multiple master’s degrees. I have acted in film, on television, and on stage. I experienced pregnancy at the age of 41 and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Leading me to believe that when it came to creativity, I knew my inner process…intimately. So I ignored the feeling, chalked it up to gas, continued to focus on creating projects outside of myself, and put it out of my mind.
One month later, two days before Christmas, I gave birth to www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com and my first blogpost.
Several factors played into me not recognizing I was pregnant with new possibility: 1) I realized, in retrospect, that I had indeed been asking for a stronger connection with my real Voice; However, 2) being that I am an actor, I thought that the Voice I was asking to be connected to was my speaking Voice (a written Voice was no where in my awareness); 3) My first blog was very tiny (a mere 5 lines), and 4) let’s face it…I was in my late-ish 50’s and not as savvy as I am today.
All the while my Voice was busy growing and blossoming in my co-creative and uniquely universal womb, I went about my business of taking care of my infant transforming consciousness and an eighteen year old son, totally unaware of my new Voice’s growing presence.
However, once I was startled into the birth of that first blogpost, I joyfully birthed many more. I was (and still am) in love with the posts that emerged from me. Each post’s desire to teach me and to (hopefully) help others as we travel our paths to Evolving Selves literally transported me to blissful heights within myself that I had never experienced before.
Like a mother bathed in the miracle of her newborn baby, I fell in love with each and every blogpost Offspring I birthed (all 90 + of them!).
Then, like a negligent mother, I left Them all in San Francisco.
On November 12th, I caught a flight north to a “Writing for Change” Conference in the City of the Golden Gate. The conference was meant for writers who have something to contribute to the evolution of the universe and the agents, editors, and publishers who love them. Naturally I went to the conference with my Beloved Offspring, excited about the opportunity to show them off and bask in the glow of others recognizing their radiance.
One editor told me my writing was (yes, I am quoting here because editors love that!) “Hilarious but neurotic and adolescent.” He wanted to know who the character was that was writing the posts. He helpfully suggested I think about taking on a 14 year old persona of Charlie Brown’s long lost love, the curly red-haired girl, Margaret.
WHAT??!!
I departed the conference dazed and confused and, in packing, left my Beloved Offspring at the Hilton in Chinatown.
And, honest to God, it is at this very moment of telling you my story that I realize why his comments about my Voiced Beloved Offspring threw me into such a tizzy that I forgot to bring them home. The way his comments landed in my body has been difficult to process and release, but I am grateful to him for his point of view.
Because if he had not said that to me, I never would have embodied the sweet vulnerability I feel and the love I have for this process of evolving. My stories are communicated via my universally unique, and perhaps, adolescent and neurotic Voice, yes,
But they are birthed through my Heart…
No wonder I feel so empty…
I left my Heart in San Francisco.
Sorry, but right now I need to leave.
I have a north-bound flight to catch.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
I Babysat Jesus
I’m going to assume that if you are reading this sentence, you have already read the title of this post. Therefore, I am going to further assume you have concluded that I have gone completely off my rocker (or my Cliffs).
And I might just have to agree with you.
If you read my first blog, (and I certainly think you should!), you may recall that I wrote about three previous JC visitations (although in the first visit, I did not realize it was Him). He made his fourth visit to me last Saturday morning. I think He decided to come because I had posed this question to the Universe:
“What is my One Mind, my Unique Heart and my Connected Soul’s Desire?”
To my complete and utter surprise, He appeared and said (in that Dr. Spock cool mind meld kinda way He loves to use), “Illumination. Light. Presence.”
My response was, “Can you tell me what You mean by...…….?”
Then He was gone.
This was the third time He has done that to me. Now, I recognize that He’s probably just a tad bit busy with keeping his finger on the pulse of the world for His Father and everything, but I really hate it when He does that.
Honestly, I am getting just a wee bit frustrated with His (uninvited) Appear, Drop a Few Enlightened (but unexplained) Words, and Disappear Act. Who does that? Is it just me or does that kind of behavior strike you as just a tad bit rude? Is Divinity an excuse for lack of manners? Not in my holy book. And who raised this Guy anyway?
Apparently I did.
Because later Saturday afternoon after His Disappearing Act, my son, his father, and I drove out to the desert and each had a session with a Doctor of Psychology and his partner, a Master Hypnotist/Clinical Hypnotherapist. Among the things I discovered was that I had lived in the Essene community approximately two thousand and ten years ago, where I took care of my cousin with whom I lived.
I babysat Jesus.
So now I wonder…is that the reason He feels He can show up in my living room without a gentle knock on the door of my consciousness, an invitation to take a peek at my soul, or a simple "Got a minute?" Is that why He saunters in, shines His Light on my face, mind melds with my brain, drops a few words in my mind, and leaves without an explanation or a proper “Nice chatting with you” and “Goodbye?”
It would certainly explain his familial entitled popping in (and popping out).
The next day, I shared this Essene babysitting discovery with a friend of mine who is very skeptical about anything related to past lives and especially the whole “I babysat Jesus" thing. And I have to be honest and say that I also find the concept difficult (if not impossible) to accept.
At the same time (I tried to explain to my friend) His visits have their own unique flavor, feel, and fulfillment, and I can’t deny the fully embodied reaction I have when He comes into my space. I have described it before. The room becomes Illuminated; I feel His Light on my eyelids; It penetrates through them directly into my Mind; Light and Warmth fill my entire body, I radiate the Presence back to Him, and my soul overflows in a flood of tears and a gratitude that is beyond anything else I have ever experienced.
It is more real to me than the chaise I am meditating on.
And when I began to explore our two thousand (plus) year old relationship while in the desert last Saturday; I had the same uncensored response.
All that being said, maybe it really doesn’t matter if I physically babysat Jesus two thousand years ago or not.
Because what is undeniable to me is the Illumination, the Light, and the Presence that resonates in my One Mind, Unique Heart, and Connected Soul's Desire when He enters my Consciousness.
And, right now, that’s infinitely and divinely much more than enough for me.
If you are interested in reading more about my close encounters of the JC kind, please go to www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com and look for posts entitled “The Metaphor, The Muse, And The Magician,” “Betwixt and Between,” and “Salsa Dancing With JC.”
And I might just have to agree with you.
If you read my first blog, (and I certainly think you should!), you may recall that I wrote about three previous JC visitations (although in the first visit, I did not realize it was Him). He made his fourth visit to me last Saturday morning. I think He decided to come because I had posed this question to the Universe:
“What is my One Mind, my Unique Heart and my Connected Soul’s Desire?”
To my complete and utter surprise, He appeared and said (in that Dr. Spock cool mind meld kinda way He loves to use), “Illumination. Light. Presence.”
My response was, “Can you tell me what You mean by...…….?”
Then He was gone.
This was the third time He has done that to me. Now, I recognize that He’s probably just a tad bit busy with keeping his finger on the pulse of the world for His Father and everything, but I really hate it when He does that.
Honestly, I am getting just a wee bit frustrated with His (uninvited) Appear, Drop a Few Enlightened (but unexplained) Words, and Disappear Act. Who does that? Is it just me or does that kind of behavior strike you as just a tad bit rude? Is Divinity an excuse for lack of manners? Not in my holy book. And who raised this Guy anyway?
Apparently I did.
Because later Saturday afternoon after His Disappearing Act, my son, his father, and I drove out to the desert and each had a session with a Doctor of Psychology and his partner, a Master Hypnotist/Clinical Hypnotherapist. Among the things I discovered was that I had lived in the Essene community approximately two thousand and ten years ago, where I took care of my cousin with whom I lived.
I babysat Jesus.
So now I wonder…is that the reason He feels He can show up in my living room without a gentle knock on the door of my consciousness, an invitation to take a peek at my soul, or a simple "Got a minute?" Is that why He saunters in, shines His Light on my face, mind melds with my brain, drops a few words in my mind, and leaves without an explanation or a proper “Nice chatting with you” and “Goodbye?”
It would certainly explain his familial entitled popping in (and popping out).
The next day, I shared this Essene babysitting discovery with a friend of mine who is very skeptical about anything related to past lives and especially the whole “I babysat Jesus" thing. And I have to be honest and say that I also find the concept difficult (if not impossible) to accept.
At the same time (I tried to explain to my friend) His visits have their own unique flavor, feel, and fulfillment, and I can’t deny the fully embodied reaction I have when He comes into my space. I have described it before. The room becomes Illuminated; I feel His Light on my eyelids; It penetrates through them directly into my Mind; Light and Warmth fill my entire body, I radiate the Presence back to Him, and my soul overflows in a flood of tears and a gratitude that is beyond anything else I have ever experienced.
It is more real to me than the chaise I am meditating on.
And when I began to explore our two thousand (plus) year old relationship while in the desert last Saturday; I had the same uncensored response.
All that being said, maybe it really doesn’t matter if I physically babysat Jesus two thousand years ago or not.
Because what is undeniable to me is the Illumination, the Light, and the Presence that resonates in my One Mind, Unique Heart, and Connected Soul's Desire when He enters my Consciousness.
And, right now, that’s infinitely and divinely much more than enough for me.
If you are interested in reading more about my close encounters of the JC kind, please go to www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com and look for posts entitled “The Metaphor, The Muse, And The Magician,” “Betwixt and Between,” and “Salsa Dancing With JC.”
Monday, November 1, 2010
Time To Rake The Leaves
My father was very particular about the outer appearance of our New England Colonial home. He regularly engaged in the hard work of necessary duties (commandeering my brothers when they were old enough): shoveling snow off the front steps and sidewalk in the winter, planting flowers and caring for the new grass in the spring, mowing the lawn, cutting the hedges, and sweeping the sidewalk in front of our house (who does that anymore?) in the summer, and raking and burning the leaves in the fall.
One of the things I loved most in fall was the day my dad decided the side yard had become an ocean of fallen leaves that he could no longer tolerate. It was time to rake it up. The moment he finished raking, we kids were allowed to run across the yard as fast as we could and jump high into (to my child-sized eyes) the enormously gigantic and colorful mounds of crackly softness. The colors were so beautiful that I wanted to meld with each one of them: deep russets, browns of all shades, vibrant yellows, bronzes, and golds.
Once in a while there were some green leaves there too. I always felt sorry for them. It seemed to me that they were born too late to enjoy the fullness and excitement of the spring and summer and died well before their time on earth was done. One year I actually, but unsuccessfully, attempted to Elmer-glue three of my favorite green leaves back onto the tree.
Once our leaf play was concluded (that is, when my father told us to “get the hell out of the leaves”) the next big excitement was going into the house, getting potatoes, covering them securely in aluminum foil, and placing them very deep in our leaf pyres. You see, way back in the day, people were allowed to burn leaves.
Our leaf-inspired igloo quickly became our potato–enhanced fiery teepee.
It took every ounce of patience we had to wait until the fire completely died out and we were allowed to recover and devour the yummy and delicious foil covered treasures left behind. (It was worth the wait. Best potatoes ever!)
With all the thinking I have been doing over the past few days since I posted about my resistance to looking at what is between my son and I and with the help the Agape International Spiritual Center in Los Angeles yesterday (thank you Reverend Michael!), I decided that what happened between my son and me a few days ago was right on schedule.
Because fall is the perfect time to notice the fallen and no longer useful between my son and me, rake it all up, and let it burn.
The problem with that is that the space where the beautiful, inviting, and familiar relational dynamics once stood becomes empty. Yes, maybe there are beliefs and ideas I have about our relationship that are dead and no longer serve their purpose, but individually I have grown to love each and every facet of their individual and unique color, texture, and smell.
And honestly, I just don’t know if I am up to the hard work it requires to collect all that we have discarded into one enormous and colorful mound when I am accustomed to the comfort and ease of picking up any one of the beautifully dead dynamics and admiring it simply because it used to be alive in our relationship.
And it is especially difficult not to pick up the still vibrant and, in my mind, pre-maturely perished without trying to somehow re-attach it to our shared tree. Even Super Glue wouldn’t do it.
However, spending a childhood experiencing seasonal changes and living in the unique environment that each season brings with it, I have learned a little something about birth and death through the story of nature.
Like my childhood friends, the Maple and the Oak trees, I will take comfort in knowing that just because some of the dynamics between my son and I withered and died doesn’t mean the roots of our relationship have perished as well. I’m going to trust that there is freedom in the acceptance of what has fallen away, in the gathering and honoring of what once was, and in the release of it back into the universe.
The empty space left behind by the fiery cleansing may feel strange, maybe even awkward and uncomfortable, but it can also provide us with a spaciousness where something new can bud and blossom between us.
And if we are trusting and patient enough, I am betting that once the fires have subsided and made way for the new, we will uncover a few yummy and delicious aluminum foil covered treasures.
One of the things I loved most in fall was the day my dad decided the side yard had become an ocean of fallen leaves that he could no longer tolerate. It was time to rake it up. The moment he finished raking, we kids were allowed to run across the yard as fast as we could and jump high into (to my child-sized eyes) the enormously gigantic and colorful mounds of crackly softness. The colors were so beautiful that I wanted to meld with each one of them: deep russets, browns of all shades, vibrant yellows, bronzes, and golds.
Once in a while there were some green leaves there too. I always felt sorry for them. It seemed to me that they were born too late to enjoy the fullness and excitement of the spring and summer and died well before their time on earth was done. One year I actually, but unsuccessfully, attempted to Elmer-glue three of my favorite green leaves back onto the tree.
Once our leaf play was concluded (that is, when my father told us to “get the hell out of the leaves”) the next big excitement was going into the house, getting potatoes, covering them securely in aluminum foil, and placing them very deep in our leaf pyres. You see, way back in the day, people were allowed to burn leaves.
Our leaf-inspired igloo quickly became our potato–enhanced fiery teepee.
It took every ounce of patience we had to wait until the fire completely died out and we were allowed to recover and devour the yummy and delicious foil covered treasures left behind. (It was worth the wait. Best potatoes ever!)
With all the thinking I have been doing over the past few days since I posted about my resistance to looking at what is between my son and I and with the help the Agape International Spiritual Center in Los Angeles yesterday (thank you Reverend Michael!), I decided that what happened between my son and me a few days ago was right on schedule.
Because fall is the perfect time to notice the fallen and no longer useful between my son and me, rake it all up, and let it burn.
The problem with that is that the space where the beautiful, inviting, and familiar relational dynamics once stood becomes empty. Yes, maybe there are beliefs and ideas I have about our relationship that are dead and no longer serve their purpose, but individually I have grown to love each and every facet of their individual and unique color, texture, and smell.
And honestly, I just don’t know if I am up to the hard work it requires to collect all that we have discarded into one enormous and colorful mound when I am accustomed to the comfort and ease of picking up any one of the beautifully dead dynamics and admiring it simply because it used to be alive in our relationship.
And it is especially difficult not to pick up the still vibrant and, in my mind, pre-maturely perished without trying to somehow re-attach it to our shared tree. Even Super Glue wouldn’t do it.
However, spending a childhood experiencing seasonal changes and living in the unique environment that each season brings with it, I have learned a little something about birth and death through the story of nature.
Like my childhood friends, the Maple and the Oak trees, I will take comfort in knowing that just because some of the dynamics between my son and I withered and died doesn’t mean the roots of our relationship have perished as well. I’m going to trust that there is freedom in the acceptance of what has fallen away, in the gathering and honoring of what once was, and in the release of it back into the universe.
The empty space left behind by the fiery cleansing may feel strange, maybe even awkward and uncomfortable, but it can also provide us with a spaciousness where something new can bud and blossom between us.
And if we are trusting and patient enough, I am betting that once the fires have subsided and made way for the new, we will uncover a few yummy and delicious aluminum foil covered treasures.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
The Eve of the Wandering Dead
Am I the only one who hated Halloween as a child? It terrified me. The thought of dressing up in costume pretending to be someone else held as much appeal as biting into a live rattlesnake. Seeing my friends in costumes was scary enough but when people who I couldn’t identify called me by name, laughed that Halloween-Dracula laugh, and demanded I give them candy… or else…well let’s just say it was pee my pants time. I didn’t like the idea of costumes depicting frightening fantasies, “coming back from the dead” to haunt those of us left on the planet, or the deliberate attempt of others to scare the bejesus out of each other, or the whole go to stranger’s homes and ask for candy thing.
I didn’t like seeing people in “benign” costumes either. Even those gave me the creeps.
So, thanks Mom, but NO I don’t want to be Snow White for Halloween.
To complicate Halloween for me, the following day is a holy day that was celebrated in my very Irish very Roman Catholic diocese. We honored All Souls Day that, if I remember correctly, falls the day after Halloween. Somehow in my little girl mind I decided that the church sanctioned this fear fest called Halloween or All Hallows E’en as the Irish call it, because it was somehow a warm-up to All Souls Day.
I concluded that Halloween was simply the rehearsal for the real All Soul’s Eve to come on the following night in which actual Born Again Dead Souls returned to participate in some kind of a planetary reunion. For years I went to the required early morning Mass with my family and prayed that no lost soul would knock on my door that night.
All I could do was hope that Newport was too small a place to hold that big of a party.
Yes, I know I am big on my happy, bouncy, loosely curled red hair, my cornflower blue eyes and my freckled skin. I adore making an incredibly big deal about my Irish heritage, but All Hallow’s E’en followed up by the main attraction, All Soul’s Day, was one Celtic Catholic tradition that I just didn’t want any part of.
My mother’s Irish roots are in County Cork, and my dad’s are in County Mayo, one of the homes of the Druids. Ireland’s October 31st back in the day was the holiest of the Druid’s High Holy days. November 1st was considered the New Year, so All Hallows E’en was basically New Year’s Eve. However, the Druids didn’t drink champagne or toss their scribed resolutions into a great big community bon fire to usher in the New Year. Instead, what they did was drink wassail-like beverages from giant-sized tubs and engage in a practice of predicting what the next year held in store for them by observing the behaviors of four and (yes) two legged captives who were tossed into the Druid All Hallows E'en sacrificial fires.
And, no, these practices were not a lively topic of conversation in my childhood home, but my deeply embedded Irish DNA has traditionally gotten just a wee bit restless around this time of year.
I’m not sure what any of this means from my cliffside God view, but two things are clear to me.
I still don’t like Halloween and I probably (at this stage of the game) will never care for it.
And that being said, I will open my door 267 times tonight and give out candy to those who do.
Happy Halloween.
I didn’t like seeing people in “benign” costumes either. Even those gave me the creeps.
So, thanks Mom, but NO I don’t want to be Snow White for Halloween.
To complicate Halloween for me, the following day is a holy day that was celebrated in my very Irish very Roman Catholic diocese. We honored All Souls Day that, if I remember correctly, falls the day after Halloween. Somehow in my little girl mind I decided that the church sanctioned this fear fest called Halloween or All Hallows E’en as the Irish call it, because it was somehow a warm-up to All Souls Day.
I concluded that Halloween was simply the rehearsal for the real All Soul’s Eve to come on the following night in which actual Born Again Dead Souls returned to participate in some kind of a planetary reunion. For years I went to the required early morning Mass with my family and prayed that no lost soul would knock on my door that night.
All I could do was hope that Newport was too small a place to hold that big of a party.
Yes, I know I am big on my happy, bouncy, loosely curled red hair, my cornflower blue eyes and my freckled skin. I adore making an incredibly big deal about my Irish heritage, but All Hallow’s E’en followed up by the main attraction, All Soul’s Day, was one Celtic Catholic tradition that I just didn’t want any part of.
My mother’s Irish roots are in County Cork, and my dad’s are in County Mayo, one of the homes of the Druids. Ireland’s October 31st back in the day was the holiest of the Druid’s High Holy days. November 1st was considered the New Year, so All Hallows E’en was basically New Year’s Eve. However, the Druids didn’t drink champagne or toss their scribed resolutions into a great big community bon fire to usher in the New Year. Instead, what they did was drink wassail-like beverages from giant-sized tubs and engage in a practice of predicting what the next year held in store for them by observing the behaviors of four and (yes) two legged captives who were tossed into the Druid All Hallows E'en sacrificial fires.
And, no, these practices were not a lively topic of conversation in my childhood home, but my deeply embedded Irish DNA has traditionally gotten just a wee bit restless around this time of year.
I’m not sure what any of this means from my cliffside God view, but two things are clear to me.
I still don’t like Halloween and I probably (at this stage of the game) will never care for it.
And that being said, I will open my door 267 times tonight and give out candy to those who do.
Happy Halloween.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Real Simple
Okay, I admit it; I didn’t “accidentally” fall off the cliffs yesterday. I dove in with a force and a swiftness that, upon reflection, has left me reeling.
Actually, my son dove in first, and I happily (and without a second’s reflection or hesitation) assumed the diving stance taught to me when I was 7, bent my knees, raised my hands over my head, and propelled myself off the cliff after him (performing an amazing lay-out on the way down, fyi).
I had a fantasy when my son was young that I was the World’s Best Mom. I felt completely at home with the requisite accoutrements of my World’s Best Mom status: sparkly tiara, glittery sash, and Queen (Mary) Elizabeth gloves (so I could accurately perform the royal wave). For 16 ½ years, I was paraded through small towns and big cities. I happily agreed to personal appearances, autograph signings, and generally gracing my adoring subjects with my astounding presence and World’s Best Mom talents, skills, and abilities (all the while avoiding paparazzi on bad redheaded hair days). It was, I must say, quite the life.
That is until 18 months, 4 days, 12 hours, and 58 minutes ago, when behaviors my son began engaging in rattled me off my throne. It was then that my sparkly tiara slipped off my head shattering it into a hundred irrevocable pieces, my glittery sash ripped up the back (and not on the seam), and I lost track of my Queen (Mary) Elizabeth special hand waving gloves.
Next thing I knew there was an invitation to join AARP in my mailbox along with a six month subscription to the Real Simple Moms Club.
It broke my heart.
I had to admit it. I never was and am not now the World’s Best Mom…not even close.
I reluctantly filled out and returned my subscription form to the Real Simple Mom’s Club (and promptly tossed the AARP materials in the trash…as usual).
Now this stripping of my World’s Best Mom outer vestments did not come about in the wink of a majestic eye. The last 18 months, 4 days, 12 hours, and 58 minutes have been an increasingly challenging time for my son and me in navigating our relationship. However, something came to a head yesterday morning. Specifically, my son and I had “words.” We both said angry things that we had never said to each other before. I am ashamed to admit it, but I totally lost my ability to contain my upset, anger, and disappointment, and I verbally lashed out at him in a moment of reaction (hence the dive off my cliffs).
My son and I, once it was over, looked at each other…stunned. Neither of us had any idea where the upset came from nor the magnitude with which we both expressed it.
Suffice it to say that yesterday was a day my very own real simple moment was served bountifully to me with a side of confusion in, bewilderment about and inklings of other as yet unrecognized fantasies about me, my son, and our relationship.
This morning I got up and read the passage “The Immediacy of Salvation” from A”S”CIM after a day yesterday of trying to understand and make real simple sense of what the hell had happened with my son. As is usually the case after reading that book, I got a real simple glimmer of an idea.
What I learned from reading this morning was that my son and I carry a complicated mixture of positive and negative feelings about our individual selves, each other, and our current life situation. And these feelings create perceptions and beliefs that may or may not be true.
I think that is all real and simply human.
Problem is I didn’t (and still don’t) want to look at it. It is feeling very similar to the resistance I had to looking in the back of the boat several weeks ago. So I am thinking that there is some part of my great big stinkin’ black amorphous ego that survived the sun and its deadly ultraviolent rays and that’s what reared its angry tiara-less head yesterday.
And, what causes real simple human problems, I think, is doing exactly what I am doing right now…avoiding looking at what I don’t want to see.
All that being said, I still don’t wanna look at it.
But I know deep down inside that the truth of our relationship can be revealed to us by allowing a real and simple look at what is there between us…all of it.
Real simple but, for me at the moment, not real easy.
Actually, my son dove in first, and I happily (and without a second’s reflection or hesitation) assumed the diving stance taught to me when I was 7, bent my knees, raised my hands over my head, and propelled myself off the cliff after him (performing an amazing lay-out on the way down, fyi).
I had a fantasy when my son was young that I was the World’s Best Mom. I felt completely at home with the requisite accoutrements of my World’s Best Mom status: sparkly tiara, glittery sash, and Queen (Mary) Elizabeth gloves (so I could accurately perform the royal wave). For 16 ½ years, I was paraded through small towns and big cities. I happily agreed to personal appearances, autograph signings, and generally gracing my adoring subjects with my astounding presence and World’s Best Mom talents, skills, and abilities (all the while avoiding paparazzi on bad redheaded hair days). It was, I must say, quite the life.
That is until 18 months, 4 days, 12 hours, and 58 minutes ago, when behaviors my son began engaging in rattled me off my throne. It was then that my sparkly tiara slipped off my head shattering it into a hundred irrevocable pieces, my glittery sash ripped up the back (and not on the seam), and I lost track of my Queen (Mary) Elizabeth special hand waving gloves.
Next thing I knew there was an invitation to join AARP in my mailbox along with a six month subscription to the Real Simple Moms Club.
It broke my heart.
I had to admit it. I never was and am not now the World’s Best Mom…not even close.
I reluctantly filled out and returned my subscription form to the Real Simple Mom’s Club (and promptly tossed the AARP materials in the trash…as usual).
Now this stripping of my World’s Best Mom outer vestments did not come about in the wink of a majestic eye. The last 18 months, 4 days, 12 hours, and 58 minutes have been an increasingly challenging time for my son and me in navigating our relationship. However, something came to a head yesterday morning. Specifically, my son and I had “words.” We both said angry things that we had never said to each other before. I am ashamed to admit it, but I totally lost my ability to contain my upset, anger, and disappointment, and I verbally lashed out at him in a moment of reaction (hence the dive off my cliffs).
My son and I, once it was over, looked at each other…stunned. Neither of us had any idea where the upset came from nor the magnitude with which we both expressed it.
Suffice it to say that yesterday was a day my very own real simple moment was served bountifully to me with a side of confusion in, bewilderment about and inklings of other as yet unrecognized fantasies about me, my son, and our relationship.
This morning I got up and read the passage “The Immediacy of Salvation” from A”S”CIM after a day yesterday of trying to understand and make real simple sense of what the hell had happened with my son. As is usually the case after reading that book, I got a real simple glimmer of an idea.
What I learned from reading this morning was that my son and I carry a complicated mixture of positive and negative feelings about our individual selves, each other, and our current life situation. And these feelings create perceptions and beliefs that may or may not be true.
I think that is all real and simply human.
Problem is I didn’t (and still don’t) want to look at it. It is feeling very similar to the resistance I had to looking in the back of the boat several weeks ago. So I am thinking that there is some part of my great big stinkin’ black amorphous ego that survived the sun and its deadly ultraviolent rays and that’s what reared its angry tiara-less head yesterday.
And, what causes real simple human problems, I think, is doing exactly what I am doing right now…avoiding looking at what I don’t want to see.
All that being said, I still don’t wanna look at it.
But I know deep down inside that the truth of our relationship can be revealed to us by allowing a real and simple look at what is there between us…all of it.
Real simple but, for me at the moment, not real easy.
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