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.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
My Own Personal “Calgon Take Me Away” Moment
I was in a wee bit of a tizzy yesterday. I had a phone call that I wanted to be super-y duper-y centered for so I could stay on the cliffs instead of letting myself kinda sorta "accidentally" fall off (which, as you know, I have kinda sorta done before). I meditated early that morning and focused on this upcoming phone interaction. Lo and behold, I received one of those special unexpected meditative gifts. For me that means an experience of being transported to a new level of understanding by the weaving together of images and ideas I had already been thinking (and blogging) about in tandem with a brand new idea that allows me to experience these things I have been pondering in a new, whole, and more integrated way.
What happened was this:
First, I recalled a blog I had written on my previous website entitled “I Need A Hug” at www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com (You should read it!). It was a tongue-in-cheek, fun blog written about something very very near and dear to my heart…the giving and receiving of what I call “head hugs” with our children. As I said in the blog:
Those hugs we parents give and receive when our little one is up in our arms. Child gently places head on shoulder. Parent gently rests head on child’s. To me, there is nothing more sweet and unique to our species than the act of cradling our child between the divine consciousness of the human mind and the love of an open heart.
Second, “The Gumby Challenge” popped into my mind. "The Gumby Challenge" is a blog on this very website. I'll give you a couple of minutes...go ahead and read it if you haven't already.
Don't worry. I’ll wait.
I hope you see that in “The Gumby Challenge” I was struggling to figure out a way to be in the daily activities and interactions of the world without being invested in the conflicts and drama of the world. Physically being of the world, while living on the cliffs of Higher Consciousness. I call that living, not in the either/or, but LIVING IN THE "AND."
Last, my unexpected and divinely inspired thought recalled something from my childhood. When I was a young, I often saw a television commercial in which the uber-busy, uber-stressed, and uber-responsible housewife finally allowed herself a few precious minutes of relaxation submerged in a bathtub full of a bubble bath soap called Calgon. The tub was always shot horizontally in front of a large window through which could be seen a bucolic and never-ending expanse of green fields covered with endless colorful flowers. The now serene housewife reposed languidly in her cherished bathtub, her left arm and hand relaxed and dangling over the rim.
Bliss and contentment were finally hers.
The tag line, “Calgon take me away” always filled my small self with questions. What was the point of sitting in a tub when she could be out running and playing in the flowers? Who is Calgon and why is he/she going to take her away? How can she go out with no clothes on? Won’t she be cold? Embarrassed? Won't she miss her children?
But most importantly...
Where does she want Mr/Miss/Mrs. (No Ms. It was the early 60's after all) Calgon to take her away to?
Fast forward to yesterday morning’s meditation prior to the phone call. I started with two thought threads placed side by side in my mind. The thoughts were (1) I wanted my heart space to be open, and (2) I wanted to speak to my phone mate from a Higher Self. “Hold on a minute!” I blurted out loud, “Isn’t that LIVING IN THE 'AND'?” And then a few seconds later, “OMG! Isn’t that what I call a Head Hug?”
In that moment of the super-y duper-y weaving of threads, I became that blissful and contented woman in the tub. God, the Higher Consciousness, the Greater Field of life, the (let’s face it) Ultimate Calgon Creator, transported me to my own personal Calgon Take Me Away moment.
Because once again, I was gently reminded; I don’t have to search for anything or figure anything out.
It is here LIVING in my body, in my memory, in my consciousness.
Bliss and contentment were finally mine.
LIVING IN THE "AND", I placed the land line receiver on my shoulder and gently lowered my ear to the earpiece, cradling it between the divine consciousness of my human mind and the love of my open heart.
I made the call.
What happened was this:
First, I recalled a blog I had written on my previous website entitled “I Need A Hug” at www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com (You should read it!). It was a tongue-in-cheek, fun blog written about something very very near and dear to my heart…the giving and receiving of what I call “head hugs” with our children. As I said in the blog:
Those hugs we parents give and receive when our little one is up in our arms. Child gently places head on shoulder. Parent gently rests head on child’s. To me, there is nothing more sweet and unique to our species than the act of cradling our child between the divine consciousness of the human mind and the love of an open heart.
Second, “The Gumby Challenge” popped into my mind. "The Gumby Challenge" is a blog on this very website. I'll give you a couple of minutes...go ahead and read it if you haven't already.
Don't worry. I’ll wait.
I hope you see that in “The Gumby Challenge” I was struggling to figure out a way to be in the daily activities and interactions of the world without being invested in the conflicts and drama of the world. Physically being of the world, while living on the cliffs of Higher Consciousness. I call that living, not in the either/or, but LIVING IN THE "AND."
Last, my unexpected and divinely inspired thought recalled something from my childhood. When I was a young, I often saw a television commercial in which the uber-busy, uber-stressed, and uber-responsible housewife finally allowed herself a few precious minutes of relaxation submerged in a bathtub full of a bubble bath soap called Calgon. The tub was always shot horizontally in front of a large window through which could be seen a bucolic and never-ending expanse of green fields covered with endless colorful flowers. The now serene housewife reposed languidly in her cherished bathtub, her left arm and hand relaxed and dangling over the rim.
Bliss and contentment were finally hers.
The tag line, “Calgon take me away” always filled my small self with questions. What was the point of sitting in a tub when she could be out running and playing in the flowers? Who is Calgon and why is he/she going to take her away? How can she go out with no clothes on? Won’t she be cold? Embarrassed? Won't she miss her children?
But most importantly...
Where does she want Mr/Miss/Mrs. (No Ms. It was the early 60's after all) Calgon to take her away to?
Fast forward to yesterday morning’s meditation prior to the phone call. I started with two thought threads placed side by side in my mind. The thoughts were (1) I wanted my heart space to be open, and (2) I wanted to speak to my phone mate from a Higher Self. “Hold on a minute!” I blurted out loud, “Isn’t that LIVING IN THE 'AND'?” And then a few seconds later, “OMG! Isn’t that what I call a Head Hug?”
In that moment of the super-y duper-y weaving of threads, I became that blissful and contented woman in the tub. God, the Higher Consciousness, the Greater Field of life, the (let’s face it) Ultimate Calgon Creator, transported me to my own personal Calgon Take Me Away moment.
Because once again, I was gently reminded; I don’t have to search for anything or figure anything out.
It is here LIVING in my body, in my memory, in my consciousness.
Bliss and contentment were finally mine.
LIVING IN THE "AND", I placed the land line receiver on my shoulder and gently lowered my ear to the earpiece, cradling it between the divine consciousness of my human mind and the love of my open heart.
I made the call.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Happy 22nd Anniversary?
Here’s my question…Why do we use the word “anniversary” to commemorate the day of a wedding AND the day of a death? Could the feelings each day engenders be more of an emotional dialectic? In my book, anniversaries are not for talking about the day someone or something, that you loved (and still love) very (very) much, died.
The word “anniversary” is happy; it’s a cause for celebration; it’s a room filled with joyful people drinking great champagne, eating chocolate cake stuffed with raspberries and topped with a rich lip-smacking chocolate ganache, and dancing cheek-to-cheek (as closely and slowly as possible).
Roget’s 21st Century Thesaurus uses words like: “feast day, festival, jubilee, red letter day, hoopla, hullabaloo” as synonyms for "anniversary." Not one single hint, utterance or syllable to even indicate death, loss, or grief.
So I ask again, “WHY?”
This year, as has been the case for the past twenty-two years, I had the occasion to celebrate the anniversary of my marriage back to back with the anniversary of my father’s death. Two of the biggest and most important milestones in my life that occurred within two days, fourteen hours, and two minutes of each other. My son’s dad and I were married at 1 pm on October 15, 1988, 22 years ago this past Friday, and my father left this plane of existence for his next big adventure at 3:02 am on October 18, 1988, 22 years ago today.
My father’s death has been hard on me every year, but some years have been harder than others. I remember every second from the moment I realized we needed to call an ambulance to take my father to the hospital, to the last thing he said to me and I to him, to the last man who came up to me after the funeral and said, “I’ve known your father my whole life.” I replied to him, “So have I.”
After that everything is a blank. All I remember of that first newly wedded year is the feeling of powerful tidal waves of grief that frequently and unexpectedly took control of my body, anytime and anywhere for absolutely no apparent reason.
Therefore, I assumed that the first October 15th anniversary after I had left my marriage would initiate a similar barrage of tidal waves albeit perhaps for only a day or two. “This,” I thought to myself, “is gonna be one ‘wet’ anniversary.” Surprisingly, it went by fairly painlessly. Maybe I was still in shock at the realization that I had walked out on 24 years (5 living together and 19 married).
So, naturally, last year, I expected all the floodgates to break loose. Didn’t happen. Dry as a bone.
This year? Both the loss of the marriage and the loss of my father hit me like those reminiscent grief-propelled never ending tidal waves, your basic oceanic one-two-combination punch to the heart.
But WHY did it happen this year of all years?
Maybe I thought I was out of striking range so I put my emotional guard down. Maybe I wasn’t thinking about protecting myself from a left uppercut to my Grief Center or a right hook to Regrets Central as I had been for the past two years. But this weekend felt like the Universe was holding me against the ropes and hitting me below the belt…punch after punch, wave after wave, over and over again.
WHY?
I decided to answer myself by saying, “Because now it is time.”
For some stinkin’ reason, this year was the year the little Dutch boy decided to pull his finger out of the Grief Dam over my broken marriage perhaps creating a new level of resurgence of the grief over the loss of my father.
However, contrary to popular opinion (and my own tendencies) I am not going to try to find any other answer to the “Why?” question. I am just going to let it be what it was and is.
I am learning to let go and trust the flow without trying to control the current.
Good for me.
Yes.
Happy 22nd Anniversary.
The word “anniversary” is happy; it’s a cause for celebration; it’s a room filled with joyful people drinking great champagne, eating chocolate cake stuffed with raspberries and topped with a rich lip-smacking chocolate ganache, and dancing cheek-to-cheek (as closely and slowly as possible).
Roget’s 21st Century Thesaurus uses words like: “feast day, festival, jubilee, red letter day, hoopla, hullabaloo” as synonyms for "anniversary." Not one single hint, utterance or syllable to even indicate death, loss, or grief.
So I ask again, “WHY?”
This year, as has been the case for the past twenty-two years, I had the occasion to celebrate the anniversary of my marriage back to back with the anniversary of my father’s death. Two of the biggest and most important milestones in my life that occurred within two days, fourteen hours, and two minutes of each other. My son’s dad and I were married at 1 pm on October 15, 1988, 22 years ago this past Friday, and my father left this plane of existence for his next big adventure at 3:02 am on October 18, 1988, 22 years ago today.
My father’s death has been hard on me every year, but some years have been harder than others. I remember every second from the moment I realized we needed to call an ambulance to take my father to the hospital, to the last thing he said to me and I to him, to the last man who came up to me after the funeral and said, “I’ve known your father my whole life.” I replied to him, “So have I.”
After that everything is a blank. All I remember of that first newly wedded year is the feeling of powerful tidal waves of grief that frequently and unexpectedly took control of my body, anytime and anywhere for absolutely no apparent reason.
Therefore, I assumed that the first October 15th anniversary after I had left my marriage would initiate a similar barrage of tidal waves albeit perhaps for only a day or two. “This,” I thought to myself, “is gonna be one ‘wet’ anniversary.” Surprisingly, it went by fairly painlessly. Maybe I was still in shock at the realization that I had walked out on 24 years (5 living together and 19 married).
So, naturally, last year, I expected all the floodgates to break loose. Didn’t happen. Dry as a bone.
This year? Both the loss of the marriage and the loss of my father hit me like those reminiscent grief-propelled never ending tidal waves, your basic oceanic one-two-combination punch to the heart.
But WHY did it happen this year of all years?
Maybe I thought I was out of striking range so I put my emotional guard down. Maybe I wasn’t thinking about protecting myself from a left uppercut to my Grief Center or a right hook to Regrets Central as I had been for the past two years. But this weekend felt like the Universe was holding me against the ropes and hitting me below the belt…punch after punch, wave after wave, over and over again.
WHY?
I decided to answer myself by saying, “Because now it is time.”
For some stinkin’ reason, this year was the year the little Dutch boy decided to pull his finger out of the Grief Dam over my broken marriage perhaps creating a new level of resurgence of the grief over the loss of my father.
However, contrary to popular opinion (and my own tendencies) I am not going to try to find any other answer to the “Why?” question. I am just going to let it be what it was and is.
I am learning to let go and trust the flow without trying to control the current.
Good for me.
Yes.
Happy 22nd Anniversary.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
As Far As My Eye Could See
So the Universe decided not to take me up on my generous offer to be quietly exited off the planet.
Instead, I found myself sitting right back in my boat. In the fog. I was relieved to see that my amorphous shape was nowhere to be found. Without me there to shade it, slather it with SPF 75 or nurture it and justify its existence in any way, I imagine the exposure to the illumination of its blackness quietly dissolved it like the Wicked Witch of the West’s ultimate and final “I’m melting!” a la The Wizard of Oz.
Monday two very important things occurred although I did not realize their importance at the time. (I was too foggy) A very dear friend mentioned that because of the conflict I was going through with my previous teacher, I was sitting on the cusp of a potentially wonderful opening to experience “an unprecedented soul connection” with her. The second thing that happened was that in doing some research on soul connections, I came across a website that described a Third Eye meditative technique.
It was Tuesday (5 days after my very own Freeway meltdown in the car) before I decided to take a brief gander (out of the corner of my eye) at A”S”CIM. I read a section entitled “Perception and Choice” (pg 523). For the past several months, I have been struggling with the idea of “sensory perception of the eyes” as opposed to “Seeing.” A”S”CIM talks about “Seeing” a lot, and I have not been able to figure out, on an experiential level, what “Seeing” is all about. I get the concept, but the actual tangible experience of it has been illusive. Furthermore, according to A”S”CIM this ability to “See” rightly is not necessarily a skill to be developed, as much as it is a choice to be made (which, honestly, also confused me).
When I arrived at work later that morning, I sat in my car in the parking lot and attempted to lift myself out of the fog. I reclined back in the driver’s seat, closed my eyes, and envisioned a new kind of relationship with my teacher. Those words “unprecedented soul connection” rested in my consciousness as I closed my two physical cornflower blue eyes and followed the processes from the Third Eye meditation I had discovered on the web. I suddenly found my Self at the top of my cliff with my former teacher sitting across from me.
So many things converged at that moment as my meditatively activated Third Eye took in the 360 degree expansiveness of my (new and definitely improved!) timeless eternal view. I knew that a world of physical bodies was engaged in the daily activities of life on terra firma down below us while this connected, real, and authentic meeting of the One Mind was going on at the same time in the world above the human experience. I opened my Eye even wider and saw that there was an individuated world of One Mind, an illuminated sea of souls, past, present, and future as far as my Eye could see.
There is a world that exists and functions just fine, thank you very much, on the earthly plane. And there is a world that exists and functions just fine, thank you very much, way up here on my (yours, our) cliffs of God consciousness.
I am not alone “down there,” and I am, most definitely, not alone “up here.”
I was overcome (and still am)…with joy and excitement but also with the gravity of the importance of the choice before me, and the faith required to make it.
Instead, I found myself sitting right back in my boat. In the fog. I was relieved to see that my amorphous shape was nowhere to be found. Without me there to shade it, slather it with SPF 75 or nurture it and justify its existence in any way, I imagine the exposure to the illumination of its blackness quietly dissolved it like the Wicked Witch of the West’s ultimate and final “I’m melting!” a la The Wizard of Oz.
Monday two very important things occurred although I did not realize their importance at the time. (I was too foggy) A very dear friend mentioned that because of the conflict I was going through with my previous teacher, I was sitting on the cusp of a potentially wonderful opening to experience “an unprecedented soul connection” with her. The second thing that happened was that in doing some research on soul connections, I came across a website that described a Third Eye meditative technique.
It was Tuesday (5 days after my very own Freeway meltdown in the car) before I decided to take a brief gander (out of the corner of my eye) at A”S”CIM. I read a section entitled “Perception and Choice” (pg 523). For the past several months, I have been struggling with the idea of “sensory perception of the eyes” as opposed to “Seeing.” A”S”CIM talks about “Seeing” a lot, and I have not been able to figure out, on an experiential level, what “Seeing” is all about. I get the concept, but the actual tangible experience of it has been illusive. Furthermore, according to A”S”CIM this ability to “See” rightly is not necessarily a skill to be developed, as much as it is a choice to be made (which, honestly, also confused me).
When I arrived at work later that morning, I sat in my car in the parking lot and attempted to lift myself out of the fog. I reclined back in the driver’s seat, closed my eyes, and envisioned a new kind of relationship with my teacher. Those words “unprecedented soul connection” rested in my consciousness as I closed my two physical cornflower blue eyes and followed the processes from the Third Eye meditation I had discovered on the web. I suddenly found my Self at the top of my cliff with my former teacher sitting across from me.
So many things converged at that moment as my meditatively activated Third Eye took in the 360 degree expansiveness of my (new and definitely improved!) timeless eternal view. I knew that a world of physical bodies was engaged in the daily activities of life on terra firma down below us while this connected, real, and authentic meeting of the One Mind was going on at the same time in the world above the human experience. I opened my Eye even wider and saw that there was an individuated world of One Mind, an illuminated sea of souls, past, present, and future as far as my Eye could see.
There is a world that exists and functions just fine, thank you very much, on the earthly plane. And there is a world that exists and functions just fine, thank you very much, way up here on my (yours, our) cliffs of God consciousness.
I am not alone “down there,” and I am, most definitely, not alone “up here.”
I was overcome (and still am)…with joy and excitement but also with the gravity of the importance of the choice before me, and the faith required to make it.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
This Is My Easy, Breezy, Beautiful Kind of Cover Girl Life (At The Moment)
Strap on your seatbelts. It’s time for another whack-a-doodle ride.
I recognize that I have a strange inner process, but I also recognize that it is probably no stranger than anyone else’s.
My process seems to be this:
• Have conflict with someone I care about deeply
• Fight feelings of desperately wanting to annihilate that person (because they “started it” in the first place, and I am feeling desperately unsafe with them and in my own skin)
• Get pissed off at God, the Universe, the Greater Field of Life.
• Label God, the Universe, the GFL “Liars” and “Cruel” (repeatedly, loudly and with much vehemence)
• Throw any “spiritual” book I may be reading (or is innocently in the vicinity) across the room
• Vow never to meditate again
• Cry (okay…sob uncontrollably) on and off for hours
• Live in a limbo fog for the next day or two (or three or four)
• Return to reading A (Stinkin’) Course In Miracles (A”S”CIM)
• Return to meditation
• Experience a profound vision that pushes the edges of my consciousness to new (kinda whack-a-doodle) places and fills me with light and gratitude
• Start all over again
Completely exhausting.
I have to admit that I have had several conflicts lately. One (or two) with my son and one (or two) with one of the leaders of the transformative program I recently left. And you know what else? I am beginning to own that any conflict I have or feel is ultimately between the old ego driven me and the newer "take the high road" Me. And that was my easy, breezy, beautiful kind of cover girl life on Thursday.
On Friday, I was still so upset about the rash of conflicts that came my way that on the way to Santa Monica (while stuck in unbelievably bad traffic…even for LA), I started ranting at God, the Universe, the GFL. I made it clear (in no uncertain terms) that I have:
• given up on my journey (again)
• recognized all this spiritual stuff as “Bulls*#t” (again)
• lost faith in everything including myself (again)
and, although I had no intention of hurting myself or anyone else,
• asked the “powers that be” to take a glance at the chapter entitled “Mary Elizabeth Barrett” in the Universe’s bestselling tell-all super duper book, This Is My Life and simply scan ahead to my future demise because if there is a heart attack or death of natural causes somewhere out there in my distant future, just do us both a big favor; Give it to me now. Thank you very much (again).
Excrutiatingly painful.
This is my easy, breezy, beautiful kind of cover girl life (at the moment).
Welcome to it.
I recognize that I have a strange inner process, but I also recognize that it is probably no stranger than anyone else’s.
My process seems to be this:
• Have conflict with someone I care about deeply
• Fight feelings of desperately wanting to annihilate that person (because they “started it” in the first place, and I am feeling desperately unsafe with them and in my own skin)
• Get pissed off at God, the Universe, the Greater Field of Life.
• Label God, the Universe, the GFL “Liars” and “Cruel” (repeatedly, loudly and with much vehemence)
• Throw any “spiritual” book I may be reading (or is innocently in the vicinity) across the room
• Vow never to meditate again
• Cry (okay…sob uncontrollably) on and off for hours
• Live in a limbo fog for the next day or two (or three or four)
• Return to reading A (Stinkin’) Course In Miracles (A”S”CIM)
• Return to meditation
• Experience a profound vision that pushes the edges of my consciousness to new (kinda whack-a-doodle) places and fills me with light and gratitude
• Start all over again
Completely exhausting.
I have to admit that I have had several conflicts lately. One (or two) with my son and one (or two) with one of the leaders of the transformative program I recently left. And you know what else? I am beginning to own that any conflict I have or feel is ultimately between the old ego driven me and the newer "take the high road" Me. And that was my easy, breezy, beautiful kind of cover girl life on Thursday.
On Friday, I was still so upset about the rash of conflicts that came my way that on the way to Santa Monica (while stuck in unbelievably bad traffic…even for LA), I started ranting at God, the Universe, the GFL. I made it clear (in no uncertain terms) that I have:
• given up on my journey (again)
• recognized all this spiritual stuff as “Bulls*#t” (again)
• lost faith in everything including myself (again)
and, although I had no intention of hurting myself or anyone else,
• asked the “powers that be” to take a glance at the chapter entitled “Mary Elizabeth Barrett” in the Universe’s bestselling tell-all super duper book, This Is My Life and simply scan ahead to my future demise because if there is a heart attack or death of natural causes somewhere out there in my distant future, just do us both a big favor; Give it to me now. Thank you very much (again).
Excrutiatingly painful.
This is my easy, breezy, beautiful kind of cover girl life (at the moment).
Welcome to it.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Isn’t That Special?!
I don’t remember if I have mentioned the book, “A Course In Miracles” in this blog. I think I may have. I did talk about it a few times on my previous blog.
“A Course in Miracles” is the most jarringly honest and truly revolutionary book I have ever had the presence of mind to struggle through, because literally every time (and I am NOT exaggerating [for once!]) I struggle with a conflict and ache to blame others, attack, strike back, the LAST thing I want or think I am capable of doing is attaining any sliver of enlightenment. However, it has never failed, that in the middle of conflict, when I open up to my daily read in this stinkin’ book… the passage is exactly applicable to what I am going through at the moment.
And I am most often not happy with the awakening. I will admit that I have had a variety of reactions to those days (like today) when I receive these messages. In the past, I have closed the book with a loud and extremely meaningful slam, or shoved it across the table, or yelled F&*%K YOU (out loud) at it, or lobbed it across the room, or stuffed it in a drawer (sometimes all of them one after the other).
Today I threw it out the window.
I had a very important decision to make, and I struggled with it for a very long time while perched on my cliffs. I stayed in the process until I was sure that I made my decision, not from fear, but from a desire to support my own personal well-being. When I finally made the decision, it felt good and right for me.
In the end, I chose to opt out of a transformational program for women that I submerged my Self in for the past sixteen months. The program I went through was an excruciating but ultimately liberating one. I confronted, let go of, transformed, released, AND found, developed and embraced parts of myself that I never thought I could release or never knew I had within me. And, for various reasons, I was sure it was time to move on.
Until I read my daily passage in this stinkin’ book.
“It” was in a section titled Specialness as a Substitute for Love. What “it” said was this:
Look fairly at whatever makes you give your brother (or sister!) only partial welcome, or would let you think that you are better off apart.
You see, I made the decision not to continue in a course of study that I believe in with all my heart, mind and soul because, in all honesty, I was concerned that the two leaders of the program were incapable of seeing me, dealing with me, talking with me, teaching me devoid of their own misperceptions about me.
In other words, I based my decision, at least in part, in how I thought they would see me…
instead of basing my decision, in full, in how I see them.
So, I sat for another several days to try to tease out if this revelation was guiding me to go back into the work and focus on my seeing them in a “Higher” point of view?
Or was it waking me up to the insight that it is never about how I think others see me?
It is always about how I see them.
In the end, all my musings affirmed my original decision to pursue other avenues of growth, but I did learn something else in the process…
I am not “special,” and neither are you.
But our function, the reason each of us incarnated on this planet in this moment in time, is.
“A Course in Miracles” is the most jarringly honest and truly revolutionary book I have ever had the presence of mind to struggle through, because literally every time (and I am NOT exaggerating [for once!]) I struggle with a conflict and ache to blame others, attack, strike back, the LAST thing I want or think I am capable of doing is attaining any sliver of enlightenment. However, it has never failed, that in the middle of conflict, when I open up to my daily read in this stinkin’ book… the passage is exactly applicable to what I am going through at the moment.
And I am most often not happy with the awakening. I will admit that I have had a variety of reactions to those days (like today) when I receive these messages. In the past, I have closed the book with a loud and extremely meaningful slam, or shoved it across the table, or yelled F&*%K YOU (out loud) at it, or lobbed it across the room, or stuffed it in a drawer (sometimes all of them one after the other).
Today I threw it out the window.
I had a very important decision to make, and I struggled with it for a very long time while perched on my cliffs. I stayed in the process until I was sure that I made my decision, not from fear, but from a desire to support my own personal well-being. When I finally made the decision, it felt good and right for me.
In the end, I chose to opt out of a transformational program for women that I submerged my Self in for the past sixteen months. The program I went through was an excruciating but ultimately liberating one. I confronted, let go of, transformed, released, AND found, developed and embraced parts of myself that I never thought I could release or never knew I had within me. And, for various reasons, I was sure it was time to move on.
Until I read my daily passage in this stinkin’ book.
“It” was in a section titled Specialness as a Substitute for Love. What “it” said was this:
Look fairly at whatever makes you give your brother (or sister!) only partial welcome, or would let you think that you are better off apart.
You see, I made the decision not to continue in a course of study that I believe in with all my heart, mind and soul because, in all honesty, I was concerned that the two leaders of the program were incapable of seeing me, dealing with me, talking with me, teaching me devoid of their own misperceptions about me.
In other words, I based my decision, at least in part, in how I thought they would see me…
instead of basing my decision, in full, in how I see them.
So, I sat for another several days to try to tease out if this revelation was guiding me to go back into the work and focus on my seeing them in a “Higher” point of view?
Or was it waking me up to the insight that it is never about how I think others see me?
It is always about how I see them.
In the end, all my musings affirmed my original decision to pursue other avenues of growth, but I did learn something else in the process…
I am not “special,” and neither are you.
But our function, the reason each of us incarnated on this planet in this moment in time, is.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Parent Trap
I spent the morning climbing back up to the top of my cliff. I fell off and landed on a ledge about 10 feet below. I laid there for a long time trying to decide what to do. Part of me wanted to get up and start back to the top, but an old familiar part of me fought back. It wanted me to move to the edge and, oh so slowly so no one would notice, roll over just enough so that gravity would take over and pull me back into the black abyss of me (if it’s still down there in the boat). Then I could claim no responsibility for falling, and I could hide out in those deep dark secrets acting out in my old ways of being…completely out of control, living the vida loca powered by my very own personal hericane.
It took three hours, six minutes, and thirty-seven seconds to climb the 10 feet that I fell from back up to the top of the cliff. And, in taking in that larger perspective at the top with fresh eyes, I noticed a tendency I have had since my son entered early adolescence (coincidentally just about the time I started to lose control of his every waking second). It happened again today, I feel into the trap. Maybe those of you who are parents and caretakers get this.
My son blew me off my cliff with a look, or a gesture, or was it the mere hint of a whisper? I don’t remember. All I remember is that we had an unpleasant interaction, and the next thing I knew I was falling backwards.
I know what you’re going to say…”He’s a teenager. What do you expect? He’s angry, fearful, and more often than you probably like, focused on doing the absolute least he can get away with. That’s being an adolescent.”
I know what you’re going to say…”You’re a single mom. What does he expect? You’re angry, fearful, and, more often than you probably like, focused on doing the absolute most you can get away with. That’s being a parent.”
Sometimes my son doesn’t “get it” the way I think he should. He is an only child and although he did not grow up in a house with money to burn, I (when his dad and I were together) gave him absolutely everything we could of the non-material kind. Being an only child, he never had to share attention, praise, or love with a sibling, compare his report card or his playing ability or his handwriting to a brother, yell “Front seat near the door, I call it” before his sibling had the chance to utter a syllable, or give in and go to The Little Mermaid because it was his stinkin’ baby sister’s “turn” to pick the family activity.
Let’s face it…for an only child, life can be pretty good.
On the other hand, getting all the focus had its own set of problems. We always knew “who did it;” there is no other body of the sibling variety to provide interference or share the humiliation when the glaring trumpets of parental disappointment sound loud and clear; and there is no one share a bedroom with, lay in bed and commiserate about how much dad and mom suck as parents.
Let’s face it…for an only child, life can be a little too much like nano-scopic surgery.
Sometimes his dad and I don’t “get it” because we both grew up in homes where the giving of love, attention, or anything other than our basic physical needs was overshadowed by other priorities.
Let’s face it…for any child, growing up can be pretty tough.
So maybe we overdid it. Maybe we fell into an all too familiar trap. And, maybe our over-giving, our over-involvement, our big fat overdoing of just about everything related to our son is an attempt to give to him of course, but maybe it is just as much about giving all of that to our inner under-nourished, under-attended, under-loved younger selves.
Maybe all along, all we are doing is trying to re-parent ourselves, fill the gaps, feel the reciprocity of a functional family gifting and receiving love.
Maybe that’s all any of us parents can ever do.
It took three hours, six minutes, and thirty-seven seconds to climb the 10 feet that I fell from back up to the top of the cliff. And, in taking in that larger perspective at the top with fresh eyes, I noticed a tendency I have had since my son entered early adolescence (coincidentally just about the time I started to lose control of his every waking second). It happened again today, I feel into the trap. Maybe those of you who are parents and caretakers get this.
My son blew me off my cliff with a look, or a gesture, or was it the mere hint of a whisper? I don’t remember. All I remember is that we had an unpleasant interaction, and the next thing I knew I was falling backwards.
I know what you’re going to say…”He’s a teenager. What do you expect? He’s angry, fearful, and more often than you probably like, focused on doing the absolute least he can get away with. That’s being an adolescent.”
I know what you’re going to say…”You’re a single mom. What does he expect? You’re angry, fearful, and, more often than you probably like, focused on doing the absolute most you can get away with. That’s being a parent.”
Sometimes my son doesn’t “get it” the way I think he should. He is an only child and although he did not grow up in a house with money to burn, I (when his dad and I were together) gave him absolutely everything we could of the non-material kind. Being an only child, he never had to share attention, praise, or love with a sibling, compare his report card or his playing ability or his handwriting to a brother, yell “Front seat near the door, I call it” before his sibling had the chance to utter a syllable, or give in and go to The Little Mermaid because it was his stinkin’ baby sister’s “turn” to pick the family activity.
Let’s face it…for an only child, life can be pretty good.
On the other hand, getting all the focus had its own set of problems. We always knew “who did it;” there is no other body of the sibling variety to provide interference or share the humiliation when the glaring trumpets of parental disappointment sound loud and clear; and there is no one share a bedroom with, lay in bed and commiserate about how much dad and mom suck as parents.
Let’s face it…for an only child, life can be a little too much like nano-scopic surgery.
Sometimes his dad and I don’t “get it” because we both grew up in homes where the giving of love, attention, or anything other than our basic physical needs was overshadowed by other priorities.
Let’s face it…for any child, growing up can be pretty tough.
So maybe we overdid it. Maybe we fell into an all too familiar trap. And, maybe our over-giving, our over-involvement, our big fat overdoing of just about everything related to our son is an attempt to give to him of course, but maybe it is just as much about giving all of that to our inner under-nourished, under-attended, under-loved younger selves.
Maybe all along, all we are doing is trying to re-parent ourselves, fill the gaps, feel the reciprocity of a functional family gifting and receiving love.
Maybe that’s all any of us parents can ever do.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Gimme A Head With (Red) Hair
I think I will eventually end up living in one of the cities I have already lived in: Manhattan, Washington D.C. or Boston, or back in Newport, R.I. where I grew up, or even Paris. And while I feel completely at home in those cities, there is a more important reason to move to one of them.
My hair loves living there. (Being of Irish decent, my skin also loves those cities.)
And when my hair is happy, I’m happy too because when my hair is happy, it is soft and bouncy and wavy, curly, flow-y. It’s the humidity and the moisture in the air that causes it to be so. Irish people just aren’t meant to live in dry, desert-infused locales. In these arid climates, our hair and our skin cry out for help, but, alas, no tears can accompany our pain. They have all been dispatched in a vain attempt to resuscitate dust-filled epidermal pores and parched hair follicles. It is a known scientific fact; genetically, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually, we Irish require that hint of moisture in the air to be fully who we are from the inside out.
But in an effort to be completely transparent about my reason to move back to high humidity, sudden downpours, and thunderstorms; it makes my Irish skin happy, yes, of course, but, frankly…
it’s all about my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair.
That being said, this next amazing disclosure may shock you. Even though I grew up in a moist climate, I hated my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair. People called me “Red” (I have a name, please use it!), “Ginger” (ugh!), and “Carrot Top” (seriously my hair is RED not orange!), I felt like an oddball, a freak of nature, something to dip into blue cheese dressing.
I even dyed my hair blonde (ish) for years.
It was not until much later (okay, like 15 years ago) that I really started to embrace my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair. And, guess what? Slowly, over the past 15 years, red hair has become all the rage! Have you noticed that a disproportionate number of women, all of a sudden, have red hair? I remember house hunting ten years ago, and a realtor said to me very enthusiastically, “My goodness! You are the FOURTH redhead I have had in here today!” To which I smugly replied, “Yes, but I bet I’m the first natural one.” Seriously! People started to notice my red hair with awe and admiration! Even the midwife at my first appointment during pregnancy with my son exclaimed with joy, “Well, you really ARE a redhead!” (Yes, the curtains match the drapes. Thank you very much.)
In my previous blog, www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com, I talked about my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair…a lot. It is the one of a couple of physical characteristics that I now enjoy having the most. I don’t understand how you blondes or brunettes experience life because I am not a member of your clan, but I can report from a redheaded point of view that there exists a secret society of men who devote themselves to redheaded women (I call them the Redheaders). I have noticed that for them, it doesn’t really matter how old the woman is or what her body size and shape is, as long as she has red hair; she has their attention. I used to distain those men for their single-mindedness, but now I revel in it.
You want to smile at me? Open the door for me? Get a can of Campbell’s Cream of Broccoli off the top shelf at the supermarket for me? Go for it! I am all about being served.
At the ripe young age of 59, after coming of age during the Women’s Movement, working tirelessly at asserting my independence, and brazenly displaying my obviously enviable super-human and Benihana-like precision and skill around self-care, I am finally all about getting some attention for my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair.
So I am sure you can imagine my horror and dismay last June when I and my climate-induced happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair spent some time in Paris with a very close female friend. We (my red head and I) went into the trip with our cornflower blues eyes wide open. We knew we were in the (friendly) competition of a lifetime. You see, my friend is a STUNNING piece of God’s workmanship and, Honey, she can teach all of us a thing or two about putting ourselves together head-to-toe (and back again). So, here’s the advice we would have given you back in June about going anywhere fashionable with a woman like that…
Stay home.
It was quite a blow to traverse the streets of Paris with her and notice all eyes on her deck. The lack of attention was embarrassing. Hellooooo? Happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled redhead dans la maison!
Okay, honestly, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her either, so really what else could I expect?
I returned from Paris a sadder but wiser girl, however, more importantly, I got it. It’s not about who embraces my amazing happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair. It is about how much I can allow myself to own, and brazenly display my love of my Self, my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair, my Irish skin, and my cornflower blue eyes…all of me fresh and dewy from the inside out.
BTW, my friend and I are planning another trip to an, as yet undetermined, but amazing and fashionable locale.
As a final note, I still want to move to a more genetically agreeable climate, but as I am writing this, the most astonishing thing just occurred. Those of us in southern California are experiencing, at this very moment, a bit of the miraculous in the form of the extremely rare (and to my redhead) extremely welcome California thunderstorm.
I am going to interpret that as an invitation from California to please stick around for a while.
My hair loves living there. (Being of Irish decent, my skin also loves those cities.)
And when my hair is happy, I’m happy too because when my hair is happy, it is soft and bouncy and wavy, curly, flow-y. It’s the humidity and the moisture in the air that causes it to be so. Irish people just aren’t meant to live in dry, desert-infused locales. In these arid climates, our hair and our skin cry out for help, but, alas, no tears can accompany our pain. They have all been dispatched in a vain attempt to resuscitate dust-filled epidermal pores and parched hair follicles. It is a known scientific fact; genetically, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually, we Irish require that hint of moisture in the air to be fully who we are from the inside out.
But in an effort to be completely transparent about my reason to move back to high humidity, sudden downpours, and thunderstorms; it makes my Irish skin happy, yes, of course, but, frankly…
it’s all about my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair.
That being said, this next amazing disclosure may shock you. Even though I grew up in a moist climate, I hated my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair. People called me “Red” (I have a name, please use it!), “Ginger” (ugh!), and “Carrot Top” (seriously my hair is RED not orange!), I felt like an oddball, a freak of nature, something to dip into blue cheese dressing.
I even dyed my hair blonde (ish) for years.
It was not until much later (okay, like 15 years ago) that I really started to embrace my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair. And, guess what? Slowly, over the past 15 years, red hair has become all the rage! Have you noticed that a disproportionate number of women, all of a sudden, have red hair? I remember house hunting ten years ago, and a realtor said to me very enthusiastically, “My goodness! You are the FOURTH redhead I have had in here today!” To which I smugly replied, “Yes, but I bet I’m the first natural one.” Seriously! People started to notice my red hair with awe and admiration! Even the midwife at my first appointment during pregnancy with my son exclaimed with joy, “Well, you really ARE a redhead!” (Yes, the curtains match the drapes. Thank you very much.)
In my previous blog, www.theyearoftheboy.blogspot.com, I talked about my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair…a lot. It is the one of a couple of physical characteristics that I now enjoy having the most. I don’t understand how you blondes or brunettes experience life because I am not a member of your clan, but I can report from a redheaded point of view that there exists a secret society of men who devote themselves to redheaded women (I call them the Redheaders). I have noticed that for them, it doesn’t really matter how old the woman is or what her body size and shape is, as long as she has red hair; she has their attention. I used to distain those men for their single-mindedness, but now I revel in it.
You want to smile at me? Open the door for me? Get a can of Campbell’s Cream of Broccoli off the top shelf at the supermarket for me? Go for it! I am all about being served.
At the ripe young age of 59, after coming of age during the Women’s Movement, working tirelessly at asserting my independence, and brazenly displaying my obviously enviable super-human and Benihana-like precision and skill around self-care, I am finally all about getting some attention for my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair.
So I am sure you can imagine my horror and dismay last June when I and my climate-induced happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair spent some time in Paris with a very close female friend. We (my red head and I) went into the trip with our cornflower blues eyes wide open. We knew we were in the (friendly) competition of a lifetime. You see, my friend is a STUNNING piece of God’s workmanship and, Honey, she can teach all of us a thing or two about putting ourselves together head-to-toe (and back again). So, here’s the advice we would have given you back in June about going anywhere fashionable with a woman like that…
Stay home.
It was quite a blow to traverse the streets of Paris with her and notice all eyes on her deck. The lack of attention was embarrassing. Hellooooo? Happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled redhead dans la maison!
Okay, honestly, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her either, so really what else could I expect?
I returned from Paris a sadder but wiser girl, however, more importantly, I got it. It’s not about who embraces my amazing happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair. It is about how much I can allow myself to own, and brazenly display my love of my Self, my happy, soft, bouncy, loosely curled red hair, my Irish skin, and my cornflower blue eyes…all of me fresh and dewy from the inside out.
BTW, my friend and I are planning another trip to an, as yet undetermined, but amazing and fashionable locale.
As a final note, I still want to move to a more genetically agreeable climate, but as I am writing this, the most astonishing thing just occurred. Those of us in southern California are experiencing, at this very moment, a bit of the miraculous in the form of the extremely rare (and to my redhead) extremely welcome California thunderstorm.
I am going to interpret that as an invitation from California to please stick around for a while.
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