When creative is spiritual & spiritual is creative

A rare treat last week was a super indulgent and nourishing chat (via Skype) with a fellow creative sister, mentor, and friend. With all of the forms of social networking, it is amazing how rare true conversation and connection can be.  So when it does happen (a magic alchemy of time + presence + passion) I like to luxuriate in its afterglow.

One topic that came up and which has been dipping in and out of my conscious is how spiritual practice and creative practice are one and the same for me.  As is often the case with the deepest truths, this one bubbled up without me realizing how truly foundational and essential it is to who I am and what I do.  What is so valuable about a conversation - a real exchange versus the monologues I am so good at (yes, even when I jog, I have a running commentary going in my head!) - is having a wise and perceptive friend say "Wait a minute ... back up ... can you explain what you mean by that?"

Yes, well ... ahem ... let me see ...

So I've been thinking about this central fact of my being: that my creative practice and my spiritual practice are really one and the same.  I believe I said something about them feeling the same; that in both instances I am connecting with Source and dropping into Flow. What this means to me is remembering myself Whole through practices that take me outside of my limited thinking/known self and lead me into encounters with an experience of Self that is richer and larger than what I could have imagined.  In both cases, I am seeking to strengthen Trust and Faith. In art is it about trusting I will be guided forward as long as I am showing up full present, attentive, and willing to listen to the guidance of intuition/heart/source.  Necessary is faith that such guidance will turn up!

all these paintings are works - or rather, conversations - in progress

This is true in spiritual practice: I am learning to listen and trust what comes up for me is in service of my highest good.  Both practice are about cultivate deep presence and attentiveness. Mindfulness is the foundation - and the intention - in both practices.

Creative & spiritual action are also about gratitude, celebration, and love.  In spiritual practice, I may make prayers, offerings, create sacred spaces to remind myself of that which guides and supports me. My art is another expression of gratitude and thanks.  

In both practices, I seek understanding and insight into my life, how I am to proceed on this path and what is my work -  my vital and individual contribution -  to this world.  In spiritual practice I am given insight through journey work, dreams, and through sharing my experiences with others in a variety of circle gatherings.  I share with the hope of providing insight or support for another; what often happens - which is the real gift - is in doing so, others feel safe or inspired to share their stories and in turn I am enlightened and informed.  

When I create, I often do so without any preconceived idea of what it is I am making.  I may have an initial impulse or desire - to paint my dog, to put down a piece of a dream, a story - but then I  attempt to surrender to a partnership with Source or creative inspiration. I say attempt because it isn't easy to override a lifelong impulse to control; but when it does happen - slipping into Flow is how it feels to me - I am shown things I never knew before.  Understanding or vision is expanded, new connected made, and I learn and grow through the exchange.  

Both are journeys. As I understand it, there is really only One Journey, just different strides, different modes of traveling down the path. Showing up and saying Yes, that is all that is required. How we each express and reflect that cosmic Yes is unique and highly personal and thank goodness for it being so!  

I Am So Glad

Start seeing everything as God,
But keep it a secret.

Become like a man who is Awestruck
And Nourished

Listening to a Golden Nightingale
Sing in a beautiful foreign language
While God invisibly nests
Upon its tongue.

Hafiz,
Who can you tell in this world
That when a dog runs up to you
Wagging its ecstatic tail,
You lean down and whisper in its ear,

“Beloved,
I am so glad You are happy to see me.

Beloved,
I am so glad,
So very glad You have come.

-Hafiz (from I Heart God Laughing, translations by Daniel Ladinsky)

Start seeing everything as God,
But keep it a secret.
Become like a man who is Awestruck
And Nourished
Listening to a Golden Nightingale
Sing in a beautiful foreign language
While God invisibly nests
Upon its tongue.
Hafiz,
Who can you tell in this world
That when a dog runs up to you
Wagging its ecstatic tail,
You lean down and whisper in its ear,
“Beloved,
I am so glad You are happy to see me.
Beloved,
I am so glad,
So very glad You have come.”
- See more at: http://heartsteps.org/2014/i-am-so-glad/#sthash.xRIBsAG8.dpuf

Start seeing everything as God,
But keep it a secret.

Become like a man who is Awestruck
And Nourished

Listening to a Golden Nightingale
Sing in a beautiful foreign language
While God invisibly nests
Upon its tongue.

Hafiz,
Who can you tell in this world
That when a dog runs up to you
Wagging its ecstatic tail,
You lean down and whisper in its ear,

“Beloved,
I am so glad You are happy to see me.

Beloved,
I am so glad,
So very glad You have come.”

- See more at: http://heartsteps.org/2014/i-am-so-glad/#sthash.xRIBsAG8.dpuf

Start seeing everything as God,
But keep it a secret.

Become like a man who is Awestruck
And Nourished

Listening to a Golden Nightingale
Sing in a beautiful foreign language
While God invisibly nests
Upon its tongue.

Hafiz,
Who can you tell in this world
That when a dog runs up to you
Wagging its ecstatic tail,
You lean down and whisper in its ear,

“Beloved,
I am so glad You are happy to see me.

Beloved,
I am so glad,
So very glad You have come.”

- See more at: http://heartsteps.org/2014/i-am-so-glad/#sthash.xRIBsAG8.dpuf 

updating my bucket list

It's not so much a bucket list as it is my list of "things I want to squeeze hard while I can" list. (The squeezing bit à la John O'Donohue, as in "giving life a good squeeze" which really captures the essence of fearless living/joy warriorship, don't you think?)

It not so much about accomplishments, although yes, I am proud of those:  traveling abroad to study; passing the nightmarish German translation test for graduate school; completing my master's degree (a feat of hoop jumping more than anything); wrangling the paperwork of two countries to adopt my girl (massive hoop jumping and other leaps of faith);  yoga teacher training (mind and body bending) to name a few.

There are the adventures - the wild leaps of daring and trust - that I am glad I followed even when everything in me screamed what are you thinking?!: river rafting with a healthy fear of falling overboard (a week in the wilderness, the husband oaring his own boat, our ten year anniversary trip - a bonding or breaking experience); Outward Bound in Joshua Tree National Park (no tents, sleeping outdoors with freezing temperatures, rock climbing and rappelling for the first time and only 2 pairs of undies for 1 sweaty/dirty week); 

 

from the vault: circa 1996 - look at that pack!

traveling to the other side of the world to meet visit someone I'd only known online (New Zealand certainly being a bucket list destination and a dream come true); quitting my job with no real back up plan (having experienced life plotted, planned and executed I knew from experience that doesn't always work out); and the list goes on.

What I am reviewing is my list of 100 things I want to do this year.  Do you make such lists?  If you haven't you really should.  The first 20 or so items are usually the epic ones like visit New Zealand or Create an Online Course but filling in spots 21 through 100 forces you to dig deep.  Digging deep is when you are more likely to hit gold.  

Skinny Dipping was on my list a few years ago.  My Squam sisters can verify the accomplishment of this feat (and it is a night I can vividly recall and rejoice in.)  Wearing more skirts has brought about subtle changes I haven't begun to plumb, but I know the costume has eased me into integrating my feminine self more fully. Sewing an Apron - well, I've made three!  Snow sledding has opened up a side of mothering my girl is happy I've embraced.

This past weekend marked another feat of daring and adventure embraced and survived.  Indeed, it involve much squeezing and singing along with slicing, rolling, and dreaming.  

Inspired by Donkey Dream: A Love Story of Pie and Farm and compelled by our mutual passion for pie, Cowgirl and I baked our first fully homemade pie.  Not just any pie, but Apple Pie for Dreamers (recipe by Katherine Dunn from Donkey Dream)

But before slicing the apples, hum or sing to them. It doesn't matter what song you choose. The slices will appreciate this kind gesture and it will lull them into a long sleep.

- Katherine Dunn, excerpt from Donkey Dream: A Love Story of Pie & Farm

It was one amazing pie.  

It lasted only two meals (half a pie per three people with allowance for small slivers of pie for breakfast) but the memories will linger long after we licked the sweet cinnamon goodness from our fingers.

These are the moments I want to gather ... editing my bucket list to allow for more such activities, ones that are more than just photo-worthy, but filled with memories rich and nourishing ... 

memories of singing to apples, fingers dusted with flour leaving their mark upon counter top, pie crust, a loved-ones cheek ... of tasting sweetness and knowing her hands helped ushering that goodness into our world and onto our plates; of long, lazy days spent laughing, creating, dancing, being.

Life sweet and savored ... every bite, every bit.

What might you add to your list?

we're thinking peach pie is next ...

for the record (revenge of a nerd)

I'm here to set the record straight ... and while I love this woman, a rebuttal is required. Yes, yes, she is a writer and therefore prone to wild fantasies spun by a robust and creative mind, but this - 

funny story:  when i first discovered Lisa's blog, i was awe-struck. as far as i was concerned, she was a Famous Internet Person (she still is). 

i thought she was/is one of the Cool Kids...

 This tall tale needs to be brought down to earth.

Dear friends, dear visitor/reader/scanner o'blogs I am not, nor have I ever been in the category of cool. 

Not that I didn't aspire to cool-ness.  I have collected a vast array of once-cool accoutrements: I had the platform sandals (worn with rainbow striped socks), tie-dye denims, the extra piercing in one ear (I never mastered the art of an odd number of earrings), a now faded and blurred tattoo, over-sized Ray bans (not good for a narrow face), track suit (it was lime green), big hair (hey, I am from Jersey, it was required!), leg warmers, harem pants (by default banning one for life from any cool-dom) and of course the flash dance ripped sweatshirts (to my credit, I never wore a head band.)

Which is to say, I discovered (after many failed attempts) that clothes do not cool make. 

I suppose by ceasing and desisting in my efforts, by discovering I could only be me - whatever that may involve - I may have gained a modicum of cool.  All those other cool-trappings, they weren't comfortable, they felt false, they never made me feel like I fit in.  It was when I stopped trying to be someone I wasn't, when I decided to embrace who I am and see my struggle to belong as an opportunity to accept and love myself, then cool became irrelevant. 

Well, sort of.

Make no mistake, it is an on-going practice.

I mean, we all aspire to be recognized, appreciated, and to feel welcomed by the pack.  I ask my girl if she thinks it is important to be cool.  "No ..." she replied. "It's better to be yourself."

may she always remember to be herself; here she is with her design for a mini-Boden catalog ... I know, too cool for school

Which means ALL my friends - and myself most of the time - are inherently and without exception, cool.  So I am confused ... I guess I am retracting my rebuttal? 

And because it is looping around my brain and feels like the right vibe to wind things up: 

 

It's all too much for me to take
The love that's shining all around here
All the world is birthday cake
So take a piece but not too much ...

(the one immensely cool thing that happen to me as a kid: my babysitter, Martha Mack, took me to the movie theater to see Yellow Submarine)

To borrow from another song ... if you can't be with the one you love honey, love the one you're with ...

time for a virtual stroll ...

It is a blissfully rain-soaking day here ... my prairie home is in a drought, so we welcome the rain here (but not the snowy mix in the evening forecast!) 

I am enjoying the play of finches, morning doves and robins darting under pine trees, descending en masse upon my feeders, the grey of the day enlivened by the splashes of color zipping across the landscape that is my backyard and the scope of my world this day.  I've made some decaf and am hunkering down for a visit ...

Today is my turn in a virtual blog walking tour ... picking up where my dear SouLodge sister Latisha (a.k.a. my fairy Herbmother - "A little bit fairy, a little bit witch. A whole lot alive") left off last week ...

1. What am I working on?
Work? Um ... right ... I am attempting to blur or soften the the boundaries between work and play.  

play as work, work as play

Having been told my innate building gesture is whirling dervish (chew on that for awhile!) I tend to have many pots simmering, boiling and foaming over on my virtual stove top.  Presently I am having fun recording new interviews with some of my favorite creatives to be included in my upcoming Gift of Practice online offering. (shameless plug here ... but one week left to enroll and receive early bird special of a mentoring session included in tuition) I love learning how others weave together their passions, their creative explorations with spirituality, family, relationships and daily life.  It is pure alchemy - the raw materials of life  transformed into creative and/or spiritual gold. 

Looking around my home space, I see  many other works in progress cluttering awaiting harvest: a pair of wrist warmers on the knitting needles (I'm not behind, but ahead of next year's cold snap!); a shrug that needs a knitted collar and some finishing (my least favorite aspect of knitting); some felt chicks ready to be birthed (from this tutorial);

the next lesson in Mindy Lacefield's Primitive Portraits class (oh my, besides the pure bliss of watching her paint, her southern accent just melts me!); the crafting of MY MYTH (inspired by Magic of Myth Course) which I feel is going to be a collaborative process of writing and painting with my girl (do I even have to say dragons will be involved?); and certainly some other scraps of rawhide tanning, sewing projects bobbing about the flotsam and jetsam of my life.  

Whirling dervish? Or plate-spinner?

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Things that make me go hmm? 

I suppose if I could determine what genre I belong to,  then I might have an idea of what I was doing!  

You know, I've always loved crazy-quilts and I think that best describes my life, my work, my approach.  I don't think so much about my work as much as I go about living a life which involves piecing together all my interests, all my passions and joys into an ongoing narrative, into one massive crazy-quilt of experiences.  I am here for the journey, the process, the experiences of this moment and this moment and the work is a lovely memento of those experiences. 

I'm just me and my hope is that my work is uniquely me-ish; and I love that your work is you-ish because that makes the world a pretty fascinating and exciting place.

Guess that brings me back to hmm?  

3. Why do I write what I do?
If you've spent any time with me, you've probably figured out that writing is my way of processing. I write my way through chaos into clarity. Well, sometimes. Writing (or if we are together in person, then it would be talking) is the way I sift through the contents of my mind in an attempt to find meaning or understanding.  

But I also write to celebrate hard-earned truths, to honor our mutual vulnerabilities and challenges and to support others in turning within to discover they are the source of their greatest wisdom and miracles.  At the end of the day, we all want to know we are loved and understood.  So I write as a means of honoring myself, my experiences and to honor those I love.

4. How does my writing process work? 
I generally will have a question or thought flapping around my mind that I need to release through writing.  I will be in the shower or walking the dog or cleaning the house and realize there is this inner dialogue happening and I need to get it down or untangle it or follow it down the rabbit's hole.  I suppose curiosity is at the heart of why I write.  What is this all about?   The How looks a lot like a dog with a rawhide: I just hunker down and chew chew chew!

That concludes this portion of your tour :)  Next Monday the stroll continues with these three inspiring creatives:

Michelle GD is a photographer and writer playing with lens and verse.  She believes there is beauty in tiny moments and healing in image and word.  You can find her on michellegd.com.

Mel Leavey is a "writer, magic-keeper, fire-raiser." She has transformed her drafty garret into the inkblot kingdom (www.inkblotkingdoms.com) and our world is richer for it. She has saved and supported me in ways beyond the scope of a blog post ... let's just say I have a reoccurring payment to her karmic bank account and I take pleasure in wiring those funds!

Mandy Smith is the proprietress of Flora Phenomena. Mandy enjoys creating herbal remedies, playing with plants, and learning about the relationships between the natural world and the human species. Her blog posts are meant to empower the reader and reignite our sense of wonder of the world and nature. Her herbal products at Flora Phenomena (coming soon!) offer healing and nourishment for the mind, body, and spirit. You can find Mandy exploring her always sun-drenched world (or so it seems to me!)  on her current blog at the present moment.

I leave you in magical hands. 

Now ... Spring, where for art thou?!

Crafting under pressure ...

I have never been one to procrastinate (I can't handle the stress), but something about the holiday crunch brings out the crafty mama in me. It could be the caffeine overload (my little "reward" for being a good holiday elf is a hazelnut latté) or it could be the barrage of holiday music pulsating through my brain or it could be chocolate-induce mania, but I've crossed a threshold and am blazing a trail through patchwork, wool draped, paint splattered Neverland of holiday gift making. 

To give an accurate idea of the extent of my mania ... I came home the other day and found myself with a couple of hours on my hands.  I ask you: what else do you do when you find yourself with a window of unclaimed time?  Sew an apron, right?

Reading the Little House Books to Cowgirl, I was seized by this idea that an apron would be just the thing for holiday 2013 (if it was good enough for prairie 1885, it is still in style now, mais non?) The above photo crops out the pile of holiday crap cards waiting for me to address them (right hand corner) and the photo album with pictures stacked off to the side (under the plastic bag) and the clutter of journals and paint supplies left waiting for that perfect day ... But all of that was easily pushed to the side so I could use the corner of the table to cut fabric. (And yes, I am a dare-devil who cuts fabric on top of a table cloth without cutting board or ruler which might explain the lack of straight edges in my sewing projects.) 

it's lined!  i know - i am that kind of crazy!

The next morning I awoke with presents to take to the post office, but not before adding an embroidered bookmark to one package. (Full disclosure: I have sitting on my sewing tray an piece of embroider that has been in process since last Spring.)

As the knitting needles rest empty, I had to cast on a hat project for Cowgirl's stocking ...

And today I bought more wool for another holiday gift which I am conceding will be a New Year's gift.  (Along with another sewing project I have in mind. I mean, hey - the fabric is out from the basement and ready to be used!)

Even Cowgirl has gotten in on the crafty holiday spirit.

 

Happy elves are we.  Happy holidays to you all!  I'll see you when the weather thaws and the wool is gone.  xo

I totally blame these two women for my madness.
 

Life with windows open ...

We have had an incredible run of mild weather. For weeks we have been able to turn the air conditioning off at night and sleep with the windows open, waking in the morning deliciously chilled and refreshed.  I have fallen asleep to the sound of the neighborhood owl calling late into the night and have smelled the recent arrival of a skunk.  Birdsong is my snooze alarm (I am notorious for hitting the snooze 3 or 4 or 5 times before actually waking up!) along with the distant whirl of a lawn mower tending to the golf course grass.

(Did you not know we live off of a golf course? It would be more picturesque to say a wild wood abutted our property or even a farm or fields but alas, for wide open space I had to settle for the rattle and hum of golf carts.  Cowgirl is amassing a booty of stray balls that she plans to sell for our fortune and which,perhaps, will fund our retreat to wilder spaces.)

Life with open windows - that is how I think about my world these past few months.  Three months and a handful of days since I checked out of the daily grind that was my "normal" job.  But it was not normal to work in a space where the windows did not open.  There were times when I would press my hands against the glass, recalling William Styron's memoir on his depression, where he gives the vivid description of feeling like he was trapped in a room with the windows and doors sealed shut, and it is becoming increasingly hotter and hotter, and he would do anything to escape the sensation of being smothered. 

Now that I have windows that open (and close - symbolizing healthy boundary maintenance) I understand how my previous situation slowly eroded my confidence and sense of power and self worth. Having some distance and fresh air in my life, I am able to understand I am on a journey to reclaim what had drained away from me and more importantly, to appreciate that this process will take time and effort.

These past few months have been the best of times mixed with some low moments.  Not the worst of times, but challenging times.  While I anticipated clunky moments adapting to being at home, I was blissfully unprepared for the lapses in my confidence and the assault to my sense of trust and faith in things working out as long as I do my part.  I still believe that; but part of my real work is realigning myself -  my attitude and spirits - with what I choose to belief about life and meaning and purpose.

I would say this is how I practice magick on a daily basis.  Not casting spells with dried toad tongues or uttering incantations in Latin or Celtic; but regularly sitting still, giving space and time to acknowledge the voices of fear and doubt that swirl madly in my head and then to gently send them on their way as I usher back in what I believe to be true and possible within myself and my life. The magic is me showing up, every day to face my gremlins and to manifest my justice league of inner superheroes and heroines.  

The magic is acknowledging the gifts of abundance that come my way every day: 

conversations with neighbors when deeper secrets and joys are revealed; the box of cucumbers by the mailbox with a sign "for free"; the cool morning breeze kissing my skin as I water the tomato plant, heavy with fruit; the nighttime story book adventure about a girl and her dragon; my girl and her dragon egg incubating in the fairy mail box (it is due to hatch tonight on the full moon!); and this, my wondrous drying rack that I set out every day on my patio, in defiance of neighborhood covenants outlawing laundry lines.  

My small gesture of rebellion is also my five minute warm-up as I ease my way into slowing down and showing up. As one of my teachers explains: what I put on my altar is my life - that is my practice.  Inquiring deeply into the nature of things and through practice - through showing up - testing the accuracy of that view and adjusting it as my understanding and awareness evolve.  This moment, this being me, is all I have.  It is my north star and every day I make the conscious choice to follow it.

Join with me in an inquiry into the structures, support and challenges of practice.  Enjoy the support of community to experiment and experience The Gift of Practice.  I am offering a free counsel session when you sign up by August 24 as part of an early bird registration thank-you.

Accidents

I know ... there are no such things as accidents ... but perhaps it is more accurate to say accidents happen but the possibility for insight, learning, or growth is never accidental.

My yoga lineage, Kripalu yoga, is a heart and body based approach to accessing transformational wisdom. The starting point is to always come back to the body, which is to come back to the present moment.  From there, the mind and spirit will follow.  Grounded in the experiences of the body, of this moment, I am better able to access the deeper wisdom of heart and soul.

All of which is to say ... the teachings of Life are conveyed to me through barked shins, banged heads, funny bones triggered and a nail in the foot. (Because I am stubborn and require such broad gestures!)

 
That is how my week ended last week.  After the excitement of house guests - and the  exhaustion ... I am by nature a solitary creature and social encounters exact a huge toll upon my emotional and energetic reserves -  I was attempting to shift back into "business as usual."  Cowgirl had swim lessons, then zoo camp to attend; the house needed tidying in preparation for the Husband's return (which is another long story of mishaps, misadventures and travel torture); and the yard cried out for attention.  I actually weeded! 

Puttering about the garden, listening to the birds chatter, enjoying an unusually cool July morning, all the elements of an idyllic moment-of-being you would think, right?  As I sauntered around the side of the house to water my new geraniums (set upon the front porch for a splash of color - how domestic of me!), a searing pain in my foot halted my movement, but not my voice as I screamed out "Son of a ..."  (my go-to phrase it appears for any sudden and painful moments.)

I picked up my foot to discovered a nail embedded in the purple foam of my croc sandal, piercing the joint of my second toe.  Stunned, I pulled the nail out and continued on my way, hobbling to the front porch, watering the plants, then making my way inside the house, hopping through the first floor and up the stairs to my bathroom.  Sticking my aching foot under a stream of cold water, I sat straddling my bathtub and gave myself over to the full extent of the pain.

And then I cried.  Big, hot, sloppy tears that spilled over a very red, blotchy and now snot-streaked face.

At first, I cried because my foot hurt that much.  But then I cried because I was frustrated.  I had been trying to move forward, make progress, tend to my life in an active and energetic way and look where it landed me!  But then I cried because I was all alone and the immensity of my aloneness was overwhelming.

I had to wash out the wound and I realized there was something still embedded in the hole.  So I hopped into Cowgirl's room to retrieve the magnifying glass from her Dumpling Dynasty Explorer Kit ("Explore with JOY") and grabbing my tweezers I sat back down on the edge of the tub to attempt to extract whatever was lodged in my foot.  And I cried again, this time with the awareness that I was having to hurt myself - a lot! -  in order to care for my toe. 

I don't know if I need to say much more.  The wisdom of the moment felt pretty obvious to me: Life delivers a fair share of shock and pain and unexpected blood and those moments can feel like ruptures in the dream or story that we create about ourselves and our lives.  I act as if I can control my life and an accident reminds me that in truth my only choices are to flow with it (or roll with it as it felt that day) or resist which only shifts the suffering from my foot to my Self. 

If my practice has strengthened anything, it is my ability to slip into Witness consciousness.  As I gave myself fully to my tears and sadness, I was also able to witness myself in that moment.  I could see and remember the small child I once was, crying from fear of never fitting in, never finding her place, and the pain of feeling hurt, rejected and isolated.  My tears were a cleansing of those wounds.  Once spent, I recognized that I have continued to carry feelings that no longer describe the deeper truth about myself  that I know from living this life. I may feel alone - certainly I walk my path on my own and the real work of healing is mine alone to tend to  -  but the truth is I am never truly alone.  

That day's accident, the nail in my toe, punctured a hole in the illusions I've held onto so tightly. It is painful work to dismantle and examine delusions, fears, strong memories and emotions.  But it is necessary for true growth and understanding.  Frightened child, lonely woman, wounded toe all describe what I knew about myself in that instant, but those experiences, those labels, do not define me.  As I hobbled through the rest of my day, I understood that what limits me is not what happens to me, but what I choose to believe about myself and life.  A nail in the foot can shut me down but it can also be the opening into a greater freedom.  It is my choice. 

I hope to always choose joy and what better wisdom than Explore with Joy? But I will add: explore with Joy and a fair share of humor and patience for the random appearance of nails on the path, never forgetting to hold much compassion for the vulnerability and tears that will inevitably greet them.  

when surrender is the only option ...

I have no idea whether the Groundhog saw his shadow, but I am certain that should I be standing in full sunlight I would not cast one myself.  I'm not sure if I am living this or dreaming ... I have been in bed for a week and reality is  a rather tenuous thing at the moment.  Cowgirl has been by my side so either we're dreaming together or warped Doublemint twins with  hacking coughs, runny noses and insulated steins of Powerade moving to our lips in unison.  

(remember those ads?  I digress ... but I feel I need to explain: my father was an Ad Man ... yes, a Mad Man on Madison Avenue, NYC ... and my childhood was consumed by commercials and jingles.  We didn't watch t.v. shows, we watched the ads.  So lurking deep within this gray matter is a vast vault of 1960s and 70s catch phrases, songs and slogans. Oddly enough, Cowgirl seems to have inherited this trait and at an early age was recounting the wonders of Kaboom Cleaner products to our amazed and disbelieving ears.)

Four days of fevers and gut twisting coughs, cocooned in one family bed with tissues between us and an endless drone of the television with a few highlight moments of Wallace and Gromit movies and coloring book sessions.  Then back to Spongebob or cooking shows.  (Ask Cowgirl who she wants to win Chopped Champions or Top Chef  ... although she is more of an Iron Chef kind of gal.) 

Oddly enough, I could watch cooking shows even though I had absolutely no appetite for 7 days?

I will say, if you're going to be ill (we had some respiratory virus that is powering through our city like a ravenous swarm of locusts) it helps to have a buddy.  But as a mom, there is nothing harder than wanting to care for your cub and feeling so ill you can barely stagger over with bucket and washcloth (yes, one of those moments.)  I remembered the year I was 10 and my mother was in bed with a flu bug and she moaned that she was too ill to prepare Christmas dinner.  Our family did what I'm sure others would have  done in the same situation: stepped back, gasped in horror and disbelief, proclaiming "NO Christmas dinner?!"  Yes, my mother dragged herself from her sickbed, and in her pink quilted robe made the usual holiday feast and no, none of us felt the least bit of guilt or remorse for it.

Until now.  

I'm sorry mom.  I understand now how we played the worst card possible: the mommy guilt card. 

I think that karmic debt has been paid.  I think.  But in the worst moments - when my exhaustion and Cowgirl's fever seemed to never end, I turned to the only source of comfort I had left: my goddess in-box.

 It's something I've adapted from the writer Anne Lamott (she uses a God in-box).  When things seem overwhelming and are beyond my control, the only thing left for me to do is to surrender those worries and concerns to a force greater than myself.  I surrender myself and the messy, tangled yarn ball situation over to the more capable (and multiple)  hands of my goddesses.

I mean, if I'm calling for help, I want some fierce mama-love devouring-everything-in-her-way kind of help.  I write my pleas on a slip of paper and offer it into the box and to a force greater than thee and me. 

Then I breathe and settle back into the pillows, turning my attention to matters I can control: how many paper hearts does one need for a suitably festive Valentine's Day?

 

Cowgirl's fever broke and we both are emerging slowly slowly back into the world of the living, albeit one lacking the excitement and sparkle of kitchen stadium or the underwater charm of Bikini Bottom.  Wow ... I think I could eat a crabby patty about now. If only my goddess in-box could handle dinner orders. 

50 ❉

 

I'm not really sure what I've come here to say.  I find it fitting that I mark this milestone while Mother Nature makes her mark on the eastern half of our country.  I was born at the end of a historic event - the Cuban missile crisis  - which my mother has never mentioned when recounting my birth story. I need to ask her about this.  The 2004 Tsunami had a profound impact upon my commitment to become a mother and our decision to pursue adoption.  With so much uncertainty in the world, choosing life seemed to be the only course of action.  At that time, I had no idea my child was already born and waiting for me. 

I marked my 49th birthday with the conclusion of an intensive art project.  I have been wondering if that collection of guides and guardians was really gathered to prepare me for the coming year?  This birthday feels quieter.  Maybe because I've been so busy living life rather than contemplating it?  Much has happened in the past year but I am feeling like it is only the tip of the iceberg.  Yet it feels strange to consider the next 20 years - 50 to 70 - may be the most important years yet.

This is what is on my mind: at 50 I have outlived my maternal grandmother.  The stories I have inherited have come into fuller view and I am aware of standing on this edge between that past and a new future.  I am aware I have the choice to reframe those stories, reexamine and understand them within a larger context within which my individual life is just one, small part. Doing so, I see that while it obviously feels personal, it is not personal.  Wounding, scarring occurred but I wasn't so much targeted as I was caught up in a flow of beliefs, attitudes, unexamined reactions that impacted generations of us.  

But now I believe I am in a place where the light of understanding affords me - and all of us - the opportunity to recreate the values and systems I want to contribute to and live within.  I envision a world rooted in Kindness and I understand that it begins with myself and then ripples out to those around me.  

I see so many strands coming together - old and new myths, archetypal histories, karmic connections, new tribes actively seeking to contribute to positive and mindful change - all of which is healing wounds and strengthening new stories of hope and reverence and respect.  I see the woundings of my grandmothers and great grandmothers and ancestors before them and I know my daughter and I are in a position to break that cycle.  I'm not completely sure how.  I just feel it in my heart and in my soul.  I know we each carry an essential piece to this puzzle and it is our sacred duty to contribute our share.

 

I hope to be adding to this new story in the coming weeks, months and years. I know each voice, every new perspective, strengthens and supports me in sharing mine.  I feel the energy and inspiration of my daughter guiding me and I pray the bravery and fearlessness with which I embrace this future will nourish and support her in continuing down the path that seems to be rising up to greet us.  I believe it is strewn with roses and hope. I trust in it and in us.

remember?

I seem to find myself drawn to revisiting the past as the school year draws to a close and summer plans begin to take shape.  As I shift through possible fun projects for more spacious days, this memory presented itself in response to this interview with Maya Donenfeld whose Story Scarves class I will be attending this coming fall at Squam.

still having lots of fun painting these colorful girls from Paint Your Story

Remember when adulthood hovered

an exciting castle in the air of our expectations?

I imagined it to be a magical transformation into something fuller,

more complete and self-contained

When I was a teen the rite of passage was a hippy denim skirt.

I took a pair of old levi’s

and painstakingly ripped out the inseams

each stitch another childhood worry released

and my teenage self liberated one golden thread at a time

from who I had been

who I no longer could bear to be

Harder though

was the reshaping something new

from stiff and worn denim,

floral print fabric used to fill in the gaps

pushing needle through dense layers - miles of hand sewing!

A thimble used when fingertips became sore

It was an act of determination to complete the thing

I remember the toll

but also the thrill

skinny girl legs stepping into maidenhood

adorned with Love’s lemon fresh

Bonnie Bell lips

Covergirl and

Dr.Scholl’s

New armor and allies

And I remember the surprise -

a floor length denim skirt being very heavy,

cumbersome

and hot to wear

I may had shed some childhood fears,

but I was unprepared for the weight of new ones

Still, I wore that skirt triumphantly,

my badge of adulthood

independence declared one painful stitch at a time.

 

 Happy summer dreaming. It's almost here ...