Sinking into Passion

In remarks after the movie last night, "The Monuments Men" author Robert Edsel said that the day he had arrived at the National Archives to begin his research in the morning, he had become so absorbed in the fascinating material that he was shocked when someone tapped on his shoulder.  It was one of the archivists, saying to him that the Archives was about to close.  "On Thursday we close at 9 p.m.," she said to him. He hadn't moved from the table since his arrival.

"Wow!" I thought.  How cool to be so absorbed with something that he totally lost himself for a day.  I was envious.  Then, I almost laughed out loud when I thought that was exactly what happened each time I've written a book.  The realization was like sinking into a hot bubble bath, wrapping me with warmth and reverie.

This is another weekend that I have set aside to work on my new book.  When I finally got in the groove the last time, words did flow easily, and I worked for five or six hours each day before tiring.  But, it wasn't that intense flow when I lose track of everything, and like Edsel, I forget all biological needs. 

Today was my normal day off, and it has been almost a month since I had time to tend to basic housekeeping needs.  I cleaned, changed the bed, did laundry, paid bills, and even filed my taxes.  (There's money coming back! Yeah!)  Was I avoiding?  I didn't really think so.  I could hardly see my small desk, and I didn't think it would be conducive to writing to try to create amidst such clutter.  I reminded myself that when I've worked on a book before, the "nesting phase" has been an important, maybe even an essential step.  So, I've had mercy on myself, even if this is avoidance behavior.

Before I go to bed tonight, my desk will be cleared, and my work space will be clean. The laundry is already folded, and the ironing put away. I am imagining myself getting up, stretching, making coffee while the computer boots, and sitting down to work with my special Peruvian good luck scarf, wrapped on top of my pajamas.  (Thank you, Deb!) 

I have a good feeling about this.  By the time Monday evening arrives, I will have had the experience for which I had envied Edsel--sinking deeply into my passion and totally absorbed in writing.  I've been there before: there's a kind of drunkenness without alcohol as I reenter the normal world from a place that is moving much faster and with its own rhythm.  Perhaps a bit like Dorothy landing in Oz.  Actually, that's exactly what it is like: "Where am I?" I'll ask while the room will spin about me.

Sinking into passion...into timelessness...has only happened for me when I write and when I dance, but is the most delicious space into which I tread.  It is truly sacred space, and each time I go there I am truly grateful for the privilege.

For The Love of Art

I've just had the opportunity of watching an early screening of "The Monuments Men." (Official release February 7.) I had vaguely been aware of the events portrayed in the film:, it is a story that deserves to be told and retold. The movie relates the story of a small handful of artists and architects who took on the mission of saving millions of pieces of art from theft and destruction in Europe in World War II.

These men were all at least middle age or older and could easily have sat out the war in the States, but instead, risked, and in some cases lost, their lives so generations hence could be moved just as they had been by seeing these magnificent pieces as boys and young men.

I was touched by both their courage and their vision. Seeing these beautiful pieces in the movie set me into something of a reverie, thinking about masterpieces that I've been privileged to see when I've travelled and how deeply I've been moved. Art is one of the few ways that one human being has of touching the soul of a perfect stranger, perhaps halfway around the world.

I don't have any Renoirs or Rembrandts. I do love buying art, often from street artists, and filling my home with these deeply personal gifts from someone else's soul. In the days after my business failed, I slowly began selling off anything that would produce cash; my art was the last to go. I count myself fortunate that my favorite pieces didn't sell. Since I've rebuilt my "collection," if one can fairly call mostly-street art "a collection."

I've been known to sit and just stare at a favorite piece for a significant period of time, just because it makes me feel good. And, whenever I move, I never consider the new address home until all the artwork is in place.

I am grateful for the Monuments men for their courage and vision... And for giving me the opportunity to see those special pieces. I am also grateful for my "collection," which is of little financial value, but regularly moves my soul, as if the contributions of my street artists were the Mona Lisa.


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One in Four

I've mentioned my passion for cooking previously, and in the post-holiday focus on shedding pounds, I've been trying new recipes--low calorie ones.  The fact that they are low calorie doesn't really seem to be relevant to my discovery though.  I find that when I am trying new recipes about one in four is really great.  One in four is OK. It will become great with some alteration.  At least, two in four are busts.  I can alter that ratio slightly by being more discriminating about the source of my recipes, but not significantly.  One in four seems to be about the ratio for success.

Tonight I tried one in the "bust" category.  I did finish one serving. It provided sustenance, but while it didn't gag me, it certainly didn't excite my taste buds either. When I had eaten, the first thing I did was throw the recipe away. No amount of doctoring would fix this one.  I started to wrap up the leftovers, as I would generally do, feeling duty-bound not to waste food.  But just as the foil was going over the edge of the full casserole, I thought: why would I want to do that to myself?....again!  I did something I have almost never done: I threw away perfectly good food, and I didn't even feel bad about it. 

Trying the recipe had one positive benefit.  I came home tired, and I've been fighting a cold. If I hadn't gone into the kitchen and launched into the new adventure, I would probably have been in bed an hour ago.  By the time I was done cooking, I actually felt pretty good.  Whether it was edible or not, doing something I enjoy gave me energy, and that can't be bad.

However, what I have been pondering since throwing away the experiment is this.  What if I approached life with the expectation that one in four new things I try will be great, one in four will be OK, and two will be totally busts.  If I went into life with that expectation, then I could allow myself to fail half the time without regret and without beating myself up.  I certainly wouldn't call myself a failure because the law of experiments was prevailing. 

I am certain that I would approach new projects with more energy, and more than likely, as happened tonight, I would get more energy out of doing them.  I may even begin to see the "busts" as paving the way to success.  I just have to get two busts out of the way before I am in the winning zone.  I may even start celebrating the failures.    It is said that Thomas Edison, the inventor of the electric light bulb, actually failed over 900 times before he had what most of us would consider a success.  He, by contrast, considered every one of the 900 attempts a success because he had discovered one thing that would not work.

Adventure and creativity are high values for me.  Yet when I think about this new approach to adventure and creativity, I haven't been approaching life as I would if I really valued the process of adventure and creativity.

Almost every time I conduct a retreat, my designs are original, crafted to meet the special needs of the leadership or work team for which I am facilitating.  Although I don't think my "bust" rate is 50%, I find that many are OK--they move the group in question, and it is able to work together more effectively.  I am not sure I've had any real busts for a couple of decades.  But about one in four is pure magic. 

Tomorrow I will facilitate, and I have a very good feeling about this.  And, if magic doesn't happen, I will know that I am building momentum to magic, just following the law of experiments.  Just knowing that will be magic...for me and my sense of adventure.

Trusting What I Know

At sometime or another, most of us have had a deep knowing about something--something we knew or something we should do--that was counter-rational.  Everything was telling us that logically what we know in our hearts is wrong, but in our guts, we know we are right.  Most times, if not all the time, days, weeks, or months later, what we knew is proven correct.

This weekend I had the occasion to talk with two people I haven't seen for a while, and each asked me about my work.  I told them about how I love my clients, and I do.  I told them how some of my projects are really interesting, and they are.  Then, I told them how I had to stay in my current employment for another year for financial reasons that are too complicated too attempt to explain here.

In my heart, I know I should go, but every bit of rationality tells me that I must wait a year.  So, I wait...in pain for time to pass that is like watching ice melt in winter.  In my heart, I know that I should leap, even if I don't know what I am leaping to.  In my heart, I know I am dying where I am.  What has me frozen in place?

After the dot.com bust, when I lost my business and everything with it, I yearned for a secure job, and that is what I have now. Finances were a major piece of that picture, but for me, just as important was the fact that I no longer felt I was making a contribution.  I had spent my whole career helping people in workplaces, and suddenly, I didn't have that opportunity.  Being of service in my work is a major motivator for me, and I had no one to serve.

Although as a young person, I had always wanted to be a teacher, when I started teaching university students how to be better future managers and leaders, I knew it wasn't a fit. Oh, it was probably more of a fit than teaching history or political science, which is what I thought I wanted to do when I first went to college, but I'd done work I loved and knew this just was exactly right for me. I'd spent my career working directly with managers and leaders with their current challenges.  I just never quite got as excited about teaching these same topics.  Yet, I was serving, and that motivated me.  Creating a different kind of class that students were excited about...that motivated me.

I've wrestled with this question for several months now:  why am I afraid to leap?  The quick and easy answer is always financial.  But, today, suddenly it occurred to me: what if I didn't find a way to serve? I believe that is more terrifying than being down to my last $300.  Now I will go to work tomorrow and each day, not for the financial benefit, but because I have the opportunity to work with a lot of fine people who let me serve them...and even appreciate my service. That is what keeps me where I am, and that I truly know in my heart.

Unbridled joy

I am not accustomed to being around children. Yesterday a visit with a friend allowed me some non-adult growth.

I watched a 15- month old who napped while her mother ran an errand. I had been reading when I heard something. What was it? Not a cry. I dashed to the door of her room where I waited. Giggling. I waited longer. Humming. Blowing bubbles. The sounds of a happy baby.

Because babies are such a mystery to me, I just listened for quite a while. When I finally opened the door, she broke into a big smile, which I, of course, returned.

For the remainder of our time together, she would occasionally break out into laughter or a big grin at the slightest provocation. I had to pause and wonder at what a delightful life I would live, if I just allowed myself the unprovoked and unbridled joy this baby had been experiencing...and this on a day when she had a cold.

There is an expression about "out of the mouths of babes," which points to the wisdom that can come from little ones. Wisdom comes to me today in this one's attitude. I will bring the intention to experience unbridled joy...for no reason...for just this weekend.

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I have a few passions in life, and one of them is flower gardening--very precisely flower gardening.  I have no interest in growing things to eat unless they happen to be flowering herbs that I can cook with (another passion,) and to give me a house plant is a death sentence to the poor plant.  But, flowers are a whole different thing for me. 

Why, you may ask, am I talking about growing flowers when the wind-chill temperature tonight is predicted to be zero?  Well, I ordered some hard-to-find shade plants on the internet.  That apparent set loose a frenzy of address-sharing, which has resulted in a treasure trove of gardening catalogs...every day.  Today's bounty was particularly generous.  I am not sure if it is a blessing or curse, but it always seems that the catalogs are most plentiful in the worst of winter to tease or entice me into thinking about spring.  I am going to take it as a blessing.

Since I live in an apartment, I have a limited amount of space, and I am probably already over-planted.  But just looking at the catalogs made me start thinking about the promise of spring. There are spring flowers lurking below the soil, waiting for the first warm breezes and longer days to pop their heads through the soil...right on my balcony...now.

Long before I began a conscious spiritual journey, and even longer before I began meditating, getting my fingers in the soil was my meditation.  When I was married, my husband used to say he could watch me go into a zone that was like watching tai-chi as soon as I got near my plants.  I am not sure what there is about flowers, but I know I am not alone in this zen-like experience of gardening.  It has been too long since I've had my fingers in the soil...and judging from the temperatures right now, it will be longer still.

There is a magic that happens as the first tender green pops through the soil in late February or early March.  The flowers wait patiently to break through the earth.  I wonder if I am not like those plants, I've been patiently waiting to grow to the next stage.  I've been saying this season's affirmations since mid-September, and waiting...waiting for the thoughts to become reality.  In the past, there was suddenly a day when I realized I wasn't just saying, "I am love," but I actually felt it in my bones.  Just like the plants waiting to break through the soil, I think my evolution is kindled in my heart ready to emerge anew.  I am ready.  I am ready to see the new me emerge, along with the first flowers of spring.

Baby, It's Cold Outside!

I confess to a passion for music of the Big Band era.  My mother had a huge collection of old 78 records that she played continuously when I was in utero, in the playpen, and throughout the time I was growing up. Big Band music was the soundtrack to my childhood.  Although we periodically argued about whose music was the best, the old stuff worked its way into my blood. ("There will never be anyone like Sinatra." She wins.  "The Beatles' music won't last five years." I win.)

As corny as it may seem, I think in lines to those old songs, and tonight I would be thinking, "Baby, it's cold outside."  Since the snow stopped yesterday, the wind has blown ferociously.  The wind-chills were at -6 degrees Fahrenheit (-22 Celsius) at high noon today.  Once again, I think about Alexander ("Expecting the Unexpected," 12/14/13,) and others like him who are homeless.  Baltimore, just north of Washington, has a "Code Blue," which means that it is cold enough that the homeless are being rounded up to keep them from freezing to death.

But tonight that isn't where I am going.  As I think about "Baby, It's Cold Outside," I just found myself going to contentment.  I thought about a fire roaring in a fireplace, a glass of wine, and curling up on the sofa with someone special.  In that moment, time stands still for the contented. 

Contentment seems not only increasingly rare in our culture, but an almost denigrated quality.  If we are contented, there is the implication that we don't have ambition or goals: we should be making something happen. I prefer to think that we can really be in joy--enjoy--what we have earned and what we are fortunate to have.  Perhaps contentment is the ultimate act of gratitude--appreciation of what has come our way.

So, tonight as the wind blows, I will sink into my contentment with my apartment which has good heat, an evening that I can just relax, and a long-awaited movie that has just arrived from Netflix. For now, I will just be...contented.

Hidden in Plain Sight

Snow blanketed the park behind my apartment today, and like magic, something appeared amidst the trees that I'd never seen before.  Four white rectangles appeared.  What an unusual thing--all those right angles among the flowing organic lines of the woods. I had known that somewhere out there were a few houses, which had been in the woods before it was a park, but usually the foliage has camouflaged them, or I thought it did.  The foliage has been gone for at least six weeks, though, and I hadn't noticed the houses.

Seeing the white rectangles really made me wonder: what else in my world is hidden in plain sight--just sitting there waiting for snow to fall on it, like a sign shouting "See me!"  What else might I see that I've been missing?  What if love or joy were observable?  I sense that they are all around us, but I haven't been able to see them. Or maybe I haven't allowed myself to see them.  What if the finer qualities of people we don't like so much were there like billboards so we couldn't miss them?  Or maybe those invisible creatures that support us, like angels encouraging us to grow. We could see them and how much they want us to succeed. 

What if all those things that have been hidden in plain sight were as apparent as the rooftops of houses in the park?  I sense that I would be able to trust more.  I chuckle even as I write it.  I could trust more if I could see all those things that I should trust are there anyway.  Is that trust?  If we can see things, they don't require trust. Trusting is believing what we can't see.

I am guessing, and it is only a guess, that if we really trust, we actually will see those things that might appear to be invisible...like magic, hidden in plain sight.

Unnatural Acts

My life is full of unnatural acts.  Some I've written of before, like going to bed at 10 p.m. so that I can get up at 5:20, both very unnatural for me. 

I've been in a writing frenzy over the last two days, and as I finished today, I observed something about my work flow.  Each of the last two days, I sat down to write when I was ready.  I didn't actually mark the time, but I know what time it was when I was eating not much before embarking on my writing journey.  Much of the time when I write I am so in the flow that I don't stop for anything--eating, drinking, or bathroom breaks.  We might say that for me, writing is a out-of-body-experience because I lose touch with my body.

The words have tumbled out of me both days, and I now approach 10,000 worlds.

Each time I've written books a similar pattern has occurred. When I am ready, I sit and write, and I lose touch with all else.  Each of the last two days, I've been finished after about five hours.  I use the word "finished" carefully, I am finished--there is no creativity left. One minute I was flowing and the next I'm done.  As I reflect on earlier writing adventures, I recall many of them ended at five or six hours.  Occasionally, I'd write for seven, and once when working on The Game Called Life, I was astounded to discover I'd been writing without break for 13 hours!  However long it is, I am always shocked when I look at a clock at how much time has passed.

It seems clear to me that when I am most productive is when I am in the flow...and, then there is nothing.  Afterward, I renew myself. Yesterday I took a nap and watched a movie before going dancing--things that restore me.  Today, I grabbed a few minutes of a near-60-degree day for a walk and then spent some time playing in the kitchen--a totally different kind of creativity for me.

The unnatural part is what I would be doing if this were a regular work day.  No matter how productive I might have been in five hours, I would still be expected to be at work for another four to four-and-a-half hours.  I would find useful things to do, but not things that require creativity.  So almost every day, I force myself through a few hours at the office that are suboptimal.  This is very unnatural. I am exhausted by the artificiality of the activity. In my normal flow, I would do something that would restore me after spending my creativity.  That is not how our modern workplaces work.

Sadly so, since "A recent IBM poll of 1,500 CEOs identified creativity as the No. 1 "leadership competency" of the future."* We could and should be doing more to make our workplaces creativity friendly.

I notice something else about the last two days.  Even though I've produced a lot and am spent creatively, I have energy for life at the end of the day.  Most days I return from the office so tired that I can hardly make dinner, lunch for the next day and coffee for the next morning before nearly collapsing of exhaustion.  Following my natural creative cycle gives me energy instead of stealing it from me. 

A colleague of mine says we shouldn't raise problems unless we have a solution.  I wish I had an answer, but I do believe it is important to raise questions even if, and perhaps because, we have no answers. 

*Please note: If you read this posting a bit earlier, I mistakenly reported on lagging creativity scores, implying that they were lagging among the general population in the US.  I should have clarified that sagging scores are among children.  Upon discovering my misstatement, I have removed the error and replaced it.

Hopefulness

As the sun goes down today, I notice that the days have become visibly longer now that we are a month since the winter solstice.  Each year at about this time, I make the same observation, which is inevitably followed by a sense of hopefulness as more light comes into each day.  In a few more weeks, I will be able to leave my workplace in the daylight instead of the darkness.  A few more weeks after that I will be able to walk in the daylight after I get home. Hope...the hope that will get me through the long days of winter.

I now stand on the precipice of diving into writing a new book.  To do so implies hope: why else would I start?  If I put in the time, creativity, perseverance, determination, focus, and patience, I have hope that a book, which will touch the hearts of thousands, will be born.  While the hope for longer days requires nothing of me except the passage of time,  I know the hope that births books is at least as much sweat and work as it is trusting something good will result.

Leading from the Heart demanded over four year of writing, rewriting, taking feedback from friends who read it,  rewriting, writing, editing, tearing it apart and putting it together differently...and that was before the real work began.  Months, then years, of attempting to find an agent and/or a publisher were followed by more rewriting and editing. Then, one day a miracle happened: the book lay in my hands with my name on the cover.

I walked into a Barnes and Noble near my home in North Carolina, and by the front door stood 100 books, quickly flying out the door.  The store called and reported that they'd sold out of the book before a book signing the next day. A Book-of-the-Month Club alternate selection.  Letters followed from people who had been touched by the book.  Executives wanted me to coach them so they could lead from the heart. Keynote addresses offered the opportunity to reach audiences that may not have found the book otherwise. As recently at 2011, I met a woman in Washington, who recognized my name and related that she and her co-workers had been inspired by my words a decade earlier. My hope, and all the determination that went with it, was well placed.

With Choice Point...not so much.  I still feel it is my most important writing, but 16 years after I "finished" it, the manuscript still sits in my computer, now badly dated.  I haven't given up hope, but I have to admit that hope for Choice Point  has been tarnished by time.

Standing ready to surrender myself one more time to the hope that my words will touch and inspire the hearts of my readers, I wish for the hope that just requires the passing of time, but I know one more time that I am committing months or years of sweat and determination in support of hope.  Perseverance and determination in service of hope is required many places in life, from buying the first home to a well-funded retirement, rearing children who become responsible adults, and especially a lasting relationship.  The shining light of hope demands the grittiness of thousands of acts of intention along the way before, like a miracle one day, hope lays realized in our hands.

Finding Kay

This is the second weekend this year that I've designated for working on my memoir.    At a writer's conference I once heard a woman, who is a much more financially successful author than I am, say that when she was starting to write a book that she had to clean the oven.  I've been restless today.  It happens every time I write a book.  Because I write from my heart and of the heart, I have to really be aligned with who I am: I have to find Kay.

Finding oneself may simultaneously be the easiest and most difficult things any of us ever does.  I find it particularly challenging in my current life because so much of what I need to do to survive is very unnatural to me. (Get up at 5 a.m.)  Clearly, what I do to survive are the very things that get in the way of me thriving. But surviving is important.  With our wind-chill of 20 degrees today, I am glad that I've done some of those unnatural things to have a warm place to live and food in my belly.

But before I can write, I have to get back to that place of thriving.  For me, that means listening to my natural rhythms and doing the things for which I have passion.  I go to sleep when I am tired...usually very late.  I sleep until I wake...almost always later than most mature adults would think acceptable. I do what I my inner knowing directs.  Today that meant a lingering bath and facial, followed by enjoying our beautiful sunny day with a brisk walk into Cleveland Park to the post office.  I love to cook (and fortunately I also love to be active,) and I listened to Splendid Table while making sun-dried tomato jam to accompany a risotto dish I will make for one of my adopted families next weekend. I felt like capturing these thoughts for the blog. Now, I am feeling like a nap.

What I notice about those days during which I listen to my natural rhythms is that I give much more attention to what is working in my life and that leads to much more appreciation for what I have.  I noticed how much I am grateful that I can go for a brisk walk and how I appreciate being a 15- to 20-minute walk from most places I need to go, so I don't have to depend on a car. After too much time this week in offices and at computers, I loved moving.

I was pleased that I could go to the grocery store and purchase the ingredients for things I wanted to cook. Then, I delighted in using my kitchen, which was renovated in the last year and is full of things that remind me of time over food in Italy.  From time to time, I have gazed out my living room window and felt satisfaction as I looked over the leafless trees in the park silhouetted against the cobalt-blue sky.

I've breathed more deeply and exhaled more regularly.  I notice my body and how comfortable I am in it (although I would love to shed 6 more of my holiday pounds.)  Unlike much of the time when I feel like I couldn't satisfy all the things others expect of me, today I am perfect in who I am:  I don't need to be more or less.  I just am.

Whenever I find Kay, I frequently have passing thoughts about how I lose her...again and again.  Today I had the same question, but today it doesn't really matter.  Today I found Kay, and her muse will inevitably follow.

Breathe

My day was a long one, beginning before 5 a.m., and I worked 11 hours with a 10-minute working lunch.  I was facilitating, and usually that leaves me wiped out.  Not tonight.  I did stop on my way home to purchase some of my favorite local roast coffee, to which I am seriously addicted, and I am sure that the extra walk was good for me. 

When I sat to write this post, nothing came.  I am rarely at a loss for words, but I seem to be tonight.  I sat and tuned in.  I asked for inspiration, as I usually do; nothing came.  What came on each breath was the word, "Breathe." So I did.  For 20 minutes.  I can tell you that I feel full, satisfied, and relaxed....and without words! 

I will bid you "Godspeed!" and wish for you fullness, satisfaction, and relaxation.

The Grounded Outlet

You will recall that I've been working a set of affirmations since mid-September.  Among them:

-I am love.

-We are all love.

I say them as I go to sleep.  I say them when I wake. I even say them, like counting sheep, in the middle of the night when I am having difficulty going back to sleep. I say them when I am out walking.  Most predictably, I say them when I am walking to the Metro Station and while I wait for my train in the morning .  Mine is a fairly busy station at 7 a.m., and as I silently say those affirmations, I often look from face to face, remembering that each is love. I often "send love" in their direction.

For some reason today, I had a recollection from at least 15 years ago.  An outlet in my bathroom wasn't working, so I called an electrician.  He said there was nothing wrong with it.  Then he explained that my problem was with what, I believe, he called the grounded outlet.  Apparently, there is one outlet in a house that controls all the others.  If that one doesn't work, then none of them do.  The grounded outlet is what controls whether electricity will flow to the others.  My grounded outlet was on the front porch.

Because I lived in a town home at the time, the outside outlet was property of the homeowners association, and they had to get someone else to fix it.  Sure enough, as soon as the grounded outlet was fixed, electricity flowed to the rest of the house.

This electrical adventure occurred when I was writing Choice Point, and everything seemed to feed my understanding of how the world works. It occurred to me that each of us could become something like the ground outlet, except instead of controlling the flow of electricity we control the flow of love.  I can control the flow of love.

Amidst trains coming and going and a steady stream of waiting passengers arriving in the station, I had that thought again...and then continued to play with the thought when I got on the train and looked around the crowded car.  I can control the flow of love.  The first thought I had was of me flowing love outward to others, but in truth, I suspect that it works the other way.  If I become open and vulnerable, I can let love flow into me.  It can't flow out until I first receive it. I am the one who determines whether love flows through me or stops at my margins.

The "V" word...again.  Vulnerable.  What courage it takes to receive love--to lay myself open to receive.  Yet the ability to connect all of humankind through a ribbon of love hangs in the balance.  I am not sure that I have ever allowed myself to be that vulnerable....ever...certainly not since I was an infant.  To just allow the love of another human  being (or many human beings) to wash over me and for me to just lie there defenseless and take it--take in all the love flowing toward me.  It may be everywhere, and I haven't been able to see it.

That's a picture being turned upside down.  The flow of love toward me isn't dependent on what others send but on what I am willing to receive.  That may be what life is about: what am I willing to receive?  Gifts? Joy? Love? Help? All the things that fill us up, and I can control whether I get them, just by being willing to receive.

Dream a LIttle Dream...

A standard of the American songbook is the 1931 "Dream a Little Dream of Me."  I've had an earworm of the song for months. Not the whole song: just the part "Dream a little dream of me."  I didn't even own a recording so I went to iTunes and downloaded one to listen to the whole song.  It's a nice song: very danceable, which is an important song criteria for me. 

Usually I find that when there is a song that plays like that in my mind, there's usually a message. So, who am I supposed to be dreaming about?  Finally this morning as I was getting out of bed with the song playing in my mind...again, it suddenly hit me that the "me" that I am supposed to be dreaming about is me--moi!  I don't think it is "about" me, but probably "for" me.  Dream a dream for me.


For decades, I was sure that I didn't dream. For much of my life, I hardly ever remembered a dream. When I was in graduate school, though, I took a creativity class and developed a system for remembering dreams; then I couldn't turn them off. After that, I had vivid dreams every night, and I remembered them in great detail.  Often I would write down four, five, or even six, taking pages in my dream journal to capture them.

In recent years, I've mostly been back in the don't-remember-the-dreams zone again.  Oh, occasionally, I will remember and job down some word.  If I do that, most of the time, I am amazed at how much I remember even at the end of the work day when I come home. What is different this time is that I know dream remembrance can be like turning a tap on and off.  If I follow certain steps, 90% of the time, I remember the dreams.  Over the years when I guided leaders in Intentional Living Intensives, I was able to get most of them remembering and learning from dreams within a day or two.

The process is no great mystery.  I lay a pad on my night stand before going to sleep, and as I do so, I express the intention, "I am going to have a dream tonight that I will remember.  If I need to, I will awaken only long enough to jot down a few key words that will help me recall the dream in the morning."  When I've turned lights off and am about to drift off to sleep again, I say the same thing to myself again.  Then, I forget about it and go to sleep.

The second part is my current challenge: wake up naturally.  The jolt of an alarm clock acts as an instant eraser for me. Even the crickets on my iPhone have the same effect. If I use a clock radio, then my mind instantly goes to what is on the radio, which also disappears the dream.  When I awaken naturally, just as I begin to come to awareness, but I'm not fully awake, if I grab my pad and start writing, the words spill out of my subconscious.  All I have to do is occasionally write the words, "What was next?" and more is there. 

If I need the words I wrote in the middle of the night, usually in the dark, I look at them just as I am coming to awareness, and the dream memories start flowing.

The last part is to just write whatever comes out without judgment or trying to make sense of it until nothing else comes.  Then I journal what I think it means.  Many think that our brains are in "soul school" at night, and we are working out spiritual lessons.  Others say that the right brain, which has a much greater capacity for taking in information during the day than can be processed, uses our sleep/dream time to make sense of data it has been collecting all day.  I don't know the answer: I just know that when I capture my dreams and use them to learn, extraordinary knowing comes from them.  Huge challenges are solved instantly.  My creativity flows.

But, I haven't figured out how to make the system work with my work schedule.  I have to get up at 5:20 most days.  Friday it will be 4:45, and that is a.m.  There is no way I wake up naturally at that time.  Even if I did, I get up at that ungodly hour because that is the time it takes for me to get ready for work.  I don't have 30-45 minutes to write my dreams and still get to work on time.  Getting up at 5:20 seems like such an unnatural act that I am sure I couldn't get up earlier more than the occasional time when I absolutely have to get up to be at a retreat site to set up.  Conundrum. 

Something quite remarkable is stirring in my dreams these days.  Since I started writing on my new book, I have the sense when I awaken that I have dreamed.  I don't remember yet, but I just know I had a dream.  I take that to be a good sign.  I think that is what the song is trying to tell me.  I need to get a new system so that I will remember the dreams or can pick them up later.  That is a dream for me.  If I post and shutdown right now, I might get an extra 20 minutes of sleep, dream time, and maybe even awaken early enough to dream a little dream for me.

**NOTE NEXT DAY: it work!!  I had a dream, jotted down some words in the middle of the night, they reminded me in the morning and I wrote half a page about the dream.  I haven't figured the dream out...yet...but it is intriguing.

Doubt

On Sunday (1/12/14,) I wrote that our assistant rector had said that we find God by being vulnerable.  Sunday afternoon I was reading a book in which the author twice dropped the line, "Doubt is how you find God." Unless I missed something, it really never went anywhere directly, but the line really piqued my interest. In one day, more than one way to find God. Or, is it really the same?

Doubt implies that we don't know, at least not for sure. Maybe we think we know, but we don't trust what we know.  This whole thing about listening to guidance: how can we know; I mean, really...for sure?  Is what we think we are getting real, or isn't it?  Most often when I ask for guidance, I say, "Give me a sign--a real clear sign that even I can get." My silent prayer is to make it so definite that there will be no confusion.

For years, my guidance came strong and clear...and often almost immediately.  In recent years, not so much.  What I get is muddled, or I get contradictory guidance, and I don't know which is true.  In truth, I don't think the guidance was any more clear before: I think that I had less mind chatter.  Less to muffle the messages. 

Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor, author of A Stroke of Insight, is a Harvard-trained MD, who studied brains.  At 37, she had a massive stroke that disabled the left side of her brain for weeks.  She couldn't talk, and the mind chatter stopped.  When she was forced to live in her right brain (some might say she was in her right mind,) she says she experienced complete and utter peace.  She was aware of people and events around her, only no matter what happened she was peaceful. 

I believe that no mind chatter = no doubt.  If we can still the mind, the messages come strong and clear.  In that place of peace, we are probably more vulnerable than anywhere else, and at the same time we know we are completely safe. I have never had a time when I clearly followed guidance that things didn't work out. They didn't always work out the way I would have liked or a way that was easy, but they worked. 

Back in the day when the messages came strong and clear, I didn't question; I just followed.  I didn't allow doubt: I allowed God.  Oh, if my left brain became engaged, usually through questioning of some other person, doubt would bubble up...and quickly.  I would find my vulnerability almost instantly in the doubt.  In truth, I think that was when I really became vulnerable, but I just couldn't see that the second-guessing was what created the vulnerability.

The image that comes to me is of an egg in boiling water.  I think that the doubt and vulnerability are like the boiling water that keep things stirred up. Yet the moment the water is pulled away from the heat source, and the boiling stops, the egg drops to the bottom of the pan instantly. All is still. The egg lies there in the quiet water, easy to see and touch.  As long as our mind chatter keeps things boiling, we can't pay much attention to God.  When we still, it is like the water calming. It is almost as if God is in the middle of the doubt and vulnerability, and all we have to do to find it is calm to know.

Science has taught us that what is real is what we can touch, feel, see, or hear. Yet, most religions have some concept of God as mystery--that which cannot be known.  For most of us, we feel most vulnerable when we don't know.  Caught in the conundrum between what we have learned academically and what we know in our hearts, doubt boils around God.  The mystery brings doubt and vulnerability...and peace and clear guidance.  It is all in the same pot.  Which will get my attention?  I am confident that when I can still the doubt and be comfortable with the vulnerability, I will find God.  And when I do, I will find the complete and utter peace that Dr. Taylor found. There I will find the answers.

Risking Greatness

In my book The Game Called Life, spiritual guide/guardian angel Helen explains to Lizzie, the person she is helping, the steps to "living a prayer in the real world."  The "real" world is the spiritual world, as opposed to the "fictional" world, which is the one in which most of us think we exist.  Step Six is "risk greatness." 

She says: "I am not speaking of greatness in fictional world terms where people reach a high level in their worldly work or make a lot of money. Greatness in the real world means speeding the evolution of humankind." Later she explains why "greatness" is a risk.

"Greatness itself isn't the risk.  The risk lies in the willingness to consistently answer a call that usually cannot be understood.  The path to greatness requires players to do things that they may never have been done before or at least to do them in unconventional ways."

In recent days there seems to be a magic that as soon as I publish one blogpost, a related idea pops into my head which builds on that post.  After yesterday's post on vulnerability, I realized that what I'd really been writing about was risking greatness.  Am I willing to be personally vulnerable in order to evolve humankind? 

I've crossed that bridge before.  Leading from the Heart and The Alchemy of Fear were not exactly conventional business books. I knew at the time I wrote them that I was exposing myself to criticism from traditional management audiences, as well as more conventionally religious readers. I couldn't prove what I was about to write.  I had no data (and still don't) that leading and working from our spiritual cores and making the increase of love be our motivation would help organizations, but I'd seen it. I knew what I knew.  I could evolve the way we work.  So, I wrote, and many people read.  Both books received some official recognition, but in serving the spirit world, I did marginalize myself for a long time in the management consulting world.  It was as if that community thought that my left brain evaporated, as I wrote what the right brain told me.

Then came The Game Called Life which explained "how the world worked" in a somewhat unconventional way. Life is a game, but most of us just don't know the rules. The Game and Choice Point, which hasn't seen the light of day beyond a small circle of friends who have been deeply moved by it, not only flew in the face of many conventional religious beliefs but also are contrary to many popular "New Age" teachings. I couldn't prove it, but I knew what I knew, so I wrote. 

I've stood in front of audiences and shared deeply personal parts of myself because I thought that doing so would help others sustain their own spiritual journeys. 

Although I am not sure that anyone would say that I achieved greatness in the normal world (what Helen would call the "fictional" world) context, I still hear from people who were empowered for their own journeys by the words that have moved through me.  While it was a risk to take on these major constituencies, my spiritual center told me that it was my work to do.

Have I been vulnerable? Of course.  Would I do one thing differently? Never.  If vulnerability is how we find God then each of those writing experiences have been other worldly.  I have surrendered to the words that wanted to move through me.  I have learned for the first time as I read what was on the screen in front of me. To surrender so completely is by definition risking and vulnerable.  And, only twice have I felt closer to God than when I am writing.

I stand at the precipice of vulnerability, ready to jump,...again.  I am ready to risk greatness in the hope that I can have the teensiest role in evolving human kind.

Choosing Vulnerability

Today was our last Sunday with  Michael Angell as Assistant Rector at our church.  (Cool name for a man of God, wouldn't you say?) Michael has been very special in my personal spiritual development, and I will miss him terribly.  Although he is just a man in his twenties, he has the wisdom of an old soul.  His sermons have often touched me profoundly, sending me home to meditate on a thought or phrase.  So, it seems appropriate that his last sermon as Assistant Rector should have sent me pondering deeply.

Although his overall message was something different, as he often does, Michael buried a provoking thought in his homily.  "We don't find God from being perfect," he said.  "We find God by being vulnerable."  Vulnerability.  Much of what our popular culture teaches us about life is how to keep ourselves from being vulnerable--how we can protect ourselves from every possible thing that might make us helpless physically, emotionally, spiritually, and financially. "How do we armor ourselves from being hurt?" is shouted to us almost from birth.

I wrote a book on transforming fear, yet I find myself imprisoned by fear of vulnerability.  Yesterday, I told me friend that until recent years I'd never made a decision, based on money.  Yet, I continued, facing retirement was few assets and a long life expectancy, I have been increasingly paralyzed from doing what I know is right in my heart for fear of financial vulnerability.

My heart has been seriously broken several times, and this month it will be 20 years that I have been grieving the end of my marriage.  I say I would really like to have someone else in my life.  But would I?  Would I be willing to be vulnerable to the potential pain, in exchange for the gifts that come with love? Even if I would allow myself to be so emotionally vulnerable, would I even know how?  I am not sure after so many years of guarding my heart that I would know how.

Over the last year, I've slowly been losing the short-range functionality of my right eye.  For all intents and purposes, it is now gone.  There is a surgery that could restore my vision. The success rate is 99%, but if the surgery is not successful, I will lose my vision in that eye.  I am skittish.  Really!? I've lost functionality. Could losing my sight in that eye be so much worse? And, of course, the surgeons are really frightened of being legally vulnerable if I lose my sight.  It is like we are pulling each other back in the face of all reason.

So, if we find God in vulnerability, I have more than enough opportunity to have a really first-rate encounter with the divine.  What is the problem here, Kay? 

Two days before I withdrew from the world to begin writing Leading from the Heart was my birthday.  I had a party with all my closest friends to wrap myself in their love as I went into a truly vulnerable spot--allowing God to use me to share a message with the world.  I didn't know if I'd be successful, or how it would work, but I had to try.  At that party, my niece gave me a birthday card that said, "If we are forced to leap off a cliff, either a bridge will appear or we will learn to fly." 

I think this may be how vulnerability works.  If I am willing to leap off the vulnerability cliff, either God will catch me or I will learn to fly.  Neither of those seems like such a bad option. As I stand at the precipice of vulnerability, I feel myself wrapped in the love of friends and angels cheering me and ready to meet God in the vulnerability. And, so I send Michael off on his own spiritual adventure, knowing that his parting gift to me has been my wings of vulnerability.

Squandering Love

On Thursday, I received an email from a friend who knew I was working on a memoir.  She shared a number of observations, concluding with the question, "You have had so many losses, transitions, upheavals, how did you (and how can we) work through the fear/anxiety?"  My immediate reaction was "I have no idea."  I just had to.

It was only after writing yesterday's post about being the best we can be that it hit me: my resilience comes from living with the intention to never cease to be the best I can be.  I don't always get there; in fact, I am not sure it is possible to get "there" because wherever we get, there is always the possibility to be better.  In all things.

There are some things that I've been better at persisting to be better than others.  All things considered, I've been good about how I eat and how I take care of my physical body.  There are also things at which I have not been so good.  I have not been so good at love.

Today I was having a conversation with a dear friend, and in the middle of it, I began to cry.  Something we had been talking about just made me think, I've really squandered love.  That is the word that came to me: "squandered."  It isn't a word I use a lot.  I have a sense of its meaning, but I felt like I wanted to look it up to see precisely what it meant.  "To spend or use something precious in a wasteful and extravagant way."  Hmm...I needed to look it up.  That was exactly the word.  When it comes to love, I've been like the prodigal who was given everything and wasted it.

A few days ago I wrote about the importance of telling people that I love that I do love them.  ("I Love You," 1/7/14.)  That is a communication and connection thing.  This is different.  To really be with love is to be truly present to it (that again!) and to consciously treat it as "precious."  Consciously.  To be in conscious awareness of love. 

I remember falling asleep, night after night for years, thinking what joy love was bringing me. But, somewhere along the way, I stopped appreciating what I had.  Appreciation is also an interesting word.  We use it to talk about financial investments that grow.  To really appreciate love requires investment--investment of self.

A few days a friend sent me an article written by a woman who had been single for many years before meeting her husband.  She appreciates him, and she understands how to let go of the petty stuff because it really isn't important.  She is treating the relationship as the precious thing it is.

Love is when we see the divine in ourselves and others.  We really recognize the wonder that is.  I regret having squandered such a precious thing as love.  I would like to think that just as the long-time single woman, I will not squander love in the future.  Yet, I am a work in progress.  All I can truly do is the never cease to be better at appreciating the love I have...when I have it.

Being the Best I Can Be

On the occasion of the release of a new biography about UCLA basketball coach John Wooden, who many believe to be the best American coach of any sport, NPR presented a piece about the legendary coach.  During the segment, a clip of an interview with Wooden before his death was played.  In it, the coach, who had himself been an All-American, described his father's teachings to him and his brothers.

"He always told us to never try to be better than someone else. Just be the best you can be--to never cease trying to be the best you can be."  Interestingly enough, Wooden took this advice about not trying to be better than someone else and turned it into 10 national championships.  Those around him said that the coach never even talked about winning, which would imply being better than others, but instead he always encouraged his players to focus on being the best they could be...to the finest detail.  Apparently, when each was being his best (it was men's basketball,) the winning took care of itself.

I've had many days, maybe even most days, in my career when I knew I'd been at my best.  I loved my work and was energized by it.  At the end of the day, I had more energy than I did at the beginning.  Sadly, it seems that more often than not in the last year or two, I've found myself doing work that was "OK."  Some clients really inspire me, and on those days, I do hit home runs. Right now, I am working with several delightful leaders. There are many days in between. 

What is the difference?  In Wooden's case, he truly wanted more than anything for each of his players to be their very best.  I can only imagine that if he had been ho-hum about encouraging them, that they would have produced mediocre teams with players who had unrealized star potential.

More often than not, I feel like the hierarchy above me feels duty-bound to make my life difficult.  Instead of helping me provide the very best for my clients, I often feel like I put on a straight jacket when I arrive at work.  What I do for my clients is in spite of my leadership and not because of it.  It exhausts me.

I have the excellence gene.  I want to give the very best.  I love making a positive impact on client groups.  I have star potential.  How do I be the very best I can be in an environment in which our leaders feel it their duty to make life difficult for me and my colleagues?  This is a question that I've pondered it a lot.

A few months ago I decided, like Wooden's father encouraged his sons, "...to never cease trying to be the best you can be."  It has been very clear to me that my job is how I earn money to pay the bills.  I achieve my potential and make a contribution in other ways.  That is my right and duty. 

I am not sure exactly how this plays out, but in September when I decided to begin writing daily posts to this blog, it felt like a reclaimed a small piece of my potential.  Last weekend when I began working on a new book, I salvaged another small piece.  This weekend I will write a proposal to present at a conference on innovation, the topic of my graduate research.  Yet one more piece recovered. When I get The Game Called Life out as an e-book, I will get back even more.

Wooden is said to have so focused on excellence that he even insisted that how the players put on their shoes was important to their being their best. Being my best can't be limited to my work: it is about how I live every bit of my life, even to the fine details.  When I win the battle with sugar, I am being the best I can be. When I exercise and meditate every day, I am trying to be the best I can be.    When I bring a level of attention to my intention to be the best I can be, I make it happen, just as Wooden led his teams to 10 national championships without ever talking about winning.

When a chick is about to be born from an egg, it must peck and peck to try to break through the shell and then struggle hard to make its way out into the world.  It is the very process of struggling to break through that strengthens the lungs of the chick so that it can sustain life out of the egg.  If a well-meaning person attempts to assist the process, making it easier, the chick will most likely die because it has not achieved the strength to survive. 

While I often come home worn out by the wars at work, and I often think I will never defeat my cravings for sugar, I wonder if these struggles to be the best I can be are not the very experiences that will make me strong enough to survive outside the confines of employment.  That gives me encouragement, but I have no way of knowing for sure...yet.  What I am certain about is that, like Wooden's father taught his kids, I can never cease trying to be the best I can be.

Showing Up

"Just write!"  For over 20 years I've had a file, named "Just write!" on whatever was my then-current computer. When I needed to write something--a chapter in a book, a newspaper column, or an article for my employer newsletter--and didn't feel inspired, I'd just open that file and start writing whatever came to my mind without any censorship.  Once I started writing, the words always started flowing, and by the time I'd finished, I usually had some really good material.  Of course, I usually had to heavily edit or even cut the beginning, but when I totally surrendered to my muse, magic happened.

Since I started writing this blog almost four months ago, I've almost never been at a loss for words.  Often times, I'll have a waking thought, hear a phrase that resonates with me, or even feel myself inspired by another topic after I've posted and turned off my computer at night.  I keep a list, and most of the time, when I just look at the list, something inspires me.  I like some of the topics on my current list, but none feel right for today.  When I listened, what I heard was "just write!"  This may be my inner knowing's equivalent of Woody Allen's "80 percent of life is just showing up."

What to say?  It's always been important for me to write just exactly what I hear.  Like, "what to say?" Then, more comes.  I am very tired.  It has been a very busy week, and the first in several weeks during which we've worked five days. A lot of potential clients decide that the start of the year is a good time to work with their teams, like a professional New Year's Resolution.  I still struggle with an eye that hasn't worked well for some time and seems to be even worse since September surgery. It is very tired tonight. This all feels like drivel to me. Why don't I just give it up tonight? Because "80 percent of life is just showing up," when I don't feel like it and don't have anything to say.

I will spare you any more drivel, but will leave with this thought: where in my life/where in your life is it time to just show up?  I am sure this relates to yesterday's listening.  Just listen to where it is time for you to show up...and then show up!

Listening

One of the hardest things that I've wrestled with is listening to my wisdom.  We have different kinds of wisdom. Spiritual wisdom, physical wisdom, emotional wisdom--all we really need is inside of us.  We just need to listen...and act on what we hear.

Over the years, I've been very good at listening sometimes.  When I was told to fly to North Carolina on October 19, 1993, I got up in the middle of the night and made reservations.  When I heard to build a house on a particular lot, I wrote a check for the deposit. Even totally giving up eating wheat was fairly short order. The big things have usually been the easiest for me for some reason.  As it works out, the rewards have been huge as well.

That I should avoid eating sugar, I struggle with even though I know that I feel better without it.  And, career management is really hard to let go of.  A few weeks ago my boss's boss told me to apply for a certain job.  It would have been a promotion, but I knew it wasn't right.  I spent 20 hours completing the application process, knowing that it was wrong.  Really!

I am not alone in this challenge.  I've had a coaching client who knew he should break up with his fiancé, but she was nice arm jewelry so he didn't.  I've had clients who knew but pretended to be confused, and others needed to know "Why?" or how it would work out. It took me two and a half years of hearing that I should move to Washington before I did it. (I love it here!) When we listen, that is all we need to know.  Listening is really where we step into our power.

Today, my body is telling me that it is very tired, and I should go to bed.  The time is the bedtime of a third grader.  Tonight I listen and go to bed very early.

I love you!

Back in November (11/28/13) I wrote a post "Living Each Day As If It Were The Last."  In that post I talked about being present to the richness of life every day so that we don't miss a thing.  I believe it is true that if we live with that level of attention, life would be heaven on earth.  Sadly, I think even the most conscious among us only scratch the surface of drinking in the whole experience.  I am pretty certain that if anyone gets really close, they get "called home"--their learning is complete.

Sometimes I miss things: no, all the time I miss things.  Maybe I should say that sometimes I am really present.  But, sometimes I miss a lot.  I seemed to have totally missed movies in the 80s and early 90s and TV for most of the 90s. There was other good stuff going on, but occasionally, I find that I am pop-culturally challenged.  I just discovered a 90s sitcom--"Mad About You"-- that I have been binge-watching.  I am pretty sappy about love, and "Mad About You" is totally unapologetic about love--all kinds of love.

One of the last episodes on the DVD collection was one in which Jamie (the wife) and Paul (the husband) discover that their regular UPS delivery man--young and good looking--just died.  They contemplate the fragility of life and ponder the question I asked in November: what if this were the last day of our lives?  They decide that they would want to tell all the people they love that they love them.  And Paul and Jamie really love a lot of people.  So they make a list and go about expressing their love to friends and family.  Of course, it was a sitcom, so almost none of the gestures really lands like they intended.  Their intentions were good nonetheless.

I truly believe that this question about the last day of our lives is an important one.  I am confident that if it isn't the secret, it is one of the secrets to joy, peace, and happiness.  I also know that I neglect people that I love--take them for granted, and I assume they know how I feel.  I hope that I have more luck than Paul and Jamie did, but I feel like I want to start telling those in my life that I do love them.  (Friends, be warned: I'm coming with love!)

In another episode, Paul and Jamie's daughter says, "It takes a lot of courage to be the first one to kiss."  It does...and it takes a lot of courage to be vulnerable to love.  That is what a lot of the awkwardness was about as they expressed love to friends and family.  I know that I have guarded my heart.   What if I tell someone I love them, and they don't feel like that? Or what if they misinterpret my intentions?  To open the heart may be the ultimate act of courage.  As I walk to the precipice, I am choosing love because everyday is the last day of my life. What more do I have to do that is more important than be vulnerable?

The Impact of Connection

The forecast tonight in Washington is for a low of 8 degrees and wind-chills of -9.  My teeth were chattering when I walked to the Metro...and it wasn't even close to 8 degrees yet.  Knowing that this was coming, I made chili yesterday.  I'm bundled in two sweaters and just threw a quilt over my shoulders...indoors...with heat. I just did something I almost never do: made cocoa. Around me, volunteers have been rounding up 11,000 homeless people from the streets of our nation's capitol.

I haven't lived where it was this cold very often since I was in college.  But, when it was this cold, I am embarrassed to say that, until this week, I never thought about what was happening to the people who were homeless.  Half the nation is experiencing wind-chills below zero tonight.  Some places in the Midwest have wind-chills forecast to as cold as -56. It is so cold that schools have been closed because it is dangerous to be out for a short bit to get there. Everyone of those cities has homeless people.  My heart is breaking.

What's different today?  I've never actually known someone when the person was homeless before.  (See "Expect the Unexpected," 12/14/13.)  I've thought about Alexander off and on all day.  When I met him, he had a place in a shelter at night, but had to leave all day.  It has been bitter today.  I thought I was going to freeze hot-footing it a block to the Metro after work. (Is there cold-footing?) I can't imagine that he's been out in this cold all day....and he hasn't been alone.

I met Alexander while playing The Grocery Store Game (12/1/13.)  My intention was to make connections.  I couldn't have imagined that on a cold night almost a month later that our short meeting would have changed how I think about the weather. 

Pieces of the Whole

I always look forward to my holiday greeting from colleague Suzan Thompson.  I always enjoy seeing what new directions her work as a therapist has taken in the last year.  However, because she is a fabulous and generous artist, her greetings often contain a small piece of art.  I had a favorite on my refrigerator door for several years.

Yesterday was the big day, and I admit to ripping the envelope open in the elevator the minute I saw the return address.  (I suppose it might have been more appropriate to wait until I could fully appreciate the opening experience, but delayed gratification has never been one of my strong suits.) 

This year's gift was different than the individual pieces in the past.  This year she created an incredible collage, called "Pieces For You."  Then, she cut it up and sent pieces to her friends, along with a link to her blog where we could see the whole artwork*.  I've inserted it below.

 

 

I loved the piece, but I have to confess to studying to see which piece of the whole I had received.  (My piece came from the bottom right, and it included the heron and a key.) We emailed back and forth, and I said I loved being able to find where my piece was in the whole, and I added, "...if we only knew exactly where our piece was in the Whole."  The truth of that statement stuck with me. 

 

If we could only know exactly where our piece was in the Whole, what difference would it make?  When I think of Suzan's lovely collage as a metaphor for our roles in the world, I can imagine that when one of us decides not to follow our intuition or chooses to take a job that was more money than the one for which we had passion, that there might be blank rectangles where our piece should have been.  If many of us don't do our part pretty soon the beauty of the whole canvas is obscured. 

 

This Aha! moment hit me particularly hard on a weekend in which I have gotten back to serious writing for the first time in a while.  I'd hate to think that in the greater scheme of things that my busyness with other things has removed an essential component(s) from the Whole.  Yet, I know that is true.  The Universe isn't designed with extra or disposable parts.  Each of us is essential, and we all make a difference. 

 

In the future I plan to use Suzan's collage with my piece missing as a mental image of what happens when I choose not to show up for Life.  I can't imagine her artwork with a missing piece, just as I'm sure the Universe can't imagine Life without my piece.

 

 

*For more details about the collage and appropriate viewing music, you may visit Suzan's blog at http://magicwonderandmiracles.blogspot.com/.



Rewriting Our Stories

A visit to the local Farmers' Market has been a regular part of my summertime routine for at least 25 years.  I love the smells of fresh fruits and vegetables at their peak, and the taste of perfectly ripened produce, which hasn't been refrigerated and shipped, just can't be compared to any other human experience. 

While that is true of Farmers' Markets in general, my real weakness is fresh peaches.  The real secret though is to get the ones that are beat up.  In North Carolina, they call them "windfalls" because they are so ripe that they fall at the least wind.  Of course, the fall bruises them, but what is left is exquisite, so sweet that the juice literally runs out while I am peeling the fruit. 

Some people would look at that beat-up fruit and think it was garbage.  To me, it is the tastiest thing in the natural world.  The difference?  The story that the observer tells about what he or she is seeing.  It's the same fruit.  As they say, "One man's trash is another's treasure."

A coaching colleague emailed me a link to an NPR piece about rewriting stories* today.  The story was about a boy who was frightened by a statue of Frankenstein, but instead of telling about how the boy was frightened when he went passed the statue, his mother related that the boy had peed on the statue when he went back.

The ability to rewrite our stories in an empowering way allows us to exercise our power over our own experience.  For years, I've been helping clients rewrite their stories where they've created disempowering fiction.  Recently, a client told about something she didn't want to do because she knew that she wouldn't be successful at it.  One at a time she gave me excuses about why she wouldn't be successful. One at a time I asked her for an example of someone who had succeeded but didn't meet that particular success criteria.  By the time we finished, she realized that there was no legitimate reason why she, too, couldn't succeed.  Then she could rewrite her story.

Today I started working on my fifth or sixth book, depending on whether you count one that is started but not yet finished.  Although I've been writing quite literally since I could hold a pencil, I didn't start writing seriously until I was in my mid-forties because my mother always said to me, "Writers are poor and starving."  When a college professor commented on my talent and encouraged me to consider a writing career, I responded, "Writers are poor and starving."  I had made my mother's story my own without even being conscious of what I was doing.

For over four decades, I lived the story my mother had given me.  Then at some point, I could no longer run from my gift. Being an artist is a toss-up, but can the artist not be an artist?  If my mother were still alive, she would point at me and shake her finger and say, "I told you so," because I have struggled financially.  More importantly, I have occasionally been frozen with fear of doing what I am here in the world to do.

But today, I felt more alive than I have since I last worked on a book.  I am rewriting my story.  The work I began today is a memoir, and I am telling myself that it will be the next Eat, Pray, Love.  It's author, Elizabeth Gilbert, is living proof that authors need not be poor and starving.  A reader of this blog has said she could see me at the celebration when the book deal is announced. I've seen myself on the New York Times Best Sellers' List for years.  Maybe these too are fiction, but they are far more productive that an equal fiction than "Writers are poor and starving."

When my colleague sent me the link to the NPR piece, he said, "This could be useful in coaching."  It can, indeed.  I believe the ability to rewrite our stories is a basic life skill.  We should teach our children how to dress themselves, brush their teeth, balance a checking account, and rewrite their stories.

This evening I feel a deep sense of peace, joy, and power.  Writing does that for me.  Hmm.  Writing is where I find peace, joy and power.  That is a story I can live with.

 

*http://www.npr.org/blogs/health/2014/01/01/258674011/editing-your-lifes-stories-can-create-happier-endings

Hurry and Happiness

The day of the year when I feel almost as happy about working hard around the house as I do the day I decorate for Christmas is the day I undecorated for Christmas.  Tree out, wreath and poinsettias gone, furniture back where it belongs: with a deep sigh of relief, things have fallen back to "normal," whatever that is.

I am an NPR junkie, and I find the programs of my local station intellectually stimulating while doing mindless tasks around my apartment, like cleaning and removing ornaments and lights.  Today I heard an interesting piece* about happiness and its relationship to usage of time, which started me thinking all afternoon and evening. 

Two elements of the research of Dr. John Robinson, University of Maryland sociology professor, tell the story.  First, those who are less rushed feel happier, and second, those who have less free time on their hands express happiness more often.  The magic happiness cocktail: a combination of not being rushed and having little free time.  Not rushed, but having little free time? This seems like a contradiction.  I thought if I had less free time, I would feel more rushed.  Yet, Robinson's research shows that people who are very happy almost never feel rushed.  The reason that they have less free time, he has found, is that they have a lot of interests which they remain engaged in, and which, apparently, bring them happiness.

A related piece of research mentioned in the program, Dr. Erik Angner, economics professor at George Mason University, reports that the more television people watch, the less happy they are.  The leap is that they aren't engaged in interests that bring them pleasure, so they have a lot of free time to watch television. 

I have a colleague who seems very happy.  She has two small children, but she is still is engaged in community, church, and family activities. I've often wondered how she does all she does, but, despite all that she has happening in her life, she never seems to be rushed. I'd say her life supports Robinson's research. 

Some topics just keep coming around.  The first is about being present.  It seems to me that when I am really present, I am not rushed. I am not thinking about what is next or what isn't being done; I am able to enjoy what I am doing because I am present to it in the moment.  As someone who often does  feel rushed, I can say that it relaxes me to just think about being really engaged and present to a number of pleasurable activities.  I actually could have been as mindful about undecorating my house--really been present--as I was decorating it, and I'll bet I would have felt a lot less tired at the end of the day.

The second is about choice. Robinson reports that those who are most rushed experience outside pressures beyond their control. He says that a sense of control in our lives is important to happiness. But who could have more balls in the air than my colleague, who seems never rushed?  I suspect that those who are happiest just choose to be present--they choose to let go of control in exchange for just enjoying--being in joy--with what they are doing.

Winston Churchill is credited (probably incorrectly) with the quote: "We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give."  If we feel too rushed to give or even too rushed to be present, then, it would seem to me, that we are really choosing not to be happy, although most of us would probably not make that choice if we were conscious of what we are doing.

Robinson sums up his research with a play on words from the Bobby McFerrin hit of a couple decades ago: "Don't hurry, be happy."  Now that's a choice.  Why would I want to hurry if I could be happy?  That's a no-brainer.  I think that may be a good fourth intention for my year...or maybe the intention should be: "Be present for this year."  I think it is the same.








http://wamu.org/programs/metro_connection/13/05/24/dont_hurry_be_happy_research_highlights_link_between_busy_lives_and_bliss#at_pco=cfd-1.0

Wonder

Nothing touches the wonder of Nature for me.  Some even believe Nature is God.  I am certain that I cannot distinguish the two.  There are times when that wonder takes my breath away.  This evening is one of those times: I have felt like I was worshipping at the altar of the park behind my home.

Just as I was coming out of the Metro this evening, the first flakes of what was predicted to be a light snow were beginning to fall.  By the time I made dinner and had eaten it, the park behind my apartment had been transformed into a winter wonderland.  I stepped out on my balcony to get a better look, and millions of unique flakes had woven lacy doilies on all of the trees.  I could hear the rushing of the creek below and leaned out to feel the light cool splashes as flakes hit my hand and face. 

I am not much of a photographer, but I grabbed my iPhone to attempt a picture.  Instead of capturing the beauty of the snow-covered trees, the camera captured the falling snow, making streaks like shooting stars.

I've looked out several times since my first breath-taking view.  Each time the wonder engenders a sense of humility in me.  Whether God is Nature or God created Nature seems moot to me.  That millions and millions of snowflakes could each have been created uniquely and woven together in such a perfect tapestry leaves me wondering what God has in mind for me. 

I have heard a myth, which I believe to be from the Jewish tradition, that for every single blade of grass, there are 1,000 angels, encouraging the grass to "Grow! Grow!"  That at times I either can't hear, won't hear, or just plain forget to listen seems small of me.  If God who could send such support to a blade of grass and create such a beautiful landscape in what felt like a blink of the eye, I can only ask, what is God trying to do for me, and why do I resist? 

Spiritual surrender is what I like to think of as getting my ego out of the way and letting God be God. Spiritual surrender is not giving up.    Surrounded by the wonder of Nature this evening, I feel personally invited to let God be God--to allow God to do for me what is done for blades of grass, lilies of the field, and trees in the snow. 

Lean-in was voted best new word for 2013.  It implies that when there is resistance to push through it.  I resist spiritual surrender, and I believe that it is now time to lean-in to my resistance, allowing God to grace me as part of Nature's creation.

A New Year

Happy 2014!  I hope your first day was as good as mine was.

I did my new year's meditation and got some simple and clear advice:
-Begin exercising at least 5 times a week.  (For years it was 7!)
-Reclaim my writer: be conscious of every opportunity to move out on writing
-Eat the way my body tells me to eat (Did that for years too, but I have slipped during 2013.)

Those intentions are promises I make and will keep: my integrity depends on it.  (See yesterday's post.)

So, that was how my year started.  I walked 90 minutes in three stints.  I ate healthfully.  I explored a writing contest and a new job that will involve writing more. I spent quality time with friends, and we all ate healthfully and even took a brisk walk together mid-day.  I love this!