This afternoon I saw a bumper sticker that admonished, "Remember who you were going to be." I literally stopped in my tracks and stared at it. "Hmmm!" I thought. "Remember who you were going to be." I thought again, "I haven't a clue who I was going to be." I mean really what I wanted to be.
This evening I watched a movie in which a man knew that he'd always wanted to be the world's best barista, and the female love interest, who is an excellent human resources manager, always wanted to be an illustrator. As I watched this scene of the movie, it reminded me of the bumper sticker. I muted the TV during the commercial and thought about it again, but I wasn't any closer to an answer than I'd been a few hours earlier.
I am not sure if it was when I grew up or where I grew up, but options were never there. I started to write, options were never available, but, of course, that isn't true. There were lots of options; I just didn't know about them. Then I started to write, options were never presented to me. That isn't true either. Well, it is. Options weren't presented to me, but a lot of things were not presented to me. I found them anyway. That's just an excuse.
Pretty much girls in my high school in Indiana had three options: become a homemaker or go to college and become either a teacher or a nurse. Since I had an aversion to blood, being a nurse was never a serious consideration. I was pretty smart, and I loved to learn. Not going to college was never a consideration. That sort of left being a teacher.
When I was about 16, I attended a church camp "life recruit week." The intention was to get kids to become ministers, missionaries, and the like. I was inspired. That is what I would do. But, of course, as a girl, I could only become a minister of education--that's a fancy name for a teacher and/or being in charge of teachers. But, I really did feel called to do God's work, just not the way the people at the camp had in mind.
The truth is I have a number of gifts and talents, and I've enjoyed a lot of things I've done. Yet, I've never really had a drive to be any one thing. It ends up that teaching is something I'm fairly good at, and it has ended up being part of almost every job I've ever had. I particularly enjoy mentoring people. I think it is the one-on-one customized teaching of mentoring and coaching that I like best.
I've also been writing since I could hold a pencil, and it ends up that writing has ended up being part of every job I've even had. I can remember having the realization when I was almost done with the first draft of Leading from the Heart that my commitment to serving God 20 years earlier was finally coming to fruition. My ministry was the business world, I thought, and my medium was the written word. As the books become popular, I started doing more keynote speaking. It was kind of teaching, just to a bigger classroom.
A few years later when I created the intentional living intensives, I was sure I was exactly where I should be. They allowed me to be out in nature with clients and to move around. At the same time, I was able to engage my love for healthy but delicious food as I cooked for my clients. Best of all, I was able to see each of them find the truth of who they were. I remember thinking several times that it just couldn't get any better.
My writing, speaking, and coaching business was really joyful and fulfilling, but not because I had dreamed that life, I just sort of slid into it. Compared to those who have an inner drive to be something, it almost seems like cheating, but I was so happy. Should it matter how I got there?
As it ends up, the economy went bust, and my business went bust with it. It didn't matter any more. Since then, I've been teaching, writing, speaking, and coaching in a number of different settings, but somehow I've never reached that deep spiritual "flow state" in which I used to live most of my life.
This week I was at a continuing education training for coaches. The teachers were sharing lists of questions, and after a few minutes, I spoke up. I said, "I'd like to advocate for intuition. I've been coaching for over 25 years, I said, and I've always been able to be still, listen to my heart, and just hear the perfect question....Even when the question makes no sense to me, it always makes perfect sense to my client." That is how I wrote too...and spoke. That is the world I used to live in.
This evening after pondering "Remember who you were going to be" for several hours, I have come to remember what I used to know. Being who you were going to be doesn't have anything to do with choosing from a menu of careers and intellectually choosing what I will be. Being who I was going to be has everything to do with what I said to those coaches, "being still, listening to my heart," and doing what I hear.
So it was that I got to my flow state life. It isn't cheating. I think that is how we were designed. Listen to our hearts, and they will always guide us.
All those things that I've struggled with over the almost-year I've been writing this blog? There should never be a struggle. There should only be listening to what my heart knows. That is what this blog is about. I am most grateful for today's bumper sticker for reminding me how to remember. The heart always knows.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
A Better Way
Over the weekend, I watched the 1946 classic film, "The Best Years of Our Lives." My screenwriter friend tells me it is one of top 25 movies of all time. I could see that. The acting was good. Character development was powerful. It was a heavy drama sprinkled with appropriate humor. The story was compelling.
The movie shared the challenges of three World War II veterans as they attempted to adjust to "normal" life after coming home. The banker finds it difficult to be as cold and calculating in making loan decisions as he was before the war. The athlete adjusts to life without hands. The decorated officer of the threesome struggles to find work, and when he finally gets the job, it is in the same drug store where he had been a "soda jerk" before the war, still doing the same job.
In the movie, we had a happy ending as all three of the protagonists resolved their inner conflicts to go on to what we assume will be normal lives. But, I grew up with a WWII vet who, by all appearances, was "normal," but he was never able to be emotionally available to his children. He resolved emotional crises in the only way he knew: throw money at it and surely that would solve the feelings.
The movie reminded me of the thousands of Vietnam veterans of my generation that came home empty shells of the men who went to war. Almost every day carries a story of similar adjustment challenges of our war fighters from Iraq and Afghanistan, even as we flirt with another intervention.
It would be easy to point to recent wars, which the media have covered so closely, and think they were different, but World War I wasn't much different. As an undergraduate, I poured over poetry from WWI veterans Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. I was drawn in a mesmerizing way by them into my own grandfather's life. He was never the same when he returned from "The War to End All Wars," as they called WWI at the time. We might call it Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) now. They called it "shell shock." He spent most of 25 years sitting in a catatonic state in a mental hospital, hardly eating, rarely blinking, and starring into space.
The thing is that there are stories about veterans of the U. S. Civil War, who were never the same. In fact, if we go back to ancient literature, the vagaries of war have proven timeless themes. The classic Greek drama Lysistrata relates the story of women maneuvering to get their men back from a long war.
The senseless emptying of our men (and now women) every generation has been heavy on my heart as the news has been peppered with tales of one conflict after another around the globe, be it street warfare in Ferguson, thousands who have lost their homes in Gaza, or the beheading of a journalist who unwittingly become a pawn in a war in Syria as he sought to bring to people around the world.
The victims of war aren't only those left on the battlefield, but in my family it was my father's father who was absent for his son and my father who was physically present but going through the motions of life. There are countless others across generations who have been robbed of the fullness that the men in their lives might have brought. What will it take for us to learn the spiritual lessons of war.
There used to be a bumper sticker that admonished, "If you want peace, work for justice." I don't know that there is a simple formula for peace, but I truly believe that within each of us lies the potential for peace. We can bring more peace and justice into the world by making a difference within each of our spheres of influence today, tomorrow, and each day of our lives.
The movie shared the challenges of three World War II veterans as they attempted to adjust to "normal" life after coming home. The banker finds it difficult to be as cold and calculating in making loan decisions as he was before the war. The athlete adjusts to life without hands. The decorated officer of the threesome struggles to find work, and when he finally gets the job, it is in the same drug store where he had been a "soda jerk" before the war, still doing the same job.
In the movie, we had a happy ending as all three of the protagonists resolved their inner conflicts to go on to what we assume will be normal lives. But, I grew up with a WWII vet who, by all appearances, was "normal," but he was never able to be emotionally available to his children. He resolved emotional crises in the only way he knew: throw money at it and surely that would solve the feelings.
The movie reminded me of the thousands of Vietnam veterans of my generation that came home empty shells of the men who went to war. Almost every day carries a story of similar adjustment challenges of our war fighters from Iraq and Afghanistan, even as we flirt with another intervention.
It would be easy to point to recent wars, which the media have covered so closely, and think they were different, but World War I wasn't much different. As an undergraduate, I poured over poetry from WWI veterans Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. I was drawn in a mesmerizing way by them into my own grandfather's life. He was never the same when he returned from "The War to End All Wars," as they called WWI at the time. We might call it Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) now. They called it "shell shock." He spent most of 25 years sitting in a catatonic state in a mental hospital, hardly eating, rarely blinking, and starring into space.
The thing is that there are stories about veterans of the U. S. Civil War, who were never the same. In fact, if we go back to ancient literature, the vagaries of war have proven timeless themes. The classic Greek drama Lysistrata relates the story of women maneuvering to get their men back from a long war.
The senseless emptying of our men (and now women) every generation has been heavy on my heart as the news has been peppered with tales of one conflict after another around the globe, be it street warfare in Ferguson, thousands who have lost their homes in Gaza, or the beheading of a journalist who unwittingly become a pawn in a war in Syria as he sought to bring to people around the world.
The victims of war aren't only those left on the battlefield, but in my family it was my father's father who was absent for his son and my father who was physically present but going through the motions of life. There are countless others across generations who have been robbed of the fullness that the men in their lives might have brought. What will it take for us to learn the spiritual lessons of war.
There used to be a bumper sticker that admonished, "If you want peace, work for justice." I don't know that there is a simple formula for peace, but I truly believe that within each of us lies the potential for peace. We can bring more peace and justice into the world by making a difference within each of our spheres of influence today, tomorrow, and each day of our lives.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Left Hanging
When I was catching up with a friend in a phone conversation last night, I suddenly realized how many situations in my life in the last few days have been "left hanging." Everything from an inactivated key fob to my apartment building to whom no one responded to calls and a similarly unreturned phone call from a merchant who double-billed my credit card to a potential trip to the West Coast to work in less than a week and a week-long training the following week. There was a message that was supposed to go out to all of our employees that just seemed to vanish, and several of us sought but couldn't figure out where it went.
As I was commuting to work this morning, I got an email that "left hanging" an important meeting that I am facilitating in less than a month which involves people commuting from all over the country. There are several other situations in which I find myself waiting for a decision from someone else.
Any time I find a "similar lesson" recurring in my life, I take notice. I ask myself what the spiritual lesson here is to learn. I am still scratching my head on this one. By nature, I am pretty relaxed: I'm certainly far from a control-freak. I spent enough years in business for myself to be accustomed to being "left hanging" for months on end for a potential client to come through, and I've been an employee consultant long enough to be used to being pushed and pulled at someone else's whim. And, generally, how ever things work out, they usually work out for the best, so what's to be uptight about?
None of these situations would have even gotten my attention if it hadn't been for the realization that almost nowhere in my life do I know what is happening even tomorrow and certainly not a week from now. I cannot believe that this is mere coincidence, but what am I to learn? Maybe that others don't care about leaving me hanging so I shouldn't care about them? I am a caring person. I can't imagine that is the lesson.
I really wish that I had an answer to share. What I can tell you is that I started the day with the Babbling Brook again, and I listened once again during the day. Through all of this "spiritual school," I'm relaxed and at peace. Maybe it is a test, and if that is the case, I think I am passing. All is well...and left hanging.
As I was commuting to work this morning, I got an email that "left hanging" an important meeting that I am facilitating in less than a month which involves people commuting from all over the country. There are several other situations in which I find myself waiting for a decision from someone else.
Any time I find a "similar lesson" recurring in my life, I take notice. I ask myself what the spiritual lesson here is to learn. I am still scratching my head on this one. By nature, I am pretty relaxed: I'm certainly far from a control-freak. I spent enough years in business for myself to be accustomed to being "left hanging" for months on end for a potential client to come through, and I've been an employee consultant long enough to be used to being pushed and pulled at someone else's whim. And, generally, how ever things work out, they usually work out for the best, so what's to be uptight about?
None of these situations would have even gotten my attention if it hadn't been for the realization that almost nowhere in my life do I know what is happening even tomorrow and certainly not a week from now. I cannot believe that this is mere coincidence, but what am I to learn? Maybe that others don't care about leaving me hanging so I shouldn't care about them? I am a caring person. I can't imagine that is the lesson.
I really wish that I had an answer to share. What I can tell you is that I started the day with the Babbling Brook again, and I listened once again during the day. Through all of this "spiritual school," I'm relaxed and at peace. Maybe it is a test, and if that is the case, I think I am passing. All is well...and left hanging.
Monday, August 25, 2014
The Babbling Brook
I built an extra 10 minutes into my schedule before work this morning to sit and listen to "The Babbling Brook." (Finding My Center, 8/24/14) Within seconds of plugging in my ear buds, I found myself taking such a deep breath that my chest almost heaved. The next breath was almost as deep but more gentle. My shoulders dropped. Then, I drifted peacefully for the rest of my 10 minutes.
What a great way to begin my day. I floated to the Metro and down the escalator. I normally would have jumped at the stacks of work on my desk, but today I took time to chat with a colleague who retired today. I was crazy busy, and I spent most of the day racing a deadline. At about 2 o'clock, I noticed that my breath was shallow again, and my shoulders had again crept up to my ears. I stopped. I reached for my iPhone and my ear buds and plugged in.
Once again it took less than 10 seconds to calm myself. What has taken me so long to figure this out? I almost laugh out loud. I really don't know why it took so long, but I am glad I found it did this soon. As I refocus my attention on being centered in who I am, I am glad I have this tool.
I have often said that the first step in transformation is awareness. This bit of awareness is truly empowering. One day at a time, but this really feels like a huge step to getting back on track.
What a great way to begin my day. I floated to the Metro and down the escalator. I normally would have jumped at the stacks of work on my desk, but today I took time to chat with a colleague who retired today. I was crazy busy, and I spent most of the day racing a deadline. At about 2 o'clock, I noticed that my breath was shallow again, and my shoulders had again crept up to my ears. I stopped. I reached for my iPhone and my ear buds and plugged in.
Once again it took less than 10 seconds to calm myself. What has taken me so long to figure this out? I almost laugh out loud. I really don't know why it took so long, but I am glad I found it did this soon. As I refocus my attention on being centered in who I am, I am glad I have this tool.
I have often said that the first step in transformation is awareness. This bit of awareness is truly empowering. One day at a time, but this really feels like a huge step to getting back on track.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Finding My Center
As those of you who are regular readers know, I've been struggling to get back to my center--where I know I am love and where I know I am being who I am in my heart. I had lots of things I should be doing today, but when I awakened, I knew the most important of those was to find my way home.
Even as I was first becoming conscious, my heart was racing with panic. As all the things I have to do this week chased their ways into my psyche, every bit of me went into overdrive...and I was hardly awake. I recall thing it was like playing tennis against 20 people, each volleying something my way.
"I am love," I said to myself. Usually that brings me down, but not today.
I sat up cross-legged in bed and attempted to meditate. Even concentrating on my breathing was a challenge because it was shallow and fast. Pulling my attention to my diaphragm, I focused on slowing and deepening my breathing. I could not make it work. My fallback position for meditation is to visualize Paulina Spring in Central Oregon. (See "The Headwaters," 5/1/14) That will be the answer, I thought. My heart continued to race. My breathing erratically speeded. What was I to do?
What I would have given to be able to jump into sweats and race over to the Spring and be lulled into the peace amidst the chaotic spring waters. That is it, I thought. Jumping out of bed, I grabbed my iPhone and spun through my tunes. There it was: "Babbling Brook," by Joe Baker. I had downloaded it a couple years ago for just such a time. Popping in my ear buds, I straightened up in meditation posture again.
Slowly, the sounds of nature brought me home. It's almost as if God knew that we were going to need babbling brooks when the world was created. The gift of nature for times when we need to be still and can't quite find our way home. When I felt myself breathing calmly again, I opened my eyes. Just 20 minutes but yet a whole different experience of the world about me. Not a thought about all the things I have to do this week, and mostly they stayed at bay all day.
I did almost nothing I needed to do today, and it was perfect. I just listened to my center and did what I needed to do to "stay home." A walk on a late summer's day, followed by an ice coffee and frozen yogurt. A nap. Reading for my vacation. Time playing in the kitchen, creating healthy foods to support my intention to refocus on health this week.
I've written before about the term "sin," originally an archery term, which means that we aimed, missed, and need to adjust the aim. We express an intention, we head in that direction, and when we fall short, we adjust our aim back to the core intention. Whatever this reaiming process in which I now find myself ends up being, it must include finding my center every day. My babbling brook will help me start my day tomorrow, and it will be with me on my desk during the day. I will use the gift of nature to keep me home.
Even as I was first becoming conscious, my heart was racing with panic. As all the things I have to do this week chased their ways into my psyche, every bit of me went into overdrive...and I was hardly awake. I recall thing it was like playing tennis against 20 people, each volleying something my way.
"I am love," I said to myself. Usually that brings me down, but not today.
I sat up cross-legged in bed and attempted to meditate. Even concentrating on my breathing was a challenge because it was shallow and fast. Pulling my attention to my diaphragm, I focused on slowing and deepening my breathing. I could not make it work. My fallback position for meditation is to visualize Paulina Spring in Central Oregon. (See "The Headwaters," 5/1/14) That will be the answer, I thought. My heart continued to race. My breathing erratically speeded. What was I to do?
What I would have given to be able to jump into sweats and race over to the Spring and be lulled into the peace amidst the chaotic spring waters. That is it, I thought. Jumping out of bed, I grabbed my iPhone and spun through my tunes. There it was: "Babbling Brook," by Joe Baker. I had downloaded it a couple years ago for just such a time. Popping in my ear buds, I straightened up in meditation posture again.
Slowly, the sounds of nature brought me home. It's almost as if God knew that we were going to need babbling brooks when the world was created. The gift of nature for times when we need to be still and can't quite find our way home. When I felt myself breathing calmly again, I opened my eyes. Just 20 minutes but yet a whole different experience of the world about me. Not a thought about all the things I have to do this week, and mostly they stayed at bay all day.
I did almost nothing I needed to do today, and it was perfect. I just listened to my center and did what I needed to do to "stay home." A walk on a late summer's day, followed by an ice coffee and frozen yogurt. A nap. Reading for my vacation. Time playing in the kitchen, creating healthy foods to support my intention to refocus on health this week.
I've written before about the term "sin," originally an archery term, which means that we aimed, missed, and need to adjust the aim. We express an intention, we head in that direction, and when we fall short, we adjust our aim back to the core intention. Whatever this reaiming process in which I now find myself ends up being, it must include finding my center every day. My babbling brook will help me start my day tomorrow, and it will be with me on my desk during the day. I will use the gift of nature to keep me home.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Can I Be Trusted?
Friday afternoon I was irritable with my colleague, and she happens to be the best teammate I've ever had at work. I was angry with myself for being unpleasant, but I was more angry for not being me. For a while I stewed over it: what was wrong with me? Then I realized what it was.
Like a bolt out of the blue, it came to me: I was resisting giving up the last vestiges of my integrity. The resistance--the fight to maintain who I know myself to be in my heart--had weakened me. Over the last couple of years, slowly I've carved away almost every part of me that I've felt to be right and true. Those who have read this blog for a while will know that I have struggled with eating sugar and a host of desires that sugar triggers. I have grappled with gradually carving exercise from my life. I have fought for time and energy to write...this blog and other things. I have strained to figure out how I could do all the work expected of me and still work a reasonable number of hours. All of these are things I know to be for me: they are important to my health, my life, and my integrity--who I know I am...in my heart.
So it is that yesterday, I sat at my desk in near tears trying to figure out how I could do 30 hours worth of work in the four hours that were left. Well, that isn't quite right: I'd been off the clock for nine or ten hours by then, but it was still the normal work day. "I am killing myself!" I thought. Just as surely as if I were to pull out a gun, the way I've abused my body, mind, and spirit is killing me.
Although I should have done so, I didn't bring work home this weekend. I have no idea how I will get everything done that I need to do for next week but, as the afore-referenced colleague has said, we've grown accustomed to almost no preparation for the string of events which we orchestrate. Somehow, I am sure I will figure this out...or I won't, but something must change. I need the rest. I need renewal. I need time to heal. I need my creativity.
A funny thought drifted into my mind. Over 20 years ago, I was having a session with a cranial-sacral therapist. I am not sure exactly what that is. The practitioner held my head in his hands and, for lack of a better term, rotated it gently for an hour or so. I had struggled for several years with pain following an accident. The total relaxation that I experienced in the "treatment" eased my discomfort.
One day at the end of the session, he said to me, "You have self-trust issues."
As much as I could do so in the state of total relaxation, I wriggled my face and wrinkled my brow a little. I thought he was nuts. Yesterday, I knew he was right. I couldn't trust myself: I couldn't trust myself to do what I know I need. Admitting this part should change things, right? Just stop all those self-destructive behaviors in which I've been engaging.
I've actually drawn a line in the sand several times. I would work these crazy hours until a long-promised new team member arrives. That was a process that started last October...almost a year ago. We've heard a number of dates when the person was supposed to be here: March, May, June, July, August, September. Two days ago the date we were told it will be October 6. With each new date, I took a deep breath and put my nose down to continue for just a month or two more. I've committed to some clients through the end of September, but I will not do this any more.
In the meantime, I am going to start taking those exercise lunches that have fallen away. Tomorrow I will dispose of the "healthy junk food," which has slipped into my kitchen. I commit to writing this blog more regularly and resuming regular attendance at dance events at least once a week. These small steps won't reverse the damage, but at least they will stem the losses and provide me with some resilience.
Hopefully, they will help me begin to restore my trust in me and my integrity, so that I will start to like the person I see in the mirror in the morning. I want to be a person who can be trusted, and if I can't trust myself to do what is right for me, then who else can trust me?
As with every intention, bringing it to life comes in the magnitude of thousands of small choices moving toward what we choose. Do what I need to do in this moment. Then, in the next moment, do what I need to do again. But, to do that I must be conscious--I must be awake, and this work addiction has lulled me back to that place, which the Upanishads calls "the sleeping place that men call waking."
That's all there is to it: stay awake. Of course, the Upanishads were written between 800 and 400 BC! This is a battle that humankind has been fighting for a very long time, apparently with limited success. I won't worry about that. I am confident that I will not change the course of human history by going to exercise classes and dances, cleaning out my junk food, and writing this blog. I don't need to change the course of human history. I just need to change my life...in this moment...and the next...and the next.
Like a bolt out of the blue, it came to me: I was resisting giving up the last vestiges of my integrity. The resistance--the fight to maintain who I know myself to be in my heart--had weakened me. Over the last couple of years, slowly I've carved away almost every part of me that I've felt to be right and true. Those who have read this blog for a while will know that I have struggled with eating sugar and a host of desires that sugar triggers. I have grappled with gradually carving exercise from my life. I have fought for time and energy to write...this blog and other things. I have strained to figure out how I could do all the work expected of me and still work a reasonable number of hours. All of these are things I know to be for me: they are important to my health, my life, and my integrity--who I know I am...in my heart.
So it is that yesterday, I sat at my desk in near tears trying to figure out how I could do 30 hours worth of work in the four hours that were left. Well, that isn't quite right: I'd been off the clock for nine or ten hours by then, but it was still the normal work day. "I am killing myself!" I thought. Just as surely as if I were to pull out a gun, the way I've abused my body, mind, and spirit is killing me.
Although I should have done so, I didn't bring work home this weekend. I have no idea how I will get everything done that I need to do for next week but, as the afore-referenced colleague has said, we've grown accustomed to almost no preparation for the string of events which we orchestrate. Somehow, I am sure I will figure this out...or I won't, but something must change. I need the rest. I need renewal. I need time to heal. I need my creativity.
A funny thought drifted into my mind. Over 20 years ago, I was having a session with a cranial-sacral therapist. I am not sure exactly what that is. The practitioner held my head in his hands and, for lack of a better term, rotated it gently for an hour or so. I had struggled for several years with pain following an accident. The total relaxation that I experienced in the "treatment" eased my discomfort.
One day at the end of the session, he said to me, "You have self-trust issues."
As much as I could do so in the state of total relaxation, I wriggled my face and wrinkled my brow a little. I thought he was nuts. Yesterday, I knew he was right. I couldn't trust myself: I couldn't trust myself to do what I know I need. Admitting this part should change things, right? Just stop all those self-destructive behaviors in which I've been engaging.
I've actually drawn a line in the sand several times. I would work these crazy hours until a long-promised new team member arrives. That was a process that started last October...almost a year ago. We've heard a number of dates when the person was supposed to be here: March, May, June, July, August, September. Two days ago the date we were told it will be October 6. With each new date, I took a deep breath and put my nose down to continue for just a month or two more. I've committed to some clients through the end of September, but I will not do this any more.
In the meantime, I am going to start taking those exercise lunches that have fallen away. Tomorrow I will dispose of the "healthy junk food," which has slipped into my kitchen. I commit to writing this blog more regularly and resuming regular attendance at dance events at least once a week. These small steps won't reverse the damage, but at least they will stem the losses and provide me with some resilience.
Hopefully, they will help me begin to restore my trust in me and my integrity, so that I will start to like the person I see in the mirror in the morning. I want to be a person who can be trusted, and if I can't trust myself to do what is right for me, then who else can trust me?
As with every intention, bringing it to life comes in the magnitude of thousands of small choices moving toward what we choose. Do what I need to do in this moment. Then, in the next moment, do what I need to do again. But, to do that I must be conscious--I must be awake, and this work addiction has lulled me back to that place, which the Upanishads calls "the sleeping place that men call waking."
That's all there is to it: stay awake. Of course, the Upanishads were written between 800 and 400 BC! This is a battle that humankind has been fighting for a very long time, apparently with limited success. I won't worry about that. I am confident that I will not change the course of human history by going to exercise classes and dances, cleaning out my junk food, and writing this blog. I don't need to change the course of human history. I just need to change my life...in this moment...and the next...and the next.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Breaking My Heart
For a week I've been pondering the broken heart. Yesterday I wrote of reconciliation and how I have guarded my heart, as if having my heart broken might be the worst thing that could happen. Experiencing a broken heart is one of the worst experiences most of us can remember.
Causing a broken heart can be equally painful. For me, it was worse to watch someone I loved wriggle in anguish and to know that I caused the pain. As I reflect, that may have hardened my heart as much as having my own heart broken. I don't ever want to do that again...ever. Maybe that is why I haven't found love in 20 years. Maybe it is that I have been as frightened of breaking a heart as having my own be broken.
So what has caused this recent pondering of the broken heart? "The babies" that I spent time with last weekend reinitiated me in the feeling of true love in my heart. Each time I would hug/be hugged love would just wash over me. I literally felt like I was falling in love, just as with the romantic kind. My heart would swell. I'd have butterflies in my stomach and a tickle in my throat. I woke up each day eager to hold them again.
I remember hugging the little one on Sunday morning as she giggled with glee. This, I thought, is what it feels like to be in love. It had been such a long time that I'd forgotten. I was totally present and in the moment without another thought other than relishing the feeling.
Almost in its wake though was the thought: I really need a broken heart. Not the guarded find that I have long feared. What I need is for my heart to break open--to be so full of love that it just explodes with joy--I thought. Perhaps that is what love is: love is the willingness to make ourselves vulnerable to breaking open for that is how love flows between us.
I have written a lot about feeling that God is the flow of love from heart to heart to heart. When my heart broke open with love last weekend was as close as I've felt to God in a very long time. What a gift a heart broken open can be. It literally allows us to be God for we cannot experience God from the recesses of a locked and guarded heart.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Revisiting Reconciliation
On December 6 of last year, I wrote of reconciliation upon the death of Nelson Mandela. I find the ability to truly forgive and to find reconciliation a most godlike quality, and once again I am called to reflect on this ability.
I've just finished viewing the movie, "The Railway Man." Based on a true story, this movie cinematically explores a British man's tormented life, the result of a World War II experience during which he was tortured at the hands of a Japanese "translator." Encouraged by his wife to return to confront the source of his demons, former victim Eric Lomax finds it within himself to reconcile with his former captor. "I will never forget what happened here, but I will forgive," are his words toward the end of the movie. The post-script says the two went on to become great friends until the death of the Japanese man in 2011. Lomax died the following year.
When I wrote of Mandela's death, I spoke of the "Truth and Reconciliation Commissions" that he established to allow South African victims to face their perpetrators, to tell their truth, and to reconcile with them. In essence, that is what Lomax did.
How do we find it within ourselves to forgive, even as we know we will never forget? Yet, how can we not forgive, for doing so is what liberates us from the shadows that lurk in our minds?
My mother was extremely cruel. I never faced her with forgiveness, but after she died, I cried for days for the lost hope of a mother's love. Suddenly, one afternoon complete and total forgiveness washed over me. The moment was truly remarkable. I haven't forgotten the pain, but it has never gripped me since then, as it had before.
The scars on my heart remain, and I regret that I never had the opportunity to forgive her face-to-face. Seeing Lomax embrace his former captor makes me wonder how my life might have been different if I could have similarly held the woman who gave physical birth to me. Might that cathartic moment have given me a different future just as reconciliation transformed Lomax? We will never know, but for the fact of forgiveness I will ever be grateful. Psychically, I know we are reconciled.
In the scars of my pain, however, remains a skittishness. I find it hard to open my heart to women friends and colleagues, almost always finding it easier to trust men, even as I totally trusted my loving father. I am most grateful for the few women that I have allowed to come close, but how much richer might my life might have been if I could have opened my heart to a wide range of people instead of always standing guard like a sentry protecting my heart.
So it was with envy, hope, wonder, and longing that I watched Lomax's story unfold. How remarkable indeed to forgive while remembering--to know and live true reconciliation.
I've just finished viewing the movie, "The Railway Man." Based on a true story, this movie cinematically explores a British man's tormented life, the result of a World War II experience during which he was tortured at the hands of a Japanese "translator." Encouraged by his wife to return to confront the source of his demons, former victim Eric Lomax finds it within himself to reconcile with his former captor. "I will never forget what happened here, but I will forgive," are his words toward the end of the movie. The post-script says the two went on to become great friends until the death of the Japanese man in 2011. Lomax died the following year.
When I wrote of Mandela's death, I spoke of the "Truth and Reconciliation Commissions" that he established to allow South African victims to face their perpetrators, to tell their truth, and to reconcile with them. In essence, that is what Lomax did.
How do we find it within ourselves to forgive, even as we know we will never forget? Yet, how can we not forgive, for doing so is what liberates us from the shadows that lurk in our minds?
My mother was extremely cruel. I never faced her with forgiveness, but after she died, I cried for days for the lost hope of a mother's love. Suddenly, one afternoon complete and total forgiveness washed over me. The moment was truly remarkable. I haven't forgotten the pain, but it has never gripped me since then, as it had before.
The scars on my heart remain, and I regret that I never had the opportunity to forgive her face-to-face. Seeing Lomax embrace his former captor makes me wonder how my life might have been different if I could have similarly held the woman who gave physical birth to me. Might that cathartic moment have given me a different future just as reconciliation transformed Lomax? We will never know, but for the fact of forgiveness I will ever be grateful. Psychically, I know we are reconciled.
In the scars of my pain, however, remains a skittishness. I find it hard to open my heart to women friends and colleagues, almost always finding it easier to trust men, even as I totally trusted my loving father. I am most grateful for the few women that I have allowed to come close, but how much richer might my life might have been if I could have opened my heart to a wide range of people instead of always standing guard like a sentry protecting my heart.
So it was with envy, hope, wonder, and longing that I watched Lomax's story unfold. How remarkable indeed to forgive while remembering--to know and live true reconciliation.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Through the Eyes of a Three-Year Old
When I was in graduate school, I took a class called "Creativity in Business." It really wasn't as much about the nominal topic as it was about awakening from our auto-pilot lives to look at the world differently.
The professor chunked the term into three and four-day segments, and then he gave us a perspective shift that we were to bring to our lives for each segment. I truly don't remember most of them, but one is very sharp in my memory to this day. "See the world through the eyes of a three-year old" was our task for one of those segments.
I remember being astounded, both by what I normally missed that a three-year old would see, as well as what I normally saw that a three-year old would either miss or would have absolutely no interest in. I noticed things in nature that were close to the ground that I'd never noticed or at least not in decades, including a smashingly beautiful beetle. I also had to abandon interest in the news and bigger problems of the day and be much more carefree.
This perspective was brought home to me again last evening when "my babies" arrived. They are staying in a guest suite down the hall. I gathered the girls up to walk back to my apartment for a snack while their parents set up the portable crib and unpacked. The two-year-old threw here arms up in "victory stance" (more on this later) and ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, squealing every inch of the way.
It was late, and, at first, I was concerned about waking my neighbors. Then I thought, "Could I do that?" Not would I do that, but could I do it. The difference isn't semantic. Would implies that I could but would make a judgment about whether, for a wide range of reasons, I would allow myself to embrace life so totally and completely.
To throw 100 percent of my being totally and completely into, well, just being! The last time I threw 100 percent of myself into anything was the five days in which I wrote The Game Called Life--13 years ago. Yet, even that was a mental/intellectual surrender. The two-year-old not only let go of any constraints, but she threw here whole being into...being. There was something really magical about how totally she threw herself into just going for it.
The "victory stance" is the posture that people across time and cultures have thrown into celebration of victory. We've all seen it countless times. Think of the victor at the finish of a race, chest up and out with arms extended upward in a V-position. That is the victory stance, and that is exactly the posture that Ava took as she ran full-out down my hall. It ends up that the victory stance isn't just about celebrating something a person just did well, but when we take that posture, chemicals in our brains are released that propel us into a future success.
The question that came to me "Could I do that?" reflected my personal doubt that I could not only throw myself intellectually into something, but could also put every bit of my passion into just assuming victory, even before I went anywhere, to just know that if I threw myself into whatever, I would just want to squeal with unadulterated joy. I've done that occasionally on the dance floor, but it has been a very long time. What I forgot is that the very act of being victorious actually creates victory.
So, I tweaked the perspective-shift my professor assigned, and instead of seeing the world from the eyes of the three-year-old, I wondered if I could be through the heart of a two-year-old. I really am not sure I can, but, if there is anything I know in my heart, I know that is what I want to be. Full-out 100 percent. I'd say the "but" is that I don't know anything I care that much about, but that is the very thing about what that sweet little girl Ava did: she was 100 percent full-out about nothing. She was 100 percent full-out about life for absolutely no reason except that it felt good.
When I think about my creativity in business class, which I've described as awakening me from my auto-pilot life to look at the world differently, I really wonder if maybe it has taken me decades to figure out what that really meant--that it really meant to be 100 percent for no reason at all: just because.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
The professor chunked the term into three and four-day segments, and then he gave us a perspective shift that we were to bring to our lives for each segment. I truly don't remember most of them, but one is very sharp in my memory to this day. "See the world through the eyes of a three-year old" was our task for one of those segments.
I remember being astounded, both by what I normally missed that a three-year old would see, as well as what I normally saw that a three-year old would either miss or would have absolutely no interest in. I noticed things in nature that were close to the ground that I'd never noticed or at least not in decades, including a smashingly beautiful beetle. I also had to abandon interest in the news and bigger problems of the day and be much more carefree.
This perspective was brought home to me again last evening when "my babies" arrived. They are staying in a guest suite down the hall. I gathered the girls up to walk back to my apartment for a snack while their parents set up the portable crib and unpacked. The two-year-old threw here arms up in "victory stance" (more on this later) and ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, squealing every inch of the way.
It was late, and, at first, I was concerned about waking my neighbors. Then I thought, "Could I do that?" Not would I do that, but could I do it. The difference isn't semantic. Would implies that I could but would make a judgment about whether, for a wide range of reasons, I would allow myself to embrace life so totally and completely.
To throw 100 percent of my being totally and completely into, well, just being! The last time I threw 100 percent of myself into anything was the five days in which I wrote The Game Called Life--13 years ago. Yet, even that was a mental/intellectual surrender. The two-year-old not only let go of any constraints, but she threw here whole being into...being. There was something really magical about how totally she threw herself into just going for it.
The "victory stance" is the posture that people across time and cultures have thrown into celebration of victory. We've all seen it countless times. Think of the victor at the finish of a race, chest up and out with arms extended upward in a V-position. That is the victory stance, and that is exactly the posture that Ava took as she ran full-out down my hall. It ends up that the victory stance isn't just about celebrating something a person just did well, but when we take that posture, chemicals in our brains are released that propel us into a future success.
The question that came to me "Could I do that?" reflected my personal doubt that I could not only throw myself intellectually into something, but could also put every bit of my passion into just assuming victory, even before I went anywhere, to just know that if I threw myself into whatever, I would just want to squeal with unadulterated joy. I've done that occasionally on the dance floor, but it has been a very long time. What I forgot is that the very act of being victorious actually creates victory.
So, I tweaked the perspective-shift my professor assigned, and instead of seeing the world from the eyes of the three-year-old, I wondered if I could be through the heart of a two-year-old. I really am not sure I can, but, if there is anything I know in my heart, I know that is what I want to be. Full-out 100 percent. I'd say the "but" is that I don't know anything I care that much about, but that is the very thing about what that sweet little girl Ava did: she was 100 percent full-out about nothing. She was 100 percent full-out about life for absolutely no reason except that it felt good.
When I think about my creativity in business class, which I've described as awakening me from my auto-pilot life to look at the world differently, I really wonder if maybe it has taken me decades to figure out what that really meant--that it really meant to be 100 percent for no reason at all: just because.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Friday, August 8, 2014
Anticipation...
I haven't seen "my babies" since January. They aren't really my babies, but the two- and five-year-old girls currently on their way to my home won my heart at birth--theirs, not mine. Between constraints on each end, it has been way too long since I've seen them. We planned this visit months ago. As the time has approach, my anticipation has increased. Over the last week, I've gotten more and more excited. If I calculate properly, they are probably 30 minutes away, and I am beside myself.
Years ago I heard that half the fun of a trip was planning. I am not a planner, and I really love being spontaneous on trips. Yet, I am fully aware that some of my best travel adventures are the result of enough research to figure out where the potential awaited. As my life has become more and more harried, my planning and research for trips has gotten shorter and shorter.
A doctor's appointment the day before my first trip to Italy resulted in a two-hour round trip Metro ride from the office and back, giving me my first two hours of "research." On the way out that morning, I'd grabbed one of the tourist guides that I'd acquired months early but hadn't opened. As I chugged from one end of the Metro almost to the other, I read about Ravenna, the birthplace of mosaics. On a whim, my friend and I drove across the boot of Italy for an amazing two days in Ravenna. We wouldn't have wanted to miss it, but for my doctor's appointment, we wouldn't have known what it offered.
On my way to Spain two years ago, I started my research on the plane east to Europe. I was so busy getting things under control before my vacation that I just didn't think I had time...until I was on my way. I was packing on my way out the door, too.
I know that this will be a wonderful weekend, but I also know how much fun the planning has been. Looking forward to their faces...planning and preparing special foods that I think the family will like...picking a special Chianti Classico to share with their dad...thinking about what I think the family will enjoy on their visit to DC. It's been wonderful.
The really amazing thing to me is how in my body I've been today. I should have worked, but I didn't. When their departure was delayed, I could have worked, but decided not to. I wanted to fully anticipate the visit. I made preparations, but mostly I anticipated the joy of their hugs, giggles and squeals, and passion. My heart has gotten bigger and bigger.
I just got a text that they are on the beltway. I feel giddy: like a young girl in love. Actually, I think that I am: I am in love with these girls, and I am totally enjoying the experience of anticipating them. My heart felt bigger and fluttery. There was a tickle in my throat and even some butterflies in my stomach as I anticipated.
This day has been rich because I've allowed myself to feel the joy of anticipation. As I think back about trips when I took time and space for anticipation, there was much more excitement. The last few vacations I've taken have felt very matter of fact and rushed because I have forgotten or lost the power of anticipation.
This fall I am going to Greece. There have been two guide books on my desk for almost two months. Until this moment, when I opened one to see the date on the receipt, I hadn't opened either. Today, it dawned on me how much I've been missing by not consciously making time to prepare for my trips. I will do so, I promise.
In the meantime, I've received a call from the girls' mother that they are here. Now is time to switch from anticipation to full-on enjoyment.
Years ago I heard that half the fun of a trip was planning. I am not a planner, and I really love being spontaneous on trips. Yet, I am fully aware that some of my best travel adventures are the result of enough research to figure out where the potential awaited. As my life has become more and more harried, my planning and research for trips has gotten shorter and shorter.
A doctor's appointment the day before my first trip to Italy resulted in a two-hour round trip Metro ride from the office and back, giving me my first two hours of "research." On the way out that morning, I'd grabbed one of the tourist guides that I'd acquired months early but hadn't opened. As I chugged from one end of the Metro almost to the other, I read about Ravenna, the birthplace of mosaics. On a whim, my friend and I drove across the boot of Italy for an amazing two days in Ravenna. We wouldn't have wanted to miss it, but for my doctor's appointment, we wouldn't have known what it offered.
On my way to Spain two years ago, I started my research on the plane east to Europe. I was so busy getting things under control before my vacation that I just didn't think I had time...until I was on my way. I was packing on my way out the door, too.
I know that this will be a wonderful weekend, but I also know how much fun the planning has been. Looking forward to their faces...planning and preparing special foods that I think the family will like...picking a special Chianti Classico to share with their dad...thinking about what I think the family will enjoy on their visit to DC. It's been wonderful.
The really amazing thing to me is how in my body I've been today. I should have worked, but I didn't. When their departure was delayed, I could have worked, but decided not to. I wanted to fully anticipate the visit. I made preparations, but mostly I anticipated the joy of their hugs, giggles and squeals, and passion. My heart has gotten bigger and bigger.
I just got a text that they are on the beltway. I feel giddy: like a young girl in love. Actually, I think that I am: I am in love with these girls, and I am totally enjoying the experience of anticipating them. My heart felt bigger and fluttery. There was a tickle in my throat and even some butterflies in my stomach as I anticipated.
This day has been rich because I've allowed myself to feel the joy of anticipation. As I think back about trips when I took time and space for anticipation, there was much more excitement. The last few vacations I've taken have felt very matter of fact and rushed because I have forgotten or lost the power of anticipation.
This fall I am going to Greece. There have been two guide books on my desk for almost two months. Until this moment, when I opened one to see the date on the receipt, I hadn't opened either. Today, it dawned on me how much I've been missing by not consciously making time to prepare for my trips. I will do so, I promise.
In the meantime, I've received a call from the girls' mother that they are here. Now is time to switch from anticipation to full-on enjoyment.
Monday, August 4, 2014
High tech? High touch?
Probably 20 years ago, I remember listening to an interview with Jean Houston, Ph.D., scholar, philosopher, researcher, and author on human capacities. She said something that has stuck with me ever since. Not stuck with me in the sense that if someone brought it up that I'd remember, but stuck with me in the sense that I ponder it...often...sometimes daily.
What she said that was so riveting to me was that over the course of human kind, any time there has been a major breakthrough in whatever the technology of the era was, there has been a parallel breakthrough in our ability to connect as human beings. If I recall correctly, she talked about balancing "high tech," whatever "high tech" was at that time with "high touch." If she didn't say those words, that is what my brain did with what she said.
I have played with this idea for so long that I really don't recall if the next idea was hers or one that I came up with, but in my mind's eye, over the years I have seen the early technology breakthrough of fire being balanced with the human connection breakthrough of campfires and campfire stories.
When I first heard Houston talk about this concept, she was talking about what was then the explosion of computer and internet technology, although at that time email was still pretty new. She was questioning what the human/high-touch breakthrough would be to balance it. This is what makes me ponder. What is the balance?
I love my smartphone, and I wouldn't want to be without it. Yet, as I've written before, the world seems to be drawn into one-on-one relationships with devices. When we could be more connected than ever, we seem to be connected to technology rather than to other human beings. I own that we can Skype with friends on the other side of the world as easily as vastly different time zones will allow.
When I recall lining up for a weekly call home on a single pay phone during my college days, reaching out to touch loved ones is definitely easier now, but when I've heard some of the drivel that substitutes for real conversation, I suspect that I made more connection in my once a week calls home than today's coeds do in thrice-daily calls with their mums.
At the same time, our technology has speeded life up to the extent that almost everyone I know feels like they are racing through life. It takes weeks of advanced planning to get together for an afternoon or evening with my closest friends. A more distant friend and I put a standing phone call on our calendars months ahead...and even then, we sometimes miss it.
While I fully realize that nostalgia for other times often reflects one-sided memories, and we forget how things really were, I have completely been bitten by a recent Chinet commercial during which a woman is able to slip back in time to a block party. The lead up to the time travel is that "back then," people more often connected in homes than on home pages. I really actually remember a time in my adult life when we got home at a reasonable time and could have a drink before or coffee after dinner with a neighbor. Even spontaneous "Why-don't-you-drop-by-for-dinner?" invitations were not unheard of.
Maybe what I wrestle with is the lack of spontaneity. I loved the days when I could decide after work that I wanted to call a friend for an unplanned dinner or movie. But that is an aside.
The real question is how to we make equivalent strides forward in deepening relationships that we have made in technology. I really have an idea, and fifteen years ago I felt it was a coming reality. I've written before about the ribbon of love that I believes connects all of humankind, heart to heart to heart. I used to feel an openness to that...maybe even a readiness for it. Yet, I almost feel like the attention to devices and the 24 x 7 news cycle has focused us on the negative side or life--what separates us rather than what brings us together.
Maybe asking what the high-touch breakthrough to balance the high-tech advances is the wrong question. Perhaps the real question is how can we break through barriers to the potential of connecting through the ribbon of love. That will be a breakthrough at least equal to the technology of the internet and connecting devices.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Ahhh! Accomplishment
About 15 minutes ago, I think/hope I finally put the eBook version of The Game Called Life to bed. Those who have been reading this blog for a while will recall that I started that process during the shutdown of the United States federal government last October 1. Because I couldn't find the electronic version of the book which I first wrote in 2001, Step One was to input it into a Word document. The furlough provided just enough time to finish that part of the project.
As onerous as that might sound, I really enjoyed it. Typing it required much more word-to-word attention than if I'd just sat down read it for the 20th time. It was almost as if I were writing it again. Since it had been 12 years, I enjoyed the read, and I was reminded of spiritual lessons that I know that I often forget.
Then, I returned to work. I've seemed to be running to catch up on my NASA work ever since. Months and months of hideously long hours, interrupted by several eye surgeries and procedures and two months of feverish writing on my memoir for a Huffington Post memoir contest, kept the eBook process on the back-burner for nine months.
Over the last two weeks I've indulged my creativity in cover design and my limited attention-to-details in reading contracts, attempting to figure out a number of error messages that needed to be fixed, but to which I was clueless about the remedy. A conversation with a lovely young woman with an Eastern European accent at Amazon subsidiary Create Space this afternoon walked me through my frustrations. Now, I am reveling in a sense of accomplishment with the help of a glass of red wine.
Nine months! I could have brought a little human being into the world in the same time. And, although I've never experienced childbirth, I can imagine I am experiencing a lot of the same feelings: exhaustion, relief, excitement, exhilaration, and awe. While my completion has sparked the impetus to get Choice Point and my memoir out now, I expect if I'd just gone through a real delivery process, I may not be thinking about the next child...yet.
There is a euphoria that follows the successful (I hope) completion of a long project. Having kept the focus amidst all the distraction and still not having lost sight of the goal feels good. Struggling with details and cover designs when those aren't my natural gifts empowers me with the knowing that I can do anything with enough will and determination. Most of all, I am feeling a sense of celebration.
These are the days when I would welcome a partner in my life: it would be way more fun sharing this with somebody. Today, I count myself lucky to have all of you sharing this space and my celebration with me.
As onerous as that might sound, I really enjoyed it. Typing it required much more word-to-word attention than if I'd just sat down read it for the 20th time. It was almost as if I were writing it again. Since it had been 12 years, I enjoyed the read, and I was reminded of spiritual lessons that I know that I often forget.
Then, I returned to work. I've seemed to be running to catch up on my NASA work ever since. Months and months of hideously long hours, interrupted by several eye surgeries and procedures and two months of feverish writing on my memoir for a Huffington Post memoir contest, kept the eBook process on the back-burner for nine months.
Over the last two weeks I've indulged my creativity in cover design and my limited attention-to-details in reading contracts, attempting to figure out a number of error messages that needed to be fixed, but to which I was clueless about the remedy. A conversation with a lovely young woman with an Eastern European accent at Amazon subsidiary Create Space this afternoon walked me through my frustrations. Now, I am reveling in a sense of accomplishment with the help of a glass of red wine.
Nine months! I could have brought a little human being into the world in the same time. And, although I've never experienced childbirth, I can imagine I am experiencing a lot of the same feelings: exhaustion, relief, excitement, exhilaration, and awe. While my completion has sparked the impetus to get Choice Point and my memoir out now, I expect if I'd just gone through a real delivery process, I may not be thinking about the next child...yet.
There is a euphoria that follows the successful (I hope) completion of a long project. Having kept the focus amidst all the distraction and still not having lost sight of the goal feels good. Struggling with details and cover designs when those aren't my natural gifts empowers me with the knowing that I can do anything with enough will and determination. Most of all, I am feeling a sense of celebration.
These are the days when I would welcome a partner in my life: it would be way more fun sharing this with somebody. Today, I count myself lucky to have all of you sharing this space and my celebration with me.
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