For over two decades I've done a special Thanksgiving meditation. It hasn't always fallen on Thanksgiving Day; sometimes I've done it a day or two before or after in order to accommodate travel, cooking, or social demands on the "big day." Each year my Thanksgiving meditation has proven one of the most spiritually rewarding focuses of my whole year, and once again the practice was powerful.
This year the meditation happened last evening, and I noted a difference in how my thoughts presented themselves. Generally, I've tried to think through the year, day-by-day, beginning with the last Thanksgiving. As I got to each day, I tried to recall something I'd been grateful for that particular day. On years when I've kept a gratitude journal the practice has been easier than others, like this year, when I had been sporadic in doing so.
What I discovered last evening was a struggle to even remember what had happened in the last year, even month to month, much less day to day. I believe the crazy pace of the last year of having 20 glass balls in the air at any given time, any one of which would be irreparable if dropped, has "smooched" (technical term) the year together in very non-linear way.
After fighting to make the old way work, I surrendered to what every meditator knows is the best way to reflect: let go of control. When I did, an amazing thing occurred. I held the intention to be grateful for the last year, and I surrendered to how that would occur. I was able to observe that even amidst the craziness, something larger was afoot.
Instead of working my way through the year in a linear, one-dimensional way, clusters of events, people, and occurrences bubbled up. What might have seemed unrelated on first blush actually did connect from a spiritual growth point of view. I observed progressions of seemingly unrelated events that occurred during the year that actually supported bigger spiritual lessons. Normally, I would have been grateful for single occurrences. Last night allowed me to begin to see how random events weren't isolated at all, but were very much related to evolving me spiritually.
My one-dimensional gratitude practice quickly evolved into a multi-dimensional one. This seems like important learning to me, and it is learning that I don't want to lie fallow until next Thanksgiving. I am considering "upping" the gratitude journaling practice to reflect throughout the year how an event on any given day is connected with something that occurred previously.
Before meditating last night, I watched on episode of Neil deGrasse Tyson's series "Cosmos," which aired earlier this fall. The episode that I watched last night examined DNA and how most human DNA is shared across all species, including plants. Earlier this week Louis Henry Gates looked at DNA on his "Finding Your Roots" program, where his conclusion across humans is that what we share is much more similar than what distinguishes us. Sometime in the last year, I read that humans around the world share about 97% of our DNA with all other humans.
As I drifted off to sleep last night, what spun in my head what how connected everything is. Events in our lives are not random and disconnected. Neither are we as beings or even as a species isolated. Seeing the bigger picture truly does allow us to see who we are: we are One.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Thursday, November 27, 2014
There will never be a time...
Famed mystery writer P. D. James died today at the age of 94. In the news coverage of the passing, NPR played part of an old interview with James. The lead-in to the interview was the notation that James didn't begin writing until she was middle-aged (whatever age that is.) Then she produced popular works almost until her death. In the interview, James says that she always wanted to write, but was so busy with her family and her job that she never had time. When she reached middle-age, she said, she determined that there was never going to be time to write unless she just made the time.
As I began reflecting on the last year in preparation for my annual Thanksgiving meditation, what immediately popped into my mind that I had to be grateful for in the last year was writing. For close to half of the year, I wrote posts for this blog almost daily and for two months early this year, I produced almost fifty pages of my memoir manuscript. I also connected in a deeper way with regular followers, many of whom had been in my life for years...even decades. I loved that.
When I heard the James interview, I realized that she was right. If I waited to have time to write, I wouldn't ever write. Just as she had done, I needed to make time to write.
As I reflected, I realized that what had shifted since last winter was my intention. My work hours were just as long, and I was just as mentally exhausted and tired of looking at a computer screen last winter as I am now. I even managed to keep writing pretty regularly through two eye surgeries. Last winter, however, I came home with the intention to write because I knew that doing so was feeding my soul in a way that nothing else in my life did anymore.
Today I am grateful for the time I invested in writing last winter and for the realization that I would make writing a priority again.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
As I began reflecting on the last year in preparation for my annual Thanksgiving meditation, what immediately popped into my mind that I had to be grateful for in the last year was writing. For close to half of the year, I wrote posts for this blog almost daily and for two months early this year, I produced almost fifty pages of my memoir manuscript. I also connected in a deeper way with regular followers, many of whom had been in my life for years...even decades. I loved that.
When I heard the James interview, I realized that she was right. If I waited to have time to write, I wouldn't ever write. Just as she had done, I needed to make time to write.
As I reflected, I realized that what had shifted since last winter was my intention. My work hours were just as long, and I was just as mentally exhausted and tired of looking at a computer screen last winter as I am now. I even managed to keep writing pretty regularly through two eye surgeries. Last winter, however, I came home with the intention to write because I knew that doing so was feeding my soul in a way that nothing else in my life did anymore.
Today I am grateful for the time I invested in writing last winter and for the realization that I would make writing a priority again.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Feeling Alive
I was at a professional meeting over 20 years ago where we were engaged in dialogue, attempting to support each other in learning "the Truth." One executive said he had a simple rule about what to do in life: "Do what brings you to life and life to you." When I've pondered decisions and remembered to do so, it has proven good advice for me. I am amazed how often when there are two alternatives, almost always one sparks my heart, and the other leaves me feeling lifeless.
I think that what he was saying was to follow your heart because when I do, I am energized. Even when I've had no experience with something before, my heart will point me in the right direction.
As I faced the summer between the years of graduate school, I had two choices for internships. One was with a Fortune 100 company, would have paid well, and perhaps would have led to a permanent job after graduate school. The other was unpaid and with an unknown company. I sat with a counselor who simply asked me about the paid internship, "Is it a 'yes' or a 'no'?" In that instant, I knew: it was a "no."
That summer was among the most joyful in my life. In my work with the small unknown company, I was learning every day. The work allowed me independence in solving a very complex problem. What I learned that summer has served me well in the over 20 years since then. As I've learned more about myself since that time, I know I would have been spiritually dead in the other internship. Although it most certainly would have provided me a more lucrative and secure career track, it would have been a terrible mistake.
For my whole life, I've wanted to dance. As a kid, when my family was out of the house, I'd pull the drapes closed and twirl like a dervish. Nothing in my childhood brought more life to me. For a lot of reasons, I never pursued dance until a health crisis. When threatened with paraplegia, I knew the only thing I would have missed was dance. I came through the crisis with healthy life and limb. AND, I began to dance. Never, ever have I had more joy than when I dance. Time and space stop, and magic happens.
A torn hamstring has laid me low since September, and I haven't danced since then until last Sunday. On my doctor's advice, I only danced one or two songs and then sat out the same amount of time...and I left after an hour. That was really hard, but I knew that I needed to be prudent if I wanted to get back to a dance floor on a regular basis. Yet even only dancing for 30 minutes, I was aware of how alive I felt. Long after I left the ballroom, I felt like my heart was skipping a beat in a good way, and energy surged through me for a couple days.
I am going to give it a go again tonight...cautiously. Even though I know I must exercise control, my heart has raced all afternoon with anticipation. I truly do feel alive. And, just as I intuitively knew all those years before I danced that it was calling me, I know that this evening will jump start my aliveness again.
For many years I was pretty good at following my heart; then, our overly logical world gradually eroded the receivers of my heart's messages while deafening control from my head has taken control. As I contemplate an evening of dance again and how alive it will make me feel, I wonder how I soften the messages of my head while accentuating those from my heart again. As they always did before, I am certain that they will not fail me, even when I do not understand them. Somehow, they just know.
I think that what he was saying was to follow your heart because when I do, I am energized. Even when I've had no experience with something before, my heart will point me in the right direction.
As I faced the summer between the years of graduate school, I had two choices for internships. One was with a Fortune 100 company, would have paid well, and perhaps would have led to a permanent job after graduate school. The other was unpaid and with an unknown company. I sat with a counselor who simply asked me about the paid internship, "Is it a 'yes' or a 'no'?" In that instant, I knew: it was a "no."
That summer was among the most joyful in my life. In my work with the small unknown company, I was learning every day. The work allowed me independence in solving a very complex problem. What I learned that summer has served me well in the over 20 years since then. As I've learned more about myself since that time, I know I would have been spiritually dead in the other internship. Although it most certainly would have provided me a more lucrative and secure career track, it would have been a terrible mistake.
For my whole life, I've wanted to dance. As a kid, when my family was out of the house, I'd pull the drapes closed and twirl like a dervish. Nothing in my childhood brought more life to me. For a lot of reasons, I never pursued dance until a health crisis. When threatened with paraplegia, I knew the only thing I would have missed was dance. I came through the crisis with healthy life and limb. AND, I began to dance. Never, ever have I had more joy than when I dance. Time and space stop, and magic happens.
A torn hamstring has laid me low since September, and I haven't danced since then until last Sunday. On my doctor's advice, I only danced one or two songs and then sat out the same amount of time...and I left after an hour. That was really hard, but I knew that I needed to be prudent if I wanted to get back to a dance floor on a regular basis. Yet even only dancing for 30 minutes, I was aware of how alive I felt. Long after I left the ballroom, I felt like my heart was skipping a beat in a good way, and energy surged through me for a couple days.
I am going to give it a go again tonight...cautiously. Even though I know I must exercise control, my heart has raced all afternoon with anticipation. I truly do feel alive. And, just as I intuitively knew all those years before I danced that it was calling me, I know that this evening will jump start my aliveness again.
For many years I was pretty good at following my heart; then, our overly logical world gradually eroded the receivers of my heart's messages while deafening control from my head has taken control. As I contemplate an evening of dance again and how alive it will make me feel, I wonder how I soften the messages of my head while accentuating those from my heart again. As they always did before, I am certain that they will not fail me, even when I do not understand them. Somehow, they just know.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Are You Ever Going to Grow Up?
Since writing the post "The Christmas-Crazy Kid," I've had the sense that something was missing. I wasn't sure what it was, but my regret that I might lose the childlike wonder that made me who I am sliced into me. I literally felt like I was dying; I couldn't breathe. I needed help reviving my "inner child" or maybe my outer child.
First thing the next morning, I emailed my former dance partner, the one who sang carols and loved decorating the tree and asked him if he would help me recover the child in me. The jury is still out on the answer, but just saying that to lose my child was to die was an important admission.
Sometime this evening, I recalled having been asked by someone when I was well into my adulthood, "Aren't you ever going to grow up?" as I was being playful and crazy. "Oh, my Lord!" I said, aghast at the possibility, "I hope not!" I couldn't possibly imagine why anyone, and most especially me, would want to "grow up."
Maybe the problem is and always has been that it took me well into my adulthood to become a child. Although it may seem a natural thing for a child to be, being a child wasn't for me. Born into a family of very responsible people, I was terribly adult and responsible long before starting school. My parents grew up with the poverty and responsibility so I suspect that they were never children either. And, it was passed down.
Many think that childhood is related to the years one has lived. I don't think that is so. I think childhood is an inner state, and I am certain that it comes from the heart. Having done so myself, I am certain that we can fall in and out of childhood.
I can't really say when I learned to be a child. I do know that between my terribly responsible freshman year in college when I had a very high grade point average but absolutely no fun and the end of my sophomore year when I had way too much fun something shifted in me. But, that wasn't when I found the child in me. Being a child connotes an innocence, and that was just a wild and crazy year.
Yet, even though it was just wild and crazy, that transition allowed me to shed the mantle of over-responsibility. I've never really stopped being responsible for myself, but at least from time to time, I'd like to think that I have given up being responsible for the whole world. I would like to think that, but most of the time, I think that just isn't so. I do worry terribly about the ills of our world from war and poverty to global warming.
I find that I wrestle with understanding what it means to be a child since I am sure I wasn't one when I was young and am not sure when I became one. Although I am not sure it makes sense, what comes to me is that being a child has more to do with tuning in to who I am and letting go of expectations of others. A fundamental part of who I am is worrying about the ills of our world, and I think I did that from a very young age.
I googled "What does it mean to be a child?" and I thank barbaracdf on Yahoo Answers for her thought that "...being a child at heart is being sweet, true, say what's on your mind in a cute way, and most....very loving!!!"* Her thought captures the essence I'd been searching for and what took me so long to find. Being true. Saying what's on my mind in a cute and unabrasive way. Without the innocence of my child, saying what's on my mind can be abrasive. Being loving. Add to that playfulness, and I think we've got it.
But, perhaps the most poignant part of barbaracdf's comment is about "being loving." I don't think when I was a child that I knew what it was to be loving, because I hadn't experienced loving much. When I experienced lovingness, I found my child. I found the safety to be playful...and I was.
That is probably what I captured sometime in my thirties when I think I finally found my child. I found what it meant to be true to me, to be playful, to experience humor, and to laugh. And, no, I don't ever want to grow up and lose those things.
*https://au.answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100422093017AAlG5mR
First thing the next morning, I emailed my former dance partner, the one who sang carols and loved decorating the tree and asked him if he would help me recover the child in me. The jury is still out on the answer, but just saying that to lose my child was to die was an important admission.
Sometime this evening, I recalled having been asked by someone when I was well into my adulthood, "Aren't you ever going to grow up?" as I was being playful and crazy. "Oh, my Lord!" I said, aghast at the possibility, "I hope not!" I couldn't possibly imagine why anyone, and most especially me, would want to "grow up."
Maybe the problem is and always has been that it took me well into my adulthood to become a child. Although it may seem a natural thing for a child to be, being a child wasn't for me. Born into a family of very responsible people, I was terribly adult and responsible long before starting school. My parents grew up with the poverty and responsibility so I suspect that they were never children either. And, it was passed down.
Many think that childhood is related to the years one has lived. I don't think that is so. I think childhood is an inner state, and I am certain that it comes from the heart. Having done so myself, I am certain that we can fall in and out of childhood.
I can't really say when I learned to be a child. I do know that between my terribly responsible freshman year in college when I had a very high grade point average but absolutely no fun and the end of my sophomore year when I had way too much fun something shifted in me. But, that wasn't when I found the child in me. Being a child connotes an innocence, and that was just a wild and crazy year.
Yet, even though it was just wild and crazy, that transition allowed me to shed the mantle of over-responsibility. I've never really stopped being responsible for myself, but at least from time to time, I'd like to think that I have given up being responsible for the whole world. I would like to think that, but most of the time, I think that just isn't so. I do worry terribly about the ills of our world from war and poverty to global warming.
I find that I wrestle with understanding what it means to be a child since I am sure I wasn't one when I was young and am not sure when I became one. Although I am not sure it makes sense, what comes to me is that being a child has more to do with tuning in to who I am and letting go of expectations of others. A fundamental part of who I am is worrying about the ills of our world, and I think I did that from a very young age.
I googled "What does it mean to be a child?" and I thank barbaracdf on Yahoo Answers for her thought that "...being a child at heart is being sweet, true, say what's on your mind in a cute way, and most....very loving!!!"* Her thought captures the essence I'd been searching for and what took me so long to find. Being true. Saying what's on my mind in a cute and unabrasive way. Without the innocence of my child, saying what's on my mind can be abrasive. Being loving. Add to that playfulness, and I think we've got it.
But, perhaps the most poignant part of barbaracdf's comment is about "being loving." I don't think when I was a child that I knew what it was to be loving, because I hadn't experienced loving much. When I experienced lovingness, I found my child. I found the safety to be playful...and I was.
That is probably what I captured sometime in my thirties when I think I finally found my child. I found what it meant to be true to me, to be playful, to experience humor, and to laugh. And, no, I don't ever want to grow up and lose those things.
*https://au.answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100422093017AAlG5mR
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
The Christmas-Crazy Kid
The day after Halloween, it started: the Halloween candy replaced with red, green and silver wrapped Hershey kisses and red and green M & Ms. Not long after that an occasional carol. By the second week of November the cable channels were playing Christmas movies.
For much of my life, I was the Christmas-Crazy kid. I delighted in finding just the perfect gift for each special person in my life, and I could hardly wait to make Christmas cookies. Planning and cooking for a large holiday open house was a highlight of the season, and I had reduced decorating to a fine art. A former dance partner started playing carols non-stop at Thanksgiving, and we knew every word to every song and belted them out at the tops of our lungs as we drove down the highway.
The whole season was special, but the most special was Christmas Eve. I always planned a special dinner, and I could hardly wait to see loved ones open the special gifts I'd carefully shopped for. I am certain that I was more excited to see the joy in their eyes than any anticipation I had about my own gifts. Finally, the evening would be topped off with midnight church service and carol singing. A little snow was always nice, but truthfully, since I spent half of my adult life in Oregon, rain was more likely.
That Christmas-Crazy Kid was truly like a kid...even though I'd 40. There was something triggere inside me that was like being 8 or 9 again...year after year after year. My parents did a really good job at being Santa, so much so that I was the only kid in my fourth grade class who still believed. The moment that even a hint of the season approached, I was transported back in time.
I am not sure how or why I lost that kid, and I am not sure that I fully acknowledged that until I hrrmphed at the sight of those red, green and silver Hershey kisses on November 1. Some would say that it is the normal aging process, but I don't believe that. I think the magic of Christmas lies in delighting those around us, whether with specially sought gifts, lovingly prepared foods, or Christmas decorations unwrapped year after year, each with a memory attached.
Maybe it is the pace of life. Taking time to really know people well enough to actually be able to find the perfect gift appears to be a figment of the past, and often an obligatory gift card fulfilling a duty substitutes for the loving care that was once an important part of Christmas shopping. I have to say that until I started writing this post that I'd flirted with not even getting a tree this year, and that seems like waving the flag of surrender to my inner humbug. And I won't give in to this creeping...creeping...what?
Thirty years ago there was a movie called "The Neverending Story--Part I." In the fantasy, a young boy named Bastion is charged with stopping "the great Nothing," a force taking over the world. Wikipedia describes The Nothing as "human apathy, cynicism, and the denial of childish dreams." The Nothing occurs when we lose our capacity to feel. Imagination through the power of wishing is the only thing that can overcome The Nothing.
Somewhere, somehow, I think the Nothing stole the Christmas-Crazy Kid from me. I need Bastian's help...fast...I am in danger of losing the Kid in me. My childish dreams kept the spirit of Christmas alive inside of me. After all, isn't that a big part of what Christmas is all about: finding the kid inside each of us.
I have some serious work to do over the next week when the traditional Christmas season starts at Thanksgiving. The serious work is to find my childish dreams and imagination. I wish, I wish, I wish...Bastion, I need your help...!
For much of my life, I was the Christmas-Crazy kid. I delighted in finding just the perfect gift for each special person in my life, and I could hardly wait to make Christmas cookies. Planning and cooking for a large holiday open house was a highlight of the season, and I had reduced decorating to a fine art. A former dance partner started playing carols non-stop at Thanksgiving, and we knew every word to every song and belted them out at the tops of our lungs as we drove down the highway.
The whole season was special, but the most special was Christmas Eve. I always planned a special dinner, and I could hardly wait to see loved ones open the special gifts I'd carefully shopped for. I am certain that I was more excited to see the joy in their eyes than any anticipation I had about my own gifts. Finally, the evening would be topped off with midnight church service and carol singing. A little snow was always nice, but truthfully, since I spent half of my adult life in Oregon, rain was more likely.
That Christmas-Crazy Kid was truly like a kid...even though I'd 40. There was something triggere inside me that was like being 8 or 9 again...year after year after year. My parents did a really good job at being Santa, so much so that I was the only kid in my fourth grade class who still believed. The moment that even a hint of the season approached, I was transported back in time.
I am not sure how or why I lost that kid, and I am not sure that I fully acknowledged that until I hrrmphed at the sight of those red, green and silver Hershey kisses on November 1. Some would say that it is the normal aging process, but I don't believe that. I think the magic of Christmas lies in delighting those around us, whether with specially sought gifts, lovingly prepared foods, or Christmas decorations unwrapped year after year, each with a memory attached.
Maybe it is the pace of life. Taking time to really know people well enough to actually be able to find the perfect gift appears to be a figment of the past, and often an obligatory gift card fulfilling a duty substitutes for the loving care that was once an important part of Christmas shopping. I have to say that until I started writing this post that I'd flirted with not even getting a tree this year, and that seems like waving the flag of surrender to my inner humbug. And I won't give in to this creeping...creeping...what?
Thirty years ago there was a movie called "The Neverending Story--Part I." In the fantasy, a young boy named Bastion is charged with stopping "the great Nothing," a force taking over the world. Wikipedia describes The Nothing as "human apathy, cynicism, and the denial of childish dreams." The Nothing occurs when we lose our capacity to feel. Imagination through the power of wishing is the only thing that can overcome The Nothing.
Somewhere, somehow, I think the Nothing stole the Christmas-Crazy Kid from me. I need Bastian's help...fast...I am in danger of losing the Kid in me. My childish dreams kept the spirit of Christmas alive inside of me. After all, isn't that a big part of what Christmas is all about: finding the kid inside each of us.
I have some serious work to do over the next week when the traditional Christmas season starts at Thanksgiving. The serious work is to find my childish dreams and imagination. I wish, I wish, I wish...Bastion, I need your help...!
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Let Go of Your Plan....
Much of my life has been magical. One door closed, another opened. One relationship ended, the next week another began. Whenever I needed resources, suddenly they appeared. Tired of one job, as soon as I'd say it was time for something else, another was there. Once I was chastised by an executive in the community for not letting him know I was looking because he would have liked to hire me: alas, I told him, I wasn't really looking.
Then somewhere along the line, something shifted. I cannot pinpoint when the change occurred, but I do know it was somewhere around the time that the world got much more focused on goals, metrics, master minding, and being able to demonstrate a plan and progress toward execution. I know it happened for me; I think it happened for a number of my clients. What happened?
I watched a movie over the weekend in which there was a line, "Let go of your plan and let Fate carry you." In that moment, a thought crystallized that I haven't considered for a long time. It has to do with letting God be God. In the old days when a relationship or job began to feel stale, I'd let God know it was time for something new. (My intention) But, I didn't try to figure out next steps or what I wanted. I just let God send me something better, and inevitably, it was.
I've been wanting a relationship for years. I've put together the collages that the proponents on Oprah have espoused, and I've put them under my mattress so that I could send the Universe my message as I slept. I've occasionally perused internet dating sites with unsatisfying results. I've even attended events that I thought would attract my kind of guy. Needless to say, I've been available at dances.
A more satisfying job has been on my wish list, too. I've applied for a bunch for which I was well qualified without any response. I did that again this afternoon, spending several hours modifying my resume for the keywords in the posting so that the technology could find me.
When I heard that line last night, "Let go of your plan and let Fate carry you," I knew it was time to let God be God again. Let be whatever will be to my higher good and that of the Universe. Wow! I can exhale because I can let go of attempting a job for which I will never qualify: the job of being God. I do believe what the actor in the movie implied by "...let Fate carry you," is to allow myself to flow with what God wants to happen. Allow miracles to happen. So, I will...let go of my plan and let Fate carry me.
Then somewhere along the line, something shifted. I cannot pinpoint when the change occurred, but I do know it was somewhere around the time that the world got much more focused on goals, metrics, master minding, and being able to demonstrate a plan and progress toward execution. I know it happened for me; I think it happened for a number of my clients. What happened?
I watched a movie over the weekend in which there was a line, "Let go of your plan and let Fate carry you." In that moment, a thought crystallized that I haven't considered for a long time. It has to do with letting God be God. In the old days when a relationship or job began to feel stale, I'd let God know it was time for something new. (My intention) But, I didn't try to figure out next steps or what I wanted. I just let God send me something better, and inevitably, it was.
I've been wanting a relationship for years. I've put together the collages that the proponents on Oprah have espoused, and I've put them under my mattress so that I could send the Universe my message as I slept. I've occasionally perused internet dating sites with unsatisfying results. I've even attended events that I thought would attract my kind of guy. Needless to say, I've been available at dances.
A more satisfying job has been on my wish list, too. I've applied for a bunch for which I was well qualified without any response. I did that again this afternoon, spending several hours modifying my resume for the keywords in the posting so that the technology could find me.
When I heard that line last night, "Let go of your plan and let Fate carry you," I knew it was time to let God be God again. Let be whatever will be to my higher good and that of the Universe. Wow! I can exhale because I can let go of attempting a job for which I will never qualify: the job of being God. I do believe what the actor in the movie implied by "...let Fate carry you," is to allow myself to flow with what God wants to happen. Allow miracles to happen. So, I will...let go of my plan and let Fate carry me.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Loving My Emotions
Anyone who has known me five minutes probably knows that I wear my emotions on my sleeves. I cry at ribbon cuttings. Just a passing thought will bring a lump to my throat. Even when I was a teenager when we would play a card game that I later would come to know as liar's poker, I always lost big. Friends would always say I could neither lie nor hide my feelings.
Today is Veterans Day. Since coming to Washington, I've made it a practice to walk around the Tidal Basin, visiting each of the memorials to one war or another. Once I went to another part of town to see a memorial to African-American soldiers who fought in the Civil War, 250,000 or so of them, as I recall. That lump in my throat has always been a constant, and sometimes tears fill my eyes, rolling down my cheeks.
I cannot visit the World War II memorial without thinking about the toll that war took on my father. The World War I memorial, a very simple one which is easy to miss, reminds me of both my grandfathers, who went away as boys. They came home as men, one of them badly broken by what we would call Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) now. Shell shock was the term used then. Just the distant sight of the Vietnam War Memorial wall brings to mind a friend in my high school car pool, who was killed shortly after arriving in Vietnam.
I don't really know why I am so emotional, but if I were to guess, I think it is a deep sense of loss, not only of lives nipped so young, but of the loss of a very human part of those who did return. Unlike me with my emotions on my sleeves, many of them cannot find that vital part of themselves. Others, like my dad, can only find that part of themselves when they withdraw from family members and spend time with other veterans.
My day started when I heard about London's recognition of the 888,246 people from Britain and her colonies who died during World War I. I was predisposed to feel tears roll down my cheeks as I looked at 888,246 ceramic poppies filling the "moat" of the Tower of London, one for each life lost in the "war to end all wars." (http://www.cnn.com/2014/11/07/world/europe/tower-of-london-poppies/index.html?hpt=wo_c2)
Since I am still getting around stiffly, my annual walk around the Tidal Basin wasn't an option this year. My friend, who has joined me before on the memorial walk, joined me instead for a visit to Washington's Newseum. Although I was feeling a pang of guilt at not doing something more "veteransy," it ended up that the Universe had other ideas. We were going for a photo exhibit, but then we wandered around parts of the museum we hadn't seen before.
Coincident to the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, we spent quite a bit a time at the Berlin Wall exhibit. A rather large (maybe 25 to 30 feet long by about a dozen feet tall) piece of the Wall, covered with graffiti on one side and stark concrete on the other, mirrored the marked differences in life on the two sides of the Wall before it fell. A guard station towered over the segment of the wall. What was really moving, though, were pictures and video clips about that time in the Cold War when the world was torn apart by a war of words, wills, and walls.
I choked, thinking about a friend who was from Germany. We were in Graduate School at the time the Wall fell. She couldn't believe the fall.
In a video interview with a man, who had been a guard in the American Sector of Berlin, told of a young East German man who had been shot and lay screaming for help just a few feet away. I was reminded that this was a war with casualties, just as all those wars honored with memorials on the mall. As I watched the videos of families, torn apart because they lived in different parts of a single city, flood through the Wall, I couldn't help but think about similar reunions at the end of "real" wars. More lumps in my throat.
The Universe had conspired to keep me in the reflective state of heart and mind that my walk around the memorials usually produced. There was no way, however, that I could have guessed the exhibit that would move me the most. It is an exhibit that many Americans would find moving, but I am certain I had a somewhat different experience. The part of the museum that really choked me up was the one that was dedicated to the onset of the "War on Terror"-- the 9/11 exhibit.
You see, on September 10, 2001, I went into my usual fall silent retreat. While I'd usually done that at home, I had the opportunity to use a rural retreat center about 25 miles from my home. Since the center was usually used only on the weekends, I was there alone. When I headed home in the late afternoon on the 13th, I turned on the radio news, expecting the usual fare.
What I heard was far from a standard newscast. Many disjointed stories that made no sense to me. Something had obviously happened, but after two days of the normal news cycle, the assumption built into every story was that everyone on the planet must know what I did not. I was still confused when I finally arrived home 30 minutes later, so I flipped on the TV to see if I could learn more. It was a full year during anniversary of 9/11 that I finally saw pictures of the plane flying into the World Trade Center.
Only today did the full impact of those events reach me...and touch me. I literally had no idea. It truly was war. I bit my lip to keep from turning into a puddle right in the museum.
After my friend went her way, I sat in the sun for a long while just reflecting, thinking about the "regular" war memorials and pondering the salutes to the less conventional. For several hours, my emotions took me to a deep soulful place.
Sometimes the lump in my throat is embarrassing. I have wished that I didn't tear up so easily. But those same emotions are what make me really human and connect me with people across time and space. I can be with my father in northern Africa, France and Italy, long after he is gone. I am with my grandfathers in trenches in France a century ago. Today, I was with people in Berlin racing through the Wall and a teenage girl, looking for her dad, missing after 9/11. This evening I connected with a Medal of Honor winner, whose own eyes filled with tears, during the Concert for Valor
Today, I love my emotions...and the places they take me.
Today is Veterans Day. Since coming to Washington, I've made it a practice to walk around the Tidal Basin, visiting each of the memorials to one war or another. Once I went to another part of town to see a memorial to African-American soldiers who fought in the Civil War, 250,000 or so of them, as I recall. That lump in my throat has always been a constant, and sometimes tears fill my eyes, rolling down my cheeks.
I cannot visit the World War II memorial without thinking about the toll that war took on my father. The World War I memorial, a very simple one which is easy to miss, reminds me of both my grandfathers, who went away as boys. They came home as men, one of them badly broken by what we would call Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) now. Shell shock was the term used then. Just the distant sight of the Vietnam War Memorial wall brings to mind a friend in my high school car pool, who was killed shortly after arriving in Vietnam.
I don't really know why I am so emotional, but if I were to guess, I think it is a deep sense of loss, not only of lives nipped so young, but of the loss of a very human part of those who did return. Unlike me with my emotions on my sleeves, many of them cannot find that vital part of themselves. Others, like my dad, can only find that part of themselves when they withdraw from family members and spend time with other veterans.
My day started when I heard about London's recognition of the 888,246 people from Britain and her colonies who died during World War I. I was predisposed to feel tears roll down my cheeks as I looked at 888,246 ceramic poppies filling the "moat" of the Tower of London, one for each life lost in the "war to end all wars." (http://www.cnn.com/2014/11/07/world/europe/tower-of-london-poppies/index.html?hpt=wo_c2)
Since I am still getting around stiffly, my annual walk around the Tidal Basin wasn't an option this year. My friend, who has joined me before on the memorial walk, joined me instead for a visit to Washington's Newseum. Although I was feeling a pang of guilt at not doing something more "veteransy," it ended up that the Universe had other ideas. We were going for a photo exhibit, but then we wandered around parts of the museum we hadn't seen before.
Coincident to the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, we spent quite a bit a time at the Berlin Wall exhibit. A rather large (maybe 25 to 30 feet long by about a dozen feet tall) piece of the Wall, covered with graffiti on one side and stark concrete on the other, mirrored the marked differences in life on the two sides of the Wall before it fell. A guard station towered over the segment of the wall. What was really moving, though, were pictures and video clips about that time in the Cold War when the world was torn apart by a war of words, wills, and walls.
I choked, thinking about a friend who was from Germany. We were in Graduate School at the time the Wall fell. She couldn't believe the fall.
In a video interview with a man, who had been a guard in the American Sector of Berlin, told of a young East German man who had been shot and lay screaming for help just a few feet away. I was reminded that this was a war with casualties, just as all those wars honored with memorials on the mall. As I watched the videos of families, torn apart because they lived in different parts of a single city, flood through the Wall, I couldn't help but think about similar reunions at the end of "real" wars. More lumps in my throat.
The Universe had conspired to keep me in the reflective state of heart and mind that my walk around the memorials usually produced. There was no way, however, that I could have guessed the exhibit that would move me the most. It is an exhibit that many Americans would find moving, but I am certain I had a somewhat different experience. The part of the museum that really choked me up was the one that was dedicated to the onset of the "War on Terror"-- the 9/11 exhibit.
You see, on September 10, 2001, I went into my usual fall silent retreat. While I'd usually done that at home, I had the opportunity to use a rural retreat center about 25 miles from my home. Since the center was usually used only on the weekends, I was there alone. When I headed home in the late afternoon on the 13th, I turned on the radio news, expecting the usual fare.
What I heard was far from a standard newscast. Many disjointed stories that made no sense to me. Something had obviously happened, but after two days of the normal news cycle, the assumption built into every story was that everyone on the planet must know what I did not. I was still confused when I finally arrived home 30 minutes later, so I flipped on the TV to see if I could learn more. It was a full year during anniversary of 9/11 that I finally saw pictures of the plane flying into the World Trade Center.
Only today did the full impact of those events reach me...and touch me. I literally had no idea. It truly was war. I bit my lip to keep from turning into a puddle right in the museum.
After my friend went her way, I sat in the sun for a long while just reflecting, thinking about the "regular" war memorials and pondering the salutes to the less conventional. For several hours, my emotions took me to a deep soulful place.
Sometimes the lump in my throat is embarrassing. I have wished that I didn't tear up so easily. But those same emotions are what make me really human and connect me with people across time and space. I can be with my father in northern Africa, France and Italy, long after he is gone. I am with my grandfathers in trenches in France a century ago. Today, I was with people in Berlin racing through the Wall and a teenage girl, looking for her dad, missing after 9/11. This evening I connected with a Medal of Honor winner, whose own eyes filled with tears, during the Concert for Valor
Today, I love my emotions...and the places they take me.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Have a Story to Tell
Last winter an artist friend created a wonderful collage which she then cut into pieces and shared with many of her friends. I have loved my own piece. (See blogpost, January 5 of this year, "Pieces of the Whole" to see the collage. http://youknowinyourheart.blogspot.com/2014/01/pieces-of-whole.html)
When I was cleaning my desk last weekend, I found a different piece of the collage, sent to me by a mutual friend of the artist's and my own. Featured prominently in the piece she had sent were the words, "Have a Story to Tell."
I really don't remember when she sent this to me; she frequently gifts me with little timely mementos. The fact that I don't remember getting this usually means I wasn't ready to do something with it until now. "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear," kind of thing. It is now displayed prominently on my desk, and I've been sitting on this for over a week. Almost every day, sometimes multiple times, I look at it and think, "What is the story I want to tell?"
Last winter I stalled on writing my memoir after over 100 pages because I couldn't figure out what the story was. It felt like a bunch of anecdotes. There were commonalities: resilience, overcoming, persevering, spiritual learning and growth, but what was I trying to communicate in this book? I wish I could say that I have the answer, but as I've pondered "Have a Story to Tell" over the last week, I still don't know the answer.
What has become increasingly clear is that we can use the same words and relate the same events, but based on the story we want to tell, they can take on vastly different meanings. For instance, this weekend presents an example. In the last week, my less-than-two-years-old-but-off-warranty refrigerator, my food processor (mandatory equipment for a foodie like me,) and my rather expensive computer battery for my five-year-old computer have all sent up the message that they are not long for this world. Depending on whether I replace the expensive battery or the aging computer, these three items could easily cost me over $1,000.
What is the story I could tell about those somewhat objective facts? If I wanted to be a victim, I could say that just as I've gotten myself out of a financial hole and where I can start saving for retirement again, the Universe is unloading on me...again. The story could be: "You just can't win."
Or, I could tell the story that "At least things have held off until I was in a position to be able to replace them." The story might be: "Whew! Just dodged a bullet, but it isn't safe to exhale yet."
Still another story might be that I reached out to friends and discovered less expensive alternatives, which won't totally solve my problems, but which will extend the life of these items so that I can plan replacement and not pay for them all at once. (Actually, I got a real bargain on a food processor, and since I know my priorities, I did spring for that replacement right away.)
Which is true? They all are, of course. But the one that I attach myself to will influence my attitude toward life. Do I want to be a victim? Then Story One will be the one I choose. Do I want to feel supported by my friends and the Universe and feel empowered to control what is thrown my way? Then Story Three is my choice. I am choosing Story Three.
As I look at this beautiful three by six-inch piece of collage with "Have a Story to Tell," featuring prominently, I am reminded I cannot control what comes my way, but I am always of choice about the meaning I assign what comes my way.
What is the story I want to tell about my life? I am still working on that one, but knowing that I assign the meaning may have just taken me one step closer to the answer.
When I was cleaning my desk last weekend, I found a different piece of the collage, sent to me by a mutual friend of the artist's and my own. Featured prominently in the piece she had sent were the words, "Have a Story to Tell."
I really don't remember when she sent this to me; she frequently gifts me with little timely mementos. The fact that I don't remember getting this usually means I wasn't ready to do something with it until now. "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear," kind of thing. It is now displayed prominently on my desk, and I've been sitting on this for over a week. Almost every day, sometimes multiple times, I look at it and think, "What is the story I want to tell?"
Last winter I stalled on writing my memoir after over 100 pages because I couldn't figure out what the story was. It felt like a bunch of anecdotes. There were commonalities: resilience, overcoming, persevering, spiritual learning and growth, but what was I trying to communicate in this book? I wish I could say that I have the answer, but as I've pondered "Have a Story to Tell" over the last week, I still don't know the answer.
What has become increasingly clear is that we can use the same words and relate the same events, but based on the story we want to tell, they can take on vastly different meanings. For instance, this weekend presents an example. In the last week, my less-than-two-years-old-but-off-warranty refrigerator, my food processor (mandatory equipment for a foodie like me,) and my rather expensive computer battery for my five-year-old computer have all sent up the message that they are not long for this world. Depending on whether I replace the expensive battery or the aging computer, these three items could easily cost me over $1,000.
What is the story I could tell about those somewhat objective facts? If I wanted to be a victim, I could say that just as I've gotten myself out of a financial hole and where I can start saving for retirement again, the Universe is unloading on me...again. The story could be: "You just can't win."
Or, I could tell the story that "At least things have held off until I was in a position to be able to replace them." The story might be: "Whew! Just dodged a bullet, but it isn't safe to exhale yet."
Still another story might be that I reached out to friends and discovered less expensive alternatives, which won't totally solve my problems, but which will extend the life of these items so that I can plan replacement and not pay for them all at once. (Actually, I got a real bargain on a food processor, and since I know my priorities, I did spring for that replacement right away.)
Which is true? They all are, of course. But the one that I attach myself to will influence my attitude toward life. Do I want to be a victim? Then Story One will be the one I choose. Do I want to feel supported by my friends and the Universe and feel empowered to control what is thrown my way? Then Story Three is my choice. I am choosing Story Three.
As I look at this beautiful three by six-inch piece of collage with "Have a Story to Tell," featuring prominently, I am reminded I cannot control what comes my way, but I am always of choice about the meaning I assign what comes my way.
What is the story I want to tell about my life? I am still working on that one, but knowing that I assign the meaning may have just taken me one step closer to the answer.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
What To Do With An Extra Hour
Yesterday I heard a commentator pondering what to do with an extra hour this weekend. He suggested a number of options from reading one of several books that he had purchased but never had time to read to starting or completing a number of projects around the house. I used my extra hour this weekend to attend a fascinating lecture. It felt like a guilty pleasure, and because I had an extra hour, it was mine to indulge.
The commentary got me started thinking, not only about what to do with the extra hour this weekend, but also about settling into a normal work schedule. After a year of 11- and 12-hour days, would I know how to use two extra hours each day? Last week I worked in a different organization and I was able to leave almost-on-time two days.
I found myself at loose ends when I got home at 6. I did a number of little projects, including making phone calls to businesses that are usually closed by the time I got home. But, mostly I frittered the time away without focus. I couldn't remember when I hadn't felt like I was on a dead-run from project to project without time to breathe. Suddenly, I had time to exhale, and I'd forgotten how.
The commentary yesterday reminded me that I didn't have an extra hour in a weekend, but would soon have an extra two hours a day. I want to be intentional about what I do with the gift of an extra day each week. I am not sure that I've ever really appreciated what a gift time is, and there are things I really want to make sure that I accomplish. What would take me where I wanted to go? I had some ideas.
Yesterday I entertained some special women friends for a lazy, lingering brunch. After they were gone, and I'd cleaned up my kitchen, I decided that Job One was cleaning off my desk. Actually, that isn't quite right. My desk was clean, but only because I'd gathered up the mess before my guests arrived and shoved it into a closet. Intuitively, I knew that I couldn't be intentional about dispensing with my extra hours if I didn't know what was in my stack.
I reduced the stack by half and then started a list. Writing is on the top of it. I hope that you will soon be seeing more regular posts to this blog because I have a full page of notes about posts to write. My head was literally spinning with all the ideas. More came this morning in church. Others have popped in this afternoon. I felt like cleaning the desk had cleared out thinking room in my brain.
Getting back in shape is right up there too. Exercising isn't really competing for writing with Number One. Exercising is how I used to clear the cobwebs of the day's activities from my brain so that I could listen. Exercising feels more to me like how I facilitate writing than competition with writing for time.
On the desk, I also found my list of last-day items that I'd created after a blog post last winter about living each day as if it is your last. Since it got buried in the stack, nothing more had been accomplished. The list has worked its way to the top of my stack.
Amazingly for me, that is where I stopped, and that's a good thing. I tend to be someone who makes big lists and then accomplishes just a few items before either becoming overwhelmed or getting distracted. I think it is good that I am being very intentional about how I will use my extra day each week.
I also think it is good that I don't fill every moment with replacement activities. I want to have time to exhale; that is something I don't want to forget. Who knows? When I exhale, I might just make space to breathe in new and wonderful miracles that I can't anticipate. That is where I allow God to be God.
The commentary got me started thinking, not only about what to do with the extra hour this weekend, but also about settling into a normal work schedule. After a year of 11- and 12-hour days, would I know how to use two extra hours each day? Last week I worked in a different organization and I was able to leave almost-on-time two days.
I found myself at loose ends when I got home at 6. I did a number of little projects, including making phone calls to businesses that are usually closed by the time I got home. But, mostly I frittered the time away without focus. I couldn't remember when I hadn't felt like I was on a dead-run from project to project without time to breathe. Suddenly, I had time to exhale, and I'd forgotten how.
The commentary yesterday reminded me that I didn't have an extra hour in a weekend, but would soon have an extra two hours a day. I want to be intentional about what I do with the gift of an extra day each week. I am not sure that I've ever really appreciated what a gift time is, and there are things I really want to make sure that I accomplish. What would take me where I wanted to go? I had some ideas.
Yesterday I entertained some special women friends for a lazy, lingering brunch. After they were gone, and I'd cleaned up my kitchen, I decided that Job One was cleaning off my desk. Actually, that isn't quite right. My desk was clean, but only because I'd gathered up the mess before my guests arrived and shoved it into a closet. Intuitively, I knew that I couldn't be intentional about dispensing with my extra hours if I didn't know what was in my stack.
I reduced the stack by half and then started a list. Writing is on the top of it. I hope that you will soon be seeing more regular posts to this blog because I have a full page of notes about posts to write. My head was literally spinning with all the ideas. More came this morning in church. Others have popped in this afternoon. I felt like cleaning the desk had cleared out thinking room in my brain.
Getting back in shape is right up there too. Exercising isn't really competing for writing with Number One. Exercising is how I used to clear the cobwebs of the day's activities from my brain so that I could listen. Exercising feels more to me like how I facilitate writing than competition with writing for time.
On the desk, I also found my list of last-day items that I'd created after a blog post last winter about living each day as if it is your last. Since it got buried in the stack, nothing more had been accomplished. The list has worked its way to the top of my stack.
Amazingly for me, that is where I stopped, and that's a good thing. I tend to be someone who makes big lists and then accomplishes just a few items before either becoming overwhelmed or getting distracted. I think it is good that I am being very intentional about how I will use my extra day each week.
I also think it is good that I don't fill every moment with replacement activities. I want to have time to exhale; that is something I don't want to forget. Who knows? When I exhale, I might just make space to breathe in new and wonderful miracles that I can't anticipate. That is where I allow God to be God.
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