December

The following dissertation has become my “tradition” each December. Written in 1993, for my newspaper column in the Island Independent; it came to me in a rush of inspiration, whispered by the muse and birthed in a moment of pure emotion. I was invited to recite it with my daughter at a holiday festival that year at the Whidbey Island Theatre, just before Christmas.

Kaeleigh was six, poised beyond her years, beautiful in her forest-and-crimson flowered dress, black patent shoes and ribbon roses in her hair. I wore a claret-colored silk-velvet dress, circa 1910, a treasured souvenir bought in an antique shop outside of London when I was twenty. The stage was frosted in blue light, with a thin scattering of imitation snow; a forest of bare willow branches loomed in the background and George Winston began to play December through the auditorium speakers.

We walked out on stage, hand in hand, my child and I. Kaeleigh climbed up on a wooden box, placed so she could reach the microphone, and we waited a moment before we began, just for effect, just to stand together in that enchanted glittering twilight. I couldn’t see the audience in the darkness beyond the stage, but there was an anticipatory hush, audible and warm as milk; green and red lights winked above the far-shadowed balcony and I remember the smell of my daughter’s freshly washed hair, the curve of her little cheek in the spotlight, the excitement in her eyes. And that one moment was so full of sweetness and magic, so intensely symbolic of what this time of year is all about, no matter what religion or culture we come from; every once in awhile, for no reason at all, I pull that moment out and hold it, like a jewel in my hand… and especially now, in this most sacred and joyous of seasons. It remains one of my dearest memories, and the following essay remains my favorite offering to the spirit of the passing year. I hope you enjoy it.

T T T T T T T

December, again. Is it possible? I could have sworn school just started. And wasn't it only last week that Kaeleigh was wrestling with the gravity of her decision between the fairy princess costume, or the black cat with claws and makeup whiskers? Yet, here I am, starting lists of holiday “have-to's,” flipping through my date book, marking deadlines and meetings and concerts and omigodwhenamIgoingtogoshopping?

And then, suddenly, in the midst of page flipping and phone calling, I am struck by the memory of a bus trip I took in college, over the winter break to visit a friend in Idaho. It was bitter cold outside, but the bus was warm and the engine rumbled and hummed, like a singer in his sleep. I remember, vividly, the images, the colors of the passing landscape, chocolate browns and velvets, earth and ice and steely sky. The trees were simple and bare, stark dancers trailing scarves of wood smoke over the horizon; three white horses ran in a field along the fence line beside us. And at dusk, stopped at a traffic light in some in-between, sleepy little town, I remember a small cafe' window, aglow with a string of twinkling faerie lights, and a sign that read, “Peace On Earth”. . .

December isn't an appointment in a date book. It isn't a calendar line, or a string of juggled obligations. It is a landscape, an experience steeped in color and sound and history. It is the fragrance of sugar cookies and cedar, the way the air tastes when the sky is so cold you're certain it will snow at any minute. It is red and green and tinsel colored, but it’s also purple, the color of plum wine; gold ribbon and silver stars on midnight blue paper. There are jolly elves and flying reindeer and singing snowmen; but there is also the longest night of the year, and the slow, quiet turning of the Earth towards spring.

December is the light of seven candles through a lace curtain, families holding hands around a dinner table, and a bell ringing for the hungry and the homeless. It is a time of magic and wishes; it is the power of love and the possibility of angels. And it is the face of every newborn child, bright with the fire of hope in their eyes, that we all might come together one starlit night, and realize a miracle.

Blessings to all of you, this wonder-filled, magical season, and may all your wishes come true.

 

Livin’ on a Prayer, Part Deux: Patience, Faith and Party Dresses

When I was in junior high, a friend of mine got a poster for her birthday, depicting two cartoon vultures sitting side-by-side in a tree. One vulture leans over and says to the other one, “Patience, my ass. I’m going to kill something.”

 My Sagittarian sentiments exactly.

My two-year enlistment in Saturnian boot camp hell officially ended on October 29. (At precisely 1:09pm EST, but who’s keeping track?) So of course, at approximately 1:15pm EST, a very old, very familiar part of me rose up as if on cue, righteously assuming that everything should be happy, peppy, and bursting with love, right now—Saturn’s done, the pathway’s clear, my eyes are bright, the course should be smooth and I should be sailing full speed ahead. Chop, chop. No excuses. And I do mean RIGHT NOW, dammit.

Fortunately, one of the many gifts to come out of my recent astrological tour of duty is that I am able to be somewhat amused and peripherally inspired by that part now, rather than unconsciously joining forces with it as I might have in the past; running off hand-in-hand into the darkness, swinging from high-voltage wires and trying to light houses and park benches on fire, just to make something, anything, happen.

I have, and always will, struggle with the P word. My I-wanted-it-yesterday nature has forever propelled me at a pace most others can’t even hope to keep up with; there have been countless times when my own head was left spinning by the measure of my passion. Yet for all its dizzying recklessness, that aspect has also gifted me consistently throughout my life with a priceless willingness to take risks, explore opportunities and say yes to the wild unknown, and to stretch myself and live beyond the cage of my own and others’ stolid comfort.

But perhaps the biggest drawback of that side of me is that it never allows for the sacredness of a moment, or for any acknowledgment of the process or the journey thus far. It simply wants to get on with “the good stuff”… the definition of which can be as mercurial as the part itself. Like so many of you, I have had my life turned literally inside out in the last two years, and the expectation that within a matter of days it should all be put better than right, is a Saturday Night Live skit of absurdity. (Makes me think of a certain political tone that’s currently circulating in our nation… let’s see… eight years vs. ten months… Hmmm…)

Put into curious perspective during a recent CSI session by my brilliant friend and fellow practitioner Roslyn Ericksen, it is as though I’m standing in the middle of my own private country, devastated by war—bloody ground, torn and tangled bodies, not a single building left standing, sour smoke drifting over rubble and the sounds of the dying still whispering in my ears—and there is someone inside of me tapping their foot, arms crossed peevishly, demanding to know why I’m not yet cleaned up and wearing my party dress. 

Right now we are all standing at the center of a very personal, and at the same time, universal battleground, bearing witness to the profundity of collective fear and loss; weary, restless, longing for peace, healing, safety, truth. The struggles and skirmishes have gone on far too long; it seems new hostilities continue to rise up nearly every day. Hard not to want to close your eyes, click your heels together and instantly conjure a brand new landscape, far from the stink of chaos and the whispers of uncertainty that will likely continue to prevail. Harder still not to know when, or even if the smoke will ever clear, or when this particular war zone might finally be declared a memorial site, the grass left to heal and grow and cover the scars and the ashes of what has ended.

Divine Timing is one of the most difficult spiritual concepts for us mortals to accept. That is a product of the C word… human aesthetic says that if we can control the when of our destinies, than we obviously control the whether-or-not of it as well.  And a very human, very typical notion that rises up in any waiting game is, if it hasn’t happened yet, it might not ever happen.

Inarguable experience has taught me over the years that it is always in my highest and best interest when God manages the clock and the calendar of my aspirations, regardless of my imaginings that I know better. I’ve looked back in the afterglow of every major manifestation and known so clearly that I wasn’t ready for the dream even a moment before it materialized. Doesn’t mean I haven’t tried to dispute, negotiate, and strong-arm the process as it was happening. I very definitely have, and likely will continue to at times, despite what I know. But I now have a clear image in my psyche that rises up in concert with my impetuosity—the Dolby Sound ad on the theatre screen, four words in bold lettering, following the impressive surrounding roar of engines and atmospheres: THE AUDIENCE IS LISTENING. And I have come to appreciate the wisdom in not unveiling a master opus to an absent, potentially hostile, or worst of all, apathetic congregation.

“The waiting is the hardest part…” Tom Petty

It’s in the waiting that faith is put to the ultimate test. Can you continue to believe in dreams coming true, when it feels as though everything and everyone around you is trapped in some strange, primordial sleep? Can you continue to believe in possibility, in goodness and in mercy, when it seems the world has gone insane and God has left the building? Can you still imagine the phoenix rising triumphantly from the ashes, even while whatever fires you face insist on flaring up again and again with a fresh and spontaneous appetite?

“Faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see.” (Hebrews 11:1)

Faith requires patience, and that’s where prayer really comes in handy. It gives the part of you that needs to DO something, something to do… and keeps you relatively out of God’s way while He orchestrates the next leg of your chosen adventure. And most important, faith gets stretched and strengthened in the waiting, creating a broader foundation on which God can build something truly amazing. As Catherine Ponder says, “The longer your good is in coming, the greater it will be when it comes, so hold on!” This I also know from inarguable experience… although you can bet, from time to time, I’m going to argue.

For right now, it seems, my charge is to simply remember, and acknowledge. To stand at the graveside of my recent past and honor the fallen, and look back on all the times I’ve stood on similar ground, sooty, tired, questioning, and God showed up with impeccable timing and without fail, completely amazing me with His love, His humor, and His extraordinary favor. By human right and machination, I will continue at times to struggle, and be anxious; to worry, and to fear. But I will do my best to remember and acknowledge that God always knows the perfect time for the gifts and the guests to arrive... and He will never, ever start the party without me.

 

 

 

 

 

Whoa-oh… Livin' on a Prayer

A quick nod, if I may, to one of the greatest rock bands that have ever graced the stereo, stage, or salon (as in hair)… of course I’m talking about Bon Jovi, and the BEST era for power ballad/guitar-crazed anthems full of love, lust, longing, leather, and L’Oreal… the 80’s.

Can’t help it. I’m an 80’s girl, through and through. Leg warmers, cropped shirts, the Brat Pack, the whole bit. And Jon Bon Jovi still has a killer voice… and awesome hair. Sometimes I find myself wistfully longing for the good ol’ days, when John Hughes ruled the box office and bi-level haircuts were synonymous with 280Z’s and wine spritzers, as opposed to Monster Truck rallies and chewing tobacco.

Wait a minute. What did I just hear from the back row? What’s a ‘bi-level’ haircut? You’re kidding me, right? I know someone out there knows the answer. Class? Anyone? Anyone? Beuller? It’s a mullet, people. Track with me here, for crying out loud!

Alright. Enough waxing rhapsodic. Or rambling paradoxical. Or babbling incessantly. Your choice.

Let’s talk about prayer.

Those who know me hear the expression “prayer practice” a lot. For me it is a literal term. Prayer is an art form, requiring commitment, intention and action; a distinct curvature of language and need, worthy of reverence; a discipline of essential communication that can alter the landscape of a moment or a life almost instantly. And I continuously field questions from clients, students and readers about prayer—why, when, and how to do it.

The why is easy. Prayer stirs up in the human psyche and self the most powerful form of energy known to mankind. The act of prayer creates a distinct vibration that is both ethereal and corporeal in nature, capable of literally changing events, circumstances and experiences to divine ends. It is the crucial component to the “Secret” of successful manifestation, going far beyond the “Ask”; it is an elemental necessity in “Believe” and “Receive” as well. But most important, prayer is the invitation to an intimate kinship with God.

Contrary to much popular belief, we don’t need to pray to earn or entreat God’s love. We need to pray to open up to receive it. The one aspect of the human being that simultaneously stands between and connects us to God is our mind… and prayer gets the mind in line with the Divine. (That would make a great little jump rope rhyme, wouldn’t it? Try it sometime!) The human brain processes through words and pictures, and prayer offers the ultimate treasure map to kingdoms and blessings beyond.

When is easy too. One word: constantly. I think God should be involved in picking out your breakfast cereal in the morning, as well as mapping out your career path and helping you raise your kids. Prayer is an ongoing dialogue with the one resource you can count on without fail for unlimited insight, favor, and support, no matter how large or small the issue at hand. And if you’re starting out with a less than solid belief in that resource, prayer will help systematically build the foundation necessary to allow you to naturally consort with faith and witness miracles.

The how of prayer is infinitely more complex, faceted by imagination, ideology, and desire. I definitely believe in a particular attitude when it comes to prayer—affirmative, authentic, from the heart—but the means and the motions by which your prayers are executed leaves plenty of room for exploration and personal interpretation. Consistency is key, and at the same time, like all aspects of a great relationship, your spiritual practice should change and grow as you do.

I’ve maintained a daily prayer practice for over fifteen years. Sag though I am, my Virgo and Capricorn sides make me a child of constancy and routine in certain areas. I am downright devotional when it comes to disciplines that feed my emotional and physical fire—nothing and no one gets in the way of my workouts, my meals, my morning cup of tea in my favorite mug, TrueBlood and Dexter on Sundays and Saving Grace on Tuesdays, or my daily conversations with God. And, as everything has its shadow, my temporal nature can also lead me to become complacent, mired in protocol and just-this-side of superstitious when it comes to altering my sacred routines.

Over the years my daily spiritual regimen has definitely morphed in its expression and location—my altars have changed, grown, moved from room to room; leather bound prayer journals have given way to dime-store notebooks, and back again; crystals, feathers and prayer beads have all spent well-worn time in my hands. But the prayers and the time I’ve spent saying them have, for the most part, stayed relatively uniform. Short and sweet, or quick and dirty, depending on your outlook. Powerful, to the point, and more than doable. And by virtue of the hairpin learning curve of the last year-plus I’ve come to find that it’s not nearly enough anymore… and I’m thrilled with the wanting.

I need time with God. Time to settle down, to breathe, to listen. Time to say what I need to say, in all the ways that occur to me to say it. I spend the vast majority of my life going mach 5 with my hair on fire, and it suits me to the ground. I’m also coming to appreciate the smolder and hiss of an ember; the revving of an engine at the intersection, just before the light changes; the quiet of an ignition switch turned off, with just the faintest click of cooling metal winding down in the darkness.

So I’ve made time, found time, and been given time, quite magically, to engage in a deeper communion, and to cultivate in an even more conscious way my own personal rhythm with God. And I’ve come to understand on an intrinsic level what I’ve always suspected, but thought for years was merely a folly of my astrological tendencies: I don’t ever want to be satisfied. Nor can I be.

“Jesus said, when you would pray, let your longing pronounce the words…” Kahlil Gibran

That longing lives in all of us, and it is the same in all of us: God is, in fact, what we’re searching for, what we’re yearning to touch and taste and realize; what lies at the heart of everything we seek to create and express. No matter the argument, no matter the resistance or dissociation that exists in the mind, the human psyche will continue to reach out beyond its own limitation in an unceasing attempt to satisfy the primal hunger of the spiritual nature… the instinctual desire to merge our human and spiritual selves in an intimate union with God.

Is it irony that the desire is never truly sated? No, it’s the whole point. Hunger. Thirst. Orgasm. Breath. Just as our physical needs are satisfied for the time that we answer the urge, they will always rise up again, to be answered again, over and over, as long as we exist in physical form. And so it goes with our spiritual needs, as well. God is found in the reaching out, in that sweet moment between starvation and surrender—when we let go of the human trapeze and hang in the air with only faith and blind courage to carry us to the next landing place. It is in the searching that we ultimately find ourselves, and it is in the aching that we open enough to know God. The temporary satiety of awareness and answered prayer, no matter how profound, is in fact just a perk of our willingness to yield to the moments of our deepest human vulnerability, and fly without reason towards heaven.

Prayer is how we reach out. And the human heart is always reaching. We are hardwired to partner; to merge with a truth greater than our own; to die to our selves and be born again and again in the light of something more than we can ever be alone. Prayer gives voice to the longing, and it is the longing that draws us ever forward… and in the reaching out, we find our wings.

 

 

 

So, About This Whole Blogging Thing…

I know, I know… blogs are supposed to be written on, or in, or whatever the correct terminology might be, on a consistent basis. I began this blog with the bright-eyed freshman goal of monthly entries, at minimum. (That should be really easy, to start. Then I’ll quickly work my way up to posting weekly, seeing as I have sooo many things I really, really want to say…)

Let’s see… hmmm… my daughter’s been twenty-two now for an entire season.

{{ Sigh. }}

I can reason that the last three-plus months have literally vaporized, leaving me wondering if I was out of the room when spring came and went. I can certainly shake a deserving fist at Mercury, for one wicked retrograde sabotaging the entirety of May… and I can also lay claim to an ongoing Saturn transit, following straight on the heels of a two-and-a-half year vivisection, courtesy of Pluto, that my dear friend and trusted astrologer, Andre Kahr, candidly refers to as “brutal.” (What I candidly refer to it as is unprintable.) I can bemoan the fact that I have been righteously uninspired in the last number of weeks, finding it nearly impossible to round up enough stray thoughts to compose a coherent entry, let alone one I think anyone might find remotely interesting, or of any value. And, as I find it nearly impossible, once I get going, to write anything much under a thousand words (and of course, every one of them needs to be the right word, thank you very much!) I’ll also plead a sterling case of rookie overwhelm, inspired by the prolificacy of veteran bloggers and the impressive array of options available for cyber self-expression and networking. Web Sites. Facebook. MySpace. Twitter. Holy Crap. How will I choose? Or, perhaps more appropriately, since I typically subscribe to the idea that more is always better, how will I possibly keep up?

Turns out, my techno-block runs deeper than a temporary state of overwhelm or lack of inspiration. At first, with my classic double Sag, jump-in-headfirst, check-for-sharks-later disposition, I pounced on the idea of a virtual pulpit I could commandeer at a moment’s notice, giving my teacher/preacher side free reign to do what she loves best—teaching and preaching. Evangelizing unabashedly to a vast, imagined audience? I mean, really… how in the world could I possibly resist that? And as I vowed to keep my internet musings in absolute integrity with the way I’m determined to live my life, and do my work—as passionate, deep, honest, and real as I possibly can—I neglected to imagine a time when the very private, monastic, idealist side of me might balk at the idea of baring certain human realities, even if it was for educational purposes.

I am, after all, known in some circles as the chick with all the answers. 

So… here’s the larger conundrum being volleyed around in the boardroom of my brain for the past few months: What do I write about if all I have right now are questions? What happens to my place at the podium if I’m not all clean and shiny and dressed up for the spotlight? What will become of my audience if they find out I don’t, in fact, have it all figured out? I mean, what if they discover I’m… audible gasp… only human??? (Please, everyone, do not panic. Remain calm… and move immediately in an orderly fashion to the nearest exit.)

I came into this world with a mile-wide perfectionist streak. Karma, ancestral legacies, and the planets all entwined brilliantly to insure that not only would I always reach for the stars, I would usually hit them dead-bang, and I would mentally horsewhip myself on a regular basis as part of the process. And, I would never, never, NEVER give up… on either the reaching or the whipping. I have done diligent personal work over the years, to fairly miraculous ends, in order to cull the blessings from that near-manic drive and calm the parts of me that continuously call out for another lash, just for good measure. But given the ongoing cerebral conference of late regarding my blog, it became apparent I’d uncovered yet another angle of the argument… and another opportunity to dive into my shadows and dig for fresh treasure.

And what a freakin’ fabulous opportunity to practice what I preach. (Don’t you just love those?) I am constantly admonishing my clients to be kind to themselves, to honor their very human emotions and experiences, rather than judge them; reminding them that even Christ himself cried, threw tantrums, and was utterly convinced that God had abandoned him, at least twice while he was here on earth. So, I can reason for others, if even the Masters have their moments, why in the world shouldn’t the rest of us? Or, more precisely, the rest of you. According to some of my parts, I apparently continue to remain exempt from that particular grace.

Funny, isn’t it, how easy it can be to help others to see their light, and still blatantly turn your back on your own? To be a paragon of patience and compassion for the people around you, then turn around and beat the tar out of yourself over an identical situation, as if the rules of love and mercy apply to everyone else on the planet but you. Amazing.

So here’s my unapologetic, human truth: For the past year and a half, I’ve been in the center of a deep and intimately challenging process—devastating personal loss, huge questions about my life and my beliefs, on the edge of an epic change that I can feel but cannot for the life of me begin to get a hold of in any tangible way. And in the last three months, the volume got cranked to an apex.

Those of you who know me, know my love of movie analogies, and that I believe God created Hollywood and the film industry exclusively for my personal use and reference. To that end, do you remember the scene in Dances with Wolves, when Kevin Costner’s character is sleeping in the soldier fort and he is awakened by everything rumbling and shaking around him, like some grand, Sisyphean earthquake? Jars and bottles falling from shelves, dust sifting through the chinks in the sod walls and a glorious accompanying clamor, a prehistoric rage of motion and sound. And he runs outside and stands in the dust and sweat and moonlight, terrified by the noise and the movement, but blinded to its cause. That unknown seemed to stretch on forever, until the dark humped shapes of the buffalo emerged out of the wind and the chaos and the world made sense again… the landscape utterly changed, but once more negotiable.

I’m still standing in the dust and noise and moonlight, and it’s reaching a crescendo… and there’s a part of me who is not entirely sure whether it’s a herd of sacred buffalo, come to bless me with their passing, or a friendly freight train set to flatten me. I’m keeping the faith, but I’ll tell you, I am squirming a bit.

Meanwhile, in the myopic state of the last few months, my blog became this big yawning chasm of declaration, and I struggled with the inarguable value of sharing my personal experience and the need to honor the sacredness of my own journey. A blog can be a divinely intimate thing; an unedited, all-access pass to the soul and sanctum of anyone brave enough to draw back the veil. For a writer, or at least for this writer, that’s a near intoxicating opportunity, and one I haven’t quite figured out the boundaries of.

The Web has engendered an extraordinary fantasy of intimacy, inspiring an open-wide-and-dump-it-all approach to everything from fashion, to sex, to death, and everything in between. And in my process of Internet initiation, I’ve come to wonder, how much is too much? What happens to true intimacy in the land of virtual, and viral, relationship? If you give absolutely everything you have to an invisible audience of disembodied strangers, what’s left for the people in your sacred circle? My internal jury’s still out on that one.

But here’s what I will tell you. The last eighteen months have been a truly extraordinary experience of pain, growth, redemption, and discovery; pushing me to plumb depths I had no idea were in me, and to come out the other side, bruised, bloody, and exalted. I’ve cried a lot, and prayed a LOT. I’ve yelled at God, blamed Him, questioned Him, convinced myself that He was blaming and questioning me… and at the end of the day, still ended up in His lap or at His feet sleeping like a baby. I’ve isolated myself, and opened up wider than ever before to friends who continue to amaze me with their level of love and understanding. I’ve felt insanely alone in my experience, while at the same time marveling at the kinship in the churning, chaotic darkness we all seem to be traversing in one form or another. And I’ve witnessed just how hard I’m willing to work, to continue being the woman I know God imagined me to be… and if I do say so myself, it’s kind of inspiring.

So, I’m determined to continue defining the boundaries and distilling the balance between what is sacred, and what I willingly give away—anticipating the significance of being accessible, reachable, human, not only for my audience, but most important, for me. I’m going to remain the rebel-chick who curses like a trucker, hangs with angels, meets everyone at their heart, and who’s still learning to truly honor her own… and who trusts she will be led to the answers, all in perfect timing. Albeit, not necessarily in her timing, but that’s a Sag thing.

As far as the whole Internet thing goes? I’m going to stick with the blog for now. I think the only one I want to be tweeting at this point is God.

 

Message to My Daughter

Today is my daughter’s birthday. Twenty-two. A master number, symbolizing magic, a date with destiny. To me, right now, it just seems an impossibility. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve never been the kind of mom who mourns the passing of the years, wishing their kids would stay kids. And to be honest, I’ve always felt a bit aberrant in that. More than a bit selfish. I reveled in Kaeleigh’s natural independence from an early age; welcomed her metamorphosis from needing me, to wanting my company, to defying me, to finally knowing me, to sharing a powerful and at times, personally epic history. It’s just that twenty-two years doesn’t make sense to a part of me. How did time move through and beyond us in such measure, while so many other things seemed to stand still? How did my daughter become such a beautiful, unique, maddening, glorious reflection of me, almost without my knowing? I only turned my back for a second, I swear…

Cleaning up some old files on my computer recently, I came across an entry from a column I used to write for a newspaper called The Island Independent. I wrote it in September 1993, on Kaeleigh’s first day of school. Reading it again after so long, I was hit with the same breathless, stinging rush of emotion I felt when I was writing it. I still feel exactly the same way about her, only the years have served to deepen it, to make the love in me spark and shimmer like a flare in dark water; elevating and humbling me at the same time in the wide open and terrifying lawlessness of parenthood.

There truly are no rules, no definitions, as a parent… only the certainty that you will hand over your legacy to your children and they will run with it, in whatever direction their soul’s path asks of them. And you will feel for them more fiercely than you ever imagined being capable of; and you will question and cling to your faith more desperately than any saint or martyr should ever have to; and your heart will shatter and expand a thousand times over, a hundred times more than you think you can possibly survive. And in the end, you will know to your soul that you have witnessed God, and that you have endured the truest, sweetest pain there could ever be… the love of, and for, a child.

Here is a birthday/thank you card for my child—the most extraordinary, delightful, stubborn, talented, powerful, and magical young woman I have ever been blessed to know. And the message is still exactly the same as it was all those years ago:

To my daughter, Kaeleigh...

I watched you this morning, all the way from our house to the parking lot of the school. You were busy looking out the window, but I flipped the rear view mirror down so I could see you. I kept my eyes on the road ahead, but I was continuously drawn by the sunlight teasing the curls that escaped your braid; the freckles that summer has only recently gifted your nose and cheeks with; the curve of your little tomcat chin and the cool, self-possessed air of your smile. And I found myself wondering, who is this creature? This little wise woman-child in the back seat of my cluttered car, holding tight to her lunch basket and her expectations of the first day of first grade… and I marveled at how lucky I am, how I must have been doing something really remarkable, in some completely perfect moment when you looked down from your celestial flight path, pointed a tiny finger and said, “That’s her, that’s the one…” And then you came into this world, giving me a brief and glorious opportunity to share a time and a space with you. Thanks, baby, for coming in through me—I love you so…

 

(To find out more about my amazing kid, please visit her on the Web at www.divinecreations1.etsy.com)

La-La-La-La-La, I’m Not Listening…

I don’t read the paper, or listen to, or watch, the news. I haven’t, in years. I stay remarkably up-to-date just following the lives of my clients, overhearing conversations in grocery stores and post office lines, and of course, signing on to Yahoo! to get my emails. Yahoo! headlines can top the drama quotient of the National Inquirer by no small margin, some days. And the talk on the street seems to always circle back to these “troubled times,” no matter where the conversation might have started.

Lately I find myself having moments of infantile fantasy, imagining standing on the cosmic playground, fingers in my ears, chanting at the top of my lungs that de-lightful little sing-song ditty that is only slightly less annoying than its infamous cousin, “I know you are, but what am I?”

I just don’t want to hear any more.

Years of studying and applying the theories of prosperity consciousness from Catherine Ponder and Florence Scovel Shinn has thankfully given me a phenomenal arsenal of protection against the Saturday Night Live skit of fear we are living as a nation. I thoroughly understand and zealously employ the power tools of affirmative prayer, visualization, and surrender to God’s unfailing good on a daily basis. I personally have lived more stories than I can count of angelic intervention and bona fide miracles, and a huge part of me is actually excited to see what God is cooking up for everybody on this one. I also happen to have an award-winning theatre in my psyche, famous for its state-of-the-art digital picture and sound technology and unsolicited late-night showings of Oscar worthy Worst Case Scenarios.

I may only be 5’2”, but apparently that’s tall enough to be buckled into this particular rollercoaster.

Here’s how the ride typically plays out for me: Last week, day off, I wake up with a list of things to do, and more than enough energy and positive attitude to accomplish it. Following a great morning prayer session and a rockin’ workout, I sign on to check my emails, scanning the sad headlines… I shrug and send a scattering of fairie dust and compassion to all the people who choose to buy the idea of an economy that has allegedly been flushed and gone swirling. In my mind, I hear Catherine Ponder’s awesome, soap opera Southern drawl: I do not depend upon persons or conditions for my prosperity; God is the source of my supply, and God provides His own amazing channels of prosperity to me.  

Obama’s The Man, and besides, there’s something far bigger afoot here than merely our human experience of commerce and finances. God’s got our back, I’m certain of it. So I’m choosing to ignore the words of the woebegone, and keep my ticket firmly in my pocket this go round. I’m going to stand on the ground and hold the purses for a while.

Driving to the grocery store, I notice in the mile-and-a-half radius between my house and town, two huge office/retail outlets, a condominium project and a housing development, all busily under construction. Key Bank, Subway, and a hair salon all have Help Wanted signs in their windows. I whip into the parking lot of my local Top Foods, and on the back window of the very shiny, very sporty car parked beside me is a bright yellow bumper sticker with playful black lettering that reads, “I refuse to participate in a recession.”

Halle-freakin’-lujah! says I. Thanking my angels for all this divine confirmation, I bop into the store with a smile on my face, a twinkle in my eye, and feathers sifting the air all around me. (I walk in the charmed circle of God’s love, and I am divinely irresistible to my highest good now!) I fill my cart, and then stand boldly in the check out line, unflinchingly prepared to pay full price for organic produce and gourmet pasta, trusting fully in the laws of the Universe as I have known and experienced them, intimately, for the last twenty years. Act as though ye have faith, and it will be given unto you. The same, I have found magically, holds true for money.

Somewhere, the rollercoaster is screaming down the loop-de-loop, and so are the people on it… I watch and wave, sprinkling more magic dust, the concrete solid and glittering under my feet.

There’s a woman ahead of me at the checkout counter with a small cache of groceries and an impressive pile of coupons. She begins arguing with the cashier about the price of a box of Rice-a-Roni; apparently, it’s ringing up at an amount contrary to the coupon she has, and she is determined to save the twenty-five cents. A stock boy is sent scurrying; the line grows long and restless behind me. And then the cashier and the woman begin an animated discourse on the shaky economy, how frighteningly easy it would be to end up homeless nowadays, and how crucial it is to cling to every penny. Several others in line nod or mutter in grim alliance. My smile begins, ever so slightly, to strain… and the ground, almost imperceptibly, trembles beneath me. 

I pay for my groceries, and the total seems somehow exaggerated now; I get out to my car, and the shiny sports car with the angelic message is gone. I get home, grab the mail… my insurance rates are going up as of the next billing cycle. (God prospers me NOW!) I check my office voice mail, and have only two messages—both from new clients, BOTH canceling their sessions at the last minute, due to financial concerns. Suddenly, I have holes in my calendar and the words SELF EMPLOYED stamped on my outstretched hand… and Yahoo!’s telling me it’s gonna get a whole lot worse before it comes close to getting better. And just like that, I’ve handed the weird, scary looking carny my ticket, I’m strapped in, climbing the first big hill, and I’m fresh out of fairie dust and feathers.

Sigh. It’s sooo easy to climb on board, isn’t it?

We talked last time about the pendulum swing, the dance of opposites, the light incomplete without the shadow. The ride is inevitable, especially right now—with the world, and certainly our nation, deep in the birth canal, wild in the throes of a radical labor. So how the hell do you keep your faith when it seems like we’re all about to be spun off into the abyss?

Take as much advantage of your fear as you possibly can. Something is trying to get your attention, to make you see and take ownership of some momentous aspect of your own power… but you’ll likely ignore it unless it unnerves you first. That’s human nature.

So ask yourself: What does your fear inspire in you? Mine inspires my control issues… facets of my personality and belief systems that I have owned, examined, and shifted dramatically over the years, and are now rising up again, asking to be looked at from yet another new and portentous angle. It also inspires a sharp, bitter questioning that bares its cynical fangs every so often, when I am tired or sad or uncertain of my next steps—what if everything I teach, everything I practice, everything I believe, is in reality a crock of shit? What if this is all there really is, and no matter how hard I work and pray and trust, there really isn’t a pot of gold in the aftermath of the tsunami? What if God is the one on the playground with His fingers in His ears, chanting… and all my prayers are lying tarnished on the asphalt around Him, ignored?

From that dark moment, I am in choice. Sometimes I fight the darkness for a bit, resisting its message, but I am forever allied to the parts of me that finally step in and take those questions, and those issues, and throw them like gasoline on a bonfire to propel me towards the truth of God… and to the knowledge that I, in fact, am the only one in that particular relationship who will ever turn their back, plug their ears, and shut themselves away. And I’m then inspired to remember every single time before when I have been on the downhill run of this incarnate thrill ride, exhausted, sick, stubborn but finally surrendered… and there’s God, waiting patiently at the exit gate the whole time, with a miracle held carefully just for me in His wide and capable hands.

“The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.” --M. Scott Peck

If I felt no fear, I wouldn’t be moved to find a more profound safety... to work to strengthen even more my connection to God and to all that I believe in. If I didn’t feel the sharp edges rise up in me, I wouldn’t choose to smooth them down, polish them so that my life can reflect and glitter even more brightly.

So, I’m going to ride the ride.  I’m going to pray and eat gourmet pasta and see angels in bumper stickers, and then sometimes I’m going to listen to headlines and question my purpose and wonder if it’s all a big joke. And the next time I find myself cresting that big ol’ hill, holding my breath and wishing I had a little fairie dust handy, I’m going to do my best to notice that there’s a railing in the car to hang on to, and a magnificent view of the fairgrounds—and kindred spirits strapped in right beside me.

And, since I’m going to be in fear anyway, at least for the downhill part of it, I figure I might as well make it count… so I’m going to choose to follow it to the treasure in the darkness that God is always holding for me.

Here's to the primal scream...

(I would like to thank both Clare and Angie for inspiring this entry with their posted comments… give me an analogy, and I’ll go a hundred miles! J And thanks to Roz for the perfect quote, as usual.)

A Beginning

“How should we be able to forget those ancient myths,
that are at the beginning of all peoples,
the myths about dragons, that at the last moment
turn into princesses;
perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses,
who are only waiting to see us once, beautiful and brave.
Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless,
that wants help from us.

So you must not be frightened, if a sadness rises up before you,
larger than any you have ever seen;
if a restiveness, like light and cloud-shadows,
passes over your hands and over all you do.
You must think that something is happening with you,
that life has not forgotten you,
that it holds you in its hand;
It will not let you fall. . .”

-- Ranier Maria Rilke

I’ve lived a lot, seen a lot, in my forty-eight years. In my nearly twenty-year career as a counselor and psychic, I’ve borne witness and been a midwife of sorts to even more. As challenging as things have been in the past, there have been times lately when I found myself wishing they could be that easy. I don’t know of anyone right now, myself included, who isn’t being rocked by changes, challenges, questions, endings, of no small magnitude… wondering how to keep centered in faith, and still face the headlines or the bank statements or the angry spouse each morning… wondering how, in fact, to face the morning, not knowing what the next few hours, or even the next few moments, might bring.

At the same time, seated in the packed-to-capacity auditorium of our personal and collective fears, true hope and optimism are once again raising a fervent and courageous hand from the shadows of the back row. Candlemas; the Year of the Ox; a true hero, finally, in the White House… a sense that there is actually much to imagine and anticipate each morning, not knowing what the next few months, or even the next few weeks, might bring. There’s a bright new promise, breaking over the horizon… and the Law of Attraction is walking the streets, flashing his badge in the sunshine. We should all be able to go straight into, and stay in, that brave new light now, shouldn’t we? And shouldn’t the shadows disappear around us, given the brightness of possibility?

Despite all I’ve lived and seen in my forty-eight years, I can still “should” on myself with the best of them. I can still judge the fear, condemn the shadows, feel like a hypocrite for fraternizing with uncertainty while claiming allegiance to faith. I can still make myself believe that I should be above the humanness of these times… surely, since I teach and preach and practice, hard, all this spiritual stuff, I should be beyond the drama and the headlines and plumb in the blissful secrets of enlightenment.

Well, it’s taken me a lot of years to finally understand one critical truth, that is, in fact, not a secret at all: It isn’t about one vs. the other. The light and the shadow are NOT adversaries… nor are they mutually exclusive. They are twin souls of the same flame, a yin/yang of the highest order, and there’s never been a more extraordinary time to witness the power and sweat and orgasm of their coupling on this planet. While it is true that you can’t be in a state of divine love and in the grip of human fear simultaneously, it’s not about fighting fear and scrambling to grab hold of the light. It’s about whirling along in the dance of opposites, breathless and awestruck, arms wide to claim the gifts that are born from honoring and fully experiencing both.

I have lived the pendulum swing in true Sagittarian fashion, arcing between days of absolute faith and moments of the darkest possible despair—at first seemingly without choice, and later, because I came to understand and value it, with open, if not entirely welcoming arms. My strengths have all been born out of darkness. My ability to see and hold the best in my clients and in myself has come from recognizing and claiming my own worst aspects first. Do I do it gracefully? Hell, no. Am I happy about it when I’m floating to my eyeballs in the cesspool? Not remotely. But I’m learning to move into it, rather than fight it; to allow the shadow to sweep over me, trembling, reminding myself that nothing comes against me that doesn’t pass through God’s hands first… and He always has something up His sleeve that makes the challenge more than worthwhile.

“I will go before thee and make the rugged places plain; I will break in pieces the doors of brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron, and I will give thee the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places.” Isaiah 45:2-3

God created us to swing. It’s how we return to Him. We will only reach out for His hand when we aren’t sure where our feet are going to fall next. And we can only recognize the warmth of the light if we’ve huddled shivering for a time in the shadows. It is ultimately our choice how long we stay in the dark, of course, and how vehemently we resist reaching out—that’s where the tools of consciousness come in. But we are made to witness, and express, every nuance and every color of every human emotion and experience, good and bad. That is how we know who and what we are, and more important, how we come to know God.

As it turns out, everything terrible is in truth something extraordinary, rising up in us, trying to get our attention… wanting nothing more than to be seen and utilized in a brave new light.

Welcome to my blog. I invite you to come along with me as I traverse this crazy-cool, fiercely beautiful, delicious and terrifying earthly experience, exploring every facet of the shadow and every corner of the light—the myths of illumination, and the treasures in the darkness; all the ways we can make ourselves nuts and talk ourselves down from the ledge; the influence of planets, and the idiosyncrasies of angels; conversations with God, and observations of humanity. And I’ll offer my perspective on living the magical and sometimes elusive true balance that can only come from the dynamic alliance of opposites.

Looking forward to sharing the ride…