Faith

I’ve been thinking about faith recently. I am neither the first nor the last person to have these thoughts, to come to these conclusions. It seems to me that all defensiveness – and by that I mean all the ways we are on guard against the word and behaviors of others and ourselves – stems from a lack of faith. I don’t refer specifically to faith in God. Faith in anything. Faith in God, Mother Nature, Chi, magic and fairies, yourself. Faith as in believing in something even when you have no good reason to believe in that something. Faith in something simply because it creates a better story.

On Faith and Reason is a wonderful series by Bill Moyers consisting of a series of interviews with authors, scientists, religious figures discussing the nuanced relationship between Faith and Reason. I believe it is Margaret Atwood who describes the book Life of Pi – truly an incredible read. This idea of “a better story” is perhaps the key element. I will say no more here so that you can enjoy this marvelous story for yourself.

I watch people around me, I watch myself, trying to control things, people, events. I watch them (myself) create stress in these attempts - attempts to control that stem from the belief “It’s wrong for things to be different than I think they should be.” Is that the story they (I) choose? How much control do we think we actually have? Is it a good story that brings joy and ease to our lives? Is it really the only story we can imagine?

If you ever start digging around in your thoughts you might find that many, many of these control-needing beliefs stem from a desperate need to prove oneself lovable and worthy. What makes that so universal? More to the point, what makes the belief that one is not lovable and worthy, that one needs to prove one’s lovability and worth and be reassured of those traits, so universal?

Religions are based on faith. Faith in something beyond reason. And that faith comes with an assurance that we are lovable and worthy. We are Good Enough. Someone or something has got our back, believes in us. And from that faith in something greater comes that knowledge, that deep understanding that fills our desperate hunger, comes faith in ourselves. And with that all the suffering and pain, distance and isolation that grows from our stories disappears. There is no need to prove our worth. We know it.

I’m no expert on world religions, there may be some based directly in belief in oneself. The ones I know of are more accurately based in the belief in oneself as divine, as part of something greater, or as one blessed by something greater.

The belief in something, without Reason, that makes a better story is where I believe true peace and ease of living begins. What story do you want to live? What’s your Tiger?

Fumbling

A friend of mine teased me the other day. She was explaining how she enjoyed our conversations, how she likes tossing questions at me just to see how I’ll respond. She appreciates my collection of skills and perspectives and loves to see what combination I’ll use to approach any particular issue.

To be honest, I love that sort of thinking and conversation too. I love when she asks something about human nature, or her experience or whatever, that seems to come from nowhere. I love tossing it around with her, looking at it this way and that. I could do it all day. I enjoy it, but am at a loss to appreciate what she sees as my skills – it’s just what I do. I even enjoyed the thought-provoking tease: “...unless of-course you're dealing with your Self and then we all become the same...fumbling.” Yes, fumbling is such a perfect word to describe how we try to understand ourselves. I can have many wonderful tools for exploring the other, but it’s ever so hard to get a good look at oneself. How can you possibly get enough distance, enough perspective on yourself?
I’ve thought about this quite a bit. Such an intriguing problem. I think that one way to get perspective on oneself is to step aside from ego, from self-consciousness, and see with the eyes of another. What I mean is, if you can actually listen to and hear someone talk about you, how they see you, without denying or diminishing or arguing, and let that sink in, you just might find a way to incorporate some of that perspective.

In fact that’s what I had done when she responded with a thoughtful, loving perspective of me, and included that keen insight that I have called a tease. I had asked for her to explain an earlier comment that embarrassed me in some ways as she was admiring skills of mine that I couldn’t see.

We are simply too close to ourselves to truly appreciate our own skills and marvelous traits. They’re too easy for us, so we don’t value them. This same friend doodles the most amazing doodles. Beautiful works of art in simple pen on paper. The photo above is a piece of one of these doodles that I asked to keep. To her, it’s nothing. To me, it’s magic. Because it comes so easily to her she dismisses it’s value.

We are all like that. But when we listen and honor the words of others, allow them to sink in, allow ourselves to hear the truth from others, we find ourselves both humbled and grateful. And we find ourselves fumbling a little less.

Perspective

I had the extreme pleasure of having brunch with friends I had lost touch with for twenty years. You may wonder what I mean by “friend” if I lost touch for twenty years, but they were dear friends from high school. Two graduated two years ahead of me, the third, one year a head of me. That was the beginning of the disconnect.

They went off on their fabulous adventures to college and beyond, finding their place in world while I did the same. That time of life is so immensely transitional. In many cultures around the world there are ceremonies and rituals that help guide adolescents into adulthood, into their place in society. Certainly those cultures are based on smaller, tightly-knit communities that are greatly involved with development of every individual through every phase of life. I think those cultures were onto something really important.

In my transition I lost touch with my adolescent friends. Maybe it needed to happen as part of my journey – leaving behind that which defined me and creating my own definition. Now twenty years later it was a joy to sit down with them, meet their families, recognize just how wonderful we were then and how much we’ve grown since then.

Perhaps what surprised me the most was what incredible partners they had found for their own journeys. Their spouses are people whose friendship I would treasure. Why would I think it would be otherwise? I don’t think I did think it would be otherwise. I just didn’t know in which directions they had grown.

Interestingly I undertook one of those rites of passage earlier this spring – a vision quest. The centerpiece, but certainly not the sole meaning, is a four day, fasting solo in the wilderness. It’s designed to strip away external definitions and allow self-knowledge to emerge with clarity. The solo is contained within a time of preparation (both alone and as a group) and incorporation (which seems to last a very long time as the intense experience sinks in and mixes within you).

I was discussing some of this with my new-old friends and the question was posed: how much of your interpretation of your experiences is colored by the preparation you received? The weather played a significant role in my quest and feels to be a critical piece for me to understand. The four-directions teachings of North American tribes cast my experiences with the weather in one light. The astrological interpretation sheds another light. Meteorology, the language I know better than the others, adds yet another light.

And that, I believe, is the key. Any one of these perspectives, on their own, allows a particular view and understanding of my experiences. Each offers something unique and profound to my interpretation. Together these various perspectives, various lights, create a much richer, dynamic understanding.

But fundamentally, it's my story to write. I can tell the story as a victim or as a hero. I can find great meaning or great nothing. I can walk away disappointed or inspired. I can choose only one viewpoint, one light from which to tell my story or allow as many as I can find to weave themselves all into something more complex.

I suppose I need to consider what feelings I want to carry with me from my story, from my life. What perspectives do I want to accept or reject as I try to understand the experiences of my life and tell my story in a way that is most satisfying to me? I'm looking for the story that brings me pleasure, challenge, love, expansiveness, connection, hope and inspiration. And I'll take any perspective that brings more of that.

Technology & Connection

I recently completed the certification process to become an official Martha Beck Life Coach after a nine month course. The final step in certification is to coach Martha herself. I don’t think that I would be breaking any confidences to say we had a lovely, energizing conversation about technology. This tapped into a theme that’s been running through my life: when is technology an aid to connection and when is it an hindrance?

I’m not saying anything new to point out the increasing rapid pace of development and introduction of new technologies and new uses for various technologies. Land-line phones are one of the lowest levels of technology that we take for granted. Cell phones with texting, camera, even internet capabilities are everywhere. Computers on which you can email, blog, Skype, IM, Tweet, be LinkedIn, Facebook and whatever else are easily carried with you wherever you go.

But at what point are we spending more time interacting through the technology than we are interacting without any? I see teens sitting side-by-side texting, but not talking with each other. I know people who Tweet all day, even during dinner with friends – actual people sitting with them, ready to chat. I don’t get it.

I think each of these modalities has a use, a way to connect people across the world, a way to make the world smaller in some sense, a way to expand and strengthen our tribes. But I also see the potential they have for disconnecting people.

I love a solitary walk in the woods. I also love a lengthy, rambling, thoughtful conversation with a friend. If I can’t meet them in person, a phone call will do. If that’s difficult for whatever reason, email will suffice. In fact email is great for setting up dinner dates with friends. We’re both busy and sometimes getting us both on the phone at the same time is difficult. Presto! I send an email and she can reply at her convenience. Then we get to connect even more over a meal.

I IM with my husband when he’s traveling. We’ve found that to be an effective way to communicate when he’s settling in after a day of flying and I’m trying to get through dinner time/bath time/bed time. We still have things we want to share and discuss, but our schedules don’t mesh. To be honest, we sometimes IM within our own house. When a topic gets too charged and civil discussion breaks down removing tone of voice and body language can allow the conversation to continue. The format also allows both of us to speak our thoughts fully without being interrupted. For us, IM technology allows distance (in several ways) and results in a stronger connection. Of course, while I’m IM’ing (is that a verb?) through the evening routine, I’m less connected to the people – my children – in front of me.

Obviously I also blog when the spirit moves me. Friends and family, maybe even some strangers, can connect to me through reading my somewhat random thoughts. Perhaps they get some insight into me (I know I get some insight into me), perhaps they feel more connected because they can identify with something I’ve said and so can feel less alone.

But I can’t figure out why I would Tweet or be LinkedIn. Not yet. Maybe someday I’ll find a way that those technologies strengthen the connections I value in ways that are meaningful to me. I resisted Facebook but joined last fall. I have reconnected with long lost friends and learned a bit more about new ones. Overall, I can see benefits, but I also feel the slippery slope. It would be too easy to spend all day poking around, finding more friends, taking quizzes, posting updates. I suppose it’s just like Google news headlines or YouTube. Easy to get sucked into, but if you find the right balance it enhances your life.

If I have finite time and finite energy each day, how do I want to use it? Which connections are most important to me? Which connections nurture me? Which ones enrich my life? As always I think the balance is dynamic – shifting day to day, year to year, and certainly person to person. So I'll experiment now and again with each new possibility and keep adding tools of connection as I find them useful and fulfilling.

Cell Phone Thoughts

I was in that last minute rush of gathering the almost-forgotten things as I headed out the door on my way to a week of camping in Vermont with my family. Well, I had part of my family – I was taking Dee Dee and Little Dudely a day before my husband would join us with Pookie. The advance team was to set up camp: two “bubba” tents that in theory would sleep a combined 10 people, our kitchen/dining room picnic table and so on. We needed to get settled so Dee Dee would be ready for her camp to start the next morning at 9a.

Damp would be a way to describe the weather. Always threatening to rain, rarely actually doing it. Drizzle, sure. Humidity, yup. Rain? Not often. So who was I to complain? OK, the one bout of rain we did get in our first three days was only five minutes long but happened as out tent was up and we were trying to get the rainfly on. It’s hard not to laugh.

That bit of rain, happening so early, was enough to send me running to the store to purchase a canopy for our picnic table. I had intended to do without cover or use a tarp to shelter the table, but there simply wasn’t a useful arrangement of trees for us. The canopy however, was perfect.

In fact, most of the week was perfect in many ways. Dee Dee loved camp and camping. Little Dudely entertained himself with fire and sticks and explorations. Both of them went so far as to admit they rather enjoyed not having TV or computers for a week. Pookie, on the other hand, was a good sport. She's not one for camping but gamely sat by the fire and made Dad sing songs to his ukulele - Brown Bear, Brown bear, please. Animals only. Now only colors. Now just the noises. Dad was a good sport too granting all her wishes.

Anyway, as I reached for my backpack and purse and such on my way out the door I saw my cell phone still charging on my desk. “Man, it would be nice if that thing was ever fully charged” I laughed. It’s my fault it isn’t ever charged. I never plug it in. I think on some level I don’t really value it enough to bother.

But that’s not why I laughed. My cell phone is a reflection of me. Wouldn’t it be nice if I was ever fully charged? I never plug myself into nurturing, regenerative activities. I think on some level I don’t really value myself enough to bother. What’s the deal with that? What would life look like if I did value myself enough to keep myself fully charged? Why is it so hard for me to do that?

Arrogance

I was in Phoenix recently. What an incredibly different natural environment from home. Around here we have rocks and water and wind and trees. At this time of year things are lush and green. But not in Phoenix. At least not out in the un-landscaped terrain. Out there there are rocks and wind and heat. No water. The plants are far from lush, but they are hardy.

Not being much of a traveler I don't adjust to timezone changes very easily. The change from standard to daylight savings is more than enough for me. Three timezones... let's just say I was up early. I went out for a walk on the trails by my hotel on my first morning. It was cool, if you call 70F cool, pre-dawn. The light was slicing across the terrain as the sun rose. The colors there are so very different. More orange, red, brown. Not much green. You can see the trails off in the distance - no trees blocking line of sight. I wanted to walk forever. Not so much to get anywhere in particular, more to just walk out into the raw and alien landscape. To explore it. To experience it.

I followed a trail up a small hill and it allowed me long views in most directions. I stood, staring at the distant mountains. The picture above has Phoenix in the foreground. The peaks at the left edge are contained in the Phoenix South Mountain Park. The highest peaks in that range are around 2000 ft. The low peaks in the center are a separate, closer, unnamed range, topping out around 1350 ft. The vast range rising in the background is the Sierra Estrella Wilderness. The highest peaks are 4300+ ft. (I didn't know any of this until I got home played around with Google maps and so on.)

I stood in awe of the Earth. Vistas like this are rare in New England. Only from the highest peaks, and only if the weather cooperates can you see tens of miles. And there simply aren't ranges of this magnitude. I was flooded with expansive, marvelous feelings. And then I laughed.

I thought of all the people - over 4 million in the Phoenix metro area, never mind those all over the Earth - living among the structural marvels of engineering. We build houses with running water in the desert. We protect ourselves from the heat and wind with wall and windows. We walk among our buildings feeling proud of human ingenuity, dwarfed by our constructs, victorious over nature. And I laughed.

Look. The city is reduced to a thin strip of light yellowy-tan before the massive mountains rising solidly in the distance. The arrogance of mankind! We worry that we are destroying nature. How could we? Our mightiest achievements are dwarfed by those of the Earth. The eternal Earth.

However, we are destroying the kind of nature we need to survive. The Earth gives us all we need to survive so long as we live in harmony. Our lack of respect, our arrogance has led us into dangerous territory. The Earth provides, nurtures us even, so long as we take care of it. Every traditional culture knew, knows this.

Our culture is dangerously separated from nature, from an understanding of our place on Earth. It is in moments like the one I experienced staring out over this scene that we reconnect. And we can reconnect in far less majestic scenes. We can understand life in our backyards simply by stopping to observe, to notice all that there is. All the enormous beauty and resilience. We can cultivate our respect for nature in a simple moment of awareness.

To take care of ourselves we must take care of the Earth.
To nurture ourselves we must nurture others.

Role Playing

Yesterday I got be a treasure hunter, triage nurse, surgeon and plumber all in the matter of two hours. Let's just say that I was ready for bed at the end of that.

We spent the afternoon at the birthday party for a four year old friend. It was the second of what looks to be four unseasonably warm days and many attendees were nursing sunburns from the first of those days. We're having July weather in April. And I refuse, out of good old New Englander stubbornness, to turn on the AC in April. But that is neither here nor there...

After we got home I asked Dee Dee and Little Dudely to put their bicycles away. While running up and down our (long) gravel driveway, Dee Dee's shell bracelet broke. She returned to the house distraught and thus began my time as a treasure hunter. Just try to find a dozen small shells on a 300' stretch of gravel driveway, I dare you.

Upon the successful completion of that adventure we returned home for bath time. Once upstairs Dee Dee declared that her knee hurt and that she was unable to walk on it. So she hobbled around to demonstrate. I considered my options. No obvious cause like some sort of trauma, late Sunday night (no options but the ER), nothing making it worse. She was deemed low priority for the moment. Bath time was more pressing.

Next Little Dudely emerged from his room after dressing for bed holding out his hand: "What's this?" he asked pointing at his finger. A splinter. I sighed and retrieved the tweezers and a pin. After carefully explaining what I was going to do Little Dudely allowed me to extract the splinter as gently as I could. He even bravely held a light for me. Then we went and found the perfect bandaid.

When I was done with Little Dudely's snuggle I went to check on Dee Dee who was finishing her getting-ready-for-bed routine in the bathroom. As I opened the door she gasped and burst into tears. She had just dropped one of her earrings into the sink... I retreated downstairs to gather myself.

That was the first time recently that I've been grateful that my nose has been mostly plugged from an endless series of colds (I'm finishing up two months of sniffling and all those other symptoms). What I could smell as I removed the trap from the plumbing was beyond foul. Not fully understanding the quantity or quality of muck I had in the trap, I dumped it into another (plugged) sink. That's when I realized that my only hope for recovering the earring was to stick my hand into that putrid mess and swish around in it. The earring is now soaking in an antiseptic bath.

After reassembling the plumbing and declaring my success to Dee Dee I returned to the office to look up knee pain on the internet. I went back upstairs to evalute Dee Dee's knee. Earlier she had been unable to straighten it and experienced more pain with her foot flexed than pointed. As I got ready to ask her to test her knee I saw her amble easily across the room with Pip in her arms. Huh? Whatever was wrong had fixed itself - at least for the time being.

All I knew was that I was done with the trials of the evening. I hoped.

Limping

We spent last Wednesday at Children's Hospital with Pookie. We were there to see her orthopedic surgeon. Normally we see him every six months to check on her spine. Her scoliosis has been progressing in fits and spurts for the past six years. When she grows, it grows. And then she needs a new brace.

But we weren't there for a standard brace/spine check. We were there because her gait had been steadily deteriorating. Her waddling walk had become a definitive limp and then started approaching a staggering sort of limp. We let her parade around naked after bathtime trying to get a sense of where the limp originated: her feet? knees? hips? spine? Our guess was her left knee, but we couldn't say why.

The doctor came with his standard accompaniment - an intern, resident, or in this case, an orthopedic surgeon visiting from Palestine for a few weeks. He watched her walk with and without her brace. He poked a bit. He moved her joints through their full range of motion trying to feel the resistance someplace. He hypothesized it was her hip. He knew from previous x-rays that her hips aren't formed exactly right. Perhaps something had changed. He sent us down to radiology. Hips and spine please - just to make sure it wasn't related to the curve.

X-ray technology is pretty amazing. The digital films can be screened immediately by the technicians. And by us. I love seeing them and asking about what I'm seeing when I don't understand. The technicians are always friendly, and this time they were also impressively proficient at getting the x-rays. Sometimes it doesn't go so well because Pookie won't hold still. They were quick with the button.

We learned from the initial screening that her latest brace constrains her lumbar curve quite well. But then that just means the torque in her spine pops out in her thoracic curve. That looked, uh, not so good. And we asked about that dark patch in her belly. Um... yeah. We thought she might be backed up...

Her orthopedic surgeon looked at the x-rays. No evidence of anything that would drive such a limp. We went back to our hypothesis about her knee. She sat in her jogger and allowed him to work with her knees. He thought he could talk himself into believing there was some swelling. He noted that he couldn't quite get full extension. We reminded him of her high tolerance for pain. She gets mighty upset by unpleasant surprises, but doesn't complain about any pain that is anything like chronic. She didn't know that her reflux hurt until we fixed it. Now she knows to ask for her medicine if it's bothering her.

We all watched as he attempted to straighten her leg. She was distracted by whatever she was doing, but there was just a hint of stiffening throughout her body. He decided that was enough to warrant x-rays. Back to radiology: two views, both knees. I jokingly asked if we should just do her ankles and feet at the same time...

After all the requisite waiting before and after the x-rays, then waiting to be seen by the doctor again, he took a look at her new x-rays. We learned that Pookie's right knee cap had either formed in two parts or been fractured sometime in the past. Did I mention her high tolerance for pain? But that wasn't causing any problems, it was merely an interesting side note.

Her left knee cap isn't where it's supposed to be. It's high and to the outside. He examined it again and was surprised to find fluid around her knee. She had walked from the waiting room to the exam room, perhaps fifty feet. That was enough to make a presumptive diagnosis that her knee was the cause of her limp. He referred us to the hip and knee specialist. Speculation is that an MRI might be in order. That would require sedation. Pookie has a significant anesthesia risk - just ask the team over at Eye & Ear. Her orthopedic surgeon wants an MRI of her spine if we need one of her knees. Double check for a tethered cord. He also referred us down to the orthotists for yet another brace.

Pookie did not want another brace. She managed to wrestle her pant leg up over the brace and then ripped off the brace within about twenty minutes. I sighed. We discussed how to make it more difficult for her to remove it. Turns out we didn't need to. Each time I put it on I explained that it was to help her knee feel better. She's a smart kid. She can tell it helps.

The next evening we were out for dinner. I noticed her limp was less pronounced and that she was walking faster. Then she went up a small step leading with her left foot. I can't remember the last time that she did that. So we know we've identified part of the problem. Next month we go back to meet the hip and knee guy. I wonder what he'll discover?

We made another trek up to my family's camp in NH last week. All five of us. Only five of us. I'm not sure how many years it's been since all five of us went up, or even if it's ever happened. And I'm not sure if we've gone without additional adult support (one or both of my parents) to help, even with just two of our three kids. The camp itself can be a handful as it's off-the-grid.

We had blocked out three days and two nights to make the journey up there. We finally decided to give it a go and bring Pookie along. With no electricity all of her favorite activities are not available, but we had our ukulele and her jogger and a swing. And she's a very content kid. To be honest, she surprised us. But that's a story for another day.

As we approached from the west along the Kancamagus we discovered that the gates were still closed on a 1.5 mile stretch of the road leading to the camp. We'd have to drive 25 minutes around the long way. Dee Dee, Little Dudely and I decided to walk in while Dad and Pookie drove around.

It's not a 25 minute walk under any conditions, but after spending four hours in the car and then bursting out into a stunning early spring day, well, it stretches out and becomes an hour long walk. The kids climbed the big rock face just on the other side of the covered bridge then collected all sort of treasures on our way down the road. Pine cones of several varieties and in several stages of opening. Sticks. Rocks. Lichen covered bark. Big sheaths and rolls of birch bark. We stopped to listen to the day. The river. The wind in the tree tops. Birds. Dry oak leaves rustling along the ground. A squirrel scurrying somewhere. We talked about places we'd visited along the road back in January, in the snow. Places that we'd visited years before when Little Dudely was just toddling and mostly bald. We stopped at the brook rushing under the bridge. We listened to the different sounds of the water falling over the rocks in different places. We inspected the remaining snow, and laughed about all the dog poops melting out of it. We kicked at and slipped on the slushy ice.

Dad and Pookie had arrived at the camp, opened it up, unloaded the car, got the generator started and pumped water all before we tripped up the driveway with our armfuls of treasures. It was a good day.

The next afternoon we split up again. Dad took Pookie in her jogger for a walk up to the Covered Bridge and back along the same stretch of road the others of us had walked the day before. Meanwhile I led Dee Dee and Little Dudely in their brand new hiking shoes up the trail to Woodchuck Ledge. We went slowly, stopping frequently as it's a steep climb and the footing is often uncertain. We rested at the Lower Ledges as is customary, then continued on up.

It took 45 minutes including our breaks. It isn't a mountain, but it is the steepest, most rugged climb my kids have accomplished. And it's an important hike in our family. We tally our ascents of Woodchuck Ledge on a chalk board at the camp. This was a momentous occasion. I allowed Dee Dee and Little Dudely to call Poppa and Grammy from the ledge. It's one place you can actually get cell phone reception near(ish) to the camp. And I took pictures to document their achievement.

I have to admit it felt a bit odd to be pulling out a cell phone in this wonderful, private, natural spot. But it felt great to listen to Dee Dee announce to Poppa that she was calling from Woodchuck Ledge. I think he was quite pleased, gratified and surprised to hear of their conquest.

Dee Dee almost immediately starting asking when we were heading back down. Little Dudely sat quietly and declared that he liked just sitting up there. It's quite a view and a truly serene location - looking over the Swift River Valley and across to Mount Chocorua. And it was beautiful and warm and breezy.

Little Dudely finally agreed to head back down when I reminded him of the marshmallow roast we had planned for after our return. Personally, I could have spent as long as he wanted just sitting quietly, but Dee Dee was really ready to go. We agreed to carry up a picnic next time and just chill for awhile up there on the ledge.

My kids discovered that down can be as hard as up. We picked our way down carefully. We paused for breaks and again rested at the Lower Ledges. 45 minutes later we emerged back at the camp. Pleased and proud. Dad and Pookie had enjoyed a blissful walk and Dad was singing and playing ukulele for Pookie when we arrived. Everybody was ready for the marshmallow roast... It was a good day.

Lil

I went to the market the other day. I went for the things I can't find at the produce market or Trader Joe's, or the things I can get at Trader Joe's but that I'm unwilling to drive that far to get. We only go to Trader Joe's every other week or so. Good prices, good food. A long way away. So I went Shaw's.

On my way to the checkout I was scanning the lanes for a shorter line. The lines weren't all that long - the express lane was longest and I had far more than ten items - but still, I like to try to pick a short one. A woman maybe in her fifties passed me heading in the opposite direction towards the express lane. Trailing her a few feet back was a small woman probably in her late seventies, maybe even in her eighties. Her hair was thinning and white, straight and cut about chin length. She had a sparse white beard of chin hairs and wore a pale blue winter jacket. Her face was open and vibrant.

I smiled and said "Hello." Her gazed latched onto mine. She smiled and spoke something I couldn't quite understand. She took hold of my arm saying "You remember me? You remember me?" "No, I don't think we've ever met. I'm Becky. What's your name?" I said holding out my other hand to her in greeting. At the same time her caretaker spoke to her "No, she doesn't know you." and then to me "Her name is Lil."

"Hello Lil. It's nice to meet you. Are you here buying some good food?" She grabbed me and hugged me close, she came up only to my shoulder. I noticed her caretaker holding just a turkey. "Oh you're having turkey. Aren't you lucky." She pulled at me begging, expectant, hopeful "You come home with me?" "No, I've got to get home to my little ones." I replied gently. She continued to hug my arm, happy to have found another friend, not quite ready to surrender me back to the world.

Her caretaker called to her and she let go of my arm. Our eyes met again as we said goodbye. Inside I was thinking that I did remember her. She reminded me of Pookie. Pookie seventy years from now. Pookie if she ever speaks. Content, open and loving. I hope she had a wonderful meal surrounded by friends and family. I hope Pookie will always be surrounded by friends and family. People who love her. I we all are always surrounded by people who love us.

The Seed

The seed
Will not grow
In isolation,
But it always
Listens to itself.

Spring

Ah... Spring is almost here. Well, unless you're playing Trival Pursuit. In that case Spring started on March 1st and runs through May 31st (that's a grudge I hold from long ago). But I look to the solar calendar: spring starts on the Vernal Equinox - March 20th this year. And while equinox is derived from equi, meaning equal, and nox, meaning night, suggesting that day and night are equal on the equinox, that isn't actually true. It's close, but not quite 12 hours between sunrise and sunset.

In fact, March 17th will have 12 hours and 49 seconds between sunrise and sunset where I live. The sun will be up for 12 hours, 9 minutes and 27 seconds on March 20th here. It varies with latitude, and even longitude as the sun travels north (at this time of year) over the course of a day. What is true is that the sun will cross the celestial equator from south to north (in the northern hemisphere) on March 20th. For a nice explanation see timeanddate.com.

Of course, from a weather perspective where I am Spring is marked by warmer days and melting snow and crocuses sprouting up. Truly the most certain sign that we're done with snow for the year (well, until Fall anyway) is when you see the crocuses valiantly blooming through a very late winter or early spring snowfall.

Today was a taste of spring here. We've had a few in the past few weeks, but we've been recovering from what will hopefully be the last cold of this winter, and so have been unable to luxuriate in the sunny warmth. Not today. Today we enjoyed the 50+F temperatures and sunshine.

We went for a walk. And after our walk Dee Dee and Little Dudely wanted to stay out. Pookie, not being much for the outdoors unless it involves swimming or someone pushing her in a swing or her jogger, decided to go in after our walk. That left me to straddle the indoors and the outdoors. And bake the cookies we decided to make today.

We dug out their bicycles and helmets so they could zoom around in the sun. They breezed through the air in the swings with only a fleece jacket. No winter parkas, no mittens, no hats. They created Stone Soup with bark mulch, rocks, lot of sand and melting snow. They whipped up Chicken Pot Papaya from leaf bits (mostly oak), twigs, some sand and a little snow from the remnants of the giant snow mound that obstructed their swings most of the winter. The feast was for Little Dudely's friend Cugabon - his birthday is tomorrow.

At 5p I thought about calling them in for dinner. Then I thought better of it. At 6p I thought about calling them in for dinner. But who am I to interrupt anyone savoring the outdoors? So dinner was sometime 6:30p, bathtime was kept short, and two tired kids went to bed right on time.

And that lovely story isn't exactly true. I came down with a second cold yesterday on the heels of my first one. So the walk was about all the reveling I could manage, and maybe a bit more than was wise. And Dee Dee is not yet alseep despite all the fresh air and fun. But her bedtime issues won't be adressed here and now. Regardless, after five months of bare trees and a landscape dominated by brown, grey, white and evergreen, with the occasional splash of blue sky, I am ready for Spring.

About

If I said "I woke up feeling a lot of angst about my project" would you think you needed to fix something? If I said "You told me my project has a lot of potential (and I agree with you), and now I'm feeling angst about it" would you think I was blaming you?


At the core of most communication difficulties is a basic confusion over who it's all about. I'll make things simple:
What is spoken is about the speaker.
What is heard is about the listener.
What is felt is about the feeler.

What we say and hear and feel is a reflection of our own internal state. The external world merely provides the stimulus that allows us to understand ourselves more clearly.

I think that the closer we are to our conversational partner, the harder it is to remember these distinctions. So the next time you feel a conversation going the wrong way, or negative emotions rise up within you, take a step back.

And if you just thought I meant physically take a step back, why don't you just shake it all about...? Do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself around, 'cause that's what it's all about. Really.

Bugglies

The dreaded bugglies attacked last weekend. There I was Embracing My Rant in an email to my coaching circle coach, bemoaning the feeling of being trapped by the circumstances of my life (read: my children). And, as usually happens when I Embrace My Rant, I discovered that my feeling of being trapped stemmed not from the circumstances of my life, but my thoughts about them. Specifically, my expectations of myself to be everything to everybody all the time, to make everything OK, were trapping me in my personal Pit of Despair.

Within hours of my rant, I was curled up on the couch feverish with aching joints. I gave up all ideas of what I was supposed to do beyond rest. No more being everything to everybody, I was in make-it-through-the-day mode. Dee Dee, Little Dudely and I watched The Princess Bride and ate grapes and pretzels for dinner. Pookie mucked about entertaining herself contentedly and requested cheese and banana bread for dinner. Worked for me.

Over the next few days I rediscovered the joys of music videos, computer solitaire and freecell, Sudoku (once my head cleared a bit) and generally doing nothing. Meals were basic, baths were by request only, no laundry was done, we went no where. Did I mention the 12" of snow that fell in there too? I rested as much as possible. Life went on.

Here's what I learned (or remembered):

• Never gamble. Even something as innocuous as Vegas-Solitaire is a sure way to lose lots of money fast.
  
• Solitaire is a wonderful nearly mindless game of mostly chance, but you're going to lose a lot.
• Freecell is always win-able making it a nice counterpart to Solitaire, but you better feel well enough to think at least a little bit.
• By the time you're well enough for hard and evil Sudoku you're pretty much through the worst of it.
• Music videos are as mezmerising as ever.
• There are a lot of videos I don't want my kids watching.
• Even ones I'll let them watch often take a lot of explaining.
• The Princess Bride is a great movie on many levels.
  
• Nothing bad happens when I drop all the "should"s in my life.
• There are a lot more "should"s in my life than I realized.
  
• Life is much easier when you stop pushing.
• My kids are awesome.
• My life is wonderful and only getting better.
  

A Walk In The Woods

I went for a walk yesterday. I walked along a trail that I've walked many, many times before, though each time it's different. Yesterday I walked on snow packed down by many other travelers, melted by the sun and warm air and rain, refrozen by the return of winter. This cycle of snow and melt and freezing has been repeated for months, and now the trail is more ice than snow. Ice lumpy and bumpy with footprints, yet polished by the melts. Yesterday the smooth ice was coated with melt water. Slick and slippery, glistening in the sun. So I trod cautiously down my well-frequented trail.

In sections where the ice was not so icy, but rather softer and providing more traction, I relaxed into the wonderful afternoon sun, appreciating the lengthening days of approaching spring. I felt expansive and buoyant. I was taller than I've ever been. Perhaps even a foot taller. Anyhow, I was seeing and experiencing the world in a new way. I floated along the trail reveling in this sense of... strength? power? expansiveness.

At one point I was called down a side-trail that leads around the rock that the main trail, an old almost-rail-bed (the rail-line was never completed), is carved through. I walked on the river-side of the rock, along the side of a steep hill overlooking the river through the trees. There was a flat rock that offered me a seat. I accepted with deep gratitude. I sat looking at and through the trees, at the river running high with melt-water, at the reflections of the hill opposite me, at the sun slicing through the trees, at the ducks swimming to their nest in the downed trees and growth below me on the river. I breathed in all that there is.

When I was done sitting I continued on down to the bridge that crosses the river at the other end of the trail. I rarely go all the way across. I usually stop at the midpoint and watch the river. Some days it's all about the reflections on a glassy surface. Other days it's all about the interplay of ripples and wind and sun. Yesterday I watched the eddies that shed off the bridge pylon. I watched as some of them rolled onto their sides and surface like logs of water breaching the surface. I watched at flotsam was caught in the nearly still water in the lee of the pylon. I watched as it was slowly drawn upriver towards the bridge by the counter-currents driven by the marvelous hydrodynamics caused by the pylon. I watched until the flotsam was drawn out of it's gentle diversion, back into the main current and swept downstream.

As I journeyed back I found my trail lined by appreciative and encouraging supporters standing strong enjoying the afternoon as I was. I quietly, lovingly acknowledged the trees and reflected their appreciation. How lucky I am to have such wisdom surrounding me, to feel so a part of the wonders of nature.

Tonight it is raining. I love the sound of rain...

Not

I am not my mother’s daughter.
I am not my father’s daughter.
I am not my husband’s wife.
I am not my children’s mother.
I am not my sister’s sister.
I am not my ancestors’ descendant.
I am not my descendants’ ancestor.
I am not my friends’ friend.
I am not my adversaries’ nemesis.

I am my adversaries and my friends.
I am my descendants and my ancestors.
I am my sister, my father and my mother.
I am my children and my husband.

I am nothing.
And I am all that is.

Ripples

Let me explain. The woman on the left is me (that's the picture needs explaining). The woman on the right is Cindy Willick, a motivational speaker and friend from my life coach training. She posted a link to this video to our class forum at the beginning of January.

If you haven't watched it, do so now.

Isn't that the coolest? I love her. The exchange on our forum after I watched it went something like this:

Me: [blah, blah, blah, admiration and so on] I keep toying with the idea of putting on my bathing suit (and boots) and heading out for a picture in the snow to send to you! Of course, we're in for another ice storm tomorrow, and that's not quite the kind of glistening I want to do...

Cindy: I'm going to challenge to do just what you mischievously said you'd do: take a photo of yourself in a bathing suit + boots in the snow. Go for it!!!

(And you know me... I love a good, fun challenge.)

Me: (see above picture)

Yes, I put on my bathingsuit and went outside in the freezing rain (hence the umbrella) and actually posted the picture to our class forum. I also passed on the challenge to everyone in our class. I am disappointed to report that not one other person has followed up.

Anyway, I thought that was the end of it. I mean, maybe someday I'll get an actual mid-riff baring bikini and take a picture of myself in it and send that to her (or maybe the forum), but for now, that was that. Until today.

In the small talk before class the master coach conducting today's lesson mentioned that she had kept my photo on her computer to remind her to be TAO. That's the acronym we use for Transparent-Authentic-Open. I was stunned. Then another student mentioned that she has a friend who runs girl-empowerment seminars and that this woman was using my picture in presentations about media images of women (to counter those images I presume).

At first I was a bit embarrassed, but now, now I am just humbled. I never would have imagined that my act of silliness and courage would ripple so far. So I am inspired to be a little crazier and post that picture here. And to challenge all of you to take a picture of yourself in something that feels a bit too revealing to post on the web and send it to Cindy: cindy@cindywillick.com. Wouldn't it be incredible to see a photo montage, with fun music of course, of all sorts of people Baring It All?

Be more

The sun will not rise
any sooner
just because
you’re pushing
on the Earth.





I wrote that on December 4, 2008.

I'm still pushing on the Earth trying to get the sun to rise a little sooner.

Sometimes I manage to allow myself to live in the easy flow of life. That feels good. My life unfolds gracefully, in it's own time. I recognize that everything is happening at the perfect time, in a perfect way.

But more often I'm impatiently efforting towards some imagined destination. I'm not even sure what I'll do if I do get there. I don't think that there really is a there anyway. But I have to get there now, if not yesterday.

Do more. Something. Anything. Make things happen. Get there. Now.

And when I stop to consider just what it is I should do that would most effectively move me along toward whatever it is I am striving towards, I often find that the answer is "nothing". And so I glance at my bulletin board with phrases and passages of inspiration and read:

Do less. Be more.

Don't you think that would be great on a t-shirt?

Predator

My squirrel friend has a shorter tail this evening. He, or maybe it's a she, I can't tell, was pillaging our compost bucket on our screened porch with a buddy this morning. I'm not sure why my husband thought having an open bucket of compost on our screened porch was a good idea. Last year we kept one there as a holding spot before bringing it all out to our compost pile. In the winter it's hard to be motivated to bring the compost to the pile. Cold, snow, ice. Lots of good excuses. That worked until a variety of squirrels and mice found the bucket after tearing holes in the screens. We put a lid on on. They ate through the lid. We resumed our daily pilgrimages to the pile.

So why was an open bucket there again? He says he thought he was getting away with it. But this morning there were two red squirrels feasting. Then in another inexplicable decision, my sometimes not-so-good-at-thinking-things-through husband let our cat, Pip, out onto the porch. He says he thought Pip would just chase them out. But what happened looked a lot more like a cage match between predator and prey.

Their hole-in-the-screen entrance to our porch is not a high-speed escape route. They were trapped. Panicked, one climbed the screens and cowered ten feet off the ground while the other dashed madly about. Pip is a hunter through and through. I've known he's an outdoor cat in his truest nature. He's no lie around and get fat indoor lap cat. And he demonstrated that killer instinct today.

The frenzied running of the red squirrel stopped when he wedged his head between a post and the wall of the house, desperately trying to squeeze through. Most of his body didn't fit. That's where Pip caught up with him. By this time I was urging my husband to go out and stop this execution.

Let me be clear, I understand the predator prey relationship. Cats kill and eat squirrels. But this was not a fair fight - the prey were effectively caged and a predator was introduced to that cage. If this battle had been waged in the open yard, in nature, I would not have interfered. I would have looked away.

My dear husband recognized the seriousness of my demand and went out and grabbed Pip. As he carried the adrenaline crazed cat back into the house a large pile of fur hung from Pip's mouth. Mr. Squirrel was alive, but with a much shorter tail.

Within minutes the squirrels were back in the compost bucket. Think about that. Any person I know surviving a close encounter with death would be sitting back panting, calling friends and families to describe the "I almost died!" experience, re-living the story again and again. The story would take on mythic, epic proportions in that person's life. But a squirrel? After the imminent danger had passed, the predator gone, the squirrel resumed foraging.

I think there is someplace between what humans do and what squirrels do that makes sense. Reflect on the experience, see what can be learned from it, and then move on. No need to keep oneself re-living the terror, defining life as before and after. Acknowledge it was a close call, take what you can from it, enjoy life even more. I'll let you know when I can actually accomplish this idea...

But the story doesn't end there. We still had two squirrels rummaging through our compost in our screened porch. In a sensible move, my husband grabbed a broom and shooed them out of the bucket, then moved the bucket off the porch. He propped open the door. Then, for another unknown-to-me reason, he decided that they needed to leave now. He proceeded to chase them about with the broom until they ran out the door. Wouldn't they have left on their own in a few minutes to find the bucket?

Wallowing

Today I spent some time wallowing in self-pity. I'm not proud of this, but I'm also trying not to beat myself up over it. It happens. I get over it.

When I step back far enough and get my life in perspective I see how incredibly blessed I am. I have good health, a loving husband, beautiful children, an amazing extended family, a fabulous house that provides far more than basic shelter. I live surrounded by abundance in so many forms. That I take for granted. I have opportunities that most of the world can't even imagine.

And today I chose to exercise the opportunity to focus on the things I don't have and don't like. Today I cried because of the ways my life is limited. I suppose, really, I cried because of the ways my thinking is limited. I narrowed my focus until all I could see were the parts that I've decided are a problem.

I love to play outdoors. I love to try new adventures. I love doing physical things in and with nature. I can't figure out how to include Pookie with her needs and preferences. Pookie is never going hiking, maybe a nature walk in her jogger, but not hiking. She would probably hate skiing and iceskating, but I can't even figure out how to do those things. Well, there are adaptive ski centers, but they are cost prohibitive and she's just not a play-in-the-snow kind of kid. Surfing is out for her. She might play in the waves, but now I need to find someone to do that while I'm off playing. See how easy it is for me to over-constrain myself and focus on the things I can't do?

What problems to have! Food, no problem. Shelter, safety, health, no problem. Play? Ooh... woe is me. And I do get to play, just not in exactly the ways I want.

Why do I, why do humans have this tendency to focus on what we don't have instead of what we do have? I suppose it's a survival trait that's obsolete in this culture of abundant everything. I suppose it explains the popularity of gratitude journals and lists - we need to practice appreciating everything we do have to balance our innate inclination to look for what is missing.

So, inspired by that idea, here are a bunch of things I'm grateful for (that I haven't already mentioned):

1. The acres and acres of woods that surround my house.

2. This room that I claim as my own for exercise, work, mediation, dance, conversation and quiet.

3. All of my friends who ceaselessly support and encourage me despite my own doubts.

4. My extensive collection of fleece socks.

5. My mediation cushions.

6. The camp up in New Hampshire.

7. Woodchuck Ledge.

8. The Swift River

9. Telephones, email, blogs & Skype that all keep me connected to the people in my life.

10. The sunrise every morning that proves to me all I have to do is go along for the ride. No effort required.

11. Skylights.

12. Books. So many, many books.

13. My comfy bed with flannel sheets and down quilt.

14. The red squirrel who kept me bemused today skittering around outside my window, climbing the screen and disappearing above it onto the light fixture.

Time

A week. It's been over a week since I've blogged. When I started this blog I intended to blog every day. Some days I had more than one great idea to write about. I made it through the holidays. I made it through my January doldrums. Then I paused to reconsider my priorities. I played. And now I see that blogging was left out.

I've thought about it most days, sort of wistfully, but not really in any way that caused me to create time for it either. I enjoy writing and storytelling and thought-exploring. Still, in the fine art of balancing my life I couldn't figure which side of the scale to put it on. So it stayed off to the side, neglected.

The past few days have been very eventful for me internally. I have recognized some very powerful patterns in my thoughts and behavior, connected seemingly disparate facets of my life, sat stunned, absorbing the implications. Awareness is a wonderful thing. Awareness facilitates change. But it's set me back on my heels, no, shoved me backwards onto my rump, left me staring, mouth agape at the vision of this new understanding.

A small piece of this insight concerned my habits around spending resources on myself. I don't. I have great difficulty buying things for myself, dedicating time to myself, anything for myself. Each time I claim some bit of our resources for myself, it is something of a triumph. I make time to exercise most mornings, but I need to justify it's value beyond what it does for me, and minimize it's impact on my family. I make time to blog, and again need to justify it's value and minimize it's impact. When I have bought things for myself, non-essentials, I have needed to justify them to myself. Better yet, I wait long enough that someone else buys them for me. But that's a different piece of this story.

So yesterday I spent some time exploring that. At the end I made a list of some things I really want. Things that I don't need in any way, but that I have wanted for some time. Things that make me happy just to think about having them. Some are big: I would love to go to some sunny warm climate, like Hawaii and learn to surf. I can't explain it. Some are smaller: I have ogled Zen clocks with a chime alarm for months and months, if not years.

Today I decided I would buy myself one. $120 seems like a lot for a clock, but this isn't about strict practicality. It's about valuing myself, valuing my happiness, recognizing that it's OK to spend money on something that, for whatever reason, means so much to me. Maybe it's symbolic.

Last spring, after an agonizing internal struggle, I bought myself a new camera. I had found my photography to be limited by the quality of the lens and technical capabilities of my point-and-shoot, pocket camera. I splurged. And what happened was not just that the technical quality of my photos improved, or even that my creativity was unleashed. In some way, valuing that piece of me opened my awareness to the direction of my soul's work, my vocation, I don't know what to call it. It opened me to possibility. That gesture, that splurge on myself, that valuing of myself was certainly a symbolic signal to some core part of me: It's safe to come out now.

I sat down to write tonight, for the first time in over a week, with the settled feeling that I would do something special for myself and order a Zen clock, and found an email from my husband. It was a link to a Widget for my iMac. A meditation timer. That chimes.

I still want my clock.


(Picture from Now & Zen.)

Play

The snow was supposed to start sometime mid-morning. It was supposed to be heaviest mid-afternoon. It was supposed to accumulate to 4-5" up there in the wilds of New Hampshire. We awoke on the first morning of our escape to 3" on the ground (well, on top of the two or more feet that were already on the ground). By the time we ate breakfast and got all our outdoor gear on two hours later (hey, you try to prepare two children and three adults for 10F and deep snow) the fresh snow was nearly 6" deep.

We set off with the vague goal of finding the sandpit Poppa remembered being someplace a ways off the road and down a bit. Maybe it would be exciting to slide down it. We wandered back into the woods following a trail laid out by fellow enthusiasts. Dee Dee and Little Dudely (and I) had fun pulling on the branches of heavily coated hemlocks setting off avalanches of powder onto ourselves and those following behind us. Progress was slow towards the gate that closes the road in winter and that marks, generally, the spot from which you dive into the woods to find the sandpit. But it was a magical day in the White Mountain National Forest with heavy snow, and heavier silence (when we bothered to stop giggling long enough to hear what wasn't there).

When we looped back to the road at the gate and finished climbing on the giant snow piles at the end of the plowed section on the road there was a disagreement over which way to head to find the sandpit. So Poppa went one way, Dad went the other. Dee Dee, Little Dudely and I plopped ourselves down in powdery thrones and caught snowflakes on our tongues.

Poppa called out from a distance, muffled by the snow. Then he appeared and indicated for us to follow his tracks back to the mythical sandpit. But first we howled our best coyote cries (as promised) to let dad know we were heading off into the woods.

We made our way back along the fresh trail, tromped nearly knee deep in the new and previous powder, grateful for our snowshoes. We ducked under a fallen tree, crossed a frozen brook hidden under the snow, and came around a final turn to the sandpit. Sort of a half-bowl shape, maybe 35 feet high, with nearly vertical sides at the top. Very impressive.

Dee Dee started up first. I followed. Little Dudely joined the climb just before Dad and Poppa arrived. Kick, kick, kick. I had to try to bury the toes of my snowshoes in the deep powder on the slope to get traction. Dee Dee needed me to brace one foot for her so she could make progress. Dad did the same for Little Dudely.

We stood at the top intimidated by the steep drop. One by one we courageously slid down on our bottoms, carving out a sliding run, piling up mounds of powder around us. The kids were the lucky ones wearing overall snowpants or snowsuits. For the adults snow pushed up under jackets and into our layers of sweaters...

By the time we made our way back to our camp we were exhausted by the snowshoeing and climbing and sliding, and by the cold. Another 4" of snow had fallen in the two hours we had been out. By late in the afternoon, when the snow finally let up, nearly 18" of powder had fallen. We definitely needed to shovel the flat roof of the addition, and probably the main roof as well.

The next morning we went out to breakfast and found some sleds. We headed back to the sandpit with our sleds... and a camera. Each ride blew huge waves of powder into our faces, making us wish we had goggles and neck warmers as the cold, cold snow hurt as it melted on our faces. Our crazy rides got faster, but always ended with a floomp! into the deep pile at the bottom. There simply was no graceful way out. So we laughed instead.

As we trudged out Little Dudely rode in one sled as it filled with snow, burying him. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining through the tree, snow unpredictably cascading off the trees. But it was also our day to head home. I managed to it "Play" on my life's remote while I was there. I hope it gets stuck.

Pause Button

I'm working on a pause button for my life. Sometimes I just want a way to stop everything while I catch my breath, catch up to the action and figure out what's going on in the plot of my life. I think this would be a very handy little device. I imagine I'm not the only one who wants one.

Maybe it'll be a remote with rewind for the times you want to go back and change what happened, or just review it when there's a dispute over who said what. And fast forward for when you want to skip over the scary or sad stuff and get to the good part when it all turns out well in the end. Ooh, and slow-motion so you can savor the best parts. I think some captioning would be useful too for those times miscommunications pile up until you feel like the person you're talking with is speaking a different language.

But as much as I sometimes wish for all those features I think life is much more interesting without them. When I look back at all I've learned from those scary and sad times, from the miscommunications, from rushing through the good times, I wouldn't want to change them.

However I do need to get back to my meditation practice as that is as close as I'll ever get to a pause button for my life.

Out of Balance

My life is officially out of balance. Here's a list of some of the things I like to do, but have been neglecting: I have not been exercising, either cardio or weights. I have not been practicing yoga, qi gong or meditation. I have not been blogging regularly. I have not been reading. I have not been eating well (low on the fruits and veggies intake, a few too many treats). I have not been making time to focus on the important relationships in my life.

I think it's that last one that has finally gotten my attention. One by one the other things on the list will get my attention too, as their neglect and the subsequent lack of personal nurturing take their toll. But as much as I've been having fun with and been absorbed by my singular focus, I'm feeling disconnected from my loved ones. It's time to become conscious of my priorities again.

It's easy to get swept up in tasks that feel urgent. It's easy to get swept up in tasks that are fun. It's easy to lose sight of the truly important stuff when your focus gets narrowed. And I've done all of those things to get to this state of unbalance.

Funny thing is, I don't mind that I've gotten here. I saw it coming. I knew what was happening. I've been having fun. I don't mean to suggest that I wanted to neglect important relationships or my general well-being, but I was having fun focusing on my own play. I've been getting my new business as a life coach up and running. I've been making contacts, creating my website and business cards, getting my bank account and invoicing set up, and coaching. It feels so good!

But now I'll step back and re-balance because I'm starting to see the negative effects of all my play. However, play will be an important component of my new balance puzzle - a component I largely neglected for years before this indulgence...

Muddle

"And when beetles battle beetles in a puddle paddle battle and the beetle battle puddle is a puddle in a bottle... They call this a tweedle beetle bottle puddle paddle battle muddle..." - Dr. Seuss

I've got tweedle beetles battling in the puddle in the bottle which is my head. Or, in other words, my thoughts are in a muddle tonight. Lots of them. Mucking about. When I chase them, they just tweedle and laugh, running off. So I'm trying to ignore them, hoping that they'll get tired overnight and settle down.

It's sort of the way I feel sometimes when my kids are wound up in the evening. You know, that "energy vampire" time of day? They suck my energy from me and I end up an exhausted puddle on the floor while they bounce off the walls. And then I just bide my time until they get tired and settle down.

Tonight my kids are settled down and asleep, but my thoughts! Well, I guess I'll just lie down in an exhausted puddle and enjoy the show...

Yay for Max!

Our little friend Max spent 10 hours in surgery on Monday and then another 7 hours on Friday. At the end of the day the curvature in his spine was corrected from a life-threatening 90 degrees to 30 degrees. It's stabilized with rods. He's recovering well, using his talker and asking for his favorite music, even eating a bit. He'll even have a medical journal article written about him. Yup. He gave his surgeons a real test. A first ever experience for them with all the problems they encountered. Not what one would choose, for certain. But those surgeons met the challenge. So now his family and friends can take a deep breath and relish the idea of his speedy and smooth recovery, and return to his home. Yay!

Snow and Ice

Our driveway is an ice skating rink. No, half of it is an ice skating rink, the half with a slope to it is a bobsled run. A few days ago we got about an inch of snow. And then another inch or so of ice pellets and freezing rain. It all mixed together into a thick slush on our driveway. We plowed the best we could and the rest froze.

Yesterday my car almost didn't make it up the sloped part. I was lucky we had driven in the slush and left tire tracks to freeze in it. I had just enough traction to get home. Then I went back out, lugging 5 gallon buckets of sand to spread on the hill.

It's just starting snowing again tonight. Another 5-9 inches are expected. I don't want to be the one to plow this storm. Snow on ice. Low traction. At least there's no where I need to go. This has been quite a winter!

Four years ago was another snowy winter. We were in a major living-space transition, living in my sister's newly finished house that she graciously offered to us for the year our house was under construction. I'm still in awe of her generosity. We were building a new house two lots over, my parents were building one on the lot in between. We've got a little homestead here. And the best part is we can hardly see each other's houses, but we see each other nearly every day.

Since my husband was away about half the time I was left to take care of winter driveway maintenance. Plowing. Me and my three kids, 18 months, 5 1/2 and 7 years old at the time. Two 800 ft driveways, and one shorter but much steeper one, and lots of snow. I'd buckle the kids into the back of the cab put on some Women's Yoga Chants and off we'd go. I was good too. I'm still the only plow driver not to have dented the truck or gotten it so stuck as to need external assistance.

Which isn't to say I didn't have my share of excitement. One evening as the dusk was settling over us I went out at the end of a storm to plow the driveways. It was heavy snow, may 6-9 inches, and I lost traction on the hill up to my parents' house. I tried valiantly but ended up with the truck sort of sideways, a tree just downhill of the side of the bed, a tree just ahead of the truck. Me and three kids (none of whom were wearing boots). No cell phone.

You know how people talk about doing things simply because they had to and not knowing how it all worked out. Yeah. At first I wanted to cry because I was so stuck and feeling helpless. Then I remembered it was up to me to work this out. No one was going to come find and rescue me. A shovel and I don't know what, and I managed to turn the truck enough to back it down safely. I left the rest of that driveway for someone else (without three kids and with a cellphone) to deal with another day (in the day time).

Well, since we've all moved in I haven't plowed. There's always someone else available. My parents keep the truck at their house because it's easiest to plow down their driveway, so my Dad is often our plow guy. Thanks Dad! The kids are grateful too, although I think we all kind of miss our time belting out those yoga chants together...

Fears

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us." - Marianne Williamson

What is it about this quote that resonates so deeply with me?
Truth.

What am I afraid of in my power beyond measure, in my light?
I am afraid of the stories I tell myself about how others will respond to me if I live in my light. Stories of isolation, separateness, loneliness. And the stories I tell myself about expectations and doubt.

What are those stories?
That I will encounter the person who doesn't agree, who speaks their truth which is opposed to mine. I will be pushed away. I won't meet their expectations. And so I won't meet my expectations. Their truth will resonate with the doubt in me, with my stories of inadequacy.

Why do I fix my focus on my own stories of inadequacy?
I have become accustomed to the discomfort of believing my stories of inadequacy. I am comfortable in, or maybe it is resigned to, my discomfort. So long as I am stuck here I don't have to face my fear of the stories I tell myself about what will happen as I accept and live with my power. I don't have to face the stories I tell myself about expectations and doubts.

Don't the stories just lead me back to inadequacy?
Yes. I've followed one possible story through to completion and found that I'm inadequate, so I spend my time looking for evidence of that story and that outcome. I've given away my power to someone I don't even know, who I may never meet, who, theoretically doesn't share my perspective and my truth. Apparently I've decided before I even begin, that if I can't be certain that everyone will agree with me I won't even try to live my own truth.

And that is why I find myself walking into my old, singularly demoralizing story to challenge it. To question every part of it. To find alternative stories that resonate with more truth and love. To free myself from it's confines and create a habitat for my soul.