Change takes place in a moment of choice. There are no strings attached but the ones we hold in our own hands. What takes time and work is the willingness to let go of the strings.

FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

“Nobody grows old merely by a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals.  Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, fear, self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit back to dust.”  Samuel Ullman

SYMPHONY OF SILENCE

Sitting in the morning quiet of my office, I realize what a rich word silence is. Silence isn’t the absence of sound. Silence creates a space for a symphony of sounds: 

The wind wiggling the large magnolia leaves, freeing the tree of last years leftovers.
The tick of the clock.
The whir of the ceiling fan.
The creak of the window sill.
Birds landing lightly in the leaves and skittering away with a giant whoosh.
My dogs breathy sighs.
Birdsong bringing the day to life.
The faintest flicker of the candle’s flame.
The train blowing a whistle full of blues into the dawn.
It’s a wonder I can hear myself think in all this noise!
That’s exactly it. Silence is wonder.

Usually, the dictionary definitions disappoint. They glide across a word rather than sinking into it, like landing in layers of deep downy quilts. But in this case, Webster almost captures the essence of wonder: “rapt attention or astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one’s experience.” Silence opens up room to pay rapt attention. It invites our curiosity to step outside the chatter and the clatter of an idle mind into the awesomely mysterious womb of the universe just inside our imagination. Silence awakens my senses and I feel the breeze brushes past me like cool silk on clean skin moving over me like mist on water. Stories begin to stir. I can hear myself think.

SCARS

Our scars hold the wisdom gained from experience. They enhance our beauty and show the courage of our spirit. I am reminded of my strength.

MEMORIES

The myth of who we were, 

where does it go when the photos fade,

and the tapestries go thread bare,

while the story well runs dry?

What part of us endures 

when we go where memory can not follow?

SHAME

  Working with young people that have suffered deep trauma, often in isolation and without a supportive network of resources can be heartbreaking. It’s especially hard when I know that there is treatment. What’s even harder to communicate is that there is a loving, healing presence in every one of us who loves us even when we see ourselves as totally unlovable. I know I cannot fix but I hope my eyes reflect that presence and my actions in those critical moments are unconditional in their love.

I know a boy who was set to burning.

His secrets caught fire and the silence raged out of control.

Consumed by the thoughts of the many,

he was lost to the presence of The One

Cowbird Attraction

Add caption

I found a site called Cowbird around mid-February. It’s a small community of writers. It’s been an amazing, healing, validating experience. The quality of the writing is quite good but the thing that inspires me and moves me the most is the courage people show in making themselves vulnerable to the group. The sharing comes from a deep place where we are all broken. There’s no “if you think you’ve got it bad wait until you hear this.” There’s a tenderness and respect for everyone who shares. It’s not a confessional site. People don’t respond with advice or judgments.  They show their support by “loving” your post and by continuing to share about their own life. The site accommodates sound and pictures which really enriches the experience and the writers are from all over the world. Another amazing and humbling thing. They write in English as if it was their native tongue which is quite challenging when it comes to poetry, metaphors and imagery.

It’s rare that I let a day go by without getting on the site. The way it is set up you develop an audience by people indicating they would like to know when you post a story. In the same way you become a member of someone else’s audience when you are interested or inspired by their stories. The circle continues to grow. You really do get to know one another by seeing each person’s daily life evolve as they share stories of the present, past or hopes for the future. 

The global perspective is awesome.  For example, the papers were reporting a story about the Occupy people being removed from a park in London. At the same time one of the Cowbirder’s, who lives within sight of what was happening, was posting about what she was seeing.  It validates all that we have in common as humans inhabiting the same planet as we tell our stories and share feelings we all identify with. It also shows us how varied our global cultures are by bringing a wide variety of perspectives to each story shared. Where else could you hear the insides of a tree groan its story, or the sound of ancient working water wheels in Syria or the sound of a child’s laughter on another continent?

It’s not addictive but it is enticing. The feeling of a site visit is similar to going to coffee with friends. There’s an intimacy involved that is so very different from the urgent, thoughtless spewing of too much information we often get from the internet’s social media (although there is a place and benefits from sites like Facebook).

I don’t want to stop my blogging though. It is also fulfilling. It asks me to dig a little deeper, expand my perspective and loosen my control. It seems the old adage of a place for everything is quite true even in this digital age.

My Own Thoughts

   Lately I've been steeped in the thoughts of others, especially regarding my spiritual journey. My two years at Andover Seminary, while not resulting in an M.Div., were seminal in breaking wide open the God box. I found there's a place for me, rather I should say I found there's room for me. Place reflects stability,  a sense of the unchanging. The study of God is broad and deep but it is not static.
    We're all on one big scavenger hunt with our lists in hand and when we collect everything on the list we hope we will get the grand prize. We will find GOD. Perhaps we already have found The One because the fact that we are searching is a manifestation that it already exists in our imagination or we wouldn't be looking. Everyone is in the haystack digging around for the needle but each seeker has a unique vision of the needle. So perhaps The One is really The Many.
   Studying the early church was frustrating due to my own narrow mindedness, ignorance and fear. I had no understanding of the cultural context in which it existed. What I saw as an attempt by the early church fathers to limit God by putting him into a finite man-made box was God revealing itself to people in the language of their particular historical and social setting. They were a diverse bunch and they too each had their own unique vision of the needle. The formation of Christianity as we look back on it from the twenty-first century was hardly the harmonious gathering of like-minded people we are encouraged to be today. It was steeped in the same political controversies and heresies that we are still muddling through. And just as today, these controversies are not so much about God as they are expressions of the tensions of transition, political and otherwise. Change is at the heart of the divine nature. God refuses to be trussed up and displayed in a carnival side-show.
   The more I read, listen, look, and pay attention to the details, the bigger God gets. This is fine with me because, quite frankly, I want a great big God, a God so big there's no hope of having a complete understanding. Just managing my little slice of the universe is quite demanding enough for me. But I have noticed that this Great Big Deity occasionally curls up inside me for one-on-one time. I don't know how it happens. I just know those are my most precious moments. I doubt if it's just my own voice speaking to me because I often hear what I don't want to hear. This presence often confuses with me with someone who is much more courageous, compassionate and talented than I am. But oddly when I'm called to be more than I believe I am, I rise to the occasion.
   

Suicide's Gift

    Gus is a big, soft sack of white feathers or so he seems when his furry 100 lb.-body is curled up at my feet. He’s my most cherished companion, comforter, jester and teacher.  Over the years I’ve come to respect the wisdom of his way of being in the world.  

There was a time when the tree of my life with its gnarled trunk nicked with lessons and loss and its deep rings reflecting a resilience of spirit just evaporated and with it my identity. Gone. The landscape of my memories was clear-cut and unfamiliar. My 23-year-old son committed suicide. 

   What was left of me was unidentifiable remains, disembodied pieces that had fallen off the whole. I could only sense life, nothing fully formed, just a petrie dish kind of sensation. The journey to becoming an integral part of existence again seemed far beyond my capabilities.  But there was Gus, so gentle ands so present. He was totally dependent on me to meet his needs - being fed, being walked and kept safe. He reminded me that life’s basic responsibilities were still there.  If I didn’t feed Gus, he barked and acted out. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t punishing me. It wasn’t a judgment, just the natural consequence of not being fed. If I didn’t walk him, well, I knew the consequences. He wasn’t telling me to stuff my grief and sadness, that he came first. He was just reminding me that for every action there’s a reaction. Slowly, I felt a sense of balance return. I was still deeply sad and at times overwhelmed but I knew I could meet life’s basic needs. Routine could be a life saver. My canine angel was showing me that not everything is personal, not all cause and effect is a judgment. Life happened to me not because of me. 

   Gus also taught me a universal language that allows all life to communicate. It was a language without words that I had dismissed as foolish, irrational and childish many years before. It was the language of instinct and intuition. It seems I’d known it all along. 

I knew just what Gus was telling me when he circled and growled rather than barking a greeting and approaching to be petted. I knew what he meant when he placed himself between me and a stranger with his tail perfectly still and straight. And he was always right. Gus helped me recover a gift of birth - to listen to what isn’t said and trust what isn’t seen. He’s the unconditional love that kept me safe until I learned to laugh again, to hope again and to see life as a circle of events that unites us even in our grief. He was my son’s final gift to me and I am grateful.

Valentine

   What a gift to be married to a man who makes me feel loved 365 days a year. We don’t need cards or gifts to show it. The romance in our lives has not disappeared. It just looks different as we move through our sixties. We certainly don’t take our love for granted, far from it. We acknowledge it and show it to one another daily. We also acknowledge the special days but with a hug or a kiss. The “need” to surprise, to WOW, to outdo isn’t there anymore nor is the guilt-driven expectation to satisfy at all costs. Love and intimacy are finally expressions of the heart.

   Each time Al does the laundry, goes grocery shopping, brings me coffee, vacuums the house, always without being asked, he is saying more emphatically than any card could say, I love you, Katie. Although Al knew I had Multiple Sclerosis when we married, neither of us imagined that I would get so weak that I’d be unable to do those routine chores that he’s taken on with tenderness and humor.

   My most cherished gift from Al is the lesson of receiving. Through the distorted lens of pride and ego, I saw strength and independence as admirable character traits. Unfortunately, I defined strength as willpower and independence as needing no one. Al patiently let me know that when I refused his help he felt rejected. It was as if I was saying “You have nothing I need or want.” Rather than arguing or chastising, he asked if I liked giving to others. When I answered yes, he asked why, then, would I not want others to have that same experience. Always giving ran the well dry after a while and “clogged up the universe” because without receivers, givers could’t exist. It was the most important AHA moment I’ve had. So simple and direct. I got it. Giving isn’t a competitive sport with winners and losers. It’s a mutual exchange of compassion and understanding.

   Over the years, it’s our weaknesses, our flaws and missteps that have led to a love that doesn’t need cards and gifts. I had never known a solid love where acceptance and respect were the foundation. It’s a love I hope to grow old sharing.

Grandfather's Ashes

   It is April.  I stand on the front porch of his farmhouse, built simple and solid as my grandfather’s nature.  Grandfather, the hinge on which our family swung, was a simple weave of dignity and duty, abundant in the ordinary. I remember how he stood straight as a steeple in the sun-bleached, denim dawn and at sunset, how his scent would crack the evening air like fresh dug dirt. He was a farmer who knew what the land asked of him and in return it held the memory of all that made him whole. 

   It was here, in the fragrance of cedar and cigars, I heard the rooftop rooster spin the stories of the wind and I learned to wonder at the size and shape of the weather. It was here, in the kitchen that his stove-hot words of whiskey wisdom were soothed as we hummed the rich, smooth harmonies of poetry and prayer. It was here, he would tip the tables of time with his stories then gently roll our questions to a boil and set our dreams to simmer in our sleep.   

   And it was here I remember a spring when there were no flowers, when the sun slept through the day and the windows wept. It was here, in the hand-rubbed mahogany of a four poster garden where the seeds of my family tree were sown, here, that his whiskey washed my innocence away. It was here I learned the sound of truth was silence.

   It is April.  I stand outside his farmhouse. I anoint the soil of the past with his ashes and I forgive him for the sin he never understood.

   I love my life. I was just reading a blog from a woman teaching yoga and practicing a positive way of being in the world. Her post reflects so much of what I've learned over the years about being responsible for my life and in that comes freedom and happiness. The key is infinite supply. As the blogger puts it, "once I opened the floodgates to There is enough for everyone, I started to believe it, teach it, and experience it daily."  
   When asked how to achieve this attitude or maintain it when things go dark, she references how she teaches yoga to special needs kids.  She asks them two questions:
     1. What do you love about yourself?
     2. What are you grateful for?
She is amazed because these children, many of them facing severe limitations such as blindness and autism, are always ready with their answers. Yet in a room full of healthy adults she can hear nothing but "crickets chirping and tumble weeds blowing." What secret do these amazing little souls have? What secrets have we adults forgotten? Her students provided a list of things that remind us how to stay positive, how to get in touch with "enough."

• Make a Joy List.  Post it somewhere where you can see it.
• Create mantras for yourself. We do this in my yoga class, as well. Create a phrase or a word and repeat it as often as needed to replace another mantra that no longer serves you, such as “My life sucks” “I am fat” “I am broke,” etc.
• Laugh when you fall. Develop a sense of humor. Especially about yourself.
• Be kind.
• Be grateful for what you have right now AND for what is on it’s way. Say “thank you” in advance.
• Forgive yourself for not being perfect. No such thing. 
• Find things to be in awe of.
• Sing out loud, 
• Write poems, even if only in your head.
• Dance.
• If you don’t have anything nice to say....
• Tell someone that you love them right now.
• Take more pictures.
• Watch Modern Family.

   How often I've forgotten what those amazing children know instinctively; not only is there enough for everyone, I am enough. 

   Life experience is a patient and wise teacher. It's lessons are tailor-made just for us. These lessons are meant to show us we are capable, worthy and lovable. Instead, we get comfortable living in the problem and deny we ever knew the solution. Today I can say with confidence I am living in the solution and Eden isn't a biblical metaphor for some make-believe place. It's as real and as close as the floor under my feet.

   

Titillation

I sipped you,
sampled you,
but never  tongued your texture,
swallowed you whole.
I was afraid I'd like it too much
and there wouldn't be enough of you
to last a lifetime.

“Write Where You’re At.” John Updike

     Where I’m at always seems to sit in the shadow of where I’ve been.  My past has been the unwelcome guest who refuses to take my polite attempts at showing him the door. It’s unclear if he is socially clumsy and unaware or just dense and unable to take a hint. For many years, journaling freed me by providing context to my understanding of the seemingly unrelated events that stippled my memory. Now, the past is quick sand. I’m stuck, sinking slowly into what is no longer there. I’ve been through therapy, in-patient treatment, out-patient treatment, acceptance and denial but I haven’t addressed my past directly. The time has come to say what I mean, mean what I say and not say it mean. 

Mr. Past, it’s time for you to go. You’re no longer helping me. You’ve become a crutch that keeps me dependent, a daily reminder that from my earliest years I struggled to stand up for myself for fear of the consequences. Whatever was true then, I am no longer that frightened, ashamed child who was taught by frightened, ashamed adults that the world is a dangerous, dark forest where might makes right and bullies are brave. The fears are now right-sized and powerless, occasional projections of misplaced insecurities. I’m ready to “live as if I was dying and today was the last day, I’m going sky diving and singing all the way.”

So, Mr. Past, thank you. When my journey seemed nothing more than a carnival tour of shattered images and distorted mirrors, you shined a light on the talents and the skills hiding deep inside me. When all I heard was silence, you showed me the sweet spot where the divine lives wrapped in hope. I see now that I can do so many things right because I did so many things wrong. 

My dear Past, I see now that I’m the one who’s held you as a hostage, an old, gray ghost of gloom and doom when, in truth, you have always been a wise guide, bold and beautiful who made me strong enough to send roots down deep into the earth, brave enough to bloom where I’m planted and confident enough to explore the hard to reach places.  As I move on, I will look for your light and be grateful for the time we spend together.

Elizabeth Gilbert: A new way to think about creativity

Cemetery Song

Since you left this earth

on the burst of a bullet

I sing my sorrow to a stone

and wonder

will I know you when forever comes?

True Intimacy is Mutual Vulnerability

Childhood abuse is traumatic. It crept through me like ivy on brick. Inevitably its tiny tentacles fused to the mortar of my being. Overtime it damaged just about anything it touched leaving little or nothing to hold me together. When left alone too long, it leaves skeleton-like marks where its tendrils have been stuck causing a rot that is nearly impossible to remove. Although the process would be painstaking, I knew that if I was patient and persistent that just like brick can be cleaned of the ivy, I could become whole. In the case of ivy, the key was that the leafy top layer must be dead awhile before it comes off easily allowing the stubborn layer of new under growth still deeply embedded in the wall to be scrubbed away. In the case of my abuse, the key was that I needed to remove myself from my abusers. I needed to step away from family situations before my wounds could be cleaned out and scab over.

   That top leafy layer can be deceptively easy to remove once you’re ready to address the problem. Like removing the dead ivy vines, the first stages in acknowledging abuse were unwieldy. They left me physically exhausted with some surface cuts and scratches but I also felt a certain sense of pride and accomplishment. I finally have a feeling of self-worth. Self-worth is a pretty heady feeling after years of being everyone’s reflection. It's given me the courage and motivation to scrub away that stubborn layer of undergrowth. For the first time I feel capable and worthy of a fresh, clean environment. 
   The choice to uproot myself from the soil I grew up in took one moment in time. It wasn't hard at all. Behaving my way into that change is quite another thing.