Full Circle

The day was unusually warm and sunny, and like most young people my age, I was anxious to break out of school and enjoy it.   Instead of boarding the bus at my usual stop, I decided to attempt walking to the transfer point downtown.  Not a seasoned driver myself – I was only nine – I knew no other way to get downtown then to follow the bus route, so I set out nonchalantly, skipping and humming happily along.

After close to an hour of walking, with nothing familiar in sight, I grew weary.  Spotting an approaching bus, I made the decision to board.  Finding a seat near the back, I was relieved to finally be sitting down.  I glanced out the window to see if I could gauge how far I had come, and guessed I was probably close to where I would have to get off and transfer.

I glanced across the street, and was suddenly struck by a feeling of deja-vu.  The building across from me was not one that I had ever noted before, and when I read the name, I didn’t recognize it, yet, something about this place seemed known to me.  There was a bus stop in front of the building, but I knew I had never taken a bus from that point.  A woman was looking in my direction and as our eyes met, she had a sudden look of recognition.  I smiled back, but couldn’t place her either.  The bus moved on.

Years passed and the incident on the bus was forgotten, until the first night I decided to record my dreams.

I had enrolled in a course at the local university that examined the relationship between visions, dreams and God.  The first assignment was to record our dreams.  I had fourteen dreams that night.

In one, an unseen person has hold of my hand and is flying me through the city, leading me downtown to where we stop in front of a building.  It is not a building I am familiar with, although something is twigging in my mind.  As I stand there, contemplating its significance, I glance across the street to where a bus has stopped to take on passengers.  I lock eyes with a young girl seated on the bus, and in an instant I know where I am.  My twenty-eight-year old self has circumvented time and space, and come face to face with my nine-year old self.  I am the other side of my deja-vu.

A full circle.

(Image: funny-pictures.picphotos.net)

Innocence and Authenticity

I am five.  Chronologically, I am five.  Inside, I feel as old as I’ll ever be.

I am free of the burdens and distractions that surround me, and often, alone.

I have a sense of something I can’t quite articulate – purpose, mingled with wisdom; trust, and a connection larger than me.

I do not question whether I am wearing the right clothes for my figure, or if my hair suits my face.  I do not worry about where the money for the next bill is going to come from.  I seldom wonder if what I say might offend or is relevant at all.

At five, I live honestly; authentically.  I am all that I’ll ever be:  undefined, yet confident.  I am alive for a reason.  I feel it.

All I have to do is be patient and wait for life to unfold.

My true self.

Half a life time later, I still remember her:  that girl with such a full future ahead of her.   Such an innocent.

Like a treasure, she is buried within me, holding space.  I look for her in the mirror, but her light no longer shines in my eyes.  I search for her in the clutter that has become my mind, yet her clarity eludes me.  In the eyes of others, I am mother, friend, teacher, lover, and adviser, but not innocence; never my true self.

So, I seek to ignite that sense of self, through the inspiration that is my granddaughter.  Her smiles, her tears, her constant curiosity and unabashed response to life is a reminder:  somewhere in all of us there is a simplicity of being that defies any other reality.  Our true self.

 

Humility vs Ego

“How did you do on that calculus exam?”  A tall brunette pulled a chair up to the table, directly across from me.   The cafeteria was bustling with the usual suspects.

I shrugged. “Okay.”  I tried to keep my voice nonchalant.

“Man, that was brutal.  Who needs calculus anyways?” The blonde who joined us was slender, and preppy.  I noted that several boys watched as she approached and then mumbled approvingly amongst themselves.

“I need to study more,” another classmate complained, as she dumped a pile of texts on the table.  “I just don’t seem to be able to grasp the concepts.”

“Yeah, well someone in our class does.  I heard one person scored 100%.”  Our lunch group was growing in numbers.

“No way!  That’s not possible.”  A loud rumble of surprise and disapproval erupted around the table.

I kept quiet.

Then Izzy arrived.  Izzy was one of my closest friends, and also my seat mate in math class.  She knew the truth.

“Congratulations!” she oozed, before I could stop her.  “Another 100%!”

“What?”  The brunette across the table from me blurted.  “You’re the one who got perfect?!  How’s that possible?”

All eyes were on me.

“No offense, or anything, but you’re not all that bright.”  She had always proclaimed to be the smart one, and I can see that this revelation was making her truly uncomfortable.

“Izzy’s joking,”  the blonde proclaimed.  “If you didn’t ace it, then there’s no way she did.”

“Well, she did!” Izzy responded.  “She’s smarter than you think.”

“I don’t get it.”  the brunette questioned.  “If you’re so smart, why do you act so dumb?”

She had a point.  I’d learned to hide my intelligence after years of bullying and beatings.  But why act so dumb?

It was a question I would ponder for years to come.  Not bragging about my accomplishments felt right, but my motivation for doing so was not so admirable.

How do we balance our very human need for acknowledgment with a desire to be humble?

 

Three Sides To A Story

My first impression of Sherry was “Stepford Wife”.  A tall, thin, blonde, Sherry appeared to be the perfect wife and mother.  The stones in her garden coordinated with the ruffled awning above her front door, and accented her meticulously manicured lawn and flower bed.  Inside was no different:  her floors shone spotlessly, despite the presence of three children; and a smell of fresh baking wafted through the air.  Even though my visit was impromptu, Sherry was dressed stylishly in a crisp white blouse, and form-fitting skirt, complete with heels, and suitable accessories.  I was immediately intimidated.

My next visit to her home, this time invited, revealed much the same.

Sherry’s husband, Rob, was equally as impressive.  Also tall and thin, Rob was a quiet intellectual, who stayed fit by running marathons, and coaching his boys’ soccer teams.  He seemed to take his wife’s efficiencies into stride, and like her, was unruffled by his rambunctious young family.

Sherry and Rob soon became part of a social circle:  a group of ten couples that met once a month for dinners, cards, and sometimes, social outings.  They fit right in.  Once a year, we would all gather with our children for a large barbeque and fireworks.   Life was good.

Then, one day, I got a phone call from a mutual friend.  “Sherry is in a bad way,”  she said.  “Can you help?”

I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped in the door by the state of disarray in the house.  Sherry’s six-year-old daughter let me in.  She appeared frightened and withdrawn.

“Where’s your Mom, Sweetheart?”

She led me through the house to the kitchen, where Sherry sat crumpled in a chair, head down on the table, hair matted, and smudges of makeup streaking her face.

“Sherry?”

“He left me.”  She didn’t even look up.  Her voice, flat and lifeless, spoke volumes.

I spotted her two boys in the adjacent room, watching television.  I could see them glancing our way anxiously.  Please help!  their eyes pleaded.

I reached for the kettle.  “Have you eaten yet today?”  Telltale signs of kids preparing their own food and abandoning the dishes suggested she hadn’t.

Sherry was slow to respond.  “What?……um….I’m not hungry.”

I made her tea and toast and put it before her, and encouraged the children to go out and play.  Relieved, they complied.    “Tell me what’s going on.”

“He left me for another woman.”

I was stunned.  “Honey, try to eat something, and let me help you.”

She sat up, staring at the offering before her with complete disinterest.  She pushed the plate away, and cradling the cup, took one tiny sip, then pushed that away too.  Her normally thin frame appeared gaunt.

“Back up,”  I suggested.  “Tell me what happened.”

Rob had had an affair three years earlier with a woman from work.  When Sherry found out about it, Rob ended the affair and he and Sherry entered marriage counselling.  She had tried really hard to be the perfect wife and mother, so that he would love her again, and thought everything was going well, but out of the blue, he left.  He was now living with his mistress.

Sherry’s heartbreak was so intense, it threatened her life. Within weeks she was hospitalized because of severe malnutrition.

It was hard not to sympathize with her situation and write Rob off as a total jerk, but as always, there is another side to every story.

“I reached the end of my rope,”  Rob explained.  I love my wife, and I adore my children, but living in a constant state of perfection is exhausting.  Sherry has to be the best at everything, have the best house, wear the best clothes, everything is about impressing others.  There is nothing genuine about her, about us.  She is incapable of authenticity.  I tried to stay for the children’s sake, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.  I am dying inside.”

“So you left for another woman.”  I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice.  I am, after all, a woman.

“If you met her, you would understand.  She’s so real! “

I wanted to understand.  I wanted to know what would drive one person to put his/ her family through so much pain.

“When two people divorce,”  a colleague told me, “there are always three truths:  his, hers, and a truth that lies beyond their stories.”

I tried to stay impartial, but supportive, and as I did, I began to realize the wisdom in my colleague’s words.  Once released from the hospital, Sherry became a woman obsessed.  She stalked her husband and his new lover, both at their home, and their places of work.  She was determined to get Rob back, and refused to see the folly of her actions.

On his part, Rob became more and more enraged, and retaliated with acts of violence against Sherry.

The scene was escalating out of control, until Rob’s therapist broke the pledge of confidentiality and advised Sherry her life was in danger if she didn’t back off.

Sherry did eventually let go of Rob, but only to rush head long into a tempestuous affair, with no regard for her children.  Rob withdrew from his former life, avoiding his friends, and maintaining minimal contact with his children.

Who was right, and who was wrong in this tale?  Like many conflicts, there are too many grey areas to tell for certain. Both his and her story made compelling arguments, but the real truth laid somewhere beyond all our comprehension.

One thing was certain, though:  the real victims here were the children.

 

Muskoka Meditation

Closing my eyes, I imagine a body of water.  In my mind’s eye I see a lake in Muskoka:  a thick morning mist hovering over the surface.  I breath and imagine the fog rolling back to reveal a shimmering gray surface, the sleight swells of the water reflecting shards of light.   A fish jumps and distracts me, and my mind scans the surface for more life.

I breathe again, this time more deeply, slowly, holding it awhile before slowly exhaling.   The waters of my lake calm…..then the dog growls, pulling me from my reverie, his insistent barking terrorizing a passerby.

Another deep breath.  Where was I?  I allow the heaviness of meditation to settle my body and focus again on the water’s surface.  I imagine the call of a loon, beckoning me further into the reverie.  I imagine I can smell the water, and the freshness of the Northern air.  The early morning rays catch the ripples and sparkle.    The morning mist is gone now, and the wind recedes, calming the surface of the water, and with it my mind. Ah, the beauty of stillness!

I surrender to the serenity of the moment.

(Image: flickriver.com)

Setbacks

Today is where your book begins; the rest is still unwritten.  These song lyrics have run through my mind all night, keeping me from sleeping.  A perfect lead in to today’s topic.

I am old enough to know that setbacks are not the end of life; they are usually just a transition point.  If you have been reading along, you know that it is the stuff of my writing.

When I experienced what we used to call a mental breakdown, at the age of thirty-one, I recognized that it was a wake up call to make some changes in my life.  Obviously, the way I had been living was not working for me, so I needed to learn a new way.

Losing my mind was like falling into a black hole.  I felt as if I was at the bottom of a deep abyss, with no visible means of escape.  Four things saved me:  my faith, my children, my writing, and my friends.

I knew that if I was to survive the experience, I would have to build my own stairway out.  I began with my beliefs.

Step one.  I believed that God never gave us anything we couldn’t handle, so therefore, I had it within me to heal.

Step two.  I believed that what happened, happened for a reason, so that there was a purpose for my suffering.

Step three.  I believed that God gives us what we need, so that help would be there for me.

Don’t get me wrong, losing one’s mind is a horrible thing.  In the beginning, I shook uncontrollably for most of the days, lying in a fetal position on my bed. But I knew if I was ever to get better, I had learn to “walk” again.

I set baby step goals for myself.  As my children were still considerably young, I made them a priority.  The first goal was to spend fifteen minutes a day of quality time with my children, without the trembling and tears.  I found I was able to control the anxiety for short periods of time, when I focused on them, instead of me.

The second goal was to get out of the house everyday, even if I was only able to walk to the end of the street (driving was out of the question). This was difficult, but I knew it was important not to give into the fear and become housebound.

In between times, I wrote and wrote, processing every thought, fear, and emotion, until I reached some aha moments.  I used my dreams as a guide.

When I grew a little bit stronger, I called upon trusted friends, who put together a healing circle that met once a week in support of my healing.

I learned many things from that time of darkness.  Mostly, I learned that if something is not life or death, then it is not worth worrying about.  I let go of my need for perfection.  I learned that nothing is as precious as the relationships that sustain us.  And I realized the depth of my own inner strength.

None of us would ever choose setbacks, but in retrospect, would we ever grow without them?

Fear or Legacy?

 

I fear illness.  I grew up in a household where dis-ease was the norm.  My mother had her first dance with death as a child, then suffered a broken back in her late thirties, followed by three bouts of cancer.  In her elder years, she lives with constant pain and many health issues.  My oldest sister had congenital heart problems all her life, and at the end, leukemia.  The next sister has schizophrenia and now Parkinson’s.  Diabetes, heart problems, and cancer run rampant in my mother’s family.  Ten of my generation have died.   My father and his siblings all died from respiratory conditions.

In other words, genetically, the promise of a long, healthy lifespan is not very bright.  When disease first knocked on my door, I made drastic changes to my diet, but I wonder if it is enough.

Fear, I know, can be a self-fulfilling habit.  But how do I let it go?

Years ago, I heard about a prayer for overcoming obstacles in life.  It goes like this:

I cast this burden of  ___________ upon the Christ within, that I may be free to ___________________ .

In my case:  I cast this burden of fear upon the Christ within, that I may be free to enjoy my gift of health.

What fear gets in your way?

(Image: inspirenow.com.au)

 

Mystical She

Like silk

whispering across my skin;

a gentle mist

kissing my soul;

kindness unburdening me;

warmth, and cinnamon spice;

She comes.

 

Of the Earth, is She

whose heart beats with mine

a rhythm of life

renewal

and deepest bliss

 

Her essence luminous and night

shimmering at the water’s edge

or pulsating at the core

of darkness

Alive.  Very much alive.

 

No fanfare proceeds Her,

No choir of angels.

In stillness, know Her.

In openness, receive Her.

She is here.

She is here.

 

The Valley

(This fable follows “The Kingdom” )

After years of being “locked” away in the tower, the Princess came out.  She joined her father, the King, in his celebration of the new advisers in the Kingdom.  She felt inspired by the changes her father was making, and decided it was time she made some too.

So, she moved out of the castle and into the valley.

Because she was royalty, the Princess sent a messenger and servant to prepare the way.  She wanted to live among the common folk, and did not want any special privileges.  She would be sending along her own furnishings, but needed somewhere to live.

The people of the valley were simple folk, who valued their peaceful existence.  Wary of the Princess, but willing to be accommodating, they found her a suitable cottage, surrounded by beautiful and well-tended gardens.  On the day of her arrival, the villagers lined the streets with banners of welcome, and threw petals of roses to honour her.

The Princess was delighted, but reminded the citizens that she had come to live among them, and she expected to be treated as an equal.

It was a difficult transition for all to make.  The villagers tried to pretend she was an ordinary young woman, but the Princess maintained many of her former habits.  She refused to carry her purchases home from the market, and always expected everyone else to step aside when she was walking down the street.  She never learned the art of making an appointment, assuming everyone would be available for her at her whim.  And when the village got together for potlucks, she would command the menu.  The problem escalated when the Princess began to commandeer all the best workers to tend her gardens and do her household chores.  Work around the valley was being neglected in order to keep the Princess happy.

“This has to stop!” proclaimed the people during a meeting of the Valley’s folks.  The Princess was not in attendance.

“We cannot deny the Princess,”  the elders said.  “Her father, do not forget, is our King.”

“But she is destroying the peace!  People can’t get good service,  and businesses have lost their most productive workers, and they’re not even getting paid.  Everyone is upset!  We just want our peace back.”

“Here!  Here!”

“The Princess did say she wanted to be one of us.  Maybe we should invite her to hear our complaints.”

The room went quiet.  Everyone was afraid of upsetting the Princess, and ultimately, her father.

“Well, then.  We shall just have to continue to make her happy, and fulfill her every wish.”

The room erupted in moans and yelling.

“Wait,” came a voice from the back.  “I think I have a solution.”

It was the young woman, Sheboygan, now adviser to the King.  “I will invite the Princess to come live with me.”  Despite her new status, Sheboygan had maintained her home on the edge of the village.

The Princess accepted the invitation wholeheartedly.  Truth was she had not found happiness amongst the common people, and she was becoming disillusioned.

“Leave your belongings,”  Sheboygan advised.  “You will not be needing them where we are going.”

On foot, the two women walked through the village to the foothills of the valley, where they found themselves besides a beautiful lake.  “We will rest here for the night,”  Sheboygan told the Princess.

“What?  Outside?  Without a bed?”

Sheboygan nodded and busied herself with collecting kindling to start a fire.  “Make yourself useful.”

The Princess trailed after her, her gown getting caught on the underbrush, and smudges of dirt appearing on her skirts.  Not used to physical labour, she felt herself becoming winded, as she blew at a piece of hair that had fallen from her normally well-coiffed hair.   Incensed, the Princess was about to complain, when Sheboygan ordered her to build the fire, while she went in search of food.  “Or would you rather I start the fire, and you prepare dinner?” Sheboygan added, which shut the Princess up immediately.

Left alone to her own devices, the Princess was at a complete loss.  Although many fires had been built for her, she never gave any thought to how it was done.  Trying to recall what she had seen she piled the sticks and brush together, but could not imagine how to ignite them.  She looked around for someone to command, and when it hit her she was totally alone, she sunk down into the dirt and cried.  “Look at how useless I am!’

“Looking for something?”  came a deep voice from behind her.

Not turning around, the Princess continued with her rant.  “Yes!  I need to start this fire, but I don’t know how.  Will you do it for me good citizen?”

“I might, but what will you give me in return?”

“Anything,”  the Princess wailed.  Who could be so insolent?  “Just light the fire!”

But her visitor wasn’t so easily persuaded.

“Will you promise to thank me kindly?”

“Yes, yes!”  said the Princess, now fully exasperated.

“Will you promise to be my friend?’

Friend?  The Princess had never had a friend, and the stranger’s offer struck a lonely chord in her.  “I’d love to be your friend,”  she said more softly.

“If you want to be my friend, then you must accept me just as I am, and not try to change me to fit your needs.”

“I will, I will.”

“Look at me then,” commanded the voice.

The Princess turned, and immediately forgot her despair, for in its place she felt a sudden rush of terror.  There before her, in all its frightening glory, stood the dragon.

“Oh my!”

“Oh, yes,”  said the dragon, for he was really a peace-loving dragon and had a good sense of humour.

“But you’re……..”

“A dragon.  And you’re a Princess.  A good match don’t you think.”

“But, but, don’t you…….”

“Eat Princesses?  Maybe once upon a time, but nowadays I’m strictly vegetarian.  About that deal?” He glanced at the pile of wood.

“Oh, yes.”  The Princess stopped to consider her situation.  “Friends, huh?

“Buddies for life!”  The dragon raised his eyebrows in a comical way, and held out one of his talons.  “Shake?”

“I already am.”  The Princess made a joke despite herself, and they both laughed.  She looked at her poor attempt at a fire.  “Can you really ignite that?”

“In the wink of an eye,” said the dragon, and he did.

That night, the Princess, the dragon, and the woman of the lake sat around the campfire, eating nuts and berries and telling stories about their lives before they met one another.  The Princess forgot all about her discomfort, and discovered what she had been missing all along:  camaraderie.

The three slept beneath the stars and when the morning came, the Princess awoke with a new sense of self, and a pain in her back.  “Can’t say that was the best night’s sleep,”  she said, “but the fresh air and excellent company has done me a world of good.”

“Good,”  Sheboygan said, ” Because you’ll be staying awhile.”

“I will?”  The Princess was dubious.  One night of inconvenience she could tolerate, but she was missing her bed.

“You have much to learn about being a commoner.”

“What do you mean?  I live amongst them.”

“You live amongst them, but you continue to be a Princess.  When was the last time you did anything for yourself?”

“Well…..”  try as she might, the Princess couldn’t think of one thing.

“Exactly.  You expect everyone to cater to you the same way they did in the castle.  Servants in the castle wait on you because they are paid to do so;  the people in the village are not.”

The Princess thought this over.  Sheboygan was right.  She had never thought about it this way.  “You mean all those people who do work for me…….”

“Are not getting paid.  Their families are suffering, and so are their employers who need them.”

“Oh my.  How ungrateful they must think I am.”

“And there’s more.”

Sheboygan continued to tell the Princess about the townspeople’s concerns.

“I have led such a sheltered life,”  the Princess realized.  “I have only had to think of myself, and now I see that everything I do affects all the others.  How can I ever redeem myself?”

“Oh, you will.”  Sheboygan reassured her.  “But first you must learn how to be useful.  That is why you will live with the dragon and I until you have earned the right to be one of the common people.”

“Do you really think I can?”  The Princess knew she’d had years of being pampered.  She wasn’t sure she could adapt to anything else.

* * * * *

Days turned into months and the people of the Valley resumed their lives and forgot about the Princess.  Businesses began to prosper, and people went about their lives, harmony restored.

Then one day, a lone figure entered the town.  She was tall and thin, with the complexion of one who spent her days outdoors.  Her long, dark hair flowed down her back, and her eyes shone with a kindness that drew others in.  She stopped to greet the little children that ran to her, and smiled at the adults along the way.  When an old woman stumbled on her path, the young woman took her arm to steady her.  She unburdened a mother whose arms were full, and followed her home.  She seemed to have time for everyone and a willingness to help out.

People were soon talking amongst themselves, wondering where this woman had come from and who she was.  They followed her through the town to the local market, where she stopped at the grocer’s.

“I have no money,”  the young woman explained to the man in charge.  “But I would be grateful if you would let me work in exchange for food.”

The old man nodded, and handed her a broom. The young woman worked until the last customer was gone and all the shops were closed for the night.   Then she bundled up her earnings, and made her way silently through the streets to the little cottage with the well-tended gardens.

The Princess was finally home, and ready to take her place as part of the Valley.

(Image from Pinterest)

How Tables Turn

“All I want is to have my family around me.”

I was giving my father a therapeutic touch treatment to help ease his pain.  His suffering was relentless in his last years.

“I guess they’re all too busy for their old Dad.”

“You didn’t exactly teach us how to be around you, Dad.”  I didn’t want to be unkind, but he needed to hear the truth.  When I was too young to understand about his ‘needs’, I thought we were an inconvenience to him.  Mom would whisk us off to bed before he got home from work, so we’d be out of the way.  Later, when his secret was out, we would have to call ahead to make sure it was okay to come home.  When I moved out and became a parent, Dad would visit for ten or fifteen minutes before he had to leave.

“I suppose that’s true.”  Were those tears in his eyes?  “I lived a very selfish existence.”

“Yes, you did. You just have to be patient with us, and give us time to see that you have changed.”

He caught my hand in mid-motion and gave it a squeeze.  “I always loved you, though.”

“I know that now, Dad.  But there were many times when I didn’t.  I could never compete with sports.”  Sports were Dad’s excuse for everything:  I can’t come see your play, because the game’s on; or:  I’d love to spend time with my grandchildren, but this is the deciding match.  Trouble is, there was always some sporting event on.

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“You missed out on a lot.”

“I know.  I know.”

My father had changed.  We never could have had this conversation years ago.  He was too intimidating, and never open to criticism.  Something in him had softened.  Mom said he cried regularly over all the things he had done to us throughout the years.  Still, I wasn’t totally convinced.

“It’s ironic how the tables have turned.  It was always Mom who suffered with so much pain, and now it’s you.”

Isn’t that the truth, Dad’s face said.  “I wasn’t very sympathetic either,”  he confessed.  “Serves me right, I guess.”

I didn’t say anything.  Dad had never understood Mom’s suffering; he couldn’t tolerate weakness.  Now he depended on oxygen to breathe, and didn’t go out much because his immune system was so compromised.  His life was reduced to pain medication and ointments.  Mom seldom left his side.

“I messed up, didn’t I Squeegie?”  It was his nickname for me when I was little.

“You certainly had your trials, Dad.  No one can imagine what it was like to be you.  I guess you did the best you knew how.”

He squeezed my hand again.  “You’re a good kid.”

“I wish I could take your pain away, Dad,” I responded.

In the back of my mind, I was remembering something my father had always preached:

You get out of life what you put into it.Â