As a lotus flower…

As a lotus flower is born in water,
grows in water and
rises out of water to
stand above it unsoiled,

~ Buddha ~

when…

Like many whose lives have been marked by abuse and trauma, I’ve been drawn to news about the situation at Penn State – like a moth to flame. In the last several days, I’ve been very selective – reading articles primarily by authors I know and trust. I’ve been heartened, especially, to take in the points of view of Brene’ Brown, Mitch Albom and Martha Atkins. Initially, I wasn’t sure I wanted to dive into the discussion. This morning, though, I knew it was time to put together my words from the perspective of someone who has “been there, done that” and is not so much surviving as thriving these days. It’s not the first time I’ve written about my history, and it won’t be the last, as our country begins to wake up to what has been here – and everywhere, for that matter – for so long.

I don’t know when it started, really.

When did my soft, loose limbed and compact baby body, growing at a miraculous rate into that of a young girl, first begin to close down and contract?

When did it first learn to shut itself off from the explorations and invasions of others? Of grown men (and women) seeking to rid themselves of their own pain, piled up inside their bodies until they could no longer contain all the psychic wounds inflicted on them, the scarring that riddled their selves?

When did I learn to leave this brave shell of a body behind and just observe the days of my life as if from a projection room, screening dailies of all that happened to me?

When did my pelvis tighten solidly against intruders, capturing my tailbone in a way that would lock in that primal fear in my not yet verbal form?

When did the muscles of my legs learn to contract and knit their fibers in a way that would torque my knees so strongly that they would require surgery and steal me away from childhood games, from my dreams?

When did my chest become a depository for the frustration and anger of others, ribs securely woven so that my breathing was compromised to the point of chronic pneumonia?

When did I become convinced it was all my fault, that I wasn’t good enough, that this would only happen to bad girls?

When did my physical being decide that the only way to deal with the violations was to hold my face so tensely that the crying out could only be felt, but not seen or heard?

When did the pattern of physical pain come to override those cries, to mask the angst of a broken heart with pangs of a nervous system gone awry?

When did I learn to freeze, to shut down, to escape the frequent and repeated violent assaults by holding every fiber of my being so securely that it was seen as a solid show of strength?

And when did I learn to weep inwardly, so often and in such volume that I would nearly drown from the inside out?

Now, as I retrace all of this and walk, often awkwardly, backwards, in an attempt to unravel the past and free my body and spirit – nearly a half century later, grateful for all I have learned – how do I let it all go?

I have great sympathy and compassion for all those involved in the Penn State matter. We are all in pain, “victims”, “perpetrators” and bystanders alike. If this situation (and the coverage that continues) serves to shed light on a subject that has been in the dark for way too long, so be it. May we all wake up and truly see what we do to each other, and what we could do for both ourselves and our fellow human beings. I am grateful that we have a chance to correct our course and create space for healing, for us all.

looking for light…

There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

~ Edith Wharton ~

In the right light, at the right time,
everything is extraordinary.
~ Aaron Rose ~

A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways -
by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light;
and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul.
~ Plato ~

From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things,
and makes us aware that we are nothing,
but the light is all.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~

Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you.
~ Maori proverb ~

To love beauty is to see light.

~ Victor Hugo ~

I went for a walk today, just for a little while, looking for light. This is what I found.
It’s everywhere.

Turning all into good…

Our struggles can be fuel for our dreams,

~ clg ~

On sparkling…

Begin doing that you want to do now.

We are not living in eternity.

We have only this moment,

~ Francis Bacon, Sr. ~

I ran into this charming young lady in the drugstore yesterday. Her name is Annika and she is three. Very, very three.
She radiates life, she knows who she is, and she is happy to share her light. She is amazing.

I was roaming the aisles, thinking through my list, and floating an idea for this post. I have been wanting to write about really radiating who we are, and how we lose that ability somewhere along the way. Or the fact that it seems to get buried underneath all the shoulds we learn as we go through life. Something along those lines. And I turned the corner and there she was, with her mom, sauntering and sashaying her way down Aisle 4b. Her mother, most impressively, was discussing what they had accomplished that day, and congratulating both of them on what they had done, rather than going on and on about what remained on the list. And she was moving at her daughter’s pace. That’s what caught my attention at first – the love and respect between the two of them. Not something you witness every day, sadly, and not something I managed often enough when my girl was that small.

Then I saw her. Miss A, in all her glory. I wish I had captured the entire outfit, but I really wanted to frame that face and all the glory of her. We chatted for a bit, the three of us – and I did ask her mom for permission to photograph her daughter, which was generously granted. Miss A seemed to think it perfectly normal, in fact. An enlightening few moments all around, and perfect timing. Just what I was looking for…. a beautiful example of the energy that flows from us when we have not yet learned to restrict our output, to worry about what others think of us. She dresses to please herself, she says what she thinks, she asks the questions we all want to ask. She. Is. She just is Annika. And she is beautiful to behold.

And then off they went, wishing me well and discussing their further adventures. Magical. I went back to thinking about what we do with our own magic, where we hide it, and why we have to work so very hard to find it again. Not that I can remember where I put anything, but this is Important Stuff, you know? I believe that we all come here with our own brand of Special. We do – look into any baby’s eyes. And if conditions are right, and love flows freely, that Specialness sticks around until we are three, or four, or maybe even five or six. At that point, almost always, as we are schooled in the ways of the world, we begin to pack our Special away. Or we put our coats of Normal over it – big, heavy ones that leave no trace of the sparkle that was once there.

As the years pass, when we are in love, or with dear friends, or our guard is down for whatever reason (sometimes when we are chemically altered)… a little sparkle might get out. Once in a while, a writer will let loose a little with the glitter, or an artist will use the sparkly paint. But it takes a lot of effort and practice to really, really, really begin to shine again. Which is interesting and puzzling, because when people shine, we flock to them. Think about people like SARK, or John Lennon, or Archbishop Tutu. They genuinely live from their hearts, 24/7. They have their sparkle back – or maybe those blessed few never misplaced it. Often this seems like an either/or proposition, though. Most of us keep our radiance hidden, for the most part. Those exceptions and others like them – Mother Theresa, the Dalai Lama – they seem to have always let it shine. They are not perfect- indeed, they are fully human – but they just live so authentically, so true to themselves that you can’t help but be a little bit in awe.

So what about the rest of us? I’m not so sure that we know that we still have that kind of shine still within us. I think we forget. Once in a while, we are privileged to witness someone find their Special again. That, to me, is why I love coaching so much. It is an honor and an awesome thing to walk someone through that process. But you don’t have to be a coach to see it. Look around you – it is happening more and more. Just this morning, I was delighted to read Lindsey’s post on this very thing. I let out a big hoot – I knew she had it in her. We all do. Really, truly. You, too, have sparkle in you!

And it’s time, people, it really is time to get our sparkle back and to let ourselves shine, shine, shine. The world needs every one of us to do the work we need to do to polish our selves to the highest gleam we can. It takes time, it takes work – but is there any better service we can give to the world, to each other?  I think this is it.

Delight yourself…

“Remember to delight yourself first, then others can be truly delighted.”

So that’s me, delighted.

Not the best photo, maybe, but we came upon this tree while on a fascinating guided walk on Vancouver Island. It was a beauty – one of many, a huge old cedar with a hollow at the base, one large enough for me to sit in. I took a picture of the tree itself, of course, but that didn’t feel like enough. So, pretty quickly, I followed my gut, hopped in, made myself comfortable and asked my favorite guy to snap a photo.

You know when you see something, and you just love it so big, all at once? This reminded me instantly of one of my favorite books from my childhood. It’s called “My Side of the Mountain” , by Jean Craighead George. It is, apparently, a novel – although I I am not sure I knew that when I read it forty years ago! The book is about a boy who ran away from home and made his own sanctuary in a tree hollow in the Catskills. He had a full life there, with animal friends and tracking and observing it all, in awe of the beauty around him. And he had a falcon. My fascination with raptors started with this story, and I must have read every Euell Gibbons book in the following year, as I schemed to follow my hero’s example and head for the hills. Then we moved to Ohio, and I grew up fast.

Anyway, just for a moment on a day in the woods, I let myself feel that small again, and felt the delight that came with finding a home away from home, a safe place. I’ve created a wonderful place in the world that welcomes me home every day now, so I don’t need it anymore, really. But the ten year old in me ?

It made her day.

Feeling stranded…

The optimist lives on the peninsula of infinite possibilities;

the pessimist is stranded on the island of perpetual indecision.

I’ve had a stomach virus for a couple days. It’s not the end of the world  (very few things are) but I am, emphatically, a Bear Of Very Little Brain tonight. And have been for over forty eight hours now. Oy.

It used to be that whenever I was ill, and I was – a lot – for a very long time, and in that dreaded land they call chronic pain, I would get myself into a state of depression in no time at all. Probably brought on by pushing myself to do too much and not taking time to let my body recover. Or even be sick. And that, my friends, would bring out the pessimist in me, in a Very Big Way.

I’m not really fond of my pessimistic side. Not at all. And it does leave me feeling stranded. And isolated. And not good.

So now, I try to ramp it down, even when the pace seems to be ridiculously and frustratingly slow. I try to rest, despite the fact that there is an Eeyore within, grumbling that I will always feel this way, that I will never have energy again, that I should probably just give up trying. I try to take in the kind comments here, or the lovely emails sent by friends who don’t know that they are the angels of the day. I try to breathe, to stay put, to not go to the dark place. I try to keep my optimistic side in the driver’s seat.

And when it is time, I make small movements back towards the deep sea, toward the crazy, wonderful. all over the map life that I love. Towards feeling whole again. One tiny, tiny movement at a time. It always takes longer than I thought.

Patience, patience. Slowly, slowly. Gently, gently.

I’ll get there. So will you. At our own pace.