New Lease

So I got the good news that I wasn't sure I could even hope for this morning. . . .the biopsies were benign. I posted the news in Facebook (of course), and one of the posted response comments has me seeing my life in a whole new way. The comment was simply "new lease," and that is exactly how I feel. . . .only I don't want to lease my life any more. . . . I want to own it.

Ever since the first diagnosis of cancer, I've been living from lease to lease. At first it was a three month lease, feeling like I had to hold my breath until the next colonoscopy. Then the lease grew to one year at a time. When I passed the five year mark I felt like I had passed a significant journey marker, but still lived with a lease that spanned from colonoscopy to colonoscopy, which is essentially how my life has been segmented. The procedure I had last week was because of symptoms that interrupted my current lease, as my next official follow-up colonoscopy wasn't supposed to take place until November.

Living from lease to lease has provided a psychological feeling of security that I believe is an inherent basic human need. . . . as if somehow having these tiny parcels of time meant that I could romp and play freely. But this arbitrary reality also meant that there was no time space beyond these artificial boundaries of time, so if I only have two years (or whatever the arbitrary length of time the lease happened to be), then I certainly wasn't going to waste that time going to school just to get a new job or prepare for a change in career that might not ever happen. But the other side of this dance is that I remain aware that I also can't squander everything on living the lease time to the fullest, because I also have to maintain that sense of security for the future for which I also hope. And as the second, and then the third cancer events crept in, these leases became more and more arbitrary, prevalent, and limiting.

I absolutely feel done with living from lease to lease.

But how do I stop living from lease to lease and finally take ownership of a life that is also bound by the realities of cancer (and panic attacks)? I blogged a while back about how God's gift to me is the deed to my own house, a metaphor of a life bounded by free will and the consequences for the choices made that I am accountable only to God. The physical house deeded to me is (of course) my body, but I live in fear within this most blessed of homes. . . .fear of the cancer. . . . and fear of the panic attacks. But today I am asking different questions of myself. . . .questions based more on living in the truth of the now. . . .questions about how to live day to day within the home God has deeded me without being traumatized and debilitated by the fear of the cancer or the panic attacks. . . .questions about how to own my life, rather than live my life from lease to lease.

Why is it so difficult for me to take ownership of the gift that God has so graciously given to me?

Ironically, my life has already started to mirror this shift in perspective, as I have been looking at properties to buy in Williams, that wonderful western town just south of the canyon off historic Route 66. I don't really have to buy a house in Williams in order to take ownership of my life, but I realized recently that the reason why I keep trying to get my step-father to buy a house in Williams and work on the train is because that is a life that makes my heart go pitter pat. Williams also offers the logistics necessary to keep the rest of my life in balance, plus is close enough to the canyon so that I can maintain my wonderful hiking lifestyle and still be able to ride the train when ever I want.

So I've started looking at houses to buy in Williams. . . . .

It is easier, of course, to take ownership of a house (than to take ownership of one's life), but I am just so very clear in this moment that I no longer want to live my life from lease to lease. And yes, the news this morning definitely gives me a new lease on my life (for which I am most grateful). . . .but today's lease now has an option to buy :)

The Land of Is

Today is a hard day. I feel like my whole life is on hold while I await the results of the biopsies, and not just on hold, but like it's about to get pulled out from underneath me. I'm irritable. . . .snapping at people for no good reason (not that there's ever really a "good" reason to snap at anyone). . . .and I'm trying to find my happy place in spite of all the waiting.

Living in the now is so much easier on paper than in reality.

I got into a scruff with the trauma therapist this morning during a discussion about how my life has been shaped by the fear of the panic attacks. I said, "This is not who I am!" to which she replied, "Yes, it is!" I clarified again that this is definitely NOT who I am, to which she emphatically clarifed that it definitely IS who I am. This "conversation" went back and forth a few more times until we ended up sitting in silence. Like I said. . . .I got into a scruff with the trauma therapist this morning.

But she's right.

It's not an easy thing. . . .to accept the truth of "what is," especially when it's such an unacceptable truth. This may not be who I started out to be, but it is who I have evolved into. . . . and I'm not sure what to do with this fact right now. I've been living in the land of eternal optimism and hope that if I just do the right "something" I'll be able to "fix" or "master" the panic attacks. But living in The Land of Is means that I have to accept the truth of "what is" (rather than what I wish it could be or hope that it might one day become). . . .which also means that where I am may actually be as good as it's going to get. . . .ever.

What do I do with a truth that is incomprehensibly unacceptable. . . .with no end in sight?

Dancing Solo

I found this image of Margie Gillis. . . .a world renowned solo dancer from Canada. She's mesmerizing. . . .the way she flows in her movement. . . .absolutely mesmerizing.

I want my life to flow the way she flows.

I am preparing to leave the canyon for a few days, preparing for a procedure that leaves me feeling anxious and nervous about what's on the other side. And there aren't a lot of moments when I am so aware that I am dancing solo, but these procedures. . . .when the outcome is so uncertain. . . .these are the moments when I am all too keenly aware of just how solo I  dance my life.

The trauma therapist and I have had a few scruffs about the issue of relationship. She thinks I isolate myself and avoid relationships, which she's sees as a symptom of the trauma. I just don't see it that way. She feels compelled to remind me that the goal is for me to be whole and healthy. I feel just as compelled to remind her that I don't need a man in my life to actually be whole and healthy. I also still remember sitting in that restaurant shortly after my divorce watching that family eat dinner, the husband and wife talking only to the kids, with the silence between them so loud that I swore in that moment that I would rather be alone forever than ever be in that kind of relationship again.

I guess I didn't realize that forever can be such a long time.

I know that my solo life is a choice that I make, but I wonder if I will ever find the right man for me. It's been more than fifteen years since the divorce. . . .so I can't help but wonder if I hold myself back, like a silent observer to my life. Is she right. . . .do I isolate myself and avoid relationships?

Big questions, of course, with no easy answers. . . .just this vague empty feeling as I make my way alone through the uncertaintly of the next few days. . . .

Making a Difference

Thinking about a conversation I had with one of my chemistry professors back at RCC when I was still working toward my associate's degree at the local community college. He was going through some kind of professional life crisis. . . .questioning his place in academia. . . .feeling like his purpose in life had not been fulfilled. . . .and wanting to know that he had made a difference in the lives of his students, but didn't. At the time I didn't really know what to say to him, as I was still young and finding my place in the world, but that conversation changed the way that I think about making a difference, because that man's struggle caused me to look for the difference that I make and appreciate it when I find it. . . . .because I didn't want to end up at some vague point in my own life not knowing how I had made a difference along the way.

I make a difference. . . .I make a difference all of the time. . . .it's just not always the difference that I would like to make. Some times the difference I've made has been appreciated. . . .other times not. Some times the difference I've made has been helpful. . . .and other times definitely not. Difference isn't always a warm and fuzzy feeling, because the cold hard truth is that we all make a difference every single day. . .with every single person we come in contact with. . . .with every single choice that we make. . . .even when we aren't aware that other people are watching. . . .we still make a difference.

It is impossible to not make a difference.

A couple of nights ago one of my coworkers expressed his thoughts about the difference I have made in his life. He is a young kid. . . .just turned 25. . . .and he and I are about as different as night and day on just about every single level of human existence, but we have somehow been able to make those differences work. He said he watches how I process and grapple with situations that haven't gone well. . . .process until I come back and then share what I've learned. . . .until I have figured out what I need to change about myself or the way that I respond to situations or circumstances as they swerve and veer their way throughout the course of events that drop quickly and unexpectedly into the wee quiet of the graveyard night. And he told me that watching the way that I approach these problems we encounter together has made him want to be a better person.

Just watching the way that I approach my life has made this young kid want to be a better person?!

I don't think I've ever known so clearly or so profoundly how I have made a difference in another person's life, but the ironic part about what he said is that I am honestly no different in other situations with other people, but the way that I am with other people very often irritates them and causes them to think (and share) less than kind things about me. So this kid's statement really has more to say about the kind of person that he is (rather than the kind of person that I am), but that also doesn't change how profoundly I was affected by what he shared with me about the kind of difference I have made in his life.

Just watching the way I do my life caused this kid to make a change to the way he approaches his own life. . . .which is precisely the point I am trying to make with this idea of making a difference in someone else's life.

I have a life situation that I am also struggling through, something that I am not able to navigate completely on my own, so I have needed to ask some friends and family members who knew me in my early life to write a statement on my behalf about how they perceived me during that time. The letters I've recieved have only served to reinforce the truth that we honestly do not know how we make a difference in someone else's life. . . .or what they remember about us. . . or how they perceive and interpret what they observed about our life. I think we should all write letters like this to every single person that we grew up with, because I can guarantee that we would all be shocked by both awe and horror (lol) by the difference our life has made invisibly in the lives we encountered along the way.

Working at the switchboard is an unexpected blessing and gift in my life. . . .at first you think it's just about answering phones. . . .or linking guests to the resource they need. . . .or having the right piece of information at the right time. But it's not just about these things, because there are also these amazing moments when another person's life unexpectedly intersects with my own, and neither life is the same because of that nexxus, regardless of how brief that intersection may have been.

Some people are a "pass the buck" or a "hot potato" kind of person, passing the problem or the issue on to someone else who might be able to help because "it's not their problem" so they don't feel responsible or compelled to help. Others are an "own the problem" kind of person. . . .stepping up to do something (hopefully meaningful. . . . hopefully positive. . . . hopefully helpful). . . .even if it's the wrong thing. . . . because they have a "we're in this together" way of approaching the crappy stuff that life throws our way. Perhaps we are all a little bit of each, depending on the situation or frame of mind in a given moment, and perhaps each philosophy has its place depending on other factors involved. I don't know.

What I do know is that we don't really control how other people perceive the difference that we make. We can want to make a positive difference all day long, but the truth is that all we can really do is be true to ourselves. . . .be true to the way that we need to walk our own path and our own journey. . . .and if that truth makes a difference in the life of another person, then that is both a gift and a blessing. But it is not a choice that we make for another person. . . . . it is a choice that another person makes for their self.

[geturgoodon.org]<~~~image found at

Finding the Beauty

Last year when I was on my leave of absence, I was sitting on the shore of Lynx Lake feeling certain that if I could just find the beauty in the panic attacks that I would be able to embrace them and move on to live a normal life. I didn't know what that meant in tangible, concrete terms, but I caught a glimpse of a possible truth that gave me a brief sense of peace and hope all of those months ago, even with a part of me thinking it was crazy to even think about finding beauty within the life sucking hideousness of the panic attacks.

But I think I found the beauty.

I have always loved this painting by Edward Munch, and I wonder if he didn't also suffer with panic attacks, because this image so wonderfully captures the surreal nature of panic attacks. . . .but this painting isn't the beauty I'm talking about :)

I have posted previously about how I've been processing through this book on archetypal psychology, and how I've been studying one archetype a month. Well, this month's archetype is The Destroyer, and I swear. . . .when truth makes itself known, it can hit you like a ton of bricks. So last night, as I started to read about this archetype, I had to stop reading (literally) and walk around the room for a while, just to catch my breath.

The opening paragraph made reference to how we humans have so many different ways that we anesthetize ourselves to our experience. . . .like drugs, alcohol, food, shopping, and televison. . . .this list could have gone on and on. . . .but it was in the very next breath of the paragraph that the bricks began to fly. . .because the introduction goes on to say that "it often takes fear to wake us up."

It often takes fear to wake us up!

Before my panic attacks began, I was intrepid. A free-spirited, sort of a quirky person, not really caring very much about what other people thought of me, at least not enough to stop me from doing things that (quite honestly) I was poked fun of a lot while growing up. But when I started to have the panic attacks, thus began the slow erosion of everything that made me who I was. . . .to the diametric extreme of now being nearly fifty years old and not even recognizing the person I have become, so fearful and anxious about everything in my world have I become. . . .still struggling to make sense of how I came to be this anxious, panicky, fearful person in the first place.

But, it often takes fear to wake us up.

Twenty seven years ago, on the night of my twenty second birthday, I had my very first in a very long line of panic attacks after having a lovely steak dinner in the prime of my youth while I was living the dream of my free-spirited independent life. But I never made the connection between the panic attacks and what had happened just a few short weeks before. . . .so I've suffered, in isolation and deep personal confusion, for these past twenty seven years because I've never been able to understood the why of the panic attacks--and without the why, the source of the wound is never really healed. . . .only surface treated for signs and symptoms that never really go away. . . .signs and symptoms that only tuck themselves back behind the curtains of denial and self-delusion.

But last night, to read this simple handful of words, I finally saw the beauty in the panic, because if it often takes fear to wake us up, then the panic attacks weren't just random acts of biochemical violence, they were purposeful. . . .and intentional. . . .and filled with such beautiful spiritual depth and design that it was like falling in love with someone I have spent my whole life hating, but could no longer deny was my soul mate. . . and thus began the embracement of beauty within the most heinous of my personal truths. . . .

. . . .because it often takes fear to wake us up.

I find it more than even a little bit ironic that the panic attacks evolved into this chronic deprivation of sleep, because it all makes perfect sense, now. If the panic attacks themselves weren't enough to wake me up, then I wasn't going to be allowed to sleep, either. It's just all so beautifully clear! Even how the nightmares began with that powerful dream of finding myself in the clearing in the forest, with the four men in suits emerging out of the forest, knowing that I was about to die. . . .and calling out the name of a great spirit in heaven as a desperate cry for help before. . . .it's just all so perfectly clear, and absolutely beautiful in its perfection and design. I mean, how many times have I been awakened out of a sound sleep in a full on panic attack?

It really does take fear to wake us up.

So last night I found the beauty in the panic attacks, because they have been trying to wake me up for twenty seven years from the depth of a denial that has anesthetized me from an experience that I simply could not integrate into the story of my life. . . not on any level. And they've also been trying to wake me up from the lies I had to tell myself in order to continue walking with what was happening. . . .until, that is, until I could get to the other side.

Well, I'm on the other side, now. . . .on the other side and no longer lost within the denial. . . .on the other side and able to finally see these panic attacks for the truth of what they are. . . .for their beautiful purpose. . . .for their beautiful intention. . . for their beautiful function in my life. No longer are they the enemy. . . .that internal predator stalking me from within. . . .for they are the inner hero that has been fighting for twenty seven years to wake. . . .me. . . .up!

Yes, I think I really have found the beauty within the panic. . . .

Hair Shirts

Reading through this month's archetype, I am provided with an opportunity to learn all about the wearing of hair shirts, something I had never heard of before. Apparently, the wearing of hair shirts has traditionally been done by Christians or ascetics who are trying to do penance of some sort, or as a form of self-inflicted punishment.

Who thinks up these things? lol. . . .

We don't, of course, wear hair shirts any more, at least not in their physical form, but I couldn't help but think about all of the ways that we modern humans metaphorically continue to wear our own personal version of hair shirts every day.

We don our hair shirts every time we beat ourselves up over stupid, trivial things. . . . .or feel guilty about things that we haven't even done wrong. . . . or hold on to beliefs about our self that serve no purpose except to undermine our positive self-esteem. . . .or absorb the hurtful words and actions of other people into our core identity as if it were somehow inherently true. And we continue to wear these metaphoric hair shirts every day, yet wonder why we feel like crap about ourselves or about life in general. And don't even get me started on all of the ways that we then deal with how we feel on the other side of all of the scritching and scratching from these very painful shirts of hair. . . .self-inflicted wounds, as they are.

I think it's time to stop the wearing hair shirts. . . .metaphorically, or otherwise.

However, it is no easy thing to take off one's hair shirt, especially when it's woven from the negative strands of human experience invisibly wrapping themselves around the beauty of our spirit. I know for me, I have become immune to the hair shirt I wear, so accustomed to the scritchy scratchy layer that I no longer even recognize its irritating presence, except for the hard and caloused skin that remains as a tell-tale life map leaving me ever guarded and vigilant. And I wonder if other people are as immune to their own hair shirts as I find myself to be with mine.

Yes, it is definitely time to stop wearing my hair shirt. . . .

We're Family

I had a near death experience today. Ok, so maybe I just stepped on a roofing nail and needed a  tetanus shot, but I actually did have a life changing experience that involves a death of sorts.

As soon as I stepped on this thing I knew I was in trouble. Not huge trouble, but I knew that I would need a tetanus shot, because this roofing nail was an inch long. . . .and rusted. . . .and my little tennis shoes are only very thin little floparounds. But a three hour drive to the VA wasn't really on my list of priorities today, so I called the switchboard and one of our fire fighters came right over to transport me to the clinic.

The clinic was great, too, as I was well taken care of. And the same fire fighter picked me up at the clinic to drive me back home once I was done. I thanked him for all of the help, and then he said to me, "We're family. . . this is what we do."

To clarify, we at switchboard are also the dispatch unit for our fire and security, so there is a very clear connection, but I have pretty much felt like the old and decrepit outsider to the young hipster kids with whom I work. But what he said was true. . . we are family. . . .and today I truly felt it.

Family isn't the gene pool into which we were born. . . .these people become the relatives we grow up with. Family is created by the people we choose, the ones who care about us and accept us for the unique contribution we make, even if we don't always like or agree with each other. Some family members are also relatives, but this is not necessarily an automatic association.

Family is a choice. . . .

One of my Facebook friends, someone I went to school with ten lifetimes ago back in Lake Elsinore wrote this morning about how he had been able to lay down a burden this morning, and his day was immediately blessed by the truth of that experience. I understood what he meant in the very instant that the fire fighter made that very simple statement because a part of me died in a way, died to an old way of thinking and feeling, which then opened up my heart to feel accepted as a part of this wonderfully crazy family that is created by a bunch of orphans, really, orphans from all around the world.

Life is funny how it turns itself around to drop a wonderful and unexpected gift upon you just when you need it most, because it was so much more than my foot that was pierced today. . . .and I sincerely hope that this wonderful feeling of connectedness continues to embrace my experience here at the canyon. . . .

Fear This!

My friend Brenda and I remind each other from time to time to Fear Not! when there is something happening that's generating fear and anxiety in our lives. It's from a passage somewhere in the Bible, and while I don't ever remember where it actually is in the Bible, I do remember these words when called upon.

But today as I was out walking through the canyon, I stumbled upon this sticker on the back of a local's jeep which sparked some deep and powerful thought upon which I meditated as I walked through the lovely afternoon's rain, and I think I have found the next step beyond even the powerful words to Fear Not!

Fear This!

I once read a book called, Feel the Fear, and Do it Anyway!" which makes more sense to me than trying to make the fear go away. For me, trying to tell myself not to feel afraid is like trying to convince myself that I'm not hungry when my stomach is clearly growling. Something is happening that prompts the anxiety and fear, so the fear itself is real. I also believe that even if God or some kind of comforting presence is with me, the fear is still real, and still falls within my realm of responsibility to do something about.

So the next time I find myself feeling anxious or feeling afraid I'm going to just turn around and stand up straight in the middle of my fear and tell those negative forces that are inviting me to feel afraid, "Oh, yeah? Well, Fear This!" Then do something, anything, that contradicts whatever it is that I'm feeling afraid of in the first place.

The Canyon's Story

Walking along the rim this afternoon I continued to think about the Canyon's story. I went to a resource update training earlier where the presenter talked about "keeping it wild," a training provided for NPS interpretive rangers and tour-bus guides who tell the story about the canyon every day. What struck me as I walked along the rim was the interesting dichotomy between the stories we tell about the Grand Canyon, and the stories we tell about ourselves.

Tour guides and interpretive rangers tell the story of the canyon every single day. But it's a violent story, a story with great geologic trauma along the way. Plates colide. . . .rivers change direction. . . .winds and rain erode away that which makes the canyon whole and complete.

This is the story of the canyon.

But the canyon herself, she's not ashamed of her story. . . .she doesn't shrink away when people talk about her story. . . .her self esteem doesn't erode away like sediments and sand. . . .and she isn't concerned about moving on, either. She simply is what she is, filled with a magnificent beauty that is the result of this grand story of great violence and spirit altering geologic upheaval.

Human beings are very different, of course. . . .we hide our stories of violent upheavals of spirit.

The canyon wasn't always thought of as a grand place, though. Many of the first visitors saw it as nothing more than a vast wasteland, devoid of value and meaningful resources, a place where no one in their right mind would ever visit by choice. Many people still can't see the beauty of the canyon, calling it "the great big hole in the ground." But things change. . . .and people do begin to look beyond their initial conceptions to see the beauty that emerges out of violent upheavals and erosion.

There is much that the canyon has to teach about living life on life's terms.

I can't change anything about the way the forces of life and circumstance collided with the plates of my spirit and eroded away the sediments that remain from landscapes embedded with the layers of a life that are no longer vibrant and alive. But these forces create nothing more than the story of me. . . .the story that helped to shape this amazing woman I have become. . . .a story ever in process of the erosion of change . . . .and  I look to the canyon each day for guidance on how to simply be what I am regardless of what the onlookers and observers have to say about what they see. . . .even if all they can see is a great big hole in the ground.

Peace by Piece

This may seem odd coming from me on a day when I can not get to sleep to save my life, but I have been feeling like the pieces of my life are slowly starting to come together. Not in a great big loud and obvious way, but rather like how sand settles to the bottom of the ocean when the currents are subsiding. I don't think everything is going to be roses and sunshine any time soon, but I absolutely feel like the pieces are forming into something lovely and longer lasting.

I think it's all about acceptance. . . .accepting things just as they are, without hoping for things to change. I know that also sounds anti-me. . . .lol. . . .coming from the queen of personal growth and self-improvement, but there is a change that can only happen with the acceptance that nothing may ever change.

Life is paradox.

I continue to process through the archetypal psychology book, and this month's archetype of focus is "The Caregiver." It's the last of the first four archetypes that make up the "ego" set of archetypes. The Caregiver as archetype is that ideal perfect parent who loves and guides unconditionally and creates the safe environment where we feel loved, valued, and appreciated.

Of course the perfect parent does not exist, so we grow up with "gaps" in our development that help to shape and create the uniqueness of who we grow into. And the beauty of it all is that even if two people have exactly the same gaps, they still "fill them in" with their own unique ways, so our spirits are birthed like mosaic art created out of shards and scraps that might not otherwise have found their own creative voice.

It's all about how we fill in the gaps. . . .

We each fill the gaps in our own ways, and I suppose there can ultimately be no judgment in how each of us completes our life mosaic. I'm slowly learning how to let go of the fear and shame of my gaps. . . .they are what they are. . . .and I am what I am because of and in spite of them.

As for me, it is my "inner caregiver" who fills in my gaps, that part of me that acknowledges and comforts when I feel bruised by the choice or circumstance of life. There is great peace in accepting life on life's terms, even if we will never agree with the terms themselves. In that way, Acceptance is a lot like Forgiveness. . . .it can still love the broken pieces even when the random acts that shattered them remain forever unacceptable and unforgiven.

It's not the act itself that's accepted or forgiven, but rather how that act has left its mark upon a life forever changed.

So for me, it's more about mosaics than about moving on. . . .about filling the gaps and creating beauty out of pieces that no longer belong to one another. . . and about finding peace amidst the chaos that remains.

The God of Surprises

I am thinking this day about a retreat I created back when I was in grad school at a Catholic seminary in Santa Barbara. It was my second year into the family therapy program, so I had been seeing clients through my first clinical placement for only about six months, and I was experiencing a great deal of conflict because I didn't really know what to do to help these people in great turmoil, and boy, did I felt the pressure to do something to help!

So there I was. . . in this place of great conflict. . . .in search of peace. . . .so I decided I needed a spiritual retreat.

The Catholic seminary was built up on top of the mountains surrounding Santa Barbara, so it was both beautiful and peaceful just by its geographical nature. But there was also this wonderful part of the seminary that caught my attention, a quarter mile path that started just outside of the seminary at the top of the mountain and wound its way down through an outdoor Stations of the Cross, which was comprised of these 14 different "stations" (pieces of the story of Jesus's crucifiction) along this quarter mile path weaving through the grass and trees. I had never heard of this before (the Stations of the Cross), so I found the path to be lovely and wonderful way to "read" this story of Jesus.

I had created this retreat the week before Christmas, so the priest thought it was odd that I would spend so much time out on this Stations of the Cross path (which was about the death of Jesus), when he thought I should be spending time with the story about his birth. He was probably right, of course, but the birth stories weren't the stories that were resonating with my spirit in conflict, and I thought I needed to understand his death in order to appreciate his birth. . . .so I continued to spend time periodically out walking along this beautiful path in search of the peace my conflicted spirit so desperately was in search of.

My room was in a long quiet wing all to its self, a fact that was actually kind of eery at night, with the Santa Barbara winds blowing atop this isolated mountain, but there was also a wonderful library that I spent a great deal of time in. I found a tape series on Forgiveness that was wonderful (and very much needed at the time), but the best source I found that week was a small book called, The God of Surprises, written by a Catholic priest who had lost his faith, and this book was the story about his very long journey back to God.

He wrote about this process called contemplative imagination that he used when he started to reread the Bible. He described how when he would read a story (as that's what the Bible is, a wonderful collection of stories), he would imagine that he was physically present in the story, and not just reading about it. He found himself engaging in dialogue with the characters of the story, and more importantly, that the characters in the story were engaging back in dialogue with him in return. So his faith was renewed through this long journey made possible by this intriguing process of contemplative imagination that breathed life back into stories that now had depth and personal meaning for him.

So I thought I would try this contemplative imagination for myself. . . .

Armed with this unexplored new tool, I ventured back out to the path of the Stations of the Cross. I felt a little bit silly, of course, standing there in the middle of the trees outside of the seminary where I was certain the priest was keeping an eye on this odd woman talking to herself. . . .lol. . . .but I wanted to see for myself how this process worked, and I had this wonderful full-life version of the Bible story at my unlimited use, and so began my journey.

The Stations of the Cross is the journey of Jesus on his way to the cross, of course, and I had became one of the witnesses along that path (through the use of the contemplative imagination). But as I walked along that path from one station to another, I began to experience great anxiety, and I found myself in a dialogue that essentially amounted to me trying to talk Jesus out of continuing on. I knew what lay ahead along this path, and I was doing everything I could to stop what was happening!

So I begged and pleaded Jesus to stop, to do something different, to say something different, but he didn't. . . .he just continued on along that path to his certain death with a purpose and determination that I just couldn't understand. And since I was "pretending" to be a living particpant of that story in real life (which was the purpose of the contemplative imagination process), I was also experiencing real and genuine emotional responses, so to say that I was anxious and frustrated would be a mild understatement.

As I approached the fifth station, I couldn't continue. I was doing everything I could to stop what was going to happen, but I couldn't, so in my utter despair of not knowing how to stop this, I had to walk away, to get off of that path, because there was no way that I could continue on if that meant I had to witness the brutality that was about to unfold! So I looked over and saw a bench just over about 20 feet placed in a patch of amazing green grass along the dusty path, a bench that looked out across the pastoral valley below.

The irony in that moment was that I had taken this retreat because I was in such great personal conflict and I was in search of inner peace to end the conflict, yet here I was, out in the back mountains of Santa Barbara at this isolated seminary amidst the greatest conflict of all, as I had just walked away from the path of Jesus on the way to his brutal death at the cross. And as I sat down on that bench in the full force of frustration and angst of not knowing how to stop what was about to happen, I looked out across this valley to find a large green barn with the word PEACE painted in huge white letters across the side of the barn facing the hill of the seminary's path.

There are moments in life that are larger than life, moments that are so infused with an emotional experience that we never forget them. . . .and this was once such moment.

When I looked across that valley to find the word PEACE staring back at me as I sat on that bench, something opened up inside of my heart and I just started sobbing deep and hard, because I finally understood what the source of my conflict was with my clients, because I was doing exactly the same thing with them that I was doing with Jesus. My conflict was nothing more than the fact that I was trying to stop something over which I had no control, instead of just walking with them along whatever path their journey was supposed to be.

PEACE.

It was not the peace that I thought I was looking for that I found along the path with Jesus that day, but it was exactly the peace that I needed. And I returned from that retreat with a renewed sense of purpose and perspective of what my role as a family therapist was supposed to be, a clarity that changed the way I walk with everyone I come in contact with, because Jesus taught me how to walk with others along whatever life path they may find themselves upon. . . .and that blessing has changed me from my spirit up. . . .which is why I am not afraid of walking along the dark paths anymore.

People may not always understand me or the path my own spirit walks upon, either, but that's ok. I remember how Moises used to tell me all of the time that he was praying for me, praying that my anger would be removed from my suffering. ( I was very angry during my grad school years. . . .lol.) I always accepted his prayers, but they were more about him than about me, because I never prayed myself for God to remove my anger, as I embraced that as one of my greatest strengths at that time. I needed that anger to rise up out of the stories that had been imposed upon my life by people who also knew not what they did, so I wasn't going to pray the anger away.

So I have learned to walk my path of suffering, just like I watched Jesus walk his. And I have learned to let people walk away from my path when they no longer understand why I would choose my own journey of suffering, just the way Jesus let me walk away when I was overcome with angst and frustration of trying to stop what I could not understand as I walked along his journey with him. And I may not have grown up with God as a young person the way that other people did, but I have a very real relationship with Jesus, even if the way that I walk that path with him is not as easily recognized by others.

As for the Stations of the Cross, it took me a while to sort through the emotion released by the lancing of my conflict in that moment of finding Peace in the most unsuspecting of places, but I had found the peace I needed to walk that Stations of the Cross path to its bitter end, and I became a better therapist and person because of it.

Who knew that a quarter of a mile could be such a long and painful distance. . . .

As for me, I certainly didn't expect to find Jesus in those back country mountains of Santa Barbara on that personal retreat I created for myself back in 1997 , but that is where I found him. . . .and where I found the amazing God of Surprises.

Oh, What a Tangled Web

Something snapped in me this morning. . . .or, more accurately, something finally snapped into clarity to such a degree that I am no longer even able to pretend that I don't see it.

There is a dark side to everything, both good and bad. There is no judgment in this fact, only truth that no matter which coin is flipped, there is always an opposite side that both balances and betrays.

My journey is about to become unbearably difficult.

The trouble with growing up feeling inherently unloveable and unwanted is that the desire to be loved and wanted doesn't ever go away. Hence, a corollary development is the process of invisibly figuring out what to do in order to be accepted and belong within the family, group, organization, team, squad, relationship we desire to feel a part of.

We've all done it. . . .changed ourselves in some way so that the cool guy will like us. . . .kept quiet about something happening so that we don't rock to boat and upset our place in it. . . .hidden some dark truth about our selves so that other people will like us and accept us a part of their own. But the problem is that when this is the invisible way that a person moves through their entire life, they wake up fifty years later to find that they are living a lie of the worst kind. . . .the lie that they have become. . . . and they realize that they have been walking around their whole life with an empty love bucket, selling off pieces of their soul in hope that someone else might fill it.

I feel as if I am sitting in the middle of a storm that has instantly fallen silent and windless, but the debris still floats wildly around me.

I am not honest with people, or myself. I dance around my self and the things that need to be said so that I am not cast out into the cold of the winter's night. What do you want to eat? It doesn't matter. . . .whatever you want is fine. (Except that it's not, because I really want Thai.) What movie do you want to see? It doesn't matter. (Except that it does, because I really want to see the latest chick flick.) I weave a version of deception around me to the point that I no longer even know who I am. . . .except that I do. We don't ever really escape the truth of who we are, do we? No, we don't. . . .as I know every lie and every deception I have ever woven, and could very easily sit down right here, right now, and make a list specific to each and every person or circumstance across my entire life of how I have twisted and contorted the beautiful truth of who I am in exchange for being like, or loved, and wanted.

No more.

This is what Jesus meant when he talked about leaving our mother and our father, our brothers and our sisters, in order to live a life aligned and congruent with God. I understand this now. If who I am is so loathsome to another person that they can neither like nor want me, then that is their right to do so. . . .but to twist and contort the truth of who I am just so that I can feel included? Just to feel liked and accepted and feel like I belong? I can't do that any more. And if that means that the only way that I can walk with integrity of who God made me to be is to walk alone in this life time, then that is going to have to be my fate, because I am no longer going to weave this internal deception as attempt to "soften" the truth of my beautiful spirit. . . .not for anyone.

There are many lies that can be told. . . .but the greatest lie truly is the lie that we become. No, we don't live in a perfect world. And yes, we have all been wounded by the flaws and imperfections of this world. But the task of the Warrior is to live within a harmful environment without becoming like it. . . . .to live in the world, but not of  the world. . . .no matter how badly the Exiles and Orphans may want to feel like they belong.

I may not ever understand why God created me the way that I am, but my journey is about to get very difficult, indeed. . . .

And in this moment I finally understand: The real problem is not that I am inherently unloveable or unwanted because of who I am. . . .the real problem is that because of who I am inherently, I do not love or want to be a part of this crazy messed up world. And this is the truth that changes everything. . . .

The Story of Clothes

I've been eating ghetto chocolate all day, anxiously sorting through the clothes in my closet and purging what no longer "fits," which is less about the size, and more about the style. Funny how the clothes we wear are a lot like the stories we tell about ourselves. . . .

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of "moving on". . . .mostly because I'm not really sure what it means. I know what is meant when we think or tell someone they need to "move on," but what does it really mean to move on? And who gets to decide when, where, or how this outgrowing process is supposed to happen?

I have these cassette tapes that my mom sent to me when I was stationed in Germany. Denny had bought a pair of cassette tape recorder/players so that we could send correspondence back and forth via sound, so I have all of these tapes of her voice from before she died. I don't even have a way of playing them any more, but I keep them. . . .move them with me from place to place. . . .pay for space to store them, year after year. Some days I even wonder What's the point? in keeping them, but I do.

I actually have mixed feelings about these tapes, as there are multiple layers of emotion were I to listen to them, so complex and unfinished was my relationship with my mother. But I still can't imagine getting rid of them, as they hold the last tangible connection to something real and wonderful about this woman who died holding on to so many secret truths. Am I supposed to "move on" from the loss of my mom by "letting go" of these tapes recorded with layers of mixed and complex emotional content?  Would I honestly feel her loss any less if I were to some how "move on" from these tapes?

The bottom line is that human beings hold on to "things" that hold some kind of emotional meaning for them, but is that a good thing or a bad thing?  I'm sure the most common answer would be something to the effect that if there is a "positive" connection to it, then that is a good thing, but if there is a "negative" connection, then that is a bad thing, and the "best" course of action is to then "move on" from the thing that's causing so much negative emotion, right?

I don't think life is that black and white, or human experience that simple.

When I was in grad school, I once reflected with great warmth some stories from my military days with one of my cohorts, stories that I cherish dearly. She was not a veteran, so perhaps she just couldn't understand how these stories of belonging and instant comraderie could fill a person with such depth of warm emotion, but when I had finished telling my story, she made several comments about how I was obviously living in the "glory days," with much implication that my reverie was not healthy, and I should somehow "move on" from the telling of these outdated relic stories of my military days gone by. I was stunned.

It's not just the "negative" stories in our lives that people think we should move on from, but why is it that we're supposed to to move on from them at all?

I feel myself grow large and fierce inside of myself, fierce and protective, because I know all too well the answer to this question. But the cold hard truth is simply this: we are told to "move on" from stories that other people don't want to hear, that other people feel uncomfortable with, not because of some inherent need within ourselves to do so.

If I were to tell stories of a childhood filled with stuffed bears and cotton candy and the joys of life in the here or there of narrative landscapes falling within the boundaries of comfortable emotion, then I am not told implicitly or otherwise to move on from these stories. But stories that make other people uncomfortable? Aye, these are the stories that I am not supposed to tell, which (ironically) is the crux of the problem from the story's inception.

Aye, this is the crux of the point, indeed.

What makes an event traumatic is not the event itself, but rather the loss of a context where we can tell the story, the truth of what was real for us in the experience of the event. Human beings come through difficult events relatively unscathed all of the time, so it's not the event itself that creates the trauma. In my own experience, it was the lack of context for my stories that created the trauma for me, personally, because I wasn't able to talk about what was happening, so it remained locked up inside, like raw and corrosive poison. I learned very quickly what stories I wasn't supposed to tell, so I never told them. . . .in part because no one in my young world wanted to hear them. . . .but mostly it was because there was no one who could have helped me to process them, even if I had told them.

Keeping stories silent is not the same thing as moving on from them, nor should it ever be. . . .and thank god for people like Oprah who make it ok for people to finally tell their stories.

One of my favorite films is an animated film called Howl's Moving Castle, and one of the important characters in the film is this magical castle thing that moves around from place to place, a castle built up out of junk and debris collected along the journey, which is such a beautiful metaphor of human experience. The junk's not always beautiful, or even very useful, but it's the junk that makes us who we are. . . .for better, or for worse.

Inside of Howl's castle is a magic portal that grants access to whichever world is selected by the portal's device, with each portal connecting to a world with completely different emotional experiences. Again, such a wonderful metaphor of the complexity of human experience, how the same "door" to an experience can open up to different perspectives of a world, each with its own emotional experience. Do we choose which portal we enter? Absolutely. But is one portal inherently better than the other? On this, I'm not so certain.

There is still so much I feel mulling through me about this idea of "moving on," but the answer (in my opinion) is never a moving on from the emotional experiences of our lives, but rather an embracing and accepting of these stories as nothing more than pages within our larger story ever changing and in the process of editing and revision. Maybe some of these stories are laden with difficult emotions, but so what. . . .the emotion itself is not what creates the trauma. . . it's how other people respond to the emotion that creates the trauma. . . .especially as children, because children have not yet learned how to separate their identify from the stories they tell about ourselves, or the stories that other people tell about them.

Oprah once said, "Everything has a story." I love that. . . . everything has a story. And we do, of course, move on from the stories of our lives, just like we move on from the styles of clothes that no longer fit the character we are choosing to be. Today I packed up a very large bag of outdated clothes because they no longer fit who I am, but not because someone thought I needed to, or because someone told me that I should. I simply woke up this day feeling ready to wear a different style of clothes . . . .and so I move on.

The Warrior's End

Tonight is the end of The Warrior.

Not the end of the warrior within me, but the end of this month's study of the archetypal warrior. April is the month to study The Caregiver.

A boring post. . . .lol. . . .but it's all the energy I can muster tonight. . . . just needed to honor this month's focus on the warrior within :)

Fit and Fab at 50!

I read an article recently about how much money Jennifer Aniston spends on the "upkeep" of her looks. . . .it was a shocking amount of money that she spends, an amount each month that many people don't even make in a year! There's no denying that she looks great. . . .but it comes with a hefty price.

As for the rest of us, we have to make the best out of what we've been given. . . .

I posted earlier on my Facebook wall my goal for when I turn 50, which is in just over a year. 50 situps. . . .50 push ups. . . and 50 miles of hiking. I am fortunate, of course, that I live in a national park with the grand canyon as my back yard, but I guess fortune has nothing to do with that choice.

It all comes down to choice.

I don't feel 50, although I'm not sure what 50 is supposed to feel like, and when I look at the graphic for this blog I know what sillouettes I do NOT want to be. I also know that the two and a half years of living here  has improved my health markers significantly. I've dropped 35 pounds, significantly lowered my cholesterol and triglycerides, increased my bone density, eliminated gallstones, and developed a confidence in my body's ability to solo hike in ways that I never thought would be possible for me.

But changing the numbers is not enough.

I think it's a baby boomer thing, but I love my lifestyle here at the canyon. I have a job that allows me to do what I want (and get paid while I do it). I have one of the world's greatest playgrounds for my backyard where I can hike (and backpack) to my heart's content. I awaken to deer and elk munching on grass outside of my window. I walk everywhere, with no daily need for a car. On most days I can't imagine ever living anywhere else, so I'm going to take advantage of the life I have for however long I am going to remain living here.

I've never really been a physically active person, but I am finding a great enjoyment of a physical lifestyle. I'm almost afraid to leave the canyon, actually, because the physical activity is such a naturally integrated part of my life here. To move back out into "the real world" means that I have to pay for gym memberships and schedule time to do these things. . . .but right now I am really enjoying how physical activity is just a natural part of my daily routine.

And it kind of shocks me to see so many people here sitting in their dorm rooms playing video games or getting drunk rather than getting out into the beauty of the canyon, espeically the younger kids who feel displaced from the delights of city life. Perhaps they will feel differently when they, too, are on the verge of turning 50 and all too aware of being on the long, slow, downward decline.

As for me, I refuse to just age gracefully. . . .lol. . . .so I'm going to run and walk and hike and backpack my way to making the best out of what I've been given :) I may not have Jennifer Aniston's money (or the look it buys), but I do have this canyon, so I'm going to take advantage of every opportunity it offers this baby boomer on the verge of extinction. . . .lol.

Parallel Worlds

I've been working my way through online FEMA disaster preparedness training (as part of the requirements for my job), and it struck me tonight how this training could actually be applied to "life management" in general. There is some wonderful information in these trainings, but specifically of interest to me tonight is the Post Incident process of reviewing everything that happened during the disaster response to determine what worked well, what didn't, and what could be done proactively to better prepare for the next disaster.

This is the key to personal growth, of course. . . .that ongoing process of identifying and uprooting the parts of our life that aren't working for us, and finding ways to change or improve them in some way.

What makes this "post incident" review process work, however, is to "establish a nonthreatening environment for the discussion" where the purpose is "to improve future operations, not to assign blame." The same is true for the process of healing or personal growth. It is essential to look at the conditions that helped to form or create a dynamic, but to understand rather than to look for a cause to blame.

We can not outgrow that which we do not understand. Awareness is the key. Understanding is essential.

I am really enjoying this FEMA training, as my way is to draw parallels with my life from whatever source I find clarity and inspiration, and I am finding great clarity and inspiration in this metaphor of disaster management (for obvious reasons). My life is what it is, but I no longer try to hide my personal baggage, because I find much more value in seeking to create a more functional response to all of that nasty stuff I carry around inside (rather than to avoid it or deny its existence entirely).

It is my belief that I live in a Prozac world, a world obsessed with feeling happy and wonderful all of the time. But I also live in a world where disaster happens, and the course of human lives are sometimes forever altered and diverted. So I am going to sift through however many crap-tons of debris I need so that I can learn what I can (when I can) from the disasters that have blown their way through my personal world.

I think what most people don't get, is that there is great beauty to be found on the other side of the disaster, a deeper appreciation for life in spite of its fragility, a beauty that is forever untouched even by the worst of human trauma. Other people may watch me sorting and purging through the endless piles of debris and wonder why I don't just move on, but what they don't understand is that the debris isn't trash. . . .it's all of the broken pieces of life that once was me. . . .so there is still great treasure to be found. . . .and when I find another piece of my spirit amidst all of the ruin and rubble, it is a gift of the heart that no words could ever describe. So, no. . . .I'm not going to walk away from the debris. . . .because this debris is still me.

The archeological dig of one's spirit is not for everyone. It's a painstaking process with hours and hours of slow and deliberate work with tiny brushes delicately removing the sedementary dust that entombs the treasured prize. But for me, it is everything. . . .and the recovery of my spirit is so very much worth the work. . . .

Splintered Truth

One of the best parts of my graduate school experience was my exposure to postmodern modalities, because it allowed me to sit with couples and families without needing to search for a single objective truth that everyone could agree upon. Every person experiences the same set of circumstances in their own unique way, and I am OK with that, because that's how God made the world. . . .and just like how God splinted language in the story of the Tower of Babel, truth and reality were splintered, as well.

Objective truth does not exist, as it is created through the subjective lens of human interpretation.

I've been processing some layers of my personal experience this past week, and I received a personal message from one of my mom's sisters in response to one of my posts because her perspective of events was very different from my own. . . .which is precisely the point of what I've been blogging about. Because even within my own self there are multiple perspectives on how I could have interpretted a given experience, so why is it that I choose one over another?

I have read statements in family development books about how each child is raised by a different parent, and I completely agree. The oldest child definitely has one set of parents, and by the time the youngest child rolls around, the parents have developed into completely different people and parents. Another way of saying this is, no two children are raised exactly alike.

I once had a conversation with my brother, this was about 10 years ago. We were processing various pieces of how we grew up, and I said something to the effect of how we didn't have a childhood until the year that we lived with an aunt and uncle. His response to my statement was, "No, YOU didn't have a childhood, but we did. . . . you gave us a childhood." His response stopped me dead in my tracks because he was right, although I had never thought of things that way. . . .but while I was inside taking care of my mom and the household duties, my brothers were able to go outside and play or do whatever it is that little boys do when they're growing up. And the point of this is simply that even given the fact that siblings grow up in a relatively similar family environment, their experience of that environment is still completely different. There is no objective truth to be found in the way that we grew up, even with my siblings.

So experience is what it is, in and of itself, with the truth of that experience changing with each observer and participant.

There have been many studies done on this precise fact of human perception. Police officers know this fact very well, because if you have ten witnesses, they will have ten different versions of what happened. Some pieces may overlap, but essentially people perceive events in their own unique ways.

For me, I have spent my life perceiving events through the lens of feeling inherently unwanted and unloveable. And each time I do, I reinforce this skewed way of interpretting the world, but my lack of awareness of this fact is what causes the problem. Becoming aware that I do it is what will give me the foothold into making changes to the negative way I interpret events and experiences. Another factor to changing this belief is taking into account how other people perceive and interpret the events and experiences, as well.

And that is what makes sharing personal truth so important, because if I had held all of this process inside, I would still be working with the same skewed perspective. Listening to how my aunt perceives and understands the course of events and experiences adds new layers of possible ways to interpret and create meaning, because the fact is that my mom's truth died with her all those years ago. So all I have left are these fragmented artifacts of experience that I hold, and the multiple perspectives of how the rest of us are interpretting them.

Roots

Roots are what they are. They feed. They nourish. They grow where they can and how they can. But if you remove the roots, the plant dies. It's the same with human beings. My roots feed me, and nourish me. And if I try to remove my roots, I cease to be who I am. My spirit dies.

I am a psychological archeologist for a reason. I understand the nature of roots, and I dig them up so that I can understand, not to look for causative sources of blame.

On an ordinary and inauspicious day I look upon the weekly schedule at work to find that I am scheduled for a solo shift. . . the only one who's scheduled for a solo shift. . . .and I am curious about the internal reaction that immediately makes me feel bad. Upon deeper self investigation I find that my initial reaction is fueled by the insibile thought that my boss has scheduled me for a solo shift because my coworkers don't like me and don't want to work with me. There are a million possible reasons to explain the solo shift, but my initial reaction is to think that I my coworkers don't like me and don't want to work with me.

Yes, indeed. . . I find myself curious about this. . . .

One of the tools I continue to use from the PTSD treatment group is a framework of deconstruction that challenges unproductive beliefs called "stuck points." So I had already begun the deconstruction process of this obviously unproductive belief, but what struck me most was the absolute absurdity of the belief, because it's not the case at all. And yet, regardless of the absurdity of it, that remained my invisible reaction to seeing my name scheduled for a solo shift.

And that's when I started asking different questions.

I've been processing my process long enough to recognize familiar themes, and the theme of feeling unwanted and unloveable is the core theme that runs through the course and flow of my entire life, which is why I needed to trace the roots as far back as needed to find out why my reaction to pretty much everything is that I'm not liked or wanted. . . .and the source of this pervasive belief is rooted in the environment into which I was born. And this "truth" doesn't relinquish me from responsibility of my reactions. . . .but it does explain why I have come to believe on an almost genetic level why I so invisibly feel inherently unwanted and unloveable.

I was thinking about timing this morning. To track back from when I was born, that would mean that my mom had got pregnant around September of 1962. . . .just two months after she had turned 21. . . .which explains why she was at the bar in Robin's Pond singing with my apparent father to be. She had just turned "legal" for drinking, so she was out enjoying her new found freedom. . . .and ended up pregnant. . . . with me. My (married) father who wanted nothing to do with the situation fled the scene down to Texas. My mom's family was shamed beyond shame by her behavior, and she was considered a "slut" by friends and family alike, so there was no support for her in New England.

There were a lot of choices that my mom could have made, but she chose to chase down my dad, so she followed him down to Texas, which is where I ended up being born.

My mom's mother couldn't even call me by my name at first, as she refers to me in her first response to my mom after my birth (nearly two months later) as "the baby." I'm glad to hear that you and the baby are doing well. Even my God parents are a sign of my mom's isolation, as they were a hispanic couple that had befriended them in Texas, not a friend or relative from the life she had fled when she chased after my father.

My birth was a crisis in my mom's world, a shameful and unwanted event, not something to be celebrated or embraced. And these are the facts of the world I was born into. . . .facts that formed the roots of my exsitence and shaped the way that I would come to think and believe about myself. I am not inherently unwanted and unloveable, but a child doesn't have the ability to separate themselves from the invisiblel truth that surrounds their early development.

My mom may have had her limitations as a person (and as a mother), but she was a kick-ass warrior, and she wasn't going to let anyone else define her path for her. And these facts about my roots make me feel proud of who I am, and proud of my mother who fought for my life at great pesonal expense, because she wanted and loved me even when everything else in her world didn't.

Of Ropes and Rivers

Today is Archeology Day at the canyon, so I meandered on down to the Shrine of the Ages to check out what great projects they had for the kids, but it seems that the rest of the world doesn't operate in "grave yard shift" mode. . . .lol. . . .so the event was pretty well wrapped up when I showed up at 4.

But as I was walking along the rim on my way to the shrine, it struck me how I live my life very much as a psychological archeologist or sorts, always mulling around and digging through the terrain of my life in search of fossils and artifacts buried within a family history that helps me to understand the person I am today.

One of the things I love about the Grand Canyon is how she is not afraid of her history, how she openly displays the layers of her depth without fear or shame. Her edges are rough and jagged, but there is no judgment. In fact, the magestic beauty of this canyon is created precisely because of the erosion of facades that would have forever hidden the geologic treasures beneath the surface, treasures uncovered by the most tenacious and patient of archeological pursuits.

I am here at the canyon for a reason. . . .

A few days ago, one of my Facebook friends had a birthday, and she posted this wonderful post about how her mom calls her every year on her birthday to retell the wonderful story of her birth. Such a sweet story of how the love and adoration of a mother for her daughter continues through the years, with layers of meaning being added with each telling and retelling. Such a lovely gift each year, to be reminded of how loved and cherished you are, even from the moment of your birth.

I believe that all children should be raised in environments where they feel loved and cherished, regardless of the circumstances of their parentage and birth.

I have continued to think about my own birth story, not such a warm and fuzzy story as my dear friend's birth story, perhaps, but it's the story that belongs to me whether I want that story or not, so this is the story through which I must dig to find my personal truth. But that's what's so lovely about living my life as a psychological archeologist, because I love the process of digging for the treasure buried within my spirit. And what I realize today is that our birth stories are actually a very complex interweaving of stories that hold and contain us until we are willing and able to start writing our own story. So I was born into my mother's story, as well as my father's. But I was also born into the story of each significant person at that specific conjunction of time and geography, stories that continue to shape and inform my birth story, I suppose, but these interwoven stories are actually not my story at all. . . .these stories belong to the people around me.

My story is still in the process of being writtten.

My friend Christine reminded me today how baby elephants are trained with thick and heavy chains around their legs when they are young. For the baby elephant, these chains are strong enough to restrain and contain them, and once they have accepted this reality, their keepers no longer need to use the chains. So the full grown elephant full of an unrestrainable strength is thusly restrained by nothing more than a simple rope. The full-grown elephant never question the truth of what is wrapped around their leg, because of the reality they lived with in their developing reality. Such a wonderful metaphor of how the stories we are born into have the power to become nothing more than tiny ropes around our spirits that if we test them at all would snap in an instant.

My spirit is the river that carves its glorious path through the canyon, a layered landscape formed and created out of the sediments of a history that may contain the river, but does not define the path the river's spirit cuts through it. And it is this dance between the river and the canyon that calls to me, for some days it is the canyon which shapes the course of the river, as some rocks lie defiant, like hard dying beliefs embedded within the hardened sediment of stories that came long before the river, appearing from day to day to never erode away.  But the river, just like the canyon, she is patient and tenacious. . . .and the more contained she is, the stronger and more powerful she becomes. . . .and so the rock eventually yields and gives way to the undeniable strength of the never ending flow of the river spirit's path slowly carving its way home. . .

The Immortals

I watched The Immortals up at the Rec Center tonight, and while the movie itself was only marginally entertaining, there are some pieces of the story that I have continued to process. . . .in specific, the part about Theseus being considered an "undesireable" and forced to live by a different set of rules, because he was born to an unwed mother who had been raped.

What is it about human beings that makes them feel like it's alright to treat other human beings like second class citizens based on the circumstances of their parentage and birth?

I understand Theseus, for I, too, was born to an unwed mother. And I have always felt like a blacksheep of the family, like a second class citizen within family systems bound by rules for membership that I have never met. And while I didn't come to feel that way all on my own, tonight is the first time that I have been able to separate myself from the burden of this truth, because the fact is that I was born into an environment that didn't want me, even before I was born.

And, yes, I was treated differently because of the illegitimate status of my birth.

This is not me feeling sad and sorry for myself. . . .these are the facts of the social environment into which I was born and the way that I was treated by a family system that just couldn't find it within their personal constitutions to accept the circumstances that brought my "shameful" existence into their pious and righteous world. And I suppose I should probably feel grateful that I wasn't raised as my grandmother's daughter so that she could continue to weave the deception of having daughters who would never have children out of wedlock.

It's just so insidious. . . .how these invisible beliefs formed long before I even had the capacity to question them still have the power to raise their nasty heads as masked intruders cleverly veiled by smoke and mirrors! But a person can not move on from an outworn belief until they are able to accept and integrate this "truth" into their experience.

So, I may have been born into an environment bound by rules that deemed my existence as "undesireable" and treated as if I were unloveable and unwanted, but this "truth" does not make it so. And my mother's family may have been limited by their personal or religious beliefs to accept my birth on equal terms with cousins who were born within a more "appropriate" and "acceptable" marital context, but that was their limitation, and not some inherent truth about my status as a human being and member of a family system into which I did not choose to be born.

In this moment I feel great respect for my mother, because it took a great deal of courage and personal fortitude for her to choose to have me, as unwanted as I was given the limitations of her family, and as unsupported and alone as I'm sure she felt.

As for me, it may take a while to uproot these weeds of poisonous belief that suffocate the garden of my spirit, but I will uproot them. . . .uproot them I most certainly will.

Living in the Blessings

I found some words yesterday, words about blessings and what a blessing actually means. . . . at least one person's perspective of what it means to bless and be blessed. For some thing to be blessed means that all of the negativity attached to the person, place, or thing has been removed. I love this way of thinking about being blessed.

So I did two things yesterday. . . .

First, I made a very heart-felt request out through the universe to be blessed, both within and without. . . .to help create a barrier of protection around me so that I am not so affected by the negativity that surrounds me, but also to help remove the negativity that is within me.

The second thing I did was take action to remove some very powerful sources of internal negativity, which is an interesting act in and of itself because what I have started to realize is that negativity arises within me when there is some kind of an internal conflict. . . .such as when what my deeper self needs is in conflict with what my human self thinks I need to solve a problem. So I was able to identify two sources of this internal conflict and detach from them. This was my part of the blessing. . . .to do what I can to remove or transform the sources of negativity in my life. And the amazing truth about negativity arising from this internal conflict is that the thing itself is not a negative thing in and of itself. . . .so it's not always easy to see what the actual source of negativity is. . . and this is the great truth that is working its transformation through my world.

And so I awaken into this day with an unexpected fresh perspective on another source of great internal conflict that has been generating a huge amount of negativity for more than two years. But today I am able to envision a renewed sense of possibility, something I think I can actually live with. . . .because the negativity that surrounds this life issue is being removed, even if it's layer by layer. . . .electron by electron. . . .lol. That really is what's happening today. . . .these new plans are possible only because the negativity is being removed. . . .the blessing I prayed for yesterday is working. . . .and what a glorious gift this is for me.

It seems so simple how it's not always about removing the obstacles in our lives, but sometimes it's just about removing the negative associations attached to those obstacles, and miraculously, they're no longer obstacles.

Why is the simplest truth the most difficult to see?

Personal Higher Power

Questions are like Pandora's box. . . .once they're opened, the question can't be unasked. . . .and once the mind has begun to question, there is nothing less than the truth that will suffice and answer.

The question asked of me was about how I envision my personal higher power, that spiritual presence that loves and cares only for me. . . .and I was left feeling silent and empty within. I mean, I believe in God, because I have experienced God in very real and personal ways, but to believe in a spiritual presence that loves and cares for me personally? Well, I have just never experienced anything at all even remotely resembling this kind of spirituality.

I have heard people talk about their personal relationship with God. . . .or the personal Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. . . .so I can't help but wonder if these are the answer for other people, but I have just never experienced a feeling of being held or contained in a spiritual sense in a way that makes me feel personally loved and cared for. I feel loved as a part of all things, but never have I felt loved and cared for personally.

The unsettling part of the question is in the truth that I don't believe in this kind of God, and I never have. I look out at the world and see the amazing dance of life and there is no question that divine intelligence is behind this magical creation. I have experienced Grace when I have not deserved it. . . .I have felt protected in ways that I can't explain in human language. . . .but to believe in a spiritual presence that loves and cares for me personally? I just don't believe in this kind of fantasy. . . .and, yes, I do believe this is a delusional fantasy, a wishful thinking on the part of human beings.

How could I possibly believe in a God who loves and cares for me personally, and then juxtapose that belief with all of the "evidence" that belies this kind of love. When people love and care for one another, they don't stand by and just watch while "bad things" happen. . . .at least not the way I define love. So if God is so powerful and omnipresent, then how can this all loving, kind, and compassionate higher power just watch and do nothing to intervene?

God doesn't intervene, because God isn't an interventive God. . . .how could I possibly believe that God who makes choices like that? People talk about God's plan, and how we can't understand it, and I don't judge anyone who believes this way of conceptualizing God, but it makes no sense to me on any level. If God has a plan, then that plan includes cancer and the helpless being tortured and abused by those with a greedful lust for power and control? God's plan involves war and murder and genocide and being hung from a tree because of the color of your skin?

If all of this is part of God's miraculous plan, then I want nothing to do with this kind of God, and that's the deepest most heart felt truth I can speak, and I don't give a flying rat's ass what God thinks about my refusal to get on board with this kind of world, if this is, in fact, the great plan of God. So, yes. . . .I absolutely question God's plan, and I have no problem doing so. . . .because if all of these experiences are part of God's great plan, then the promise of heaven is just one more layer of the great lie.

. . . .and just when I have resigned myself to the life of a spiritual orphan, the unexpected happens, and turns everything upside down. . . .

I am literally in the middle of writing this blog, preparing to type the words, "I am nothing but a spiritual orphan," when out of the blue I receive a text message from my nephew (whom I rarely hear from) that reads:  "Hope ur doing well. Thought I'd drop u a line and let you know that I'm thinking about u =]" and my heart is cracked wide open. Is this text message a mere coincidence? A random act of kindness? Or did something greater than the both of us motivate my nephew to send me a text message with exactly the words needed to challenge my lack of belief in a spiritual presence that loves and cares for me personally?

So, I don't know. . . .if there is a higher power that loves and cares about me personally, then I would really like to become personally acquainted with this love, because walking through life as a spiritual orphan is not always a warm and fuzzy way to live the journey. . . .and if you are out there, then I really do want to know you. The funny thing is that I have always thought that I did have a personal relationship with God, but I am just now, in this moment realizing that I have never felt (or even considered) that God might want to have a personal relationship with me.

Port au Charles

Some dreams stay with me longer than others, and this dream remains vivid and alive with information and insight. . . .

I dreamt that I awoke to find myself flying an airplane, but I'd been asleep in the cockpit for an unknown length of time, so I had no idea where I was, but I knew I needed to get out of the clouds, so I dropped down to find that I was just above the ground and able to land quickly and easily. The place where I found myself was at the very bottom of the world, a place called Port au Charles, in a land of paradise for people with disabilities, a place where they were accepted just as they are, with support for what they need, and jobs aplenty that they were able to do, and everyone walked around full of joy and warmth.

I don't even know what I would do in a place like this, a place where everyone was accepted even with their limitations, and provided with everything they need to succeed and be happy all of the time. Could there actually be such a place?

This dream has allowed me to ask some different questions about the nature of my journey, questions about what my needs really are, and what I would need to feel supported to succeed and feel happy all of the time. Happiness isn't really something I put a lot of stock into, but from this dream I could see more clearly that the people of Port au Charles were happy because they were accepted as they were and supported with what they needed to succeed. . . . and this kind of environment was what brought about their happiness rather than what they did (or even why).

It also makes clear that happiness is not a direct need. To make the statement, "I need to be or feel happy" is a meaningless statement, because there is nothing directly to be done to meet this need. Now I see that happiness is something that arises on its own when my needs are met, so my focus naturally shifts away from the desire to feel or be happy to looking at what my needs actually are, and then how they can best be met. I think it's very possible that a lack of happiness is really nothing more than a chronic environment that is unable (or unwilling) to meet my needs, and this awareness will change everything. . . .

The other surprising truth emerging from this dream is that I have not been acknowledging the needs that are being met by the environment I currently find myself in. . . .but that's because I haven't been focusing directly on what my needs are, but rather on how miserable and unhappy I feel. . . .so I'm embracing this wonderful new place I have discovered in my dreams, this Port au Charles at the bottom most part of the earth, a paradise for the people of special needs. . . .lol