Still, Deep in the Forest

From the Silent Spring

Much of me is still deep in the forest.  A week ago (to the minute, as it happens) I woke to the sunlight filtering in through the window in a tiny cabin with very little inside other than two very comfortable (thank you, thank you, thank you) beds.

I slipped on my sandals and pulled a hoodie over my sleep gear; Jenn still slumbered on but I had to pee- across the gravel path and two huts down I went, to the facilities.

It was raining.  I could tell because there was moisture on the brightly lit air and from the delicate percussive sounds coming from the trees that surrounded and hovered over me.  But not a drop came down on my head; the forest has long been in the habit of using this abundant moisture for its own ends, and no drop need be wasted on the humans here, who will just go get in the hot springs when they want to get wet.

Ahhh, Breitenbush.  The whole time I was a massage therapist in Seattle I would hear others extoll the virtues of Breitenbush hot springs as a vacation and/or retreat spot.  I longed for the days when I might be among the ranks of those who vacationed and/or retreated, and I must have unknowingly vowed that one day I, too, would soak this body in those steamy waters.

When we were originally planning the Oregon branch of our left-coast “whirlwind” tour, we fully expected to spend some time on the coast in between the ecovillages and communities we were going to explore.  But when Jenn said she’d found some hot springs deep in the woods I was intrigued.  When I realized she’d discovered Breitenbush all on her own, a number of things snapped into place inside me.  I can’t really put a finger on it, but I think I began a somewhat automated process of realigning with the Northwest.

There were many unexpected events in the earlier parts of our excursion, one of which resulted in us canceling all of our meticulously planned reservations and flying more or less by the seat of our pants- so it wasn’t until the day before we went that we knew for sure we could get there and that there would be a place for us.  So we did, and there was.

We spent the evening exploring the grounds and choosing which of the springs we’d soak in after dinner.  The height of the trees, the warmth of the sun, the sweetness of the breeze... the roaring of the river, the song of the birds, the absolute absence of any automated sounds WHATSOEVER...  the springy “give” of the forest floor, the huddled majesty of the pines and oaks soaring overhead, the unheard sound of the forest that reverberates just behind the breastbone in a deep baritone “whoosh”... conspired to take me several levels deeper into myself than I’ve been in years, outside of intentional meditation.

We spent time on the bridge overlooking the river and the modest geo-thermal plant that was built by the community and which supplies all of its electricity.  We watched tiny birds dart for bugs and “ominous birds” soar over the tree tops until the sun got to a certain angle, then we found the labyrinth, which I walked as the sun went down.
We soaked in the sacred tubs- three of them get progressively hotter and the third is to be enjoyed in silence.  The dark enveloped us a bit more with each experience; we were in the silent springs when the last light left the sky and we all became dripping silhouettes as we groped our way over the slippery stones toward the path.  We had to use our rented flashlight to find our way back.

The morning that I speak of now dawned raining and misty- stirring the soul in the way that only Northwest mist can do- and it was everything in our power not to miss our flight so we’d have to stay another day.  Next time, three days at least!

We said our reluctant farewells to this new favorite place and headed for the highway.  Fortunately the gatekeeper advised us that the more scenic North Cascades highway would get us there just as quickly as the major thoroughfares, so I had the distinct pleasure of introducing Jenn to this part of the country that I’ve loved for 30 years.  My dad and stepmom and I had driven the Washington portion of this road when I was in my wee-teens, and it was during that time that the Northwest began to seep into my bones.  I fancied I’d be a botanist or a forest ranger, that these magnificent pillars of needle and cone would be the home and cathedral for my expanding soul.

Of course those plans were waylaid, as public school and rebellion and the mis-spending of my youth took precedence over those beautifully innocent aspirations. 
And yet... and now... and how... can it be I’ve come full circle?

What I Just Wrote to ABC re: Cancelling Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution

food. comes. from. the ground.

"I am bereft, outraged, and appalled that TV as desperately needed as this is being pulled.  Oprah is a legacy because her goal was to use the TV medium for good, to educate, and to help people. It seemed like ABC was doing great work in this vein by airing this show. Now, instead of being an agent for critical and important change, you have simply deepened the disconnect between Americans and reality. I am ashamed of ABC. You need to apologize publicly and get that man back on the air." (they only give you 500 characters).

Tell them what you think:http://abc.go.com/site/contact-us

For those who don't know, Jamie Oliver is a cheeky Brit with a penchant for great food (ok, he's a spectacular chef) and a decent amount of outrage over how far "food" today is from its original, nourishing and healing forms.  He has traveled around advocating for real food and real transparency in the agencies that feed America's children (schools and fast food are huge areas of focus) without ever once attacking; rather he helps people see what's wrong - that a second grader can't tell a tomato from a potato and highschool kids- smart ones!- earnestly identify the "corndog plant" (which are really cattails) in a photo as the source of the hotdogs on their lunch menu.

Add to all of this that as obesity and diabetes rise in America, so does the mainstream consumer's dependence on prepackaged, processed, and mircowave-oriented food that does so little for the body and so much for the industrialized food industry.  American children are literally being trained to subsist on empty starches, sugared-up milk drinks, high fructose corn syrup, and "pink slime" (left-over bits from the industrial butchering process routinely mixed with bleach, pulverized, and added to Americans' "beef patties" as a filler).  Only the minutest portion of what we eat actually goes to support the brain's functions of cognition and memory, yet today's kids have more to cope with mentally than any previous generation- and virtually nothing to support them nutritionally.

Jamie contrasts this in his kitchen, to the amazement of parents and children alike, with locally raised, pasture fed and humanely treated meats, real vegetables (from the real ground), and teaches them what ought to be part of all children's learning- what food is, where it comes from, and how vitally important it is that we make this connection.

We are so mortifying-ly disconnected from our food sources as it is, and here comes this unassuming, funny, endearing man who knows his stuff and is all about helping fix the monumental problem in our society that is giving "the disease formerly known as adult-onset (aka diet related) diabetes" to children who haven't even hit puberty yet... and the network responsible for all of this abruptly closes the door on the whole thing.

Just when he had low-income kids in LA building their own garden and learning to cook for the student body after overcoming a shocking amount of resistance in the person of one member of the school board!  Mind you, parents were all for it.  In one episode they swarmed him with samples from their childrens' school breakfasts and lunches because he was not allowed in the cafeteria.  To a piece it was in the beige-ochre color scheme, mostly wrapped in microwave plastic sheaths, and at least 8 steps removed from any identifiable animal, fruit, or vegetable.  Not a speck of fresh produce in the mix.

The man who was fighting to change all this, and finally making headway, has been replaced in favor of RE-RUNs of (as another angry blogger put it) "Dancing with the f#*&@ng Stars".

Please do whatever you can to see what Food Revolution is still available to watch (try abc, hulu, and netflix if you must).  See what this man has done and if you share my outrage, please let them know.

Redemption Goes Both Ways

My childhood was imperfect.  Regular readers will know that one relationship in particular has stood out as by far the most damaging, disruptive, and difficult to reconcile.  Last summer many of you cheered me on as I unplugged the power this person had over me and reclaimed it for myself. 

I rode the vehicle of a writer’s challenge group to delve deep into the wounds that held me back, to challenge the inner demons that took most of their cues from this one troubled relationship and set of unfortunate circumstances.

At one point the transformation accelerated to the point that I wanted professional help to navigate emerging ptsd-style memories, so I hired a therapist whose vehement advice was to sever all ties with that person, forever, and never look back...

In the past twelve months another story has unfurled, which has ripened now to the point that it is only fair to give it voice.

After receiving the recommendation to sever ties, I recognized something inside was very unhappy with the idea.  Not a shred of good work could come from that tactic!  I was on a roll, I was feeling mighty, and I had two objectives: I was going to do myself the favor of saying, face-to-face, exactly what happened to “wee me” as a result of their actions, choices, and neglectfulnesses; and they were going to get the opportunity to rise to the challenge of hearing it full-on, and possibly make the jump to transformation.

It was a colossal risk, and the whole thing could have blown up in my face.  But here I had these inner demons nattering away at me, at the same time that I had this burgeoning force moving me forward-  Having reclaimed all the energy I’d been giving away through the damage itself, the time came to take the risk that was creating all the fear.

So. I did not sever ties.  I made a coffee date.

I arrived with a set of notes because this person is my single greatest ptsd trigger and the notes serve as an anchor to be sure I don’t miss anything I wanted to say, and I can also jot responses so they don’t get whirled away in the intensity of the moment.

I walked to the cafe- tall, strong, confident.  I chose the seat and sat calmly, waiting... within two minutes my stomach was turning flips, my hands were shaking, and my breath was all over the place.  I had to hit on my asthma inhaler.  A little baby panic attack.

And then my “date” arrived.  We exchanged what pleasantries we could, then got down to business.  Whomever said, “Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes”, totally had my back right then.  I was standing on a towering cliff while perched on a stool in a trendy little cafe.

I was about to take an irrevocable leap, and all the tumultuous scenes from the past were spooling to replay themselves indefinitely if I missed my footing.

But I started.  I started, and I kept going, and I was a river of anger and frustration and loss of innocence.  I explained everything that was wrong way back when, what it did to the tiny person I was, who had no tools to cope with it and who then responded by storing it all in hidden pockets of her being that occasionally rupture when current-time too closely resembles “back-when”.  I was bitter, I was caustic, I was on fire.

... and I was heard.

I had expected vehement denials, half-assed explanations, a violent eruption like the ones that resulted from past efforts to stand up for myself, and that were the hallmark of the original trauma.

But no.  On the other side of the table I saw a person holding themselves wide open, unflinching, to receive whatever I had to put forward.  No arguments, no denials, just a willing container for the outpouring of bile, venom, and tears I was churning out.

When I was emptied, I was told that I was right, that the past was indeed regrettable, and that I should not have been made to bear what I did.  Redemption as a verb goes two ways.  A person can redeem themselves, by taking responsibility for the things of which they are guilty (which, last summer I did not believe was possible for this person). 
A person can also redeem another, by confirming that the penance they’ve undertaken has been sufficient in accordance with the wrongs they’ve done.  We began this two-way process that day, perhaps to our mutual surprise.

At the very end, I was asked if there were any, any memories from childhood that were of brighter days.  At the time there were none I could access- they were still buried under the rest that I’d just begun to express.  This brought sadness to us both, but I said I’d keep an eye out as I continued clearing useless baggage.

The scene described above has been repeated a number of times since last summer, and by now I’ve said all I needed to.  Last time we got together it was just to have lunch.
This is not to say things are suddenly rosy and uncomplicated.  But so much of the mess has been cleared away that we can sit together in present time without first confronting the spectre of yesteryear.

Recently I began a course of bodywork that assists in releasing stored trauma.  During the first session I came up against a strong emotion from childhood which caught me off guard.  It was the simple, uncomplicated love of a young child, before anything awful happened to taint it.  It swept into/through/over me with a surge of such tenderness that I wept.

This must be my own small redemption.

A Witness to Transcendence

I have a dear friend who’s been grappling for years with a series of injuries that have seriously hampered her ability to engage in life physically.  I’ve seen her bed-bound for months at a time, on and off crutches, in and out of braces, and in the kind of pain that makes your heart stop.

And lately, I’m watching this friend transcend.

As in, cast-off-the-shackles-and-walk-forward-into-the-light, kind of transcend.  And it is one of the coolest things I’ve ever had the honor to witness.

When we undertake Healing-with-a-capital-H, it can take months or years to find the combination of modalities that will hasten us on the path.  We may have to grapple with practitioners who just don’t “get” us, others who go too far and make things worse, those whose work seems promising but is just-not-quite-the ticket, and some who react to the notion that the emotions impact healing by offering a prescription for pain meds.  Yikes!

Add to the above, complications with insurance, logistics of transportation (my friend hasn’t been able to drive for nearly a year), the disheartening fear of being a burden, and the time and energy it takes for the body to integrate all it’s been through, and you have all the makings for a very long, very frustrating ride...

At the end of which is transcendence.  

Deep Breath In, Deep Breath (all the way) Out.  Finally, after years of being subjected to the scrutiny and handling of dozens of different practitioners, my friend has wended her way through the gauntlet of modalities and found what works for her, in a combination of modalities that work pointedly with the subtle systems of the body/mind, in combination with the breath. 

Bodywork and mysticism are so intrinsic to my basic view of the world that this comes as no surprise.  Traumas that have no safe avenue of expression get stored, period.  Keep them long enough, and they will change the way you use or experience certain parts of your body.  They may come to define your posture, your habitual movements, the way your nervous system interprets sound coming from behind.  They are like subtle impostors- they’ve been exerting their influence so long that they just feel like part of the fabric of normalcy. 

The thing is, the physical body is dense.  And most of us, even if our belief system points to the interconnectedness of all things, still function with a very linear sense when it comes to healing our bodies.  Got a physical injury?  Go to a physical therapist. Or physiatrist, or physician, or any number of skilled professionals trained to diagnose, treat, and cure physical problems. 

And if you fail to heal from such treatment?  You are offered a prescription for anti-convulsants.  I'm not kidding; I’ve seen it done half a dozen times.

Of course much of this just points to the western model of medicine.  Even if the patient recognizes the problem as stored trauma, or emotion that’s become stuck in the tissues (“emotion” means “to move”, and if we’re not safe to move emotions through our bodies they get stuck there and begin campaigns for more and more attention until they manifest as illness or injury- but that’s a different post), most of us can’t get a referral to the local shaman, cranio-sacral therapist, or integrative energy practitioner (or even a western-trained counsellor, for that matter) to deal with what appears to be a physical issue.

What’s compelling is that, as my friend  has navigated the course from physical to subtle in terms of her treatment, she herself has become more subtle. What began as an endeavor to “fix what’s wrong” in order to “get back to normal”, has become a courageous journey into awareness, a willing exploration of Things Buried Deep... a whole-hearted endeavor toward integration.

And now?  Now that she seems to have bumped up against the modalities that agree with her body and are allowing her to accomplish what she’s been so willing to do for so very long? 
I’ve been in awe.

Things have come out of her mouth recently that simply weren’t possible a year or six months ago.  Arcane concepts she previously understood mainly through the intellect, have now become inherent to her experience of the world.
She’s developed a capacity to discern delicate points of interconnectedness within her being.  She has been prone to beautiful little “aha” moments- not the kind that konk you on the head and then vanish, but the kind that arrive on little cat paws and slowly unfurl before your eyes so that you can really take them in and integrate them.

As these insights seep into her awareness of things-as-they-are, I’ve seen her step forth into a new sort of power- a certain self-possessed presence has begun to shine forth that is truly magnificent to behold.  There’s a twinkle in the eye that tells you something new is lit up inside, a stance in the body that’s a little softer somehow, but also stronger.  It’s hard to put your finger on, but it’s there, a subtle knowing that changes everything.

I'm humbled today by the strength of courage that I see in her transformation.  And I mean that velvety, rich, gorgeous kind of humble; where you are just flooded with gratitude for the chance to behold humankind at its most vulnerable, mighty/delicate best.

"I am thinking today of dragonfly's wings,
and the gossamer strength
of delicate things"...  me,  circa 2001


(p.s. yesterday, she drove!)
Tweet

A Rather Awkward Pickle

I’ve felt that under-the-skin shaky kind of feeling all morning, the result of waking early after going to bed way, way late... it feels like my nervous system has been soaking in brine, my weary but restless mind spinning scenarios- "what if"-s, "why not"-s, "why does it have to be this way"-s tumbling over one-another like puppies with their eyes only half open.  Not as cute as it sounds.

This leaves me with only twenty minutes to write.  So how ironic that it was writing that kept me up all night?  Not the act of it, but rather the thought of it.  How a Very Cool opportunity could be staring me in the face, and how I may have to be uncommonly transcendent (even for a breakthrough junkie) in order to attain it.  And whether it’s worth the risk.  I spent the wee hours inventing risks, then transcending them, then deciding the whole thing wasn’t worth the heartache, then getting mad that everything has to be so complicated, finally completing the circuit with a vision of what-happens-if-I-can’t-transcend.  Then starting anew with a round of oh-but-what-if-I-can.  If I don't at least attempt transcendence, will I (n)ever forgive myself?

And because I am not in this picture alone, there arises the issue of others’ willingness to transcend as well-  which leaves me with buckets of quandaries regarding boundaries and respect for others.  

The cardinal question is emerging to be this:

Can we insert ourselves into situations in which our presence may be potentially challenging and awkward for another person or group of people, if we start from the position of presumed goodwill and show up willing to do the work?

I'll have to marinate in that one for a while.

Tweet




 
  

Intention, Yogini Style: NOT Your Pop Shrink's Affirmations

You can’t spend as long as I have in the areas of Bodywork, Eastern Religion, Earth-Based Spirituality, and Natural/“Alternative” Health, and be unfamiliar with the concept of “intention”.  That the power of the mind can be focused in such a way as to actually bend the course of events unfolding is no new-age curiosity just stumbled upon by the makers of The Secret (don’t get me started). 

It’s been around as long as we’ve been aware of our own mentation, of the phenomenon of consciousness.  It’s spelled out in ancients texts from traditions all over the world, and passed down through oral teachings in traditions that don’t use texts.  Intention is the backbone of transformational work, without which results are flimsy and without substance (soundtrack to this rant: Talking Heads’ Making Flippy Floppy)... which is to say, intention is nothing to be taken lightly.

I’ve rubbed elbows and bumped auras with my fair share of Affirmations Enthusiasts over the years, and I’m simultaneously heartened and irked when I listen to them speak  (as intriguing as it sounds, those sensations do not make for a winning combination) because though they are often standing within spitting distance of "the point", they just as frequently miss it!

I’ve heard people say they don’t need to tend to their finances any more because they’re  “Investing in the Universal Bank of Eternal Bliss”.  I’ve heard them blithely declare that they have rid their bodies of disease by doing nothing more than taping healing statements to their bathroom mirrors.  It’s as if they see dragons and monsters clawing at their door, and choose to call them “rainbow-eating unicorns”, even as they’re devoured alive.

What gets me is that there is a grain of truth in each of these approaches.  But (and I take care to never start sentences with “but”)... that grain of truth has not been given what it needs to germinate, sprout, and grow into a real thing... and that is a certain something I like to call subtle attention.

You need to get your subtle attention aligned with the subtle energy of money, the subtle energy of healing, even the subtle energy of the monsters at the door, if you have any hope of influencing them with intention/affirmation.  You can't stand in your customary mindset and expect to influence the most subtle and mysterious processes in the known universe- you have to adjust your own mentation, which means going within.  And, as you develop that skill, you also have to be crystal-clear that what you are asking for is exactly what you want.  I mean crystal-clear as in, there is no room for ambiguity or misinterpretation; as if you were hanging by your knuckles from a cliff edge and precision in speaking would save you:

Rainbow-eating unicorns are hell on your food budget.

The act and art of intention as it is marketed today, (and it is marketed; don’t get me started- again) it’s as if a candy-flavored decal has been manufactured that you can just slap over existing truths and situations in a sugar-glazed denial of anything that needs introspection, attention, or the most jonesed-after of activities for the Breakthrough Junkie: Inner Work.

The Spanda-Karikas are a heady, philosophically dense collection of pithy sanskrit verses that, properly understood, outline the entire relationship between our mental processes and the power that manifests the universe (spanda).  I could spend my entire career unpacking just the 22nd verse of the first section (from Jaideva Singh’s translation):

“In that state is the spanda-principle firmly established to which a person is reduced when he is greatly exasperated or overjoyed, or is in impasse reflecting what to do, or is running for life”

In short, it is precisely during those times when we are thrown mentally off-track by some heightened emotional state (and whether it is interpreted as “good” or “bad”, “happy” or “afraid” matters not a whit) or are at a complete mental impasse, that we are in a position to access and influence the creative pulse out of which the world throbs its way into being.
 
The commentary on this verse describes the manner in which the yogin(i) must grasp hold of the mind at precisely the moment that the heightened state arises, in order to bear influence on the situation.

In western culture it is customary to ignore the immense power in these heightened states.  When in fear or anger, we grasp at nothing (least of all, our minds) and let the situation spin out of control by focusing on more of what is wrong, unwanted, or unnecessary... thereby creating more of it.  Or, and this is where Modern Affirmationists often miss the boat even while standing on the deck, we craft a phrase or picture that is the opposite of the reality that's got us all fired up, and pretend it's true.  The old "fake it 'til you make it" routine does have its virtues; it is a great warm-up exercise for the work we're talking about here - but it does not manifest the whole enchilada.

What is required, and what this verse describes, is a stealth operation carried out by the experient on his or her own perceptions.  It is a skill that requires diligence, practice, and steadfastness on the part of its practitioner.  Having caught hold of the mind in the moment between one thought and the next, the yogin is instructed to immediately turn within. When this is accomplished, the experient is in the company of the manifesting power of the universe and uses laser-like focus to create the desired outcome.  The commentary goes on to say that those who are not yogis (practiced at turning within) will remain only stupefied.

In other words, this ain’t no platitudinous, candy-ass bumper-sticker philosophy; it’s a rigorous discipline that involves wrangling with the realities of the situation-as-it-is, while harnessing the subtle, yet run-away-train nature of the emotions.  And yes, it can bring you wealth.  And turn illness to health.  Monsters into unicorns?  Sure, if unicorns are truly useful to you (and if you can train them to eat whole enchiladas instead of rainbows).  But the trick is, and the point that pop-shrink marketers the world over are missing, is that it is Subtle.  Sub. Tle.  And it

Requires
Your
Participation.

Tweet

The Power of One Word

When I was practicing as a massage therapist I discovered that my clients’ recoveries often accelerated after we had conversations in which I said things like, “You know, you keep referring to the accident in which your neck was injured as, ‘My accident’.  The word’ ‘my’ indicates possession, and possessions are usually things we are attached to, and want to keep. So, I just wonder what message that’s sending to your body.  What if you used something less charged while still telling the truth- like “the accident’?”

In traditional study of the sanskrit language, it is emphasized that each syllable carries a whole plethora of meanings.  Each written letter makes one sound, and one sound only.   Consonants always have an inherent vowel attached, which makes every letter a syllable in its own right. The pronunciation is so precise that to place the tongue in the wrong position during any part of an utterance may render an entirely different meaning.

In sanskrit, each syllable has its own associated diety, color, element, state of mind, place of influence in the human being (sometimes in the physical body, sometimes in the energetic layers that surround and influence the body - what westerners think of as “personal space”).  Add to this list, certain physical processes, states of feeling (called “bhav”), powers (discernment, compassion, anyone?), and a whole wealth of subtleties that could take a lifetime to unravel in their entirety.  What it comes down to is, this point of reference places tremendous emphasis on the fact that the words chosen to describe a circumstance will have an influence on that circumstance.

The power of words to influence and create things... from emotional states and body processes, to governmental policy and weather patterns... has always been taken seriously by the proponents of this particular brand of wisdom.  The sanskrit term that describes it is “matrika shakti”.  Unpack any sanskrit word, and thousands of meanings will tumble out!  So, to gain a simple translation we will call shakti simply “power”.  It’s distinctively the power to manifest (as in, the universe).  Matrika can translate as “little mothers”.

“Power of the little mothers?!”, you say.  Consider this:  the sanskrit alphabet, when taken in its entirety, is considered to be the very body of the great mother from whom the entire universe is manifest (even this is an oversimplification, but it’ll do).  Each syllable is like a holographic part of that larger whole.  So, yes, the power of the spoken word is made from the collective power of all the syllables together.  Little mothers.  (Is it too much to add that the matrikas are also warrior goddesses that support Kali, the goddess of destruction (don’t fret, dear readers - she’s out to destroy the ego-riffic ignorance that’s gotten us into the mess we’re facing in the 21st century))?  And that Kali wears a necklace made up of... well, depends on whose translation you read.  Some say 50 skulls.  But if you’ve trained to read between the lines you’ll know that it’s the 50 letters of the sanskrit alphabet from which she derives her power.

It’s always fascinating to me to look back on my time as a bodyworker and realize that perhaps the most useful thing I ever did for my clients was to make a small observation about the language they used to describe their condition.  Without even meaning to, I became something of a “matrika coach”.

I’d say, “Let’s play with ‘injury’ and ‘healing’.  Which do you want to keep?  Which do you wish to let go of? Look at the difference between these two phrases:
‘The healing of my injury’
‘My healing of the injury’
It might look like they say the same thing, but look at the power of the small words!
In the first example, you possess the injury.  In the second example, it’s the healing that is yours.  Whatever your mind may think, your body recognizes and responds to the difference.”

Sometimes a client would get really gung-ho and start revamping their entire “language wardrobe”, suddenly spinning off phrases like, “Every day I’m blessed in every way”, and “I’m turning it all over to the universe”.   People tend to start with extremes when we learn new skills, so I reign them in and point out that sugar-coating or denying situations don’t change them, and that the powers-that-be actually require our participation if things are going to be different.  You can’t just wrap your circumstances up in a cloak of new-age phraseology and expect to alter the course of the universe.

Instead, I encourage people to hone in on one single word in their habitual repertoire.  I say, “You are looking for a word that carries power and significance.   Listen closely to yourself (or enlist the support of family and friends) for phrases that you repeat often, like refrains to the soundtrack of the day, and look for one single word to change”.  

My favorite example:
If you replace “I hate...” with “I love...”, it makes a lot of affirmation enthusiasts happy, but it doesn’t tell the truth about your experience.

But when you replace “I hate” with “I don’t understand...”, it still describes the truth of the situation, and it also changes the charge.  If you don’t understand a thing, you may or may not choose to seek understanding -that’s up to you. But at least it doesn’t push it away and close the door, and engender bad feelings like hate does.  Ask anyone who hated gay people until they learned they were raising one.  Their hate had to change to “don’t understand”, so that it could change to “trying to understand”, and eventually to understanding. Then “I hate” can morph into “I love”, through understanding.
With this one single change, we open the door to peace between people who come from different backgrounds, traditions, cultures, and belief systems. 

One thing about those little mothers - they will give you anything you want. 
Problem is, they think you actually want everything you say.
And that is another topic, for another day...

Tweet

Reframing During Crisis

Reframing:

By my own definition it’s the skill of challenging one’s habitual or automatic reaction to a situation, person, or mindset with the intention of gaining a new and more useful outlook, then harnessing the energy that would be otherwise lost, to use for transformative purposes.

Most of the time, our minds are on automatic pilot, tossing our customary reactions out into the world like kids throw bread at ducks, with certainty that because it came to us so quickly it must be the right and true and “natural” reaction.

The thing about our “natural” reactions, is that they come into existence with no thought given to the consequences of adding the energy behind them (typically non-useful energy like dread, anxiety, abject terror, spite or judgement, am I right?) into the mix of what’s already going on.

Where human beings are now in the history of things, it is imperative - now - that we start recognizing that the state of our minds impacts the state of our world, individually and on a larger scale.  We can start in our own heads.

Once upon a time I challenged a group of students to spend an entire day examining their customary thoughts, and endeavoring to “reframe” the ones that were not useful or productive.  The most frequent objection, was that sometimes truly horrible things happen and that denying that reality was just adding layers of fluff to an already unbearable scene.  This is not what I am talking about here; denial is a whole other useless mind-trick and though it is sometimes cleverly disguised, it is not the same as reframing.  Ask me sometime about the day I returned from two weeks in a foreign town, where I’d gone to retrieve my partner who herniated a cervical disc while traveling and who was then bedbound for the next several months, to have a friend enquire about the ordeal by asking: “how was your mini vacation?”, and I’ll tell you about burying real things in fluff.  This is So Not what I’m after.  Let me demonstrate:

I have a “stepmom” who is at the top of the “short list” of people most dear to me.  She married my dad and me as a family deal in a Unitarian Church when I was 15, and while  my dad left the marriage about three years later, she and I are still related.  She is the core of my experience of “family”.

Three weeks ago she and her husband travelled to a major city about 6 hours from where they live, for her to have a minimally invasive heart surgery.  The procedure involves running fiberoptic-size threads through a major artery from the top of the leg into the heart, so the incision is only an inch or so.  I was advised the surgery could take from 5-6 hours, so when my phone rang at 5 hours 15 minutes I anticipated news that she was on her way to recovery.

Instead, her husband informed me that there had been a complication resulting in uncontrollable bleeding, and that they were going to have to expose the heart directly in order to get to the bleed- this means separating the sternum.  When they say “open heart surgery”, it doesn’t mean that the heart is open- it means they have to open the chest cavity to get to the heart.

He had other family to alert and his own feelings to deal with, so our call was brief.  I stood on the spot, stunned for a moment by the enormity of what was taking place and the fact that I was thousands of miles away.

First in line was grief.  As if I’d already lost her, the grief came in and sat right on my heart, insisting that I empty myself and give in to the spinning vortex of loss.  Next in line, and impatient, was fear.  Fear and grief were actually struggling in line, trying to trip one another up in order to gain my attention.  As my breath stalled in my chest and tears were wending their way to where they make my nose sting, I remembered that none of this was helping her a bit.

She was lying somewhere in a sterile room thousands of miles away while doctors scrambled to save her life by cutting her dear chest open.  My drama would not serve her one bit!  The only thing I could do, was decide how I was going to spend my energy in reacting to the news.  It was mighty energy, it was powerful!  I could waste it playing pinball inside my own body, bouncing anxiety and fear off my organs like I was going for the high-score, or I could bundle it all up and send it off where it could do some good.

You don’t have to be someone who prays to get this: emotions are energy, and they can travel.  I made a choice to change the direction of the energy I was feeling in the form of panicky emotions. I chose to challenge my assumption that the doctors were “scrambling”.  Scrambling is disorganized, panicky, and unclear- like I was feeling.
I decided to convert my scrambled emotions to clarity, steadiness, and swift action - the kind you feel when you’re totally “in the zone” of doing something you’re really good at- and send it to the doctors in that room with the dearest of stepmoms anyone’s ever known.  I steadied my breath and practiced the sensation of calm certainty, and I sent it to the surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists, and other professionals into whose hands her life had been delivered.  I pictured them thanking eachother for a job well done.

Not every instance of reframing needs to be this dramatic or difficult.  But it bears pointing out that, if we start with the small stuff, we develop our skills so that eventually we have the moxie for when the stakes are high.

...and yes, she made it.  She’s home having a cuddle with her critters and resting up for the next round in her recovery.

Tweet

Words, Writing, Wisdom Not My Own...

I have a dear friend who’s a blogger.  She sent me an email yesterday, and through her words I was brought directly to her side, going through the same things she was going through... though I realized eventually that her descriptors really were vague enough that I have no specific idea what the particulars are to her situation... her phrases were watercolors of human emotion, evocative of experience but devoid of details... and yet so poignant that I had a very in-the-skin snapshot of what her emotional world was like at the moment she’d been writing.

What happened next, I could not have anticipated.  I replied with words of deep knowing, compassion, and kind-hearted understanding.  I conveyed my support of her, my fondness for her, my belief in her stalwart inner strength.  I even dusted off my sanskrit/eastern-religion-major mantle, and pontificated on 5,000 year-old philosophy that describes how the state of one’s mind and the quality of the reality they generate are inextricably linked, that there are words in sanskrit (but in no other language) that describe the method by which the experient (the person going through the stuff) actually manufactures the experience.  Then I sent her a cyber-hug and a wish that I could bring her cocoa.

It made me want to write back and forth with her all day.  I can distill that down even further: It made me want to write. 

Words, words, words... always my favorite things.  Skillfully used, they make it possible to translate the most subtle of experiences from one being to another, so that we can share and teach and learn from one-another’s insights and perceptions.
My mother told me recently that I began writing before I could read.  All my youth I anticipated that I’d become a writer.  Then, and then and then...

Began the pursuit of making a living, I suppose.  And through that pursuit I garnered experience and expertise in so many varied fields that I now find myself flustered if I think about writing as a career - about which bag of tricks would I write?!  

The bits in my repertoire include the connection of body/mind/spirit from several years as a massage therapist and teacher of massage therapists; the power of words to create reality, based on direct observation, an unexpectedly clear understanding of ancient texts that spell it all out, the blessing of an enlightened master and the statement of one Sally Kempton (then Durgananda) that “this information wants to be known”; the connection between the human cerebrospinal fluid system and certain passages in other ancient texts; essential oils as medicine; replacing household toxins with natural healthy solutions; urban farmsteading; vermiculture; growing wheatgrass; self-reliance and permaculture... oh and of course, of course - what readers have responded to most, is when I write about nothing more than my internal processes.
My insecurities, demons, and the whole cast of characters that make up my inner dialogue, make pretty entertaining material as they wrangle their way into one tangled web after another, always intent on Breakthrough at any cost...
And so, with or without a chosen direction or area of focus, writing season is upon me.
We are at a time in human history where people who know things that may be helpful to the situation are beholden to share them.  Like the unexpected flow of words in response to my blogger friend’s email, there are times when we just need to speak what we know in case there are ears to hear it.

The past few weeks have been full of circumstances that were trying, frightening, and confusing for several people close to me.  While we were separated by thousands of miles, I have somehow been able in each situation to call up words that brought solace and also to offer guidance about how to harness the power in the “negative” feelings and turn it around to be of benefit. For no reason that I know, I have been endowed with the capacity to “reframe” just about any situation. My friends and family know they can always count on me for this kind of service; they’ve come to rely on it.  They call it my “wisdom”, as if I inherently possess this cache of tidbits that are real and powerful and useful and heartfelt.

What I know to be true is that I no more possess this wisdom than I possess the air I breathe.  I do let it flow through me, and in trying times I do know how to expand so I may access a deeper flow... so when it is expressed it may appear to come from me; It has lodged in me perhaps as a result of study and practice I’ve undertaken over the years (it certainly was not inherent in my younger days!), and while I feel humbled and honored to have access to it, I still recognize that it is consciousness flowing through me from a still place I’ve somehow learned to access, and it is not mine at all.

Tweet

Time to grow, Again...

I spent a long hard winter "cybernating" - weeks and even months at a time when I could not gather the where-with-all to get out of bed a moment early, let alone brave the blank screen.  Today, though- growth is happening all around.  At 80+ degrees outside and rain every night, everything is bursting forth with such unbounded enthusiasm... to grow, climb, bud and blossom... and who knows?  Bear fruit?
With a dear friend's musings serving as the epiphany to get me back on the pages, it is clear tonight that the morning will find me here, tappy-tap-typing my way into my own good graces once again.  Breathe in, breathe out... all the way out. 

Tweet