simply no accidents

New Year's Resolutions

2012-01-04T11:16:00.000-08:00

I use to spend the week between December 25^th and the first of January consuming holiday leftovers, finishing off half-full bottles of wine, and contemplating that one critically flawed component of my life that I would resolve to tackle in the coming year. Almost invariably there were a few extra pounds on my bones that I determined to eliminate - join a gym, run a half-marathon, learn to rollerblade, eat better, give up alcohol, etcetera, etcetera. Then there would be some particular goal intended to improve the more creative and/or intellectual side of me – travel (somewhere), take classes (of some sort), write, learn to speak another language, etcetera, etcetera. And, of course, I felt compelled to work on those pesky little personality flaws that kept me from becoming a truly good person – mostly boiled down to – be less opinionated, speak less, listen more.

Come January 1^st, I resolved towards self-improvement and jumped into the mission with full gusto, inspired by the renewing opportunity of a new year. Over the years, I managed to meet many of my goals. I joined the gym, ran the half-marathon, purchased those skates, and said good-bye to all white “non-food” products. I walked the cobblestone streets of Florence in the rain, dived with the sea turtles off the coast of Roatan, and enjoyed safari in the Okavango Delta. I earned a post-graduate degree, started a blog (you’re reading it), and published an essay in a literary journal. And, I learned to say “Hello, how are you?” and “I am fine, thank you” in Setswana (“Dumela mma/rra, o kae? Ke teng, ke a leboga.”)

The rest of the story, as one would say, is an all too well known one. That gym membership lasted two years longer than I did. The half-marathon was my first, and my last. After two falls, the rollerblades were safely put away in their specially design backpack in a little used closet. I became over educated and underemployed and yearned for unvisited places. I remained ever committed to chocolate and wine, always had an opinion, and no matter how much I tried to listen I still talked more. Most interestingly, I remained forever self-critical – and instead of celebrating my wonderful experiences, berated myself for not fulfilling my expectations of perfection in achievement and timeliness. So, some years back, I decided to embrace the old adage of “no expectations, no disappointments,” and resolved never again to make New Year’s resolutions.

That is until a few weeks ago. As I sat with a group around a campfire, someone handed me a small piece of paper and a pen and instructed, “Write what you’re leaving behind in 2011 and burn it.” Caught by the element of surprise, seduced by the concept of burning something, and faced with no expectations to share with anyone but the universe, I momentarily forgot my skeptic approach to resolutions, quickly scribbled two words, and tossed the paper into the flames. Proud of my truthful declaration, no matter how quiet, I felt ready to face the new year.

Then a funny thing happened last week (not on the way to the Forum, but hanging around a kitchen island drinking wine and munching on snacks with friends). Someone asked, “Does anyone have a New Year’s resolution?” Without skipping a beat, I yelled “Twenty pounds!” I immediately felt I had betrayed myself. These were not the two words the flames had engulfed only a couple of weeks ago. Why had I resorted back to the old standby – back to the place of self-criticism and lack? Why, at a time when so many people attack themselves and others, did I find it so difficult to speak of my desire to be part of a healing world?

It took me about twenty minutes, while the rest of the group discussed exercise and travel goals, to summon the courage. Then in a quiet moment, I sheepishly, and ironically, declared, “I want to live without fear and doubt.” I’m not sure if anyone got it; but it felt good to say it out loud. Now, I am ready for 2012.

The power of one mind can shine into another, because all of the lamps of God were lit by the same spark. It is everywhere and it is eternal.
Look gently on your brother… Follow in gladness the way to certainty. Be not held back by fear's insane insistence that sureness lies in doubt. This has no meaning. What matters it to you how loudly it is proclaimed? The senseless is not made meaningful by repetition and by clamor. The quiet way is open. Follow it happily.
When you have felt the strength in you, which makes all miracles within your easy reach, you will not doubt. The miracles your sense of weakness hides will leap into awareness as you feel the strength in you.
And if you choose to see a world without an enemy, in which you are not helpless, the means to see it will be given you.

- A Course in Miracles

Blazing Trails

2011-10-18T13:41:00.000-07:00

My husband is a hunter. He loves everything about the sport – the gear, the strategy, the outdoors, the camaraderie, and, yes, the throwback to a simpler, more primitive connection to mother earth and nature’s foodchain. Yet, among all of the aspects of the sport, his favorite part is being in a stand as the sun comes up and the woods come alive. He calls it the “changing of the guard,” when the nocturnal creatures move back into their little nests, burrows and caves and the creatures of the day stir awake.

Even twenty-five years into our relationship, hunting remains somewhat a mystery to me. Shooting loud guns, stalking prey, climbing trees, and sitting on boards precariously perched twenty-feet above the ground is simply not my idea of a “good time.” So, most of the time, I remain home and support my great hunter by providing congratulatory comments and enjoying the free-range, organic meat that he kills for us.

My friend Connie, on the other hand, embraces deer hunting so that she may spend more time with her husband with impressive vigor and, sometimes, seems to enjoy it as much as her partner. She says her favorite place to hunt is the Barber’s Chair Stand – a stand made from an old barber’s chair affixed in a big metal box high up in a hardwood on a South Carolina farm. The stand has many amenities making it uniquely comfortable. First, the chair still functions, allowing the user to recline, if so desired. The stand also sports a roof, in this case, made of old dumpster lids with grooves that allow rain to run off, and screening, again, in this case, old trampoline material attached with zip ties, that surrounds the chair to conceal movement.

One day, while our husbands are off on a hunt, Connie and I sit in her living room, sipping wine and speaking of our dreams. I say “I want to do something different, something which will be important for others.” I say “Sometimes I find it difficult to see through the dark, to blaze my own trail.” Without skipping a beat, Connie says “You need some bright eyes.” “What are bright eyes?” I ask.

And she explains, “That’s how you find your deer stand in the dark – bright eyes – small dots tacked to the trees. They glow a bright orangey-red when you shine a flash light on them – like runway lights.”

I am fascinated. Tell me more.

“When you hunt on the farm, you get up early in the morning – 5 am. You crawl out of bed, throw on your layers of camouflage, down a cup of coffee, make sure your backpack has snacks and water, and then head into the woods on your four-wheeler. Before you get to the trailhead, you stop, sequester your vehicle in a concealed location, and quietly… open your backpack and spray doe pee on the bottom of your boots. Why? – To cover your scent,…. or that of any other humans, dogs, or other smells you may have picked up.”

Again, I am fascinated.

Connie continues. “So, it’s pitch black. You walk the 100 yards where you know the trail begins – using a light strapped to your head – like one worn by miners underground. You find the first set of bright eyes – the ones that mark the trail to the sand ridge. You follow the trail for about 50 yards and cross over the sand ridge to a wood line – where the thick forest begins. From there you know the trail meanders – and can be confusing in the dark. You also know there are certain type of oak trees that will eat you alive if you get caught in them.”

“So, you stand at the sand ridge and look for the second set of bright eyes. It’s dark. You’re a girl – and your scared. There are noises. And things that seem to be moving all around you,… even though there’s nothing there. And even though you have a rifle that is loaded, you’re still a girl… that smells like doe pee…during the rut. All you want is to find your stand, where you are 15 feet off the ground and nothing can reach you.”

“So, there you are. Unfortunately, the bright eyes are 20 yards to the right and you’re afraid to move. So, you stand there clutching your rifle until the sun comes up so you can make your way to the stand that is only 50 feet away from you. And you think, you dumb ass – you should have stayed in bed.”

I think of my conversation with Connie often. I smile when I think of my girly friend dressed in full hunting gear and imagine her newly-pedicured toes warm and cozy in those big clunky boots. I think of blazing trails and of bright eyes that help us find our way through the dark. And, I remind myself that when unsure of the next step, just to wait a little bit, and the light will guide us instead.

Thanksgiving in Botswana

2010-11-23T07:13:00.000-08:00

This time last year, I was traveling with my sister in the amazing country of Botswana. As we prepare our dinner table for a day of thanks, I must admit that part of my heart remains in southern Africa. I am thankful for memories and look forward to my next visit. Meanwhile, as I attempt to stay grounded amongst the commercialization of the American holidays, I refer to this photograph of the simple life of two baboons in the Chobe National Park. It reminds me forever to remain curious, and never to take life too seriously.

Grief

2010-06-29T16:07:00.000-07:00

I find grief to be like an old acquaintance that shows up at the most unexpected times. You know, one of those characters from a movie – the old college roommate that never quite grew up – a disheveled vagabond that travels the world, living off others’ generosities. The guy you rarely hear from that suddenly knocks on your door, unannounced, in the middle of night, disrupting the entire household.

You let him. You always do. Not because you enjoy his company or because there is any obligation to do so. No, you let him in because you don’t know how not to – and because, no matter how much he may irritate you, there is something familiar and comfortable about him.

He settles in. You never know for how long – an hour, a few days, or for an extended visit. He turns your world upside down – messes up your house, turns your day into night and night into day, interferes with your relationships, and, in his all consuming need for attention, completely drains you of your energy. He entices you with his tells of dark adventure; and for a while, you find yourselves strange bedfellows.

Then, as quickly, and as unannounced, as he came, he leaves. One morning, you sleep late and awaken to find him gone. You pull yourself out of the funk, take a shower, straighten up your house, and begin to reach out to those you have ignored. The air feels lighter, the energy more vibrant, and there is space to breathe once again. In your newly obtained freedom, you possess a stronger appreciation for the subtle joys of your day and a new awareness of the abundance that surrounds you. You return to the sync of life…

…until his next visit.

Boredom

2010-03-01T12:41:00.000-08:00

I am bored. Not because I have nothing to do, but because I am not excited about what I am doing, or about doing something else, or about something someone else is doing.

I reference my favorite source – the dictionary on my computer. Bored – “feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one's current activity.” Hmmm. Weary? Again, I reference my favorite source. Weary – “feeling or showing tiredness, especially as a result of excessive exertion or lack of sleep.” Hmmm. Could it be that the term BORED is an oxymoron – a contradiction within itself? So, while I arose this morning after a good nine hours of sleep, and spent my day sitting at my desk typing (certainly, not what I would call an overly exerting activity), I am indeed tired.

Meanwhile, down the road, my father completes six weeks of radiation and poisonous chemicals pummeling his body. The doctors are pleased with their assault on the spot of my father’s brain. The growth is smaller and the inflammation reduced. Yet, today my father finds it difficult to remain awake for longer than a few minutes, much less the exertion to walk from his lazy chair to the bathroom. For almost two months, my father remains fully occupied with his healing process. And, while certainly not bored, he is indeed tired.

My father is given a month reprieve from treatment. I pray that his energy will return soon, as the doctors predict, so that he may enjoy a few days on the beach. And I take a few minutes to find the humor in my own contradictions and practice gratitude for a little boredom.

The Personal Spirit

2010-02-12T14:33:00.001-08:00

I had coffee with an old friend yesterday.

In doing so, I was reminded of the remarkable connection that we as humans have with one another. It is this bond that allows two people to continue a conversation from many years ago as easily as one from this morning, to skip over the niceties of small talk and speak right to the spirit, and to support each other's dreams no matter how extraordinary. I also was reminded the importance of personal contact.

Sure, we communicate via e-mails, phone calls, and video chats, share our daily activities on Facebook, and keep up on our career transitions via LinkedIn. We use the modern technology to remain “in touch” across many geographic and social distances. We conduct business at any hour, instantly share our most recent vacation photos with hundreds of our closest “friends,” and divulge some of our most intimate thoughts with people we have never met.

Our contemporary society provides so many opportunities to become connected in ways that never existed. So, why, when we are so connected, do we concurrently feel so removed?

The answer is that there simply is no replacement for direct human contact. No matter how much we may IM throughout the day, or how many text messages we exchange, it is when we sit in each other’s physical presence that we truly connect. Call it the soul, life-force, inner self, chi – whatever is that energy that creates and surrounds us – it is most prevalent in person.

Over the past year, I take to spending more time at my computer – to work on my photography, research, write, e-mail, video chat, and stay in touch with my loved ones that are spread out across the globe. I am grateful for these conveniences. I also am grateful for the opportunity to sit across the table from an old friend and reconnect over a cup of coffee.

The Litigator

2010-01-26T11:13:00.000-08:00

My father has a brain tumor. More specifically, he has a grade IV astrocytom called a glioblastoma multiforme, a star-shaped malignancy that, according to the doctors, is eating away at his brain cells. The tumor is located in the cerebrum region of the brain that controls communication. Due to the necrosis that has occurred, again according to the doctors, he sometimes finds challenges choosing the correct words to convey his thoughts.

My father is a litigator, a civil trial specialist, only one of a select group in the country of such distinction. His entire adult life, he has made a living with his communication skills. The curious thing is that for the first time in his life, my father is communicating, truly communicating, with his loved ones.

I inherited the gift of words from my father. I love the way words roll off the tongue, the irony of oxymoron, and the play of double entendres. Like my father, I chose a profession that utilizes this skill. I, like the litigator, use the verbal language to argue, to advocate, and to influence. Yet, in the personal arena, where my father has struggled, I have excelled. One always in touch with my feelings, as well as others, I have never failed to articulate them. Yet, as I process this journey with my father, I find words inadequate to express the experience.

My father says he manifested this tumor himself – to relieve his spirit from a lifetime of pressures, to allow a healing from what he terms “the illusion of conflict,” and to experience the true joys of this world. As I watch my father, in this moment of physical fragility, embrace his human experience with such honesty and strength, I realize miracles indeed come in strange packages.

To the Nourishment of our Bodies

2009-08-12T11:18:00.000-07:00

I haven’t eaten in over nine days. Eat – A verb meaning to “put (food) into the mouth and chew and swallow it” (New Oxford American Dictionary). I am on a fast, a voluntary abstention from all food. Instead, I drink a concoction of lemon juice, maple syrup, cayenne and water that I diligently assemble six to eight times a day.

Eat – A verb that also means “consume, devour, ingest, partake of; gobble up/down, bolt down, wolf down; swallow, chew, munch, chomp; informal guzzle, nosh, put away, chow down on, tuck into, demolish, dispose of, polish off, pig out on, scarf down”…. as well as to “corrode, wear away/down/through, burn through, consume, dissolve, disintegrate, crumble, decay; damage, destroy, erode” – as in “acidic water can eat away at pipes (Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus).

According to the creator of the fast, while I am not eating, I am receiving nourishment. Nourishment – a noun meaning “the substances necessary for growth, health, and good condition” from the Latin word nutrire meaning ‘feed, cherish’ (Again, New Oxford). And, who am I to argue? In many ways, I’ve never felt better. I feel lighter, more energetic, and, yes, healthier each day as I cleanse all the toxins and crap (literally) out of my body.

But, I miss food. I’m not hungry; I just miss food. Food is such a huge part of our American society. We “do” breakfast and lunch meetings, take our coffee/snack breaks from our computers, commune with our loved ones as we cook and devour our evening meal. True to the meaning, we gobble up more than our share, more than is necessary, and we wear away at the earth and decay our bodies with overconsumption, processed chemicals and waste.

It’s summer, and my heirloom tomatoes are ripening and filling up the bowl on my counter with colors of orange, yellow, purple, and red. The Saturday morning’s farmers market is filled with the intoxicating sights and smells of freshly picked berries, figs, peaches, okra and basil. These other sensory aspects of these prohibited foods are my solace from shear boredom.

During this fast, I read Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, a heart-wrenching novel about the deconstruction and reconstruction of a missionary’s family in a war torned and poverty strickened Congo over a course of three decades. I am acutely aware of the luxuries of my life – that I have the indulgence of choosing to refrain from eating, while others refrain without choice. I also understand how little it takes to nourish the body, and how difficult that nourishment is to find for others.

Today, I am beginning my journey back to the world of the eating. I pray that I take this new awareness with me and seek to nourish my body and soul with a new appreciation for the meaning of food. I begin by drinking the freshly made juice of an apple. The most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

Earning Our Keep

2009-05-18T05:47:00.000-07:00

I recently entered into a debate with a friend of mine regarding the importance of “earning our keep.” As I reevaluate the way I live my life, I question this notion that we must prove ourselves to be worthy of our blessings.

I looked up the word earn in the New Oxford American Dictionary on my computer. The origin of the word is the Old English word earnian, from a base shared by Old English esne, which translates as laborer. The definition refers to “obtaining in return for labor or services, incurring deservedly in return for one's behavior or achievements, and being worth the time, money, or effort spent on one.” One of the examples cited, i.e. use it in a sentence, and, I kid you not, is “through the years she has earned affection and esteem.” Imagine, our society has trained us that we must labor to deserve the affection and respect of others!

I suggest that instead of “earning” our lives, more importantly, we, as human beings, seek to “contribute” to our lives. The same source as above indicates that the word contribute comes from the Latin contribut, translated as brought together, added, and is defined as “giving in order to help achieve or provide something.” It further defines a contribution as “the part played by a person … in bringing about a result or helping something to advance.”

So, next time someone asks - “What do you do for a living?” - consider your response. Maybe instead of explaining how you earn a living, or in other words, what you do that makes you deserving (of whatever it is that you desire), share how you contribute, the role you play in advancing whatever small, or large, part of this world you choose, bringing about results – often the many blessings of this life.

What We Do

2009-04-15T07:02:00.000-07:00

I find that when I run into folks these days, the conversation becomes the same. First there’s the obligatory “How are you?” To which, I usually respond “Very well, thank you” and then they say something about “being too busy, no time, just trying to keep up, worry about the economy, blah blah blah.” Then follows the inevitable “What are you doing?” – typically the second question of the conversation. “What am I doing? I thought it was obvious – I’m talking to you.” Of course, I understand that they mean what am I doing in the big scheme of things. How am I contributing to society? How am I earning my keep? In what way do I define myself as having value? A title – a clear understanding of who I am!

Deciding to take a sabbatical after 20 years as a professional woman, I search for these answers myself. I haven’t really changed. I’m still the same person, with the same experience, the same skills. I still walk into a room full of men in black suits, look every one directly in the eye as I shake their hand and talk business lingo. The only difference these days is that I’m not wearing the black suit, I don’t have a title, and I’m happy.

I have a great little book on my shelf - Life's Journeys According to Mister Rogers. Page 44 says "It's really easy to fall into the trap of believing that what we do is more important than what we are. Of course, it's the opposite that's true: What we are ultimately determines what we do!"

So, what does a professional woman do on sabbatical? She decompresses, she reenergizes, she has fun, and most importantly, she becomes herself.

Climbing Mountains

2009-03-03T09:06:00.000-08:00

I'm reading Three Cups of Tea by Mortenson and Relin, an amazing story about Greg Mortenson's journey from a failed attempt to summit K2 to building schools for children in poverty stricken villages of Pakistan and Afghanistan. For approximately $20,000, and, yes, a great deal of work and diligence, Mr. Mortenson builds a school for an entire village. That's half the cost of what many Americans pay for one of their many household cars. Mortenson's schools are providing education to all children, including young girls, empowering people, and promoting peace and understanding, through education.

I recall watching a broadcast on PBS called "Small Fortunes," a program about the impact that microcredit is having in empowering individuals, especially women, and especially in developing countries. The story that stands out in my mind was of a woman from India who borrowed a little less than $100, to purchase trinkets to trade with children for hair that they would gather from the village, so that she could make wigs. The story goes on to say that her new thriving business has brought not only financial stability to her household, but also a new respect from her husband and her community.

I know that there are many critics, and that not all such stories have happy endings, or are perfect in their execution. Yet, the truth is that many of these programs are making significant positive impacts on individuals and communities throughout the poorest of areas across the globe. The simple construction of a well, providing clean water to a village in a non-developed country, can reduce the infant mortality rate by half.

I wonder, how do we make that level of impact in a developed society, or can we? While poverty, poor education, and oppression certainly exist in our society, is there a diminishing rate of return for making meaningful social impact in societies that are meeting the majority of its inhabitants’ basic needs of food, water, and safety? Or, is there an opportunity for creating new models for truly making a difference?

Appreciate Everything

2009-02-24T23:00:00.000-08:00

A set of intention cards sits next to my computer, spread out in a pewter dish encircled in carved rabbits, given to me by one of the many incredible women with which I find myself surrounded. I've begun a habit of pulling a card each day, sometimes multiple cards, sometimes multiple times a day, to help me in my practice of appreciating this life and being receptive to the amazing experiences that it has to offer. Interestingly, although there are about a hundred cards in the pile, and regardless of how much I shuffle them, I tend to regularly draw the same handful of messages. My favorite, and often the most difficult to actually practice, says "Appreciate Everything and Everyone.'' Hmmm. Everything? On the reverse side, the card encourages me to appreciate every experience and everyone that has played a role in my life, as having been sent to me for my benefit. Hmmm. Again, everything?

I think about a recent experience. I think about the large metal object that flew into the windshield on the last day of this past year, slamming into me like a freight train dead center in the chest, bouncing onto the floorboard, and leaving behind a fractured sternum and two broken ribs. I think about the inexplainable desire to fidget with my camera that motivated me to look down right before the event occurred, causing the glass to spill in my hair and not my eyes. I think about the chill that went through me only a few minutes prior, that caused me to wrap the scarf around my neck and zip up my fleece jacket, both providing protective cushion for my sensitive skin. And, most strangely, I think about the past year and my prayers for help in 'opening my heart center' and for 'permission to rest,' and how the universe, in one very deliberate and dramatic moment, provided both.

And, as I learn to appreciate everything about this experience, and, set my intentions to be receptive to more subtle and gentle forms of communication in the future, I think about that intention card that concludes with - "In this universe, which was created by a divine, organizing intelligence, there are simply no accidents."