Having spent time in Bangkok as a little girl I was so enthralled with the magical history and culture of Thailand. I relished in the presence of the adorned Thai dancers and their jeweled head pieces and countless bracelets. I longed to be able to have such an outfit and feel like a princess. I would lay awake in bed during our
first nights in the country and listen to the Thai music and long to see their spectacle and grace. I knew the grown ups could go and watch and have dinner. This was the era of being seen in the presence of your parents and not heard. Attracting no attention to oneself. Behave like the perfect officer's child. I wanted to be a part of this magic of adulthood and drama. To understand the history and drama of such a culture that still had folkheros and superstitions.
As time went by, I busied myself in being an American kid in Bangkok. Learning the language, commanding mastery of the nuances to the local kids. Learning how to enjoy local food and culture. Never offending like most Americans did. As kids, my sister and brother and I navigated the city of Bangkok with five American dollars each for allowance. Attending the International School of Bangkok alongside diplomats children and other military brats. Yes brats, since we were typically considered dependants upon on active duty parent. Brat was a term we learned to embrace. We found pride in it and reveled in seeking out other "brats". Not the term in a negative sense, but a sense of community that we found in a society of people we did not necessarily master their national language. While out and about, we would see other Americans but it was always highly unlikely that we would know any of them from school. We didn't live on a military base, and our parents didn't set up "play dates" in those times. I was always amazed to find out that other kids who looked like Americans might not actually Americans but perhaps, Dutch or South Africans, Austrailians, or even Brits! Amazing to me!
I often had to wonder about other little girls. I had little contact with girls since most of our neighborhood consisted of Thai nationals and those were boys my brother's age who wanted noting to do with me.
On the rare ocassion our parents would take us on outings, we might be lucky enough to make friends with other kids. On several occassions our parents would take us to their favorite jeweler. There we would sit and stare at the endless trays of unset stones and rows of hand crafted jewelry created by local jewelers. Rubies, saphires, garnets, jade and diamonds would sparkle in front of me. I had never dreamed of such opulence until those memorable visits. I would then dream of what it might be like to be able to have my pick of anything in the jewelry store. There was this one stunning piece that I would salivate over at each visit. This was the coveted "Princess Ring". A ring crafted to mirror the crown that each Thai princess wore and the very head peice that Thai dancers wore in performances. Each ring had an array of precious stones that often seemed like a rainbow of opulence. Cast in pure gold it was always calling to me. I often asked how old a girl had to be to wear just such a piece. My sister had gotten one and I adored it. It seemed so fragile and precious to me. After we left Thailand, my sister had given me her princess ring(or so I beleive) because it was made for a tiny hand and she had outgrown it. I loved that ring so much! I couldn't beleive it wasn't magic. At eleven years old, I thought someday it would help me find my prince. It somehow held the magic of discernment to know things that were fateful and destined. Sadly my own hand grew too big to wear it. I had never gotten the chance to test it's magic powers in discernment and divinity. I still own the tiny princess ring. Having not found my prince, I still wonder how I will ever know he is out there?
Then one day my ex-mother in law had sent me her own mother's ruby princess ring for Christmas. I remember opening the ring box and being shocked. Why would she have sent me such an opulent gift? The array of rubies reached the diameter of a quarter. It was pretty obvious that you had to have a rather large hand with long fingers to wear this ring. Not just anyone could fashionably pull off such a sizable ring. I was dumb struck. Was this the sign that my mother inlaw was acknowledging my heart ache over our divorce and gifting me the one thing my heart desired as a little girl? Or was she just rationally cleaning her recently deceased mother's jewelry box and not having a daughter to bequeath anything to, passed it on to me? Regardless of the motives, I was somehow brought back to that magic of sitting in the Thai jewelry store dazzled by the brilliant jewels and in awe of their beauty. What a gift! My own children weren't interested of much. Nor were they entertaining my story of childhood fasination and wonder. Here it was, the mother-lode of princess rings. One that wasn't too small, nor too big. Here was the graduation of all princess rings. Sparkly and full of rubies that I dreamt of as a young girl! Now mine! I know it has it's own magical powers, maybe not the same powers attributed to the original hand-me-down princess ring my own sister gave me. I did not inherit powers of discernment or divinity. I did not find my prince when wearing it. Only one power have I gained since it has joined my wardrobe. Not a power of strength, for I earned that power without an adornment. Not a power of vast or worldy knowledge, I had to earn mine accompanied by scrapes and brusies through forty-eight years of life. No, it was a quiet power, undetected by the world around me. It was the power of knowing that everything is connected and meaningful. We are not simply bouncing around in this world hoping to chance at dreams fulfilled. We are intentional and designed to be that way. Purposeful in realizing our own divine nature and gifts. Here is the power to own my own heart and to be the princess I longed to be, crowned by my own design. I am having my dreams come to realization simply because I designed them to be that way. Not by fault, default or inheritance of an earthly position, but only because of the power within my own heart. So for what it is worth, we can become the dream of being a princess or prince, queen or king, all with the gift of heart and faith in ourselves.
There it is again! That dreaded pain, splintering and screaming into my mind. Just when I think I have all the pieces swept up and picked up, there it is again. One last piece that got away, one that missed my control freak mindfulness. Then it happens, I step into it. One big quick breath and there I am again thrown into a panic of shame and anger. The memory of the initial pain floods my mind, my body winces and I cringe. There it stays for moments of relishing for me alone. Is it enough that the folly was mine, and was clear for all to see? Was it enough for me to go into that cave of self abasing depth. Similar to the feeling of recognizing my mistakes as a parent, as a friend and especially the mistakes I made to myself. To those on the outside, it may seem as if I have forgotten the mistakes I have made to myself. In truth, I can not forget those mistakes, nor is it an easy task to forgive those mistakes. It is so easy to forgive someone elses' mistakes rather than my own. I can easily see another person's humanity before I can recognize it in myself. I can readily see the humanity in their face, their body and their countenance. There isn't a mirror to recognize my own humanity that is available twenty-four hours a day in the darkness of the night or light of day. Even if I had that mirror to pause and look into when I find the remaining shard, how could I possibly hold onto it long enough? 
How do you safely pick up those painful shards? Can I do this once again? This time can I do it without drawing blood or feeling the pain as sharply as I did the first time? Somewhere I read it is best to pick up shards and slivers with a piece of bread. Bread that is so soft and porous. Bread, not toast, not stale, not old but soft bread, malleable and fragile, in a state that tears so easily. Then and only then, can the pieces be picked up easily and without pain. Like bread, my humanity must be in the right condition, the right state to pick up the shards. I must see my fragility, my malleability, my soft under belly to withstand removing the shard of shame, self loathing and anger over my mistakes and faults. Then as if in a miracle, the slivery shard is removed, painlessly and with forgiveness.
There it is that reflection, that mirror of my humanity wedged inside of my fragility. I can see a partial image of my face. The sad eye that is sensitive to the light of openness. Openness to the shame being revealed. The faults, follies and mistakes looking back at me in the reeling shame. Why must I be so hard? Why must I take on the task master role long after the day has passed? Isn't it easier to just feel the pang of sadness and remorse and to then move on? Reliving those moments somehow remind me that I am alive, that I am a spiritual being having a human experience. Everyday seems like operating on auto pilot in human-ness. Auto pilot is not living and is definitely not learning. Once in a while we have this default setting on our souls. It is that auto pilot shut off default switch that causes us to stop, feel the pain and take back the moment in thought and reflection. Oh yes, I am actually alive, feel pain and know the markings of my own humanity. My limitations as a human creature so deep that it has to be felt intensely and with emotion. It is that emotion that marks our human journey. Being human isn't easy for a spirit. Being spiritual isn't easy as a human either. Knowing we must co-exist is paramount to our progress and learning. 
Where have I gone? I am still in here trying to co-exist and balance the contrast of such a mission. Balance the humanity and spirituality of this life. Balancing my spinning plates and juggling my roles of mother, writer, friend, neighbor, teacher and leader against the fragile role of learner, student, child, explorer and watcher. There is a way to be efficient and human and spiritual in this day and age. The one answer to my own struggle to balance the power and push and soft under-belly of my soul's journey. Love. Just as the love that we give away to others, I must give it to myself. When I least expect it and without the asking. Freely, unconditional and divine. Loving the spirit being and loving the human being. Then in a smile I am brought to the idea of peanut butter and jelly co-existing in between two slices of bread. Like the ying and yang of co-existence. I feel like a child again, giddy and creating from within my place of power, my true self, my loving self. Learning to love myself again. Seeing the beauty in imperfection and embracing it for my own nurturing. There is the comfort, found in the simplicity of balance. Love and peanut butter and jelly, messy and yummy. So what's a girl to do? Pick up the pieces and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
