Past and Prescence: Lamenting the story.

I used to feel so melancholy during the holidays as a kid. I always felt it was the most reverent time of the year.  Being quiet and reflective of the beliefs that I had grown into.  Being able to wonder and hope but not being able to truly believe.  That was the problem, I just couldn't believe but hoped and wondered if it was all really true.  Could my dreams come true and be fulfilled?  Was there such a thing as abundance and happiness? Even as a young girl I thought only the privileged had those things. Everything they asked for, everything they dreamed of.  Middle class kids just didn't get that validation or bounty. We were to be like everyone else and have those things that were expected of us, being like the others in our class. How could I make my dreams and wishes come true? I knew the limitations of of my family, and of the world.  I never went without, nor did I lack for something to open on Christmas morning.  I had always wanted the riches, magic and abundance that I read of in stories, fairy tales and movies.  I longed for abundant wealth and riches.  I longed for the jewels and crowns of a princess, the lavish furniture fitting a princess or Queen.  I wanted to never want ever again. I wanted to have everything that came into my mind that I imagined. I would have preferred it to be manifested in a subconscious, unconscious way.  The easy way.
In the elementary school years, I thought I was different than the other kids, thinking too much and feeling too much.  Wanting to belong and have friends and people to trust. Wanting a fairytale life that made for happy "Mayberry RFD" moments.  Being intuitive in those years without knowing that I was, was awkward at best. Usually embarrassed and feeling silly.  I was "slow" to learn to trust and easily beguiled. Often gullible to my friends and family's beliefs and opinions.  Even my siblings would taunt me for my gullibility.  Silly how we remember those little things.  I lacked my own belief in my intuition and lacked the trust in myself. I put that belief and trust in people that weren't always the safest or those who didn't have my best interest at heart.
In the middle school and high school years, I found myself wanting the abundance again. I was so reflective of the things I didn't have and painfully reminded of being deeply different. The few things I did know of was how to charm, use my height to my advantage, and to take the banter and wit to the highest level of adolescent whim.  Still I didn't believe in my own intuition and trust my own knowing.  I had trusted the validation of peers and loves who again didn't know me deeply or didn't have my best interest and evolution at heart.
As a young adult, I followed what others told me to do. I made choices that someday would deeply regret and be forever unforgiving to myself.  Still dutiful and trying to uphold an image of what I was supposed to be. I didn't know what that image was until I realized it wasn't really me and wasn't who I felt like on the inside.  I realized that epiphany one moment when I saw a picture of myself and someone made the comment that I look sad and frumpy, overly matronly and Mormon-like! I was all that and those things on the outside. Sad, frumpy, trying very hard to be the super-mom and deeply believing in the Mormon dogma trying so hard to be accepted, loved and respected. Shaking my head now, reliving that shock as I saw myself defined again by another's perception and my own.
Fast forward to this December and realizing that the past five years has been truly painful. Not filled with the abundance of my childhood dreams, but richly filled with the abundance of something far more valuable that jewels, glamour or personal financial success. Filled with those deep dark moments of self realization, actualization and self recognition.   Now it doesn't feel so awkward. Now it is a part of my every thought. Now the knowing is newly embraced and considered. Now I am not afraid to turn it over and examine it in a way that others might not. Now I get the story, the mystery and the intuition that I hadn't before. It was there before but unseen. I was afraid and unaware.  I lacked the ability to see it and feel it, I gave away my power to others. Now I see that rich beauty of this intuition for the gift and abundance that it is, really flowing freely. It is daunting to allow it to wash over me at times. It can feel like a tsunami or like a trickle of a brook. Either way, now I know it is real. That abundance and confidence of knowing has made me realize that the riches of this earth are just a part of the story, part of the fairytale of humanity. The fairytale I can write for myself. I had the power all along, I had the skills to manifest them.  I had given the skills and power away, wanting to fit in and be loved.  I now know I could never fit in. I now know that I can never find my desires fulfilled by others. It is mine to to fulfill, it is mine to do.  It is my work. My soul's mission. To stand in front of the mirror everyday and gaze upon the "me". The one that is different, the soul with skills, gifted divinely to my journey. 

It is my power to wield and own. Like a sword of great craftsmanship, that can have only one owner, one handler, one marksman. Owning the power to carve out and manifest all that my different little heart desires.   It is the legacy I had agreed to come here for. It is the invisible gift I leave for my children and friends. It is that one piece of abundance and spirituality I can skip wrapping and trimming. It will not fit into a box or bag, for it has no limits. There isn't a ribbon appropriate to adorn this. It will never be like the other gifts. It will always be different, somewhat awkward, raw, vulnerable and loving.

The past is a powerful mirror, the photograph unchanging in its shape while the present is my own inner mirror breathing, thinking, feeling and mindful. It is good to look back despite what Lot and his wife taught us. Reflection is only visible in stillness.  I am thankful for the stillness of the season of my reflection.

The Parable of Socks

There was a funk this weekend about me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. You know it's the kind of funk where you don't want to go out and you don't really care, but cleaning and sorting sounds cleansing and feels fabulous. Well maybe not for everyone, but for me it was.
That was it, I had opened my sock drawer and was overwhelmed at its disorder and chaos. Like someone had lit a bomb in the drawer while the drawer was closed.  I am usually known for at least a good degree of order and not necessarily sterile clean but "clean" in my house and life.  Here was just one place I had slacked in my order queen duties.
At first I started sorting and matching pairs of socks, thinking, I didn't realize I had so many pairs. I recognized the variety of socks I had and their origins made me smile and laugh. Some were holiday socks that were gifts.  St. Patrick's day socks, Valentine's day socks and Christmas socks occupied my thoughts for a moment. Cleaning my sock drawer near the holidays always seemed such a good idea.  Also cleaning my clothes that go unused is also a good practice to further my belief in the Feng Shui of closets and abundance...make room for more and better!

This past year had flown by and here it is the first few days of  December, just a few more weeks of one of the most emotionally growth filled years of my existence.  I am daunted. Sitting back on my feet on the floor in front of my sock drawer, I feel this deep sadness, a longing to let it rip and just cry.  An aching for tears and release. Staring down at my sock drawer in partial clarity and misty eyed confusion.
There it was laid out like a parable, an analogy for my comprehension to behold. Socks.  Shaking my head and smiling at the simplicity of the Universe. Different colors, textures and sizes of socks.

I wanted order and sense. I sat back and surveyed the contents in disarray.  There were the pair of fuzzies that I wore with my hiking books, out on an adventure and connecting with the earth. Their comfort and purpose there to provide the necessary support for utilizing my energy and go forward in the world.  There were the favorite pairs of gym socks (multiples actually) that still maintained their integrity and shape despite the sweat and wear and tear from a workout.  Their elasticity and "snap-back" ingenuity made me smile. Every time I would get highly motivated there were always those days when getting up and going to the gym seemed impossible due to heart ache or body aches.  Yet elasticity held it post. I smiled and paired the gym socks ready for the next day's workout.
There were the pairs that had lost their elasticity, faded in multiple washings and even some with holes and were threadbare in spots. now here was when it hit me. These sock pairs were the symbol of relationships long since past their time. Faded, threadbare, lacking elasticity to life's pull.  These were the relationships unable to survive the year of growth and wear and tear. Yes these were the pairings that I needed to let go of and honor them for what they had done.  Their gift to me of comfort, support and warmth and fashion.  Looking back there were relationships and friendships that didn't hold up to the test of trials and time. Some of these ended in a pile missing their mate. Some tossed in a pile with their mate only recognizable by their remaining qualities of the story they held in my life.

Then it came like a torrential storm, unstoppable and in waves.  Some waves were great, while others were small. I cried deeply and held my old socks in my hands. There sitting on the floor in front of my open drawer, sobbing and examining my heart and its contents and pairings and trials.  It felt so sad, so ridiculous to be crying over old socks. I mean really, get a grip Ann! Then just as the rain of tears started, the ebb came to a slow sigh! I knew what I knew in that moment, it was timing and course.

Letting go and moving on.  There wasn't a need or purpose in keeping a lone sock, a sock with holes or one that was so faded it wouldn't even make a reasonable sock puppet or the ones that had lost their elasticity and shape, unable to hold up to the me in my new emerging self.  It was suddenly okay, better than okay, it was perfect.  It had balance and rhythm and rhyme to me. I understood the parable of socks.



Thanks Universe...I think!

In my daily behavior today...much different from many other day this year, I am seeing folks post their thanks and gratitude for the positive things and people in their lives.  I too followed suit in posting one to the people in my personal life that held great space for me in this past year of growth.  Now I want to make sure nothing goes unmentioned, no not just the good things, positive people and shinning moments but, the dark hours and painful scary moments that lurked in this past year.  The things I wanted to forget because of the heartache, pain, shame or anxiety they have gifted me with this past year.  Yes, those monsters in my closet.  The ones I won't share with the people that I keep at arms distance or those who might use them against me just to see me squirm. Some might say this has been a difficult year or one that drew upon my greatest strengths and talents.  These are the very things that have catapulted me into the space of self discovery and awareness that has honed me into the woman I am at this very moment.  All of this honor and gratitude goes to the glory of universe and the agreements in the path I have embarked upon!

Thank you for the February heart ache that made my eyes open to the divine humanity I gave to someone I loved.
Thank you for the reminder of my humanity in being a parent to my four wonderful children, they have kept me in balance and reminded me and encouraged me to believe in myself when I felt unworthy of love.

 

Thank you for the gift and knowledge of the divine agreements we make with our creator to fulfill the mission of our design here on earth. I have felt my mantle and mission were too big to bear. I was frightened by the magnitude and responsibilities that came with it.  They were sharp and prickly to handle without gloves.Thank you for the understanding of the grand design of numerology and especially my gift. As exciting as it was to learn about, it was more frightening to trust myself and my skills.
Thank you for he trials of choosing health and seating through my heart aches in the gym and in my daily life.  I forgot how terrifying owning my own power was.

Thank you for the lesson in humanity of falling on my face in October to get a massive concussion and broken nose.  This has shown me the power of shame, the torment of guilt and especially the strength in picking myself back up and brushing myself off.
Thank you for the lesson of lost trust and gained trust in the things seen and unseen. Those have hurt the most. I have felt lost and found all within a singular experience of looking into the soul of mankind.
Thank you for the loss of friends so that I can make room for the friends of higher vibration and enlightenment.  Those moments of loss made me ache and cry yet held me open for the right kind of guides to get me where I am today.

Thank you for the fear that the economy failures and political short comings of my nation, as dark and dreary they appeared, I have felt an underlying sense of security in the unseen and faith of a soul.
Thank you for the ability to define and be aware of the darkness of humankind, while forgiving their  fragility despite how much it hurt me.
Thank you for allowing me to see and feel my dark side.

Just a bitch?

Men never get called a bitch. Imagine what that would be like! Just think how they might feel if we called them a bitch? Go ahead and do it in your head and think of that one manipulative person you know in your life right now that has been the bane of your existence.  now imagine his response to being called a bitch.  I know that it was powerful wasn't it? I bet you are smiling!
Because as much as women want to be thought of as smart, assertive and worthy of respect, we certainly don’t want to be thought of as bitches.
Or do we? After all, the term “bitch” is really just a rhetorical tool for turning confidence, dignity and power into things that are unseemly. It’s a personal attack that’s used to make any woman who seeks or displays these characteristics into something ugly, fearful, even bestial. In short, it’s used to keep us in our place and out of the old boys’ club.
“Bitches get stuff done.” – Tina Fey
Perhaps it’s time we flipped the script and stopped letting the bitch label hold us back. Maybe it’s time to replace the golden rule – be a bitch.

As women, our fear of the dreaded bitch label is so strong and so pervasive that it affects our behavior in ways we don’t even recognize. It alters the way we communicate, how we speak and how we’re treated. Subtle word choices and statements weaken women’s voices in the world, and something as small as changing how you say things can help you start reclaiming the respect you deserve. Here are just two of the many ways to start being a bitch who speaks her mind:

Stop saying “I’m sorry.” There’s a time and a place to apologize. .

Stop modifying your statements. “I’m sorry, but…” isn’t the only phrase women use to sabotage the strength of their statements. “Could you do me a favor and…” is another one. “I totally get where you’re coming from, but…” and “I was wondering if there was any way we could…” are two more. Phrases like these litter our speech, and each time we use one, we weaken our own voices. Stop being so afraid of being called a bitch and just say what you mean and what you want. Don’t apologize for it, and don’t water it down. When you say what you mean, you’ll be heard, understood and respected.

Is everyone going to be a huge fan of the new straightforward you? Probably not. In finding your voice and speaking with clarity, you do risk getting called a bitch. But you’ll also get your point across, and all powerful women will tell you that clear communication is vital for success.

Powerful Women Set Standards and Stick to Them
It’s hard to become a successful female if you don’t have a core set of principles to guide you. The most successful women set standards for themselves, for their families, for their work and for their image. Unfortunately, bold and decisive females are often greeted with more disdain than respect. Stick to your guns and you don’t get congratulated for being professional, you get criticized for being a bitch.

“Just because I have my standards, they think I’m a bitch.” – Diana Ross
So what do you do if that’s the penalty for sticking up for what you believe in? You do it anyway. When you put your heart and soul into what you do and the people around you don’t live up to your standards, then calling them out on it does not make you a bitch. It makes you serious. It’s what you do when you want people to know that if they waste your time, you won’t just smile and take it.
 

Gaslighting is a term often used by mental health professionals (I am not one) to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they’re crazy.

The term comes from the 1944 MGM film, Gaslight, starring Ingrid Bergman. Bergman’s husband in the film, played by Charles Boyer, wants to get his hands on her jewelry. He realizes he can accomplish this by having her certified as insane and hauled off to a mental institution. To pull of this task, he intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker off and on, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s just seeing things. In this setting, a gaslighter is someone who presents false information to alter the victim’s perception of him or herself.

When someone gaslights you, they try to create the perception that your very real, very rational concerns and reactions are silly. More than just disagreeing with you, they annihilate your objection as a whole, as well as your right to have one. The more you’re gaslighted, the more you become like Bergman’s character. You start to deny your own reactions, to suppress your thoughts instead of speaking up. After all, you don’t want everyone to think you’re a crazy bitch, right?

“Success is getting what you want; happiness is wanting what you get.” – Ingrid Bergman
You could simply be a bitch and do what bitches do – stand your ground. Explain exactly how you’re being manipulated, then reiterate your point and your right to have it acknowledged.
It’s no wonder. Throughout our lives, women are taught to behave in ways that are completely contrary to their goals. We’re expected to water down our statements when we mean to assert ourselves, to accept the respect we get instead of demanding the respect we deserve, and to do everything we can to avoid being called a bitch. In short, it’s not working out.  Don’t be nice. Be a bitch.  We might just change where we stand.

What's a girl to do? Shards of life?

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.

 

 

 

The Princess Ring

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.

 

(Ann)onymity

There was this comfort in feeling "in disguise".  Not having to face the music and the trials.  Its as if, for once in a moment of my lifetime, I have actually enjoyed the anonymity. Wishing I had gracefully worn a scarf or signature Jackie Onassis sunglasses to help me unplug and walk away from all that drives my daily business.
These past weeks have allowed me the opportunity to visit and revisit my Ann cave.   I now realize the comfort I have come to enjoy in my (Ann)onymity.  I have avoided the press, the paparazzi and even my own inner voice.  Sometimes reveling in the great escape and sometimes slinking away from the voices of judgement that torment me personally.  Being perfect is the perfect disguise to my own humanity and realization of my divine work.

Sometimes the most painful voice one listens to is their own. This leaves to listen closely and ask, whose voice is this really?  Is this my past? My present or my journey that, like mud magneted, accumulated on the wheel wells and cause this dragging feeling?  Is it making the noise it does so that it can be heard and finally fall away with every bump in the road, jarring it loose and calling it back into the earth to be let go as non-matter?  What is that racket?  What is the matter?  Is the Universe rattling my body and soul here to help me shake the (Ann)onymity of the past 48 years?  Thanks only to the eclipse and the concussion that brings about the strength of my intuition and realizations.  Pain reminds us that we are alive for a moment.  Listening reminds us to sit up and pay attention.  This awakening has a purpose. It has told me it can not fit back into the box of contentment, or mediocrity.  Showers of breaths, I hear in the stillness of my quiet listening.  There is a pattern, a pattern worth the breaking and a pattern worth repeating. I now get me.  Some tools are well used, some I have used only in emergency to escape pain and taunting from the inside and the outside.

There was this poem that my mother had framed and I think my sister now has it in her home. It was perfect and balanced and the quietest thought I had ever entertained as a child.  It goes something like this:  "I wish I was a rock, just a sittin' on a hill.  I wouldn't do anything all day long, except just a sitting still." -Anonomous                                                                            
I can long for a time to be like a rock. Sitting on a hill watching the sun rise and set, to just be quiet, and listen to my world.  To feel the breeze of the earth spinning as I sit safe and still.  Not realing or rolling, but just being!  The beauty of that lone idea creates a deep longing.  One deep breath, then another. Feeling alone but not lonely.  What a gift!  I used to think that going to the bathroom alone was a gift.  With children under foot, naturally the phone would ring or worse yet the doorbell would ring, as I had finally found the quiet moment in the quietest place in the house.  Quiet never came, neither alone or in the company of my children, there wasn't a quiet moment.  Now as I sit alone trying to cling to the quiet, a desperate attempt to shut out the monkey mind of chatter that reminds me of my earthly life and mantle.  The floors need a good cleaning when I look down, the ceiling needs a coat of paint as I look up.  That ever escaping mastery of keeping the toilet paper stocked.  Ahhh, my humanity!
Pacing my breath and time. Being gentle and kinder to myself is the motto. Non judgement is a breath at a  time.