the cold

Everyone's talking about it - this cold they can't shake. I've noticed Bill sneezing for the past month, struggling to breathe through his nose at night. Maggie said she's feeling it, along with her clients and other friends. Steve said everyone at work can't shake it, and I sit here sniffling, wondering why my super-immune system isn't kicking in to shake it, either. I wonder what else I can do, then I remember my other "symptoms," and wonder if my thyroid is okay - I'm cold all the time, I have insomnia, my bruises won't heal, I have blurred vision, I'm tired a lot... then I take a deep breath. No, I'm not scared for my health - I've been through too much this past year and a half to do that, but I'm interested. Yes, interested. IS there anything I need to do? Take some supplements? Then I laugh. Maybe, sure, but how much can we DO? Doesn't that get to be a bit much sometimes? Don't we want to just hang out and let it all be?

Maggie says, "The intention IS the action." Maggie and I are twins in a lot of ways, except she's more gifted in the physical realm, me more trusting in the spiritual ways. So I think about that this cold, rainy morning, awake since 5AM. The intention IS the action. I don't have to DO anything, everything, all the time. So I sit here dressed for church, waiting to walk out the door in 10 minutes, then off to look at a farm south of here, then off to Bill's make-up soccer game.

All IS well - it always is. Trust in the Divine Order, and that all is unfolding in perfect order. It's a tall order sometimes, but not so tall this morning. I can do that - I can trust. I can just intend, and trust my body and trust the process to do the rest.

On another note, my sweet and smart friend Katrina, has an unbelievable blog you can check out at www.kaleforsale.blogspot.com. She's committed to lightening the carbon bite, and to eating local, among other great things. I met her through some writing workshops, and my world is a better place for knowing her. I asked her if I could share her site, and she said yes, so here it is. Here's to awareness, here's to the joys of being incarnate, and here's to the knowledge that we're not alone. Ever.

there are 3 things I want to say

The first is that I noticed the broken headlights and reflectors walking the underpass. I wondered what happened. Then I noticed the long dug-out tire tracks up the hill. I wondered if the car hit the underpass on its way down, or on its way up. I followed the muddy dirt tracks up onto the sidewalk, then onto the first house's lawn, then, amazingly, up against their garage, where the whole side was ripped loose. I saw a broken pot next to it, and wondered if it went all the way up to the house, but no, it was all there. As I walked I wondered how fast a car had to be going uphill to cause the whole side of the garage to be ripped off, what time of the night it happened, was the driver sober, what if someone had been walking at the same time, but then another quieter thought came drifting to the front of my mind - this is what most of us are feeling right now - like we are having a hard time staying on the road - and this is the destruction that is caused when we lose control and lose our way. We smash, crash, rip up, destroy everything in our paths, and we don't mean to, at least I don't think we mean to - it just happens, you know? So when I feel that way, I notice it before I crash, then I stop what I'm doing, close my eyes, take a few deep breaths and wait until I return to myself. Then my car turns back onto my road and everything is all right.

The second thing I want to say is that Steve and I ate at the Green Market today. If you've never been there, stop everything and GO RIGHT NOW. Andrea and Steve are weavers of magic with their food. It wasn't the meatballs and fettucine, nor the black beans, corn and avocado salad, nor the jicama salad. Oh no, it was the ball of handmade goat cheese, rolled in walnuts and dried cherries. I should've been full after my meal, but driving home, listening to 91.1, Hadyn, I'm thinking, looking at the beautiful changing trees, I unwrapped a ball and bit into it softly, slowly, to make it last. My mouth started watering before my teeth came together. Heaven, absolute pure perfection. I have never been this happy since, well, maybe yesterday sometime - these moments seem to be coming more and more, these moments of pure bliss and a feeling of total peace and gratitude and abundance. It can't possibly get any better than this. Thank you, Andrea, for the Green Market, and for following your passions - Fargo is a much better place because of you.

The third thing that I want to say is that I got an invitation to the Dali Lama's getting the Congressional Medal of Honor in Washington. While I'd love to go see him, I know I won't (this time), but I was struck with his saying on the invitation, and it is this:

World peace must develop from inner peace.
Peace is not the absence of violence.
Peace is the manifestation of human compassion.

And I remember the Dali Lama saying that his greatest fear is that he will lose compassion for the Chinese. The Chinese, who have caused his people such pain and loss, and he's worried about losing compassion for them? And I'm like, "wow, I don't think that would be my greatest fear," and it's making me pause more and more these days - am I kind? Am I gentle? Am I compassionate? To EVERYONE, not just those I love the most, but especially to the person driving too slowly in front of me, or too fast behind me? So I am inspired by the Dali Lama today, and if I could meet him, I think I would just put my hands up to my third eye, look him in the eye, smile, and bow deeply. Namaste is the feeling, but there aren't any words for it, I don't think.

And those are the 3 things I want to say. The weekend looms, warm and great-winded, before us. I will walk in the crunches, I'm sure.

shifting energies

How do we feel today? Dreams are still intense, and sleep is disrupted. There appears to be some really deep, intense emotions rising up to the surface to be looked at, and released. Sore necks and sore muscles overall, frustrations and restlessness are rampant. Headaches, soreness at the temples and ringing in ears are common. Sneezing? Energy shift or hay fever from farmers harvesting? It's hard to tell sometimes, but sniffy noses are definitely up. Fatigue still leads the list of "symptoms," so rest is always a good thing. Meeting with friends and joining energies is a really good thing to do right now - eliminate all extraneous distractions and sit with what makes you feel solid and centered. Chances are it's the simple things - cooking a good meal, laughing with friends, playing cards or reading (or watching "Flashdance" - what a feeling).

There are some definite shifts being felt around everyone - changes are in the air, there's a lot of movement, and with that can come a sense of anxiety. "What's happening? Where are we going? Will anything be changing?" Even though we welcome the changes deep down, we are still human, and change can be scary, because it's the unknown. To help with that, when I feel myself cycling off a little, I notice it, then stop everything, close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and intend to have all of my scattered energies return to me. Then I sit with that feeling, and it always feels really good, like sinking into a deep tub of water, scented water. Will these shifts and changes never end? I'm beginning to think "no" - we'll keep shifting and refining and fine-tuning for the rest of our lives. Letting go of what doesn't work, embracing all that DOES work, and watching the rest of it all just float by us. It's exciting, but seems to require constant mindfulness, maybe at least until we get the hang of the new way of being in our bodies and being in our new world. It's about cutting through the crap that was the old illusions and addictions and clinging, and relaxing into the new rhythm of our unique soul energy patterns. Finding out what works for US, as individuals. We can't really take anyone else's advice unless it makes sense for US, because their experiences are about THEM. This is all new territory, and there's no book written, no experts, only thoughts and experiences.

So today I am enjoying the beautiful changing of the leaf colors, the warm/cool wind on my face, working on Dad's memoirs, seeing a few clients, and loving my life.

getting in the game

They were a little bigger than us, and a little younger, I think. The game started, and someone passed me the ball under the hoop. I reached out to get it, but missed. I thought, "it must be because I'm so old." The game continued. I ran down the court and got a good rebound, passed it out, and headed to the basket. I was on a breakaway, and I was in front of everyone. My teammate lobbed the ball to me, and when I looked up to shoot, I had no idea where the basket was, but managed to twirl in mid-air and make the shot.

The coach called a time-out. "We're too old," I said. "I'm 47."

"It's okay," he said. "You can do it, you're strong, and fast, and good."

Yeah, and old, I thought, but said to myself, "I may be old, but I'm going to get all of the passes, and make all of the shots.

The game continued, and I found myself moving faster, able to keep up with the energy and pace of the game. My age difference melted away until I was 21 again - fast, strong, and good.

I knew it was a dream even while I was in it, and in all of these basketball game dreams I am too old, too slow, and something always goes wrong so I can't play the game. That was always sad to me, because basketball represented all that was right about me, all that I was capable of, all that was possible. So whenenever I dreamed that I couldn't play anymore, I somehow thought that had some meaning for my life right now, and I didn't like what I was dreaming.

But last night was different - I ran fast, I caught the ball, I made my shots. I was fully suited up (no lost shoes or uniform), I wanted to play. So something has shifted, and I'm glad I no longer think I'm too old to play the game. I'm IN the game, and I'm playing well. And that feels really really good.

achey breaky

I woke up this morning, and my left shoulder hurt to the touch. It was tender under my left arm and across my whole shoulder blade. Now, I'm 47, not that young, but not that old, either. Had I slept on it wrong? Hurt it somehow? A concerned friend asked if I was sick. I put herbal ointment on it, rubbed it, wincing every time I even touched it. It was a mystery, but oh well, the whole day stretched luxuriously before me, well, until 9:30 when I had to go teach Sunday School. But Bill wanted to play a little Wii bowling before we left. How could I say no?

I stood up, grabbed onto the remote, lined up the arrows, pulled my left arm back and brought it forward sharply. OWWW - the hot pain shot from my hand all the way up to my neck. That's right - I'd hurt my shoulder ... playing a video game. It probably isn't the first, but for me it ranks right up there as one of the most embarrassing things I've done in quite a few days, anyway. Hard to believe I was a really good athlete at one time, isn't it? My smart 20 year old suggesting doing warm-ups before attempting another strenuous video game. But on second thought, it's probably not such a bad idea...

I love Stephen Colbert. Kari got me started on him, and now I start most mornings having a cup of coffee with him. I even got his red "Wriststrong" wristband. I got one for Kari and Erik, too. I wondered how old he was (43). I wondered what he was really like. Read the current issue of "Parade" magazine and you'll find out. His dad and two brothers died when he was only 10, and his 7 older siblings left home, leaving him alone with his mom. He changed schools and got beat up a lot until he started using humor to get along. Then in later years he lost his faith, and found it again when someone handed him a Bible and he read the Beatitudes - the one he remembers is about how worrying will not change even one hair of your head. He even teaches Sunday School. I think I would vote for this man for President, I really do. He makes me laugh, and he's smart. That's a good combination for a President, don't you think? Maybe I'll start my own campaign here in my hometown. What do you think? Do you like Stephen Colbert?

I feel the urge sometimes to run for some local office. I'm passionate about school recess and even more passionate about overhauling the school lunch program. I mean, seriously, 1500 calories in one meal, most of those carbohydrates? I do what I can by being Bill's room parent and volunteering to put on a spelling bee and teach a section on creative writing and one on nutrition. I'm starting the writing segment this week by talking about poetry. I'll probably read some Shel Silverstein, but Robert Frost is pretty visual for kids, even if people think he's a bit schmaltzy. What's so wrong with that?

It was 94 degrees out today, but we were hardly out at all, after Sunday School, pouring coffee after church, a birthday party and soccer practice. I know, I would've been outside at soccer practice, but after being awake since 4:30 this morning, I passed out on the couch the whole time Steve and Bill were gone. These are lovely, shortening, intense days, and I'm grabbing life fully and breathing deeply, and boy does it feel good. I love my life. What about tomorrow? Who knows.

feelings...

Woh woh woh, feelings. I'm feeling them, inside and out. Intensely, like there's no connection between the outer manifestations and my connections to them. It's a holistic experience (like the hailstorm two nights ago) - everything is related, connected. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be in this new place we find ourselves. This unity place, but it's strange to get used to, I'm not going to lie. I find myself overwhelmed with tenderness when I see a baby bunny gently hopping across my backyard deck, and I just want to go hold it. Well, good luck with THAT.

I see the sun shining through the back window, and it looks like God is back there, shining on the dryer, even though it's just the bacon smoke that's causing the rays to shine brighter. Steve got up and made bacon, and I treated myself to 2 pieces (I hope they're nitrite-free), and even the smell permeated all the way through me. It's like all of my senses are involved with every single little aspect of my reality these days. I don't just smell - I FEEL the smells, touch the smells, see the smells, know the smells. You get the idea.

What does this have to do with anything? I don't know, other than to make me appreciate how deeply and completely I am able to flow through the moments of my day and just be grateful at how perfect and beautiful it all is, no matter what is happening. If I catch myself getting angry, or mean, I catch myself pretty fast, then take a few deep breaths and imagine pulling all of my energies back into my body, centering myself. My heart slows down, my head clears, and that silly grin breaks out on my face again. I like it here - it's nice. It appears to be permanent. I don't know what will happen if something difficult happens - I hope it helps me move even deeper into this place of bliss. I'm counting on it.

ch-ch-changes

I first heard it around 2:30AM. I thought it was a truck rolling by. We live right on the interstate, so 24 hour traffic sounds are the norm. But it got louder, the rumbling turning to angry growling. Then the whole sky lit up white. Then came the BOOM. Not your average thunderstorm, this, but a total, holistic storm that included everyone and everything. All the clouds, air, sky. The wind picked up so fast it felt like someone gasping, or angry. Then the raindrops. Those are some FAT drops, I thought, then realized it was hail. And, yup - you guessed it - angry haildrops. There, and there, the wind seemed to say, pelting our windows, trees, cars. I got up at exactly the same time as Steve. It was almost comical, us both sitting bolt upright, reaching for our robes.

"Do you think we should go to the basement?" I asked him.

"No - I'm just going to check it out," he answered.

"Don't go outside," my lightning-paranoia voice said.

I lay back down. I wasn't scared, but it was powerful to feel these energies sweeping through the land, and it felt like it was changing everything - blowing away the old, anything that wasn't tied down, testing the strength of what was left. Would we stay? Would it be okay? What would it look like when the storm passed? Now it is morning, and the wind is still blowing. It is misty outside, and leaves cover the lawns and streets like a giant carpet. I haven't walked in two days, and my whole body is dancing to "I Will Survive" that's playing in the background. I don't know what I'll do with this energy, but I have the day to decide.

You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before ...

Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them ...

Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.

- Wendell Berry, from "Do Not Be Ashamed"

it's only a dream

I'm in the hospital with Kari and Bill, and they put me to sleep and wheel me away. Bill starts to scream and fall over, scared and missing me. I tell Kari (I know, I'm asleep on the table, but still...) to go be with Bill and not leave him alone. I drift over to where Bill is sitting, crying, and hold him tightly and look into his eyes.

"See, Bill? I'm right here. Even though I'm asleep on that table, I'm able to be here with you. Feel me here, sweetie - this is real. And when I wake up, I'm going to tell you about this, so you know you can call on me and have me here, even if I'm not physically here. This is real."

Bill nods, and I am relieved that he is able to feel my presence, even though I'm physically with him, and I am excited about these possibilities. When I awake this morning, I lay down next to him and tell him this dream. Ah, what expansion, what glorious awakenings are in store for us - this is just the beginning of great things.

"Mom," Bill says.

"Yes, honey," I whisper back, just waiting for his profound words.

"Your breath smells like Grammy and Bapa's house," he replies.

outrunning my demons

It's funny how small it starts, with just one glance at a freshly-trimmed willow tree. I see my beloved horse Vinny with his dorky bangs that I've just cut straight across, like the hanging limbs of the willow tree. I miss him still - he died in a field over a year ago, alone. I feel the march of grief start its advance toward me, and I gently reach out and touch the future of my mom not being here, and I can't see through my tears. It's instant. Why is it that I can't just let it all be? But I can't, so I breathe, and start to jog, a little slowly at first. It doesn't help that much. I concentrate on my regular breaths, take deeper ones, jog in rhythm to "Every time we Touch" by Cascada. I speed up. I'm not in good shape, my lungs start to burn right away, so I slow down, still tracking my breath. C'mon, little endorphins, kick in with those ol' good feeling chemicals, c'mon, c'mon, ah, that's better. I round the corner on 15th Avenue and feel more steady, more stable.

I decide to call all those who've died into my energy field. Surround me, I say. Let me feel you there. I feel a solidness around me, a denseness, like a warm wall. I thank them and keep walking. I add Mom in there, Dad, too, and all of those people and animals that I keep a home in my heart for, and I think this is all very real, and what I want to keep concentrating on, because otherwise my hearts hurts too much to think of the separation, the endings, all the endings. I tried to outrun my demons, but I think I cannot outrun them, and I think they are not demons after all. They're just a part of my life, a part of the whole picture, they just ARE. If I try to run away from them, I'll be running forever. So I stop running, and slow back down to my walk, breathing, breathing.

I ask for a word of the day for myself, and I hear "fecundity." I know the word, but I remember it having something to do with gardening. I look it up. It comes from the Latin word "fecundus" which means "feminine." It means "prolific, intellecutally productive or inventive to a marked degree, fertile." Fecundity is a noun, so that's probably what it is all about today - fecundity. I will hold that word in my pocket today, and think of how it relates to how I'm feeling, and what today is about.

me smart girl, yah yah

I love my time with Mom and Dad. I love seeing them so excited and feeling so grateful for their house getting organized. I understand that feeling of decluttering so you can feel calm in your surroundings, not that I have much of that in my OWN home, but I DO understand it. We were talking about public schools, and I remembered that mysteriously in 4th grade I got "sick" and didn't want to go even though I remember liking Mrs. Meier. First they took me to a "regular" doctor, who declared me "healthy." Then they took me to the "other" kind of doctor, and he ran some tests, among them an IQ test. Ah, there's the problem - I was bored at school because my IQ was a little elevated. So Mom and Dad started supplementing my education with trips, extra projects in astronomy, trigonometry, history and geography. I loved it all, I remember, my brain began to feel alive. I grew up thinking I was okay smart, but nothing outstanding. I told Mom and Dad that, and they looked at each other, funny looks on their faces.

"What?" I asked them.

"Don't you know what your IQ was?" they asked me.

I told them the number I remembered, the number I've kept with me all these years.

"It was 25 points higher than that," they said.

I was stunned, am still stunned - for what it feels like, I feel like I haven't known myself clearly for the past 37 years. Why would it even matter? Because there has been a part of my brain that has continually confounded me - why did I feel so different, if my brain was what slightly above average, just like Garrison Keillor's children at Lake Wobegon? Why do I have so many thoughts that fall, like a waterfall, Niagra-like, almost all the time? Why do I think of so many odd thoughts, like how many stitches one strand of ivory thread will cover on Mom's needlepoint pillow I'm finishing? Or what's the least number of breaths I can take in a minute? (6) Or what happens in the rest of the brain that we supposedly don't use? What could explain all of the strange things that happened to me in my childhood and all throughout the rest of my life, things I've known, seen, and heard, but no one else knew, saw or heard? But now I feel like my brain FITS me, fits my life, if that makes sense, like, "Oh, well then, THAT explains everything," and funnily enough, it seems to.

IQ tests don't mean anything, really. I know two people that scored really high, and they're both unemployed and on welfare. I also know lots of people who score "average," whatever THAT means, and they're the smartest people I know. There's book smarts, people smarts, street smarts, math smarts (I have just a touch), English smarts (I have quite a bit), art smarts (uhm, Tara says yes, I say no), parenting smarts (I pray to god I've got enough of this), and on and on and on. So this is one test, one number, but still... knowing this has changed everything inside of my head this morning, and it feels really good, like taking off a tight belt and feeling your insides expand back to where they ought to be. Ah... that feels better.

I'm off for my 4 mile walk, to the YMCA and back, then will be making chocolate chunk Toll House cookies (sure, I'm making them healthy, trust me...), then grocery shopping. It's a beautiful cloudy, moist kind of day, a slightly warmish, coldish wind in the air, like it's deciding whether to be summer or fall. The flaming sumac is already flaming, and my heart is longing for hot split pea soup and lots of lit candles. When my "work" is done, I will call Mom and Dad and tell them how much I love them, and how glad I am that I'm their daughter, and how glad I am that I can be with them so much. It is precious to me, and every conversation, every glance, is a jewel in my heart. I hugged Mom good-bye yesterday, but she couldn't look up, so I squatted down, eye to eye, and we just looked at each other. Some energy, some knowing, jumped between us, and I can't tell you what it was, only that I felt it. And it was powerful. Just like my love for Mom and Dad.

bambi

Yes, I know it's old to bring up Bambi when you see a hunter, even a hunter with a buck strapped to the roof of his pickup, its tongue lolled out to the side. I had just finished meditating and was taking the fresh gingersnaps out of the oven when I heard some geese. Could they be flying that close to the house, I wondered, then my stepson walked into the house, blowing a goosecall.

"Isn't this cool? It costs $150," he said. Well, at least I'm glad to see his hard-earned money went for something essential like that, and not some silly thing like gas or food.

"This is my quiet time," I told him. He snorted and said, "I'm going outside to bother the dogs."

I took a deep breath, trying to remember my mindfulness techniques, and listened to the dogs start howling.

"That's enough, Jordan," I yelled out the back door.

"PLEASE come goose hunting with us," he said later, leaning into me, teasing.

"While there's nothing more I would like than to go out and kill some beautiful, defenseless creatures, I've got other plans," I told him. Years ago he tried to bait me by threatening to join the Army. Finally I told him I thought it was a great idea, and that I thought he'd be just perfect for the Army. He never brought it up again.

What is it that makes people want to turn a gun (or bow, or whatever) on another being, in the hopes of ending its life? Don't use the line that we're "helping" the deer so they don't starve. If we hadn't "helped" already by eliminating all of their natural predators, we wouldn't be needing to "help" now by killing them. Now, lest you think I'm a horrible hypocrite, I surprised myself last summer by actually ENJOYING taking down the deer in a video game - it was fun, it was a challenge... it was fake. Or is it the same? I don't know. Maybe it's an overabundance of testerone that makes us want to beat our chests and bring home the meat for our family. But hey, Lynn Brakke's just a phone call away, with all the organic beef you could want, so that's not it. Is it a disregard for life? I eat meat, and I like it, I wear leather, and I like it, and I also like life. I know someone who really likes to use their gun to take out little field mice, squirrels and rabbits - "You shoulda seen that one pop up into the air," he says excitedly. Really? I can't imagine. I cry when I run over an animal in the road, and say an "I'm sorry" and a little prayer.

So, tell me, what is it with hunters? I understand loving the outdoors, but it doesn't have to involve trying to KILL anything. I understand wanting to spend time with others, but you can do that over tea, lunch, or just sitting on the porch swing. I understand primal urges, but there ARE those nifty little video games. I understand the nutrition of wild meat; okay, there you've got me. That's ONE argument I can buy, but I think it's best just to admit that you love to kill - you love the excitement of the chase, the not-knowing if you'll "get" your prey, the pride when you do, and the re-telling of the story over and over again.

They found a young bull moose in Bismarck and kept it for a while, tagged it, then let it go. The recent news story said that a hunter had killed it. Seriously, so what was the rescue for if we just turn around and blow it away? What are WE supposed to do, as individuals, to make a difference? My son says one person can't make a difference (when he's watching me recycle), but I tell him that one person is the only one that CAN make any difference. Do I love hunters? Yes, my husband and stepson hunt. Do I love what they do? No - I'm honest. I don't. I don't understand it, nor do I understand when someone I know tells me (proudly) that they just killed an animal that's extinct in another part of the world. And it only cost them $50,000 to do it, if I'm remembering my stories clearly. I can't understand spending $50,000 for the privilege to kill an animal, nor can I understand even wanting to kill an animal that's extinct in some other country. I can't understand having dead animals in your house (okay, we've got an old deer's head in our garage somewhere, and some sheepskin rugs lying around), but a whole animal? I would rather just look at them, and thank them for being here on the earth to share their beauty with me.

I love the geese, I do - I know they do stinky things on lawns, but they're good parents, and Mom and Dad watch them every year, teaching their young to get food and fly. When I mention geese, my stepson says, "Kaboom," and grabs an imaginary rifle, shooting it. "Yeah, I love 'em, too," he says. I don't understand, and I know I'm not perfect, or else I wouldn't eat meat, or eggs, or yogurt, or wear leather or furs, but still, what IS it about hunting? And why does it make me so sad when I think about it?

through the fog

I cannot get warm. It is 37 degrees outside, so I layer heavily, put on my Nike hat and purple mittens, my big white-rimmed glamor sunglasses and head out for my daily walk. The sun is shining (thank heavens), and the wind is low (thank more heavens), but my nose has gone numb somewhere around Lindenwood so I push my pink Buff over my nose and keep walking. The moisture from my breath fogs my glasses, and I notice the haze with interest. I can still see, but everything now looks fuzzy and foggy. I wonder what it would be like to have bad eyesight - would my world permanently look like this? A wind blows across my face and the fog lifts. My world is clear again. But it quickly fogs up again with my breath, and the whole cycle starts again.

What in my life is fogging my vision? What can't I see clearly? My beautiful daughter? My amazing oldest son? My fabulous youngest son? My amazing husband? Myself? When I look in the mirror, what looks back? For it isn't a "who," but more of a total package. I'm certainly not just the body that stands there. When I was younger sometimes I would stare at myself in the mirror so long that it felt like a stranger was looking back. That freaked me out at age 10, kind of cool to think about when I'm 47.

What's real? I know, I know, it sounds abstract (forgive me, Christianne, but that's my life), but it's a question I ask myself throughout every day. Is this tree really a tree? No - someone CALLED it a tree, but it really just IS, at the very core of its being, just like I am, and you are. Is then anything real, I wonder, and I'm thinking that if I keep pondering it enough, the answer I'll come up with is ... no. I decide what's real for me, but I can't prove it.

I was pushing Bill on the swing at the park yesterday, and I asked him if he wanted to go to heaven. "Going to heaven" means to lean back on the swing, close your eyes, and let your mom push you - it feels like you're in heaven. I then joked and said, "or maybe you could just go to purgatory."

"What's purgatory?" Bill asked.

"It's a made up place that's sort of between heaven and hell - you just float there and don't do anything."

"I don't believe in hell," Bill answered, matter-of-factly.

"I don't either," I answered.

"I think everything's heaven," Bill said.

"Me, too," I said, smiling, remembering Bill at age 2 saying, "Brownies are God," and me definitely agreeing wholeheartedly, especially warm ones. Warm brownies, or warm God? Well, same same.

So I sit here today with the day off, ready to bake gingersnaps for Mom and Dad, and to include in a care package to Kari, 234 miles away from me. I'm ready to finish reading "A Three Dog Life," a breathtaking memoir that continually takes my breath away. I'm ready to meditate to Andrew Weil's CD that splits me open and lets my energy spill out warmly, just for a while. And I'm ready to take a nap, maybe in the hammock in the backyard, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. And all of that? That's real to me.

The Desert Horned Snake

It is 10:30AM. I have just started north on 5th Street for my morning walk, and I'm surprised to hear Angela in my head, saying, "How are we feeling, dear?" I'm back in that hospital room, 12:30AM, holding Mom's hand in the darkened room. The machine is registering ventrical tachycardia, or V-tach. Again and again. V-tach kills you - it's the lower part of your heart that beats too fast, and that's what Mom's is doing, too tired to move the blood through her body. Every 3 minutes or so Angela pops into the room and asks, "How are we feeling, dear?" Finally Mom asks why she's asking so much, what's wrong. My ears perk up and I sit straighter in my chair. I'm struggling to breathe now as I continue my walk. My chest is tightening, and it feels hot on the inside, but I continue, and take purposeful steps, focusing on my breath, breathing the energy and emotions INTO my body instead of trying to forget them or push them away.

The scene shifts to the doctor and four nurses surrounding Mom. They're trying to figure out what to do next - the first med isn't working, even though they upped the dose - Mom's failing - they're going to try Lidacain. I'm not even going to try to spell it correctly. It's an old drug, a powerful drug, but it appears to be her only hope. This I know in my heart - my mom is dying, and she has a slim chance of making it through the night. "Should I call Dad?" I keep asking the nurses, as if they can give me the "right" answer. First they tell me to let him sleep, but around 1:30, they say I need to decide. I don't want to decide - I want my mom to live, and my dad to sleep. That's all. But I get scared, and I call him.

The scene shifts to his last words before he hung up - "Tell her I love her." It's now hard to see as I walk, the tears are hot and fast. The tears are here even as I type these words, the memory is in my cells, in my body, it seems, because I'm right there in that room again, and I think that this is what it's like - this powerful energy that's with us right now - the power to transform our lives and shape us into whole, empowered, aware beings, but it is an awesome feeling, to live all moments in this moment. This memory that has come, unbidden, into my consciousness; I have allowed it to come, to float, to just BE, for whatever reason, and there is a desert horned snake coiled in my stomach that raises its Satan head lazily and looks around at the scent of my fear. I watch it rise as if to strike, exposing its 1/8 inch fangs, and I am curious to see what will happen next. Will it bite me and spread its fear poison through my body? I don't run from it - I look at it, breathe it into me; I'm not afraid, I'm really not. I lie down flat in the hot desert sun and let it slither in its tight "S" pattern across my stomach and on down the hill. All is well.

It appears to me that the key to embracing and living in this new place is to walk through those doors you fear the most, to look at that which you would rather not look at, to touch and hold that which repulses you most - whether it be something about yourself, or something about someone else, or a thought, or belief, or memory, and just let yourself BE there with it, with no thoughts as to how to fix it or change it or run away from it. And once you're THERE, it passes through you like the ghosts on Harry Potter, it is exorcised from your cellular memory - it cannot stay if it is not meant to stay, and for today, and the memory of that painful night 2 months ago, I am just as glad to see that snake winding off and away from me. It is not hard to breathe anymore, and the sun is warm on my face. I continue on my walk.

Happy (?) Anniversary

Exactly a year ago, exactly at 7:30AM, they wheeled my beloved away. He was already groggy from the first round of tranquilizers. We'd been up since 5AM, not wanting to miss our 7AM deadline for being the second operation of the day. We didn't sleep the night before, and stayed up watching that odd-looking ex-model and her reality show of running a modeling agency. I can't even remember her name, but can still see her face and hear her voice. They shaved his stomach (and other places), gave him more drugs, cut him open, removed his prostate and 8 lymph nodes in his abdomen.

I went back up to my room when he left me, and watched "An Inconvenient Truth." Contemplating global destruction made me feel better, somehow. Anything other than thinking about him lying there on that table, the mask over his face, the monitors beeping. Was it quiet in there, or was it loud? What was the doctor thinking? Was he thinking about the beautiful fall day outside? I took a nap, then headed over to the mall across the street at noon and stood in line at the Chinese fast food. A nice-looking man started talking to me. He was an Israeli doctor working here at Mayo, and he asked me to join him and his associate for lunch, but I smiled and said no. It might've been nice to talk about his work and his friend's work, and their wives, to ask them if they hunt, but instead I sat by myself and looked out over the sea of plants and put my head in my hands and started crying. That's something that's new for me - feeling free to cry in public. I've always been able to laugh in public, but always felt self-conscious crying in public. But not anymore. I'll cry anywhere, and it's a really good thing. My cell phone rang, and the nurse called to let me know they'd taken him in for his operation - it was 12:30.

I don't remember what I did after lunch, probably wandered around the mall, smelling candles and touching fabrics on expensive jackets. I thought about buying something to remember this time, then I realized that I didn't WANT to remember this time. I wanted it to be finished, a blip on our shared history, a vague murmuring if we remembered it at all. Yet here Steve and I sit this moment, he on the couch, wrapped in one of the many fuzzy blankets I bought when Mom almost died, his coffee cup leaning against his right cheek. He's looking at me, smiling, asking me if I'm writing about how incredibly handsome he is, so I answer, "Yes, I am," in my talking-to-a-puppy voice, and I think how incredibly fortunate I am to be married to this man, and how grateful I am that he is alive, and healthy, and here with me right now.

Sure, the operation went seamlessly perfect. Dr. Meyers is one of the best in the world. He froze when I hugged him, thanking him for taking good care of my boy. But that next night was a nightmare. They kicked us out less than 24 hours after the operation, and we had to stay in the hotel one more night. We couldn't have driven home the 300 miles. I only remember pushing him in the wheelchair with his bags on the handles, all the way to the hotel. I remember walking the 4 blocks to get the car, then loading it up. I'd forgotten how much I relied on him to be my equal partner, but now I was the main one, I was it all. We got home just as school let out. I had to stop Bill at the doors to tell him Daddy was home, but he'd had an operation and was very tired. We decided not to tell Bill everything because we didn't want to scare him. Now he's scared of anyone getting an operation, because he just KNEW this was something big. We'll tell him later. So I nursed my husband, stayed with him that whole week, adjusted his foot pillow, got him another blanket. I was tired, but I know he was more tired. And this is what you do - you take care of each other.

Yesterday he walked up to me and said, "You need a hug." Okay, I said, opening my arms. "I need a hug," he said, and I stepped back and looked at him. "It's been exactly a year since we were at Mayo," he said, and I started crying. My body had known, even if I hadn't. I love that man, my husband, my second self, and he's here with me on this rocky road of life, and I'm grateful, I'm so grateful, because life is fragile, and can change in an eye blink, it really can, but he's here now, and I'm here, and all is well.

Shifting shifting

I felt it Saturday morning, on the elliptical machine in the basement at the Grand Hotel in Minneapolis. For no reason, my heart rate shot up to 160, and I hadn't even started "ellipting" yet. So I jumped off, went up to my room and did yoga for 1/2 hour. I took some deep breaths and did the energy clearing that Mags gave to me. I thought it was just the excitement of being with my sisters, but yesterday morning I woke up with that shivery feeling in the middle of my chest, the beginning of a panic attack, yet there is nothing in my world that would cause it, so I relaxed and asked what was up. The answer I got back is that we're on the edge (today is the breaking through) of an enormous energy shift that is feeling like the end of things for a lot of people, and because I am so connected to humanity, I'm picking up on those fears. If it feels like the old "too sensitive" thing, it's not, it's really not - it's more about this new place where we are either headed, or already find ourselves, and this new place is unity - it's where we're all connected. There's no more separation, and you have to be diligent to know where your soul boundaries are - where do you end and everyone else begin? It's an age old question, to be sure, but one that shines a little brighter in my world these days.

I continue with my walks, and found myself pacing a 4mph walk listening to Buddha Bar 7 - honestly, it sets a perfect pace, but doesn't make you walk TOO fast, just nice and fast enough. I walked up to 13th Ave. today, then around, and still made it in 45 minutes. My insides feel wide open right now, and I think this is a really good place we have traveled to, even though my road was really rocky and felt precarious at times. I realize I MUST be protected at all times; otherwise, it's just too hard - we'd all crash. But if we don't "crash," if we keep going, day after day, there's just GOT to be something out there that is watching over us, doesn't there? Otherwise it's just a big soup of humanity crawling around, and that's just too awful to consider. No, my vision is of all of us as small children at the mall, running freely to the toy store, knowing intuitively that Mom and Dad are behind you somewhere, keeping an eye on you, keeping you safe, no matter what you do. If you get lost, you get scared, and may cry, because you aren't with Mom and Dad, you can't see them, you don't know if they're still taking care of you. Then you see them round the corner, and you are relieved, because you know they'll never leave you in that scary mall. You want to explore, want to run around and see stuff, but you know somehow that you're not able to navigate these bigger waters all by yourself. Alone in your backyard, probably - out in the big world? We need help.

So I feel the help, I love my help, my guides who are as near and dear to me as my own heartbeat. I love my Higher Self, whatever that means, knowing that it is now inside me here, there is no separation, and I like feeling my whole world inside of me - it feels cozy, like a party. So let the shifts keep coming, I'm learning how to ride the waves so that I don't get a mouth full of salt water. Dip dip, rise up high. On and on it goes, the miracle under our skin transforming us every moment of our lives, even if we can't see it, we can feel it, can't we? I take a moment to be in my skin, to feel what that means, and I like it, I like it a lot.

...there were never such devoted sisters

White Christmas - Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye dress up and sing that song. It's OUR song now, and we sing it all family gatherings, even sing harmony and do the actions. We celebrated one sister's 50th birthday last weekend in the Cities, and all five of us made it. We are all different, we are; Mom and Dad raised us to be independent, so that's a really good thing. What I really want to say is that there was a moment when we all had on our matching Judith Jack bracelets (and took pictures, of course) that I had this profound feeling of connectedness, as if I could actually feel the cords of love between all of us. No matter where we are in the world, we belong to each other. We share a history, we have the same blood, we are all here at the same time. I saw myself in them constantly, and I always thought I was just this odd, random kind of person that did strange things. Like guzzling 1/2 liter of water without stopping or breathing. One sister laughed and said she does the same thing. Really? Or this lapse of memory about everything. Well, they counted on ME to do the tracking so we could keep conversations flowing. Me with the best memory? Who would've thought?

In the pictures you can see us all with the same white toothed smiles. We LOOK alike, we do, even though two are blonde and three are brunettes. Two are smaller boned, and three are big-boned. We compare genetics - I got the vein-free legs, the curly hair and bag-free eyes (but then I'm the youngest, so we'll see). We share stories, we reveal fears, and long-past incidents rise gently, tentatively to the surface to be looked at in perhaps a new light. And there IS a new light that we see shining on our combined lives. It is a light of compassion and tenderness, of acceptance for the limitations of the people around us. We're not perfect, but by gosh, we're all pretty fabulous. Beautiful, tall, intelligent, kind of loud. I can only imagine the picture we cut when we all 5 walk down the street together. People might even get a little scared at the sheer VOLUME of us all.

But I'm a part of that, and that is very good. Mom called to see how we were doing, but said she didn't want to interfere. "Oh Mom," I said, "You aren't interfering. We love you," and we talked for 1/2 hour until she got tired. We planned my upcoming trip to Bismarck, and how Dad wants me to teach him how to make my now-famous sloppy joes (the recipe that was in the paper last July). He's got the tables set up to go through his tools in the garage, and I can't wait to get started. I love my family. I do. I love them completely and totally and yes, fiercely. I am so grateful that I am a part of this, and I want to keep KNOWING that it's something TO be grateful for. So I treat it preciously, and send one sister a thank-you note for buying me the beautiful earrings for my birthday, and another a thank-you for arranging everything, and another just for being her. And I will call my sister that lives here to have lunch soon. Because time keeps timing, and we keep getting older, and things change and people die, and I just want to be with the people that I love.

Living the Future

The morning is perfect, absolutely perfect. I wish it was like this forever, I think, as I start out on my precious walk. I remember a walk about a month ago. I rounded the corner on the south side of our street, and Bill is just standing there. "Were you on your way to the park?" I ask him, huggin him close. "No, I told Dad that I wanted to come meet you on your way home from your walk."

"But how did you know I'd be coming this way?" I asked. I usually come from the west, or from the north, hardly from the south.

"Because I saw you in my head," he answered simply.

"But how did you know WHEN I'd be here at this spot?" I continued.

"Because I saw you in my head," he answered again.

It's not the first time he's done this, and he's doing it more and more. Like when we were driving down to Take 2 Video. We pulled out of our driveway, and he said, "When we get there, there will be a small white car parked on the north side of the parking lot." I said "okay," and we kept driving. I didn't really think about it until we rounded the corner by the Bowler and Bill said, "See? See? I told you - there's the small white care, right where I saw it!"

I asked him how he knew it would be there. He answered, "because I just saw it in my head." Now, given my profession it's no stretch that my son would exhibit some of the same tendencies, but there is something so powerful about his ability to inhabit the future as well as the present, to hold it all together in his head, to make use of it (ie. to meet his mom at the corner to walk her home), and I wonder what his brain looks like, more especially how it operates. Is he one the new ones that's here right now, that's already made the leap, and is just waiting for the rest of us to catch up? Most assuredly, as are most kids from about age 10 and younger, I think. Some of the really young ones just communicate telepathically, and are almost comically patient as they watch us "newbies" falter into the new energy, like they're saying, "what IS the big deal?" Well, easy for them to say - they didn't have to fight through all the density like we're having to do. But thank heavens it's easier for them, like for Bill. He's always exhibited a maturity WAY beyond his young years. He doesn't do sarcasm, has always been polite and gentle, and has a way of excusing stupid behavior in others.

So I use this walking time to ponder my 7 year old and his amazingness (my new word), and I think how fortunate I am that he is here, and that we are together. I went to "Stardust" last night, my first movie since Shrek 3 back in May. It was about a star (Claire Danes) who came to Earth, and about a witch, and a young man on a quest, oh, and an evil prince who wants to be King - all the juicy stuff that myths are made of. The thing that I remember most about the movie, however, is Claire Danes telling the young man about love. She says something like, "unconditional love doesn't have to prove itself or give anything - it just is. I give you my heart and ask for nothing from you, other than your heart." And I think of all the people who've give me their hearts, and who've I've given my heart to, and I think it's got to be like a huge party in there somewhere, all of our hearts connected with beautiful golden rainbow cords, pulsing love to keep us alive and happy, to help us remember that we're not alone - that there are others here who would be very sad if we weren't here, those who would probably die for us, think about us, wish the best for us. It helps me to think of that, to remember that, as I sit here on this stunningly perfect Sunday afternoon. Mom and I are together in that holy place, as are Dad and I, and Steve, and Bill, Kari, Erik, Jordan, and all of my dear friends. And what do I see when I look in my heart? I see confetti thrown in the air, and I hear those toot horns, and see party hats everywhere. Yes, I do.

New Beginnings

Mom's voice sounded SO enthusiastic on the phone last night. The reason? She had exciting news - she went clothes shopping yesterday. I listened to her story, and was surprised to find myself crying very hard. She finally stopped and asked why I was crying. "Because I NEVER thought you'd be out shopping for new clothes," I answered. For the last 5 weeks I've been walking that fine line between remaining aware of Mom's impending death and looking to the future with her in it. I've been keeping track of the days, as if it meant something to have a count. But I've realized something - I'm not going to keep track of the days anymore - I'm going to rejoice that she's alive, and be grateful, and well, if Death comes and kicks my ass, well, then so be it. I choose to just be with my mom now; to care that she found a patchwork cardigan that's going to be her favorite (in a fabulously SMALL size!), to be amazed that she could go inside the restaurant to eat, that although she wishes she has more stamina, she sounds unbelievably chipper and energetic. I believe, I really do, and I don't quite know what that means, but I turned a corner somewhere around last night, and it's called surrender and trust. I have faith that everything is unfolding in perfect order. I don't know how Mom can still be alive, but I can tell you that she is my greatest inspiration in my life at this moment. She is a living, breathing miracle, and if you don't believe in miracles, just ask me about my mom.

I pondered my new outlook as I took my 5 mile walk this morning. I breathed in the warm moist air and felt the hot 90 degree sun on my shoulders, I smiled a lot, mostly because I was doing the shimmy to "Shake Your Tail Feathers" and I imagined what I looked like, but not REALLY caring. I wonder about my future, about Steve's future, what's going to unfold for my children, for the world. I'm curious, okay? I'm glad I'm a psychic because that lets me get a little heads-up as to what's around the corner, but really, it still remains a mystery, able to change in a single breath. All that we think, or suppose, or predict - it can all fly out the window with a little phone call, or one single event, or one choice. So where does that leave us? In the middle of our lives, making the best decision in every moment, trusting that we are moving exactly where we need to move, doing what we need to do. So what do I need to do right now? Wash some of this sweat off, drink some more water, and then who knows?