Wednesday Wish (80); Moment of Truth

phot by david talley via flickr

Somewhere, in the lull of your wander or the elbow of your afternoon, it’s there. Maybe buried, maybe twisted into a bundle like a paper crumpled in the bin, but it’s there. I promise you that. It follows you like a shadow, like a memory, like a story awaiting its turn. It’s your morsel of juicy, your smidgen of heaven-light, your moment of truth. And it’s all yours, only yours, forever just You.

Some days my moment of truth visits me as a scent. Once it wafted in on the back of a breeze. No forest breathes out butter cream. That was when my smile cracked and my eyes sparkled just a little bit more, and I began to ask the questions. The questions that would uncover more of my truth’s answers.

Other days my morsels of juicy pretend they are flavors or disguise themselves in people or even show up in art. You know the moments…when you ooOo over that special taste or want to swim in those eyes or crawl into that world made of paint inside a simple wood frame. They are the moments that feel good and right with a twist of magic squished in between. And they are…magic…because they are your moments of truth. All yours, only yours, forever just You.

You see, when you distill yourSelf down to the ticking inside your core, you find a pureness of life and love that begs you to sit awhile, to enjoy the peace and being-ness of your purest Self.

It tells you who you are.

It reminds you what you love

And shows you where to walk.

Like a raft in a rough sea

Or a puff of cloud

On a blank blue sky

It will save you.

Sense it.

It is there.

It’s your You.
And it is pure love.

I promise you so.

Wednesday Wish (79); The Wise Hum of Your Deep

photo by david talley via flickr

She floated through her days, riding the magic carpet of innocent youth and everlasting summers. Like a lily pad sitting on the surface of a deep, lush pond, she looked up and out, but not in. Why look ‘in’ when the sun shines ‘out’? Why look ‘in’ when the fun lives ‘out’? Why look ‘in’ when the water is cold and wet and longs to penetrate my pores?

So when the accusations flew, she lost her balance. The water was rich and beautiful but because she had never been there before, it was cold and unforgiving, a swirl of emotion that had no name. She couldn’t see. She could only hear. And the voices were ugly. They called her names. They told her she was evil. They told her she was wrong. And because she was underwater, immersed in a subconscious world, their voices were louder, drowning out her Own.

Little by little they whittled her Self away, her conscious mind knowing the truth, her inner Self doubting, not trusting, the wisdom of her deep.

She was off-kilter, fueled by a quiet fear. She had forgotten how to honor her Self.

And she wondered why so few believed her.

*          *          *

He said he loved her. And he did. But like the lily pad girl, he lived on the surface and let the voices swirling in his unknown deep, take his power. He didn’t want to visit the depths. It was too cold and he never did learn how to swim. So he watched the horizon and ate Fritos in front of the TV. And whenever he wasn’t paying attention, the voices ruled. 

Then one day, she was gone.

“I miss her,” he said.

“But you never visited, never spent any time with her.”

“I love her,” he said.

“Why then, didn't you show it?”

He lived in a world that kept him on the surface with the hurts and the pains of his deep determining his days, denying his authentic Self. Life, the way he would have liked to live it, passed by like an unlit ship on a dark, dark sea.

And he wondered why he wasn’t being the man he thought he was.

*          *          *

He was healthy, ohhh so healthy. He skipped dairy and red meat and sugar. He called Oreos and MSG and aspartame poisons, and gave talks on living an enlightened life. He exercised, and said ‘om’ and ‘ah’, and breathed in the beauty of nature. He was awake and alive.

On the outside.

But he chose not to tend to his deep, to the darkness in his pond that was born when his mama neglected him and his daddy lived a shortened life. To the pain of never feeling loved. To the pain of never feeling seen. So the heavy aches, pushed down into the darkness of his deep, had no choice but to close off his heart.

And now he sits in a hospital wondering why, why his body has betrayed him.

*          *          *

When we aren’t paying attention, our subconscious Selves live our lives for us. We become wind-up toys, driven by unseen forces that live in the deep….of ourSelves.

My Wish for you this week, is that you listen to the wise hum of your deep. Maybe it’s ugly. Most likely, it hurts. But until you look at it, it will not leave. Until you see it, it will not let you go.

1.  Your subconscious Self is 95% of who you are. Honor it because it is living your life.

2.  When something hurts, listen. Don’t ignore your feelings. Feelings are there to be felt, worked through and learned from.

3.  Watch what your thoughts are. When they are negative, gently re-route them to a positive. Re-program the lies you have heard/built up about yourSelf over the years. Change your negative beliefs. See your beauty. See your light. See the love that you are at your core.

4.  Resist autopilot. Stay conscious. Ask questions of yourSelf. Stay on course with your positive beliefs. And if you can’t find them, go back up to #3.

5.  Spend less time with those who don’t feed the positive in you and more time with those who do. Water yourself with kindness and love, and treat yourself like a beautiful blossom reaching for the sun with roots in the fertile richness of your deep…a deep that shows you exactly where to grow and how to live a life you love.

Invitation: To Be Who You Are

Not a Wish this week, but an Invitation.
Not my words, but another's.
And not my choice,
..... all Yours.

Wednesday Wish (78); Quiet Enough to Hear

photo by angelia0527 via flickr

I stopped on the side of the road to pick a dandelion puff for my little girl. 

She needed a wish. 

And I was quiet enough to hear, 

eager enough to listen,

slow enough to take the time.

And when I did, we saw a dog who lived beside a sad house. He had a leash, but it was too short for the aches inside his heart. He told us so because we listened to his heart speak. So we comforted him, and his barking stopped.

While we spoke to the dog, a carload of teenagers drove toward us at high speed. I looked up before they reached us, already sensing the darkness they were leaving in their wake. I raised my arms like a question, leaning my head to the side. I invited their answer to ‘why?” with love.

The teenage driver softened his self-centeredness and slowed down, missing, by mere inches, a taxi around the corner, an older man who had stopped to drop off a client. The taxi driver grasped his heart in relief. And smiled at me.

He lit a cigarette to calm down—from the scare, from the rest of his day, from things that brought him stress. I smiled at him and asked him if he was ok. He began to tell me about his life and all the things he had seen. 

He needed to speak, to be heard, so I
honored his needs...

my daughter still blowing dandelion wishes, 

a doggie on a short leash finding the connection of care, 

and my own heart touched beyond words.

A moment becomes magic when we dare to leave our self-centeredness to listen to the beauty and the suffering around us, when we listen and watch and wait with largeness of heart. And when we do, we see the world speaks and it sparkles and it is more alive with magic…and love…than dull eyes could ever even imagine.

*          *          *

Quiet yourself enough to hear.
Be then, affected.
And honor what you hear.

Let yourself be touched by everything

... everything … 

around you. 

For when you do, you cannot help but be 

widened,

deepened, 

touched 

by the true magic of life.

Wednesday Wish (77); Share The Bluebells

photo by lenora via flickr

She lived across the field, the field with the heifers and the grass the came up to my shoulders. The same field where we hunted leprechauns and dodged cow pies. Her farmhouse was white with red. Mine was cream with green. In the wintertime, our windows had icicles on the inside and our breath begged us to pretend we were smoking. In the summertime, we told secrets in our tree fort and walked barefoot atop the fence line.

But on May Day, we all at once, came alive.

Annabelle lived on the corner in a house that wasn’t really a farmhouse, even though a farmer lived in it. She made great cookies and knew how to hug. Her voice was gentle and buoyant, and tumbled out like invisible bubbles made to tickle your skin. She was spirited and happy and made me smile even before she answered the door. Maybe that’s part of the reason why she was always our first choice for sharing May Day baskets. That, and we knew she loved flowers.

So we wove our baskets out of paper and went to hunt for the prettiest. Sometimes we found them in my mama’s garden, sometimes in Sandy’s mama’s, but no matter where, we always had a special eye for the bluebells.

“Do you think Annabelle loves bluebells like we do?”

“Yep.”

“Me, too. ’Specially since her name sounds somthin' like ‘bluebell’.”

“Wow, ya. Well then, of course she’d love ‘em like we do.”

“Does that mean I gotta like ‘sin’ since it sounds somethin’ like ‘Brynne’?”

“No silly. Sinnin’ ain’t pretty. People just gotta like things that sound like their name when they’re pretty. Like ‘grin’ for you and ‘dandy’ for me.”

“Phew. I was starting to worry.”

“Don’t worry. Just pick. The flowers need us as much as we need them.”

“Ok. Happy May Day, Dandy-Sandy.”

“Happy May Day to you, too, Grin-Brynne.”

And we went back to pickin’. With fresh smiles.

*          *          *

It’s the first of May. May Day. The day of year, in my world, where we share the gift of flowers. Not bought. But hand picked. Out of garden. From a field. On the side of the road. Or near an empty lot. It’s a day to see the beauty of a blossom and to share that joy with another. A day to feel the promise of warmer, prettier tomorrows, and a day to share that promise with someone else. It’s a day for you to pick some flowers and to share them, from your heart, with love.

Maybe with your Annabelle. Maybe with your best friend. Or maybe with a darkly dressed teen walking home from school, alone. Might you see a beggar, sitting hungry, outside the store? Could it be he that needs the beauty of a blossom the most? Has your neighbor forgotten the magic of Spring? Has your co-worker forgotten the promise of hope? Have you? Remember then. For them. For you. For all of us. Through the gift of a May Day flower.

photo by anne0 via flickr

Happy May Day, dear friend of mine.

A blue bell for your desk, 

a sparkle for your day.