Wednesday Wish (144); A Good & Kind World

photo via izismile.com via googleimages

He was angry. He was driving so closely behind me that I could see the tightness in his face, the way he kept his eyes hard, the lids more closed than open, his mouth a thin emotionless line. He gripped his steering wheel with the same tightness, his hands at the top of the circle so I could see those, too. I wondered if he was off in his imagination, fighting an unfinished fight, so I tapped my breaks. He braked, too, but without waking from his angered slumber. Instead, he moved closer still. His eyes even more determined.

The man I met on the road today was stuck in a state of being. A state of anger. And as hard as I tried to avoid it, it was starting to suck me in, too. Stop tailgating me! What is your problem? Get off my ass! I was falling. And fast. I took a deep breath.

I don’t want to be in this state.

I don’t want to feel anger.

I know the world is a good and kind place

And I know the only way to live in a good and kind world

Is to make it so, myself.

I stopped the car at the next stoplight

And I walked back to his car, to his angry eyes.

He rolled the window down.

Half way . . .

“I know you are a good man.” I said, in my most authentic and tender voice. “And I know . . . know . . . you have a good heart. But when you follow me so closely I don’t get that feeling. I feel bad. And I know you don’t mean to make me feel bad. Because you are a good man. A kind man." I reached out and squeezed his shoulder with all the love I could find in my heart. "If you want the world to be kind to you," I said, before I left, "you have to be kind to the world.” 

And do you know what he said in return?

“Bless you. Bless you. Bless you,” over and over again, his eyes looking at me with pure gratefulness, no longer tight and angry, but soft and filled with tears.

*          *          *

When the world is angry, we can join up forces and fight it off with still more anger.

Or we can take a breath and draw from our hearts, to give love to those who need it the most.

I choose to live in a good and kind world

And I know the only way to live in such a world

Is to make it so, myself.

Wednesday Wish (143); The Raging Fire . . . Within

photo by forloveofmyshadow.wordpress.com via googleimages

I shuddered. My whole body feared what lay ahead. What had I agreed to? What had I expected? How did I not know that it would hurt this much? I tried to swallow down the lump in my throat but it wouldn’t go away. I tried to blink myself somewhere else, anywhere else, just not here. But nothing changed. I was immersed. And the only way out was through.

I felt like a page in a novel, the page where the main character watches scenes from their life just before they’re going to die. I saw my mother braiding my hair on my first day of school. I saw her tears when I got on the big yellow bus, her hands clutching her heart. I saw my father teaching me how to ride a bike, and the pride in his face when I finally figured it out. I saw my brother and I on our swing under the big pine tree, and my other brother shooting road signs with his paint gun when I drove him to school. Ok, maybe I wasn’t going to die.

“It’s only a year.”

Was that supposed to comfort me? I used to complain about December 26^th being the worst day of the year because Christmas couldn’t be further away. I knew the truth. A year might not be that long for an adult, but for a kid, especially this 18 year old kid, a year stretched out to eternity.

“Thanks, Dad,” I managed to squeak out, wiping the tear away before anyone saw it.

Where was my strength? Why did I ever think it would be exciting to leave my family and everything I had ever known to live in a foreign country by myself? Where was that vision now? I looked down at my heart, a pile of broken shards at my feet.

“You can do this, honey. I know you can. And you are going to come out on the other side, too. Better, not worse. I know you will.”

I nodded, my lips sealed, my face dripping with tears.

The flight attendant asked for my boarding pass. Her hands were metal jaws. Behind her was a tunnel of raging fire waiting to consume me. One last hug from my dear mother and I would walk forward. Alone. To find what lay beyond that raging fire . . . within.

*          *          *

That’s how it always is, isn’t it? No matter how much we like to think otherwise, no matter how often it even looks otherwise, the fires we most fear aren’t outside us. The biggest monsters, the biggest fears, rage within. And until we find the courage to walk through them, we will never know what lies beyond. Beyond our limited sight. Beyond our limited emotional capacity. Beyond our limited vision for what our future might be.

Leaving my family for a year as a teenager changed me, and changed me in ways I never could have imagined. I learned that Newton’s law of every action having an equal and opposite reaction, applied to matters of the heart, too. For every time I chose to walk through my suffering, I also grew in equally uplifting and pain-free ways. That is, none of my pain was ever in vain. All of it, ultimately, grew me, expanded me, opened me in beautiful ways that nothing else ever could.

Ever since that day almost 30 years ago, I’m often reminded how important it is to continually press myself forward. Everything in nature experiences a constant state of change so why then, would we humans be any different? Why do we try to prevent ourselves from changing? Is it because we are afraid to walk through those fires? I know I still am. And I’m not even sure it gets that much easier the more I do it. But I do know that the treasures awaiting on the other side cannot be found any other way.

Change is painful. Growth hurts. But a life without them isn’t truly rich. And I would like my one wild, well-lived life to be filled with more treasures than I can possibly imagine.

Wednesday Wish (142); rEVOLution

photo via firstcontactgroundcrewteam.com

She stood behind the counter but the unhappy in her voice filled the entire post office. It was irritated, it was frustrated, it was downright angry, and there was no hiding it. It came out with such clarity and conviction that I watched as customer after customer went up to the counter like meek little mice, knowing they were about to be blasted.

And yet she didn’t look like a monster. Her dark hair was cut into a simple bob that fell just below her ears and even though her fingers moved noiselessly through the air as if longing for something that would never be, her eyes told me that her softness wasn’t far away. It just needed an invitation, a safe place to be heard.

I watched her. I listened to her. I visualized the little girl she once was and began to see that little girl hiding behind her eyes, in the angry adult she had now let herself become. I didn’t need to know why. I didn’t even blame her. We all have reasons to be angry, don’t we? I just loved her. I loved her where she was, anger and all.

And then it was my turn to approach her.

“How’re you doing?” I said as genuinely as I felt, my eyes lasers, determined to connect with her softer self.

“I’m ok,” she said, not looking at me, busy with my packages.

“I mean, really . . . I care.”

She stopped what she was doing to look up at me. For a moment she wasn’t sure how to handle me. Was I attacking her? Was I being kind? And if I was being kind, why? What did I want from her? She chose to play it safe. To remain hard. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“You know,” I said, “everyone in here is just starting their day. And you not only hold the power over their packages, you also hold the power to change their day. I guess I just want you to know you’ve already changed mine.”

Her eyebrows scrunched together and her eyes, they weren’t sure if they needed to harden or soften. “Excuse me?” She tried not to care too much for it was obviously uncomfortable for her.

“Uh huh, you have.” I leaned in so the rest of the customers couldn’t hear, “I see who you really are and I know you’re a good and kind person with a very big heart.” I paused. “You’ve reminded me how important it is to see with the eyes of love.”

She twitched her head to the side as if to stop a budding tear.

“You gave me that, you know, even in your disguise,” I said.

“My disguise?” she was trying to hide her softness now.

That’s when I smiled. Softly. And nodded. “Your disguise.”

“Thank you,” she said, after a hard swallow. “It’s been a hard week and I guess I just let it get the best of me.”

“Begin again . . . Susan,” I said, after searching for her nametag. “Be who you really are. The day is still yours.”

“Yes, it is,” she said with a soft smile. “Yes, it is.”

And together we smiled, our hearts nothing but a mess of soft happy goop, no anger in sight.

*          *          *

Anger is all around us and it threatens to engulf us if we aren’t careful. From where I stand, the only way we don’t fall prey to the things that hurt us, is to arm ourselves with love. Yep, love. And love for even the most angry and hurt of us all. Call it a revolution of LOVE. The only rEVOLution that can ever save us all.

This week I challenge you to LOVE, to love as often and with as much force as you can, both yourself and everyone around you. Everyone. Even the hardened postal worker. Overturn hardened hearts back to the softness they once were, peel away the layers piled on for protection, reassuring yourself and those around you that you and they are safe---safe to be who we all are. Be the love you need for your own optimal functioning. Be a force in the rEVOLution of love, a force to truly be reckoned with.

For if we don’t want to live in a world filled with anger and hate, then we must do something about it. We must begin our own rEVOLution of love.

Wednesday Wish (141); Forgive . . . Your Self

photo via google images by way of nathab.com

You tried. This year of 2014, you really tried. And yet still, not everything turned out the way you hoped it would. You were more conscious. You were more loving. You were even more careful and caring and creative. But still, you tripped. You fumbled. Sometimes you even fell flat on your face. And you hurt. Yourself and others. You criticized. Yourself and others. You blamed. Yourself. And others.

And why?

For different reasons.

But what if you were to distill each reason down to its essence?

You suffered because you are human. And humans are never any other perfect, than perfectly imperfect.

You are beautiful because of all your imperfections.

And every little bit of suffering you have endured is all part of the journey, all part of the plan, all part of being human.

With one caveat though, one aspect that cannot be overlooked without dire consequences for your entire life.

Lean in, listen closely . . .

You must learn to forgive.

And to forgive first --- your Self.

Forgive yourself for it all. Not some parts, just that, or this. All of it. Every last bit.

Because whatever happened this year or in years past, today is the day to forgive and tomorrow is the day to start afresh. Now is the time to accept that you are human, and that nothing can ever be more beautiful than each our own beautifully human imperfections.

Yes, even those.

*          *          *

Through suffering, we encounter growth.

Through suffering, we learn the big lessons.

Through suffering, the light finally has a way to find our deepest Selves.

From the caterpillar’s suffering to become the butterfly, to the single seed painfully stretching up through the earth to become the flower it was born to be, growth is pain transformed into beauty.

From the suffering of abandonment or abuse, to the pains endured by those we love and care about, the real lessons of life are learned through the struggles of the heart.

From the trials of unemployment or divorce, to the suffering of illness or loss, wounds are merely opportunities to let in more light.

Because

Color is the suffering of light

And wounds will always be your ticket Home

Home to your magnificent, winged Self.

A little Christmas Magic

photo via googleimages

He had always been a favorite author of mine so when I opened the finely wrapped gift on Christmas morning, my hand rushed up to cover my mouth. How did I not know he had written a new book? How did the gift giver beat me to it? I could hardly wait to be alone, to dive into this new world, to watch his words come alive, to soar with his imagination. You see, it was a particularly difficult Christmas for me. I was newly divorced, back home with my parents, and honestly, I was sad. Sad that my life wasn’t at all like I hoped it would be. But … as I would soon find out, my imagination was exactly what my spirit needed. And a new read from a favorite author? Well, that part at least, was even better than I hoped.

I tucked my legs up under myself for so long, they ached. I laughed out loud. I filled my eyes with tears. And my body, well, I’m pretty sure it lost some of its heavy emotion. And all because of one man’s gift of imagination. Thank you, dear author, I said to his picture on the back cover when I was finished reading, thank you for bringing a smile to my sad heart. And universe, if you are listening, I’d like to thank him one day in person, to tell him what a gift he has been to me this Christmas.

And just like that, I got on with the rest of Christmas.

Until the phone rang.

It was a friend of mine. She wanted to meet me for lunch the next day. At a bookstore in an out-of-the-way-town. I agreed. And hung up with yet another smile.

The next day, in a town about forty minutes away, I was browsing through books, waiting for our name to be called for an open table. I was wandering, probably daydreaming, when I looked up and saw who I thought was the author I had just read the day before, the author who had transformed my Christmas. I blink-stared. And blinked some more. He doesn’t live here. It’s the day after Christmas. He’d never be here … would he? I went to the shelf where his books lived to double check what I was seeing, the face on the back cover with this face I was seeing in person. I crept around the corner, peering as discretely as I could. It was him. It was definitely him. My heart picked up its pace. I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Excuse me, but are you Nick Bantock?”

He turned to face me with a sly smile, “I am.”

I’m sure I swallowed a big gulp of air, “I thought so. Well, there’s something you need to know.” And I proceeded to tell him how he saved my Christmas, how his words brought wings to an otherwise heavy heart. I thanked him again and again and again.

And do you know what he told me?

That earlier that day he felt a strange urge to pull off the freeway, that amidst protests from everyone else in the car, he just knew he had to stop in at the out-of-the-way bookstore in the out-of-the-way town but he didn’t know why.

And then he said, that lately, the past few months anyway, he had been doubting his worth as an author, that he wondered if anyone ever read him anymore and if he should just stop writing all together. He looked at me, talked to me, his eyes begging for answers he just couldn’t find himself.

“No, no, no!” I said. “Please keep writing. I know I am not the only one who needs your imagination. If you buoyed me, a heavy-hearted new divorcee on Christmas, I can’t possibly be the only one.” I searched his eyes. Was I reaching him? So then I said,  “You know something Mr. Nick Bantock in the out-of-the-way-bookstore on the day after Christmas? I’m a reminder from the universe to keep writing because what you do . . . is magic. And we all need magic in this world, now maybe more than ever.”

And I swear to you, right then, his eyes caught fire.

As did mine. And maybe not just my eyes. Yes, I am sure my heart did, too.

*          *          *

Ask for your heart’s desires, for the feelings, the connections, the answers you need. Ask because you know, somewhere deep inside, that exactly what you need is out there, waiting for you. For you see, Nick Bantock isn’t the only magic one. I happen to know that you are, too. You just need to believe it, for yourself, and especially this week, today . . . this Christmas.

Wednesday Wish (140); Get Un-Stuck

photo by oleg oprisco via boredpanda.com

Stuck in your morning routine.

Stuck driving the same way to work.

Stuck wearing the same things.

Stuck buying the same foods

            Cooking the same foods

            Eating the same foods.

Stuck expecting the same responses.

Stuck receiving the same ones, too.

Stuck in a relationship, in a dance you once chose.

Stuck doing the same things

            Seeing the same things

            Feeling the same things

Until you realize one thing.

You aren’t stuck.

You were never stuck.

You just forgot your wings.

*          *          *

The comfort of routine.

The ease of no surprises.

The gift of consistency.

            Of not thinking too much

            Of not feeling too much

            Of not expecting too much

The reassurance of the same.

The warmth of a lie

            That keeps you warm

            And safe

            In your sweet little cave

Until suddenly the light floods in to wake you from your deadly slumber.

*          *          *

Maybe it’s a woman and the way she shines.

Maybe it’s a man and the way he rides—the waves of life.

Maybe that light came by way of a picture

            Or a lyric

            Or a lone line in a very special book.

But that light has found you.

It has illuminated your heart’s path

Your soul’s longing

Your ache to fly fresh and new and free.

And yet you pretend you are stuck.

You show me your shackles.

You plead with me to see why change won’t work

            Why it can’t be

            Why your life is different

            Different as different can ever be.

There isn’t enough money, you say.

There isn’t an easy way.

There isn’t time

            Or space

            Or a right way.

And it will hurt.

I just know it's going to hurt!

Maybe, but . . . 

Stuck hurts most of all

For it deadens

your

Soul.

*          *          *

You wake up to tendrils of sleep dusting your body, and like a freshly baked pie, you emerge from your warm encased slumber to embrace the gifts of your new day. You smile when you think about the choices ahead because you’ve given yourself the time. The time to choose. The time to enjoy. The time to be conscious that you have the power to paint your morning, your day, your Life . . . any color you dream.

You pick the orange socks because they remind you of your favorite sherbet.

You drink the new tea to surprise your tongue. (And it works!)

You wear your hair differently because it’s fun.

And you give yourself a wink and a smile. (And mean it!)

You drive a new way to work and admire the scenery. You remind yourself that it is exhilarating to see with fresh eyes and that in order to breathe in fresh ideas you must expose yourself to new things, new people, new ways of doing . . .  and thinking about . . . the same old everyday routines.

You shock yourself. You break out of your norm. You rip off that boring old button down to reveal the true Superhero beneath. You break your own rules. You leap before the net appears. You rise up and wave your flag to show the other stuckies the way.

The Winged Way.

Because change does a soul right.

And wings . . . were meant for flying.

Wednesday Wish (139); Dream the Impossible

photo by katerina plotnikova via boredpanda.com

The table is heavily worn, its top littered with spots of peeling varnish, with stains from permanent pens and greasy foods. There are rivets from pencils and dents from toys and when she runs her fingers across its rough surface, a feeling of nostalgia overcomes her. She loves the table. No matter now ugly some might see it, she will always see its beauty.

It’s Christmas time. And every year this same woman invites her family to help her with a new jigsaw puzzle. This year it is the biggest one yet with the smallest pieces yet. And she can hardly wait to begin. She pours the pieces from the clear plastic bag and watches as they tumble onto the table. Some fall right side up. Others fall face down. She lets her fingers spread them out like sand beside the sea, the little pieces sneaking up between her fingers and tickling her just so. She smiles to herself because she might just love this part most of all. It’s when she gets to transform her table into a beauty the rest of the world can see.

“Puzzle’s here! Come play with me!”

When the first family member arrives, he looks at the pieces in astonishment. “Are you kidding me? How many pieces are there? Seriously? A million? There’s no way we can get that done before Christmas. Count me out.” And he turns and walks away.

When the second family member hears the call, she yells from her bedroom, “Nothing could get me to sit at that nasty table and nothing could ever make it un-nasty to me!”

“A million pieces?” says her husband.“I didn’t even know they made such a puzzle. Do you really have the time? I know I don’t. I’ve got other more important things to do.”

Finally the littlest family member arrives, her eyes wide with wonder, her smile lighting up the room. “A million pieces is a lot, isn’t it, Mama?”

“It is.”

“Who does a puzzle with a million pieces?”

“Dreamers do. A million pieces is a dreamer’s puzzle.”

“Are you a dreamer then, Mama?”

“I am.”

“And Mama? Am I a dreamer then, too?

“If you choose to be, darling, then you are.”

“And Mama?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Do dreamers finish puzzles or do they just dream all day long?”

“Dreamers are the only ones who finish any puzzles at all, my dear,” she says with a twinkle in her eye, “because dreamers are the only ones who know that one small act after another changes everything.”

“Even an ugly table?"

“Even an ugly table.”

*          *          *

Not everyone sees the beauty in the midst of the ugly.

Not everyone is willing to spend the time creating beauty, either.

Not everyone believes such tasks can even be accomplished.

But maybe they would if they realized that every picture is made up of a million different tiny pieces.

Pieces that matter.

Each one as much as the other.

No matter how big or small, no matter how wide or far, if our pieces are placed with kindness, with caring, with an effort to contribute to the beauty of the world, we are making a difference.

We are the dreamers.

We are the lovers.

We are those who dare to dream the impossible into reality.

We are the few who will transform the ugly into beauty.

So go ahead, dream the impossible.

I'll place my pieces while you place yours

And together we''ll transform that ugly into a beautiful reality.

Wednesday Wish (138); Open Hearts, Connect

photo via pub.uvm.dk

I went in to buy yogurt. That was all. But then I saw the scarf. It was green and blue and embroidered with colorful floral stitching. I didn’t need it. But I did need to touch it, to feel if the colors were as lovely as they looked. So I stood there, admiring it, smiling all to myself when another woman approached the same scarves. Her long hair was white. Her lips were pink. And her smile warmed every inch around her.

            “Did you see they are 25% off?” I said.

            “I didn’t!” she said with a bit of an accent. “Thank you for telling me. I have been admiring this blue one for a while now.”

            “That’s the one I would’ve chosen for you, too. It’s the perfect color for you, especially with your white hair.”

            Our conversation continued … until at last I could hold my question no longer.

            “I hear you have a bit of an accent. May I ask where you are from?”

            “Oh yes, I’m from Germany,” she said with a smile.

            “I thought you might be,” I said, “I used to live in Denmark and visited Germany a lot.”

            “Yes? Well, I grew up in Berlin. Surely you know Berlin?”

            “I do! I was there when the Wall came down.”

            “What? You were?”

            “Yes…” I hesitated as I remembered. “I can tell you what happened…”

            “Tell me. Please tell me,” she said as we stood in the grocery store, our hands reveling in the beautiful colorful fabric of our chosen scarves. “Tell me what happened in Berlin.”

*          *          *

I stood in front of a big hole in the Wall on the Western side contemplating many things as I looked through into no man’s land and to the Eastern wall beyond. The towers with the armed watchmen and their German Shepherds … the thin wires identifying what I guessed to be land mines … the white crosses showing those who tried to escape and failed, and one cross identifying an eighteen year old boy who had tried to escape just days before the Wall came down. I was cold. In every sense of the word. I was touched. I was vulnerable. And for a few moments I was alone with my thoughts.

A West German police officer with a machine gun approached me. I stepped back to let him pass. It was clear that he was patrolling to make sure no one from the Western side would try to enter into no man’s land. And then something happened that I will never forget. Just as he reached the hole in the Wall on the Western side, an East German police officer reached the same hole, on his side, on the edge of no man's land. Both held machine guns. Both were German. Both looked through the Wall that separated them with wide-eyed shock.

And then one man, I can’t remember which, stretched out his arm to shake hands.

And all those years of being strangers, of being sometimes even enemies, fell away. Suddenly they were just two human beings letting their hearts, connect.

*          *          *

Twenty-five years later, Elsa and I found tears in our eyes—two strangers

in a grocery store touched by the beauty of connection … theirs … and ours.