Honor Thy Self

...and then the day came

when the risk to remain

tight in a bud

was more painful than

the risk

it took to

blossom.

Anais Nin

Yesterday I Met a Cocoon

Yesterday I met a cocoon...

Outside. Hidden between the flowers. It trembles.

It aches to shed its layers, to free its newly created wings, to release the butterfly within. This cocoon, its crafted well. Weather-resistant, camoflaged, protecting its precious cargo, its treasured, unborn child. I watch it from my room, holding my baby girl, my body warm, my spirit filled to overflowing.

Yesterday I met a cocoon...

Inside. Hidden beneath my skin. It trembles.

What are these layers that keep my wings tucked away, that keep me safe and nurse my silly fears? Where do i, I, wish to fly and why do i, I, not let mySelf free?

Yesterday I met a cocoon...

Within. Hidden behind your eyes. It trembles.

It aches to shed its layers, to free its newly created wings, to release the butterfly within. This cocoon, its crafted well. Weather-resistant, camoflaged, protecting its precious cargo, its treasured, unborn child. I watch you from a distance, honoring your heart, my eyes teary with hopeful joy.

A Gentle, Healing Connection

He came to me in his prison scrubs, a fire orange jumpsuit, shackles around his feet and hands. He made his way down the hallway, chains clanging against the stone floor as the officers brought him to my office. My door was open.

“You ready for him?”

I nodded to the officer's tough, tight face.

The inmate stepped in the doorway, his head bowed, his hands cuffed and locked against his waist. He could have been praying.

“Come in, have a seat.” I got up to close the door.

“You sure you don’t want to leave it open?” said one of the officers. “He isn’t real nice.”

“Thanks, but I’m not worried about him. We’ll be just fine.” I closed the door without seeing his reaction.

“Why’d you call me?” he said as he sat down in the cold plastic chair.

“I wanted to see if I could help.” I said, as genuinely as I felt.

“With what?” I could see his body loosen ever so slightly.

“With you. How are you, A_?”

That was when he finally looked up at me with eyes I will never forget. Big, as intense and dark as the deepest sea, swirling with ache and fear and a desperate need for affection. He smiled. Raw. Like a seven year old told he was the smartest boy in class. And that was it. I had broken through.

* * *

A few days later at the same camp (State Prison) I was making my way back to my office from Medical where I filed my reports. I liked to cross the yard when Count was called because that was the only time all the inmates had to stay glued to their beds, not getting up until every inmate was accounted for. This time, however, it went faster than usual and suddenly over the loudspeaker, Count was cleared.

From one of the dormitories came an avalanche of inmates, their path coming straight for me. I was a twig in danger of being snapped and obliterated. But somehow, I kept my cool as I put my hand on the metal of the door knob knowing I would be safe in a mere second. I was wrong.

The door was locked. I tried it again, thinking I was imagining things. No, it was indeed locked. I knocked as confidently as I could, knowing the inmates smelled fear like a dog in heat, preying on it with sick humor. I was going to be ok. I was going to be ok. I was going to be ok.

A group of inmates started to crowd around me. I was in the middle of a huddle. They didn’t say anything just pressed in tighter and tighter, how many men deep I didn’t dare imagine. Suddenly, A_ squeezed through to stand beside me. He took those eyes and looked at me straight through, this time the kindness running the other direction.

“Don’t worry, Miss Brynne. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you. I got you.” He looked around at the others, giving them a look that only he could, brewing a smile deep within me that took almost everything I had, to hide.

And right then, the door opened.

* * *

We are all wounded inside in some way or other.

We all carry unhappiness within us for some reason or another.

Which is why we need a little gentleness and healing from

One another. Healing in words, healing beyond words.

Like gesture. Warm gesture. Like friendship, which will always

Be a mystery. Like a smile, which someone described

As the shortest distance between two people.

Ben Okri, from the poem

“Healing The Wounded Learner

or the Pygmalion Complex”

My Valentine's Day Gift for You...Hope that you dare to free your Creative Self

Yummy Poof!

Got the Sunday blues? Try this for breakfast or brunch with butter and powdered sugar and watch your mood change. Some people call it a Dutch Baby but I call it a Poof. Watch it rise up like a soufflé then fall as it cools. Introduced to me when I was a little girl by the Angevines and its still one of my all time favorites!

Poof

3 eggs

½ cup milk (any kind)

½ cup flour

½ teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons butter, melted

Preheat oven to 450F (230C) degrees. Butter a soufflé dish or any other high-sided oven safe dish. Whisk eggs in a medium sized mixing bowl. Whisk in milk. Slowly whisk in flour and salt. Add melted butter, whisk until smooth and immediately add to buttered soufflé dish. Bake at 450F for 15 min. Turn oven down to 350F (180C) and bake for another 10. Eat when its hot and poofy!

A reminder of the important things in life

Spirits are Real

Not before or since. Such clarity was breathtaking. Almost unheard of. The moment will forever be emblazoned into my memory. And while my body trembled with the sight of it all, I felt an odd sense of peace. Peace, and the knowing that one day I'd be compelled to share….publicly.

I was at school working on my Masters from The Institute of Transpersonal Psychology. We were in the cafeteria at the Mercy Center in Hillsborough, California, a nunnery converted into an all-girl’s high school and retreat center. The floor was a cold white tile, the walls white, too. Windows graced one side with views of the sparse winter trees that seemed to shiver in the cold. I am sure I shivered along side them.

I sat with seven or eight women at a circular table as we ate our lunch. Nothing fancy, probably soup and a simple sandwich and tea. Maybe Chai. Definitely not Earl Grey.

Someone asked Wendy a question. Seemingly innocuous but as it turned out, anything but. Wendy started to speak but faltered. She looked away and down. We stopped eating, or I did, when I realized she was suffering. That’s when it happened.

As I sat there at my round table with classmates surrounding me and dear Wendy troubled with what she needed to say, I watched as first one face then another, materialized, formed like smoke into two wispy but distinctive shapes. The first moved to Wendy’s forehead, kissing it with delicate precision. The second moved in closer, toward her mouth. Was it kissing her? Was I losing it? How could I be seeing this? Wendy heaved in a big breath, her shoulders rising before she launched into sharing that which pained her. It wasn’t kissing her. It was giving her air, strength to speak her truth.

I didn’t hear her words. I don’t remember anything except that which I saw. That, and the trembling in my bones.

When lunch was over and we were to return to workshops, I found Wendy in the hall. Could I tell her what I saw? Who else could I share it with? Wasn’t she the safest? I decided to take the risk, no, I had no choice. I couldn’t keep it to myself.

“I’m not surprised, Brynne,” she said. “I asked for help, for strength to share, and suddenly I had it. I didn’t know where it came from, but now I do,” she said to me with tears in her eyes, rubbing my trembling shoulders, comforting my deep, exploring eyes. “Do not doubt what you saw. I felt what you saw. It was real.”

Did I think I made it up? Of course. But my doubt in what I saw didn’t last long. It is difficult to deny what your eyes see, what your body senses, even in the face of what the majority says is impossible.

Spirits are real, she says with conviction. Now you know why.

Leaves of Love

Percy counted 37.

From her first bite of toast to her last sip of tea. 37.

That’s it, she said to Zach, I’m cutting it down.

Zach didn’t look happy but he didn’t bark or whimper or whine when she went to fetch the saw.

This tree is a nuisance. Its not even Winter and it drops more leaves than any tree I’ve ever met.

Percy marched over to the tree, put the saw on the ground and her hands on her hips.

You’re a nuisance. No amount of water is ever enough. You still drop too many leaves.

Just then, one fluttered to the ground.

See what I mean! Percy kept fussing.

Zach picked up a leaf.

He walked over to Percy.

What Zach? Can’t you see I’m…

Percy hadn’t noticed before. She was so busy fussing she forgot to see.

The ground. It was covered in leaves. But not any old leaves. These leaves were hearts.

Percy felt ashamed. She was old but not yet wise.

She watched as Zach went over to the tree.

What are you doing Zach, said Percy.

That’s when Zach gave the tree a hug.

And the leaves stopped falling.

That’s all you need, said Percy to the tree, a hug? So Percy gave the tree a hug. A great big love-filled, I’m sorry for fussing, hug.

And the leaves still didn’t fall.

So Percy looked up.

And around.

And inside.

And she saw love. Everywhere.

Everywhere.

The Magic of Defining One's Self

I once heard a story about Marilyn Monroe walking with a dear friend in New York City. The two had been walking a few blocks when the friend turned to Marilyn, perplexed.

I’m confused.

About what Honey, said Marilyn.

You’re Marilyn Monroe and not a single person has even seemed to notice you.

Oh, you want people to notice me?

Within seconds heads turned, people asked for autographs, car windows rolled down to gape, the two women didn’t have another second alone.

So what happened? She didn’t run home to change her clothes. She didn’t fix her hair or add more makeup. She didn’t even say a single thing. So what was it? What changed?

* * *

I passed that way every day for almost a month. But this day was different. And only partly because I had just woken up from a forbiddenly decadent siesta in my dreamy little Mexican town. That was only the start of it.

I breathed in the scent of freshly baked muffins mixed with the salty sand and sea just as a friend waved to me from inside the café.

Hey, Brynne! There’s someone I want you to meet!

I snuck around the low cement wall to see her sitting across from a man with happy, sparkling eyes.

Hi Brynne. Marcelo. His hand outstretched to meet mine.

Now I think its fair to say I didn’t exactly see sparks but I did feel an enormous smile open up somewhere deep inside me, and so big that it could have swallowed someone whole if they got too close.

Hola Marcelo. Nice to meet you. I beamed.

And that was that. The connection was born and I was forever changed.

Life was good. Better than good. We explored secret ocean coves, ate glorious meals, sang songs, danced and cried and laughed our hearts out. For years.

But after awhile I began to start to feel bad about the fact that Marcelo never told me I was beautiful. Now this may seem trivial to some, but to me it wasn’t. I was used to men telling me I was beautiful. Not many, but at least the few I had dated. And especially if I had gotten dressed up for a nice dinner, they always complimented me with a nice adjective. But Marcelo, not once. So finally one night when I was home alone, I had had enough. I wanted to feel beautiful and realized I was never going to hear it from the man I loved. I crumbled into a heap on the bed.

It was then it dawned on me.

All my life I had let others tell me about myself. And not just tell me, but define me. If someone told me I was beautiful, I was. If someone told me I was funny or smart or thoughtful, I was. If they told me I was mean or rude or impossible, well then, I was probably those things, too. So then, since Marcelo had never told me I was beautiful, did that mean I wasn’t? Wasn’t I acting that way? How ridiculous!

The very thing I had struggled with for so long was suddenly an opportunity for me to see myself more clearly. So right then and there I decided I was beautiful. Not when someone else told me so, but when I told myself. And as far as I was concerned, that was going to be every day from there on out.

* * *

Marcelo?

Yes, Brynne?

Do you ever think I’m beautiful?

Of course I do. All the time.

Well, next time you do, could you tell me so?

Ah… Brynne?

Yes?

You’re beautiful.

But his words, when I finally did hear them, the words I had even ached for, didn’t define me. They were just a delightful bonus—the icing on a cake I had already made for myself.

* * *

We seem to forget that we define ourselves. We are who we believe ourselves to be, which means that we each have our own incredible power. Like Marilyn, we can decide to be seen or not seen. Like me, beautiful or not beautiful. Contrary to how it may feel sometimes, no one else decides these things for us. We decide them for ourselves. When we see others who have mastered this—like Marilyn—it may seem like magic. And in a way it is. But it’s a magic we all possess. We just forget to use it.

What begs you to Discover?