Messages

Life interrupted-
it happened today.
Deliberately pausing
my agenda in a way
that was so reassuring.
brought a smile to my face.
To gaze at butterflies
in pursuit at the time
and the place…
of my existence.

Yesterday's message
came by way of a penny.
At first, didn't notice,
being busy with many
things on my mind.
And today the same thing.
Different place, not surprising to find
for I was standing outside of my bank.
It could have been taken by some body else.
Now whom do I humbly thank?

Every now and again,
I am touched by great love.
It connects and reminds me,
that below and above me,
is the realm and the destiny
which my soul will embrace.

The messages will continue
through time and through space-
to encourage and comfort,
to empower and embrace,
to reveal my truth,
to share it's power.
and there shall be
no definitive hour of my earthly demise.

For the universe, of which I am apart
is endless and forgiving.
All the more reason
to look forward to living

One message at a time.

Self Reunion

I'm experiencing a strange emotion.  You'd think at my age there would be few unexpected mind versus heart conflicts, but I can't help feeling I'm in the wrong place at the right time.

Loss is not temporary.  It lies deep within the soul and is triggered when revisiting the places where ghosts hold the key to unlock memories.

Memories come quickly, all at once. There is scarcely time to breathe between them…and then they're gone and I am left depleted and unrecognizable. I am changed.

I knew that my visit home would be a balancing act. An opportunity existed and the timing was perfect.
"Me time" was all I could think about.  I needed it, I deserved it.

When reunited with my brother at the airport, I just burst into tears and knew something was about to
redefine who I was and the person I would become.  Just knew it, couldn't explain it and didn't make any attempt to avoid it.

I have been holding my breath apparently.  Last time I remember purposeful breathing was at Dad's funeral.  I had to remain composed and give the eulogy.  I had to remain calm and ensure all the attendees were comfortable, fed and properly thanked.

Life changed then for the second time.  Mom died eight years prior.  I was exhausted following her death and looking back, never really stepped out of the grief.

I retraced the paths to all the highlights of my younger years. Sometimes the paths had been untouched by time. It was joyful.  Other times, there was no tangible evidence of my ever having been there.  It was disbelief.  How could parts of my life disappear?  I felt betrayed.

I do not embrace change. I am in an uncomfortable evolution; living a parallel life with my memories. I exist on one plane and my truth exists on the other.  How do I combine my selves and stop the competition?

The answer is the 40th parallel; that imaginary line runs east and west in the city of my youth.  I grew up quarter-mile south of it.  Guess the real me never really left for I found myself still lingering there in the virgin prairie meadows at the base of the Rocky Mountains. I heard the morning song of the Western Meadowlark. Well, my heart heard them for they are extinct in my home town now.

I don't understand why my soul remained without the outer shell. Have I been living a lie?

I am not sure.

Walking hand in hand with my former self, I wondered what I was thinking of leaving such a beautiful place.  Who's hand dealt the cards? Who's the responsible one? Me? Choices and consequences...that would be my guess.  I'll leave the choices (formerly presented) part to the universe,..to that continuation of my soul's journey.  The consequences?  Well, that's undetermined.

I am not easily victimized, must be that capricious nature I was gifted. So perhaps lessons learned will tilt the scale in my favour.

The reunion with family presented an opportunity to learn and appreciate those who had been estranged from me for such a long pause.  The new memories danced around old ones and helped to solidify my longing to return there. This was not a sentimental journey.  It was the catalyst for my survival...on my terms.

The emotions which I had suppressed burst through the layers of years of living elsewhere. I had lunch with myself in the same place I had taken Dad to celebrate his birthday.  Sat in the same place and ordered the same meal.  I cried in my salad.  I visited an art gallery and stood reverent at the base of original art which spoke to me of the pristine beauty of the solitary Aspen tree.

The conversations, laughter, and tears shared with loved ones, filled me to capacity; so much so, that I could not eat.  Had I had the presence of mind and no fear of possible embarrassment, I would have spun myself in the middle of some field with arms stretched wide singing the theme song from The Sound of Music...the Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music,,tra la la.

I left me there again for life does not wait upon dreams.  I have obligations and situations which must be resolved before my final reunion.

That day is coming.  I am telling you now just in case you turn around and I'm not here.  I'll leave a map and if you knew me at all, you'll not be in need of directions.

The New Normal

Yesterday, I got a glimpse of my future and it looks a lot like the present day of the much older lady, in perm rods two stations down from me, at the local college of beauty.

The last month has been a constant daily out of body experience; desperately trying to reinvent my self in readiness for a family reunion. The internal conversation, in my head,  has been dominated by the two strongest voices ego and denial. I can't remember when either appeared in that cerebral conference room but I'm guessing that ego has been in residence much longer.

I don't follow theological dogma; couldn't recite the ten commandments but I do have a basic understanding of the golden rule and try to pay every kindness forward.  My ego would be in agreement with that last statement. Living with intent…to put another"s needs ahead of mine has been the fuel which directs my feet as soon as they hit the floor.

My outer self has been neglected recently and that's no one's fault.  Life just gets busy. Competition for a glimpse in the bathroom or hallway mirrors is now between the under 25 crowd in my house.  I don't know, for certain, if the cats or dogs participate in this ritual.  They might, given I'm always cleaning every reflective surface in their wing of the house. Furthermore, I don't need to check myself in a mirror as much these days, the clothes are hung in coordinated pairings and shoes are mostly neutral so they go with everything.

My wardrobe is functional; I don't seem to mind.  My focus is on the task at hand rather than my appearance completing said task.  I am who you see and that was working very well until...

I realized I needed a vacation; on my own terms, by myself and I chose to go home. So I called my brother and invited myself to stay a week. Then I thought, well, I'll be within a couple hundred miles of my in laws, so why not extend a couple of days and include a visit with them.

That's all I could dream about a month ago.  All the details soon fell into play and now I'm just days from going.

I'm excited to go, my imaginary suitcase is packed and I just realized that my relatives remember what I used to look like.  The last vision they had was at my father's funeral and the tearful goodbye at the airport.  I was all in black, eyes red and teary, no makeup and exhausted having to take the red eye back.  My husband and children did not accompany me.  Didn't want them to. It was a very private affair.  I had just seen Dad two weeks earlier in his hospital bed and knew then that he was not long for this world.

Well, fast forward, as I stated earlier life gets busy. I have so many things to tell everyone.  A week's stay hardly seems time enough to share a decade's worth of living.

Re introductions, swapping stories and hurried memory making will all pass in the blink of an eye.  There will be photographs taken at inopportune moments and now my ego is waning and denial has me in a panic. I really don't look like this…DO I?

I had my bff on speed dial and sent her a message that I was en route to have my hair done. "Did she think a new style would be flattering"?  I followed that question with a personal observation:  I am so vain. Her reply: " You are normal".  Since when? lol " Well, there are aspects of you that are normal and I'm always surprised to see them".

My "denial" voice interrupts to inform me that my veneer has been penetrated. That the truth of the matter is I long for a change; something to get excited about, something to get me out of the comfortable rut I have been living in.  Well a family reunion might just be the incentive I need.

Okay, I'm normal. Hoping that her definition was not "free of mental deficiency" and rather, "conformity to a standard" or "usual", I began to relax. Nothing to be in a panic over.
It's just nerves. Silly really. I'm unchanged where it counts but just in case, my new hair do and an occasional glance in the mirror will help me celebrate the new normal me.

Gray Scale

I am just sitting here wondering about my life at this juncture and the details which define it. When did my life slide from the endless combinations on the color wheel to a palette of monochromatic tones?

It wasn't' planned that way.  I've been reading my mother's diaries and her descriptions of me, spanning 31 years of our journey, were never neutral. She didn't leave out any details and I'm embarrassed to read what she really thought.  Who was I then?  Who am I now?

It's all there in black and white and occasionally red and white (on the occasion of Christmas, when using a red ink pen was her tradition).  I've just started this review and completed three and one-half years, not in chronological order, but rather gathering volumes from the peanut packed box my brother sent me two years ago.  There's really no order, I suppose my father packed them away sometime between 1988 and 2003 after she died and he remarried.

Anyone who knows me now would wonder why I haven't organized the books in some logical timeline reference.  Don't know really, maybe I have decided to allow the universe to determine what I read and when.  There must be some point to it, I don't believe in chance. So on I go, sweeping away the styrofoam peanuts and old newspaper liners to rediscover me in layers.

I'm grateful for my second chance.  It is really because now I understand what events formed our relationship.  I understand the circumstances which formed her opinions of me.  Should I have had this insight when she was living, I'd be a far different woman now. Certainly, I would have learned empathy at an earlier age.

All the colorful, descriptive, accurate accountings of half of my life are now in my possession. I am discovering my truth through the eyes of the one person I didn't get to know.  Such a loss.

The pages flow in a poignant pattern of facts and emotional upheaval.  She was really not well prepared for the maternal role which was not entirely her decision.  She was barren due to a major surgery which weakened her back muscles from hip to shoulder.  My dad, having come from a large family of 6, wanted to carry on the family name.  My cousins, notwithstanding, apparently were not doing a good job of preserving the name, so as the youngest of 4 to marry, he took on the challenge.

My brother and I were adopted, three years nine months apart and from different states. Mom was raised by a single parent without the benefit of siblings.  She must have been overwhelmed when I came along.

So the years came and went, page by page.  Scattered recipes, poems, and obscure unidentifiable newspaper clippings are among the diary entries.  The address section changes annually and I don't remember the names, but it wasn't my diary.

Some of her memories are the same as mine, exactly the same down to the description of what I wore on what occasion and lists of gifts received for every birthday, holiday, commencement, etc. Funny, how those details are carbon copies. But then again, they were happy times.

The entries, I don't want to read, but are drawn to, are those which reveal the darker side of who she was and how hard she tried to cope.  I am finding that she was ill for many, many years before the cancers appeared.  She struggled to be that perfect faculty wife for my dad.  They were always attending conferences, at least he was and she had frequent opportunities to travel with him.  Back then, a wife on the arm did much for a man's chances of success in the corporate world.

I am constantly surprised with each turn of the page as to how she remembered to include such details as my lessons, temperature, and duration of fevers when I was sick, cost of my braces and payment schedule, names and addresses of all my friends and lovers, gifts that I gave her and telephone calls she eavesdropped.  It's all there; part journalistic and part confessional.

The written words are very colorful, but then she had a fine arts background so details consumed her. They were prominent in her wardrobe and her interior decorating, her Christmas cookies and her 700 plus elephant collection.  As room mother, her abilities to throw together classroom parties were without rival and she was a very popular volunteer in all things I was involved in.

My life was perfect. My life was a prism which reflected who she wanted me to be.  She did pretty well and then she died. She died weeks before my wedding. We planned it, together, from her hospice bed.

And that was the last chapter, I took over my life without her safety net. And just like her, my foray into motherhood was a leap of faith.  And now…

All the details are blurry because I did not keep a diary.  I don't have many memories, didn't think to chronicle my life from that day to this.  But, it's not all about me, actually, it never was.

The grayness of my life comes at a time when the contribution is parallel to the energy of the soul.
I have the energy for sustenance and opportunities which the younger me would have needed help to navigate. All is well, a little less colorful to be certain, but well just the same.

Conflicted

If you haven't tuned your radio dial to NPR recently, you're missing out.  I mean the topics covered rival all printed material bundled together worldwide.  It's an amazing journalistic accomplishment which keeps me apprised, enthralled and in step with local and world events.

 I don't subscribe to the printed or online editions of newspapers, magazines, blogs or what have you.  I don't own an iPod, iPad, tablet, Bluetooth, Apple watch or curved HD television.  And yet, I survive.  My kitchen appliances are mostly second hand and the recipes which have been passed down don't need changing because the new and improved appliance is incapable of just whisking or stirring or sifting.

And now…I have learned that my last physical day on earth will not be my release. Techno-blunder. The memory of my earthly existence will not only remain with the living but my ashes will not absolve the universe from an eternal digitized unauthorized biography. I do not own, outright, the legal right to terminate my cumulative digital images and thought processes.   Unless I opt for my electronic signature on some document (an apparent option within my chosen social media account)-WHICH I DO NOT OWN, YOUR images and written accountings of MY life will be FOREVER preserved in the cloud. The retrieval of any and all digital likenesses will be left to the thoughtful executor of my vast estate.

Yes, I am conflicted and really pissed off.  Do I need technology to chronicle my contributions?  Oh hell no.

I am trying not to leave a legacy.  You can't find me on any of the more popular social media pages.
Go to google search and try.  I'm not easily located unless you know my family tree and then you'd just have to be satisfied to read that my name appeared in the obituaries of three close family members.  I suppose my high school yearbook is downloaded, but that was me before me and I really don't care.

There are, of course, attempts to detail my existence through public records, but again, that search is akin to a paper doll likeness; no real depth.  Nothing tantalizing, not even sufficient content for a grade school report on "your favorite person". My latest photograph is on my driver's license.

I never scrapbooked, didn't keep my own school pictures and my children's school pictures are in their possession. I am not the caretaker of the family history.

Well back to my tirade.

My life is chugging along, somewhat predictably and there is little fight left in my soul.  I don't want excitement.  I'd rather a quiet revelation, nothing to cause ripples against the shore.  Just let it be, John Lennon.

I heard a quote today on that favorite radio station, during their broadcast of the TED Radio Hour.  "The digital world cannibalizes time".  We are existing in string theory; real-time AND that experience which defines coexistence at your convenience.  Delayed tapings, texts which interrupt the moment, replays and such are tools which we think are necessary in order to extend the twenty-four hours which used to regulate our daily life.

Pair that with all those free-floating, in the cloud images of yourself and try to live your own life without commentary.  Not possible.

Footnote:  My husband just offered his understanding of this article thus far and said: "You are pissed off because you are not author to your own biography." THAT'S EXACTLY RIGHT. The possible imagery out there redefines me. It's a manipulation. It's catfishing on steroids.

I am trying so hard to gain a new perspective on how my life affects the universal energies…and now this.

I don't want my soul's journey to navigate the highlights and lowlights of this particular timeline. If my purpose is still undefined, let me continue in the shadows without reflection, without pausing to consider the "what ifs". And to that end…

I give full permission for all who own images of me, to release them into the universe. Give me the freedom to create and allow my gift to light the path I am on.

There will be no grave marker on that final day.  After the fireworks, my remains will fodder a young white birch sapling, high in the mountains of Colorado.  Come there to find me when the Aspens turn and know that I am with you. Preserve the reunion in your heart, where memories belong.

Energy field

I am. You are. She/He is. They are. We are all energy fields or part of one. I learned this today.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life kind of day.  It didn't start that way.  Slept in, showered,  and ticked away the minutes to my first appointment with a Reiki Master/intuitive who had been recommended.

Thinking that I would blend in and not seem so obviously out of place, I wore my hippy dippy outfit, (long skirt and over blouse), all tie dyed in the red orange color family.  Wore shoes with no socks.

Comfortable but nervous, I filled out the requisite paperwork; a little bit health history, a little bit work history and a little bit why was i here.  Did I want a massage, a reading, a reiki healing session, all three?  Essential oils or not?

The other client in the waiting room had her feet in a foot bath with wires attached to some monitoring device and as I sat there, the water turned brownish green.  There was a color chart, but I couldn't read it upside down. A therapist came over and said "definitely kidneys…but there is some white over here.
I'll check back in a few minutes".

OMG, I hoped the white was good news.  The woman belonging to the feet didn't seem anxious.  Not my business anyway, but when my name was called, I was glad to leave the area just in case what ever it was was contagious.

I followed my Reiki Master into a quite room. A couple of chairs, massage table, a small round side table and soft messages of encouragement on paintings and plaques rounded out my first impression of the confined space.  Over head there were task lights suspended over the massage table and night light looking lamps scattered here and there. Everything I had hoped for and nothing to discourage an outpouring of my soul.  That's why I booked her. I need release, not diagnosis.  But too early to tell.
I am not a participant in anyone's health care plan.  I have the option, but choose not to inundate myself with unnecessary preventative care.  When I'm dead, the inordinate amount of wasted time in waiting rooms and exam rooms and laboratories will be a non issue, so I am forging ahead with the belief that obstacles will be encountered and resolved within the universal energies of which I am a part.

She sat and invited me to sit and remove my shoes.  "We'll just chat a while" she said.  Okay, it's obviously my turn to tell her all about me. So, off I went on a short autobiography of what I thought she needed to know.

Stress, anxious, migraines, no PCP, control issues, feeling alone (no biological roots)….I was mid sentence and she said "How's your vision?"  "20/20, had both cataracts removed in 2006f" I replied.  She said, "Your migraines are your escape.  You call them up to get away.   I see great whirling energies at your head.  And your heart is empty,  There is a place for it, but it's empty.  Tell me why".

I was stunned. No heart?

As the session continued, I was asked to respond to questions with a physical non verbal response.
She positioned my fore finger and thumb  together to replicate the "ok" sign, then told me to resist her attempt to open the ring which had been formed between them. She whispered questions and then attempted to pull thumb from finger. If my answer was "no", she would not be able to break the ring. She asked the questions, but they were not audible to me. Every answer was the same.   She couldn't break the grip. Well, at least I had conviction…

Theta healing followed and being fully in the present moment, I closed my eyes as she began the laying of hands. Questions flowed and the focus became the movement of energy from my head to my heart.
Compassion was missing.  How could that be?

She assured me that I was safe and that this overwhelming emotion was the manifestation from an unresolved childhood trauma. I don't remember any trauma. "I will invite well being and calm.
They are here". Who are here? "The angels".

And then the revelation…self compassion.  Deserving compassion from others. I had been on a one way street; taking care of others, being compassionate and sensitive to their needs and believing my purpose was cerebral; to solve, to fix, to inspire.

I am empty. My truth brought tears streaming and breathing came in heavy sighs  She counseled me to inhale and exhale as if a small coffee cup straw was my tool.

Time to listen, time to release.  I focused on the background music. Kept eyes closed.  The laying of hands was purposeful and strong.  "Think of waiting for a present, a very special present arriving now. The delivery was at my door, I must open my door. I have too many deadbolts on my door. 

Her hands did not move, she did not relent. One on my head and the other over my heart. Her breathing was intense, steady and deep. In my mind's eye, the brick and mortar facade of my house changed to a wooden framed building with no door, no glass windows and the draperies were sheer and caressed the breeze.

My energy fields shifted, the tension I had brought with me remained in some universal black hole.

Think of a glass full of water.  Pour more water in the glass to overflowing and realize that the new water remains.  Think of driving on a straight road towards the horizon and ignore the side roads and intersections.  Just concentrate on reaching that furthest point.  If you can visualize these examples, you will begin to understand the metamorphic transformation which occurred  in my body today.

She repeated the exercise with my thumb and fore finger.  Same questions asked, but this time, I released.  Each time she tapped my hand, she asked me to say "yes".  I said "yes" and my finger sprang from my thumb (this was my physical being saying "yes").

My energies are far from being in alignment. There is more work to do.  I am open to change, well at least as far down as my shins.  I'm not ready to put my two feet in that bath of water...

Completion

I just can't believe it.  She said "You look just like her".

Well, it's just about damn time...

My neighbor had stepped in to offer suggestions regarding the restoration of my mother's portrait. She is a portrait artist and I felt her expertise would send me in the right direction. I had discovered recent cracking in the seventy year old framed treasure, which hangs on a wall of my conservatory.

The relocation of it from the family room to the more private wing of the house was done on a whim several months ago. The portrait had been one of the collection of oils in the family room.  It was among dissimilar large originals, mostly landscape. But the pairing of it with an antique mahogany
desk was well proportioned and gave it prominence on the longest wall of the room.  Fifteen years residence in the same location was long enough.

I remember it all throughout my life; in my early years, hanging in the formal living room of my childhood home. It was commissioned by my grandmother.  My mother was twenty six.  The artist was very well known in the Green Bay area and that's all I remember except that the artist gave mother more exposed shoulder area than my grandmother would have preferred…

It's still radiant, the colors have not faded. She remains youthful with her red hair and bright green eyes.
There is no smile, however and that makes me wonder what her life was all about in 1947.

I suppose the excitement of newly married life and the move across the nation from Wisconsin to Washington was overwhelming for an only child of a single parent.  I can't know and I can't remember her sharing the details with me.

Her life sidestepped from bride to mother through a private adoption agency twice by the time she was 38. I don't know many of those details either.

As my brother and I grew up, we were introduced to relatives and eventually began to understand that a person's origins had nothing to do with the family tree.  Genealogy was certainly a factor, but there were both my name and my brothers name on the branch just below mom and dads so there was no arguing the point.

We had titles: daughter, son; sister, brother; granddaughter, grandson, cousin, etc. Eventually, we traveled to meet the "tribe" and that served many purposes; mostly solidifying  that we belonged right where we were.

It all changed when my parents passed.  The definitive moment being the funeral of my father.
The relatives did not come, excepting a second cousin.  A scattering of former neighbors and business associates were in attendance.  My father was the last surviving of the original four siblings. Mother had passed 15 years before.

After the grave side service, I sat alone on the front porch of my brother's house. The head of my family was dead. I was an orphan at age 49.

Change of mindset was almost instantaneous; almost freeing. I now belonged to that group of anonymous persons who could flow through time with no connection, no baggage, no labels. And so, that was me for most of the last decade.  I separated from the holiday card tradition and the birthday phone call group because those people were no longer welcome to my life.  It was nobody's business, where I was and what my children were doing.  I am still void of social media. Spontaneity is my friend and anonymity my calling card.

However…

Never having that biological name-tag can be overwhelming at times in a society which mandates group identity.No family reunions to bequeath to my children. They will have to research on their own if their future endeavors require the support of familial ties.

Strange that someone who has just met me (existing in that vast category of acquaintances) would sense unity between the ghost in the portrait and me. How is it that I could possibly resemble all the qualities which endeared my mother to me. My outer self is apparently a reflection of her inner soul.

Where I sit, I can look in the mirror, hung on the wall opposite her portrait, and realize that for a time, (thirty three years to be exact), I was hers. My identity sculpted and perfected within her heart ; for I was very much wanted.

The portrait is a visible clue as to my legacy.  I will search and find the one to restore it's fragile surface.
It will hang on the wall and keep me company and remind me that I am all I can be.  I completed her destiny and she is still completing mine. I had a wonderful beginning, the rest is up to me.