Month: December 2018

Commitment – Day Fifty

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Commitment

OK, I’ll admit it. I’m pretty much phoning this one in.

I’m nursing a slight headache, I was a little brought down by yet another day full of low hanging clouds and relentless rain, and this is my fiftieth consecutive post!

Actually, that last part makes me smile.

I’m glad I’m sitting up here on my bed, with but minutes to spare before the ball drops and 2019 begins, and I’m writing this.

I find it fascinating that I feel so connected to you; and I do feel that there is a ‘you’ at the other end of this post. There are eyes reading these words. And I’m intrigued by this relationship I feel we’re cultivating.

If I didn’t feel something, I wouldn’t be sitting up here all by myself, writing this. But I’m not all by myself, am I?

Thank you for supporting me energetically and otherwise over the past fifty days.

I’d like to invite each one of you to join me in some form of devotion to yourself in 2019. Maybe contemplate not giving something up as you enter this new year, but rather bringing something in, instead.

Turning off the television and reading for an hour before bed every night.

Keeping a journal and writing at least one page (and preferably three – wink wink), every day.

Drawing or taking a photograph with your phone every single day to document your joy.

Realizing you are loved. And appreciated. Even if it is ‘only’ by yourself.

Thank you for walking beside me. I look forward to 2019 – together.

(T-1061)

Doing the Grunt Work – Day Forty Nine

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Doing the Grunt Work

I’m afraid this second-to-last post in 2018 is dismally pedestrian. But necessary.

I spent the day today doing the grunt work I spoke of yesterday, only today was the piece by piece examination, recycling, and, when necessary, shredding. I’m astonished by the volume of paper I’ve purged.

I only have about three short piles left to examine in this fashion, and tomorrow is my deadline.

I’ll confess: the stuff of Karl’s, I’ve saved (euphemistically, at least) for tomorrow. And I’m not going to beat myself up over any of it. If I need to save half a dozen file folders for a couple more years – or thirty – or 100 – so be it.

Purging My Old Hats

Instead, I’ve been engrossed in reliving my work lives at the two institutions prior to devoting the vast majority of my time to my shamanic practice.

It’s amazing to me how much I forget from year to year. It makes me wonder if that’s unique to me or if most people allow vast chunks of detail to float down the river of memory, too. Sometimes I wonder if I deliberately let go of a lot of memories by recording my life contemporaneously in journals.

I don’t know if that’s true – but it does provide me with a modicum of comfort.

So many details seemed so important at the time, and the urgency of a lot of it came back to me as I re-read emails I’d saved and reports I’d written. And now…wow. So many issues we dealt with have become exponentially worse.

I think the biggest surprise, however, is how freely we used our social security numbers on so many documents only 15 years ago. Wow.

My Shredder – My Best Friend

As a result, I’ve been shredding my behind off. Indeed, I literally overheated our shredder twice today. We started smelling burning plastic and then a long band of red light (that I’d never seen before) appeared beside the small green ‘on’ light, and the shredder stopped working completely.

We even used our social security numbers as ID numbers for our health insurance plans! I don’t think we had any inkling of the dangers we’d routinely face around identity theft.

Speaking of identity theft…that was another memory I’d put into the back of my mind and recollected in all its complicated detail today. I’ll definitely have to write about that experience one of these days.

The bottom line, though, which I believe the comments many of you so generously shared on Facebook confirmed, is that this purging is necessary. It’s perfect. It’s an extraordinarily empowering way to begin not only a new year but also a new chapter.

(T-1062)

Hoarding or Holding? – Day Forty Eight

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Hoarding or Holding?

I’m struggling a bit.

I’ve been fantasizing for a few years about cleaning out what we call our ‘office’ and making it a place where Karl can paint and I – possibly, occasionally (probably never) – might read or write especially when I need some sunshine in the winter.

The reason I’ve been relegated to fantasizing about this for at least the last couple of years is because it entails going through files. And I am nothing if not exceedingly organized, with a file for everything – and occasionally a couple for the same thing. Also called inadvertent redundancy.

Filing Cabinet of Life Events

I started this post out with the intention of reflecting on that razor’s edge upon which I slip and slide (and often cut myself) when going through filing cabinets that seem to hold the history of our life as a family. You see, there is a filing cabinet I’ve moved from law office to law office, with a final resting place in my home office. For many years, it held my active legal files. Then as the kids got into high school and college, it started holding inoculation records, academic awards, test results, and newspaper clippings. Files were created for traffic tickets and leases, contracts and resumés. Some of the legal intermingled with the personal: my parents’ estate files, for instance.

Well, it’s time to move the filing cabinet out of the ‘office’ in order to transform the room into a studio. Studios don’t have filing cabinets. Ok, maybe some do. But not in this house.

And that’s not to say that I don’t have an effective filing system that is shifting to the ‘library annex’ mentioned in one of my previous posts. Nope; given that I’m the one that keeps all the records of all our businesses and family and home life, they’re of course moving with me to said ‘library annex.’ But I’m cleaning out that filing cabinet.

And I’ve been steadfastly refusing to clean that baby out for years now, precisely because of the nature of the files that made their way into it.

Without Proof Does a Life Disappear?

So today, I found myself in tears. Damn it; didn’t want to go there. I’m stuck, feeling the dilemma of deciding what to do with the files documenting Karl’s applications to colleges in 1999. His exchange experience in Norway. His grades at NYU; the details of his management contract in California and NYC. There’s so much history in those files.

Poor Sage – home for the holidays and eager to help me shift the life of the room to a studio… He checked on me at one point and realized I had tears running down my face, ridiculously wondering out loud if I threw stuff away that documented these milestones, would that erase all proof that Karl had existed?

And so I am left with that nagging question of how much to save and how much to feed the shredder.

I’m not inclined to scan this stuff, so that’s not an option. It will either survive as a real-life, tangible document, or it will be gone. <<Poof>> Just like he was. Just like we all are. From documents to artwork to green eyes and dazzling smiles.

Where’s the Edge?

So what is the edge between hoarding the memories in an unhealthy manner and holding on to some aspects of life as evidence for our future ancestors to literally hold and turn over in their hands? And why or for whom do I do either? Or neither?

Sometimes I wish I could just throw it all out with abandon. And then I think about the thousands of people who’ve lost everything in fire, flood, or other disaster, and I’m grateful for the torture these choices represent.

(T-1063)

Guilty Pleasures – Day Forty Seven

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Guilty Pleasures

We had several conversations about kitties in our house today.  Not only do we have three cats of our own (as well as two Boston Terriers who think they’re cats), but our youngest son and his fiancé have two adolescent purr-pusses as well. And they are visiting for the holidays, so we are a ‘full house,’ so to speak!

One of our cats, Tigger, has a guilty pleasure that we simply can’t abide. Not that it’s gross or disgusting. No. But it poses a danger to him if we’re not careful.

He’s into ribbons. Specifically, the thin, dangly kind that adorn festive holiday gifts and – if he’s really lucky – have little bells attached.

You have to understand. Tigger’s a really laid back cat. He rarely gets bent out of shape about anything. He’s very quiet – unflappable, even. When he first arrived in our home, he was already a grown cat (his paperwork said he was 8 or 9 years old, I believe), and he was entering a household that already had an established pecking order.

Tigger was quite clearly at the bottom of that order. Indeed, he was so far on the bottom of the pecking order that he pretty much retreated under a bed in our son Sage’s room and refused to come out.

We were concerned that he might just waste away. For at least the first week that he lived with us, we only saw his tail as he bolted back under the bed. We’d occasionally hear growling and hissing, and that was a ‘tell’ that White Satan, aka Gandalf the White (the deaf all-white terror), had cornered Tigger under the bed and was teaching him who was alpha-puss. It was hard to break those fracases up, since Gandalf was deaf. So we couldn’t even yell at him to stop.

Call Me By My Name

When I saw Tigger’s adoption paperwork and realized we’d been calling him by the wrong name, everything changed. It was astonishing and immediate. His entire demeanor shifted and it was as if he heaved a huge sigh of relief. “You finally know who I am!” he seemed to be saying.

Overnight, his personality shifted. He started coming out from under the bed. He started purring.

And then I caught him. I heard scrambling noises and the tinkling of a bell somewhere in the kitchen and I didn’t know what it was. I looked under the table and only saw Tigger, blinking up at me, all innocent.

I turned away and heard it again.

His Wild Side Comes Out

And then I saw it. The ribbon dangling from his mouth. The furtive look in his eye.

His guilty pleasure. Perhaps a self-soothing activity? Or maybe a celebratory indulgence.

Whatever it was, he clearly was still in touch with his inner kitten – and it is adorable.

We try to keep all ribbons picked up so he can’t swallow them in over-indulgence. But every now and then, I let him play with them and act all “Tigger Gone Wild.”

Tonight was one of those nights. We all need to indulge in guilty pleasures now and again. Just stay safe. ; )

(T-1064)

Sacred Space – Day Forty Six

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Sacred Space

Wow.

When I woke up this morning, I was not, shall we say, “rarin’ to go.” I even asked Karl to take my temperature, as I felt like a furnace and thought my bedclothes might spontaneously combust. We’ll never know, since we don’t actually own a regular, old-fashioned thermometer anymore. We only have one of those stupid electronic ones that take a watch battery or something, which of course was clearly not operating correctly, since I’m pretty sure I’m not 94.6 degrees.

I had to rally, though. I had an appointment with a client, from whom I’d sensed some trepidation in the weeks beforehand as we’d exchanged emails setting it up. I could feel that the client was both eager to have the session, yet at the same time was feeling some anxiety as the appointment approached. And I’d sensed, just ‘from afar,’ that she might be second-guessing herself over the past couple of days.

I know that feeling well. It almost always precedes a breakthrough or an opportunity to let go of a way of being or thinking that has in many ways defined us for a long period of time. It’s natural – a part of human nature. Of course I’ve witnessed it in clients many times. But I’ve also felt it personally. I’m no stranger to jumping off cliffs myself.

So unless I was literally unable to function, I was determined to get to my office. (I should hasten to assure you that, had I felt I would somehow be contagious or a danger to my client, I definitely would have stayed home). But basically, I just felt crappy. I could see it in my eyes when I peered at myself in the bathroom mirror. They were gray, and a bit dull.

To Cancel or Not to Cancel

Karl suggested maybe I should cancel.

“No,” I countered, popping two Advil and a Sudafed. “I’m going to give it a try.”

Deep down, I was confident I had an ace in the hole. The truth is, I’d experienced the miraculous effects of this secret ally before, but at the same time, I did not want to assume it would happen this time – and make an affirmative statement about it. I’m leery of making assumptions, probably because they feel disrespectful. So I left with an attitude of “I will show up for my client, and hope Spirit shows up for me.”

My secret ally is Sacred Space. It is the nearly indescribable but unquestionably palpable shift in energy that occurs when I call in my allies, guardians, and guides, as well as the archetypal energies associated with the cardinal directions, Mother Earth, and All That Is (Above).

Creating Sacred Space is probably the most amazing thing I ‘do,’ and yet it has nothing to do with me. It has everything to do with the unseen, creative, magnificent forces that watch over and guide all of us. It is the healing space where miracles occur spontaneously and easily. It is the safest and most comforting place to simply be. And I knew if I could get myself to the office and create this Sacred Space, not only would I feel better, but my client, too, would discover the peace that comes from simply experiencing and being within it.

Sacred Space Saved the Day

I trusted what I know about Sacred Space. And the only way I know is through experience.

Our session was long. Our work went deep. My client has lived a life of challenges and heartache. But we prevailed.

I forgot about how crappy I’d felt when I awakened this morning. Indeed, when I texted Karl after completing the session, his first question was to ask how I felt. “I’m a little tired, I guess,” was my response.

I’d completely forgotten my morning malaise. Sacred Space had shifted and transmuted everything – for both my client and myself. We’d both broken through.

(T-1065)

Theraflu Fix – Day Forty Five

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Theraflu Fix

Regrettably, tonight is a Theraflu night. I’m staving off something; not sure if it’s a cold or a sinus infection or just a culmination of Christmas being yesterday and today being the 360thday of the year and the realization that there are only five days left in 2018. No matter what it is, Theraflu will probably fix it. That and perhaps getting to bed before 1:30 or 2:00 a.m.

I’ve always tended toward being a night person. I think it’s been true since I was little, actually, but it’s definitely been the story of my adult life.

During law school, night was when I would get most of my reading, studying, and writing accomplished. And since I gave birth to son Karl while I was in law school, that pattern pretty much set itself in stone, since he (and the next two, as well) were always great sleepers. Therefore, once all my guys were asleep (and yeah, Karl’s a morning person – big surprise), I was surrounded by my coveted silence. Yep. My evening silence.

Nevertheless, I have to admit that over the past decade or so I’ve only been staying up past midnight sporadically. Midnight literally became my witching hour.

But now I’m dedicated to my 1111 Devotion. My practice. My commitment. And in spite of my best intentions, in spite of my earnest desire to not always be pushing my nose up against a deadline, ‘crushing it at the last minute’ is apparently my default setting. And so, I hit ‘publish’ every night, right around 11:59 or thereabouts. It doesn’t matter when I start writing for the evening, either.

Decisions and the Adrenalin Rush

Because the drive to submit each post by midnight is so intense in those last forty five minutes or so, every single night I’m left with both a sense of accomplishment and a boatload of adrenalin pumping through my veins at 12:01 a.m. or so. And that means I’ve not been getting to bed until 1:30 – 2:00 a.m., consistently, since engaging in this devotional practice. Some days I’ve been able to snag a little extra time snooze time in the morning, but not always. Certainly not enough to make up for this new regime.

So it appears as though I have a decision to make, and the week between Christmas and New Year’s seems to be as appropriate a time as any to ponder my options. How do I make this new relationship sustainable? How do I keep from wearing myself out and sabotaging my practice?

I’ll keep you posted. (Ha. That pun was not intended.)

In the meantime, I’m taking a Theraflu tonight, and as soon as I hit ‘publish,’ I’m going to bed.

Thanks for sticking with me as I figure this out.

(T-1066)

Tradition and Evolution – Day Forty Four

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Tradition and Evolution

Overall, this Christmas was a grand experiment in shifting from one way of being to another. It felt like we were embarking upon a true transition from ‘the way we’ve always done things’ to ‘a new way.’ Just like any transition, it had its rough patches.

I’d say most of that evolution centered around the family ‘meal,’ which is probably where the vast majority of ‘tradition’ resides in many households.

Most of us in the family eat meat, but rarely. Others of us, however, eat meat never. And then there are those of us who not only don’t eat meat at all, but also do not eat anything even remotely associated with animals. No butter. No milk. No cheese. No eggs. Yes, there’s now a vegan in our midst.

Turkey Sandwiches Remain a Priority

We checked in before the holiday, and determined that turkey was still a hoped-for agenda item with those of us who still appreciate the sacrifices of our feathered brethren. Truth be told, it’s the turkey sandwiches on the horizon that are the real lure here. Piled high with stuffing savory and juicy from cooking in the bird, the turkey slices will nestle between a layer of cranberry sauce and mayonnaise, all held together with a multi-grain, seeded bread. Oooh yeah.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for those who no longer (or never did) enjoy the unparalleled goodness of leftover turkey sandwiches. But alas, that means there’s more for us who pander to our inner Neanderthal. (Which, parenthetically, 23andme tells me is part of my genetic makeup.) (Yeah, it explains a LOT.)

I have to admit, though, in preparing the mashed potatoes both the ‘old’ way and the ‘new,’ the difference would be something I could evolve toward. I’d miss the buttermilk and butter. But it could work.

The green bean casserole without the mushroom soup? Satisfied my vegan but not my vegetarian. I don’t know if I can make that leap yet either.

At Least My Stuffing Is Vegetarian-Approved

My stuffing is vegetarian-approved even when prepared as history dictates. It’s just the portion that cooks inside the bird that’s taboo. So that’s an easy compromise: that especially juicy stuffing can go on my turkey sandwich; thanks.

All, in all, though, I probably could have stepped up my game as far as the ‘protein’ I prepared for my ‘Vs.’ I thought sautéing some vegan sausages with onions and red peppers would make a nice addition to the stuffing, mashed potatoes and green beans, but the expressions on their faces said, “Meh.”

I’ll work on that for next year.

And who knows? As our lives evolve and we witness the cataclysmic results of accelerating climate change day in and day out, it would not be outside the realm of possibility to imagine us going at least totally vegetarian by next year. Probably not vegan; not yet.

Although, I suppose, stranger things have happened.

As a family, we’re game to honor and appreciate our traditions while also exploring ways we can evolve and expand the way we walk forward into the future.

All that really matters is that we do it together.

(T-1067)

Christmas Eve Magic – Day Forty Three

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Christmas Eve Magic

Karl, Maximus, Tiffany, Sage, Sarah and I took a moon and starlight walk earlier this evening. It was weird to have the luxury to engage in such an indulgence and enjoy the brilliant night sky. It brought back vivid memories of riding home in the back seat of my parents’ car after midnight mass on Christmas Eve, with my head leaning against the car window, staring up at the stars, yearning to see something magical streak across the sky.

I’ve always believed in magic. I might not see it very often, but I know it exists.

And not the magic that comes with top hats and card tricks. Real magic. The magic of magi, of wisdom, of the power of love.

Christmas Eve always reminds me of my mother. I miss her exquisitely on Christmas Eve, probably because, as a mother myself, I’ve realized through the years how much work it takes to coordinate ‘life’ to make magic real for our children.

And not in the manner that you might think. Not in making sure wished-for toys found their way under the tree or in the stockings.

Rather, in cultivating an attitude of wonder and possibility.

No one in my family ever definitively told me I was ridiculous to feel the magic of Christmas. And yet no one ever made a big show of pretending in order to foster the magic, either. I grew up with an attitude of possibility cultivated by my mother; an unspoken acknowledgement that if you rule out any hope of encountering the unexpected, you very well may make yourself blind to it.

I never want to be so sure of anything that I make myself blind to the possibility of magic.

And I have my mother to thank for that, as well as a dad and siblings who never felt compelled to douse the light in my eyes; the light that will always believe in and search for evidence of enchantment and hope, love and kindness.

May all of you keep searching for evidence of what you know is true in your hearts.

(T-1068)

Resistance – Day Forty Two

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Resistance

I hate being faced with my glaring deficiencies; resistance being one of them.

Sometimes they just walk up and stand in front of me, though, and no matter what I do, I can’t get around them.

One of those that’s staring me down at the moment is a resistance to marketing. Marketing myself in any way, for anything, primarily. But marketing in general is always a persistently vexing subtext.

I might as well speak substance, since I don’t have a big window tonight: I’ve been invited to participate in the I AM Winter Solstice Symposium, arranged and produced by my friend, Renee Baribeau. Renee is the author of Winds of Spirit, which was published by Hay House this past spring.

I AM Winter Solstice Symposium 2018

Renee did our interview ahead of time. Mine airs tomorrow. The entire program began on Thursday evening, with an opening Fire Ceremony in honor and celebration of the Solstice. I dropped the ball by not sending out an announcement about the Symposium to my Hoot List several days ago, a lapse which I really must rectify tonight, if possible.

The problem is, beyond (or perhaps in tandem with) my resistance to marketing is my reluctance to get knee deep into technological endeavors, such as trying to figure out how to insert into a Hoot Alert the graphics Renee so generously provides me.

Seriously, I should have this stuff figured out by now.

Join the Wind Clan on Facebook

So let me just say this now: My presentation is airing tomorrow (Christmas Eve) at 1:00 p.m. EST. In order to access it, you need to join the Wind Clan on FB at this link. (And if I haven’t figured out how to add that link before I have to hit <publish> on this post, please check out my Hoot Alert, which I intend to write and get sent out before I go to bed tonight!)

Above and beyond my presentation, though (the subject of which will not surprise you if you’ve been reading these 1111 Devotion posts), are the presentations of 17 amazing women with unique and inspiring messages and suggestions for making your life a little bit richer, creative, and sacred.

Join us! And help me push past this resistance to marketing by enjoying my offering. Who knows what inspiration awaits!

(T-1069)

Where are the Close Encounters Now? – Day Forty One

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Where are the Close Encounters Now?

We just finished watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

I remember watching it at a movie theater when it came out. As we watched it tonight, I was transported back to the days when I was in college, and then first married.

Watching that movie in 2018 yet remembering what it was like to live in 1977, I was shocked. Yes, our computers are light-years beyond what we had at our fingertips back then. And yes, today there would probably be just as many women as men scientists involved in such a rendezvous (let’s hope).

But I was stunned to consider just how precious little we seem to have succeeded in exploring more deeply into space on a personal level in the past 41 years.

Think of it – forty one years! Shouldn’t we be at least communicating and establishing relationships with other civilizations by now? Or have a base on Mars or Venus or both?

We landed a human on the moon in 1969. I was ten years old.

When my mother was ten years old, in 1927, Lindbergh flew across the ocean.

Forty Two Years

There were only 42 years between having the technology to fly across the ocean and having the technology to not only fly to the moon, but also successfully land on it, and return to tell about it!

So, really –  it makes me question just what the heck we’ve been doing these past 42 years. It seems we’ve lost our way. Our curiosity as a country appears to have lost its focus on great scientific innovation and exploration of the natural world, in particular the universe (and multiverse), and turned instead to navel gazing and wondering how we can exploit the Earth most effectively to earn a small amount of people more money than they could ever imagine spending.

I know innovative research is still taking place. But I also know that there seems to be a lack of communal vision of working toward new horizons. Not to conquer, but to discover. Not to exploit, but to explore.

Is it just me, or were you hoping we’d be way further along the road to astonishing new discoveries, vistas, and opportunities by now?

Then again, I have my experiences of living my now to compare to the ‘reality’ depicted of every day life in the U.S. in 1977 (based upon the movie). They made fun of parapsychology in the movie. I have my degree in Psychology and made the mistake of mentioning parapsychology to the grad student I was a research assistant for as an undergrad. She ripped my head off when I even mentioned the word ‘parapsychology’ (and my interest in it).

And yet…look at me now. What I do. My education level. How I am of service to others.

Are the shamanic journeys I’ve learned to take the actual mode of exploration that’s going to shift the evolution of our world? Not what I would have thought, but think of the possibilities of uniting science and shamanism.

(T-1070)