Some things never change. The struggle informs.

5-28-15

Paying attention to the struggle, writing about it, sitting with it without trying to "fix" it right away, these are my processes of late.  They are gentle to my spirit and reveal truth the way I learned it as a child.

Something's not working about cleaning up my office.  Old energies are stuck here, I think to myself.  Old habits, too, of too much work to complete in a day, so I might as well leave it on top to begin working on it in the morning, repeated too many times until a nice big pile looms like a mountain I don't have the energy to climb. Or so I tell myself.  And too many decisions to make.  I like Kondo's sink-cost: the mental and physical toll of keeping unused items is greater than throwing them out.  The "pile" sitting there keeps me from going through it.  I get only the top three or so items done before... what IS it that keeps me from emptying the pile or giving it a new home?

Stories I tell myself.  Self-limiting beliefs that need cleaning out like my winter clothes from the closet.  Gotta donate some of those.  They don't bring me joy anymore and I'm trying the Kondo status quo: all will be thrown out unless I can think of a good reason to keep it.  No music when decluttering, Marie Konda says.  I think my new rule will be no computer on when I'm cleaning off the desk.  No email or internet to distract me. 

It's a start.  We'll see if the desk looks better tomorrow.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo. Click the following link for article in The Atlantic about the phenomenon of this book.
http://tinyurl.com/ospyt8b

Tilted.

Reflections from the seashore, as true today as when I wrote it five years ago... 

6-12-09

In our early morning walk along Sandestin’s beach this morning, I found myself most of the time on a slant.  Life’s like that, no?  It either pushes us a little off kilter, or we look at it from a skewed, slightly tilted, self-centered perspective.

We’re just 12 days into hurricane season this year and all has been quiet.  Gentle waves.  No serious storms.  Still, the wave action over the past weeks has pushed and pulled the sand in such a way that occasional drop-offs and slanting wet sand at the water’s edge make for a tippy walk.

On a lovely stretch of the beach, the sand leveled out.  The sound of the waves was softer here because they rolled gently, with no sudden dropoffs to crash them more violently to the shore.  I wasn’t on a slant anymore and so I stopped and enjoyed the moment.  The shallow flatness that stretched before me beckoned me in to the warm Gulf waters.  I drank it the moment and repeated the mantra my husband and I say daily.  It just doesn’t get much better than this. 

As I stood gazing out on the emerald/aqua blue waters looking for dolphins, turtles and such, the waves lapped gently against my legs, splashing up to my knees.  Each time the tide receded, it took a little sand away from around my feet.  My feet were slowly sinking in a little hole the waves were creating.  I stepped out of the hole and moved along on my walk.

The heat of summertime often calls to us to stop and enjoy the view as well we should.  It’s a beautiful season that makes most of us smile just at the mention of it.  As the children come in and out of the door this summer, as tables are set and cleared, as the ebb and flow of our summer lives move around our feet, it is good to pay attention when we’ve stood still long enough in one place and notice when we need to move our business along a little so that it doesn’t fall into a hole, so that the checkbook balance doesn’t slant in the wrong direction, so that we enjoy as much of life’s beach as we can.  One day at a time.  

As I turned around to walk back, I shifted from looking out at the sea. I put my head down to concentrate where to put my feet in the sand.  The sun was rising and so was the humidity and heat.  I was beginning to tire.  As I looked down the beach to see how far I still had to walk, it reminded me of a timeline of one’s life or business.  I passed little markers along the way: a child’s plastic shovel and sand castle mold, a lone Coke can which I picked up to deposit in the trash later, big holes dug at the water’s edge to catch the sea.

The plastic shovel reminded me of my baby days in the business when I worked hard digging up new bookings and recruits.  The lone Coke can reminded me of the carelessness of some people I’ve met along the way:  hosts who treated me like hired help or cancelled inconsiderately at the last moment, consultants who copped an attitude with the company when they missed a company deadline or made a mistake in judgment and, unwilling to bear the responsibility of their actions, made sarcastic statements like “Now I know what kind of a company I’m dealing with.”  The big holes reminded me of those who have passed the rocky, adolescent stage of their business timeline with its ups and downs (both internal and external), and have built their businesses deep and wide. 

I was surprised when I looked into the big hole I passed.  There was actually water in the bottom.  I think that was a first for me, for the water almost always seeps into the sand and ultimately back to the sea.  As I studied this particular hole today, it had strong, deep lines along its sides.  The builder of this hole had not scooped with hands, but used some sort of tool to go straight up and down the sides creating unusual depth for a beach hole. 

The result was water that remained long after the work was done.

This is my hope for you: a life you’ve cultivated through the years that is as deep and productive as Jacob’s well, always drawing others to it for sustenance, friends, faith and fun.

What if...?

As we approach the next Presidential election, I am pleased that I've cancelled my landline. I know I won't miss the political commercials and surveys. I wish I could say the same for what the media will present to us. What can we do to make the pre-election period palatable? What if each candidate speaks only of the qualities of the other. Now, to date, they have done so with derision and the populace at large either shuts down in disgust, or rallies in shallow or thoughtless adoration like prebuscents awash in adoration of the latest pop group. What if the candidates actually waxed eloquently of the other in sincerity without derision? We would see their generous nature, how well they could address adversaries around the world, how selfless their service to this country could be, and dare we hope, how they could rise above partisan politics and create a unified approach in a country whose name begins with the word united. The better they would speak of the other, the more we would admire their oratorial skills and character in a twist of reverse psychology that would be as fresh and welcoming as a daffodil in the snow. What if one started? It would be lopsided at first, of course. The candidate receiving all the accolades would be delighted, scratching his head perhaps, but carryingn on as usual. Any derisive slam toward the other would not be returned with anything other than complimentary reflections of the good the other has done in some part of his past. The media would begin searching for complimentary stories of "the other" in order to present a balanced approach to their reporting. Eventually, the second candidate and his staff would be asked what they could say about "the other" since he was saying such gracious things about him. If they say nothing, they seem ungracious by comparison. If they say small things, they will appear stingy and self-centered (shock of shocks!). If they begin to play the game, if they begin to return gracious words for gracious words, we would have a titanic shift that could finally sink the atrocious politics we the people suffer every four years. What if half the money raised by either candidate for his or her election would go to pay down the country's debt? Wouldn't the people be most grateful for the candidate who raised the most money then? Wouldn't both candidates end up being winners in one way or another? What if angry words spoken by either candidate or their staff were viewed as evil? What if we forced our enemies to say one nice thing about the other side the way we tell our children to say something nice about the sibling they can't stand at the moment, knowing they will probably grow up to like each other? What if we truly understood our interconnectedness? Our global consciousness? The effect each of us has on the other? Our oneness through, in, and with the one God, by whatever name you call Him or Her? What if...?

Read this

First Four Words

I play with words all day, every day.  Have fun with this one.

The first four words you see describe you.  I got sentimental, love, drama, and courageous.

The Cracked Clay Pot

I am the vine, you are the branches.
I am the potter, you are the clay.

God has many ways of teaching us how dependent we are, or should be, on Him. Some are verbal and written in Scripture. Others are lessons from creation and life.

I learned one such lesson from a wonderful story called The Cracked Pot. It helped me become less critical of myself. It taught me that God has beautiful ways of using me, even if I don't have the eyes or wisdom to see them.

The Cracked Pot

A water bearer in China had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which he carried across his neck.  One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.

At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.  For a full two years, this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his house.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for which it was made.  But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After 2 years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream.  "I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?

That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day, when we walk back, you have watered them.   For two years, I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table.  Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house"

MORAL:  Each of us has our own unique flaws.  We're all cracked pots.  But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding.  You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.  There is a lot of good out there.  There is a lot of good in you! 

Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.

It's the cracked pots that keep life interesting ....

Why I Write

I don't want to die yet, so I keep breathing however unconsciously.  I want to learn, process, integrate, then teach what I know.  I write, therefore, to understand first, as part of passing it on.  Writing is like chewing my food before swallowing.

"Don't die with the music unplayed inside you."  I wonder always about the book my mother never wrote. I have copies of her correspondence.  It has to suffice.  Her mind was as finely honed as my German steel carving knives that cut through anything as if it were butter.  I would love to immerse myself into it now, years after her death and experience the feel of it again, like the warm flannel of her famous bed sheets worn smooth from thousands of washings.  She asked such probing questions She asked such probing questions... She always said she would write a book.  She never did. I don't want to be like that.

I write so I can read and think about things that would otherwise go by without scrutiny or considered judgment.

I write because my first thoughts are not always my best thoughts, but like well planted seeds watered and gently tended, they produce beauty or nourishment for body and soul with judicious pruning, well worth the wait.  Sometimes.  As with wines, some years are better than others.  Each year is worth harvesting and tasting, or at least storing for future selection.

I write because I can't stop myself.
I write because I'm searching.
I write because I want to pass along something of myself, however vain that may be, like hieroglyphics in rocks.

My teacher's heart is wired to transfer and shape knowledge.  My analytical brain drools at the possibilities of word combinations, scene set ups and apt metaphor.  It loves the written word on a page and delights in lingering at deliciously sensitive places to titillate and coax a reader to the edge of suspense, dallying slowly for the steady build to explosive collaboration.

The power of a thought well placed within a moment of time, with enough space to let it breathe, is intoxicating.