Rising Moon Over Disorientation

The full moon energy is strong tonight. Mercury is retrograde for another week. In Vermont, we've already had May and it's only April.

No wonder my head is swirling.

On an earthly plane, very few words have been scribbled on this blog or notes strummed on my guitar in the past few months. The creative energy is on hold while I wrestle (once again) with the effort to pay bills on the table and gas in the car.

Intently focused for days in a row on that purpose, on the specific and unending tasks of putting order into my life, by tonight, my ability to concentrate seems to have vanished and I wander around in a daze. Doing a little carpentry, I can't find my tape measure. Researching the internet for details to put in a content article, I stare at the screen unable to discern which link I should click.

Where do I want to go anyway?

It is so easy for us to get lost in our minds, swept away by events of the day and endless tasks that must be accomplished. Our minds are focused and concentrated, yet we seem to be on auto-pilot, cerebrally detached from the activities in front of us.

The phrase "Stop and smell the roses" comes to mind. In this fog of over-activity, it is important to look around and remind yourself what this effort is for. We are so constantly bombarded with information and demands for our attention, we can lose sight of the real treasures. The love for what we do can fade into invisibility.

Breathe.

Turn away from the computer. Pull to the side of the road. Turn off the television. Lay down your tool. Look at the sky. Take in the magnificent wonder of the full moon as it rises over your life and reassures you that there is something deeper, far more powerful going on.

Sit down and stare at the water trickling past in a stream alongside or even out of the faucet. Drink of the sustenance that nature provides in every moment if we can only remember to consider its beauty. In every day, there must be moments when the rush and hustle of activity is suspended to exercise the vital organs within.

Full or new, the moon shines on us with love. The sun radiantly infuses us with energy. The spectacular mountain rising overhead is no more grand than the intricate anthill and its complex system of order and chaos. In every moment, there is the opportunity to rediscover the miracle of our lives.

Whether I write, sing or simply appreciate it in the silent moment of my own self, pausing to regenerate my spirit is the ultimate activity that makes all the rest productive with meaning instead of just one more over-whelming task.

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Breathing In, Breathing Out

In a few days we begin the year that some believe will be the end of the world.  I prefer to add the phrase "as we know it" and join in the celebrations around the world that predict a marvelous transformation of fear into love.

            The energy is mounting.  More and more, I find myself in cosmic conversations that blissfully dance around images of joy.  Beatific smiles grace the voices on many different venues where people feel more free to describe the sense that wonderful events are unfolding.

            I recognize that I am in Vermont where progressive ideas are common place, but the internet proves to me that the euphoria spreads like a wildfire of coals even the most timid may soon be brave enough to walk upon.  In grocery stores, at high school soccer games, on talk shows and seminars, in a wealth of books printing from many presses, the joyful tales are told how spirit is rising in so many of us.

            After a lifetime of work, I have published my own book.  The sense of pride and satisfaction to hold a copy in my hand is immense, complimented wonderfully by the gentle "pling" of an email's arrival to announce another copy purchased.

            My ego is less salved by the effort, however, than that I am proud to be contributing one more story about leaving expectations behind and pursuing a more heartfelt way of life.  Some of my family and friends are at a complete loss of patience and lack of understanding for my leap into this blatant and unapologetic revelation of my embarrassing secrets.  I hope anyone reading it will find resonance in the description of finding faith and meaning in embracing the parts of myself that are the truest expression of my heart.

          To leap into one's faith, to invest in the unsupported belief that intuition will lead to a more secure happiness than following rational rules is a scary act to take.  I am full of fear and fighting my conscience every hour to keep panic at bay.  With no solid job in sight, no reliable income to pay my rent stored in the bank, I can shudder with fright, nearly immobilized if I ponder too long.

            Listening to headlines and watching the news, the world does not seem to be a safe place.  My job search supports the theory that the economy is desperately slow, trying to hold itself together, but is ultimately a pyramid scheme heading for an inevitable crash.  Grim faces struggle around me to make ends meet.  More diseases from a toxic environment take the lives of friends.  We still insist on making war on terrorists by broadening the definition to include just about anyone, even our own citizens occupying their right to freely assemble and speak.

            Sleep-broken nights for several weeks have been terrorizing my own balance.  Taking on a carpentry job to make ends meet this month is counter-intuitive to my claims two years ago that doing so ever again could mean a fall much worse than from my scaffold.  Having one book in my hand, my heart aches to scribble loftier thoughts instead of calculate the inches between two by fours.

            Despite the fear, compromises must be made for now.

            Relief comes when I remember my promises to my heart.  While I breathe between hammer strokes, I consider that my purpose may be in doubt, my faith once again jeopardized by the pursuit of dollars, but my heart strives to hold strong.

            The power is in the breathing.  With each conscious inhalation, I remember that these are all steps, small steps in a large life, leading to something I cannot see. I have hopes and dreams.  I trust what I feel and know what I know. No clear thought enlightens me to get ahead, but the simple act of breathing, the concentration on the very simple action itself, stops my mind from wandering and gives me life.

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Heart-centered Holidays

           As the days of December darken into winter, holidays ignite magic into our hearts, creating light to find our way.  Be it Christmas, the Solstice festivals, Hanukah or Kwanzaa, the time is of celebration and gratitude for all the gifts material and metaphysical that we have received.

            Tinsel and glitter, red cheeks and candles, song and festivities create sparkling energy.  We eat too many cookies, dance with our friends and carol to our neighbors.  We give gifts and acknowledge the love for those around us.

            December, unfortunately, is also a time of great stress.  As if to counter the darkness, we can be caught in a frenzy of materialism that attacks with pepper spray in a Walmart to get the best deal.  Strained and compulsive, while our children are all safe with visions of sugarplums in their heads, we scurry about frantically, shopping late every night and maxing out credit cards instead.

            To balance the frantic motion, I  offer a teleseminar conference this Wednesday December 14th and Thursday the 15th focused on creating a heart-centered holiday.  Through interviews with authors and coaches, we look at the little rituals and celebrations that hold the spirit strong and remind us of the deeper importance of the time.

            You can register for the program here and receive a collection of short stories about transformations of lives that can happen in an instant. Each writer will also offer a bonus gift particular to their interest at the end of their interview.

            In true alignment with heart and soul, writing is a transformative process.  When troubled by doubt and uncertainty, in the act of scribbling in a journal or creating a novel, answers once looming vaguely transparent in the distant mist, come more clearly into focus. We are all writers in our own ways and these conversations will encourage listeners to find your own style for a deeper understanding of what connects you to the rest of the world.

            In addition to fireside chats of stories and spiritual affirmations, this webinar through your computer or phone, also celebrates the release of my transformational book “Zen & the Art of the Midlife Crisis”, a memoir about the process of recognizing and shedding the parts of life that are not working to follow a path more centered from heart and living with purpose.  By looking deeply at choices and influences of the past, I am better able to steer my life into the future and encourage readers to make similar choices.

            Registering for the Heart-centered Holidays Teleseminar right here and now is at absolutely no cost and ensures two peaceful evenings of insight and affirmation that the world is indeed full of love, compassion, serenity and support.

            Please join us in celebration of all that glitters and is truly gold.

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Love Over Gold

          The test of my true faith has come upon me.  Far later than is healthy for any man, I have accepted one last parting gift from my father and step out into the world once again on my own.

          No longer tested like some Job broken-hearted on my sofa with a tube in my belly and dreams in my head, today I go forth strong, healthy, and loved to find my way, earn my keep and leave no mess behind. 

          Life is wonderful.  I have no cause for complaint, no reason to doubt myself. 

            The test of my faith is the belief that I deserve the riches of love, trust, loyalty and good fortune here laid before me.  The true challenge is not to qualify and prevaricate, wonder about my worth and settle for half, thinking I am lucky enough for that.

            When disaster has struck in the past and hopes were dashed, I have consoled myself with the belief that life comes with both the good and the bad.  Lumps must be taken and swallowed, and the pieces picked up.  My faith seemed to be hinged on survival and pushing forward against the trials, over-coming instead of embracing.  My story reflects that belief.

            Today, I walk boldly into a new life with the restructured understanding that my mind creates my reality and I expect to find the world of my dreams where I live my passion, celebrate my joy, learn from my pain and live fully from my heart.  There is no more or less.

            Love over fear.

            The victory is mine.  Each and every moment, I have the choice to look at the two diverging paths and remember one is not one and the other the other.  Both are love and the choice vanishes as soon as I step forward in either direction.

            If we let it, fear creeps in and delivers doubt, creates an insidious dissonance in the question of whether I go this way or that.  Fear pretends there is a better choice between two equals and pries open an unsettled feeling that diminishes the power of faith.  Through that weakened crack pours the negative energy that makes us sabotage the very actions we wish to take.

            Like a mother and father who had divorced.  Trying to find balance in that separation, I have heard one voice urging me to follow dreams and another to just get a good job.  Somewhere my filters distorted the message that the path could be one and the same and both were about love.

           For every "what if I could..." that came to mind, a resounding "What if you can't..." has inevitably followed.  The last fifty years has answered the latter and proven I can still be okay, one foot moving inexorably before the other again and again and again.

            These last four years have put into words the faith that grows stronger within me.  The first heart-felt, intuitive, open-ended and loving question that moves my soul along with my feet is the one worthy of my focus and attention.  I set out this morning by sitting on this couch first moving my hand across these pages with scribbles no less important than the real steps I will take later this afternoon.

            In my head resounds the wonderful memory of the little boy on his mother's lap, one of their favorite books in both their hands, after his father has said good-night with a hug and a kiss and another playful shove.  Her voice so cheerful and strong repeats what she has read to his sisters before and would again many times after, "I think I can, I think I can, I know I can..."

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To the Wolves and Sheep Who Cry enough

Just as the sense of the Occupy Wall Street Movement began nearly overnight, it seems evictions of parks in cities around the country have tried to put an end to the uprising in one fell swoop.  We are on the verge of a precipice and our collective energy as a culture and society, the kind of world we want for ourselves and our children, teeters in the balance.

            The mayor of Oakland supports conspiracy theorists on both sides, having let slip the comment that she was part of a decision-making conference call.  Within hours, parks and peaceful demonstrations have been cleared away as easily as authorities might wish the underlying trouble can be swept away.

            Like the bail-outs that prompted the unrest, this attempt to carpet the disenfranchised should only be one more dying gasp from a system that is doomed, collapsing as predictably as the visions of December 2012 and the end of the world. Gasping for any last victory, the wicked witch melting into a puddle of her own foul evil comes to mind.

Only who are the villains and victors is still in question. Who will sweep the remains into the bucket and celebrate is left for us to decide.

            The force of change that a small percentage of the ninety-nine represents and invites could expire as surely as the fast approaching chilly winds of winter could blow us all inside and back to life as we have known it.  Having stepped up to raise the cry and hue, it is up to the rest of us who have been displaced from our foreclosed homes, laid off from an unbalanced economy or are just too busy trying to make ends meet. We all are the ones who can keep this momentum rolling for a better balance. 

            For my small part, I return credit card invitations in their postage paid envelopes as an irritant with a note reminding them of the damage this kind of debt can cause.

            Artists must create fine works of music, painting and poetry that shed light on the inequalities and celebrate the common heroics of the constant struggle to maintain a decent life from day to day. The poor and the unemployed must hold our heads high, maintaining dignity and integrity in the face of our poverty and earn the riches we all deserve.

            The wealthy, in addition to feeling proud for what we have accumulated and accomplished,  must recognize that at some point enough is enough and is, in fact, diminished when our neighbors are hungry.  In the middle, we must look up from our frantic and desperate pace of grinding stones with our noses to sniff the fresh air and celebrate our good fortunes and the love in our lives.

            Whether or not the Occupy Wall Street Movement has been leaderless or is the sinister plot of the unwashed and unemployed, a healthy discussion is taking place.  Whether or not there is a one and a ninety-nine, a simple or silent majority, a tea party or a tweet party, we must unite and become the one hundred percent who are for love. 

     Heading into 2012 and the end of the world as we know it, we must leave the fear that there is not enough for everyone behind to shrivel and evaporate in the puddle of the wicked witch where it belongs.

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Imagine: it's easy if you try

A little more than a year ahead of the Mayan Calendar's end of the world as we know it in December 2012, our good ol' Western version, accepted by most, will reach the symmetrically perfect date of 11/11/11 in just two days. 

            Many have embraced significant meaning in the perfection and will honor the moment in different ways.  However deep and spiritual one wants to think about it, there is no denying energy is focused and can be powerful.

            In alignment with the date, the moon will also be in its fullest hours.  At the same time amazingly, a rare asteroid big enough to wipe out 125 million years of dinosaurs will pass even closer to earth than our favorite silvery orb, the muse to so many poets and lovers.

            Coincidental or by design is decided by individual beliefs, of course, but we know the subject will be on many tongues and at the heart of collective meditations around the world.  It is impossible not to be curious about the effect.

            My first experience of this kind of conscious concentration came on the Sunday after John Lennon's death when we as an international citizenry who had benefited from his life could honor a universal moment to envision peace.  My spine tingled that afternoon and the concept has resonated with me ever since.

            Despite the occupation of the One over the ninty-nine, there is a significant percentage of optimists who have methodically moved forward on the love that Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Lennon knew is abundant.  The violent deaths of each and so many others are unable to stop this relentless movement toward a world that is united.

            Focused on 2012 and otherwise, there are numerous activities preparing us to avoid conflagration by joining ourselves in thought and practice.  The movement against Wall Street frustrates the established authorities because it lacks cohesive leadership, but in the collective agreement by diverse populations that change must happen lies the very source of its beauty and power.  Here in Vermont, this passion has inspired two individuals to step onto the world stage through their organizations 350.org and the Good Earth Singers, channeling this energy of connection to good purpose.

            No matter how twisted and perverted they may have been, the Gadaffis and Hitlers of the world still represent that noble desire to create something better.  Ego winning over altruism, however, their fear that love could not be shared ultimately left their dreams in ruins and hurt the rest of us far more than they helped.

            The point is that we as humans have an inherent urge to surround ourselves with beauty and create connection with those we love.  We want to make our world a better place.

            These moments of perfect symmetry, as simple as numbers dancing in alignment, can unite us in ways just as language, culture and environment can actually create separation.  Like music that stirs the soul, art that nourishes the visual appetite, and the tiny hand of a newborn, we bond in appreciation that we are more alike than different.

           By a combination of sheer luck and fierce determination, a fragile flower emerges between the slabs of a sidewalk.  The onslaught of relentless pedestrians, wrapped in their busy schedules largely unaware of the beauty at their feet, still step around and over nature's persistent reminder, while there are some who actually pause to ponder the miracle of its existence and survival.

            On this day, long anticipated and fast approaching, like any other day, we have the opportunity to ponder our lives and those around us, the love that provides warmth and joy, and the fear that stops us from trusting it.  We make choices every day, but on this particular one, there are many who are choosing to make it special.

            Please join us...and on 11/12/11 as well as...

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New Warriors

         Men do not just talk about sex and football anymore.

            This generation still known as baby-boomers, even as we settle towards our time of rest, relaxation and retirement, was raised quite differently than we have actually behaved.  What was envisioned by our parents as a right of ascension has been, for better or worse, supplanted by the realities of sustainability and justice.

            A standard of abundance and prosperity was achieved and celebrated post-war and Great Depression, bottled and marketed through the marvelous invention of television, and imprinted on our souls to influence these many years since. The stereotype of the man with his briefcase home from his commute, kissing his wife in heels as the children marched off to bed, was certainly not that far from my own childhood.  The scene played out night after night as families nurtured the seed of the dream into the souls of their children, spreading expectations across the suburbs of America for bountiful harvests to come.

            Stated far too simply and without proof, power and greed assassinated Kennedy, shattering the Camelot that never was, but we refused to believe it and hired a commission to report that Oswald had acted alone.  The ubiquitous "they" then fed us a war against communism on the other side of the world to support our growing economy.  No one was supposed to get hurt, but the draft invaded our happy neighborhoods with funerals for the boys next door and the Middle Class began to take notice.

            Martin Luther King reminded us that some neighborhoods, both black and white, had been left behind and Bobby Kennedy repeated the call.  It got ugly. In Czechoslovakia, Chicago and Kent State, Ohio, the established authority tried to shut our freedoms down and it felt like a battle raging.

            Amidst that anger and violence, this generation of not-so-innocents was able to see beauty.  Some of it induced by drugs, for sure, and largely in a state of privilege, ultimately we imagined a world of love that was based on spirit and inclusion, envisioned Aquarian values dawning.  It felt like we had ended a war and embraced a lifestyle that could set us all free.

            The murder of John Lennon by an obsessed fan dashed the purity of that dream and turned us towards the responsibilities of raising our children to a better world.  Hippies became Yuppies.  Slums were gentrified into chic districts and any open land in the suburbs was filled in with mcmansions. We went about our business as usual, another generation exhibiting its share of Wall Streeters, Main Streeters and back road strollers.

            The change in most of our hearts took hold, however, in many different ways, some subtle and others overt.  Women were now side by side in the marketplace while dads learned how to change diapers and took off time to attend parent conferences, or stayed home while their partners provided.  Yoga, meditation and gym memberships, coaching soccer and joining food cooperatives translated the dream into a busy reality.

            Men, paying better attention, also learned how to cherish their women with praise and heartfelt gestures as much as with a secure home and a dozen roses on Valentine's Day.  Words like "feel", "trust" and "commitment" became commonplace and therefore far less frightening, no longer anathema.  We discovered eros simmered more fiercely in one place than scattered like sparks in the wind, even if that particular one lasted only for a decade instead of a lifetime.

            Communication became more comfortable, not just with our spouses, but with our best friends.  In pairs and small groups, men compared notes and discovered companionship and support for this new masculinity.  The three martini lunch was replaced by a bagel and intense discussion of self-help books and romantic tips that might nurture our lover as much as arouse. Foreign to our DNA, the struggle to be vulnerable became easier, confiding our frustrations and bewilderments to each other as opposed to holding things stoically inside or releasing it in a good, clean fight.

            Ironically, going against the grain is not without its proportionate amount of chafe, denial and disorientation.  Women seemed to adore the refocused attention, but in their loins, apparently, having had the same training, still lust after the strong provider, all sensitivity aside.  Men remain at the check-out uncomfortable not whipping out our wallets to buy lunch even if the woman is just a colleague on a similar expense account.

            Centuries of habits are difficult to erase in a single generation.  Confusion is understandable.  The true advance is that the men of today have thrown off their brutish cloaks and glittering chains of male testosterone in favor of coming together more in collaboration than competition.

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MC Squared

          Calories are energy, a unit of potential heat most often measured in food and calculated in how we feed our body.  A clear and quantifiable amount, we can see what goes in and link it directly to the exercise and activity necessary to burn it off, what must be accomplished to get it back out.

            ...or we get fat.

            Money is energy.  Likewise, we produce in fits and spurts or methodical routines and track our bank accounts like so many meals.  We accumulate and compare, struggle to make ends meet or hoard our stashes like squirrels preparing for winter.

            In this case, obesity is often considered a good thing. People envy the man in his castle on the top of the pile, the hearts of women and respect of fathers laid on the mantel like so many trophies.   More can seem better and there are many of us who are raised with our focus on the calories more than the taste. To some, there can never be enough and it must be flaunted brazenly to cover over the holes of fragility in the basic structure.

            Love is energy.  Our hearts expand and flow without measure, swell to the point of aching.  We speak in poetry of "bursting" when it is accepted and "broken" when it is not, but either way, the passion is energy that fuels our existence with vitality as succulent as the most exquisite meal.

           

              Sexuality is energy.  In our most sacred practice, we unite with our beloved, making love, creating joy and discovering passion that feeds our soul as much as any food can enrich our body. Two souls connect and become one with source, ecstatic and entwined, passion for life, creating a life of passion.

            Fear is energy.  It blocks all that we might do with billboards that can turn us in wrong directions, create doubts about what lies ahead, temptations of disasters that may or may not be actually lurking, luring us from our determined roads.

            In so many ways the quality of our lives can be measured.  We seek definitions to account, justify and explain our actions and behaviors.  No matter how hard I try to stay in the beauty of the moment first waking each morning, my mind bounces from past to future, evaluating and promising, missing out on the grace of the sunshine that dawns through my window for another day.

            Meditation helps to find the quiet place of gratitude, but in the bustle of the day, it is a constant battle not to judge each moment, quantify and articulate the progress and regressions as good and bad.  Calories in and dollars handed over the counter.  Am I loved? or so desperately, painfully alone when I settle back down into dreams at night?

            As if a message from my mother herself, so long ago lost in Alzheimer's and finally death, a postcard greeted me from my kitchen table this morning, tossed down by my son who shifts his belongings to live with me full time.  Of a painting in Paris by my father, on the backside she wrote a gushing note about the wonder of the trip they were on. 

            Her delight was so contagious, even now, fifteen years later, her love and gratitude so plentiful, it is easy to conjure the vision of the woman scribbling on a cafe table, thinking of her grandchildren, surrounded by the simple pleasure of a market full of life. Tears I had not felt since her graveside (a year ago today, I suddenly realize) welled from deep within as I remembered how much grateful energy she allowed to flow from within and without.

            Life is energy.  We expand and contract with every breath, opening our hearts to what is available or shutting ourselves behind walls of fear.  Each moment lies before us to make a choice.  We have the power to act or re-act, doing over and over and over again until the lessons are learned.

            Intuition is the voice within that truly knows the best path for each of us, ignoring the billboards of fear and guiding us towards fulfillment of our highest interests.  Listening carefully, like a heart beat from exercise and nurtured by diet, if we let it, the voice becomes stronger and louder.

            Gratitude is energy, a celebration that invites more love into our lives.

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Chairs on the Side of the Road

Several years ago, I went to an event of my men's group, a near stranger wandering into a club to which I was not sure I belonged. My marriage had ended, my business collapsed, my daughter grown estranged, but I was beginning to scribble ever more fervently.

From across the room, several men came directly towards me, arms outstretched to embrace the writer whose words they had read, but not yet met. A profound moment of affirmation, I recall it often to remind myself that efforts no matter how apparently small and trivial in our own lives may actually have the meanings, significance and impact on others we had imagined.

One man in particular made a big deal about the construction blog that had started my efforts to go public. He confirmed that I was providing inspiration for him to commit to the business and expand his view of what kind of career in it could be available to him.

A year later when the emotions and self-discovery of this much more personal blog had become dominant, at our next meeting he mourned the silence on those other pages. His regret has plagued me throughout the recovery from my fall.

As I embark fully, well-healed and determined, on this new life as a writer, his image has come regularly to mind. More to the purpose is the observation that after several years of depressed markets and difficult financial terms, the housing industry struggles to express vitality in a transformed market.

While the accuracy of my hammer hits have greatly diminished in reality since my fall from the scaffold (not to mention my eyesight), by doing a few projects lately, I realize I have a wealth of other skills that can be translated to hits on my written words. The emergence of ebooks and a new generation of home owners more comfortable with computers than hammers makes me certain there is a niche to offer my services.

The world changes rapidly, but shelter remains an undeniable need. In these last two weeks, between painting projects for others, I am replacing the porch entrance to my little apartment. The transformation from decrepit and dangerous to sturdy and welcoming facades is indicative of the work on my own heart in these several years.

Too often caught up in the swirl of current events, it is important to compare our surroundings with other moments along the way. Like the tortoise walking obliviously right past the hare, the forward movement can easily be lost and growth seem apparently insignificant.

How rich has your own garden grown this summer? How deep have roots been planted and widely friendships nurtured?

We tend to be myopic in this fast paced life, racing event to event, focused and action oriented by inclination, opportunity or demand. The world shrunken by the internet to make so much available dangerously occupies our minds to the point we lose track of our hearts.

It is not easy to secure and maintain our homes. Not just the place of the heart, but the food and clothing also required seduce us into extraordinary efforts to create our lives. Too easily we can confuse quantity with quality. Obsessing with clearing away our trees to look out on the forests around us, we forget to sit down and enjoy the view.

Maintenance is not worth the effort if we fail to lounge on the Adirondak chairs we worked so hard to purchase. They look pretty enough out in the yard as we march arms full of groceries from the driveway into the house, but it is vital that we make the time to use them to nurture and support our heart-felt dreams and souls yearning for love and connection.

Will you notice the sunset today?

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Finding the Pot of Gold

Starting with a swollen head and more rainfall, the day seemed like a slog through thigh deep mud until I realized it was the first anniversary of my mother's death. No matter how normal we want to be, there are times the quagmire is real and we just have to sink into it and allow the time to be what it is.

The single blessing of Alzheimer's, I answer people's condolences, is that it gets you used to the loss and even makes their passing a relief. After a decade of coping, despite the gaping hole, we can get back to our own lives, remembering who and where we are, maybe even a little clearer about where we want to go.

My mother was a grand woman of hope and encouragement. On the cloudiest of days and in the thickest of mud, she could open a closed heart just by stopping, listening and offering a hug. If people's greatest need beyond food, clothing and shelter, is to be heard, she could feed the world.

No one was too small or unimportant to become the focus of her attention. She was never too busy. The hard work of my father provided her the canvas, but she applied the spirit that made portrait after portrait of conversations that inspired people young and not so young to follow their dreams.

Her boundless optimism could be irritating to me who shivered in wet clothes and would prefer changing in the tent to coming back out to see yet another rainbow. It was contagious, however, and has seen me through problems that might have settled me otherwise into harmful depressions of immobility.

This morning could easily have felt like that. My problems with money and frustration with apparent unemployment could feel overwhelming. No lover's eye to brighten my breakfast might immerse me in loneliness. The steady drizzle outside could pour misery into open wounds.

Instead, acknowledgment of the day and remembrance of the woman who was so steadfast beside me creates a meditation that keeps her spirit alive and close within my heart. Disdaining celebration of Mother's Day, she requested honor every day or none at all. The little things to her made all the difference.


So I learned to put one foot forward, and then swing the other past. When looking at too many piles of leaves, she taught me how to focus on one and drag it to the corner before raking the next onto the tarp.

Today, I start with the dishes in the sink, sweep up the floor and sit down to scribble a few humble words. It is the Labor Day weekend and instead of bemoaning no job to take off from nor picnic in sight, I do the work of every day in honor of my mother who is no longer here. Her spirit still influences and her heart still warms.

Her encouragement so consistent from so long ago still pushes this pen and I respond as if she still sits at the end of this marble table waiting to read. Only if we allow ourselves to be lost in the moment do we lose the love that has brought us so far.


Awareness shows us the rainbow and stops the shivering, warms our heart and gives us reason to come out of the tent.

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Out of the Pan

In the time recovering from my surgery, I have studied intensively the options that the internet has created to market and distribute content. As a tired contractor with resources squandered and a writer/musician with exciting projects underway, it is particularly fascinating.

The phrase describing a web reaching around the world is clearly accurate and there are those, regardless of quality, who have wrestled a reputation by mastering the ego to optimize their exposure and create success out of literally thin air. SEO, blogs, google and widgets are just a few of the keywords bantered about by entrepreneurs and gobbled by neophytes.

This world of web-based content disseminated into the ether has an open door from homes as humble as mine even more than from giant corporations who move too slowly being entrenched in old diets and over-weight with drones. A creative eye can see a lot farther from the same level and an adventurer dares to explore without even pausing to ask, "Why not?" Individuals with businesses that might have trouble attracting clients across the street can now have thousands from countries they never see.

The inspiring result of this education is that with barely a plan B, I am leaping forward to embrace the adventure with the same heart, hope and determination as I approached my healing. Unconventional wisdom dictates I have to try and there is no better time than now.

Having tried my best to follow the traditional route, it is thrilling to imagine what is possible when following a dream to do what I want to do first and foremost waking up to start my day. After so many years listening to reason and education, and reluctantly setting my pen aside to take a hammer to homes who would suffer my services for a fee, I want to know what happens when translated to a keyboard, these scribbles wander onto an electronic page.

Consistently, my research shows that content being equal, it hinges on a blog. Started three and a half years ago as an experiment to discipline myself and tame an errant curiosity, this blog closed the door on chat rooms and opened a flow of more productive thoughts both personal and generalized that seemed worth sharing.

The experts (fellow bloggers I "met" early who have since developed impressive businesses) focus on facebook as the next vital ingredient for a platform, an account I had already opened just a step behind my kids to know what their new neighborhood looked like. Twitter, LinkedIn and a few others were natural additions and suddenly I learn I am doing all the right things to move myself forward in this world.

Many other blogs I have noticed, however, reach a far wider audience by writing more generalized content in formats of lists, bullets and optimized keywords that often delivers a great message, but lacks the passion to stir my heart, some blatantly focused more on helping you make money than abundance of soul. They titillate with phrases that draw one in to purchase the DVD or book that reveals the ultimate secrets, the goal being an expanded email list as much as life lessons.

As part of my research, I have also learned that my writing seems too personal to some of you readers to presume I would welcome a retweet or "like" to your friends and their friends beyond. There is no denying that with "Zen & the Art of the Midlife Crisis" I have harbored pretentions of creating books and other lucrative contributions to the public that could support my life.

For a message to really get inside me, I need to feel it, to know the pain and comprehend the triumph. Hand in hand with a tragic flaw to self-sabotage, it seems I have a boundless optimism that might serve as encouragement for others to face another day. Not driven by ego, nor greed, I am willing to play the fool, sharing my own dark secrets in hopes these revelations might help others to grow more comfortable with theirs.

At the risk of search engine optimization, therefore, I write with a passion about what I know best, myself, trusting that I am not so different as each of you, and that in the telling of my story so honestly, you find pieces of yourselves.

I need your help. We all need each other. It would be my greatest honor, if you find these words inspiring, for you to pass my tales on, recommend this site, and all together, upward we shall go.

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Fire in the Heart

As much as people poked fun at the dire predictions of certain fundamentalists that a particular day last April would be the world's demise at the hand of God, there are those who ridicule even more the date in December 2012 that is the day on the Mayan Calendar interpreted by others as the true end of the world. In addition to blockbuster movies closing on the scene of a futuristic arc floating into the sunset, countless forecasts include disasters from aliens to meteors to a more earthly holocaust of nuclear proportions as the result of a spilled cup of coffee on a critical console causing a failure of the fail-safe system.

Like the fears of the Millennium that passed before us, some of us await this looming date with suspended disbelief, trying to live normally with an eye to higher ground just in case it actually did happen and there could still be some form of escape. Still others add the distinctive phrase, "...as we know it" to our vision of the Apocolypse, describing catastrophic events of revolution, financial collapse, and the invasion of Chinese culture onto the shores of our American dominance and control of the world market.

Beginning with the crisis in 2008, blamed on sub-prime mortgages that spread havoc around the globe, headlines actually support this theory. The Middle East is rampant with the uprisings of its weary citizens throwing off the chains of their many monarchs and dictators. Earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanoes, drought and torrential rainfalls are causing massive death and devastation. This week alone, heated analysis floods the airwaves over whether catastrophe has been avoided or merely delayed by the ridiculous compromise to pander once again to congressional self-interests by raising the ceiling of debt. And Harry Potter has divided, conquered and will not reappear in an eighth episode.

This latter hypothesis of a world not ended, but radically transformed, opens the door to a vision made famous in the Sixties and laid dormant for three decades after. Celebrated as the Age of Aquarius, there are a growing number of humans around the world who believe the Mayan Calendar portends the transition from a five thousand year cycle of life dominated by the masculine energy of intellect to one of heart nurtured by more feminine principles of love and intuition.

History shows that civilization has progressed from a belief that the world is flat to exploration of neighboring planets. Wondrous medical advances and architectural masterpieces are dwarfed by the progression from papyrus to the speed with which my thoughts can be conveyed to yours through a screen. The triple dimensions (3D) of innuendo in Shakespeare's greatest works have been reduced to mere sound bytes on a billboard. Even in war, sticks and stones are being replaced by unmanned drones, rendering killing nearly as harmless as the video games and nursery rhymes that have imitated it.

Except that the carnage is so very real to those on the ground; our junk drifts into space as carelessly as our unlimited growth here on earth has indisputably caused our climate to change in dangerous and unpredictable ways (when was the last time Lake Champlain was completely frozen over?), and the use of cell phones probably produces radiation that causes brain tumors.

Perhaps a little more heart would do us all some good.

As an experiment of a different menu to hold onto their readers who are otherwise vanishing into the ethernet, our local newspaper is brave enough to consider a monthly series of essays in contemplation of this vision of the world. Possibly the end is far less final than what we have feared; in fact is no end at all, but actually more glorious than we have even imagined, one with "...Strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands and everybody playing in the Heart of Gold Band" (Grateful Dead).

We do not even have to wait until 2012. Life as we know it can be transformed today into a world where we help each other, heal the pain that makes us hurt ourselves and others, awake each morning with our grumbles replaced by gratitude. John Lennon imagined peace. Communism was not evil for its vision of prosperity spread among the masses. The meek shall inherit their strength and the rich will claim abundance by their measure of happiness, not their bank accounts.

Fear shall be triumphed by love.

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Waterfall

On the way out of the exam room, once again catheter free, the nurse advised me to relax. The removal had gone relatively smoothly. She had been able to push fluid through the urethra. The ultra-sound proved I had emptied my bladder once; I could probably do it again. Even as extensive as my one-chance surgery had been, they have rarely seen a setback like I had suffered. They were confident that a week later, all would be fine.

To be sure, she wanted me to stick around the hospital for a while and see how things flowed.

Fear played its cruel hovering game, however, and bottle after bottle of water in the cafeteria was not making me feel any better. Free of the catheter for 48 hours last week, my elation from that time saved me from despair in the days since. I had pushed hard to pee so little and patiently survived the pain, sure that muscles just needed practice, but the re-insertion of the catheter after all that was too frightening a possibility that the surgery had ultimately failed. I could not stay very relaxed in this moment of test.

Amazingly, checking email, a daily offering had arrived for this day entitled “Go with the Flow”, a little reminder that resistance to the movement impedes our lives and we must accept whatever comes. The delightfully synchronistic message brought a great smile, but could not alleviate my concern. Even with the Universe and my body seemingly in such conjunction, I was hyper aware of every muscle inflection, completely focused unpleasurably on the minute urges and fluctuations inside my genitals.

A stranger at the urinal at last, facing the tiled wall, but still internally agonizing, I meditated on the nurse’s words and took long, deep, sighing breaths, urged to relax in the fateful moment that had finally arrived. Nothing came but a force of pain, so I went deeper, closing my eyes and let muscles fill with the air and hold poised with emptiness. A burning from deep within expanded, but still nothing came out.

My body urged to push, like a mother needing her baby out, and my toes curled with the effort to start. My jaws locked, but my breath went deeper still to uncurl toes and fingers. My breath steadied, my consciousness envisioned forces swelling and rising, pulsing outwards with the breath. Every cell unclenched, flowing with energy of expansion, an opening of soul.

At last, I could feel something release and even as a sharp wince surged, drops came forth and I felt a palpable relief. My grin that spread from ear to ear was much larger, but the message in the little puddle of fluid was even more clear that I would be well again.

On the 4 hour ride home, climbing out of the car at each stop confirmed the amazing lightness of being I felt again to have no tube nor tail bound to my leg. The irritating straps of latex, Velcro and plastic had vanished, this time never to return. I could dance across the parking lot far more easily than others who were burdened under their daily loads of concerns. Alone and in the mood to celebrate, my body burst with song and my eyes glistened with freedom brighter than fire works.

And as I get back into my own healthy life, trying to force a job out of a thousand internet possibilities, I have to take the nurse’s words even more to heart and try to relax. I suffered a business for far too many years that was always dangling on the edge of disaster because I was pushing too hard, trying to get too much out of something that could only produce so much. Last week the catheter had to go back in because I was pushing so hard again, straining to get it out instead of just allowing the natural urge to release, letting go and letting flow.

Some new work will come along that will be much more suited to who I am today and what I want out of life, the perfect mix of effort and abundance and something I love to do.

We are built to function well, our bodies, hearts and minds. Fear makes us push too hard, swing too soon, eat too fast. Faith is available to give us something to hold when troubles seem too overwhelming, bleeding out of us like a catheter that’s been in too long. We just need to focus on the breath in moments of fear, shake off the distrust and return to the most basic of functions. and we will always find our way, the love will surely flow.

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On the Couch Again

Having suffered the setback over the weekend of a catheter re-inserted up my urethra, I wallow in a state of confusion, not sure if I should stand up and go for a spirit-rallying walk or just lie down and sleep it all away. Sitting is still not an option.

Awakening so alertly from the nine hour surgery a few weeks ago and leaving the hospital two days early created an ebullience that looked like fireworks. Even in pain and making up for lost time at the urinals, to be bag and tube free for that one day was a remarkable joy, confirmation that the universe does provide miracles.

Now the message appears to be I pushed myself too hard feeling so fine, risking serious damage even as it seemed I could have danced all night into next year, maybe even into the next millennium. The joy has caused pain and I have to suffer another week now with the catheter, reminded like a parolee, if I am not careful, it could be for a lifetime.

Home again, I slept nearly thirty hours with interruptions of wakefulness. More like I was in the months after the original accident, I start in on a project and end up on the couch, breathing deeply and staring far into nothing. I gaze absent-mindedly at this yellow pad for long stretches between these sentences.

At the same time, my father, already nearly deaf, blind and frail, has taken a turn for the worse this week and contemplates moving from his independent apartment into the assisted-living section of his community. I am particularly struck by his resistance to the move because he enjoys so much his long hours sitting in the summer shade of his terrace quietly staring into nothing.

This is a man who faces something far more significant than the twelve hours of anesthesia that had caused me such fear. No matter his resignation to the concept that death is just a never-ending sleep and his willingness to go there now that my mother has gone, it makes me wonder and a bit ashamed around my own unease and discomfort.

Compounding the comparison is the fact that his work is done and a part of that financial success is supporting my two year recovery on my own couch (actually, even that is his—a wedding present 65 years ago). He is impatient with the help and wants to see me on my feet with a good job as quickly as I can.

Understanding that our thoughts and fears can manifest our circumstances, I have worried that the accident originally and the delay in surgery subsequently are direct results of not knowing how to go about the rest of my life. Having been afraid and going so slowly for so long, part of my immediate joy post-surgery was feeling I could finally proceed without further distraction, my book complete and ready to find a publisher.

The relapse onto the couch terrifies me that I am actually no further along, no clearer about my future, and the hole I have dug for myself is too deep to ever climb out. I can easily feel old, tired and wounded beyond repair, without the energy to stand up and make something of myself. I fight depression as heartily as my body works to reduce the swelling that will allow them to pull out the catheter once more.

Then the local urologist’s office calls to inform me that I do have an infection after all and will change the antibiotic to be more effective. My spirit lightens a little to know there is a physical reason for this lethargy and I am not just the lazy loser that waiting for my father’s check makes me feel.

Also, as I have been writing this today, the first of what will likely be many rejections of my book arrived in a form letter that indicates my proposal made not the slightest favorable impression, not even enough to get a personal signature. Shortly after, an email just as neutral rejects a short story. My other rationale for staying home and focused is sorely tested. Having no tube in the belly, apparently does not automatically make all things flow.

I scan employment opportunities and contemplate my efforts to pursue insurance sales and financial planning, but return to my couch instead and scribble these words. No matter the life long parental pressure and lack of an agent’s response, my heart knows I love this work more than anything but a good woman and my children.

I have given my all to the recommended and established route and it has served me only half-well. Now is the time to pay attention, settle into the battle for my health, both mental and physical, and prosperity, wielding my pen ferociously and pushing “send” on the keyboard over and over again until I am able to create my own miracle…with God’s blessing and the help of all of you surrounding me with love.

I will soon be off this couch and able to help you in the same way.

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