Reading with Mom

I loved books. I would lie in bed with my mother while she read story after story to my sisters and me. I loved the closeness this created, as we were entertained with adventures that written words painted in our imaginations. In my mind, the only way that I could access this magical world of story, was if someone else did the reading for me. I simply could not connect with the written word by myself.

At Polk School, we had reading groups that were numbered. Group One was the spot for the precocious children – the ones with promise and worthy of expecting futures as successful professionals. Group Two was for the filler kids, the ones who were good enough to do something with their lives, but definitely not the leaders or the ones destined for true success. The children in Group Three had no hope. They were the stupid kids.  They were the children that kids made fun of because of their lesser intelligence.

I didn’t fit in any group. I longed to be one of the chosen in Group One, but I was never one of them. Group Two was where I usually ended up, even though my reading skills lagged behind many in that group. I was put in Group Three once, but that only lasted a couple of days, because I understood the work, despite symptoms of dyslexia. I was frustrated with reading, spelling and anything that tested my ability to comprehend or communicate through written language.

Now, as an adult, I am a good reader and I love to read. My mother’s reading to me showed me what a high price I would pay if I quit trying and stepped into a box labeled Learning Disability.  I will always be grateful for the magnificent world her time and attention unlocked for me.

The Smell of School

There is an odor that is distinctly a school smell.  It is a mixture of old books, sweaty kids, industrial strength cleaner, and school lunch.  I actually like this smell. I went to elementary school in the 1960’s, the time of purple ditto copies.  Unlike the fresh warm Xerox copies of today, fresh ditto copies were cold. They had a sent that I can’t describe, but one I will never forget. I loved that smell, but I didn’t love the work it represented.  If a ditto copy ever got wet, the ink would run, leaving a purple trail of evidence of its existence. I cleaned many lingering purple marks with Dutch cleanser and a rag.

When I think of that smell and school, memories of our janitors, Bart and Morris, pop into my head. They were always there when we needed them. They were busy pushing long, gray rag mops down the halls of Polk School; dousing child vomit with sawdust and then sweeping it up as if nothing happened; filling the soap containers in the bathrooms with pink powdered soap, and then cleaning piles of it off the sink; and scraping wads of single folded squares of toilet paper, mixed with water and pink grainy soap off the ceiling in the 5^th and 6^th graders bathrooms. I would say “Hi, Morris” or “Hi, Bart” when I saw them. Bart would answer back in his strong Dutch accent. Morris would smile revealing his missing tooth. I find it odd that we were allowed to call these two adult men by their first names in a time when all adults were addressed by their last names preceded by a Mr., Mrs., Miss, Uncle, or Aunt.

These wonderful, kind men were given far less credit and money than they deserved.

Waking with Spirit

Spirit wakes me. “Go write.”

I jump to the call, eager and willing.

I look at the clock –

It’s so early. I need my rest.

I will be tired, how will I get through my day?

I reconsider. I wisely go back to sleep.

My alarm wakes me. “Get to work.”

No time to write. I missed my chance.

Spirit, how can I follow you and stay in this world?

My little one – let go – relax.

I will take care of you. We will work together.

I know your needs and I know your heart.

Trust me with them and try something new.

Your needs are important to me.

I will take care of you..

I need a body to dance my dance.

I need a voice to sing my song.

I need a hand to write my words.

Wake up little one and play with me.

Try it out.

Trust me with the lead.

We will take turns, and lead together.

Message from Mess

I assisted in the move of a hoarder. Her house was so crammed full of junk there was only a small a path from room to room. There were beanie babies, little figurines, clothes, purses, shoes, bedding, books, tons of craft stuff: fabric, paint, brushes, wood, and an endless supply of craft magazines, as well as human-interest magazines. She only had one day to get out of the house, so instead of going through, purging and organizing her belongings, we packed it all up and sent it to storage. Holding on to all of this stuff was costing her tons of money, her marriage, and her happiness.

I could so relate to her. I liked many of the things she had. She had magazines I would subscribe to if it weren’t for the hard time I have throwing them away. She had beautiful fabric, cute stuffed animals, and lots of things I liked. I could see my mind wishing all of her crap (well, some of it) would go from her house to mine. I wondered what all of those things represented to her and why it was so hard for her to let them go.

However, I do know what it would represent for me. It would symbolize living a life I want but don’t have. Expressing myself creativity, but being too fearful to even try; taking adventures and going places that I’m missing out on now; owning cute things, somehow believing they will make me cute; Dreaming of making  doll clothes for my grandchildren symbolizing our love and connection.  Clinging on to my kids toys and clothes in some way believing if I have these things, my children will always be close and shield me from experiencing loneliness.

The truth is at the end of the day, all I’d have is a mountain of junk and no room for me. All of the creativity would still be unexpressed. My kids would still be gone. My grandkids still wouldn’t have homemade doll clothes, and wouldn’t be thinking about me every minute of every day. I still wouldn’t have made any of the recipes in the magazines or crossed stitched even one of the patterns in the hundreds of magazines to choose from.

That empty hole in my heart that I tried to fill by buying more and different things would still be there – connecting me to every past hurt and failure.

Letting go and disconnecting from possessions has been one of the most painful, scary and healing things I have ever done. Letting go of past memories, unfulfilled dreams, and the feelings associated with them is a huge step, and in my opinion, one worth taking. When I feel the feelings that come up when I let go of my things and their meanings, and

turn to the Savior for comfort, love, and understanding I heal. I know that he knows exactly what it is like to be me. He loves me and understands me; free of judgment, condemnation, or disappointment. He knows exactly what I experience, making it possible to bring 100% light to my broken heart. This gives me feelings of worth and value that replace all those feelings of despair, loneliness, helplessness and insecurity. It gives me the space to let go of my things and my pain and opens a place for joy, adventure and faith. Even without those things, I can still have dreams, connection and fun!

It surprises me that I found this message in the middle of a messy house. I thank this woman for the opportunity to see a little inside her and a little inside me. I pray for her. I pray that she can find the courage to part with her "things." I pray that she will be filled from the only place that will completely fill the hole that all mortal experience. I pray that she knows that she isn't alone and that in some way we are all alike.

The New Story of My Life

Finally! Finally, I have permission to step out of my old story.

My Old Story:

A story of a little girl who was needy,

Born to a family who needed someone to need.

A little girl laden with life’s challenges early,

Before she understood the difference between challenges and life.

A little girl who thought she needed others to think for her.

A beautiful little girl.

A beautiful family.

A beautiful story.

A Story …

It is time and the opportunity is here

For me to write a new story.

My New Story:

A story of a strong, competent, free woman,

Living in a world that needed her light.

A woman accepting life’s challenges late,

After she understood there was no difference between living life and hunting treasure.

A woman who loved her ideas, and loved thinking them.

A beautiful woman.

A beautiful life.

A beautiful story.

A Story . . .

The truth of either of these stories

Lies in the seeker looking for the story.

The pen that writes them and interprets them

Is the pen that spins them.

The truest part of both of these stories

Is that I’m the one who holds the pen

And the one who creates the vision.

Growth is a Process - Not an Event

For the last year and a half, I have focused much of my energy towards getting my master’s degree. I have been reading, writing, meditating, tracking, rating, dancing, volunteering, nurturing, talking, speaking, healing, observing, meeting, soul gazing, laughing, crying, releasing, quivering, reframing, and forgiving. This process has required a huge commitment physically as well as emotionally. I see the payoff of this work in how I relate to myself and with the world.

The basis of my work at University of Santa Monica is identifying misinterpretations of reality and resolving issues. I have released negative energy associated with events or memories from my past. I have been digging deep into my subconscious mind looking for hurt and misunderstandings that I can bring forward and bathe in loving, healing energy. When issues I have stumbled over for years resurface, I rejoice thinking that I have found the Holy Grail. However, as I go forward in my life, I find myself not quite as free as I had hoped. One of the principles I have learn at school is that growth is a process – not an event.  

This reminds me of an experience that I had last week.

I was up on the hill in my yard looking at the fruit trees we planted ten years ago. Upon close examination, I found that a bore had gotten into one tree and destroyed it. To protect the surrounding trees, I decided to dig out the infested one. I began digging. It took a lot of effort and many tools. It was hard to find the roots and hard to cut the roots from the ground. I was left with a few scrapes as battle scars from my hard work. It took me a few days of cutting, digging, and removing the unnecessary debris. But my efforts paid off and the tree was finally out – or so I thought. The tree was too heavy to lift out of the hole, so I asked my husband to help. When he tried to get it out, he found two major roots that hadn’t been completely severed. Once they were located, it was easy to clip them loose. The tree was completely free from the ground ready to be removed.

Digging out a dysfunctional tree is much like digging out a dysfunctional belief. In both cases, it takes a lot of time, tools, and energy to uncover, sever and dislodge what is keeping them in place. After a lot of effort, it may seem as if the job is complete, but there may still be more work to do. If you stick with it, no matter what, you remove both of them and replace them with something new and beautiful.

Now that my tree is out and cut into smaller pieces, ready to be burned, it really is quite small and takes up relatively little space.

Balance

I just filled my car up at the cheapest gas station that I could find. I paid $3.89 a gallon and filled my tank for $70.00. This has the potential of sending my mind crazy with fear and despair for the future. The money, health care and political fighting are spinning out of control in this country. There is unrest and upheaval overseas. Looking through these eyes is very discouraging and I feel desperate.

I also just listened to several talks on TED.com. What I heard there were bright minds with innovative ideas and solutions to the challenges before them. I heard people talking of educating children in a way that honers their natural genius and abilities. I heard ideas and trends of people coming together and sharing goods and information.

As much fear and anxiety as my $70.00 gas tank can tap into is lessened and can be almost completely eliminated by the hope and excitement that I experience when I hear the ideas and plans that are out there for our collective future. It's a great time to be alive. I feel like I am a part of a change in humanity and lifestyle that will have an impact as big as the invention of the car and the airplane. I can't wait to hear the stories that I tell my grandchildren and great grandchildren.