She could not face it today. The mere act of lifting her eyes to greet her guest was painful. Somehow, it was always worse at times when questions about her future haunted her the most. Funny, since the pain was about the past - a long, long gone past.

 

She sat on the veranda when he arrived. He said, in French, “Bonjour Ariel, ça va?” Ariel put down her book. She thought she almost heard herself sigh. Eliot was a recent acquaintance. Someone she had liked immediately. The sigh was certainly not directed at him. No. The pain is what made her sigh. The pain of looking in the eyes of the past.

 

Every time this happened, Ariel wondered if the other person knew. Could they remember as she did? She had encountered so many of them over the past four years or so. It seemed this ability to recognize them had become more acute with time. To Ariel, it was now second nature. She remembered people from eight hundred years ago and she remembered glimpses of her life then, often while looking in their eyes.

 

Not long ago, she had walked into a store and crossed paths with a woman in full army fatigues. Ariel did not look at her. She did not want to look, because she was not comfortable with the military, with the idea of killing others in their own countries. She had seen so much oppression over the centuries. She avoided the woman’s gaze in order to avoid feeling angry, or sad. The woman spoke to her. It took Ariel by surprise. She had to look up and ask, “Pardon me?” The woman said, kindly, “I like your Celtic pendant, it is very pretty”.

 

The flashback occurred in that instant. She knew. She knew she had met this woman before, in a village, centuries ago. Ariel travelled a lot in her former existence. They had crossed paths then also. She wanted to ask the woman who now wore twenty-first century military fatigues, “Why? Do you not remember you were a healer then? I remember you walking through your village with a bundle of plants you had just gathered. You are the one who would not look at me then. People do not feel comfortable in the presence of time shifters. Or perhaps it is because I was a man. Why are you not a healer anymore? Why are you wearing these clothes that are not the essence of who you are?”

 

Eliot’s impact was gentler. More matter-of-fact. Ariel wondered if he knew. She thought that others, like her, had probably come to understand who and what they were. On the other hand, perhaps for some it did not matter. Eliot was different because he had preserved his profession through the ages, in some fashion. He had been a cloth merchant then. Now, in 2009, he was a jeweler. Ariel had so strayed from her original calling, while living in the current century, that she was not certain who she wanted to be anymore. It seemed she did not have to choose before. Perhaps this is what hurt, more than remembering.

 

To be continued.  

“Become What You Are” is a thin, very enjoyable and thought provoking book compiling a collection of writings by Alan Watts. Each chapter, or topic, is an observation on the search for one’s true self and on common cultural expectations or beliefs common to our religious or moral teachings.

 

Interestingly, the book cover features a central circular mirror, but it is scratched and no longer able to render a clear image. One sees only a contour of the face. Imperfections are not revealed; nor are the few traits one might secretly associate with personal beauty.

 

Alan Watts daringly put down on paper what many of us, seekers of truth and enlightenment, think quietly but dare not speak aloud. In short, his premise is that the very act of seeking enlightenment prevents us from attaining it. All our religions require that we pray or approach the divine in the right way. In spirituality, prayer and meditation are often the same. Our culture has devised perhaps as many as thousands of methods for attaining “Oneness with God”, “Enlightenment” and such.

 

Countless books have been written on the subject of meditation. Some methods are elaborate, requiring preparation, specific surroundings and a systematic approach the student is strongly encouraged to follow without variation. We take classes, we learn Yoga, deep breathing, walking meditation, all with the intent to achieve a level of peace where all distraction disappears and only being remains, if that.

 

However, Watts suggests that this is possible only when the seeking after results stops. For all seeking for the proper breathing rhythm, for the proper posture, for the proper inner focus, is, in itself, a distraction.  According to Watts, our culture, in fact, many of our cultures, strives on results. There must be a goal to every endeavor. Indeed, there must be endeavor.

 

In my own experience as someone who is interested in spiritual growth, I have failed at every attempt to meditate, but I have not failed at meditation, only at the conscious attempt to do so. Every time, I have grown impatient. An inner voice would tentatively nudge me with the notion that it was not necessary to seek to adopt the perfect posture or breathing, that one could attain a meditative state as surely as one falls asleep every night, without striving to do so. In fact, each time we strive to fall asleep, we do not.

 

The ancient sages and teachers may have approached their spiritual practice with far more ease and levity than we, the result-seekers. There are countless accounts of enlightened masters retreating to the desert for great lengths of time. Whether this is to be taken literally or metaphorically is irrelevant. Retreating from one’s daily concerns and fidgeting, such as in the instant we lay our head down on the pillow, may very well be the point of enlightenment.

 

The only difference between a novice such as me and individuals who are advanced in the practice of meditation is that this single point of relaxation and void, this “great between” moment at the end of the day’s routine and the threshold of sleep, stretches into timelessness for them. When we retreat to bed at night, we seek not results; we only seek to leave the day behind. This is much like walking a long road to arrive, finally, at a precipice. There is nowhere to go, but for a moment, it does not matter. The view has captured our attention.

 

Slainte!

As I read some of my blogs, it does not take very long for me to notice a rather prominent pattern. Though at the time I write them I feel I am perfectly at peace and simply writing as an observer, I believe it is fair to say that most express a level of criticism about a situation, social behavior or personal experience. I sat back for a while to contemplate this observation and attempted to formulate a list of possible topics that would not dwell on identifying pros and cons, best practices, fairness or injustice. I found the task nearly impossible.

 

Language is especially designed to qualify, compare, explain and analyze. Our brains are designed to qualify, compare, explain and analyze. In fact, truly objective observation may no longer exist. A simple statement such as “the pencil is blue” may seem objective, but the fact that I chose to qualify the object by naming its color, as opposed to its shape, demonstrates a subjective selection. The pencil may also be described as round, long, short, or even purple by someone who perceives a slightly different shade of blue.

 

However, for the sake of momentary abolition of criticism, instead of commenting on a situation to determine and expose what I feel is appropriate about it and what is not, I thought I could perhaps select an object I like and describe what I like about it and why. In order to do this, I must use subjective observations, express preferences or relate to situations I have enjoyed or disliked. In the end, there is no way around some form of criticism. The very choice of one object as opposed to another is an expression of bias.

 

It is quite interesting how we feel compelled to remark on the events around us. This seems to be our way of stating who we are and that we exist and stand for something. A dog observes a situation, may be on alert for its own safety while there is noise or while others involved show anger or fear, but within moments, it lays its head back down. The show is over, being resumes. There is nothing to comment on or discuss. It was just an outburst; it was not what being is all about. I wonder how my life would look if I were such a peaceful observer, if I were so in tune with being that I could observe all that I observe in the world and not translate it into words

 

What if we used words only for the essential? What if we used words only to say hungry, thirsty, yes, no, love, like, dislike, cold, hot and so forth, only to express what is felt or needed in the moment. This level of communication, which is very complex in its own right, exists today amongst thousands of creatures. It seems the main difference for us, humans, is that we use one word in addition to these: we say “I”.

 

“I” is the shortest word in our language, yet it is the most expansive. All our conversations, explanations, observations and exclamations serve as building blocks to set the stage where we tell the world who we are: I am afraid, I am angry, I like this, I do not like that, I think this is right or I think this is wrong. Every time we comment on something, we are in fact saying, “this is what I see, this is what I believe, this is who I am in the midst of this situation and in comparison to others”.

 

“I” is so expansive that, even without using it, every utterance delivers one message: “This is who I am”. This may be the truth, or it may be someone’s perception of the truth. I may say certain things about how I live and someone who hears me could jump to the conclusion that I am, for instance, a Democrat, simply based on the sort of observations I have made. How we live, the type of car we drive, the way we walk, dress, react, everything about us is an extension of two words and all variations of those two words. The person who speaks or acts is saying, “I am”; the person who observes thinks, “You are”. Even when we are silent, our minds observe everything based on these two words.

 

I am someone who may or may not have a blue pencil in my hand. While I put these observations into word, my dog slept. Writing this made me stop and just sit here. For a fraction of a second, there was no I.

 

Slainte!

Several years ago, I volunteered as a mentor in a school. Mentors were matched to only one student, usually of the same gender. Other students were forbidden from joining in our activities. The student I mentored did not have special educational or emotional needs. This was simply a service parents could elect to take advantage of for their children, if they wished to sign them up.

 

The little girl I mentored was adorable. It was an especially good match because she enjoyed drawing and doing artwork. We met once a week, around lunchtime. We quickly got into the routine of sharing lunch and promptly starting a project. We decorated boxes and made collages. Sometimes we played Mancala, but most of the time we loaded a table with craft supplies and jumped right in. I remember attempting to make candles during one of these sessions. We both laughed a lot because we simply failed and ended up with mush.

 

Mentors had to adhere to strict rules. We could use a classroom, but could not be behind closed doors. We also could not touch the child in any way. I do not have children of my own, so this rule did not bother me at first. However, I soon discovered that it can be nearly impossible not to want to hug an adorable child who is beaming with joy. I stuck to the rule. It was painful.

 

Over time, a boy who happened to be a classmate of my student began to approach us. He seemed to be a solitary little chap. He simply sat at a nearby desk and watched us. A teacher would inevitably scold him simply for being there and being a “nuisance”. He was not. Every time this happened, he looked down and silently began to cry. The following week, in spite of the scolding, he inched his way closer. The same scenario unfolded, with the teacher raising her voice and making it clear his friendliness was not welcome. This broke my heart. That day, I approached the mentoring program director to ask if I might be allowed to mentor him separately, or if a male mentor could be assigned. The answer to both inquiries was no.

 

Our stubborn little friend did not lose heart. The following week, he chanced an approach while no teacher seemed to be paying attention. I quickly whispered to my student and asked her if it would bother her to share a few art supplies with him. She was quite all right with this idea, so before anyone could intervene I gave him a pad and markers and invited him to sit at a nearby desk. When a teacher arrived, with her mouth already half-open to utter the usual commands, I immediately interjected and insisted he was no trouble at all. I think my gaze probably spoke more forcefully than my words. She hesitated, but stepped back.

 

A few weeks later, I resigned from this assignment. The scolding had begun again and I felt it was terribly unfair, especially since I was not there with the other students due to any special needs. She was an exemplary student, with good parents and all that she needed to succeed, including teachers’ good favors. This was not her fault, of course. She was simply a well-adjusted, adorable and confident child. However, I began to see our interactions as a great disservice to less fortunate, less favored children such as our little artistic friend. It made no sense to me not to be allowed to provide the same level of acknowledgement and attention to other kids. It would have been so simple to set up schedules so all children who wished to have a mentor would get their playful or artful hour over time.

 

A few days after my last day as a mentor, I received a call from the school informing me that the boy had requested to see me. Perhaps his parents had requested this. I do not remember. When I arrived, I was directed to the “time out” room. He was sitting at a desk, facing the wall. When I approached, he handed me a picture he had drawn, indicating that it was his thank you gift to me. I could barely speak. I wanted to hold him and tell him the world out there was not necessarily as nasty to little boys as he had sometimes experienced, but even hugs to show someone matters were not allowed, so I had to walk away.

 

Several years later, I heard that special school-based assistance had been requested for this boy, who was likely now a teenager. I heard that he had been bounced from one service provider to another and no one really had the time or desire to add him to their caseload. Once more, the adult world was failing him, perhaps at the most critical time of all.

 

There seems to be an unspoken rule amongst many adults and educators stating that the proper way to deal with “disruptive” children is to scold them and isolate them. In truth, it has been demonstrated time and time again in other, more progressive educational environments, that giving them loving guidance and attention is the most effective and logical approach. People, children, are “disruptive” for a reason. It is not necessarily intentional. Most of the time, it is an unconscious and very important means of communication. One must seek what lies beneath, not push it away.

 

I have prayed and wished this boy remembers how beautifully he can draw and I have prayed and wished he turned to this and that every stroke of the pencil or brush gives him the confidence to know with certainty that he is someone who matters as much as everyone else. I hope he cares enough to make a peaceful life for himself and I hope there is someone nearby who hugs him from time to time.

 

Slainte!

Some people have a very acute sense of who they are and what they are meant to be doing. Switching direction is as matter-of-fact to them as turning a knob to open a door. Today, I met a confident, bright-eyed woman who is following her true calling. She studied law, but after only a short while working in this field realized it was not a path she wished to pursue for her entire life. She has been managing a gift shop for eight years. As she speaks of her work life and going to this colorful place every day, her gaze sharpens, and her entire countenance reveals one who is at peace and fulfilled.

 

It happens every day. Cops become signers, builders become poets, nurses become jewelers and actors become therapists. Accounts of such seemingly drastic changes in one’s career orientation often have one common thread: Though the direction is completely new, the steps taken to shift gear are usually free of struggle. Very minimal time is wasted on should's and if’s. One reaches a point where any internal argument or resistance is futile. There is nothing more to do but take action.

 

One might think that lack of the proper means or education could be reasonable obstacles to a career makeover. One might think that entourage, criticism, naysayers or just plain habit might be a deterrent. However, there comes a point where one’s integrity takes charge and gains momentum. In that particular state of mind, obstacles become markers that awaken the problem-solving, creative mind. When you know who you are and what you would love to do, it truly is like falling in love. Everything becomes vibrant with possibility, inspiration and joy. One becomes fearless and adventurous.

 

In the end, it is never about means or education. It is about passion. Passion is the ingredient that sparks the creative juices and leads one to find the means, the knowledge, the people and the opportunities to begin this new work. No great scientific discovery was ever possible without passion. In fact, I would venture to say that science is an offspring of passion, the passion for knowledge. So it is with a lawyer who turns to painting. The desire to know every bit of how it feels to apply pigment to the canvas and shape a scene with one’s own hand and eye is a scientific experiment in itself. It is the search for the accomplished work, that which materializes what was already known and had already taken shape in the mind.

 

Materialization, therefore, is the second ingredient on the path to recreating one’s work life. The curious mind begs to know “what will my idea look like once I shape it?” Once the idea for a new line of work or creative project comes to mind, once it takes hold and begins to germinate, it cannot be contained within the mind forever. It wants to venture out.

 

I like to experiment with new dinner recipes. Nothing fancy. Cooking is not one of my strong points and it did not take very long for me to discover that since I do not have a knack for it, if I venture to use an ingredient that was not originally listed, the resulting taste or texture may be rather disappointing. I think it is much the same with our life path. The right ingredients must exist, in the correct proportions, in order for the course we choose to unfold smoothly. We often mistakenly focus on fear and uncertainty as the main ingredients. This can turn passion and materialization into a very bad tasting mix. When we are in fear, we cannot see opportunities and creative ways to reach our goals. Being in fear is like repeatedly doubting that the loaf will come out right. We open the oven door and watch it collapse. How discouraging! We must stick to the recipe and leave fear on the shelf, to the very back of the shelf, out of sight, out of mind.

 

Slainte!

The things that surround us, the objects and pictures we carefully place around our homes, are constant reminders about who we are, what we value and, most significantly, how we grow and change. We might have loved Art Deco for years until we finally walk into the room we have filled with it and feel we are in a strange museum whose exhibit is not quite what we had in mind. Now, we long for the golden atmosphere of Van Gogh, for instance. However, while the things we bring into our homes reflect our tastes and values of the moment, the people who share those moments silently witness our evolution.

 

Vladimir and Alexandre were my children. Though they were of a different species - both were cats - I see no distinction. I sheltered and fed them, educated them about what was safe and what was not, kept them from danger, hunger and suffering, tucked them in at night and demonstrated my love for them every single day of their lives. I see adopting an animal much like adopting a child from another country. Though their language and inherent social rules differ from mine, as we grow together we learn a bit from each other’s culture and establish our very own ways of communicating.

 

I became very much aware of their role as witnesses when Vladimir passed away last September. He was 21. Alex had died seven years earlier, at 19. When I held my dead son in my arms, I felt a heart wrenching emptiness I had never experienced before in my life. Between the two of them, Vlad and Alex had accompanied my every adventure for twenty-seven years. They had witnessed all my victories and failings, my acquaintances and loves, my joy and rage. They had peacefully accepted every move to a new home and the move to Vermont from Canada. They had slept in my arms every single day. We had gazed into each other’s eyes every morning and every night.

 

They had been the observers of this weird creature who made their food from scratch and poured love into them with each embrace. Their every breath, as they lay on a favorite chair or windowsill, marked every moment of my existence like a pendulum. Their silent observation somehow confirmed to the universe that this being called Paschal’Simon was moving, breathing, creating, deciding, laughing, crying, working, eating, sleeping, evolving, changing and becoming something. With my dead son in my arms, I suddenly felt like a small creature in the forest that wakes up and yawns, but no one is there to witness its awakening, so does it really exist, and does it really matter?

 

Humans thrive on acknowledgement. The first thing a child does when he or she has drawn a picture is to show it to every adult and child around. Every single one of our actions is an extension of our thoughts into the world, a manifestation of our mastery of life and creativity. Indeed, every action is our manifesto. A manifesto is meaningful only if heard or read.

  

I suppose people who live in isolation have transcended the need for acknowledgement or perhaps they have learned self-acknowledgement. Is it an error to believe that our existence must be validated by the love and observation of others? Is it a dysfunction? It can certainly lead to suffering.

 

An image comes to mind: The tribe. Interestingly, though they interact at one time or another, a tribe does not need the acknowledgement of a neighboring tribe in order to function. However, each individual within the tribe most likely receives acknowledgement from his or her peers. Is it possible to be like a tribe entity? Perhaps all that is required is to realize that our existence is not meaningless if it is not witnessed, but it is certainly richer when shared.

 

Slainte!

There is a difference between making money and earning it. This realization came to me over the past several months as I peruse the various job search engines to secure employment alongside my personal ventures. In fact, if it were not for the personal ventures, as modest as they are, I wonder how I would fare in this shaky economy.

 

Moments, literally moments after signing up with CareerBuilder, JobLink, our state department of employment job bank and the likes, I was inundated by SPAM of one nature or another. In the course of each week, I have observed job listings pour in. These are supposed to be at least reasonably tailored to my profile. Instead, they are often up to 70% related to work-from-home scams.

 

Another aspect of this is the wide use of online recruiting services by employers. For many real jobs I have applied to, I have received a follow-up email informing me that in order to complete the application and be considered for the position, I needed to “click on the link below”, which link directed me to an online application on behalf of the employer. The catch? The agency that offers this service has a motive of its own: Gathering a list of contacts for college recruiters. In fact, one gets to the actual application form only after a college information offer pop-up. There is no way around it. The application cannot be submitted if all fields are not filled out. Then, the phone begins to ring. It is nine o’clock in the evening. A recording from the University of Phoenix comes on. I let the answering machine pick up.

 

A few days ago, I decided to investigate this system further. I found the agency that provides the online service to employers and discovered that their entire process is not disclosed. They come across as an honest to goodness method for employers to compile lists of applicants and qualifications to assist them in selecting the best candidates with greater ease. The next time this system popped up on my screen, I notified the employer and asked is they were aware of the actual process. They were as shocked as I was, and quite discouraged.

 

Back to the wonderful make $500 a week from home offers. Many are disguised, very well disguised I might add, as honest to goodness administrative jobs, including a specific office location. I investigated this also. In fact, I found one whose initiator was dumb enough to explain how the entire pyramidal scam works as a means to entice one to join his wonderful, moneymaking scheme for only $1.00, for a limited time only. According to him, I too could make millions by producing unblock-able pop-up ads, acquiring email addresses to my very own passive audience and duplicating the very steps and words he had used to get me to sign up at $1.00. In other words, he gave me all the reason in the world to not sign up. But I am certain many do, out of despair or a sort of momentary false notion that they are not capable of acquiring wealth in any other way, and that wealth is necessary in the first place.

 

Surely the people at the top of these pyramids probably make quite a few dollars, perhaps even a ridiculously high amount of money, simply by knowing how to network, network, network. Once the net is cast, it is much like fishing. The wider the net area, the more fish are likely to be caught in it. It appears that in today’s economy the phrase “fishers of men” takes on an entirely new meaning.

 

The thought of sitting at home and watching the dollars accumulate like dumbfounded fish in my virtual net while strangers’ mailboxes are invaded with my crafty emails and unblock-able pop-up ads does not appeal to me. Someone could very well demonstrate and prove that I could get rich overnight by doing so, I still could not conceive of putting so much energy in installing such a system when I could put the same amount of energy, and more, to selling a real, tangible product or service that brings some measure of value or real enjoyment to the persons purchasing it.

 

I have very low tolerance for this sort of scheme and invasion at a time when so many people are looking for real employment and honest ways to support themselves. Paying $1.00 to learn how to run a moneymaking scheme does only that: It teaches one how to run a scheme to make money. It does not provide the experience of truly earning one’s keep by offering talent and skills to a business, employer, team or project; it does not provide one’s audience or clients with the experience of acquiring an inspiring book or a beautiful object, or receiving valuable services. Making thousands is one thing, earning each dollar through skill, labor and service is a privilege and a way to grow. A dollar earned this way is worth thousands.

 

Slainte!

If someone were to say, “describe yourself in one sentence”, most of us would not know what to highlight and what to leave out. At first, we think we can spontaneously jump in and confidently announce “I am ….”, but we stop short. Anything we say must be scrutinized, censored and trimmed down to the bare essentials, without leaving out any critical bare essential.

 

It is much like preparing a long journey for which we are allowed only one suitcase. We want to fit enough clothes to change and feel refreshed every day. We want to include our favorite lucky charm, stuffed animal or object. We make room for the books we are certain we will read while traveling, special shoes for special occasions, maps and so on and so forth. Everything in that suitcase is linked to our identity, to our sense of what makes us feel secure and complete. If it does not close, our minds go reeling into an exercise in elimination of the items least likely to be missed or, more accurately, least likely to make us feel lost and incomplete should we not have them.

 

So what is it that we are, in one sentence? Are we our accomplishments, our credentials, our qualities, our accumulated wealth, fears, things, toys or offspring? How do you wrap all of it in one sentence without missing a beat? Better yet, what feels like it does not fit? I could say, “I am a rocket scientist”, but cringe at every word because though this may be what I have become, deep down inside I know it is not all that I am.

 

So the process of elimination begins. It requires honesty and courage. Opening a suitcase with rocket science textbooks in it may feel more proper than revealing, for instance, a bundle of beaded bracelets in the midst of creation. But ha! The colors, the shades and feel of each bead, the feeling of utter fulfillment one experiences at the very sight of this work in progress seems so, so much more authentic than the rocket science paraphernalia.

 

In these times, when technology, information and all manners of professions exist that were inconceivable for generations not so long ago, one tends to feel not sufficiently accomplished without a good job title to throw after “I am”. This is sad. It is sad because, and I am certain of this, many of the people who can place a significant title after those two words cringe when they do it. This has been acquired at such a cost. Their pain is silent. It is the pain of a child who has been told that being authentic comes second to being somebody. The child’s spirit knows the truth.

 

What is in your suitcase? Did you dare bring the real stuff for your journey?

 

Slainte!

This morning, I found a very interesting question on the Windows QnA forum. Someone asked, if you were king or queen of the world, what would be your first decree? My first hunch was to answer what follows: That we shall develop a barter system in every land, whereby people would freely share their skills and talents with neighbors and more experienced folks would mentor each other's children. Every adult would be someone's virtual grandparent, everyone would become a teacher of a trade or profession upon graduating from their own studies, and the palace would hold an international library for all to access. After a few moments, I realized that what I had just described was a web of interconnectedness much like the Internet, only in person. This leads to a second realization: It is not possible to have a world without laws.

 

My reply and others I read on the forum had one theme in common: In our imaginary kingdom, everybody would have access to something for free, everything, every joy and right would be at hand, equally accessible to all. Is not this the basic premise of all kingdoms and the basic promise of every government? If such free access to "good for all" is our desire, can we not live without conflict? Moreover, how do we resolve it when it occurs?

 

At first glance, in a world where we share knowledge and tools, where elders naturally mentor the younger generations, one would think that conflict might not exist. In fact, one might think that the criminal mind itself could not prosper. It seems almost certain, or at least probable, that crime might drop in a society where sharing and supporting each other were key elements of daily living for everyone in every community. However, conflict is inevitable because not everyone interacts in the same manner. Some days we do not feel so good; we want to be left alone or we went to bed too late, or we are not quite done with a neighbor's tool and irritable when someone else needs it. The concept of a society-wide barter system lends itself to an illusion of instant harmony without rules. Yet even a tribe, where everyday activities are deeply intertwined, operates around clearly defined rules. There cannot be any sort of interaction without rules, implicit or deliberate.

 

If I can borrow any tool I want, how long can I keep it? If I can teach my neighbor a new language, how much of my time does he get? If I agree to pick up groceries for another neighbor, by what time should I do so? Every action, every tool borrowed, every offer to lend a helping hand leads to questions that help define how we interact. As we formulate answers to these questions and agree upon a time, place, manner of doing, we establish rules, or laws. This is inevitable. It is also inevitable that someone will infringe upon a neighbor’s right, not respect his or her part of an agreement, or hurt someone else. It is inevitable that someone may feel left out when a neighbor happens to lend more often to X or Y. This may lead to theft, injury, insult. Then, one must ask, How do we deal with this? The answer, simply, is make more rules, come to agreements, establish laws.

 

I used to know a man who had a saying about laws: “If you do not like the law, don’t break it. Instead, work on changing or improving it”. The laws of conduct and rules we establish in our society are the building blocks, the foundation of our daily lives and freedom. Yes, I said freedom. I do not believe there can be freedom without rules. Freedom needs structure. Otherwise, it is simply a big society-wide accident waiting to happen. So back to my barter-based kingdom... it would inevitably evolve in the same manner as any other society, with the same rules and laws, very much as a small body of water one tries to contain eventually overflows and branches out into brooks and rivers. It cannot be contained and there is only one direction for it to take, naturally.

 

Slainte!

I added images of compasses, sextants and harps to my web space today. Then, I spent delightful moments staring at them. If I were to describe human genius and its ability to give shape and form to the universe, I would say, "Look at compasses, sextants and musical instruments". They share many fascinating traits, all very closely related to the vastness of the universe itself, all representative of the process that leads from an apparent "nothing" to the germination of an idea, followed by the materialization of an object, rippling back into the universe through its very use.

 

The compass, sextant and musical instruments were born from an instinctive awareness. The observer grasped the concept without a single piece of complex technology in hand. From that one moment of "knowing", his mind began to ask questions, each question leading to an answer, an idea, and a new, expanded concept. Creative minds cannot help but create. Creative minds cannot help but fashion the objects they imagine; take pieces of familiar materials and assemble them in such a way that the idea becomes an object one can hold. This object is the proof, the giant "Ha Ha!" The creative mind wants to cradle its creation.

 

Compasses, sextants and musical instruments create an invisible ripple effect. The harp string sends out a vibration we call sound, or music. It exists to make music. The compass and sextant also ripple out into the universe whenever they enable the observer to expand his awareness beyond the horizon. In fact, they are designed to direct the awareness with high precision, just as the harp is tuned to give a precise sound.

 

What these instruments accomplish is very complex. They are the culmination of centuries of history, living, questioning, and asking how to make invisible concepts visible and tangible. The result is a series of objects so intricate, so detailed, so complex in design and function that they are imbued with a beauty only nature can match in its intricate design of flowers and creatures. I do not drink, yet when I consider this, when I spend time admiring our ability to create such masterpieces, I feel intoxicated. I see the passion of a creative mind in each of these objects. One cannot create such beauty without loving each moment of the process. Then, I ask why so many of the objects we create today, even much of the architecture of our dwellings, appear so devoid of passion, so square, so not fully vibrant? Do we know too much? Do we understand so much that some of the wonder of creating is gone?

 

Maybe this is why compasses, sextants, musical instruments and similar objects and tools are so beautiful. They were born of wonder, pure wonder, pure amazement. That initial point of wonderment cannot be repeated or, rather, it can never be felt quite in the same manner or quite with the same passion again. Therefore, we collect compasses and sextants, and make music, because somewhere deep down in our bones we remember, and we do not want to forget.

 

Slainte!

Several years ago, I was hired to provide in-home care for the elderly. The program I joined had been established to allow seniors to remain in their own homes instead of going to assisted living facilities. This concept was fairly new at the time. The individuals we cared for needed help with meals, outings, getting to appointments, sometimes bathing or they simply wanted company. This was a challenging experience.

 

When I first joined, I assumed I would be expected to attend some training sessions. Instead, I was provided with a video overview of the services and a booklet to take home and read. I admit that the booklet was very thorough and actually very well thought out, but it was not like hands on experience. I had also assumed I would be shadowing for quite a while before I would be allowed to be left alone with a client. I shadowed for one afternoon. I personally felt ready and prepared to face the challenge. I had chosen to do this, after all. I also felt confident because this required one to be reliable, honest and dedicated, all traits I strongly believe in applying to my daily life. I also felt I was mature enough to take on such a responsibility. It did bother me, however, that I, a complete stranger, could be sent into the homes of vulnerable people, some with health issues, without any specific training.

 

My first client was a sweet woman who had had a stroke. She could no longer speak. I was also informed that she was rather confused. My job was to come in early in the morning, prepare her breakfast and make sure she did not stay in bed since the doctor had specifically instructed that she be kept active and engaged for several hours a day. We were also to take walks together. She was a bit shaky, but enjoyed that. The first morning I was there, her daughter met me at the door and went through the morning routine with me. She indicated she had explained why I was there to her mom, but that she was crying and did not want to face her situation. She eventually got up and sat to eat her breakfast while we became acquainted.

 

What do you say to someone who cannot respond and does not seem to understand what you are saying in the first place? How do you know what she wants or needs? I was strictly instructed not to let her go back to bed until late afternoon. How do you convince an adult, your elder by many years, that she must go by your rules in her own house? This was so difficult. I was not prepared for this. One needs proper training. I sat at her table with her every morning. While she ate, in silence, I tried to say a few interesting things to her, ask yes/no questions. Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I was questioning the wisdom of trusting ill-informed, ill-prepared individuals to such responsibilities with absolutely no oversight right from day one. Was this fair to the clients? Was this safe?

 

I wanted this sweet woman to be home as much as anybody else. She did recognize her home, her things, her own pace and routine, but I questioned this even further the morning I arrived and she had already been up, had placed the water kettle on the burner, and had gone back to bed. The kettle in question was made of plastic and was the type that needs to be plugged in, not placed on a burner. It was melting. Fortunately, it appeared I had gotten there only moments after she had placed it there. I stormed down the basement and looked for the breaker box to disable the stove and avoid another incident. I could not find it. I later contacted my employer and asked them to notify her family. We were not allowed direct contact with the family.

 

The other side of the coin remains a fantastic journey. I met this woman at her house many more times. We took walks to a nearby park or made puzzles together. She showed me the many family pictures in her living room. We had breakfast and lunch together every day. Sometimes we sat in her backyard and listened to distant trains or watched pollen fly and surround us. She could not speak more than a few discombobulated words. Making a sentence, even a very short one, was impossible for her. Yet, weeks after I had left employment with this agency, I had a rather shocking realization as I related my experience to my husband. I remembered going to the park with her and her telling me about the nearby school we could see, how she had gone there as a child. I remembered her showing me her family pictures and telling me who each individual was and when the picture was taken. I remember her asking me to go to the supermarket and telling me exactly which one. She did not speak any of this. Where did I get such memories?

 

My next client was another sweet woman. She had not had a stroke. In fact, though she was 97, she was much sharper than me, even had a far better memory. We watched Wheel of Fortune together, though she would mostly listen because her eyesight was very limited. She looked at me and giggled and called me a twit when, one time, I could not find an answer that was actually a French word. She was adorable.

 

On my very first day with this client, however, my ability to do this work was put to the test once more, and again I questioned the wisdom of putting such responsibilities unto individuals who are truly untrained strangers. I had been informed that I would have to assist this client with her shower. In my little, scared mind I thought, "They probably mean I will set the towels nearby and make sure the water is at the right temperature and then I only need to be nearby, in another room, while she is in there". To make sure we were on the same page, I asked her to let me know, specifically, what assisting with her shower entailed. She was sharp, but very frail. Helping meant being there and helping her in and out, doing a bit of back scrubbing, drying, and holding up. A bit? All that sounded more like a lot to me. I was terrified.

 

I am not comfortable with seeing other people undress, even people of my own gender. I have always been unable to change in front of others in a locker room. I am a very private person. However, while one moment I felt my presence was an invasion of this little woman, within instants I felt it was a privilege to be able to assist someone in such a vulnerable moment. My immature side thought I would be very disgusted. I was taken aback by my actual reaction. Seeing this frail, white, soft human body before me and having to support it was the most humbling experience I had ever had. She was beautiful. I think this was the first time I actually found a human body utterly beautiful, in the sense of a masterpiece. This body had lived, struggled, loved, toiled, overcome and, finally, was withering away. This was a parchment, telling the story of an entire life, and she trusted me to hold this fine material and not break it.

 

She came out of the shower with her mischievous little smile on her face. I asked if I had helped her appropriately. She replied, "This shower did me good, like a good shower should!” She indicated I could step out for a while. I went to her living room and cried.

 

Slainte!

Ever since I encountered my first computer, sat at the keyboard and began exploring all the functions and cyber universe, I have been hooked. This tool is utterly fascinating to me. For some reason, I seem to have caught on rather easily even though I was already in my thirties when I began. I very quickly learned to design web pages using HTML codes. Why I understood this was beyond me, but what is even further from my understanding is how someone's brain would have to be wired to even begin to conceive the intricate pattern of electronic components and bits of programming required to create a machine that can write, draw, communicate, expand, connect, calculate, be modified at will by the user, self-regulate, update itself and so on. The intricacy of this device is so, so ahead of what we are essentially, just an animal, with a digestive system and arms and legs and a brain to drive it all.

 

Recently, I have become even more fascinated by what I now call the "cyber generation". When I began researching sites I could use to blog or write, I discovered a network of high energy folks who had posted articles, all different one from the other mind you, on as many as twenty different writing or blogging sites, all interconnected in some fashion or another, all supported by referral program widgets and personal ventures they had initiated. The instructions alone, for these sites, are mind-boggling. The extent of work that goes into every detail of writing, formatting, providing suggestions for networking, lists of tools for monetizing.... the very term, "monetizing", all so completely developed, thought through, detailed, broken down to the last bit. It is a completely new language, a new way to look at the world and see it as a whole, yet also as every single particle that forms the whole. All this, all at once.

 

According to diligent instructions regarding ways to ensure success with one's blogging or writing career on these sites, networking and elaborate content are essential. One should not settle for the one blog entry, the one webpage, the one subject that strikes their fancy. No. Readers want more. Readers will not read you or click on your affiliate programs if you do not provide an intense experience with an infinite web of possibilities for additional materials at the click of a button or link. For someone like me, straight out of the sixties, straight out of a more literary background, this was, well, too much information. I quickly let go of the urge to follow in these imaginary footsteps, in much the same manner I would not insist on becoming a rocket scientist. I leave that to the rocket scientists at heart.

 

So I settled with a couple of blogs and one ezine, which I update at my own pace for the simple pleasure of writing. When so many avenues are open before us, it seems we have two choices: Committing to managing a variety of paths or committing to recognizing where and how we fit in. It all boils down to accepting one's own style. There is no competition. There is only distortion. The distortion lies in thinking that since so many people can do all this now, and since it clearly works for them, I should do it also to demonstrate that I am also capable of that level of multi-tasking, or because someone might tell me that I am missing out on opportunities to expand my territory, my network, by not jumping into the pool of cyber-connectivity. In reality, no one is saying this.

 

The individuals, mostly fairly young I suspect, whose passion it is to develop this cyber world of theirs and share their success stories are doing just that, sharing their story, sharing their joy, sharing the joy of being the creative person they are capable of being, sharing the joy of honoring their dreams and talents. They lay it all out for me. They do not hold back. Their ability to explain and tutor is as intricate and expansive as the computer programs they develop. Their generosity knows no bounds. Perhaps this is the ultimate lesson in networking: Freely share what you know, allow others to see so clearly that they can decide the right path for themselves without hesitation.

 

I am content with my little piece of blog as it is, for the shear joy of writing, and I remain fascinated by the ever-expanding creativity of the new generations. I wonder, once more and repeatedly, how it is possible to participate in war, segregation, discrimination, any level of inflicting suffering and pain on others and on other creatures when we are capable of such magnificent and mind-opening creativity. Perhaps this "cyber generation" is on its way to connecting all of us through one giant web whose hub is a greater sense of fraternity. I hope so.

 

Slainte! 

My husband, Roderick, and I went for a walk in the woods this afternoon. Of course, our four-legged son Mathias came along. Not too far from our home, there is a privately owned trail that makes a one mile loop. It is usually a fairly quiet area. Other folks walk their dogs, or walk alone. There are many Beech trees, which makes me very happy because I absolutely adore them, but that is another story.

 

Today, Roderick brought a shovel along. The trail is also open to the public during the winter. Mathias is a rat Terrier, but bigger dogs walk there too, and moose, so when spring comes it is nearly impossible to walk safely without keeping your eyes down on the trail. There is what we jokingly call "boulettes" everywhere. In French, "boulette" means a small, round and soft ball. You get the idea. Since I had been working full time for several years until recently, and had not taken time to join Roderick and Matthias for their daily walk, I was not aware of the spring ritual. Roderick took it upon himself to clear the trail so it remains a pleasant place to walk for all visitors.

 

The result of this yearly assignment is not only a “boulette free” environment for all trail users, but also a slower, more peaceful walk for us. I walk in our village every day, but this is for exercise so I put a lot of energy into it. Today, due to Roderick’s activity requiring attention to detail, I had to slow down. We did not speak much. Our footsteps and the sound of a light breeze became the all-prevalent sounds. The patterns of sun and shade against the ground and trees became more obvious, more vibrant, somehow. In a moment like that, one becomes aware of being. In our daily life, we are so involved with doing. Most of the time, our doing spans from a need to accomplish something, to finish a task, to organize our surroundings or to take the necessary steps to secure income and maintain our lifestyle. Roderick's simple trail clearing project accomplished none of this, yet it accomplished so much.

 

In the winter, after a good snowfall, I usually trade my morning walk for shoveling. I clear our porch, an area next to the house for our dog, and around our cars. This year, I realized that Roderick shovels our block's entire sidewalk. Our town has a small snow blower. It is operated by one man in the village, but he cannot always make it early, or there is too much snow for the machine to handle. It would be quite a different world if in every town one or two individuals per block shoveled their little corner of the world. It would be so close to the earth, somehow; a true act of community living.

 

I wonder what the world would look like if it were second nature for all of us to chip in, even in big cities. Individuals on one block could take turns getting groceries for neighbors each week, taking the kids to school, vacuuming out a few cars or mowing two or three lawns, no strings attached. Employees would get the mail, organize recycling, and clean the display windows for other businesses besides their own. Perhaps neighbors could even share cars. My father used to purchase his lawn mowers and snow blowers with our next-door neighbor. They would take turn using and maintaining them. I had forgotten this until now.

 

I guess it is all about our willingness to share, not only things but also ourselves. Several years ago, I started making bread at home. The very first time I pulled a couple of loaves out of the oven, I felt an irresistible urge to bring one to our neighbors. At first, as I walked across the street, I felt a bit ill at ease. I had not managed to reason my way out of this, but it was somewhat out of character for a solitary, quiet person like myself suddenly to visit the neighbors, loaf in hand. The moment I was face to face with them, however, and handed them a warm, wholesome loaf for no reason at all, I felt better than I had felt in years doing my own thing for all the reasons in the world. I think it is time to bring more of that back into my life.

 

Slainte! 

I can never finish self-improvement books that contain exercises. When I first come across the book and leaf through it, or research the author and customer reviews, I feel "this is it; this is exactly the sort of question I need to be asking myself at this point, this will get me to the next level, the next profound understanding that suddenly releases insecurity and fear and opens doors."

 

I have a whole ritual for these books. They must be read at night, just before going to sleep, to ensure I end my day with positive or thought provoking ideas that somehow require going through the process of sleep to be assimilated. I must have a notebook at hand to jot down life altering quotes and record every exercise as though there were going to be a final test. Every time, I am positive I will return to these quotes in the future, or memorize them and recite them in a moment of weakness or despair. I never do, or very rarely. Interestingly, the one "quote" I have memorized and never forgotten was from a conference on tape. It has two entire paragraphs. THAT one made an impression, and I did not even do it on purpose.

 

This game is sustained for about two or three chapters, but with distinctly less gusto at each sitting, until I finally end up in front of my bookcase looking for something else to read. I convince myself that I need variety and will return to the book with life altering exercises. I do not. I made bookmarks several years ago. I was going to sell them in gift shops; nearly all of them mark the page of some abandoned, self-imposed reading assignment. When it comes time to shed a few things from my environment, I will review each book with the intention of passing it on and will be unable to do so. I will not finish them either.

 

It is not that I do not learn anything from them. Quite the opposite. My gut feeling says, "Read it through, absorb it, savor the spur of the moment epiphanies without forcing them, move on." The exercises are for people who like exercises. Why can I not just honor my own style? Why do we impose such arbitrary rules on ourselves? Some students need to study and memorize for hours and days prior to a test. Others just get it. They absorb and move on. Maybe this is my reading style. A book is really a sort of conversation, or a fascinating conference one attends at one's own pace. I have walked out on so many of these great opportunities to be engrossed in a good story, to be inspired, to be encouraged. I am a book drop out!

 

Perhaps the very existence of books with exercises tricks us into believing that we must adhere to the concept in order to get something out of the book. Says who? Perhaps it gives the illusion that it is no longer a book for one's simple reading enjoyment, but rather more akin to a school textbook, which must be approached a certain way, the right way. So now, another book sits on my table, with a bookmark where I left off, where I gave up on interrupting the enjoyment of reading because I did not want to stop for yet another soul-searching exercise. I do not believe this is because I do not want to know what I might discover about myself by answering the questions and writing about them. It is because deep down inside I am getting answers; analyzing them is often not the answer!

 

Slainte!

Several years ago, I volunteered on our local reparative board. This consisted of a panel of five or six volunteer citizens who met with individuals who had had DUI’s or had otherwise been arrested for theft, fraud, embezzlement and such. These individuals had been ordered by court to appear before us. Our duty was to create a community service and restitution contract they had ninety days to fulfill. This was a fantastic experience and a very humbling one also.

 

I come from a middle class, suburban family. I have acquired good education, all the way through university. I can honestly say that I have excelled at all the jobs and projects I have worked at and at fending for myself. I have never bounced a check, I have never been drunk, I have never had a car accident, and I have never stolen anything, except I did. I have robbed people of their dignity whenever I have judged them based on what I felt they had done wrong compared to me. I showed up on that board thinking that I would contribute to making these people take the right path. They showed me more about the right path than I ever could have shown them.

 

One young woman stands out. I believe she had appeared before us following a DUI. In the course of the interview, we noticed fairly intricate tattoos on her forearms. One of us asked where she had gotten them and what they meant to her. She indicated she had designed them herself. I cannot begin to describe the intricacy and beauty of the design. Even older board members, grandfathers and grandmothers whom you think would have been appalled by such “mutilation”, were absolutely in awe. In that instant, I saw the real person before us. The transformation was nothing short of radiant.

 

She had arrived staring down at the floor, avoiding our eyes, saying very little, fumbling with papers between her fingers. The moment we noticed her artwork, the moment we looked beyond the DUI and acknowledged the real person in there, she sat straight, looked us straight in the eye and smiled the most beautiful smile. We still designed a community service contract, we still discussed the offence, but we did it with the whole person, not just the offender.

 

She arrived at the follow up meeting, when her contract had been fulfilled, and quite admirably so I might add, with the same smile. She felt good. She felt good that she had faced her situation and she felt good that she had been trusted to face it even though this had all begun because, by many of our standards, she had “screwed up”.

 

This is one of many, many similar stories. One after another, the people who had taken a “less desirable” turn for a while showed up before us completely humiliated. Their names appeared in the local papers, everybody knew what they had done wrong, in fact, everybody knew mostly that, and little about who they were before, beyond this. Some did not get it, I will admit. Some were damned angry and felt “the system” had wronged them. These would usually return, over and over, and still not get it. Sad. Sad because even those who kept coming back, one offence after another, had talent, skills, some sort of victory at some point in their lives. When they talked, all had one thing in common. They all put themselves down in one way or another. All felt defeated in one way or another. All felt they could not measure up in one way or another.

 

After several interviews, I began to wonder if that was the key. I am not a psychologist. I simply started listening more, and watching, and wondering. Is it possible to drive drunk if you love yourself? Is it possible to steal and risk your freedom if you love yourself? Is it possible to hurt someone else if you love yourself? Finally, is it possible to love yourself if you do not feel loved?

 

Slainte!

It is nearly two months since I was laid off from my five-year position as a records manager. In that moment, when I received notice, I braced for a difficult road ahead, a sort of post partum crisis I was not prepared for. No one is. How do you re-create yourself after five years of building a relationship with co-workers and developing a daily routine? How do you recover from the familiar? Interestingly, these were my first and foremost concerns, not the fact that regular paychecks would be a thing of the past for a while.

 

To my great surprise, within moments of being notified, I felt as though I had just been released from an assignment with no end, one I could not have parted from on my own because I did not have the courage to say enough is enough, because I do not believe in leaving unfinished business for others who already have so much on their own plate, because I thought this job was my identity. It was not. I was there by default. In the right place at the right time to be offered a great, challenging project with no end.

 

It never happened. Five years of consistent overtime, installing records management procedures, requesting corrections and reviewing completed documents, modifying forms, solving problems, database development, all vanished in the blink of an eye. One would think that this should be heart wrenching in some ways. It was, for an instant. In that instant, it washed away with the tears. I actually asked myself "What was that?" If I were to describe it visually, I would say that I stepped through a portal, from one story into the unknown, a magnificent and liberating unknown. As I say this, I imagine the swish sound of moving into another dimension, one that welcomes me. Had I been an intruder? Yes. Using my skills, definitely, but not consciously choosing the circumstances. I cannot reconnect with memories of this as I would with memories of a close friend or touching moment. It is not part of me. It is not me. I do not miss it; there is nothing to miss. It never happened because I had not brought my entire being into the situation. If some device could retrieve memories of the last five years from my brain, there would be a gap, a flat line.

 

I sit at my computer every morning, next to a large window with the sun pouring in, my dog on my lap, Roderick working on his own projects and going in and out, great music, nothing but my own destiny to look forward to, and it seems perfectly normal and in good order; just as it should be, just as it should have been, as though I had never left this moment. Perhaps I simply dozed off for a while and had a very complex dream, the sort you try to recall and convey to others, but the images vanish the moment you try and there is nothing left to say.

 

I recently encountered a fascinating person who has had an impressive career, a list of accomplishments ten miles long. He even holds patents. I was delighted, but for a moment, I felt small. There was someone with great ambition, who had lived his life fully, and was still doing so, and here I was, without a job, sitting at my computer, creating online profiles and developing a small business consulting service, doing artwork, reading, contributing what? However, because I am sitting here, exploring what comes next, I can also see clearly enough to know that I was not seeing clearly. This man is doing what he loves, what he wants to do, what he is good at, what he cannot help but do because it is part of his entire being. It simply pours forth from him and he follows his heart. Within moments, I realized I was right on track too, in my own way. I may never have a Masters Degree or life-long career, but I am learning to master my own life and I think the most important part of this is to realize and accept what we have to offer to the world, and go ahead and offer it. Not doing this is a great failure, far more than failing at a class or a business.

 

When I originally began creating an online profile, I soon realized that I felt compelled to present myself as the professional records manager, consultant, and businessperson. I created at least three profiles before I finally settled with this one. In spite of my experience, in spite of my skills as an organizer and manager, each time I focused on this I felt I was describing someone else, or rather missing out on the whole person. The artistic side came forth. In fact, it pushed forth, a small voice growing louder and claiming its place in the world. Yes, it is perfectly ok to be an artsy person too. After all, the more structured side, the business systems developer, is also a creative person. After all, if I am not me, then I must be a fake, someone without the integrity to be genuine. This is what struck me about this man's journey. It is the journey of a genuine person.

 

Do I believe I can live off my artwork and personal business? No. No in the sense that this is not how I want to live. I like spontaneity, not mass production. I like opportunities to unfold. I like the freedom to choose. I like a regular paycheck, a budget plan, automatic withdrawals from the bank account when the few bills we have are due, knowing that we can have a little roof over our heads, that I can always properly care for the little creature placed in my care, my dog Mathias. This is the structured side. It must be honored. It provides the grounds for the creative side to walk on, and on, and on.

 

I wonder if other people are discovering who they are as they design their webpage and online profiles. Are they describing who they are, only to discover that this is not really what they mean? Are they starting over, repeatedly, until they get it right, and then say, "Ha! That is so me. Why did I not see this before?" I feel like telling the psychologists and psychiatrists I used to work with that creating an online profile would be a great discovery tool for some of their clients. Who do you say you are when you have to announce it to the world? Look at the first draft. Can you honestly say this is me? Are you willing and able to play that part? If not, start over. Tell me, tell youself , tell the world about the real you. I have never felt so healed. Perhaps I have never been so healed.

 

Slainte!

 

 

There are two types of dreams, at least in this head of mine. One type draws on recent encounters, event or conversations and creatively rearranges them to produce a sort of silly show to entertain me during my sleep. In these, I feel like the audience at a good, usually silly and thoroughly funny play.

 

The other type takes me to mysterious worlds where I interact with people I do not know, yet thoroughly recognize. The storyline usually involves a journey, lesson or quest, and the impact on me is lasting, profound and pleasantly "disturbing". They always bring into question who I have been in recent days, my thoughts, behavior, choices, and questions.

 

I had one such dream last night. It started out in a sort of Inn where I and other people were getting ready to get on the road. The journey began by climbing a square spiral staircase. Next, I found myself sitting in a sleigh. A man was pushing it. A woman walked at my side. I recognized the man. My own dog was on my lap. A group of other people walked behind us, and then ahead, until we lost them. There were Doberman on the path. In real life, my Rat Terrier does not befriend bigger dogs, so I was concerned about his reaction and kept him close. I am not usually afraid of any dog, but in this environment, sitting in a sleigh, lost, when they came near they growled right in my face. I tried to stay calm. One finally gently took my hand in his mouth and promptly flipped on its back for me to rub its belly. A friendship gesture.

 

I suggested I would walk off to a hill to determine if I could see which direction others had taken so we could find our way. On the other side of the hill, in the distance, there was a trail with marathoners on it, with numbers attached to their backs. I suggested we should walk in the same direction to get back to civilization. The sleigh was gone at this time and a veiled woman walked with us. She tripped and fell down a bank, and lost her veil. The folks who accompanied me ignored her. I was shocked. I helped her up, picked up her veil and gave it back to her. She walked on.

 

We eventually returned to an Inn and began climbing down the square spiral staircase, but I soon recognized that it was not the same one as before and notified my team we had not reached the proper destination. At the bottom of the staircase, through a door, I could see the marathoners walk by, in the same direction as before. End of dream.

 

I love taking this sort of dream apart, though often I do not bother. I just stay with it, enjoy the mystery and colorfulness of it. Today, for some reason, it all came to me so fast it was as though someone else was explaining it to me in my ear and I was very matter-of-factly repeating the analysis to Roderick, my husband: I was clearly in charge of my destiny. I decided which way we would go, I instructed on he path to take. Though what came ahead was threatening (the dogs), I stayed calm and ended up taming the situation and realizing that there was no threat. Marathoners are an organized group, with a starting point and a known and certain ending point (destiny). I used them as the model to fashion my path. Something was unveiled in the process. Not only that, but also one fell off the path, was unveiled (released identity?) and continued the journey, unhurt. I went up the staircase to begin the journey. Going up feels to me like detaching from something, taking flight. I went down when I returned, but it was not the same place. I had not yet reached the destination, and I would have to separate from the common path again to do so, not get near it, but separate (lingering attachments?). The direction of the marathoners was the same, however, so my journey was indeed heading in the right direction.

 

This dream, and my own spontaneous interpretation of it, seems rather in harmony with my present situation since I am currently taking a new course, re-discovering my artwork and recreating my work life. I feel good.

 

Slainte!

 

One action led to another, quite literally, and I did not once stop to "edit" myself. I was having a ball. It all flowed. Until it did not. I started projects that required more attention, more skill and more commitment than I can provide at this time. Once in, I felt the struggle but refused to back down. I have to be somebody and re-create an identity, after all. Right? Wrong.

Time for a reality and honesty check. If something is a struggle in the sense that it uses up energy but does not fulfill me or lead to a constructive and valuable use of my time, why would I be doing it? Why indeed? Who's watching? Who's telling me to do this? Am I ahead of where I was? Nobody. Nobody. And No. I think this is called learning by elimination. If it is not, then I have just coined a phrase!

I am drained and uplifted at the same time. I have created a road map, quite spontaneously I might add, and now that I look at it I can see the many, many detours. I am glad I am not applying for a job as a city planner. What a waste of infrastructure!!! But it was not a waste after all. I have identified more of what I like and what I don't, what I am good at and truly enjoy, and what I can do well but do not need to get involved with. I had forgotten a personal quote I like to throw out there once in a while. This time, it fits like a glove: "I am good at washing dishes; this does not mean I have to make a career out of it."

What a relief. We went to the restaurant across the street for a celebration of my newly acquired wisdom. I rarely eat meat, but I felt like a steak. I even had a cherry coke. Perfect feast to celebrate a breakthrough, and the dogmo (nick name for our dog Mathias) got a nice chunck when we returned.

Incidentally, I should have paid attention to the dog. Not that I don't, but I mean really pay attention. Whenever I am upset inside, or fidgety or impatient, he shakes. He'll just sit there and look at me and shake. I can play with him, hug him, take him out... he'll shake. He knows. He is a walking emotions barometer. The dogmo is shaking; time for a reality check. I hope I can remember this.

Slainte