Month: February 2019

Breathe Through It – Day Ninety Eight

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Breathe Through It         

My pinky finger is hurting even more tonight. Why? Because I apparently didn’t give it enough attention by writing about it last night. No. It yearned for more, as many a rogue pinky does; so it made more of a hang nail apparent early this afternoon, which I rewarded by practically maiming myself by gnawing at it with a vengeance not seen since the movie in which that guy was mauled by a bear. Ah yes, The Revenant.

I’ve even succumbed to the suggestion made by a few of you: application of a Band-Aid. For the record: I don’t have any WonderWoman Band-Aids. So I traced the weird outline created by the blood-letting that resulted from my gnashing – and voilà – a work of art. And given that I’m an Earth Pig, there’s no way I was going to wrap my pinky in a Band-Aid that resembles a strip of bacon. But thanks for the suggestion (I think?)

In the meantime, in case anyone’s wondering, I keep picking the damn Dolphin card. On Friday, I picked Dolphin squared (you’ll recall, that means I picked Dolphin right side up, with a blank card on the bottom of the deck). Then Saturday I chose Skunk reversed with Dolphin underneath. And today? I chose Dolphin reversed/Buffalo.

So, if I were one to ‘judge’ the cards (which I try not to do, but when I become petulant, I’ve been known to engage in some pithy repartee with my ego), I’d say I’ve impressively gone from bad to worse in record time. Or more honestly, from great to crappy.

Dolphin Up, Dolphin Down, Dolphin Inside Out

Dolphin is all about breathing, which is ironic, given that my 1111 Devotion  is dedicated to Karl, who drowned. Yes indeed, it is true; we cannot live without oxygen for more than a few minutes. And quite frankly, I feel sad every time I read those words because they remind me of him, and frustrated as they apply to me. I’m literally starting to feel claustrophobic and my breathing becomes a little shallow when I look around and consider how complicated everything feels at the moment.

Particularly when I read (as I did so long ago , upon choosing Dolphin reversed another time) – and received such startling clarity from it:

“…Dolphin was given a new job. He became the carrier of messages of our progress.”

And “…This can be a time when you are to link with Great Spirit and bring answers to your own questions or to those of others. (…)”

As I said yesterday, I’m getting dial tones in abundance, both for myself and for many of the people around me who seem to be struggling as well.

So breathe, I tell myself. Stop going after your pinky as if you’ve chosen the Beaver card – or Bear.

Hoping Clarity Will Arrive With the Full Moon

I realize this post has been a bit haphazard. But the full moon is approaching and, with it, perhaps some elucidation will arrive on Tuesday as well. At the very least, I’m hoping a shift will take place and answers will begin revealing themselves.

While I may seem as if I’m kvetching, I want to assure you: I have the utmost faith that my path will be made clear. I’m just sharing the love with you guys because it feels important somehow not to sugar coat this stuff.

I certainly, definitely, without question, and unequivocally do not have all the answers. But my ‘peeps,’ as I lovingly but perhaps slightly irreverently call them, do. Always. Especially when I’m asking on behalf of others. But if I’m saying always, I mean always (even for me).

My point in sharing my anguish is to foster transparency. Too often these days, I get the feeling we give up if something doesn’t come through at the tap of a finger or the moment we ask.

We need to breathe through it. We need to relax. We need to be still and listen to the signals being sent to us.

Thanks for keeping me company – and for holding the faith with me.

thehonestbison.com

(T-1013)

Little Things – Day Ninety Seven

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It’s the Little Things

This title could lead me down many, many roads, some more savory than others. But as you can tell from the accompanying photo, the road I’m choosing is pretty benign. And that’s the whole point.

You see that little bit of blood lurking at the corner of my pinky? I’ll admit it; it’s the product of me picking at myself. Not one for manicures, I nevertheless have reasonable looking fingernails. Most of the time, at least.

Not as of today.

Lately things have been coming to a head around me in a variety of ways. Chickens coming home to roost (and no, not Duckhead’s girls, although I did get the chance to bond with the ladies for five days or so last week), or just time taking its toll. Maybe just life happening, and I’m being called upon to deal with it.

I find myself trying harder than usual lately to walk my talk; to practice what I preach. What I’m driving at here is I’ve been straining to listen. And every time I think I’m being pointed in a particular direction or given a certain message to follow through on, it feels like the rug gets pulled out from under me. Or a door slams shut. Or the RT of D turns on.

And I have a sneaking feeling that sometimes I give the mistaken impression that listening is easy. Or rather, receiving answers or discerning guidance is easy. Those aren’t necessarily the same as listening, since listening, to me, means acting upon what the message you’ve received.

There’s a Difference Between Listening ‘to’ Others and Listening ‘for’ Ourselves

I should clarify here: to be a good listener for others, we usually need to break ourselves of the habit of wanting to take action in response to what another is telling us. We need to refrain from trying to solve their problem or fix their issue.

But when we are seeking guidance either from our own souls or our Higher Selves, our guardians or guides, or whatever you want to call the receipt of insight or wisdom or direction from a mostly unknowable or indefinable source that resonates deeply within us, a primary way of acknowledging receipt of and respect for that guidance is to take action in alignment with it.

My difficulty lately has been receiving the message, not listening to it. Well, I probably shouldn’t jump the gun on that, actually. Because who knows? Once I finally move beyond this impasse and gain clarity on what I’m supposed to be doing ‘next’ with my life, I can only hope that I will accept the message and listen to it (i.e., act upon that message) with grace.

I want to think that will be the case. But I’m not there yet, so who knows. (I will keep you apprised.)

In the meantime, I’m fretting. I have to admit, I loathe asking for guidance and receiving the proverbial dial tone. (And wow – I just realized how outdated an expression that’s becoming. Quite literally, there are probably a lot of people who have only known cell phones and therefore aren’t even aware of what a dial tone is or what one sounds like. That’s unsettling.)

A Reminder to Be Patient – and Kind

I want to take action. I want to listen. I want to be a catalyst for improvement. But I want to act when appropriate. I want to take whatever steps are asked of me when they will be most effective.

All of which entails waiting – at least in the short term. As I mentioned above, it’s not as if I’ve been standing still. I continue to ask; and when I think I’m receiving a response, I follow through by exploring it. Lately, as I said, I’ve felt the bruise of doors slamming in my face (or maybe on my fingers?).

Ha ha. No. Not on my fingers. That bloody little pinky is a casualty of my doubt, my insecurity. It’s evidence of my worry that maybe I’m not going to receive a message or an answer ‘in time’ to make a difference. It’s evidence that I’m picking at myself.

And the funny thing is, throughout the entire process of writing this post, it’s hurt like a bratty little bitch. My pinky is nagging at me, taunting me. Calling me to pay attention to what I know. Calling me to be kind to myself and trust that sometimes other things, things we have no knowledge of, need to fall into place before we can take the next step to act on our listening.

(T- 1014)

Red Triangle of Death – Day Ninety Six

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Red Triangle of Death

I am bummed. And honestly? Wondering if I’m being sent a painfully obvious message.

For several months now, since at least August, my car has sporadically inflicted upon me either its “check engine” light (never a sign you want to see) or the dreaded Red Triangle of Death, as we call it in our house (but from here on out: RT of D). You’ve probably at least caught a fleeting glimpse of this symbol when starting your car – when all the lights go on momentarily? It’s always a relief when they all go back out. Regrettably, that’s not happening for me, though.

I’ve had my wonderful Prius in for service a number of times since the ‘check engine’ light first flashed into my life, each time thinking we’d figured it out.

The Engine Light and the RT of D

The RT of D, with an exclamation point centered within it to add emphasis – ! – to that overwhelming dread it engenders when it afflicts your vehicle, and a screeching beep that shakes you out of complacency by heralding the RT of D’s arrival, started having their way with me in October, while returning home from the mountains of Luck, North Carolina (just outside of Asheville) where I’d been visiting an amazing retreat center, Amadell.

I was be-bopping along I-81 North, having just crossed into Virginia (i.e., in the middle of nowhere) when all of a sudden my senses were accosted by the cacophony from my dashboard and I felt that diarrhea feeling come over me. Aaarrgghh. I pulled over, not daring to question the urgency of the RT of D – replete with exclamation point and harsh beep. After a cursory glance around and under the vehicle, which told me nothing, I decided to drive it to the next exit.

This endeavor proved fruitful. I filled the Prius up with gas and opened her hood. (Yes, I can confirm she has a gender, albeit no name other than “Good Girl.”) There was no steam (even though a red thermometer had also appeared when the harsh beep stopped blaring), and no indication of anything awry, actually. Deciding to give her ‘some space,’ I nipped into the station’s convenience store and bought a flashlight.

I’ll confess, I have no idea why I purchased a flashlight Dumb, I know.

Giving Her a Little Love – and Some Space

I walked back out to Good Girl and reassured her that she has earned her name time and time again. But regardless of all the times she’d come through for me on other adventures, it was really, really important for her to get me home tonight. Because I did not want to have to call AAA while 350 miles away from home. “So get your act together, Baby,” I said to my 2005 Prius. “I know you can do it.”

And she did.

Truly, it felt miraculous. Neither the engine light nor the RT of D came on even one more time the entire drive home. She was being my Best Girl that day and night.

The next morning, though? When I was driving to an appointment? Back on – with a vengeance.

So she went in for another spa treatment. My wonderful mechanics tended to her needs and, once again, felt we’d taken care of the situation. This was in November.

Throughout the following months, Good Girl kept having bouts of RTof D. It was tough to discern what was triggering it, but when it would get so that I could not drive for longer than three or four minutes without it screeching at me, I would take her in for another look-see.

Last Ditch Effort

This last time they kept her for two weeks trying to replicate her issues. They were successful in this, and we decided on the least intrusive method of helping her: trying to seal a head gasket from within. (Metaphors abound, do they not?) (There are even more I’m not disclosing…)

I picked her up this past Wednesday. (You’ll recall it was my reluctance to take the loaner they’d given me down to Philadelphia on the day of the predicted snow and ice that resulted in my ride down the train memory lane). She drove perfectly yesterday.

Alas…today she started in on her shenanigans, full bore, within six minutes of driving. And thereafter, she screeched and re-flashed her RT of D every couple of minutes. Her ‘check engine’ light also went on within those initial six minutes and has not turned off yet (besides when I turned off the whole car). As soon as I turn Good Girl back on now, though – she’s clearly a hurting cowgirl.

I am bereft. We’ve been together for 14 years and 306,501.2 miles, to be exact. Even her odometer stopped at 299,999 miles. (Stupid Toyota. I have to keep track of all the miles since then via one of my ‘trip odometers.’)

While she’s served me in great stead, and possibly because she has – I am not yet ready to let her go.

(T-1015)

Perfection – Day Ninety Five

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Perfection

In spite of the fact that we’ve technically moved on from the ‘I’m a Fridgit’ debacle of 41 years ago, its legacy lives on. As I tried to convey yesterday, regardless of the fact that we’ve experienced a handful that were relatively OK, both Karl and I maintain a leery, if healthy, stance toward Valentine’s Day.

A good motto: Don’t take anything for granted, and keep expectations really low.

To that end, Karl made a play today on his quirky first gift of years gone by. (I suspect being outed in yesterday’s post may have had an impact; although I’m not sure.)

Staying In and Keeping it Simple

We’d already decided we were going to stay in for the evening (going out to dinner being an unappealing option for a plethora of reasons). So to spice things up, and in spite of our surprisingly consistent vegetarian dietary choices, I picked up two pieces of gorgeous fresh tuna from our favorite fishmonger, Buckingham Valley Seafood.

Luckily for me, Karl only the day before yesterday expressed an interest in reading a book I’d read back in my train days, Dreaming the Eagle, by Manda Scott. It was the first in what was supposed to be a trilogy, but apparently became a quartet (the Boudica: Dreaming series). I remember being captivated by it and eagerly looking forward to the next in the series. But then, before I became aware of the Dreaming the Bull being written, I stopped commuting and my book consumption, regrettably, plummeted drastically. (Let’s face it: I just plum forgot.)

In looking up Dreaming the Eagle, I saw that I wouldn’t be able to get it delivered in time for today’s festivities, so I checked to see if it was in our library, and it was! So I put it on hold last night and picked it up this afternoon. SCORE! And just like with the Foundation trilogy I gave to Karl so many years ago, we’ll both benefit. I’ll read this book (again) after he finishes it – and then maybe we’ll savor the rest in the series together, too.

Another Risky Gift

Perhaps reading my mind, or maybe inspired by my blog post last night resurrecting our Fridgit  fiasco, Karl came home from a business trip this evening and, upon entering the house, was obviously holding something behind his back. He laughed and said he’d taken another risk…

Revealing a brown paper bag with “Owowcow” printed on it (woohoo!), he carefully took out a pint, covered the writing on the top, and started to explain. Before he got a word out, I blurted, “They have a new flavor! I read about it on Facebook. Oooh! I hope you got it!” (Note: I’d not been back to Owowcow since my indulgence back in December, which you might recall…)

He laughed, but didn’t yet reveal. “I saw there was a flavor I’d never heard of before, and I asked to try it,” he said, squinching up his face in obvious distaste. “Ick. I didn’t like it,” he laughed. “It wasn’t sweet enough.”

My eyes lit up. This sounded promising.

“So I figured, Lis’ll probably love it. So I got it.” And with that, he brandished the pint with a flourish.

YES. He’d bought his Little Fridgit a pint of ice cream:

Perfection. Right down to the name! (And as you can see, I couldn’t eat a bite.)

(T-1016)

Anticipating Valentine’s Day – Day Ninety Four

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Anticipating Valentine’s Day

Oooh, Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a favorite holiday of mine, I have to admit. If I could forget it, I probably would.

From the very first ‘celebrations’ in elementary school, I could take it or leave it. (If you can even call the mass card swapping event, with givers’ names usually haphazardly scrawled without any personalization, words of affection, or even friendship, designed to keep everyone feeling good and no one left out, a ‘celebration’.) I never received a valentine that even vaguely resembled the hype we were taught or made me think there might be some classmate secretly hoping I would be their special sweetie.

And there was definitely the sense of impending doom given off by those who, in retrospect, probably never received a heartfelt expression of love or curiosity from a classmate, especially at that age. In fact, some were almost certainly living in environments that didn’t include being told they were loved by anyone, much less a secret someone their own age. There are a few kids I remember from those days, whom I wish I could go back and be kinder to. I had no idea some of my classmates had to endure cruelty and abuse every day. It was inconceivable to me that anyone’s parent could be mean and horrible to a little kid.

The Pressure Builds

In junior and senior high school the pressure only became greater; the hype more intense. In junior high school (7thand 8thgrade), a valentine could be monumental. It could indicate a willingness to maybe be ‘liked’ by somebody. <<shivers>>

But by senior high school, if you were in a relationship, the pressure was on.

To be honest? I cannot remember one single Valentine’s Day card or gift I received in my youth or young adulthood. Which is kind of sad when you think about how pressure-filled the days leading up to it often felt.

All of which leads me to the debacle that was my first Valentine’s Day with Karl. We’d met in September, right after I’d arrived on campus at Penn State, fresh from my year as an exchange student in Sweden. Karl was a ‘night receptionist’ in my dorm. Yeah, back then we needed knights waiting patiently in our lobbies, checking residents’ keys, making sure no males were walking around ‘unescorted,’ essentially acting as Guardians of our Virtue.

Anyone who knows us can just imagine the grief I gave him when the elevator doors opened and I first laid eyes on him sitting facing those doors – and noticed that his eyes were closed. And noticed his breathing was decidedly rhythmic.

“Hey!” I called out, startling him awake. “We’re all going to get raped and it’s going to be your fault.” Yes, those were the first words I lobbed at the man who would end up fathering my children years later.

The Stirrings of a Life-long Love

It took a while, I’ll admit. It’s not as though we swept each other off our feet immediately. (Although I fell way faster than I wanted – and expected – having sworn off long-term relationships after being dumped long distance while I was in Sweden.) But that night receptionist’s job of his gave us a lot of opportunity to sit and talk. And talk. And argue. And talk. And…really get to know each other.

Suffice it to say, by February, we were well on our way to having more than an inkling that our mutual future might hold great promise.

Cue Valentine’s Day.

Oh yeah. I felt pressure. What to get this handsome, sensitive, intelligent guy that would let him know I was really falling for him, but wouldn’t scare him away?

Well, one of the things that we could talk about for hours and hours and hours, indeed well into the wee hours of the morning, was our love of books. And this was before the advent of the big box bookstores such as Borders or Barnes & Noble. Or (obviously) Amazon. Back then people were much less likely to own a lot of books. Rather, they went to the library. So owning books was a treat.

Somehow or another, I’m sure as a result of our long and luxurious conversations (I could with some snark say, “…from listening to him…”), I knew he would love the Foundation trilogy by Isaac Asimov.

Beginning an ‘Illustrious’ Tradition

When the day arrived, he came up to my room and we shyly exchanged our gifts. My heart soared. I could tell from the shape and size of what he handed me that he, too, had thought to give the gift of a book. “Mmm,” I thought. “We’re on the same page. We love the same things.”

Imagine my surprise, then, when I opened my gift.

 

Yes. This is the very first gift Karl ever gave me for Valentine’s Day. And not only was this his actual gift to me (I thought he was kidding – he had to be kidding, right?), he was not kidding; he thought it was cute.

Somehow, we managed to survive that debacle. (I have to admit; it floored me – for many reasons, as you might imagine.) And we began a tradition of giving each other books that has lasted many years.

Receipt of “I’m a Fridgit,” however, did begin a reign of terror that has haunted our personal enjoyment of the 14thof February. I say that, and it’s true to a degree; but honestly? It’s a great story. And for that, I love him. That and his quirky sense of romance.

Quirky. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

Tomorrow will be our 41stValentine’s Day together. I’m waiting with baited breath. (Not.) But maybe we’ll take a ride to the bookstore in Peddler’s Village, or Farley’s, or Doylestown Book Shoppe. At least we’re lucky to have small, independent, wonderful book shops near us!

May you celebrate your love with a sense of humor and a deliciously good book.

(T-1017)

Oasis in the Parking Lot – Day Ninety Three

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‘My’ Train – the R5   Photo by L. Weikel

Oasis in the Parking Lot

I was up and out of the house by 6:30 a.m. There was only about two inches of snow, with an icy crust on top, covering everything when I pulled out of the driveway. Sleet ticked heavily on my windshield as I headed toward the train station, my car making fresh slushies as I approached the much better cleared main roads.

It didn’t take long before I realized I was not going to make it to the Doylestown station in time to catch the express train. However, I reasoned that if I just accepted my lot, didn’t try to make it to Doylestown in time, and instead just headed to the main hub on the line, Lansdale, I just might beat the train there and manage to catch it as it passed through.

Yes, it looked promising, especially when I took in just how few cars were on the road. Apparently I was not the only person who’d read the weather forecast from the night before. Of course, I’d ignored it (or at least not let it stop me from making my trek to Philadelphia), while many others obviously had heeded the warnings. Bonus for me.

Forgot My Supply

I must admit, I felt a bit bummed out at the thought of parking at Lansdale. It would be a trek from the whatever parking spot I might find to the station, and I still had to buy my ticket. I remembered my hybrid gait as I loped across that parking lot many a time – half run, quarter walk, quarter shuffle and…Oh! Crap. The quarters. THE QUARTERS.

Only as I was calculating the quickest route to Lansdale did I remember that I would have to feed a massive amount of quarters into an archaic, so-cold-it-felt-like-the-top-layer-of-my-fingertips-would-stick-to-it, gunmetal gray contraption, linking my numbered parking spot with payment of the fee. In quarters.

My heart sank. Until this very moment, I’d forgotten why Karl had always kept the cup holder in my Prius stocked with tons of quarters. It was for the train station parking spots from back in the day when I commuted every day. And I was in a double bind this morning, because not only wasn’t I driving my car (which still contains a decent amount of quarters in the cup holder simply out of habit), but I also had no quarters in my loaner!

I shrugged it off. The best I could hope for was perhaps they’d implemented some sort of debit card system. Whatever, I thought to myself. I’ll deal with it.

An Oasis in a Parking Lot Wasteland

Well, imagine my surprise and delight when I pulled into Lansdale station, headed back toward the semi-vast parking lot I recalled from years ago, and discovered this:

Photo – L. Weikel

Can you hear the chorus of “Alleluias” that echoed through my being when I saw that big, beautiful, brick edifice which had seemingly miraculously risen like an oasis from the wasteland that had previously occupied that area?

Oh my. I was practically giddy.

And the parking was free!

After purchasing my round-trip ticket, I had only to wait about four minutes before my chariot arrived. What a rush of great feelings coursed through me as I made my way into the front car, only to realize that it was a “Quiet Car.” Ooooh! I think these had only recently been implemented when I stopped commuting a dozen years ago. This one was serious about the quiet. You could practically hear a pin drop. The silence was delicious.

More Like a Rain Day – But That’s OK

The sleet pouring from the sky where I lived had shifted to slush by the time I got to Lansdale. And upon arriving in Philadelphia, rain was gushing from the sky. I realized I could have driven in with ease.

But I’m delighted I gave myself the gift of taking ‘my’ train again today. (The reason I put quotation marks around the word my is because I realize I share the R5 with thousands of other riders in the area. But I grew extremely fond of the R5 in my four years of commuting, and I feel quite proprietary. Riding the R5 brought me great joy and serenity in those years.)

I’m heartened by the improvements SEPTA has made (not least being that freaking awesome parking garage in Lansdale!), but also the improved Quiet Ride and the overall condition of the station at Market Street East (the name of which has now changed to Jefferson).

A lot has changed since I was commuting regularly to Philadelphia. I don’t think I would have comprehended as viscerally the fact that it literally has been a dozen years since I worked at the Women’s Law Project had I not experienced first-hand the changes to ‘my’ train – the R5.

So…I’m grateful to have had my version of a Snow Day, and the opportunity it gave me to indulge in and appreciate the unique pleasures of commuting by rail.

I still love my train. And I wholeheartedly support investment in our infrastructure that will support expansion and continued improvements to our rail system (including – especially –  parking garages). (Wink.)

(T-1018)

The Wonderful Sound of Silence;  Photo – L. Weikel

Snow Day?!? – Day Ninety Two

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“Ice Storm Aftermath – 2014” – Photo by L. Weikel

Snow Day?!?

Oh, how I would normally be loving this evening’s weather forecast! I’ve not yet reached that place of bah-humbug-ism that gets cranky over a potential snow day, and if I haven’t by this late date (read: age), I probably never will.

But I do find myself lamenting the fact that I cannot revel in the anticipation of a day of unexpectedly being forced to stay at home. My revelry is stifled by the need for me to be in the very heart of Philadelphia tomorrow morning. By 8:30 a.m., ideally. That’s early.

Winter Storm Warning

It’s early considering how every time I’ve driven there over the past couple of weeks I’ve hit nearly standstill traffic just about eight miles outside the city. I’d be trucking along, making great time, and wham. All of a sudden, everything slows to the closest thing to being a stop without actually stopping. It is maddening.

But now, drastically complicating matters, there’s a Winter Storm Warning in effect from now until midnight tomorrow night. And under the heading “Precautionary /Preparedness Actions” the Weather Alert states: “A Winter Storm Warning means significant amounts of snow, sleet and ice will make travel very hazardous or impossible.”  The emphasis is mine – all mine.

Ordinarily, I don’t mind driving in snow. In fact, I usually relish the challenge and special effort it takes to navigate well in snow. (Ice, as they say, is another matter entirely. Nobody “drives” in icy conditions. Rather, they get behind the wheel and hope there’s no one else anywhere near them when they have to brake or turn a corner, for momentum is everything on ice. Let’s face it: ice can result in some scary shit.) But I don’t even have my own car to drive tomorrow. I have a loaner from my mechanic because my beloved Prius is having “coolant issues.”

Not My Car

I’d make a crack about her having hot flashes but they’re actually cold flashes and I wouldn’t find it amusing anyway. The poor car has 306,540 miles or so under her belt. She’s allowed to have thermal regulation anomalies. She’s earned her pecadilloes!

Much as I don’t usually mind driving in snow, (a) we could have up to 2/10ths of an inch of ice lurking under the snow tomorrow; and (b) I’m obviously not as ‘connected’ to the loaner as I am to my Prius. I prefer, if I”m going to be driving in snow, feeling like the car I’m driving is an extension of myself. And after logging over 306,500 miles in my car, I can safely say I know my car and how to maneuver her in dicey weather. I can’t say quite the same for the loaner.

Septa, Oh Septa – It’s Been a While

Of course, my other option is to take the train. That would be a trip down memory lane! When I commuted to Center City during the four years I worked at the Women’s Law Project, I adored my train, the Septa R5, and the extended opportunity it gave me, morning and night, to either write in my journal or read lots of books.

But alas, in order to get to my course on time, I will have to catch either the 6:30 or the 7:00 a.m. train. That’s early. And from the sound of the forecasting, it’ll be the in the think of the storm. Did I mention I’m not a morning person? Ha – yeah, I think I did.

Whatever tomorrow morning has in store for me, I need to get to bed now if I’m going to face it with any equanimity whatsoever.

Here’s hoping you’re reading this from the warm coziness of your home, having decided to stay home today and enjoy a good old fashioned “Snow Day.” Indulge your senses, whether they’re taking in the crystalline beauty of the precipitation as you take a walk outside or melting into the snuggly goodness of being wrapped in a blanket and losing yourself in a book for a few hours.

And even if you have to go to work, give yourself permission to tap into the excitement you know lies deep in your heart – that “Snow Day!” exuberance we all felt as little kids.

(T-1019)

Sky Guide – Day Ninety One

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dariustwin.com

Sky Guide

I want to tell you about a really cool app I have on my iPhone. Given the title of this post, you’ve probably already guessed. It’s called Sky Guide.

It is, quite literally, the manifestation of dreams I would have as a little girl gazing up at the wide open sky, especially in the summer. You know the feeling. Wishing you could put a name to the star or the cluster when we’re walking under the stars, when the moon is new and the sky’s only lights are the stars.

How Many Times Have You Wished You Could Name Them?

As I sit here writing this, I’m having flashes of moments throughout my life when I’ve lain on the ground (usually on a blanket or comforter, sometimes a sleeping bag, a couple of times directly on sand or grass) and tried to take in and comprehend the vastness of “Above.” The times I’ve thrown my head back so I could stare straight up, usually wide-eyed and open mouthed as I let out a continuous, breathless, “Wow…,” as I tried to hold the visible Universe within my heart.

I can access surprisingly precise memories of wanting to drink in the sky with my open heart in so many places around the world…and wishing I could identify more of what I was looking at than the Big Dipper (when I was in the Northern Hemisphere, obviously). I almost started ticking off the locations of those memories – they’re so vivid – and then realized it might sound pretentious.

Indeed, it surprises me myself to consider the many different places I’ve been fortunate to visit and have the chance to observe the night sky. Looking up, no matter where you are, can be both profoundly humbling and reassuringly unifying.

Suffice it to say, no matter where I’ve gone, I’ve always managed to feel infinitesimally insignificant as I gazed upward, regardless of whether I found myself looking at stars and constellations that were comforting in their familiarity (even if I couldn’t name them) or a tad bit quease-inducing in their unfamiliarity. (Sort of like being in a dream and feeling like you should recognize the place you’re in, but nothing looks quite right.)

Well, I’m ready to return to some of the more exotic places I’ve been – only this time going armed with my phone and this app.  It. Is. So. Cool.

Cool Options That Enhance the Experience

Not only can you point the phone toward any star, planet, or constellation and have it identified, you’ll also be alerted to cosmic events, satellites, and other phenomena you might find attention worthy.

There’s an option for music to play softly in the background when you turn the app on and point it wherever. Obviously, you’ll instantly recognize it as ‘celestial’ in the ambiance it creates. It just fits. And in my opinion, enhances the experience. (And if you disagree, you can turn it off.)

Since the app knows what is below the horizon, you can now see ‘through’ the Earth too. This makes it possible to see what will be rising later. For instance, as I look at the app right now, I can see Saturn, Venus, and Jupiter hanging out just below the horizon.

There are a variety of options in the settings. One particular favorite of mine is how objects in the sky are not only identified, but also placed into their mythological context. It still boggles my mind that our ancestors had such vivid imaginations!

Full disclosure: I have very few apps on my phone. So the fact that I’m actually taking the time to write about this app has to tell you something. And no, I do not receive anything for this endorsement. (Other than you’re enthusiastic gratitude, that is.)

Sky Guide costs $2.99.

In my book, it is worth every penny. I bet you’ll agree with me – and discover it’s an answer to your childhood dreams, too.

 (T-1020

                   commons.wikimedia.org

Salted Caramel Filled Chocolates – Day Ninety

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Salted Caramel Filled Chocolates…           

are the only thing keeping me awake at the moment.

I’ve always stayed up late. (Yeah, a night owl. Go figure.) But pretty much since I started my 1111 Devotion, I’ve been staying up even later than I used to, and on a much more consistent basis. And by later I mean for the past 90 days I’ve not gone to bed before 12:30 a.m. at the earliest and 2:15 a.m. at the latest. On average, hitting the sheets by around 1:30 a.m.

For the most part, it works out. I’ve always done my best work at night. Since my college days, the dark hours when most other people are asleep were when I accomplished the most. So this isn’t a shockingly new development. The toll taker is the consistency.

And this week has been a particularly challenging stretch. Earlier in the week, I had to get up at 4:15 a.m. to take Karl to the airport. So my Wednesday was a little ragged around the edges, if I do say so myself.

Then last night I didn’t get to bed until 2:00-ish, in spite of how tired I was, and then got back up at 5:15 to make the pilgrimage back to Newark in order to collect Karl off the red-eye.

Sleep Deprivation Can Be a Bitch

Maybe it was that I only got three hours of sleep two out of the last four days. (Yeah, that might be it.) Maybe I just don’t have the EverReady Bunny mojo I used to have? Yeah, that could be it; I don’t know. One thing I do know: I’ve been borderline zombie today.

So here I am, listening to Karl’s rhythmic breathing/pseudo-snoring as he slumbers on the couch. I close my eyes to pull words from the ethers and find myself nodding off in what feel like micro-naps. I catch myself when my head bobs and I realize I’ve lost my train of thought.

Enter Chocolove filled Salted Caramel dark chocolate. Someone must have been watching over me when I went to Whole Foods on Thursday and discovered these bars of chocolate-y pillows of delight were on sale.

Probably the only reason I’ve managed to write this much is because I indulged.

A Shift in Perspective

Believe it or not, I started this post out expressing disappointment and annoyance with myself for eating chocolate so late in the evening. But I’ve deleted that garbage because I suddenly realize how lucky I am. So what if I’m overtired and need a little “chocolove” to help me follow through on my commitment? To add fuel to my Act of Power? To sustain my dedication?

I’m lucky because my husband is asleep on the couch. My sons are warm and cozy living their lives with their loves. I’m surrounded by my two dogs and three cats (even if they crowd me into a corner of our bed). I’m healthy and my senses are eager and able to indulge in the exquisite delight of a dark chocolate morsel filled with gooey salted caramel.

I have the extraordinary and magical good fortune of working with people and Spirit in the way I do. And how rich am I to hit the ‘publish’ button every night only to wake up to see that you have cared enough to walk another day with me on this journey?

So no. I’m not going to hold on to the sadness that swept across my brow last night. And I’m not going to lament the fact that I gave myself permission to eat some chocolate tonight. That’s just such an old, bullshit way of thinking.

I’m going to be grateful for the salted caramel filled dark chocolates with sweet little hearts embossed on top. I’m going to feel the love that permeates my life.

And I’m going to send it back out into the world: to you.

(T-1021)

A Cosmic Reminder – Day Eighty Nine

Posted on by Lisa Weikel 2 Comments
A “Nothing” – (c) Karl D. Weikel

A Cosmic Reminder 

Life is weird.

It’s just strange how you can be going along, living your life, basically minding your own business and doing your best to be as conscious as possible, when – thwack!– you get hit upside the head and challenged to hold your center.

That happened to me today.

And it wasn’t until I got home this evening that I felt the repercussions and even fully realized I’d received a spiritual thwack! upside the head – a cosmic reminder of why I engage in the discipline and commitment of my 1111 Devotion.

An Unexpected Flood of Sadness

Come to think of it, I was hit with the overwhelming wave of emptiness as I was driving home from my session. I told myself it was because I hadn’t eaten all day, but I knew that didn’t ring true. It’s not an unusual occurrence for me not to eat on days I see clients, and it doesn’t bother me at all. The truth was, I was missing Karl. And it was creating a pit-in-the-center-of-my-chest kind of sadness.

The short explanation is that my client had a connection to my son Karl that they didn’t even realize. When the appointment was initially set up, I’d had this vague tickle at the back of my mind. In the minutes before they arrived for their appointment, I literally wrote in my journal, “Why does that name sound familiar to me?”

I whipped out my phone and searched the name in my email, just to see if perhaps I’d seen this person a long, long time ago, perhaps in another context, unrelated to my shamanic practice. Maybe as their lawyer?

Nope. No record.

Realizing the Connection

There was no recognition on either of our parts when they arrived. They didn’t even mention that my name sounded familiar, so I shushed myself, opened Sacred Space, and began the session.

It didn’t take long before I realized that their son and Karl had had a strong bond back in high school. Indeed, so strong that, the last time Karl was home, the final Christmas and New Year’s holidays he spent in Pennsylvania, indeed, on Earth, he’d made a point of getting together with this friend specifically to give him permission to imitate Karl’s artwork – a unique art form he’d developed and honed since elementary school and eventually won awards for in high school, as well as in independent juried art shows.

An Uncommon Generosity of Spirit

I’d always wondered why Karl went out of his way to give this friend his ‘blessing,’ so to speak. I’d been shocked when he told me he intended to do it; and was even more shocked when he followed through with it. Perhaps on some deep level, both of us knew his time was growing short. Did he know? Did I know? It’s impossible for me to answer.

It was such a profoundly magnanimous gesture – loving and kind and generous. Made even more so because he’d only discovered through others that his art was being copied by this friend; his friend hadn’t disclosed it himself.

So why would he do that, I wondered. Why would he make it OK to be copied, imitated?

I remember standing in the kitchen and asking Karl, “Why?”

And I distinctly remember him shrugging and saying, “It doesn’t really matter in the end, Mom.” I just looked at him, struggling to keep myself from saying all the things that shrieked in my mind. Of course it mattered, I wanted to say.

Non-attachment and Serenity

“He knows,” Karl continued. “And I want him to know I know. But I also want him to know I give him permission.”

How could I argue with that? Karl’s attitude was intensely serene and – there are those words again – generous; magnanimous.

It was not unlike how I’d felt in Ann Arbor the year before, when I watched him give away to a homeless person the food we’d wrapped for him to take on the long bus ride back to California.

His non-attachment and serenity were profound. And I have to admit, I struggled to find them in my own heart. I wanted to feel ok about it; it was his art, after all. His talent and imagination. His vision.

In the End…

I was sad to notice that very same friend failed to come to Karl’s Gathering, held only two weeks after his death. Their meeting had occurred only ten months earlier. Surely it gave him pause?

And I was sad to realize my client didn’t even recognize his name. It was as if they’d never been friends.

I miss Karl. I miss his spirit. And most of all, I don’t want him to disappear.

Which reminds me of the entire point behind my 1111 Devotion.

(T-1022)

“Disappearing” – Photo by L. Weikel