discipline

Simple Pleasures – Day Sixty Six

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Photo by L Weikel

Simple Pleasures    

I feel as though I’ve written some intense posts lately. Or maybe they were just a little on the long side; I don’t know. Today I’m going with simple pleasures.

It’s a new day. It’s a new month. (Well, in the overall context of 2019. I do realize it’s the 16th of the month already.) But best of all?

It’s a new journal!

Out With the Old, In With the New

Yes! Today I filled in the very last page of my most recent journal. What a great feeling. And even better is the fact that my journal-keeper’s glow is sure to last two full days, since, as was the case today, I felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment witnessing the well-paced completion of those final lines of the last blank page in my bright green covered, college-ruled, wire-bound notebook.

That’s no small feat. It takes a bit of skill, some reasonable foresight, and maybe a scootch of discretion in deciding just how much to write today and how much to save for tomorrow in order to get the entry for the last day to end at a satisfactory place on that final page.

Aaah, but it is so satisfying. And then, once I’ve put a period at the end of that last sentence, I take a quick inventory of the ‘big events’ that I’ve painstakingly noted on the back inside cover. I’ve taken to creating a pseudo-index (even though my pages aren’t numbered) on the back cover so, in the future, when I want to try to quickly locate in which journal an event is documented, I can find it at least a little more quickly than I have in the past.

That’s been a lesson learned the hard way by someone who has, by a cursory count, 63 of those suckers lined up on her bookcase shelves.

And Tomorrow Brings It to 64

Tomorrow I get to revel in the sensual pleasure and pristine innocence of christening a completely fresh and unsullied wire-bound notebook. I love holding my new baby in my hands, appreciating the color of the cover I’ve chosen, feeling its texture with my palm and fingers as I appreciate the lack of bumps and dings that inevitably surface as a result of being taken everywhere.

But this journal is different. This one was a gift (although I did make my requirements for a perfect journal known ahead of time, such as a pocket divider for keepsakes, such as event tickets, photos, or sentimental cards I might receive). This one has two!  It’s from Boston University, my youngest son’s* most recent alma mater. And I have to admit, the only thing that could possibly make this better would be if the B.U. mascot were emblazoned on its cover. Because?

Everything is better with a Boston Terrier.** Trust me on that.

A New Adventure, Filled With Possibilities

Thus tomorrow begins a new adventure, at least in my mind. I wonder what events and dreams, adventures and aspirations, rages and sorrows will fill these pages. How will I have grown from who I am this evening, at the outset of this journal, to who I am when I write those concluding thoughts many months from now.

Will I still be writing 1111 Devotion posts? (Sure hope so.)

Will I have some new project in the works or be collaborating on something I have no inkling of in this moment? (It’ll be neat to see!)

I guess we’ll find out. And maybe, hopefully, we’ll all meet in this Ruffled Feathers space together to assess the changes that will inevitably have taken place in my life, in your life, in our country, in the world. Who knows what we’ll have witnessed by then.

Perhaps you’ll have started (or continued) keeping your own journal. And you’ll be on your way to celebrating the amazing two day extravaganza of simple pleasures that, in truth, are the delight of completing one journal and beginning a new one.

(T-1045)**See? Told you.

Spartacus Dreaming – Photo by L.Weikel

*Thank you, Sage.

Living in the Future – Day Fifty One

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Living in the Future

It’s hard not to get ahead of myself sometimes. When I’m pleased or feel excited, I tend to extrapolate and imagine how cool things will be “when _______ happens.” (And no, I’m not encouraging you to play Cards Against Humanity in this post. Although…that could be amusing. And you know which among you would eagerly offer a shockingly off-color suggestion for that blank.)

What I mean is, there’s a part of me that was, as my Irish sisters say, “chuffed” when I got to my 50thpost. And instead of just ‘being’ with that good feeling, I started extrapolating. “When I get to this day next year, I’ll be into the 400s! I’ll be writing my 415thpost!”

Aaarggh. I do not want to do that to myself! And yet I know it’s human nature and therefore futile to hope I won’t succumb to this temptation – and often. But it sure is tedious, always ‘moving the bar,’ so to speak, and assuming the elusive next goal will be way better and more impressive to achieve than this one. And what does it get me?

N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

Nothing at all. Except it does manage to snatch my present sense of accomplishment from the jaws of a healthy, yet un-inflated, self-esteem. Always keeping myself guessing, I suppose.

But I mention this not because I remained in that mind-space. I saw where my habitual thinking wanted to take me and I snagged it, brought it back, and stomped it into unconsciousness. (Just kidding! Seeing if you were paying attention.)

No, I saw where my habitual thinking wanted to take me and I did indeed snag it. But I just rolled my eyes, laughed at myself, and hoped I’d make it to #51, while enjoying the simple pleasure of having reached the 50th. And I’m mentioning all of this because I firmly believe we all need to remember that we’re not here to be perfect!

No matter how hard we try, we’re not perfect. And we’ll never be perfect. Why? Because perfection is not only unattainable. It’s boring. And we wouldn’t learn anywhere near as much as we do living in our imperfection.

Perfection is Unattainable (and Boring)

We’re not going to find much, if any, profound and meaningful satisfaction with either ourselves or how we’re meeting our commitments by reaching some arbitrary, magical number of posts published, journal pages written, photos taken, or books read per month. The sooner we realize that, the better.

And trust me, I remember when I used to think every one else could strive for – or be satisfied by – mediocrity, but I was different. I would persist. I would do ‘it’ (whatever exacting standard I set for myself) through sheer force of will. And man, while I would not trade the level of success I generally enjoyed for my efforts, I would lighten up just a little on the jumping into the future gig. Because as cliché as it sounds, it is sheer insanity to pin all your happiness on the successful attainmentof a goal, on breaking the tape, or on writing that 1111th post.

The test of our humanity is to figure out the trick of living our lives in fullness and balance as we strive toward accomplishing that goal.

And by that I mean setting a goal (i.e., committing to writing 1111 consecutive blog posts), and finding a sense of satisfaction and healthy pride in oneself every day a post gets published. Extra credit for those days when a post has the effect of speaking to the hearts of those who read it, for those are precious.

There is something to be said for showing up. For being willing to not always be some shining example of awesomeness that you wish others would perceive you as being. But if we’re honest? The ones we’re actually trying hardest to impress are the exacting bastards that live inside of us.

They’re tamable. At least I’m determined to give you a glimpse of how I make the effort to live with them. In balance. Here’s to 2019. May we LIVE this together! In perfect imperfection!

(T-1060)

Commitment – Day Fifty

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Commitment

OK, I’ll admit it. I’m pretty much phoning this one in.

I’m nursing a slight headache, I was a little brought down by yet another day full of low hanging clouds and relentless rain, and this is my fiftieth consecutive post!

Actually, that last part makes me smile.

I’m glad I’m sitting up here on my bed, with but minutes to spare before the ball drops and 2019 begins, and I’m writing this.

I find it fascinating that I feel so connected to you; and I do feel that there is a ‘you’ at the other end of this post. There are eyes reading these words. And I’m intrigued by this relationship I feel we’re cultivating.

If I didn’t feel something, I wouldn’t be sitting up here all by myself, writing this. But I’m not all by myself, am I?

Thank you for supporting me energetically and otherwise over the past fifty days.

I’d like to invite each one of you to join me in some form of devotion to yourself in 2019. Maybe contemplate not giving something up as you enter this new year, but rather bringing something in, instead.

Turning off the television and reading for an hour before bed every night.

Keeping a journal and writing at least one page (and preferably three – wink wink), every day.

Drawing or taking a photograph with your phone every single day to document your joy.

Realizing you are loved. And appreciated. Even if it is ‘only’ by yourself.

Thank you for walking beside me. I look forward to 2019 – together.

(T-1061)

Doing the Grunt Work – Day Forty Nine

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Doing the Grunt Work

I’m afraid this second-to-last post in 2018 is dismally pedestrian. But necessary.

I spent the day today doing the grunt work I spoke of yesterday, only today was the piece by piece examination, recycling, and, when necessary, shredding. I’m astonished by the volume of paper I’ve purged.

I only have about three short piles left to examine in this fashion, and tomorrow is my deadline.

I’ll confess: the stuff of Karl’s, I’ve saved (euphemistically, at least) for tomorrow. And I’m not going to beat myself up over any of it. If I need to save half a dozen file folders for a couple more years – or thirty – or 100 – so be it.

Purging My Old Hats

Instead, I’ve been engrossed in reliving my work lives at the two institutions prior to devoting the vast majority of my time to my shamanic practice.

It’s amazing to me how much I forget from year to year. It makes me wonder if that’s unique to me or if most people allow vast chunks of detail to float down the river of memory, too. Sometimes I wonder if I deliberately let go of a lot of memories by recording my life contemporaneously in journals.

I don’t know if that’s true – but it does provide me with a modicum of comfort.

So many details seemed so important at the time, and the urgency of a lot of it came back to me as I re-read emails I’d saved and reports I’d written. And now…wow. So many issues we dealt with have become exponentially worse.

I think the biggest surprise, however, is how freely we used our social security numbers on so many documents only 15 years ago. Wow.

My Shredder – My Best Friend

As a result, I’ve been shredding my behind off. Indeed, I literally overheated our shredder twice today. We started smelling burning plastic and then a long band of red light (that I’d never seen before) appeared beside the small green ‘on’ light, and the shredder stopped working completely.

We even used our social security numbers as ID numbers for our health insurance plans! I don’t think we had any inkling of the dangers we’d routinely face around identity theft.

Speaking of identity theft…that was another memory I’d put into the back of my mind and recollected in all its complicated detail today. I’ll definitely have to write about that experience one of these days.

The bottom line, though, which I believe the comments many of you so generously shared on Facebook confirmed, is that this purging is necessary. It’s perfect. It’s an extraordinarily empowering way to begin not only a new year but also a new chapter.

(T-1062)

Hoarding or Holding? – Day Forty Eight

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Hoarding or Holding?

I’m struggling a bit.

I’ve been fantasizing for a few years about cleaning out what we call our ‘office’ and making it a place where Karl can paint and I – possibly, occasionally (probably never) – might read or write especially when I need some sunshine in the winter.

The reason I’ve been relegated to fantasizing about this for at least the last couple of years is because it entails going through files. And I am nothing if not exceedingly organized, with a file for everything – and occasionally a couple for the same thing. Also called inadvertent redundancy.

Filing Cabinet of Life Events

I started this post out with the intention of reflecting on that razor’s edge upon which I slip and slide (and often cut myself) when going through filing cabinets that seem to hold the history of our life as a family. You see, there is a filing cabinet I’ve moved from law office to law office, with a final resting place in my home office. For many years, it held my active legal files. Then as the kids got into high school and college, it started holding inoculation records, academic awards, test results, and newspaper clippings. Files were created for traffic tickets and leases, contracts and resumés. Some of the legal intermingled with the personal: my parents’ estate files, for instance.

Well, it’s time to move the filing cabinet out of the ‘office’ in order to transform the room into a studio. Studios don’t have filing cabinets. Ok, maybe some do. But not in this house.

And that’s not to say that I don’t have an effective filing system that is shifting to the ‘library annex’ mentioned in one of my previous posts. Nope; given that I’m the one that keeps all the records of all our businesses and family and home life, they’re of course moving with me to said ‘library annex.’ But I’m cleaning out that filing cabinet.

And I’ve been steadfastly refusing to clean that baby out for years now, precisely because of the nature of the files that made their way into it.

Without Proof Does a Life Disappear?

So today, I found myself in tears. Damn it; didn’t want to go there. I’m stuck, feeling the dilemma of deciding what to do with the files documenting Karl’s applications to colleges in 1999. His exchange experience in Norway. His grades at NYU; the details of his management contract in California and NYC. There’s so much history in those files.

Poor Sage – home for the holidays and eager to help me shift the life of the room to a studio… He checked on me at one point and realized I had tears running down my face, ridiculously wondering out loud if I threw stuff away that documented these milestones, would that erase all proof that Karl had existed?

And so I am left with that nagging question of how much to save and how much to feed the shredder.

I’m not inclined to scan this stuff, so that’s not an option. It will either survive as a real-life, tangible document, or it will be gone. <<Poof>> Just like he was. Just like we all are. From documents to artwork to green eyes and dazzling smiles.

Where’s the Edge?

So what is the edge between hoarding the memories in an unhealthy manner and holding on to some aspects of life as evidence for our future ancestors to literally hold and turn over in their hands? And why or for whom do I do either? Or neither?

Sometimes I wish I could just throw it all out with abandon. And then I think about the thousands of people who’ve lost everything in fire, flood, or other disaster, and I’m grateful for the torture these choices represent.

(T-1063)

Theraflu Fix – Day Forty Five

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Theraflu Fix

Regrettably, tonight is a Theraflu night. I’m staving off something; not sure if it’s a cold or a sinus infection or just a culmination of Christmas being yesterday and today being the 360thday of the year and the realization that there are only five days left in 2018. No matter what it is, Theraflu will probably fix it. That and perhaps getting to bed before 1:30 or 2:00 a.m.

I’ve always tended toward being a night person. I think it’s been true since I was little, actually, but it’s definitely been the story of my adult life.

During law school, night was when I would get most of my reading, studying, and writing accomplished. And since I gave birth to son Karl while I was in law school, that pattern pretty much set itself in stone, since he (and the next two, as well) were always great sleepers. Therefore, once all my guys were asleep (and yeah, Karl’s a morning person – big surprise), I was surrounded by my coveted silence. Yep. My evening silence.

Nevertheless, I have to admit that over the past decade or so I’ve only been staying up past midnight sporadically. Midnight literally became my witching hour.

But now I’m dedicated to my 1111 Devotion. My practice. My commitment. And in spite of my best intentions, in spite of my earnest desire to not always be pushing my nose up against a deadline, ‘crushing it at the last minute’ is apparently my default setting. And so, I hit ‘publish’ every night, right around 11:59 or thereabouts. It doesn’t matter when I start writing for the evening, either.

Decisions and the Adrenalin Rush

Because the drive to submit each post by midnight is so intense in those last forty five minutes or so, every single night I’m left with both a sense of accomplishment and a boatload of adrenalin pumping through my veins at 12:01 a.m. or so. And that means I’ve not been getting to bed until 1:30 – 2:00 a.m., consistently, since engaging in this devotional practice. Some days I’ve been able to snag a little extra time snooze time in the morning, but not always. Certainly not enough to make up for this new regime.

So it appears as though I have a decision to make, and the week between Christmas and New Year’s seems to be as appropriate a time as any to ponder my options. How do I make this new relationship sustainable? How do I keep from wearing myself out and sabotaging my practice?

I’ll keep you posted. (Ha. That pun was not intended.)

In the meantime, I’m taking a Theraflu tonight, and as soon as I hit ‘publish,’ I’m going to bed.

Thanks for sticking with me as I figure this out.

(T-1066)

Tested to Trust – Day Thirty Seven

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Tested to Trust

I find myself tested this evening. Tested to trust that it is time to share with all of you a topic that’s popped into my head at least a couple of times recently and asked to be shared.

Funny thing is, it begs to be shared, yet I worry that, by sharing it, I will dilute its power and effectiveness.  Quite the conundrum, I suppose.

Starting With a Blank Slate

I’ve discussed in other posts how I’ve gradually embraced the practice of actively eschewing ‘knowing too much’ about my clients before having a session with them. Remarkably, to my mind, I’ve found that the less I know intellectually about a person before a session, the more ‘blank’ my slate is with respect to them – hence, I can sit in Sacred Space with a person and allow their story to unfold without any preconceptions.

My sense, as I’ve allowed this practice to deepen in the 15 or so years that I’ve been engaging in shamanic work on behalf of other people (i.e., not just for myself), is that this is a rare experience for a client indeed.

No preconceptions. No chart or notes to review. No test results. No referral slip.

Just us. Just us and the cocoon of energy and palpable comfort and support that comes with the arrival of invisible allies, ancestors, guardians, and guides.

Usually, upon listening to the interweaving of my client’s life experiences, I detect the thread that’s appeared in one way or another, in and out of their life at various times, and which now either needs to be removed altogether or at the very least transmuted.

I can attest to the joy and astonishment I feel each and every time I see the light dancing in my client’s eyes at the conclusion of a session. I never take for granted that the ‘magic’ will happen with this client. (Any client.) Because in truth, I have no control over what happens in a session. Oh yeah, I control the outward stuff: I’m the one who opens Sacred Space, who establishes a sense of safety and confidentiality with my client. I set the tone by explaining that they can ‘start anywhere’ in the process of telling me about themselves – and reassure (or is it terrify?) them that we will ‘go everywhere.’

And I can use the skills I’ve developed and cultivated – probably all my life (and in many others, I suspect) – to hone in on that thread that holds the recurring pattern that now yearns to be addressed and is the reason my client was urged to set up an appointment with me in the first place.

When the Magic Really Happens

But really and truly? The magic happens when they stop talking and I go into another mode altogether. I stop talking, too – at least, as Lisa.

It’s not that I can’t hear myself speaking (when and if I do, which is never the same from one session to the next) when I begin the actual shamanic aspect of the session. I can. But it feels like it is coming from somewhere else.

And I’ve learned that I need to write down as much as I can – whether it be what I am speaking out loud or, more often, what I am being shown or told just outside or on the edge of this reality – because very similar to having a powerful dream that you think you will never forget, the sights, the sounds, the stories that I’ve experienced rapidly disperse like a wisp of smoke at session’s end.

Tested to Trust – a Leap of Faith

Each and every time I ‘move my client to the floor’ (which means we conclude our conversation on the comfortable chairs and couches in my office and my client joins me on the floor, face-to-face, initially, to work with the stones in my mesa) it is a leap of faith. It is placing my trust in Spirit to guide me on how best to work together with my client’s soul to effect the shift or healing in their life that is for their highest good.

Wow, once again, I started out intending to write about one thing, and something else obviously wanted to be expressed. Indeed – that’s sort of what I intended to write about to begin with!

Wait, what?

(T-1074)

Bad Habits – Day Twenty Nine

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 Bad Habits

In yesterday’s post I wrote that I was chagrined to discover that my practice of journal writing has clearly suffered as I have worked to fulfill my daily commitment in the form of the 1111 Devotion. I’d recently realized that I’d allowed an entire 14 days to go by without writing in my journal, which is a serious breach, in my book. And it isn’t that I’m blindly demanding daily journaling in addition to my commitment here; but I am saying that this act of neglect is one of several bad habits I indulge in – and not something I want to encourage within myself.

My reasoning, as I said yesterday, is two-fold, with the first being the simple fact that maintaining a journal has been a huge and essential part of my life for the vast majority of it. Journaling keeps my head on straight. It helps me see things differently than when thoughts and feelings are simply chasing each other around in my head, and it clarifies my emotions. This is true in spite of the fact that my discipline was nearly derailed when I realized I might not always be able to assume my privacy was assured. That’s how important journaling is to me.

My second reason for not condoning the sacrifice of my journaling is because it would defeat the purpose of my 1111 Devotion. It would strip it of its essence as an Act of Power. How is it rightfully a devotional practice to simply substitute one form of writing for another? What about that would be meaningful?

Not much.

Games My Mind Plays

It’s fascinating to see the little games my mind plays. The compromises I engage in – and to what end? Depriving myself of doing that which I love the most? Atta girl, Lisa. You’ll show them! (Who? Myself?)

It’s just dumb. And akin to that whole indulgence stream of thought I wrote about a few days ago.

I guess I’m realizing just how much this happens. How often I procrastinate on or outright refuse to engage in behavior that will only serve to make me happy or improve my life experience.

As I sit here contemplating just how much this behavior permeates my life, I’m disturbed by such a propensity. Not only do I seem to go on a guilt trip when I ‘indulge’ in turning off the tv and reveling in silence, but I also apparently sabotage my efforts to do what I love and live my life in beauty and ease and comfort.

Time to knock this shit off, I say.

(T-1082)

Neglected Journal-keeping – Day Twenty Eight

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Journal-keeping

I have to admit it; I’m a teensy bit stoked that I’ve made it a full lunar month of consistently writing Ruffled Feathers entries.

There has been some fallout in other areas, however, which I’m going to need to rectify, such as my regular journal-keeping. Yeah, my spiral notebook is feeling neglected. I noticed about a week ago that I’d permitted a terrible lapse in entries. A full fourteen days, if I’m not mistaken, which for me is nearly unforgivable.

Do I Have to Choose?

The only reason I didn’t lapse into a round of merciless self-flagellation was because I knew that, on some level, I’d made a choice. And for now at least, if I honestly felt I needed to make a choice, then opting for my 1111 Devotion was the way to go.

Yet as soon as I realized that I was sacrificing one form of writing for another, I knew that could not stand. Keeping a journal has been my way of snatching sanity from the undertow of overwhelm and sadness all my life. Keeping a journal has been integral to maintaining my marriage. Keeping a journal has led me to personal insights that I’m confident I never would have made otherwise, and therefore keeping a journal has been integral to creating the person I am today.

So no, sacrificing my journal writing to fulfill my commitment – my devotion – to honoring Karl’s life is not a practice I will permit. I’m not saying that I must write in my journal every day. But I am saying that a two week lapse is not part of the plan.

My reasoning is two-fold. First, I have kept some form of a journal in earnest since I was in 7thor 8thgrade. I cannot say that I’ve seen those earliest confessionals since becoming an adult, but I do recall writing out my feelings back when I was in 8thgrade, and perhaps even younger.

A Breach of Trust

And sadly, round about the age of 16 or so, I also recall discovering that my mother had done the unthinkable and read something I’d written without asking. (I’m thinking this may be why I haven’t discovered those early attempts at keeping a ‘diary.’ Although I do not remember reacting in an incendiary manner to her breach – by literally lighting them on fire or even being tempted to chuck them – I do find it odd that I can’t put my hands on them. And my visceral reaction to even the thought of burning or otherwise disposing of a journal leads me to believe I would never have taken such a drastic step.)

That’s not to say that I wasn’t incensed with my mother’s breach. Oh my. I was. But I also know we hashed it out. Honestly, tearfully, and not just a little angrily. Which is why I feel slightly bad about dredging this up now, because I know I forgave her. But forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting. And I’m not dredging this up to make her feel bad (since she’s been gone from this realm since 1991), but rather to explain that the deepest source of my outrage at her betrayal was because she’d had my trust. I told her almost everything (much to her chagrin many times). And I didn’t lie. But that’s not to say I told her every single lustful little thought that entered my mind as an adolescent (ew). And those thoughts were precisely the types of things she discovered when she read my ‘diary’ that I took absolute umbrage over her violating my privacy.

I’ve spent much longer on that fracas with my mother than I intended. And yet I’m not quite finished.

It feels important to express why I continued keeping journals even after my mother’s breach. Indeed, they became more and more of a lifeline for me when I turned 17 and became an exchange student in Sweden.

And that’s because I forgave her. And I forgave her because we listened to each other.

Forgiveness – Healing for Both the Forgiver and the Forgiven

I remember having it out together in my parents’ bedroom, when I confronted her after she asked me a question that I immediately saw she already knew the answer to. I was, as I’ve said, incensed. She’d been worried. Or something. I can’t even remember, other than to recall that she admitted that she was wrong to have read it. She admitted that she knew she was wrong because we did have such a close bond, and I did tell her so much about my life. I could see it written all over her face that she sincerely regretted it. And on some level, I understood that she’d almost been offered too tempting a target. “Did she really know me?” “Could she really trust me?” All she needed to do was read what I wrote…

Things were way different culturally when I was 16 than when my sisters and brother were 16, my closest sister in age being 9 years older and the eldest being 19 years older than me. So, yeah. I understood that she wasn’t sure if she knew me. And she understood my outrage.

After our (heated) discussion, I trusted she’d never do that to me again. And I know that trust was well-placed.

I’ll get to my second point tomorrow.

I promise.

(T-1083)

Trust and Timing – Day Twenty Three

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Trust and Timing

Last night I almost wrote about ‘timing’ and ‘trust.’ The context out of which that potential topic arose was a recent scenario involving my extended family.

Before I get into the details, it’s only fair to admit to the long-standing and sometimes seemingly never-ending effort it has taken me to trust myself.

Not Trusting Myself? Or Not Trusting Spirit?

Hmm. Even as I write those words, I realize that’s not entirely accurate. It’s not always a case of me not trusting myself, or struggling to trust myself. At least in the context that I’m writing tonight, it’s almost always more a case of not trusting my connection to Spirit. Or, perhaps blasphemously, just basically not trusting Spirit. Period.

Sometimes that lack of trust springs from approaching an issue or situation from an overly intellectual perspective. I think I’ve written about this elsewhere, perhaps on my website, and I know I’ve spoken about it in many retreats and mentorships. It comes up because, well – for a lot of reasons, I guess.

I’m loathe to consider myself a flighty or insubstantial person. I was raised – and Karl and I raised our sons – to value education and pursue life-long cultivation of our minds. My education and career as an attorney is a big part of who I am and how I approach the world. I love a well-researched, logical, and precise argument or exposition. I like things to make sense.

So, when I first started working with the spiritual aspect of life – when I started learning how to take shamanic journeys and allowing myself to see, hear, and otherwise experience other ‘realities’ (and simply giving myself permission to entertain the possibility that other ‘realities’ could actually exist ) – it was a risk. I was entering into territory where I risked ridicule. Disbelief. Doubt.

I’ll write about what it was like for me to first journey another time.

Cultivating Trust in Spirit

For purposes of this post, I want to talk about how I’ve had to cultivate my trust in Spirit/God/Goddess/All That Is/Creator. Whatever you want to call that Source energy from which everything we know comes. I use the word ‘had’ deliberately because without that trust, I am confident I would have mucked up a lot of amazing experiences.

For instance, my niece and nephew endured a terrible tragedy earlier this year. I am at once intimately familiar with their pain and at the same time completely unable to fathom it.

When this tragedy unfolded, I felt a responsibility to be there for them, to provide whatever support or compassion I might uniquely be able to afford them.

But following the initial days, when many gathered and comforted as family and friends do, I got that weird ‘sense’ I’ve come to know – and trust – that is Spirit’s way of telling me what to do. Or not do. As weeks stretched on and I could see and feel the rawness being experienced, I wanted to provide insight. I wanted to do even more than that. I wanted to offer my unique interface with Spirit to ease their sorrow.

But Spirit said, “No.”

This made me uncomfortable, because even though I did reach out sporadically, privately, there was a part of me that sensed that they felt neglected by me. Or abandoned.

And yet, I kept checking in. “Is it time? May I?” And Spirit kept saying gently, “No. Not yet.”

“Trust.”

Trusting Divine Timing

Then just this past weekend, something shifted. I sensed it more and more each day. Both of them, but especially my niece, who I knew was away at a retreat specifically dedicated to their situation, were on my mind and in my heart. Each day, a part of me was sitting with her, just holding her and asking Spirit to heal her great pain.

Quite to my surprise, on Sunday afternoon, I had gone out to pick up a few things at the store. I was literally urged (and there is that trust of which I speak coming through and demanding to be honored) to pull over and send a text to my niece. As it happened, she was a passenger in the car of a fellow retreater, so we were able to have a ‘conversation.’

And the miracle is that I could tell she was ready. The timing was perfect.

Our dialogue continued the next day, as well, and it is hard for me to describe the gratitude I feel at the sense that everything is unfolding more perfectly than I, in my intellectual arrogance or maybe just human, stubborn, desire to help on my terms, when I thought I should, could ever have envisioned.

It’s times like these that I know I am not doing this alone. And wow, am I glad I’m always striving to cultivate that trust.

(T-1088)