1111 devotion

Cocoon Day – Day 101

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“Sheila’s ‘Saucy Cocoon’ Look” – Photo by L. Weikel

A Day to Cocoon                   

Oooh, today’s post ‘count’ seems like it should be an auspicious. Day 101 with 1010 days left to my 1111 Devotion…  Actually, it turned out to be a cocoon day.

From casual observation, it seemed like everybody else was feeling it too. The weather forecast once again was calling for it to get pretty slippery and slide-y out there. But I sensed a more generalized willingness to embrace the forecast. For instance, our school district canceled school for both students and the administration right out of the gate. That doesn’t happen often.

An Unexpected Wave of Closures

Then I received a notice that our bank was going to close at 1:00. The bookstore would also be closed. Even Owowcow decided not to open!

Inasmuch as I had no intention of driving anywhere (I’m not even sure Good Girl will start; there is that to consider), I could only applaud the wisdom of those closings – and marvel that they were taking place at all.

It seems to me that I’ve grown up in and lived in a society that values money over all. Capitalism rules. Working ‘hard’ is The American Way. And that can-do spirit always seemed to translate into stores staying open through thick and thin, from morning ‘til night, in abysmal weather or the most exquisite days of summer. It has resulted in people driving on roads that would be better left to be plowed when the snow stopped – and getting hurt, or worse, as a result.

So I was surprised. And as a person who works with people on all sorts of issues and feelings and conditions, it made me especially happy that people were choosing to stay home and cocoon. Because I feel that is precisely what all of us need, want, and actually require in order to get through the coming days.

Grabbing the Unexpected Opportunity for a Cocoon Day

I hope that, if you were anywhere in the vicinity of this snowstorm (with a coating of ice on top tonight, apparently), you took this unexpected day home from work to cocoon. To make something warm to eat, maybe drink some hot chocolate or a hot toddy (which are pretty yummy) and allow yourself to get lost in chapter upon chapter of a book you’ve been yearning to immerse yourself in. Perhaps take a walk, or try your hand at picking a card and noticing how it might apply to your life.

I know I wrote about this in my Snow Day post. But I can’t emphasize enough how insane our relentless focus on working is; on putting in the hours; on sacrificing ourselves, and often our marriages and family life, “for work.” It wreaks havoc on our bodies, our minds, and our emotions. But most importantly – and tragically – it wreaks havoc on our souls.

Which brings me to the magic about a day like today. It’s different than a weekend. Weekends tend to be as dramatically over-booked in our hectic lives as our weekdays – if not more so. It’s obviously better than a sick day, too (assuming, of course, we felt great today).

Cocooning Couture

Pictured above is Sheila, our 15 ½ year old Boston Terrier. She cocoons on a regular basis, and is a wonderful teacher of the artistry inherent in “cocooning correctly.”

Indeed, the photo above is her “Saucy Cocoon” look. Shortly after it was taken, we threw her coat on and practically had to drag her outside for our walk, heartless beasts that we are.

It was hilarious to watch her literally drag her feet. She did not want to take a walk late this afternoon. She kept trying to herd me into going back. (Which, by the way, is an amusing thing to witness: a Boston Terrier trying to act like a herd dog.)

She kept thinking we were going to change our minds and go back home. Cocoon. (I kept hearing her trying to mind-meld me. COCOON. MOMMY, COCOON.)

It Starts With Us – and It Takes Practice

Nevertheless, we persisted (to co-opt a phrase). We walked all the way around our usual route, past High Rocks, enjoying the muffled quiet (and dramatically reduced car traffic) that accompanies a snowfall. And in spite of the ice patches, crunchy snow, and the piles of slush she needed to navigate, she was clearly happy we’d insisted she join us. Her gate was spry and jaunty by the time we got home. (She gave up the mind-melding and efforts to turn us around after about a quarter of a mile into our walk.) Spartacus, of course, was all dog the whole way – simply delighted we were all together; happy to be alive and part of the family.

I’d like to think our society as a whole is starting to embrace the wisdom afforded by taking the occasional cocoon day. But even if it isn’t, we need to remember: it starts with us.

Hopefully, we’ll get at least one more day this winter to take a page from Sheila’s book, Cocooning Correctly. Will you sport the Saucy Cocoon look as well as she does? She makes it look easy, but I assure you: it takes practice!

(T-1010)

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

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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

Remedial Instagram – Day Eighty One

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Photo by L. Weikel

Remedial Instagram

Good grief, I’m starting to wonder about myself.

I’ll come clean with all of you, since we’re all about intimacy, right? I feel intimate with you, anyway. I know there are a number of you who are keeping me company and making sure I do indeed keep my commitment to Karl’s memory. (I can’t thank you often or sincerely enough for that camaraderie, by the way. And my most heartfelt means of expressing that gratitude is to be radically honest with you. Intimate, in other words. Letting you see and hear my inner me, warts and all.)

My confession is this: I was honestly excited last night when I wrote about getting myself much further along in Instagram World than I’d ever managed before. I knew I’d successfully posted (what, a post? Do you post a post on Instagram? God, how can I do it if I don’t even know what to call it?); anyway, I knew I’d successfully put something on my IG ‘feed’ yesterday afternoon because people had reacted to it by later in the evening.

Even better, I thought, I’d figured out how to get links inside my post to actually get opened without some rigamarole that I didn’t even understand. It sounded like a good thing to do and I thought I’d figured it out. The app I was using to accomplish this task is called Link In Profile. Technically, I’m still using it, I guess, as of tonight anyway. Luckily, they give you a month’s free trial first.

It seems pretty neat. At least, yesterday afternoon, as I said, I managed to post my initial Instagram and, in it, include a link to my Devotion blog post, which explains the inception of the whole 1111 Devotion commitment I made in November. And I thought it meant that people could click on the link inside the post and go directly to the webpage it referenced, instead of people having to go to my Instagram bio to click on it.

Yeah, this is making my eyes glaze over, too.

But I think it did the job. I don’t actually know enough yet to even be able to tell.

First Opportunity to Show My Stuff: Brain Fart

Problem is? By the time I published my blog post late last night and shared it on FB in the couple or three places I usually do, I totally forgot how to actually, literally, POST on Instagram! Yeah, I’m saying I forgot how to do the single most basic function on (and the whole point of) the entire stupid platform.

So I’m sitting on my couch last night, eager to put my blog post ‘out there’ on Instagram, too – especially since I’d just written about it to all of you! – and I’m clicking on every damn icon I can see on the Instagram app on my phone. None of them take me where I want to go or let me do what I want to do. Mostly I’m just reminded that I need to complete my stupid bio.

Oh my Goddess. I wanted to scream.

And then, once I accidentally discovered the ‘entry’ screen (and I still don’t know what I tapped to get there), I couldn’t even figure out if it would somehow access the photo that I’d included in the blog and publish that as the ‘accompanying’ photo (like FB does)  – or if I had to publish a photo independently, from my phone’s photo archive, and then include the link to my blog post in the comment area.

My head was swimming by this time.

Hence the random photo of our Boston Terrier, Sheila, pretending to be Princess Leia (even though she actually bears a much more uncanny resemblance to Yoda).

Moving Forward, Figuring It Out

The bottom line, therefore, is that I’m still figuring this out. I know some of you are clearly adept at IG and others of you, while you may be trying to make me feel good (and it worked, thanks) by telling me so, admitted to being in the same boat as I am. You know who you are: the ‘I have a name on Instagram too, but haven’t used it yet’ gang.

My pledge to you: I will be your guinea owl! We can figure this out – together. And I will report back on how much fun and success I’m having as an Instagrammer.

In the meantime, here’s both a photo of a rock formation on the Siberian steppe south of Lake Baikal (above). And another photo of Sheila, her son Spartacus, and Cletus. Our Black and White Triumvirate enjoying a bit of warmth and respite in front of the hearth fire .

Because Instagram.

(T-1030)

Instagram – Day Eighty

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Photo by L. Weikel

Instagram…      

Or “what I did on this frigid cold day.” OK, full disclosure: this may not be the most scintillating Ruffled Feathers ‘1111 Devotion’ post you’ve read. But the fact that my desire to be read by as many people as possible is pushing me to actually start creating a presence on Instagram  is big news in my living room.

Talk about getting messages. And being resistant to listening.

Face It, Facebook is Becoming Passé

I’ve watched and listened and observed first hand that younger people are eschewing Facebook. I’ve not wanted to acknowledge what I’ve been seeing because, heck, I’ve been busy feeling all ‘not-archaic’ for posting my blog’s link on my personal and two commercial FB pages!

While this realization about the fading status of FB wasn’t exactly breaking news, it seemed to culminate over the holidays, and I did. not. want. to. hear it. I did not want to admit that Instagram has quite obviously supplanted the popularity of Facebook – even if I was seeing it with my very own eyes. Well, through my kids’ eyes. So I just looked the other way.

How Many Times Did I Have to Hear It?

Then about a week ago, I’m in the local health food store and recognize a young person who used to stay at one of the places I would give Listening Retreats. When we started talking about when I would be scheduling my offerings for 2019, I asked her for her email.

She looked at me a little funny and said, “Gee, I rarely check my email.”

I wondered aloud if she was on Facebook – I could ‘friend’ her and she would see when I posted a Hoot Alert there… I let my voice trail off as I could tell she was going to lay on me the same comments my kids had. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I try to stay away from Facebook. It’s just too…” she reached for the right word.

“Yeah, I get it,” I said, interrupting her search. “I bet you’re on Instagram, though, right?”

I had a hard time hiding my irritation at the way her face brightened at the mention of Instagram. Not with her, but with my own annoying resistance to learning a new technology platform.

And then, again, when I was attending that CLE seminar in Philadelphia last week, weren’t there a few what I can only presume were Millenials standing near me on one of our breaks, waiting for hot water for tea. (And I make that presumption because I am pretty sure none of them had hit the big 3-0 yet.) I could see them scrolling on their phones, occasionally stopping the scroll, thumbs flying over the keys as they elicited that soft ‘slup slup’ keyboarding sound as they made comments or posted something of their own. One of them caught my eye and I laughed. “Instagram?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, smiling. “It’s how I keep up.”

I Get By (or Got On) With a Little Help From My Friends

So today, with some shepherding and encouragement from Sarah (mysustainablechoices on Instagram), I took some steps, big to me, to actually make my Instagram account ‘live.’

And of course, when I excitedly shared my breakthrough with another of my tech-savvy friends (probably the most tech-savviest), cosmic.meta.crow, she helpfully (if a tad tongue-in-cheek) mused that I will now have a forum for all the photos I’m discovering and organizing. Ha ha. (But hey, at least that shows she’s been reading my posts!)

So this is the extent of my post today: to let the world know I’m going to be making my Ruffled Feathers blog, and 1111 Devotion posts, available on Instagram. And hopefully posting some cool photos, too.

Stay tuned you guys. You never know what’s going to happen when I start getting the hang of this. (I know, though. As soon as I really start to feel comfortable with it, some way cooler platform will come along and I’ll be going through this metamorphosis yet again.)

It does give me pause to wonder: Was getting over myself enough to give Instagram a try maybe at least one of the messages being sent to me by my Bat? It’s entirely possible.

Oh – and in case you’re wondering, my (what’s it even called? Account? Handle? – Don’t worry, I know it’s not that) is: owlmedicine29.

Join me! No. I guess it’s “Follow me!” Ha ha. And if you have any tips, feel free to share.

(T-1031)

Lucky 77 – Day Seventy Seven

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Lucky 77       

I don’t know…this seems like it should be a ‘lucky’ post, don’t you think? The seventy seventh one?

Not only is it a multiple of 11 (let’s hear it for the 1111 Devotion, folks, the reason we’re all here – or at least the reason I am), it’s also the year I graduated from high school. Which kind of jump-starts me to thinking about my birthday that’s coming up in a couple months.

For some weird reason, I’ve been thinking about it lately. I’ve found myself literally reminding myself that this birthday will be different. Not on the outside. Not with respect to anyone or anything outside of my little old self.

But the very fact of it is already different inside myself.

Approaching 60

It’s strange to think that I’ll be turning 60. Of course, everyone surely feels this way when they get here. And when they continue to be lucky enough to reach further societally-acknowledged milestones. I realize I’m not unique. Unless you count those who don’t reach this number. Or won’t. Ever.

It’s weird for me to think that I’ll be turning twice the age Karl was when he died. I’ve had twice the number of years to experience life, although I am quite confident that he encountered many situations and had a myriad of scares, adventures, and opportunities (for good and for ill) that I may never have (or would never seek out). And that’s true in spite of the fact that I’ve had more than the average bear’s chances to do some wild and crazy shit.

In fact, I sometimes wonder if my willingness to recount some of the adventures I had spurred him on to take some of the chances he did. Probably.

Was My Approach to Life a ‘Contributing Factor?’

And there have been moments, usually when writing in my journal and perhaps reflecting on how I see or perceive other people and how they react and respond to their kids, that I’ve asked myself if my parenting should or could have been a substantial contributing factor to his early death. (Not that I’m saying it was ‘my’ parenting. To be clear, it was (is?) mine and  Karl’s – one thing we strive to always be unified on is our approach to raising our sons.)

What I mean by that ‘contributing factor’ musing is that in listening to others and how they respond to their kids’ dreams and ideas, I’m often genuinely surprised by how outlandish my instinctive responses seem to be in comparison.

I’m all about gathering experiences.

Which is probably why I am so attracted to living a shamanic approach to life – the essence of which is based in one’s own unique experiences.

There were at least a couple of moments in the eleven months that I was in Europe when I was 17-18 years old that I could easily have died. In a few, I could have been killed accidentally. In a couple of others, I was simply lucky that the glint in a few people’s eyes didn’t turn into something deadly. I even knew it in the moment of each occurrence.

Learning Through Experiencing

Knowing I’d been lucky in those times that I surely was, though, didn’t make me swear off adventure or unique opportunities. But I know that that knowing  served to hone my instincts. I distinctly remember realizing that the little niggling edge to the wildness I’d seen in someone’s eyes might next time be a ticket to horror.

A couple of times I knew on some level I’d been given a lucky break. You can’t count on them happening every time. You can’t even count on them happening twice. But you can learn from them. You can reflect on what that situation taught you to avoid next time.

I honestly don’t know where my philosophy of life came from. But I’ve always known I wanted our sons to never say no to an experience simply out of fear. Out of intuitive caution? Yes. An assessment of risk that said in their head and heart, “That’d be dumb?” or “That’s a risk not worth taking?” Yes. But due to generalized fear as a result of other people thinking it was a crazy idea or it was something they wouldn’t do? No way.

I know Karl pushed his edge. I know he did things that pushed the edge of his fear, sometimes going too far and paying the consequences (or getting lucky) and other times because he had thought it through and considered the experience worth the risks. And I know he had stories he wanted to tell me – but was waiting until the ‘right time’ to tell. I regret I’ll never hear them; and I regret he never wrote them down the way I asked him, repeatedly, to do.

Regrets?

There’s the chance, I suppose, that Karl (husband) and I could have tempered Karl (son’s) ambition for adventure. No. That’s incorrect. We could have, possibly, attempted  to temper his ambition for adventure. But I truly believe that if we’d spent our time trying to talk him out of things (or more likely, threatening, cajoling, or forbidding), we would have ended up either repulsing him right out the door without encouraging him to be smart when choosing risks, to use his brains and his instincts and his intuition, or we would have broken his spirit and condemned him to a life of mind-numbing (and illusory) safety.

So no, I guess I don’t regret the way we’ve encouraged our sons to approach and live their lives. And if the way we raised them resulted in Karl living the life he did in his 30 years and dying the way he did? I have to rest in my core belief that a life lived full on, as they say, is a life worth living.

Wow. How did I get to this by beginning with a comment about the number 77?

(T-1034)

Not Politics – Day Seventy Three

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Photo: theconversation.com

Not Politics

As I sit here staring off into space wondering what I could write that might be of even the slightest interest to you, I keep coming back to politics.

I don’t want to write about what’s going on ‘out there’ right now. Actually, you can thank your lucky stars, right at the start of this post. Why? Because I just wrote a medium-sized (for me) post on my ‘birth’ into activism some 18 years ago.

And then I chucked it.

Finding the Sweet Spot

I don’t want to talk or write about politics (at least not today), and if I write about activism, and how mine was sparked, that presumes speaking about the issues that call to my heart and stir my passion. And probably like many of you, I feel there are a myriad of things happening right before our very eyes that are, quite simply, incendiary.

Indeed, it’s tough to find a sweet spot these days when it comes to balancing civic responsibility with maintenance of even a modicum of mental, physical, and spiritual hygiene. It is nearly impossible to keep up with everything that’s going on and not feel mired in muck. Or enraged to the core. Or hopeless.

And yes, I do turn the tv off while I write my posts, so anything I write pretty much comes from a place of me sitting in my beloved silence. But it’s hard. And even when I do, it’s swirling in my mind.

Setting a Disturbing Precedent

I’m finding our current state of affairs to be setting a truly disturbing precedent. It’s just like smart phone use. It’s addictive. And making matters even worse, it’s also akin to driving slowly past an accident on the interstate. We can’t help but look.

All of us know things are accelerating in Washington D.C. The pace of revelations is unsustainable – although it’s only just now reaching the top of the first (and usually biggest) rise of our cultural rollercoaster. Prepare for more – and at stomach-dropping speed.

The disturbing precedent I mentioned, though, is that fix of dopamine we’ve all become habituated to receiving every ten or fifteen minutes every day, or even more frequently if we are hopeless ‘refreshers.’ The only thing that saves some of us is when we are fortunate enough to have a task where our full and undivided attention is required.

It’s a problem, and it’s disturbing. I worry whether we will ever allow ourselves as a society to drop back from this break-neck pace of constant “Breaking News.”

Will We Ever Return to Peace?

I ask you: Can you honestly imagine our society returning to a relative sense of calm and trust in the day-to-day institutions that keep our lives running with some sense of normalcy, order, and trustworthiness?

Sometimes I am glittering with hope in humanity. Other times…not so much.

I’m going to wrap up this post and bring it to a close. My eyelids are heavy and my heart’s close behind.

Aren’t you glad I didn’t talk about politics? Ha ha. Yeah. Me too.

Have a great day.

(T-1038)

“It’s scary out there.”  – Cider

Cleo Sharplin – Day Sixty Nine

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Cleo’s Heart Photo by L. Weikel

Cleo Sharplin

One amazing result of writing my 1111 Devotion was the email I received yesterday from a friend of Cleo and Barry Sharplin. You may recall that I wrote about the Sharplins a few days before Christmas, encouraging a visit to Alchemy, their wonderfully unique clothing shop in Frenchtown, NJ.

Sadly, I must report that Cleo’s suffering ended this past Tuesday, January 15, 2019.

A Most Surprising Messenger

Last evening I received an email from the mother of an art student of Barry’s. She had apparently stumbled upon my blog and read my post from Day 39. In an act of uncommon kindness, she reached out to let me know of Cleo’s passing. Marlene’s words were so loving as she described moments she’d sat chatting with Cleo, listening to stories of Cleo’s adventures.

I am in awe that this blog put us in touch with each other. What a totally unexpected gift I received for the simple act of remaining disciplined to my commitment in honor of my Karl Daniel.

I paid a visit to Alchemy today to spend a few minutes with Barry and to let him know how sorry I am for the loss of his Cleo, his best friend. I know my words, however well-intentioned, were of hollow comfort. No words can set his upended world right.

A Heart to Hold

Before I went into the shop, I sat outside in my car, gray clouds gathering overhead and snow just starting to spit from those clouds ever so slightly. I’d wanted to bring something to Barry, some token to honor my memory of Cleo and acknowledge the rending of his life as he’d known it. Having an intimacy with stones by virtue of what I ‘do’ in my life, my best idea was, of course, the comfort of a gift from Mother Earth.

I’d found a heart of rhodonite that reminded me of Cleo, and as I sat outside Alchemy, I blew my intentions of love, comfort, and peace for Barry into that stone. On some level, I wanted to give him something tangible to hold onto as he winds his way on a new path that he did not expect to be traveling so suddenly.

As I was sitting there, whispering my final intentions into the stone, I watched him come out of the store. Taking a seat wearily on the wooden bench just outside the shop’s entrance, he lit up a cigarette and took a deep, long drag. As he sat there, I watched as he took in the empty front windows and the sign announcing “60% off.” I could only imagine his thoughts. How his entire life had upended in sixty days. Their store, so vibrant and lively for these many years, suddenly sapped of its lifeblood, a virtual shell.

It’s stunning how everything can change in an instant.

The Connections We Make

In that moment, I got out of my car, walked over, and sat next to him on the bench. Looking up, he recognized me, at least on some level, and moved over just a scootch. All I had to do was look in his eyes. I asked if I could give him a hug. (That seems to have been the only consistent offering I could make these past weeks, as I witnessed this unfold from afar.)

I explained how I’d received the email from his student’s mom, and how grateful I was that she’d reached out to let me know. I’d felt really sad earlier in the week, and had blamed it on circumstances in my own life. I didn’t tell him that, of course; but I did reveal how in those moments of self-pity, a clear and unmistakable sense of Barry’s loss (impending, I’d assumed) had intervened. Yes, Cleo and Barry had been front and center in my mind and weighing on my heart.

Barry, listening and staring straight ahead at the shell Alchemy has become, took a long drag on his cigarette. Turning his ruddy face toward me, he smiled and looked me directly in the eyes. “You know,” he said, “she left at 9:11.”

Wow. No. I did not know that.

I don’t know if that felt significant to him because of the connection to ‘the’ infamous 9/11, or if on some level, he knew about my connection to 11s, but there it was. That doorway created by the double ones. A portal. And now another shared connection to a loved one taking their leave from this world into the next.

___________________________________

Alchemy Clothing – 17 Bridge Street – Frenchtown, NJ – 08825

Barry will be keeping Alchemy open until next Sunday, January 27th. Sadly (but good for you), I was surprised by the number of great pieces still available as of today.

So if you want to help both yourself and the Sharplins out – pay a visit. The discount is steep. And best of all, you get one last chance to have some Cleo eclecticism in your closet. Even if you didn’t know her, trust me. She had an eye for beauty, color, and style that will be sorely missed.

(T-1042)

Dispelling Illusions – Day Sixty Seven

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The Blank Page – Photo by L. Weikel

Dispelling Illusions

Yeah, I know I waxed rhapsodic over my new journal last night. I assure you, it was heartfelt. Truly.

I’m also a real pain in the behind with my clients over keeping a journal. I must bring it up about 15,000 times during a session, and if not quite that many times in the session itself, then most definitely in my follow up correspondences.

I’ve witnessed first hand the myriad times I’ve benefited from having written down my internal observations and feelings. Truly, those times are virtually countless. From documenting details that have served me in great stead to recall, to purging myself of emotions and accusations that could easily have led to vast heartache and further misunderstanding had they been expressed outwardly, to another person, my journal is in fact my very best friend.

Making Connections Helps Us Make Sense of It All

I’ve also seen the proverbial light bulb go on above people’s heads (usually my clients or students – most being both, turns out) when they experience that zing of excitement when a message or experience from the past (which they wrote down) somehow links with an experience or encounter now – and the dots connect in ways that reveal something much greater than they ever would have imagined (or even remembered, had they not written it down in the first place).

It’s in the details. It’s part of honoring our process. And our process includes feeling our fears,  figuring out what we want, describing and immersing ourselves in our really sad and depressed days, expressing our dreams, and reveling in our triumphs – both inner and outer.

I can’t declare more passionately how essential I feel it is to our own self-awareness and growth that we capture on paper (ideally) (but electronically will suffice) (beggars can’t be choosers) (I’ll take a win where I can get it) (I’ll stop speaking in parenthetic phrases now) our innermost understandings of ourselves.

That’s why I keep coming back to the importance of journaling again and again.

Revelations Often Come Within a Single Entry

One of the fascinating things about the transformative nature of journaling is how, more often than not, at least in my experience, the transformation actually takes place within the journal entry itself. Meaning it’s not over a series of journal entries that major shifts take place. That happens for sure, sometimes.

But time and time again, I have sat down with my journal and felt something – some emotion, perhaps, or held an exceedingly strong belief about a particular subject – and by the time I have allowed myself to sit and write and contemplate and perhaps write down all my options, or given voice to all the possible reasons why something may have unfolded the way it did, I notice a distinctly different feeling within myself.

Usually I’ve achieved a sense of peace. Almost always, even if I still have no idea how I want to move forward or what I may be walking into next, I know who I am and how I feel in that moment.

My Journal is My Best Friend

Journaling helps me know who I am. It helps me understand why I think, feel, and behave the way I do in any given moment. And because of that, I think journaling helps me love myself.

Quite honestly, I can’t think of a greater gift I can give to anyone else. That’s why I recommend it like a broken record to anyone and everyone I live with, work with, or care about.

So with all of what I’ve just written, knowing that I have some 63 journals on my library wall and a fresh brand-spanking-new journal just waiting for me to initiate it, you’d think I would have christened that baby today, wouldn’t you?

Well, let me dispel that illusion. In spite of my best intentions…there’s always tomorrow.

(T-1044)

Photo by L. Weikel

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.