For good

This will be a tender week for me so I hope you'll allow a slight indulgence.

The song you are hearing is one that reminds me of a friend who has been missed. I am sharing it not only because it's a tribute to her but, more importantly, it's a tribute to you, my dear friends -- I hope you know who you are. This song is for you because you've changed my life ... for good.

How can I thank you enough?

For Good
(from the musical Wicked)

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend...

Good enough

Everything I've posted on this blog has been new writing. I am about to make an exception: the following is something I wrote in late November, 2006. I've not shared it widely because this one was a little more attached to me than others that I've written.

But, it's about that time ... I'm ready to share.
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I believe that good enough … is good enough.

I believe we need to learn to relish moments when we are who we truly are and celebrate what is. Enjoy the expansion of now-ness, not because we don’t want to get better but because we’re already good. Enough.

As a three-year-old, my daughter oozed self-confidence. She could spell and write her name, identify colors, reenact her favorite Pooh Bear tales. She couldn’t tie her shoelaces then, but if asked, she’d say, “My mommy says I’ll know how to tie them when I’m four.”

Her early sense of certainty excited me. Her sense of worth warmed me.

And then it happened, on schedule, the start of the teenage era – one marked with mood swings, self-doubt and identity crises that fuel constant social ‘fine-tuning’ – all in the name of normalcy.

Instead of her stuffed animal, it’s an eyeliner that’s missing. Forget the questionable values of the Bratz dolls, she’s moved on to Mom-it’s-just-a-picture-of-a-grenade Green Day. As mother of a teenager, my world was forced open to take in information on anything from teenage dating to eating disorders, depression …

And, suicide.

Two months ago, I lost a friend whose life ended unexpectedly and needlessly. I still misplace minutes, thinking about the choices that led to her final decision. She was a spirit so strong and so respectful of life. She shared much about herself and what she was going through but gave no momentous indications of giving in, of giving up, of letting go.

And then, she left.

Her last words cast by the minister to the hundreds at her funeral, settled heavily on me, like a Technicolor metal net of purple guilt, black pain and tainted affection. Why couldn’t she see she was still whole, even when her life was falling to pieces; that she was still the beautiful soul, even when the ugliness had closed in on her? That she was, as she always has been, good enough?

Since then, my life’s scale of absolutes has gained another notch – a new truth my mind now has to afford. This I believe: The best gift I can give to my daughter this Christmas may not be the X-Box 360 she’s expecting or the Razr cellphone she’s not going to get. It’s a reminder – an affirmation – that she’s perfect the way she is. That I cannot love her anymore than I do now because she’s great just the way she is. Even when she hadn’t learned how to tie her shoelaces.

Especially when.

After all, there’s always time, someday, to make up that bunny with two ears, run it around the tree, jump it into a hole and close it up real tight to make an awesome bow. But for now, we need to tell ourselves, it’ll be there. And we will get to it.

Of course, I know, my daughter would rather the gifts but it’s okay. Because what is, is good enough.

Reaching out

Ah, the sweetness of reaching out -- of feelings, first expressed.

From the seat within, the innermost fragile emotions gingerly seeking the light of disclosure -- braving the possibility of rejection, just for the pureness of sweet sincerity.

And that life-giving touch of connection.

For two years, I've been part of a mentoring program for elementary students in the inner city district. For two years, they've matched a 9-year-old student for me, pre-arranging our relationship for the duration of the school year. Both times, we have reached out and found something -- a connection, drawing us to each other -- and walked away at the end of the school year with a fondness for the experience.

This year, I decided to work with sixth graders -- older, but still eager to please, if it so pleases them. And, this year, they let us seek each other out.

We've been given a couple of weeks to do this -- a concept that sits nicely in a program plan but, in practice, we sit awkwardly across from each other and engage in a speed 'dating' ritual. Mentors in one row, mentees in another. For a minute at a time, I see the whirl of fresh, impressionable young spirits, eager to sample this Project Mentor experience. Eager to find distraction and rise above what might be lurking in their grades, their home lives, their neighborhoods ... long enough to find the one person who will really listen to them, care enough to learn the essence of who they are, their fears, their dreams.

Many of them are just bursts of energy on a pair of legs, there are those who are reticent about reaching out, and then, there are those who've already subconsciously figured out there is a relative safeness in being detached and unengaged.

At the end of the first get-to-know-you session today, I was drawn to two students: an adorable, petite bubbly girl who said she picked to join the mentor program in addition to the school band. And, she's learning to play the flute. Need I say more?

Then, there's this other girl, a little on the chubby side, in a pretty floral dress and sockless, well-worn, lace-untied, running shoes. She kept to herself and didn't volunteer any info on her own, but she perked up when she saw I was crazy amused she had three cats named Snickers, Reese and Oreo.

If I understand correctly, what will happen is that at the end of the second get-to-know-you session next week, mentor and mentee will each express their desire to match with any one person they've been drawn to. In esssence, both of us would need to come right out and say -- with the understanding that it might not be reciprocated -- "I know only this much about you but from what I know and see, I like. I think we will get along well and discover things about each other that others may not be able to uncover. Will you be my mentee/mentor?"

Whichever student I end up picking, I hope they too experience the sweetness of being the special one, the one whom I've chosen to connect with. I hope they feel the giddyness of what it means to be singled out for no reason other than just being who they are. And, I hope they look forward to reaching new heights simply because someone cared enough to reach out, connect and take a chance.

I know I will, when I am picked.

Amazing grace

I've been lucky many times in my life.

But one of the sweetest of coincidences I get to enjoy is being mother of a daughter who is in the band. Okay, yes, being a band mom.

I love music. There is something that lives between the lines of the music staff that speaks to me. For the longest while, I held a secret desire to be a concert pianist. Needless to say, while I was in high school and college, I lived the band.

So, when I get teased about being a band mom, I laugh a little inside because, they don't really know how true it is. But not in a fanatical 'my daughter is the greatest because she is in the band' or 'I'm going to ring my cattle bell the loudest because my daughter's band is the only one that matters.'

This is the music that brings me back to my younger days: when my blood ran a little redder, aspirations sung out a little louder and everything in life could be summed up in a harmonious piece of manuscript, waiting to be performed brilliantly. Being able to relive that with my daughter as a part of the central melody -- is a cosmic convergence I can't even begin to explain.

So, tonight when she was on the field playing Amazing Grace with 400 other high school musicians, the surge I felt was not just from the crescendo of the music on the refrain of one of music history's classic pieces. That cresting of emotion was the coming together of the music that lives in me ... and the daughter who breathes alongside me.

What amazing harmony they make.
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So ... I couldn't resist, but you probably noticed that I added another sensory layer to the blog. Let me know if you like it ... or not. If you want to turn off the music, scroll down and look along the right for the 'controls' in the 'JUST FOR YOU' section. There is a pause button -- click on it and silence shall be yours ...

Lines

I started running again.

Jogging, really, about an 11-minute mile -- down the curve to the main road, up the steep slope to the high school, all the way to the field where the band practices and then back home. When I'm done, it's a couple of miles under my belt, about a light lunch worth of calories burned off and a really good endorphin high.

I try to stay in the moment as best I can -- no iPod, no phone -- just feeling my breath and watching my body move to a synchronized beat; my feet on the pavement, my arms chafing against the air, my legs moving one at a time.

Sometimes I'd catch a whiff of an earthy fragrance -- so sweet it's like that first mouthful of a dessert you've coveted, and you're savoring the sweet satisfaction of anticipation realized.

Yet, so brief that almost about the second I lock in my senses to identify the scent, ... it's gone, like the remnants of last night's dream at the moment your mind crosses over into a wakeful state.

But staying in the moment also means quietening my thoughts -- and that's hard to do.

Today was no different.

Today, my mind was meandering along lines. Lines that keep things in, lines that separate, lines that limit. Lines that define.

There's a path on my run that takes me across a parking lot streaked with yellow guidelines so the high school students can use to park their cars. Then, there are white lines marked over these for when the lot is used as a basket ball practice court. Literally on top of that, the black-on-black lines, caused by the repair work in the tar, leads to yet another layer of intersecting lines.

Today, that's how I feel, my existence -- governed by lines that steer, lines that direct, lines that cross one another.

And lines that constrict.

A simple curse(sor)

For months now, I've been plagued by a wanderlust cursor. This roving bar on my laptop screen had a mind of its own: it would have the audacity to mosey off to a distant sentence or a random word before I was ready to release it. Of course, I'd be typing furiously to keep up with my thoughts ... but the written words would appear everywhere else but. Here.

I tried everything. Tolerance at first. It'll be my spiritual practice, I told myself. Deep breathes, acknowledge the frustration, practice patience. Hmm ... that helped me deal with the situation but not the situation itself. Not good enough for me.

So, I googled for help. And, I got it. Lots and lots -- apparently it is a known problem for laptops. Disable the touchpad, they all say. That's easy enough but then I discovered that not only do I have a nomadic pointer, I also have a Houdini-inspired touchpad. Oh, the touchpad is there alright, but there are no signs of its existence in my system. No icon, no hardware, no ... nothing. You can't hardly turn something off that's ... not there.

At my wit's end, I sought out an ex-friend of a friend who offered to help reel in this errant cursor of mine. He looked at my laptop, did all the things I did and a tried a couple more on his own. He suggested a few more things, including cracking open my computer, exposing its innards and turning it off that way. Deep breathes.

Then, the winning entry.

"You know," he said, almost as an afterthought, "You could do what my dad did. He covered the touchpad with a piece of cardboard ...and it has not bothered him since."

And there you go. So, yes, I'm the one typing on a Dell Inspiron M140 with a two by three piece of baby blue cardstock where the touchpad is.

My cursor is free -- no more.

A list

20 years ago, I made a list.

It was a listing of 'Things I want to do when I'm in the U.S.' Somehow, there was a knowing that one day I was going to get a chance to, first, actually be in the U.S. to do the things, and then, second, to find myself the opportunities so I could get through my list.

There were less than 10 things on the list and none were earth shattering or world changing. Looking back on them now, they remind me of how curious I was about this place that I was going to invite into my life. You know how you'd research a place you're visiting for the first time? The things you end up wanting to experience are sometimes totally outside of the main attractions recommended in the brochure.

One of the things I wanted to do was to pick apples off an apple tree. It was such a huge fascination for me to think I could pluck it off a tree, do the obligatory rub of the fruit on my shirt for good measure and then ... sink my teeth into the fruit and take a huge bite off of something that, only seconds ago, was part of the life force that it came from.

Somehow, it felt so quintessentially American. (Baking an apple pie -- from scratch, mind you, not a frozen one shipped from the U.S. -- was somewhere on the list, too). I think I felt like if I did that, and the other nine things on my list, I would have fully sampled the American life during my short visit.

The three years I thought I had to accomplish my list has now extended to more than 20. And, through the years, my fascination has only deepened with the personal awareness I now have gained about this country. Yesterday, I visited the fruit farm where I had gone to do my first apple picking. This time it wasn't just any apple, but specifically the Honeycrisp that I wanted to include into my experience.

But, we were too late. The Honeycrisp fans had showed up early the morning before and the Honeycrisp trees in the orchard were bare. I was beyond disappointed. I hovered around the baskets of Honeycrisp apples, picked by the staff earlier that week, and conceded that they will just have to do. But with a resolve, too, to keep my eye out for the Jonathons and the Fujis ... later on this season.

Because there is the luxury of a 'later on' for me now. I don't have to do the cursory checking off my list or skim the surfaces of experiences. I have the chance to stay awhile, to enjoy the sumptuousness of this beautiful place I now call home.

Now, I get to live my list, not just do them.

Thanks to a pleasingly crisp sweet-tart fruit, and the more solemn observance of flags flying gallantly at half mast this weekend, I am reminded of the abundance of time, experiences and opportunities I'm blessed with.

As always, I am humbled. And very, very grateful.

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Just a quick note: As you have gathered, I haven't been making daily entries to my blog. I'm trying to figure out what that sweet spot is between maintaining a habit and not making it yet another task I have to do. I'm determined to at least write every other day but I'm finding that I actually miss the rigor of the practice when I do that.

If it would help, you could subscribe to Grounding Words -- I hear it sends you an e-mail each time the blog is updated. Just a thought. Thanks for continuing to stop by -- I would love to hear your thoughts. If you'd prefer, you're welcome to send me a note at satori_1962@yahoo.com.

The Big Red

I knew nothing of a horse named Secretariat until two days ago.

Seabiscuit, yes, but I did not know about this big red thoroughbred, apparently the greatest race horse of all time. Secretariat ran the fastest 1.5 miles in the history of America and he did it with the widest margin ahead of his nearest challenger -- 31 lengths to be exact.

But this horse was brought to my attention for a different reason. The 'Big Red' had no need for the riding crop: no sharp loud sound or horse whip to scare him to motion. Just a primal desire to let loose the wild ancestry in his blood and to ride -- no, fly -- like the wind.

Last week, I wrote about how I needed structure to keep writing. In my own words, I said I need 'the whip-lashing, nail-biting, heart-pumping, bed-tossing tyranny of a Structure.' A couple of my dear friends felt I was being hard on myself (again). The legendary horse wasn't coerced and bullied into reaching the finish line, she said. I should go where the energy of the day brings me, another suggested.

They're both probably right.

But strangely enough, there's comfort in the safe, tight swaddle of a structure. I've always believed you are your most creative when you have parameters to work within -- anyone can be creative where the sky's the limit. But, I think I understand the truism better now. Within the 'limitations' of a discipline, my energy and creativity is encased; it may not ride with the wind yet but it doesn't dissipate and evaporate into thin, undefined air either.

In the safe cocoon of discipline, creative energy is sheathed and grounded. And where there is grounding, there is manifestation.

Plus, Secretariat was not without an indefatigable trainer who was paid to bridle the raw energy and channel it into a vapor trail of adrenaline during the races.

Perhaps it was the structure of this training -- that gave Secretariat his wings.

Balance

I was at work for 11 hours today. For almost half of my day, I was at meetings, lead conference calls, managed projects, reviewed work, made more calls, went to more meetings ...

And I know better.

The sad part is that I don't remember to question the balance anymore, it's become part of what I do. It's become what I have to do. Until, of course, the Universe throws a pie at me. Well, sort of. It's a work/life balance tool shown on a pie chart. I'm not sure why I started keying in the numbers because I knew what it would say. But I did. And, not surprising, the work portion took a huge piece of the pie.

But this was what took the cake. A huge portion of my week went to the unsuspecting 'unplanned hours.' The lion's share. Unplanned. My day. Week after week. After week.

I can entertain the thought of the spontaneity of this, but it's leaning much to close to 'randomness' and to being 'undesigned,' plus an undeniable flirting with the sheer haphazardness of it all.

I need to think about this.

Reset

Yesterday, I fell prey to a computer virus. Not knowing any better, I did exactly what I shouldn't have done and, in return, was left with a sick, sick computer.

I spent all of that late evening and much of the morning trying to fix my computer wrongdoing. I tried uploading new software and uninstalling old. I tried ignoring the propaganda about Trojans and worms.

Worst of all, I found a reason not to write.

So I asked for help. As my husband was disgnosing the situation, my daughter came in my study and very sheepishly said: 'Mom, did you ...' and went ahead to describe exactly what I had done. There was empathy in the arms that landed on my shoulder when I said, 'yes.' I felt that and the weight of smug experience.

'I did the same thing and Trevor just reset the computer back to a couple days ago. It worked. It was like the whole thing never happened, mom,' she said.

It was that easy. And, it worked -- just like it never happened. Of course since most of the work I did in the last two days were saved on this blog (Thanks, Blogger!), it really was like the past two days did not take place. I had a chance, from scratch, to not only unravel my computer entanglements but to be free to decide how to redo my personal laptop reality. To instantly learn from the error of my btye ways and regroup. Reassess. Relive.

Would it be that my life was as easy to reset -- even if it were just for the past two weeks. What would I do? I would have done a better job with the daily self treatments. I would have done it more regularly; and a more perfect following of the treatment regiment.

And, that as bored as I sometimes may get with the treatments, I shouldn't ever just not do them. The daily treatments are central to deepening my relationship and understanding of Reiki -- there is no other way to get there.

But, of course, there is no way to reset that and yet retain the memories I want to keep. So, I guess I have to be content with my 21-day experience -- as imperfect as I now come to view them -- and work on applying the new insights I've gained to the more important present -- the Now.

Day 21: Three weeks

21 days ago, I started something.

In a way, it wasn't as much about what it was and why but that I did it. I started something. I cracked open a door, I ventured out and I stayed out long enough to take a stand about a passion, to share with virtual strangers (and not quite strangers), to think seriously about something that weighed on me -- then toss it away cavalierly with the simple click of the 'Publish' button.

And, know what? I survived to tell the tale. Twenty one tales to be exact. So here's what I've learned:

Discipline
I need structure to keep writing. It doesn't feel like I'm letting myself down when I don't make time to write. But somehow the thought that someone might stumble onto Grounding Words and notice that it's not been updated feels like I'm letting someone else -- you -- down. And I won't have that.

This regiment -- and sometimes it has felt like that -- worked because it made me write. It's like the love/hate relationship I have with deadlines. There's a personal affront I feel with each deadline I've met but, if it weren't for them, I would never have any writing to call my own. Let's face it -- I have dreams bigger than what the lackadaisical writer in me can fuel on her own. I need the whip-lashing, nail-biting, heart-pumping, bed-tossing tyranny of a Structure.

Taking risks

It is obvious that the Universe wants me to know this because I ran into at least three chance encounters within the week of this, well, truth. A fellow writer noted in Bum Glue, her blog: All you have to do is to write one true sentence -- Ernest Hemingway said in Moveable Feast, a set of memoirs he wrote about his years in Paris as part of the American expatriate circle of writers in the 1920s.

One true sentence. For the past week, I feel like I have worn my heart out on my sleeve, pointed an arrow to it with a sign that said: Delicate matter abounds: Trample away! One true sentence. That tightly managed, guarded self in me is stifling and editing a comment right at this minute. But, it would suffice to say that as much as I respect and probably agree with Hemingway, it is definitely much easier said than done. For me. It is hard enough to zero in on the truth, let alone share it. Much work in this area, I'd say.

Higher consciousness

Okay, so I'm not walking on water or seeing people in technicolor auras. Yet. Just kidding -- but here's a truth: I think I'm on to something. You know the saying: You are drawn to those who have the most to teach you? Well, I seem to be drawn to the amazing experiences, encounters and people, Reiki included, that's helping me with this inner journey.

So, three weeks ago, I started something.

Some people call it a blog -- you write down your thoughts, you set it free into blog space, people read it and maybe they come back to read some more.

I call it a Practice. And, 21 days is nowhere near what I could call a complete experience. There is much yet to be done.

See you tomorrow.

Day 20: Anger

Today I was so angry it physically hurt.

How is that possible? That I could be feeling such intense negative emotions while I am practicing healing? That there was such an imbalance that it took precedence over reason? That I was feeling exactly what I intended not to feel?

These are questions that need some attention -- if not answers. The mind-body connection is one I'm always working on improving but certainly not this way.

There is much work yet to be done.

Day 19: Remembering

I saw the tree today. You can tell it's a recent addition to the park -- the single young tree on the grassy clearing, half way into the park. The heady scent from the roses, the clearest of blue skies, the summer heat -- warming up just the way she'd like it. It was a perfectly, beautiful moment.

It wasn't sadness I felt; more a fondness for her presence when she was still alive. I picked at the grass around the plaque at the foot of the tree, trimming the stray blade or two that covered the words we had left for her. As I knelt down, a strange flashback of having done the same thing crossed through my mind -- me bending over my mother's grave, picking up dried leaves off the ground above her.

I had gifted a Reiki session with a master that week for my friend, in hopes that she would find even an hour's worth of relief. Maybe she did. An hour of peace and stillness within. But, it just wasn't soon enough for her.

Three years ago this month, I lost a friend whose life ended unexpectedly and needlessly. I still misplace minutes, thinking about the choices that led to her final decision. She was a spirit so strong and so respectful of life. She shared much about herself and what she was going through but gave no momentous indications of giving in, of giving up, of letting go.

And then, she left.

You are missed, my friend.

Day 18: Dancing in the rain

I got rained on, twice this week.

Well, sort of.

The first was when I was doing a writing prompt from Natalie Goldberg's Old Friend from Far Away. The prompt was to write about a time when you remember rain. They were sparing, my rain memories. My mental list started with me standing under the umbrella with my husband-to-be at the time, braving the rain to see Donny Osmond at a state fair -- I was over the purple socks but not too old, apparently, to see a one-time dream in flesh.

I also remember the torrential tropical rain I tried to outrun but ended up tripping infront of a line of traffic waiting for the light to turn green. And, I remember taking shelter from the rain-wrapped tornado that ultimately gave me a cover story when I worked at the local daily.

But the list stopped there. My pen dawdled over the lines and then fizzled out altogether. The memories somehow weren't prompt -worthy.

Then a few days later, I recieved an e-mail with this quote (thanks, Mari):

'Life isn't about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain.'

And it hit me. I'm always trying to get out of the rain, to outrun it, take shelter from it. I don't remember if I ever just stood in it. Even as a child. And why not? In its purest, rain is the primary source of water we drink. It is wetness from the clouds that quenches the thirst of the earth. It's a handful of fun words: a sprinkle, a drizzle, a shower, a spell, a spray.

My life has always been about surviving the storm or avoiding it. About preparing for the future or fixing the past. Never just about sitting in the rain.

Or dancing in it.

Hmm, wonder what the weather's going to be like tomorrow...