The sweet spot

If you're lucky, that's where you start: a spot close to the center. A spot reserved by a mom, a dad, a family member. A spot whose position determines the speed at which you are attended to if you're hungry, or sick or are in need of laundry money.

Then, as you grow up, you start your own circle of people and things that are dear to you. They get that spot close to your center. To make room for them, some things inevitably are edged away. A well-worn childhood blanket. Your first best friend. Family. They are still within the perimeters of your attention but often times, just barely.

The growing continues.

At some point, someone will take you in, into the circumference of their circle of first thoughts and priorities. You work your way in, through the protective barricades of family, the viscosity of childhood baggage, the resilience of habit and norm.

Some days it feels like you're gliding through as you catch a ride on a slipstream. Others, it feels like you're in the constant wake of a ride you can never get ahead, never get on.

But you keep at it.  All to get to that spot, close to the center, where you once were or hoped often to be. That spot that gives you the permission to finally rest your head and know that you are within the tight perimeter of what matters most.

That is what love is about -- being in the center, against all odds, of another's complicated, full, distracting existence. Everyday, you seek this pilgrimage toward that Center, and everyday you fight in your mind, how not to lose ground, how not to be edged out.

For it is within this spot -- this confine -- ironically, that love liberates. Without a microsecond of a doubt, when you have gained the rights to this prime real estate, you'll see that no matter how far you may choose to venture out, that spot is yours.

This is your sweet spot.

Anniversary

It was a choice and I took it. A click on the "New designs' tab and, an hour and multiple templates later, I arrived here -- a commitment to color, to design, but most of all, to something new.

A year ago, almost to this day, I did the same thing. I dallied among the details of starting this blog, cowering behind structure that served only to temporarily house my words. These words took off and in their flight, ironically grounded me as I uncovered personal truths.

I've been thinking a lot about circles. About cycles and seasons. That somehow they must be the Universe's way of reminding us that life is constantly and inevitably in motion. That nothing stops. Ever.

That there is a kinetic push that moves us, whether we want to or not, to the next step. And, if we're paying attention, if we're in tune enough, we get to experience the completion of that circle. We get to come -- Full Circle.

A year ago, I started one. My lines were tentative: faint in places, too bold in others. The single stroke of my circle, never leaving the surface of the paper, captured both the imperfect and wondrous in its singular purpose to complete what it started.

Today, I celebrate -- not the completion of this circle but the recognition of its beginning. It is an anniversary of personal importance. Of my commitment to color, to design, and most of all, to Something New.

Brotherly love

I just came back from a trip 15,000 miles from home to celebrate the union of my brother and his wife. Here are the words I dedicated to him during the festivities.
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For many of you who do not know, I am the other sister -- the one who lives in the U.S. and the one who was the youngest in the family for seven glorious years until you came along.

My 'baby' brother.

You were the brother we brought up -- we watched after you, we picked you up when you cried, we held you back when you went too far. You were also the younger brother we didn't always have room for. Remember my 16th birthday party? You were nine and you kept turning down the dance music because it was just too loud for you. Look how things have changed. Then, there was the time when you would stand infront of the TV when your sister and I were trying to watch the Donny and Marie Show because you wanted to watch something else.

But you weren't always in the way. Remember the time when the three of us stood on our coffee table and used it as a platform to 'dive?' Two of us were old enough to know better ... well, at least ONE of us should have been. We did a few spectacular 'dives' off the table/diving platform but of course it was only fun until something breaks. We ended up popping the top of the table under our weight -- the big centerpiece of the living room -- but your sister and I fixed it before mama and abah got home that day and I don't think they ever found out.

You might have heard us jokingly refer to you as the 'unexpected surprise' of the family -- coming seven years after me, and 10 after your sister. Almost like a question mark. But, the truth of the matter is -- you are like that second parenthesis in this family. Mama and abah started this family more than half a century ago and put in place the first parenthesis. They were the first 'arm' and under its wraps, they had your sister, me and with it, all the colorful, rich moments that we've had together.

You are that other arm that completes this embrace. You, my brother, complete the family. You are the brother with the mischevious, loving, well-intentioned ways -- even if it's sometimes in your unconventional style. You brought a certain element of balance into the family; more importantly, you brought into the family your beautiful bride -- a girl as lovely inside as she is on the outside. And, tonight, you've given us all a reason to pause our lives just long enough to rejoice in the celebration of love in your life and in ours as well.

I am so proud of being your sister and I am incredibly happy you've found the person to share the rest of your charmed life with. I know Mama is looking down on this very joyous occasion and she is absolutely beaming with pride.

I love you and I wish you and your bride all the best a sister can ever wish her younger brother.

Today I mowed the lawn

My lawn. For the first time. My lines were squiggly and far from landscaper-worthy. But, today, I gave the pull cord a ceremonial tug -- the cord that had on the one end, a life tightly coiled in anticipation, a fuel tank full to the brim of latent energy trapped and waiting to start up. On the other end, a joyous and loud release of energy, the power to drive, the freedom to be, to do, to go.

To mow the lawn. To take care of business. To move. On.

A friend who's gone through a divorce said his 'mowing the lawn' moment came in the form of 'How will my child eat?' It was that pivotal quirky moment that the balance of my new life seemingly was hanging on to -- long after I have hauled away the bigger rocks and limbs to clear the path I had chosen to take. It's like the pesky pebbles that stop you in your tracks when you mow. You just can't avoid them.

Everyday when I come home from work, I would see the grass on each side of the driveway inching their way into my psyche, swishing and swirling their blades up against my consciousness. They became the most visual confirmation of a change that had taken place in the household over the winter. A change I worked through privately with close friends. Behind closed doors.

Except for now.

Now, my lawn is calling out to let me know: Winter is over. Spring is in its place and growth is paramount as it is unavoidable. It is time.

How often has nature been the inspiration for our life's work? We toil at keeping up with the weeds in our lives, we count on the promise of seasons to save us from the winters of our circumstances and we're only too familiar with the consequences of a flower bed left unnurtured.

I'm not sure if my act of mowing will find itself in the ranks of literary excellence anytime soon. But, in my books, today, I picked up the pebble in my path (which weighed a pesky ton incidentally), started up the mower and ... mowed.

And, yes, I am back.

Reaching out ... again

Things I cannot do effectively with just one hand:

1. Floss -- well, not really, because there's the alternative 'floss-on-a-stick' that allows me to literally, single-handedly keep my promise to my dentist to floss (almost) everyday. No, I didn't get the ones that look like little green dinosaurs (although I wanted to). Nevermind.

2. Open prescription bottles (so you can take the pain meds that'll let you open prescription bottles ... you get my point). Someone who's life purpose is to refuse to be daunted said 'hold the bottle in one hand and push it against your chest, and the cap should pop open.' I tried it, and there were no caps popping, I assure you.

3. Pressing Ctrl, Alt and Delete at the same time -- until I discovered I've been unnecessarily traversing the span of the great keyboard divide ... when I could have done this all on the right side of the board. A little spread of the thumb across Ctrl and Alt and my forefinger is free to Delete. Mission accomplished!

4. Not quite so easy with this next one -- getting dressed, er, waist up, that is. I made the mistake of trying to do this myself -- but it's the taken-for-granted dexterity of the delicate quick twist of the wrist that accomplishes the trick of hooking my bra strap (there, I said it) ... and this very act stresses the surgery site. So, big ouch, and, ... well, to my next point.

There are a few more things on my list but, at the end of it, the one big thing I know I cannot continue to do with one hand -- is to not ask for help. As much as I hated to rely on someone else to pick up my prescription for me when the pain meds did not work the first time, or to help put on socks, I did allow myself to ask for help. To suspend any judgement on my debilitations and accept, that for now, I will reach out -- bulky bandage and all -- and accept the help I need.

My independence can take the backseat while I catch a ride to the movie theatre.

Glass door

Grounding Words has been such a generous project. The challenge of etching my thoughts in digital permanence, stripping layers of emotional scab has been miniscule compared to the higher consciousness, deeper relationships and sweet sincerity it has drawn to me.

One such serendipitous relationship is with my guest blogger, K. G. She and I have peeled off a couple layers of personas to reveal to one another a kinship we share -- our daughters. I've invited her to share a note she sent to me on a beautiful insight she gained in her travels as a mom.

Some of you may know that I had carpal tunnel release surgery this Wednesday (hence the slight hiatus -- my article on Vicodin and its psychedelic colors, and the perils of a one-handed typist will be forthcoming ...) And, you may have read that I had been planning to get this done in an earlier blog. That is the pain that K.G. references in the beginning of her note.

K is embarking on a new chapter in her life as she prepares to wed her daughter off in two weeks. I point out the obvious strength I sense about her, me crumbling just with the thought of college in a couple of years.

Thanks for letting me share, fellow traveller.
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I wanted to wish you well today as you have your pain issue resolved. You could look at this as a process in your evolution. Without pain, we don’t realize we have problems. Without problems, we can never be truly understanding and compassionate for others experiencing similar life issues.

I was thinking about your daughter last night. It reminded me of a time I was caring for children in my home. We had about 15 children after school and after a snack they went outside to play to let off some energy. My helpers were outside at the time and I was inside cleaning up after snack and I saw something that shouldn't be happening (can’t really remember anymore what it was) and I proceeded to rush outside.

Earlier that afternoon, the sliding glass door had been cleaned. It was as though the door wasn’t really there and I tried to run through it. Predictably, I slammed into the door nose first and found myself flat on my back!

Sometimes parents have to act as that door.

We give our children a glass to look through to see the outside world, wonder about it and hopefully ask questions about it. But, when they try to go through the door before they are ready, we are the door that holds them back. Sometimes they are grateful and other times, they hurt their nose. Would I remove the door because I slammed into? Of course not. It was there to keep my family safe. It protected us from the inclement weather and those would invade us. But, I did learn to be more cautious running out the door.

Only by running into the ‘parent door’ do our children learn not only to be cautious but that parents are firm in their convictions and their dedication to keeping us safe. Eventually, the door will open and they will go out but they will always know that the door represents where they came from and uncompromising love. Sometimes they run back until they get used to the feeling of freedom and need to feel the security of safety behind the door again.

Finally, one day they step out and don’t come back but they know the door is always open to them. That gives them the courage to keep moving on.

I hope this gives you some hope and confidence when you have to be the ‘door’ and feel the pain.

Cadence

From the time I was seven until I was 16, I studied music. With the help of a private teacher, I took exams with the Associated Board of Royal Schools of Music, being assessed on the fundamentals of music -- the elements of making it and playing it.

One of things I learned was how to recognize harmonic cadences, the progression of chords that concludes a phrase, section or an entire piece of music. Think of this as musical punctuations -- is it a comma and is there more to come? Or, is it a period, foreshadowing the close of a brilliant masterpiece?

It was hard to memorise the different types of cadences and their purpose. But I found that when I stopped questioning and just listened, the music will almost always speak for itself -- you can feel the lift that takes you into a refrain, the slight sauntering of chords into a new verse or the comforting, conclusive resolution that you can sink into at the end of the song.

Last week, I heard the word 'cadence' used in a different way. It was used to describe the frequency and type of touches used in marketing campaigns. The question in point: What is the right cadence -- how often, to what degree and what type of communications -- to start a relationship, to deepen one or to relinquish all ties with our clients.

At first I thought -- here we go, the English language being abused yet again. But then, of course -- what perfect sense! What is the ultimate rhythmic sequence and flow, what measure of touches, the right words to reach out with so we take it to the next step -- in marketing, in business. And, in relationships.

How much before we say with a falling inflection of the voice, 'Stop, that is enough.' Or when we modulate from a choice of pulling closer or ... letting loose.

Then, of course, Nature's natural cadences are at play all the time -- when day turns to night, when flowers must bloom, and when it is time for red and brown leaves to fall from trees. I'm guessing our own inner rhythm is attuned to this universal sense of timing as well -- especially when it comes to our personal evolution.

I can't say I understand how the cadences of my life work their way into the music of the Universe. Perhaps I need to stop questioning it ... and just listen instead.

For its lifts, a silent sauntering or for a progression of chords moving to a harmonic close, a point of rest or a certain sense of resolution.

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...

Day 17: Words

"Don't get stuck on the level of words. A word is no more than a means to an end. It's an abstraction. Not unlike a signpost, it points beyond itself."

Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle

Day 16: Delicious silence

I've always fantasized about being one of those mysterious, veiled lady who speaks with her eyes, demanding subservience with the flicker of her mile-long lashes.

Alas, quiet and mysterious I am not.

So what an intriguing concept Noble Silence is -- a period of deep silence, a technique used by Buddhists and nuns in which a person refrains from speaking as a way to help quiet the mind. Not communicating, sometimes for days, monks who practice this have believed that words are poor instruments to examine truth.

Intriguing, indeed. But I am not there yet.

To me, silence is the stillness that I feel listening to the haunt of a Native American flute, soothing the heat of rage present only seconds ago. It's the faint breathing of my dog on my couch as she waits patiently for me to catch all the words spilling onto my journal late in the night. It is the hum of contentment I hear from the house at night, when everyone is easing into the fold of sleep.

Not quite so noble, I think. Just simply delicious.

Day 15: Practice makes present

It's been two weeks since I started this challenge -- not only to do Reiki everyday but to capture my thoughts and observations as I do this. And, in posting these thoughts, I am letting go of all I take much too seriously -- my writing and the mind-ful thoughts that fuel it.

Many things seem different now --whereas I missed the distractions of the tv in the first week, I seem to crave the silence even more in the second. While I still fall prey to those enticing moments of anger, I'm finding that I don't stay there as long.

But some things, I've observed, seem more the same than I've ever noticed before. Reiki and writing, for instance, seem to run on parallel paths -- even more than I could have contrived. For instance, doing either one of them on a regular schedule takes nothing short of discipline. There's no ideal time, place, pen or topic that makes for the perfect session. Once the inertia of that first sentence is underway, the carving out of mental time to start the first hand placement, the rest seem to follow just a little easier. You just have to do it.

But there was something I hadn't realize until I read Pamela Miles' 8/29 entry in her blog where she wrote: 'In Reikiville, instead of practice makes perfect, practice makes present.' Reiki should be approached as a practice, she wrote, where the one goal is simply to do it. And, on days when your experience doesn’t match expectations, instead of blaming it on yourself, just recognize it as just that -- expectations. Be content to just observe what it feels to be in that situation.

Be present.

How true is this for my writing, too? I approach the craft too much as a technique, and, one in which I need to perfect. I worry about not doing it correctly or perfectly. And, the times that the writing doesn't meet my expectations (can you say 'all the time'), when my monkey mind goes amuck and tramples on any and all of my delicate creative ideas, when that voice whispers 'if you're good enough to be a writer, you would have been one by now' -- that I'm missing the big picture: that I am doing it. Writing. Putting one word infront of another word infront of another word. That I'm unraveling the sentences I spin in my head and weaving them into paragraphs, then pages, then chapters.

And when the words do not flow as summoned, or gush out in a perfect stream, I need to quieten the monkey mind, and just observe the moment. Yield to the present.

And simply be.

Day 14: Just be

I'm giving myself the permission to be still, be quiet, and to just be today. After all, 'retreat' means to treat myself and then to treat myself -- again. Yes?

Today, I will do just that.

Day 13: Yielding

Everyday, on my drive home from work, I eat an apple. A crisp, sweet Fuji apple that has earned its 100-calorie toll. There is something about that first three minutes of my drive -- this unpretensious fruit serves as an unlikely tactile bridge into my world outside of work.

Today, the apple took me to a conversation I had with someone who, on more than one occasion, has mentioned that I am a very guarded person. Today, he mentioned the words 'tightly managed.' I've been mulling those words in my mind, rolling them over my tongue (in between chunks of apple) wondering what is it about them that my mind is not yet ready to let go.

I see visions of prison communities, deadly strains of viruses, a crime scene -- an environment that screams CONTROL (yes, in caps and bold). Tightly managed. Like the cultivation of some kind of super special apple variety that needs to be heavily monitored. Guarded. So the species stays in tact and contained. And pristine.

He may be right. He may be wrong. All I know is this: part of what I set out to do with this challenge is to learn how to yield and to let go. So I will let down my guard and sit in my vulnerability. See how it feels.

For today.

Day 12: Birds flying high

There's something very comforting about being on the ground: Barefeet toes on dirt, heels sunk comfortably into the solid yet accomodating earth. Unchanged for millions of years, this was how we were -- earthbound. Until the crawling reptilians took on a feather here and a couple of wings there and turned themselves into birds. I'm done with this gravity thing holding me down -- they must have said. I'm defying it and flying away.

Watch me.

I love what this means metaphorically. It works for the process of enlightenment, for empowerment, for stepping beyond boundaries and transitioning through windows that take you to a higher state of existence.

Physically, though, I still need to have my feet squarely on Mother Earth. I am a child of the Earth and I just don't know how to make room for flying.

I've tried learning the science -- about Bernoulli’s principle and how an 870,000-pound 747 can lift itself into 7,000 nautical miles into the air. I've also approached it from the inside, heaving deep breathes into my body in hopes of duping it into a self-induced stage of oxygen coma.

But, to no avail. I was on a plane today -- three actually -- and every shiver, quiver and tremble from the plane was mine to manage. The higher I go, the more I appreciate the obstinance of the uncompromising Earth -- it's that hard stop when you fall. The solid mantle that defies penetration.

But, it's also the firm support that holds you up when you're ready to get back up, making room for your feet to once again find its print in the gravel.

Now, there's just something very comforting about that.

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Reiki Update:
Maybe it was because I Reiki-ed the heck out of my hands while I was flying, or maybe it was a kiss-the-ground-because-I've-landed reaction, but I felt really good when I was back home after all that flying. I was tired but strangely energized at the same time; it was as if I had an appetite beyond the Micky D's Angus burger I can't believe I had. Almost like a ... drive. I did, afterall, post two blog entries when I got home that night. It was good. I felt good.

Day 11: Chocolate curls

Someone noticed. I was three days behind and someone noticed.

What a thrill!

I started this blog for two reasons: 1) to document my Reiki practice during the 21-day Usui Retreat and 2) to give me the structure (can you say ... 'force me'?) to put my words on paper, give it wings and let it fly.

To have others actual read the writing is icing on the cake. And, the fact that someone noticed there should be more ... well, that's like the chocolate curls on the icing. Delicious.

Thank you -- you know who you are -- and here's hoping you come back to check on me. I could use all the help in making it through to Day 21.

Day 10: Empirical truths

I had to take a test today and I failed.

I've lived with carpel tunnel syndrome for years, watching it grow from a dull, vague ache in my wrists to a burning tingling numbness when I hold the phone too long, or ride a bike or, even write -- you know, the old-fashioned pen and paper thing. Now, it's causing pain in several of the Reiki hand placements. The only tingling I want to feel is from energy flowing though my hands, not from the swelling of my tendons. So I scheduled the electro diagnostic test.

It was time.

The physiatrist, the rehabilitation medicine doctor, was a very nice man but his big personality did not nearly make up for what he puts people through to earn his living (sorry, I'm still sore).

I knew I was in for the electrical shocks, so I laughed politely at his jokes and let him tape wire electrodes to my arms. So this was how I thought it would go -- he'd send electric currents through my nerve pathway, the electrodes would capture how fast the signal is traveling (or slow in my case), then he'd write this all down and I'll look for the exit door with the huge Angel Fish wall hanging on it.

Except there was more.

Apparently there were two parts to this test and the second involved needles. Okay, so they're small and thin but please don't tell me, Mr. Physiatrist, that people preferred this test to the first. We're talking multiple pin pricks to only the most sensitive areas on my arms, hands and the nape of my neck. On top of it all, he had me tense my muscles -- with the needle inserted casually in me like a sewing pin in a roly poly pin cushion -- so he could listen to the electrical signals from my muscles. The volume dial on his electro monitor was turned up, so I literally heard my muscles reta-ta-ta-ta-taliating in protest (and pain).

For about an hour, they made me go through this modern-day torture session -- just so the surgeon would have empirical data that the pain I had been feeling for years is real. Really?

I drove home from the medical center, bloated with righteousness and moral superiority toward the entire medical profession. They could have just listened and I would have told them that, for years, I haven't been able to hold a book up to read for any length of time. That, the last time I was preparing to accompany my daughter on the piano as she performed her flute, I consciously limited the use of my hands to only necessary activities, so that I can lengthen my practice sessions on the piano. That I almost did not want to continue with Reiki because my hands couldn't take the hour-long treatments.

And then, it hit me -- like a mental pin prick through the surface of my conscience -- how many times do I make myself go through a similar torture test, just so I could get proof that something is what it says it is. That Reiki truly works, for instance, or, if my choices will get me what I want, or if the right thing to do, is in fact, the right thing to do.

So much of my consciousness it spent on this rigorous exercise of finding facts to verify and substantiate. To attest to some empirical proof that exists outside of me.

Maybe I should stop.

Be silent. Listen.

Maybe I might even learn something.

_____________________.

Reiki update:

The mornings seem to be more of a rush these days. I am only managing a 15-minute session but I've started to do a 'make-up' session at night before I go to bed. Note to self: Some Reiki is better than no Reiki : )

Day 9: Just another day (color)

This morning started -- if you can even call it that -- slow and sluggish. Just an expected dipping of the spirits, I suppose, after the consecutive days of high activity. Perhaps some might call it the 'anti-climatic' lull after celebrating a milestone birthday with my daughter. I've been able to keep the Reiki self-treatments going and the practice I did this morning may have prevented any further dragging. Still, there was just a dearth of energy to be had.

Until this afternoon.

One of the sycronicities that has fallen on my lap since the onset of Reiki is a chance meeting with an old high school friend of my husband's. And this friend, imagine that, is a Reiki Master.

She is a wonderful aura of energy and kindness. She helped me understand and accept the skeptic in me -- be patient and give it time because it took me a while, she said. A piece of information she shared with me helped me make a crucial connection: By reminding me that in a Reiki treatment, the hand positions correspond with the body’s endocrine glandular system and the seven main chakras, something in me clicked -- and I had the structure and context I needed to begin the process of understanding Reiki scientifically and energetically.

But, there's more.

Today, she performed a Level 1 attunement for my husband so he can take on the healing work in his own hands -- literally. And, she let me be a part of that, even if it meant I was to be attuned again. In all of the eloquence I can muster at this moment ... all I can say is "how cool is that?"

Oh, and by the way, just in case my purple phone, watch, shawl, glassess etc. don't give it away, I happen to enjoy the color purple. Even more so today. No special reason except maybe today, it was a deep purple shade I saw when my eyes were closed -- morphing and dancing and swirling in a sea of familiar black -- all while I received a Level I attunement (see Day 1: Initiations -- a beginning).

Really -- how cool is that??

Day 8: Noise

There's been much activity around the house. The birthday celebration with my daughter's friends has continued into the first and second day of her 16th year.

I love hearing her voice among the teenage cacophony. It is very reassuring. At least for that moment in time, there is happiness, lightness and a sense of freedom -- all things not always in full force in a teenage's life. I actually find it quite heartwarming.

Except when it goes on for hours. And hours. Yes, and even more hours.

But you know, I noticed that somehow, as draining as I eventually realized it was to me, I found myself quite calm and tolerant through it all. There wasn't the impatience and irritation. Instead, I was able still to focus on what I had to do. I was centered. I felt grounded.

Hmmm, I wonder what that was about?

Day 7: But which way is North?

Adult loggerhead sea turtles head their way back to the beach they were hatched when they're ready to lay their eggs.

Bats use a magnetic substance in their body called magnetite to help them navigate.

It's the concept of an internal compass, a kind of mechanism that allows organisms to orient themselves so they can stay on track during long distance travel, like migration.

Like a bird, with wings, I am not. When the sun is just rising or setting in the day, I can maybe academically deduce where North is but the rest of the time, I need a 'left by the red brick building and past the gas station' kind of direction to help me get to somewhere I've never been to before.

I suppose the theory is that our hunting ancestors (aka cavemen) relied on tracking the position of the sun to hunt and to find the most direct way home. That seems to make men stereotypically the one that speaks in cardinal points, e.g., do you not know the difference between North and South?

Women, aka me, on the other hand, relate to a more personal sense of direction. It's all about how the external world relates to me, e.g., go until you see the house with the beautiful yellow flowers and immaculate yard (because that's the yard I want).

Both ways, though, gets us where we need to go.

Until when a woman (aka me) would foolishly step over the sacred line and ask my husband (aka proverbial caveman) which way to turn when I get off the freeway to get to the car service shop.

It's like the meeting of worlds -- that should not.

Perhaps Reiki has a place in this. But I think I'd rather have it help me with the journey toward my dharma, my life's purpose and healing. Leave the shorter trips for me to decipher. For example, I just have to figure out if I can find enough iron for the tip of my nose so I can be like the homing pigeons and turn toward the magnetic North Pole -- at will.

Until then, I'll rely on a modern-day cardinal finder -- my TomTom -- to help me find my way. And, my good sense to stay grounded and internally calibrated as I navigate toward the discovery of my life's full potential.
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Reiki update:
I got to practice on a volunteer today -- yay for husbands! My hands activated the minute I placed it on his crown and subsequent head placements. It was very humbling and exciting all at once.

Day 6: In celebration

I remember the moment clearly.

I had my infant baby girl in my arms that first night she spent her life outside of me. The 18 hours of back labor pains, the bustling of antiseptic maternity nurses in and out of my body, the animation of well-intentioned relatives, the C-section and the pain seeping through the weakening periphery of epidural -- the funneling of all things had brought me to that one moment -- the stillness of time where she and I were alone, for the very first time.

She had been crying, upset at how her once comfortable world had been literally ruptured beyond her infant understanding. I was terrified, scared that I had done that to her without knowing exactly how I plan to make it up to her. But, somehow -- call it intuition, the energy of our skin touching -- she and I connected.

I tried to turn theory into practice but all knowledge I picked up from books and Lamaze class had disintegrated. I already know this, my intuition told me, as I brought her body up against mine. She reciprocated and drew in to me. We reunited. That moment sealed for us the beginning of an evolving symbiotic relationship that has nourished us for the past 16 years.

That moment, 16 years ago today, the mother in me was born.

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Reiki update:

I was able to do a 45-minute self treatment in the morning before I got out of bed. My centering and grounding is getting a little better. I think.

Day 5: A game

It's amazing why we do the things we do.

It's 10 p.m., and all I want to do is to go to bed but I feel compelled to post an entry. Can't mess up so early in the game. About a week ago, I would be watching tv about now until I hit comatose, get to bed and then wake up the next day, week, month wondering why I never have time to write. I would be woefully longing but superficially content and that, of course, wasn't quite good enough. I had to set up a structure -- a game -- to force myself to write. Like I didn't have enough guilt.

So now, I am cranky and tired, but hey, I'm writing. (Boy, do I need a Reiki treatment). Is it really worth the effort? Is the discipline to keep practicing the craft worth the while? If words exist only in the mindscape of an author, written in virtual space, would they still have meaning?

Perhaps not. But I'm hopeful that at the end of the 21 days, my accomplishment would not so much be the number of people who've read my posts but that I have written and practiced Reiki for three weeks straight. That I might shed the weight of perfectionism my mind is putting on my writing, for the lightness of 'this is good enough.' Why, I might even crave the comfort of a routine.

Until then, count on a good fight from Ms. Resistance.

-----------------------------------------

Reiki update:

Half hour in the morning. Going strong ...

Day 4: Going light

"Beware another practice pitfall: perfectionism" ~Pamela Miles

Don't let perfectionism keep you from practicing, she says. If a full treatment seems too much, start small. When you're ready, add another placement -- one at a time.

Go light, I think is what she means. Well, tonight, I'm going 'light' -- not with Reiki but with the practice of writing. Tonight, I'm letting these (small) words go -- go easy, go light -- despite how imperfect they are to me (the words are not mine, I didn't add enough, the entry is not creative ...), they will have to do.

Afterall, some Reiki/writing is better than none. And just for now, it's good enough.

Pam will be proud.

-------------------------------------------------

Reiki update:

I managed some random practiced moments today: I placed my hands on the solar plexis and was surprised to feel my hands 'activated.' They were heating up from the inside like the other time I was at the Center practicing with a volunteer. I always thought it was the Center, being abundant with Reiki energy that caused the activation. But at work? Maybe it was became I was having an extra challenging day and my solar plexis needed a good flush of fresh energy. Who knows?

Day 3: The real test

The week starts -- and my (personal) life ends. At least for about 10 hours during the day.

I’m working into my weekday routine -- 5 a.m. alarm, get up and shower, half hour of Reiki, then it’s getting ready for work.

I've kept my date with the session today but I haven't been very focused or centered as I remember having been. At 5:30 a.m., my mind is already identifying with the incessant flow of chatter; some so timid I have to wait around for at least the fifth or sixth time they reappear before I know what's been on my mind.

Then there's those that foghorn their story over and above the others, the kind you want to shout back and say 'alright already – I get it’ but your voice just gets smothered by the fog and the only way out is, ironically, to listen for that familiar siren.

Two things I'd like to add to my list -- other than the daily practice of Reiki and writing for the next 18 days -- to practice the 'Just for Now-ness' (you know, the whole 'eternity is simply the eternal present' thing) that I've been reading about, and, to find bodies -- willing bodies -- for me to practice my Reiki.

Reiki, anyone?

Day 2: A Reiki thing

My day started with seemingly better promise -- I got out of bed and decided before I could come up with reasons why not to do Reiki, I would just start. When I was done, it was 45-minutes later. (It did help that our newspaper boy/man was even later today with the Sunday paper -- getting the Dispatch by 7 a.m. on a Sunday appears to be no more a luxury we can enjoy.)

Forty-five minutes is longer than I usually can manage. Maybe it was because I was lying down instead of sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor. Maybe because, instead of an 8:30 a.m. meeting at work, the only appointment I had today was a back-to-school shopping spree with my daughter and another mother-daughter pair. But I felt like I gave it justice and time, and, it felt good. I felt good -- I don't know if it's just because I was going into the day having accomplished one of the big things I set out to do today, or, if it's the balancing effect of the Reiki session.

Since I've started practicing Reiki -- not right away, I have to add though -- I've been experiencing a difference. It's almost like how someone would feel if they were in a state of holistic well being. Not an entire smorgasbord of 'wellbeingness' but little appetizer portions served in little delicious, tempting platters.

Is it a Reiki thing?

I want to know. I need to know -- categorically, irrefutably and conclusively -- if this is because of the Reiki. And, more important, would it mean it is something within my control? That with the macro balancing and rebalancing within each one of us, a larger scale balancing is taking place: I think of huge swirls of energy moving around slipstreams of positive outcomes, of delightful synchronicities, of I-don't-know-why-but-I-just-feel-good bubbles that rise into the universal biofield. Is it a Reiki thing?

About a month after my Reiki I class, I ran down my list of questions to my sister.

"Do you think it was because of Reiki this happened, that I acted that way ?" I asked. "How about when that happened? Why did she do that? What do you think? Do you know?"

"And then when ... how am I supposed to know if any of this self-treatment is doing anything? Is it working? How will I know when it does? Has it?"

A Reiki Master for many years now (ah! I bet that has something to do with why she is studying Reiki, you say), my sister laughed. What does it matter if it is or not a 'Reiki thing'? No mind games, I said, long distance calls are expensive, even though I think she called me that time.

"Okay, what if I just said 'it is'," she said. "Now, move on."

Well, I'm trying, O Reiki Master, elder-sister-who-always-thinks-she-knows-it-all. She might as well have said -- it's the trust thing.

I hate it when she makes sense.

Day 1: Initiations -- a beginning

Already my routine is broken.

It's Saturday and instead of waking up at 5 to do my half-hour Reiki self-treatments, I woke up at 8 a.m. and feel like I've already missed the perfect window of meditative opportunity. The house is no longer sleep-still, my bird chorus timer doesn't seem to quite go with the sunlight and my mind's already racing to get its 60,000 thoughts into the hopper.

So many reasons why it just isn't the perfect time.

It's the same with writing -- you have to find the perfect time/place/pen/topic to write. How can anything less than perfect lend itself to the piece de resistance I need to blaze my literary trail? I am only doing myself a favor by trying to identify that One Perfect Moment. Or, that perfect paragraph, or title or eight-point arc.

When I was receiving the first of four attunements during my Level I Reiki class, I was the only one in the group of 10 who did not enjoy the same experience as the others. It was as if I was in a different class all together. During my attunement, I felt clammy hands on mine and a reminiscent whiff of the Master's lunch when she blew on me to complete the ritual. The music in the background sounded soothing at first but then just got plain repetitive toward the end. As much as I tried to visualize a spot two inches down from my navel and then back toward the tail bone, all I could think about was whether I had an a pair of clean, matching socks in my trunk for my cold, bare feet.

It was far from Perfect.

I wanted so much from this session and already in the first half hour, I was crushed. The urge to get up and out of that circle of energy-feeling, light-seeing people to 'get the socks from the car' (and then putting them on in the comfort of my home) -- was strong. I wanted to leave. It was not right to start with, why keep going? But, I came clean and told the Master about the experience I wasn't having, and, under my breathe said: your attunement must not have worked, give me my money back.

"Be easy with it,'' she said. "Some people might see colors as they do this more and more, but some never will. I never have."

Be easy with it. Is that like ... letting go? In a split Tibetan chime second, I saw my path to Reiki. I always try too hard, hope too hard, work too hard, want too hard. My life is clenched between the end of one second to the start of another, and then another, and another. It's almost as if I loosened my hold, something might fall through the cracks between my fingers.

But, it might also let something new come in.

I invited in the energy to play at the next attunement that day. I loosened up (as best I knew how). And something found its way in. At first I thought I was dozing off -- rocking in my seat from the (still) repetitive drone of the Sanskrit chant. But then my body started spiraling anticlockwise, like it had caught on to some kind of energy slipstream, spinning around my center with a force that wasn't mine. I tried to spiral in the opposite direction and I immediately lost the flow, my movement became contrived -- directed by the kinetics of my own body, not the free flowing motion of being in the wake of something fluid, something bigger. Something outside of me.

I stopped, felt for the slipstream of energy and jumped back in. It felt like home.

And so, a beginning. Nothing sublime or colorful but it was a start and it was for me to call my own.

It's time to do a Reiki session. I have four more hours before Day 2 of the retreat. One of the hours will be perfect enough for me.