powerful women's motto

this is dedicated to all of the amazing wonderful women in my life. (if you are reading this, that means YOU!) you rock!!!

Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, Satan shudders & says...'Oh sh!#....she's awake!!'

(this was sent to me from another strong courageous grace-filled woman. thank you!)

vines, threes & serendipity???

It is gray this morning. I was expecting sunshine and it has not decided to arrive quite yet. There is a post bubbling around in my brain about roots and vines, but instead of letting the words flow out of my pen, I myself have remained rooted here in my cozy bed.

I sit here pondering about the serendipity of life. Is it God’s plan? Is it random energy or merely coincidence? Or is it something I make up in my brain to make sense out of things that otherwise might make no sense at all?

I wonder about the power of three’s and even where that idea even began. And lest you think I am on a total ramble, it is indeed the occurrence of three, serendipitous appearances of roots and vines that I am pondering. I hesitate in the writing, because words are not clearly forming yet the images stand bold in my mind and beg to be placed on paper and so I choose to give it a go.

Recently while having coffee with a dear friend, she began to relay an experience of her own. My friend has been experiencing a sense of flightiness and floating away and these senses have caused her some anxiety. In her story, she was seeking counsel and her adviser asked her to try and imagine herself as rooted to the ground with strong vines holding her in place. She has been curious about the imagery that was offered and was thus sharing it with me for my thoughts. While she spoke I tried to contain myself and continue to listen closely to her story. I myself was getting excited, because my heart did a little jump when she shared the imagery of the vines.

Why the ‘heart jump’? Well, just a few days earlier I was participating in an exercise called dynamic meditation where the goal is to exhaust the body and active thoughts so as to clear space to listen. (When I ‘clear space to listen’, it is my goal and hope to listen to God and I have found that God does indeed meet me in those spaces quite often.) Part of the exercise had us in an immobile state for 15 minutes. I must say it was quite painful physically and all my brain could do was attempt to figure out how much longer this would last and did not feel clear of thought at all!! ☺ However, when the music changed and we were given the opportunity to once again move, I found that my feet were planted to the ground. I could not move and actually had no desire to do the very thing I had been focusing on for the last 15 minutes.

As I stood there, a vision came into my mind of vines coming out of the ground and wrapping themselves around my right leg. They were beautiful like ivy and felt more akin to security than something binding or frightening. I stood there for a few moments and allowed myself to let the imagery sink in and then I physically reached down and gently unwound the vines so that I could move my legs and participate in the next part of the exercise. It was really a powerful experience on its own, and then to have my friend share virtually the same visual before hearing about my own was truly amazing. She and I both vowed to consider more what the imagery means for each of us.

The third instance came when I impulsively picked up (& bought) a book (Dare to Journey with Henri Nouwen) on my way out of the bookstore yesterday. Here is an excerpt from the first reflection:

“So we try to do more while our energies ebb away and we become like uprooted trees with our roots wildly groping for the sky. Thus we anxiously throw our arms toward heaven, praying for extra grace and special enabling, when instead we should be planted again in nourishing soil. That soil is not meant to make us do less, but to change our priorities so that we take time to be still. And in the stillness, find new strength and hope.” --Charles Ringma

So, there you have it. My little story of vines, threes and serendipity. I am still pondering what to make of it, but I must say the grounding feels quite nice. As always, thoughts and comments are welcomed. Peace. ☺

i stopped dreaming when...

How would you complete the statement: I stopped dreaming when… Have you ever considered that? Considered even what your dreams are? Or do you live in a closed off or fearful place where dreaming seems frivolous and unproductive? Do you perhaps consider that if you were to share your dreams with another that they might be met with ridicule and thus the dreams snatched out of your realm or buried deeper inside your psyche?

“I stopped dreaming when…” is part of an exercise I have participated in dozens of times. The goal is to just let the words flow and find their rhythm until you stop thinking about what you are saying. For many sessions the things that popped out of my mouth were based on childhood experiences that gradually moved upward through my adult years. And then several months ago, I was demonstrating this process and out popped “I stopped dreaming when I couldn’t dance.”

These words came out with a ferocity that surprised both the partner with whom I was working and especially me (probably me more so, because I had no clue from where they came.) Today, I started to write “while I have always enjoyed dancing” and then realized that is not really true. I thought I wanted to tap dance when I was about 5, but I think that was more a product of my mother’s urging. I did, however, really love the shiny black shoes with the wonderful clicking heels. I quickly decided though that I much preferred staying home to watch “The Three Stooges” and “Tarzan” on television over the discipline and embarrassment it took to learn the complicated steps in dance class.

I also grew up in the age where social dancing consisted of sock hops at which couples bobbed up and down to the beat of the music individually or else draped their arms around each other when the rhythm slowed enough to warrant closer contact. A neighborhood friend had aspirations to be a ballerina and occasionally worked with me to learn the five positions of her classical dance. I was never too sad when I couldn’t do them perfectly and definitely did not long for more time at the barre.

In middle school I made an embarrassing attempt to learn how to move and do a flip so I could try out for cheerleader. The results were near humiliating and I opted for cheering in the pep club instead of gyrating on the sidelines. Growing older I talked my first husband into a couple of “hustle” lessons, and later, my second into an evening of ballroom classes with other friends. Each time there was no lasting commitment and no lingering loss after the lessons stopped. I do, however, love a really great (and sometimes not so great) dance movie. My heart always sings when I watch the likes of “Dirty Dancing,” “Strictly Ballroom” or “Shall We Dance?”

All of this to say, I do not really consider the actual act of dancing to be what I was referring to in my exercise outburst. It feels bigger than dancing to me. It feels representative of something deep in my soul. It feels like a rhythm lost or possibly a dream or a gigantic culmination of loss. It feels like a loss that is sometimes too big for words. Even this writing feels really big for these pages. It does not feel despairing, but more like a mystery to be considered. It seems like much more to be explored which is exactly what I plan to do. In the meantime, however, I would love to know how you would finish this statement: I stopped dreaming when…

collage by lucy

on the lighter side

It gets pretty exhausting sometimes talking and thinking about all that authenticity and inauthenticity. It can be heady stuff, you know? Sometimes you just have to go for some plain old mindless inappropriate fun! Who better to model that than a couple of teenagers? Especially when they happen to be your own and you find that you really do have a lot in common (even though they think you are from another planet.) Every now and then, however, the planets align and some really good fun comes out of it.

Warning: If you consider this blog to be a serious, contemplative place where only deep and thoughtful things are discussed, you may want to discontinue reading at this point lest your impressions be permanently changed.

At the urging of my 19 year old son (who finds me less and less alien-like as he matures), we went to a 10:00 p.m. movie. That in itself is pretty bold for me since I generally am cuddled into bed by that time...especially on a "school" night (btw--no one here is currently in school, but still the voices say 'Wednesday is a school night.') When I heard dear son say, "Come on, Mom. Live a little" with his crooked grin I could see through the phone, I answered, "Sure. What the heck!" Somewhere in there "Mr. Charming" managed to convince his sister to move away from the computer and come along with us. (Do you think it could have been impacted by the fact that "all of her friends" are out of town this week? I mean...going into public at night with her brother AND her mother?!?!??! Horror of horrors!)

Well, like I said before, sometimes all of the planets just align and the three of us toodled off (Dad had a 4:30 a.m. wake up call. Party pooper!) to the opening night of...you still have a chance to quit reading here...the new highly acclaimed stoner-action film, "Pineapple Express." And, o.k. I have to admit I really enjoyed it. Yep, Me, Lucy, contemplative counselor actually laughed out loud in the midst of an auditorium where I think the next oldest person there was maybe 25. The movie was totally inappropriate with marijuana and murder holding center stage, but a better stoner than James Franco there has not been since Sean Penn played Jeff Spicoli in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." And, yes, while I am giving true confessions, I liked that movie too.

So, there you have it. The 'other side' of Lucy. Occasionally I enjoy a good old raucous pointless movie. Now, am I recommending it? I will leave that to your own discretion. My enjoyment may have been induced by the incredible crescent moon, the warm summer night, the relief from the seriousness of late, the joy of hanging out with my kids and the fact that I am still slightly warped from my own teenage years. Anyway, if you're still with me, I hope you will come back again. You never know what might show up here. In the meantime if you care to share your own entertainment indulgences, feel free! Peace.

p.s. we also had a little fun with "photobooth"

exhausting inauthenticity

The most exhausting thing you can do is to be inauthentic.

--Anne Morrow Lindburgh

Earlier today while looking for something else, I ran across the above quote. In my haste, I popped it into a post so as not to forget it or lose its source as I have been known to do. In the meantime, Tess in her infinite wisdom came along with a comment of her own which stirred me to think even more deeply about the exhaustion of inauthenticity.

Regular readers may have noticed that I have been away from the blog for several days and prior to that my posts (while very meaningful to me) were not from my own pen. Oddly enough it is not that I have not been writing. In fact, I have been quite prolific in my journals and my life continues to be one grand adventure after another. (Others might or might not agree with the "grandness" but then it's all in how you look at things, isn't it?)

So, what does all of this have to do with inauthenticity? Well, for some reason, I have been censoring myself and I am becoming more and more agitated by it. I am bursting at the seams with thoughts, emotions and feelings galore, but I keep putting a lid on them. And for those of you who read here often or know me personally, well... you know that is just not like me!! Thus comes the exhaustion. It is exhausting holding back all of this emotion!!

I have been searching out other ways to exhaust the emotion and have found some very fine ways indeed. Dynamic meditation. NIA. Walking. Talking. But, I have come to realize that nothing satisfies quite like putting pen to paper and then transposing it onto this blog where others can muse and ponder and possibly relate to what I have written. I have discovered that writing from the heart is a huge part of my authenticity.

So, now I feel a little better because I have at least written about holding back, but the holding back is still there. So, where is the balance between being too candid and risking living in inauthenticity? Joy is me. Grand adventures are me. Writing is me. Honesty is me. Compassion is me. Censorship & inauthenticity are not me!

So, do you ever experience those feelings of censorship? Where does inauthenticity enter your life? Do you hold back to try and avoid misinterpretation or judgment even when it comes from an authentic place? I would love to hear what you have to say!