Excerpt

The Limbo Of Letting Go

I am up in the middle of the night, urged out of bed by a phrase that popped into my head- the limbo of letting go- and now this phrase has me wide awake. I can see an old broom in my mind and can see myself going lower and lower as I struggle to get underneath the broom. Is this not what our journey through life is about?

Society tells us that we must leap over the worldly hurdles of life, vaulting our way to success, but I have found the opposite to be true. God has seen to it that I have learned more by going lower than I ever have by going higher. The ego is hell-bent on leaping higher, but what does it know?

Of course the word limbo also means being in a state of uncertainty, which is where faith is born. One needs no faith in the sun when it is out; only in the darkness do we need faith in the light. Letting go of certainty is a wisdom we are loathe to practice.

If I told you that losing a child to cancer brought me so low that I found God, you would have no trouble believing me. If I told you that it made me no happier, would you believe that, too? God is not about making you happy. He is about making you whole. That He would do whatever it takes for this to happen is the cosmic joke and the final truth.

Wholeness ultimately is the happiest place to be, but we struggle with this for years and years. At least I did. You see, wholeness means that you must reconcile your abject cowardice with your most magnificent courage. You must balance your weak points with your God-given talents, limboing under the broom of the opposites.

When I see someone doing the limbo in my mind’s eye, there is usually a crowd of onlookers clapping and cheering as you see how low can you go. Does this not parallel humility in the face of our daily challenges? Water seeks the lowest spot and we are the ocean.

Cancer has been a dominant theme in my life. Not mine, but my daughter’s, who got it at the age of three and now my husband’s. I have seen God holding out the broom and telling me to go lower on many different occasions. There was no clapping crowd, just me and an old broom of crisis. Can you go under chemo, surgery and radiation? How about death, grief and living in the absence of a beloved child? Go lower. Let go. Limbo lower now.

Letting go is easy when you realize that God is holding the broom, when you see that the God within is up to the challenge that letting go requires. For limbo is not forever, although it may seem that way.

I think that letting go requires only one thing, wholeness. And I am going to tell you how to get there immediately. Choose it. Choose heart over head, humility over height, and you will be healed by a higher power than the mind.

Hannah Hurnard wrote a spiritual classic called Hinds’ Feet On High Places. It is about the journey of a character called Little Much Afraid. She sets out on the journey to the high places, called by The Good Shepherd. Only He doesn’t seem so good to her when He asks that she learn to give love instead of seek it from others. He seems willing to sacrifice her very life for Him. But she begins her journey. He tells her to hold the hands of Sorrow and Suffering, two mysterious women who will help her on the journey.

When Little Much Afraid gets to the High Places, she has been promised a new name and that spurs her on. Ultimately after many challenges she reaches them, only to find that she must cast herself down from the very heights that she has taken such trouble to ascend. She must limbo lower now, as the musical phrase commands.

Of course, she finds that in going lower, she fulfills the purpose of her life- to serve instead of seek the high places. It is a journey of paradox and purpose. It is our journey. When will we go lower by own choice and not have it forced from us?

I am not talking about humiliation; I am talking about humility. Isn’t letting go a form of humility? And yes, we will be forced to do what we do not choose consciously. That is how the game of life is played.

Maurice Nicoll, author of Psychological Commentaries On The Teaching of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, was a great believer in willingness. He said if you go to something willingly, you win. Choose to go lower, instead of higher. The mysterious limbo broom can heal you of unseen arrogance and many other negativities.

Often God only talks to us when He gets us so low that we are willing to listen. Cancer often brings us to this point, as do many other life-threatening situations. Will we have the faith to live in limbo, letting go and going lower? Because God never breaks a promise to His children. “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” (Job 13:15).

Victory is assured when we choose humility over the ego’s height. You can’t think your way into wholeness; you will be broken in the attempt. Schizophrenic thinking was never meant to heal a broken heart.

These days my heart is being challenged by cancer for the second time in my life. I am honoring the old broom of limbo. Will the battle against cancer be won or lost? That is a wrong question and I am going to suggest a right one. Will the limbo take me lower than I want to go? Of course, it always does, but I know Who is holding the broom.

Read more about LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT: That’s How The Light Gets In and Vicki Woodyard HERE.

Copyright 2010 Vicki Woodyard. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

It was getting late, and Lyndsey and Emily wanted to go back into the water.  I told them it was fine and I made my way to the edge of the water to watch. They had their boogie boards and they began to ride the waves. I noticed they were getting a little far out, and I told them to come back closer to me.

As I watched them make their way back, I heard someone yelling. I looked around, and saw two women leaning over the edge of the pier, waving their hands and shouting.

It became obvious they were directing their words and motions at me. With the pounding waves, their words were muffled, but the parts I heard sent chills down my back. In broken up pieces, I heard the words, “…girls….out….water…Sharks.”

I began to holler and wave my hands at the girls. I could not see the danger they were in, but someone looking down from above could clearly see two sharks swimming in the vicinity of the girls.

Lyndsey caught my eye and I began to scream, “Get out of the water!” She did not know what was wrong, but I am sure she saw the terror in my eyes. She grabbed Emily and they made their way to the beach.

The women gave me a thumbs up and I nodded and tried to yell, “Thank you.” But all I wanted to do was hold my girls and not let them go. I was shaking as I imagined what could have happened.

We found out later the sharks were pretty bad all week, especially around the pier. The sharks were feeding off the cut fish the fishermen on the pier were throwing back into the water. How ironic. We thought we had found sanctuary in the shade of the pier, but ultimately found danger.

I know God had guardian angels watching over Lyndsey and Emily that day. I am reminded once more how much He cares for His own. No matter what danger or compromising situation we put ourselves in or find ourselves in, He is there watching over us. He is our Protector and Defender.

Read more about Buckets Full of Treasure and Michelle Sink HERE.

Copyright 2010 Michelle Sink. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Once in a while you happen upon a place where out of the blue you feel a peculiar sense of belonging.  It’s a place that somehow mystifies you, a place that keeps calling you back.  My friend Rich says you know when you’ve found such a place because your feet will stop itching.  Rich was right, The 270-mile Long Trail in Vermont became one of these places in my life. At home, after an initial scattering of hikes on the Long Trail, my feet indeed began to “itch.” I was caught unawares. While I ironed clothes, I found myself walking amidst the velvety balsams on Glastenbury Mountain. A tall, cold glass of water became the trickle that clenched my thirst at a spring run-off. The stars seen from my bedroom window in the dead of a black night were the stars I saw from my tiny tent nestled deep in the woods. To my astonishment, this trail did more than call me back-”it grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go.

In the beginning I fell in love with the idea of hiking the Long Trail, never having actually been on it. The closest I probably came was cruising over it in Jonesville on Interstate 89 on the way to Burlington from my home in New Hampshire. My first real glimpse of the trail was on a Vermont state map that I had picked up at a highway rest stop. I noticed a central, red-dotted line running vertically along the entire length of the map and was greatly intrigued. Later I acquired the Green Mountain Club’s Long Trail Guide and, upon seeing the detailed topographic maps, quickly became obsessed with this intriguing, continuous footpath that spanned from one end of Vermont to the other.

I had always been a woodswalker, but it wasn’t until I was in my 30′s that I started getting into backpacking-”meaning lugging some degree of home sweet home on one’s back for days or weeks at a stretch. During that time I was absorbed in a fledging homestead venture and still tangled up in parenthood, so my hiking pursuits had primarily been in the area of New Hampshire’s Cardigan Mountain which sweeps up directly behind my cabin. Being just a “country mile” from the Connecticut River-”our threshold to Vermont-” I figured the Long Trail could expand my tramping horizons nicely.

One morning in early spring after the root crops were planted, I bushwhacked from my cabin up to Mount Cardigan, followed by my four-year-old boy and his dog Sparky. Atop the granite summit of Old Baldy (as she is fondly known), I combed out the mountains to the northwest with a pair of binoculars. On this clear, cold morning I located Camel’s Hump, its discernable summit peeking out amidst the many mountain ranges that lay between us.

“That there is Camel’s Hump,” I said to my son, who was swinging himself around one of the metal legs of the fire tower that is perched on Cardigan.

The youngster, now interrupted from the dream state of his whimsical whirling, stopped himself. “What’s over there, Mom?”

I poured a cup of coffee from my Thermos. “The Long Trail,” I replied. The steam from the piping hot coffee spiraled into the air and momentarily clouded my face as I took a sip. “We’re going to hike the Long Trail.”

“OK, Mom,” the youngster replied, having no idea what I was talking about, and then went back to swinging himself in circles.

Since that chilly morning atop Mount Cardigan, I have put over a thousand Green Mountain miles under my belt, or should I say, under the soles of several pairs of worn-out hiking boots. In 1991 I began an end-to-end hike of the Long Trail with the four-year-old and his dog; sporadically bouncing all over the map with whatever scarce and precious time afforded us. I was promptly stunned by the austerity and isolation of parts of the trail and how the weather in the Green Mountains could quickly become unforgiving. To me, a footpath had been defined as a manicured walkway. There were sections of the Long Trail that cured me of that perception damn fast. But despite the blood, sweat, and tears that were sometimes required by the trail, I could not stay away. I had caught a permanent case of “white blaze fever,” a term coined for those souls who become possessed by following the 2 x 6-inch paint splotches that embellish the trails and keep you on track. There is no cure for the fever.

My son and I hiked under the trail names of Woodswoman and Gnatcatcher. Once home from these early, brief expeditions, I recorded every step in my journal and anxiously planned the next escapement. Even though sometimes it felt like more driving than hiking, I was hooked. For years it seemed my existence was a balancing act between backpacking and homesteading. Both drew me like a magnet and the priorities of each collided constantly. Because we did quite a few overlaps due to travel time constraints, the first, official completion of the Long Trail would span seven years.

Five years into the boy’s and my venture, I had a brainstorm that involved the better portion of my siblings: five sisters committing to a few days each year to hike the entirety of the Long Trail beginning at the southern terminus. To my delight, my four younger sisters took to the white blazes like flies to a cold hamburger. They adopted the trail names of (youngest to oldest) Boonie, Two-Cuppa, Buffie, and Trailblazer. The two end-to-end hikes overlapped for a couple of years, thus the boy and I would revel in the gusty winds atop Jay Peak as we got closer to Canada, and a few weeks later I would be soaking in the views with the sisters atop the Glastenbury fire tower.

Shortly after the millennium’s passing, I had my own, personal Y2K event. It started with a newly-published book titled Forest Under My Fingernails. The author, Walter McLaughlin, had written a comprehensive and wonderfully woodsy account of his thru-hike of the Long Trail. Wow, a thru-hike! Jeesh, would I love to… No, impossible. The gardens, the fruit tree schedules, the appointments, the bills- On top of all that, what kid is going to want to spend a month in the woods with his mother? No, the complete one-month abandonment of farm and family would be impossible.

But the obsession to walk the entire length of the Green Mountain State in one shot wouldn’t lose its grip. After watching Lynne Wheldon’s video, 27 Days, about a Long Trail thru-hike undertaken by four senior backpackers, I was completely seized. During the height of a very productive garden and orchard season, I abandoned it all, threw three packs together, and hit the Long Trail for a solid month with a budding teenager and his dog. (Yep, if the mutt was going to bark the bark, he was going to walk the walk with packs also.) This month-long journey through the woods with my son was a phenomenal experience.

Four years after the 2000 thru-hike, parenting had loosened its grip. I had steadily regained a good degree of my independence, and this recaptured freedom was a delight. No empty nest syndrome here. I had turned 50 and my priorities were shifting fast. It was time to welcome what the last 800 or so miles in the Vermont woods had physically and mentally prepared me for: a solo hike of the Long Trail.

This book is the culmination of all those separate walks. I had a choice of sequencing it chronologically or starting at the southern terminus and following the trail successively to the Canadian border. I decided that as a sketch of the Long Trail, it made the most sense to adopt the latter approach. Each chapter is written from the point of view of when that particular hike was taken. Each chapter is therefore not only a description of that segment of the Long Trail, but is also a snapshot in time of my fruition as a hiker and a person. Throughout the narrative of this incredible “footpath in the wilderness,” the reader can chuckle at my naive beginnings and possibly appreciate not so much how much wisdom I gained by the end, but how hard earned whatever I gained was.

At home, collecting books is my mania and reading them is my entertainment. When I wasn’t actually on the trail, I found that I got a tremendous amount of enjoyment collecting and reading books about the Long Trail and the history of the Green Mountains. As I began writing my account of the Long Trail, I couldn’t resist throwing in snippets from my reading. I hope you will enjoy this sprinkling of lore and the accounts of trail blazers and woods trampers from days long past.

Thanks for sharing my journey.

Read more about Scraped Knees and Mac N’ Cheese, One Woman’s Journey of a Thousand Miles on the Vermont Long Trail and Sandi Pierson HERE.

Copyright 2010 Sandi Pierson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

from Chapter One – Ghostland

None of the ghosts are visible from the air.

You bump into them later, well after the approach by air to the greenest island in the North Atlantic, its fields bordered by trees and hedgerows and the occasional herd of cows or sheep.

Then you see the coastline, with jagged edges and sudden drops even more dramatic than England’s, as rugged as Scotland’s, and you begin to understand. You won’t be claiming any land here, Traveler. With a primal power, the land will be claiming you.

You touch down, but even before the brilliantly fresh Northern air reaches you, Northern voices do, ringing with tones influenced by centuries of Scots immigrating to the Northern counties of Ireland.

By the time I first arrived in Northern Ireland in September 2000, the Troubles had officially ended. The Good Friday Agreement had been signed two and a half years earlier in April 1998. The IRA was holding its ceasefire for the most part. A power-sharing coalition government had been installed in the Belfast Parliament building at Stormont, and was up and functioning.

All (mostly) quiet on the western front, except that peace being so new, it was still a bit hard to believe, to first-time travelers and Northerners alike.

A buzzer rang out loudly in the airport as my fellow passengers and I waited for our luggage to appear on the carousel, and I wasn’t the only one who froze and glanced nervously at the security guards.

Now that I was actually in Northern Ireland, I feared bombs, and bullets. Seven years in Los Angeles had taught me some familiarity with gangs, street violence and police helicopters hovering overhead. But at least the Northern Irish admitted to having a problem. Peacefulness was not what I’d been expecting: the way everyone had frozen at the loud buzzer, more like.

That had turned out to only be the signal that the luggage was about to be sent round on the carousel, which is why the security men didn’t even blink at it, though they were plainly in sight, watchful and aware.

It’s peaceful here now, I reminded myself. Perfectly fine, no reason to worry. Looks quite pleasant.

The politicians, the peacemakers, had finally worked it out so those Northerners who called themselves British and those who called themselves Irish could co-exist in peace, without people being shot or blown up to prove who really owned the land. Of course, no one thought about where to store the ghosts, but that bit comes in later. The day I arrived, the Northern sun was hiding behind dark clouds, creating a diffused light that left a strange glow around people and objects. Behind the clouds the sky was a strange, smoky blue I’d never seen before. Inside the once great linenmaking, shipbuilding city of Belfast, I watched the grand Victorian colleges, pubs and banks, interspersed with Euro-modern buildings, fl y past the cab window. Quiet and normalcy everywhere I looked.

So what was all the armed fuss about? I thought easily.

Then a small but definite click sounded from somewhere inside the cab, and the driver started nervously.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I dunno,” I shrugged, hoping my American accent would reassure him. The fact that Yanks are universally considered to be clueless can come in handy at times. And we are all Yanks to Europeans, regardless of what region of America we hail from. The cabby commented on a car going past whose driver was leaning on its horn.

“Oh, they do that in L.A. too,” I said cheerfully, “only they do it a lot more often.”

He chuckled and seemed to relax. I knew from my news reading prior to the trip that for years, cabbies were routinely shot in sectarian attacks. Most taxi firms hired either exclusively Protestant or Catholic drivers, so that the shooter was assured the right hit, usually made in retaliation for a killing by the other side.

We drove to the friend of a friend’s house where I’d be staying, in a leafy suburb south of the city. My plane had been hours late, and Anne came out of the house to greet me as soon as she saw me getting out of the cab, hugging me with relief and joking that she’d been hoping I hadn’t accidentally flown to Belfast, Maine. Jetlagged, my system was also in shock from taking in the bright clean County Antrim air after years of Los Angeles soot. I was also dazed by the grassy beauty of the surrounding hills.

Decades of bad press, unreal natural beauty, locals who actually like Americans.

What sort of a country is this? I wondered.

Before I drifted off to sleep that first night under a large down quilt, part of the comfort of Anne’s tastefully decorated new home, I remembered the first time I’d flown on my own. I was twenty-one and headed for London, from where I took the train to Oxford to live with an English family and study at a nearby college for a term. I felt the same sort of idealism upon arriving in Northern Ireland as I had years before in England, when I’d closed my eyes that first night in England, and the image of bright white clouds against brilliant blue outside the airplane window had come up again, vivid and reassuring, as if to tell me that I was more coming toward home than away from it.

A quiet September breeze rustled a few leaves outside the window, mixing with my mind’s recording of Northern voices. Then I remembered the cabby, and tears came up suddenly. I recognized his skittish reaction as something I understood. Here was someone who’d grown up afraid.

By morning the sunlight was pouring in the large windows, and my Yankee Writer Abroad adventure had officially begun. I began looking in the local paper for a place to live, at the moment losing all interest in feeling sad for the Northern Irish, who lived in this stunning green place and grew up sounding so brilliantly musical while we Yanks only whined and droned in comparison. I took a bus into the city centre, where even more surprises lay in store.

For one, whenever I rang a place to ask about accommodation, I was told I would have to move quickly. “The students are returning soon now, so they are.” By the fifth time of hearing this I wanted to reply, “Yes, yes, students! Lots of them!” I hadn’t realized Belfast was so full of college kids, though a friend in L.A., the playwright and screenwriter Patricia Mahon, had told me before I’d left that she’d liked Belfast, and that it was a college town. “I remember a stop in Belfast on the way up to Coleraine and Portrush from Trinity College back in the 1980s,” she told me once.

Trish had been surprised to find Belfast clean and modern. “It had a youthful energy about it that was far different from the poverty and the protests being reported back in New York. When we crossed the border, the roads suddenly got better and the shops were brighter. Things seemed calm, aside from the infectious energy of the place. Regardless of what was afflicting Belfast, she didn’t show it. Life moved on and did so quite beautifully.”

I had to agree that the town felt full of youthful optimism. The most prominent college was Queen’s University, whose neo-Gothic structures sat among spacious lawns and gardens facing the University Road. On seeing its stately beauty, I was relieved that it had survived the thirty-year firestorm well intact.

Within a few days, I’d rented a room at the top of a renovated, four-story Victorian row house in a south Belfast neighborhood near Queen’s University. I was sent off to see the property simply with directions and a key from the landlord – not a good sign, I knew, but I was too charmed by this new country to care. I walked through the city centre under the light blue skies, through the main shopping center full of kids, mums and office workers, the large proud face of City Hall rising straight ahead as soon as I turned up Royal Avenue.

The landmark building fills the center of Donegal Square, predominating the city centre. It is close in architectural style to an American capital building, but pledges itself to Britain via the Union Jack flying high above it, and a large stone figure of Queen Victoria standing squarely before it. Not that any of the teenagers lounging and chatting on the lawns around her ever give her much notice. I carried on through the Square and further out, onto the Dublin Road, past pubs and restaurants, neon-signed pizza places and a multiplex cinema, then further south to Botanic Avenue near Queen’s University, lined with Euro-mod cafés and shops, then east to the Ormeau Road and into south Belfast. I found the house on a quiet tree-lined street off the Ormeau Road and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a young man in his early twenties, the only lodger living there so far. He had the common Northern combination of blue eyes under straight dark brows, fine features and dark hair. Even more distractingly, he seemed familiar, in that strange way that you recognize a stranger though you can’t place where from. A sort of reverse ghost, I thought later.

The room was on the fourth floor, medium-sized with a bed, bureau dresser and small sink, wide-planked wooden floors and a low rent of £140 ($200) a month. But it was the skylight on the slanted ceiling that won me over.

The next day I dragged my large suitcase up to my fourth floor room and settled in, still feeling a bit strange and unsure about this new place, but liking it. I spent the next few weeks wandering the town in search of art galleries, bookshops, writers’ groups, interesting pubs, asking small questions of the citizens and delighting in the fact that bizarrely, nobody minded my Americanness.

The reaction to my accent was invariably a smile, and if they had time to ask, “Where ’bouts yew frum in the Stee-ayts?” as if I was a long lost cousin who’d finally decided to visit after all. In the weeks before I needed to find a part-time job – as no one was financing this little venture but me – I took time to explore the town, to pretend to paint with watercolors, and to write, the last proving harder than it sounds due to the noise in the house.

Within a few weeks I found I was living with six joyfully loud, messy university students – three women and one “fella,” as the Irish say – who took me under their wings, foreign and old (over thirty) that I was. Their noisiness alone could have sunk the Titanic. But their friendships became irreplaceable. Though I could never keep up with their drinking and late nights, I was consistently impressed with their clever humor, their fashion sense, their intelligence, their knowledge of every new technological gadget under the sun, and their willingness to share their culture and ideas with anyone wanting to hear.

My new friends’ dialects eluded me at first, but they were patient with my attempts at learning the language. Proper names also took some practice: my housemates Caoimhe [pron. KEEV-ah], Tara, Alannah, and Aidan would mention names that had me stumped when I saw them spelled out: the town of Craigavon [pron. Craig-AH-von] for one, or girls’ names such as Niamh [pron. NEE-iv] or Roisin [pron. Roh-SHEEN].

I soon learned that Northern speech has been heavily politicized over the centuries. In writing the Good Friday peace agreement, the pro-British unionist parties required that the Ulster Scots dialect be designated an official language in Northern Ireland alongside English and the language of the South of Ireland – and of the Irish republican movement – Irish Gaelic.

Of course none of this helps the newcomer decipher what the hell these people are saying. Some local phrases are easy: “Oh that’s clahss, that is!” is a compliment. “Goin’ fer a jar,” is going out for a drink. Others I had to learn in context. “Great craic,” an Irish word [pron. like "crack"], is “great fun.” “He’s only jest ah-fter” doing something is “He’s just now come back” from doing it. “Yer mahn” didn’t signify ownership of a particular man, but simply “that guy over there.” Another ubiquitous phrase is “so it is” or “so I did,” tacked on to the end of a sentence to reaffirm whatever the speaker’s just stated. Occasionally I noticed, when I didn’t end a sentence with “so it is,” the other person would add it for me.

It had been seven years since I’d last lived in London, and I was out of practice with even basic UK slang at first. When I mentioned to Aidan and his friend Joe one day, “We need to get a scrubber for the kitchen,” they smiled happily.

“Could we get one for my room, too?” Joe asked, “scrubber” being slang for “prostitute.” (The confusion doesn’t finish itself in a few months’ time, either. One day – after I’d lived in Belfast no less than three times – I only just stopped myself from innocently asking a male friend “So how’s your little man?” meaning his young son.

Though that is not unheard of, I’m positive that he’d have had a plenty good laugh on me for that, taking it that I’d just inquired after the health of his “whatsit” as the English used to say.)

Not to be attempted till you get a feel for the place, Traveler, but when yer ready like, if there’s one thing you want the upper hand on in Belfast, it’s the “slaggin’,” the contest of making fun of the other fella before his or her wit can sting you. The women may show some mercy here, the men never do.

So quick a job it is too, that you may not even know you’ve been stung at first, till you realize a new King Wit sits at the head of the table, smiling down upon ye. So keep your wit rapier sharp and at the ready when out for the evening, at least till everyone’s reflexes are dulled by drink. And don’t be handing anybody any free gifts like “little man.”

My confusion only got worse before it got better. Squinting with befuddlement, I would ask people to repeat themselves, to which they would only say the same thing more loudly. Then I began to hear something not at all foreign, mirrored back to me from across the centuries, some of it almost Shakespearean.

As it was settled by Scottish-Irish frontier folk, the Appalachian mountain region is full of much the same dialect as found in the North, preserved from the eighteenth century, recognizable even to Americans who have never traveled to Tennessee or Kentucky. In the North, as in parts of America, “your” is “yer,” “can” is “kin,” “hair” is “harr,” “poor” is “per,” “day” is “deeay” and “yes” is “Oh, aye!”

And never mind our straight down-to-business U.S. modernisms; the American “OK – I’m headin’ out now,” would in Belfast be, “Ahll the bay-est, people!” or “I’m awaey hoome now, so I ahm.” I checked my watch. Yes, still the twenty-first century. But somehow, amid all the noise, pollution and gadgetry of modern life, the Northern Irish had saved the poetry in their speech.

Northern names brought even more confusion. Catholic names, as they’re called in the North, are often traditional Irish (Gaelic) ones, many of which were foreign to me. But spoken in the local accent, even the Anglo-Protestant names eluded me. So at first I mistook Jane for Jean, Aislinn [pron. Ash-LEEN] for Ashley, Cormac [pron. CORR-mack] as Cormick mispronounced, Padraig [pron. PARR-ick] as Patrick spelled oddly, and so on.

My own name was rebirthed as CARR-Line. Hearing this for the first time had a strange effect on me. I felt as if I’d been let in through a low wooden door in a high stone wall, into an enclosed garden, out of the shallow tentativeness of modern travel and into some elusive Narnian country I had only read or dreamt about. From this sacred place I had many questions to ask.

I wanted to stop every other person on the street and ask, How did you make it through the Troubles? Tell me what happened to you. In fact I never raised the issue even with the people I lived with, out of fear someone might look at me as if I were the most intrusively ignorant Yank they’d ever met – quite a distinction considering the American reputation. But if some comment about the Troubles surfaced in conversation, I listened eagerly. I noticed that this information was almost always volunteered by a man, while one of the women invariably asked tensely, “Can we talk about something else?”

In time I would have questions about things that last far longer than war – Northern Irish myth, legend, music, poetry, community and family. Including how the Irish/Ulster Scots had preserved some of their ancient and medieval traditions as effortlessly as any people I’d ever seen who’d managed not to be wiped out or rewritten by a colonizing force. But for now, I was too distracted by the thought of the recently ended Troubles, the larger themes of which played quietly in the background.

Copyright 2010 Caroline Oceana Ryan. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

RuPaul and The Mannequin
April 13, 2005

Afternoon
“You sure you wouldn’t like some wine, Derek?”

“No, thanks.”

My client is enjoying herself. She’s invited three of her friends for an afternoon of
psychic readings at her clothing boutique in Honolulu. Dresses, purses, jewelry, and
shoes are all tastefully displayed. A little cheese tray has been laid out, along with some
nuts and olives. It’s a quiet Saturday and, though the store is open, no customers have
come in. I have the sense she owns the business to outfit her friends more than anyone
else.

For the last two hours, the women have listened in on each other’s readings. I’ve kept
the psychic insights light and fun. These women keep no secrets from one another;
they’ve had fun watching me pick up on each other’s personality traits and little secrets.

After the last reading, one of the women asked, “Derek, how do you get your
information?”

“I interpret information from my imagination. I let myself play, and go wherever my
intuition guides me. Sometimes answers come from the walls or the things in the room.
I’ll allow the ‘real’ physical world around me to morph into an imaginary dreamscape. A
kind of waking dream emerges, an alternate reality that I give the same credence as the
conscious reality you and I know.

“For example, you see that gecko brooch there?” All eyes move to a colorful brooch
made with rubies and other gemstones. “Gecko’s have a definitive stare. When they look
at you, they draw you into trance with one eye. Have you noticed how they do that? The
next time a gecko stares at you, try mentally entering the eye to see what it is saying.
This one says to me, ‘I have a dream for you! I will share some of my talent with you!’
I’m not quite sure what this means. Well, actually, maybe I do know. Lizards are the
keepers of dreams. I think he’s saying I will have a psychic dream. Maybe that he will
come to me in a dream. Or that a dream of mine will have some correspondence in
reality.”

The ladies all stare at me blankly. Derek, your example is too abstract. Not everyone
understands your psychic language.

“You have to think like a child to capture psychic insight. When you were all kids, you
no doubt played with dolls. You briefly lived in an alternate reality. It was real to you.
Well, if you were to ask a doll for psychic information, then carry on a conversation with
that doll in your imagination, the doll would probably give you psychic information.”

The ladies still gaze at me blankly.

I continue, “See this white mannequin over here with the oriental dress? In my
imagination, she’s raising her finger to me. She says, ‘I have something to say!’ Her voice
is quite firm in my mind. She reminds me of that drag performing artist, Rupaul. Do you
know her?” They all burst out laughing. They do know her. Rupaul is an actor, model,
and songwriter, an iconic gender-bender, and race-bender. He’s black, but performs as
more of a blond white woman.

“It’s funny,” I say.”I know it makes no sense, and is strange, but you have to accept it
regardless, and assume there’s something psychic about it. She wants to say something
to you, Arlette.”

“Me?”

“I’ll interpret what I see her saying and doing. She’s flashing wide, white eyes. She is
presenting herself to me as a black woman, but made up blonde, like she’s trying to be
white. She’s standing on the coffee table, really confidently. She’s wagging her finger at
you, saying, “Girlfriend! Why are you letting your so called boyfriend run the show? If
he’s so bad, as you like to say, why don’t you leave him?”

The women all laugh. One says, “She has you pegged, Arlette.”

“The psychic dreamscape is fun to explore. The characters we meet there are clever.
Let’s break the symbols down a bit. This model, or mannequin, appears African
American to me. Why? To me, a black woman, as an archetype, represents strength and
the quest for equality. That’s why she’s speaking to you about owning your power. Drag
queens are another archetype. They live their lives on their own terms, nobody else’s.
They don’t care what people think and often make decisions that defy social norms or
conventions.” I say this to Arlette as if it might apply to her.

She smiles knowingly back at me and says,”It’s so amazing, how that message applies
to me.” The two other women exchange looks of disbelief. “I’ll say,” the owner of the
store says, but apparently for a different reason. “This is so freaky, Derek.”

“Why?” I ask.

“The other day, we painted that mannequin white. I didn’t think that outfit looked right
on her with her natural dark coloring. Underneath, she’s really a black mannequin.”

Read more about Can You Turn It Off? and Derek Calibre HERE.

Copyright 2010 Derek Calibre. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

MC: If I gave you God’s phone number, what would you do with it?

JT: Well, I’d have to call. Partly it would be curiosity. But another part would be the idea of hooking up to some natural voice speaking in English for the God Energy. There is this thing about God Energy. We’re swimming in it. It’s swimming in us. I’d have to see if I could really talk with this.

MC: What do you think you would say?

JT: Hmm… [pause] …That would depend on when you asked me. If you asked me today “this may be too mundane” but I would want to ask God why so much of our lives, my life, are ruled by money. I do five different things for a living, and the ones that I do the very best are the ones I don’t get to do often enough and don’t get to make enough money doing. I’ve been asking this God Energy this question a lot of times. The last couple of days I’ve been painting the roof of a barn. I make my own hours and all that, but it’s not what I do. It’s not who I am. I want an answer to that question.

MC: If this God Energy gave you an answer, what do you think that answer might be?

You know…I guess the answer’s pretty obvious. It would be: “Hey, I didn’t design it that way. Other people did that, and I may be able to tell you how it’s going to turn out, but this is your trip. You’ve got to do this. You’ve got to figure it out.”

I guess that’s always true. But it’s strange to me that there are so many great poets walking around on the Earth, and only some are making a living. There are so many that are struggling so hard. Yet the number-one-grossing business in this country is weaponry. There’s something there that’s really out of whack.

MC: Would you want to ask God about this?

JT: I wouldn’t ask God why it is that weapons are such a popular business. I know that that’s not God’s doing. I think I know the answer, it is that profit is more important to this culture than God.

A whole culture can be based on profit because people are unhappy. Somehow they think that attaining more will change that and make them happier. Maybe I would ask God what could I do about it. But I don’t know. [Deep sigh]

I could do what the Berrigans did and go into weapons plants and destroy those guns and get thrown into jail. I don’t know if that would answer anything. I really honor them for having done that, but I don’t know if that changes things.

I can try to find time and space to make more art. I do think that a person making a poem, speaking it out loud, even if it’s in their bedroom and nobody else is around, is a very healing thing. I think it’s a very mystical thing.

There is an energy to speaking our poetry, really Speaking with a capital S. I think we have to ask ourselves what is this stuff, this energy, and also really revel in the mystery of what that is.

MC: Is this what you call the God Energy, this stuff that you are talking about?

JT: I think it is. This spirit is in everything. It’s in you. It’s in the bricks. It’s in the trees. And it’s so much more that that. And yet, I really get tongue-tied at this point because it’s…[pause] …this Being, the Big Being is all around, and we’re in it.
When we get caught up in the daily struggle of paying bills, it’s real easy to lose track of that. To not recognize that you’re eating miracles all the time.

So I have a mixed feeling about someone’s saying, “Here’s God’s number, you can just call up.” On one hand I feel like I’m already right there in the middle of it. I should be able to get all the answers. They are internalized. They’re here.

And then again, there’s a part of me that says, “Yeah, I want to not only get the phone number, I want the address, fax number…email. I want to look into this face and see the face that’s behind the face.”

So many times in my life I’ve wanted to see that face in a really joyful way. I’m doing some great dance, and I really want to be grateful about it. Then there’re times when “I’ve been there a bit lately” I want to see this face because I just want to say, “Come on, you know, what is this? Give me a break and make it clear!”

MC: You’re talking about being in the throes of the trials and tribulations of our human existence…I really wonder if having such a number would make our trials any easier. I don’t know.

JT: Well, I think the big mistake that’s been made about God in so many church philosophies is that they think they understand God. They think they know what and who God is and what God looks like. And I think that’s a big mistake right there.
We’re not supposed to get this. It’s supposed to be a mystery. And the fact is that it’s the mystery that I really love. I really love the fact that we can spend all of our lifetimes trying to figure this out and put a name on it. And it can’t be done. At some point, when we see the real vision, there’s just no way it could be explained in human terms. No name would make it. No words could describe it.

It might actually be that if we dialed the phone number, the top of our heads would completely explode!

Copyright 2010 Mare Cromwell. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

From Week 1

Choosing the Creative Life

How our personal creativity manifests itself depends on how you choose to engage life. For example, my ability to express ideas will be manifested one way when I’m writing a book, yet quite another way when I’m working with a client to obtain a better, more satisfying business or to take that business to new heights.

Before taking the first step, I suggest you spend time examining how and where your life is blocked. Find where your natural inclinations have taken you in the past. What sort of activities feel easiest for you?

There is a perverse idea in our society that if something comes easily for us, it’s not important. Hogwash! What comes easily for us is precisely what we’re best equipped to develop! Focus on those talents, skills, and insights, and you’ll create a life that’s great to the last second.

Never discount that which comes easiest to you.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t work on your weaknesses. Develop your strengths. Maximize what you’re best at, and the creative life will unfold as if it were your true destiny.

Because it IS your destiny.

Copyright 2008 Michael Knowles. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

I once started a job as an office assistant on a Monday.  I was so happy to get that little job that I cooked rice-and-beans for my entire building just so that I could celebrate. My boss, Ti-mama referred to me as Miss America. Since I didn’t know what to make of it–was it a compliment or an attack?””I just smiled. As I was being given the office tour, I overheard two women trying to predict how long my stay on the job would be.  “I say four days,” said one woman.  “No, I say one week,” responded the other. “Are you sure?” said the first woman. “Well the last four girls lasted only three days each,” said the second woman.
“No, she won’t last because she started on the wrong day. Ti-mama hates Mondays.”  Laughed the receptionist.
Their comments didn’t sit so well with me, but, since I really needed the job, I prepared a strategy. When I found out that I would be sharing an office with Ti-mama, I nearly fainted. Ti-mama’s office was freezing cold, and she had a fan on her desk to circulate all the cold air. The office was so cold I had to wear a sweater. Maybe the girls that had up and quit had done so because of the artic weather!
Ti-mama’s eyes never made contact with mine the entire day, and she didn’t say a word to me about what I should be doing.  Every time our eyes met, she would simply turn away. When I would ask her for something to do, she’d ignore me. I had to find my own work to do to keep from dying of boredom. All she did the whole day long was eat.  Not only did Ti-mama keep piles of food on her desk, she kept food inside the files, on top of the filing cabinets””everywhere you looked there was junk food. I tried not to let it bother me, as I considered Ti-mama’s eating habits to be her own business.
At four-fifty p.m. on the first day, Ti-mama handed me a pile of work to do. “This has to be done before you leave,” she ordered, even though she knew I had to leave at five, as I had classes in the evening. However, I was so happy to finally feel needed and be recognized as an employee, that I went ahead and worked until eleven o’clock just to establish a good rapport. I figured that since Ti-mama doesn’t like Mondays, maybe she’ll treat me better on Tuesday. The following day, though, she pulled the same trick on me. Okay, I figured maybe she doesn’t like Tuesday either, since it’s so close to Monday. But on Wednesday, she again did the same thing.  I could see I was in big trouble.
In spite of all those problems, I did really like the job and needed the experience, so for a few days I acquiesced to Ti-mama’s lack of consideration. As each day went by, Ti-mama seemed to get more ornery.  Finally, it was Friday””I had broken the record for staying an entire week on the job. By week’s end, however, I figured I needed to formulate a strategy for keeping my job.  I was not going to just quit the job, as I was sure Ti-mama would love that.
I had noticed the other workers were very hostile toward Ti-mama. They would talk behind her back, laugh at her, and leave her to have her lunch alone rather than invite her to join them. All of this treatment would cause her to become highly agitated and defensive.  On my first day there, I was invited to hang out with the others. We would all laugh and joke together, even though they could barely understand my Franglish and I worried that Ti-mama might be jealous of all the attention I was getting.  So, in an attempt to resolve the situation, the next Monday I packed a large lunch of healthy food and invited Ti-mama to join me.
“Get out of my face, kid,” she said.  I was shocked and crushed, as no one had ever turned down my rice-and-beans before””until I remembered it was Monday, and Ti-mama hated Mondays. I am now confused because Ti-mama loves to eat. I am thinking that I’m really in trouble.
The following day I tried that tactic again, but to no avail.  I worked on that strategy the entire week. I would bring an apple or something sweet for Ti-mama to replace the huge bags of chips and cookies. I would bring fresh coffee to her desk and she’d look at me as if I were a nutcase, while she continued treating me like something to be trod beneath her feet.
By the third week, I discovered that on Ti-mama’s birthday, she anonymously received a diet book, some deodorant, and soap. I noticed a tear in her eye as she looked at the gifts; I simply walked over and gave her a hug. Ti-mama placed her great head on my shoulder and rested it there for so long she nearly broke my shoulder. I gave Ti-mama a colorful crocheted scarf that my step-ma had knitted me for Christmas, which I thought would give her a little warmth in the low-temperature room and cheer her up. I then coaxed her out to lunch, to which I’d invited a few of the office girls, and had arranged with the waiter to sing happy birthday to her. Ti-mama cried at all the attention she was receiving. Apparently, this was the first time anyone had celebrated her birthday since she had been on the planet.
By week’s end, I had become Ti-mama’s best friend, to everyone’s surprise. Thereafter Ti-mama talked openly to me about herself and her childhood traumas. She even bought me a pet rabbit. All she really needed was for someone to make her feel wanted. Ti-mama turned out to be one of the kindest, most loving people I have ever met. And I wish the others could have taken the time to get to know her.
A little compassion goes a long way. You can use this strategy yourself, if you so choose.  It might not work for everyone because it takes a certain amount of patience; however in the long run it may help you as a human being.  Of course, one doesn’t take human folly too seriously as it’s not the ease of being human that concerns us, but rather, the fact that many of us tend to vent our frustrations on others even when they have nothing to do with our problems. You need to use your best judgment, because the same strategy may not always work with everyone.  Sometimes, you just have to walk away. I was born with patience in my veins, because where I am from, you can’t make it without it.
There are many different ways of negating a bad situation. One way is to have a drink of water.  You just have to choose what is right for you under the circumstances.  Another person’s reaction to Ti-mama may have been “Storm the ramparts, ladies and gentlemen.” I usually use love to get through to people.  But, this is a personal decision, and one only you can own. In my case, I could have easily walked away like the other girls, but I chose not to.

Copyright 2008 Lili Dauphin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1. Appreciating Life around Us

Our world is full of unexplored marvels. We pass by them every day. These reflections encourage
you to slow down, notice life’s treasures, and enjoy them rather than rushing through life. I
encourage gratitude for life’s magic, the angels in your life, and your times of good fortune.

The World of Blooming, Buzzing Confusion

Try to find your deepest issue in every confusion and abide by that.

D. H. Lawrence

I was sitting on my porch the other day watching trees blooming and cars buzzing by. I thought of how the nineteenth century psychologist William James described the world as babies first see it, a world of “blooming, buzzing confusion.” Other psychologists have since speculated that babies can make more sense of the world than William James first thought. The dispute does
not seem to have ever been settled to anyone’s satisfaction. But then, babies aren’t prone to lengthy explanations of their world view.
As adults, our world still seems to consist of blooming, buzzing and everything in between. Trees, flowers and plants slowly and gracefully unfold to share their beauty with us. People often buzz by, not wanting to share anything with us. They just wish we would get out of their way.
I have wondered lately where everyone is heading in such a rush. If we work ourselves into a lather trying to save a few minutes, what are these few minutes like when we finally get them? Can we enjoy them or do we need them to catch our breath after rushing to wherever we are headed?
Sometimes I think we are preoccupied with where we are coming from and where we are going, forgetting to enjoy the journey in between. I remember when I was young and our family would sometimes take a ride in the country. We weren’t trying to get away from anything in particular or heading any place special. The ride itself was the whole point of the adventure.
What would it be like if we looked at our lives as a ride in the country? What if we got our minds off what we were trying to accomplish with our lives, even for a little while, and instead concentrated on enjoying the journey?
We don’t often think to do this. Sometimes it is easier after a major illness or other setback. We are reminded that we won’t be here forever. Even if we win the rat race, we are still rats.
We can slow down from time to time or even stop to enjoy our lives rather than letting them slip by as we race to our next destination. On holidays, we tend to take time out from our hectic pace, but often we find chores to occupy us rather than spending time with the treadmill turned
off. We can even fret our way through vacations. We work hard to make sure we are having fun rather than just letting the vacation happen.
Do you remember the Simon and Garfunkel suggestion “Slow down, you’re movin’ too fast?” from “The 59th Street Bridge Song.” I think they had the same reaction to the bridge that I had to the traffic whizzing by my porch. Our lives lie in the space between where we start and where we end. Don’t let your life get away.

Life Lab Lessons:

*When was the last time you took time out from your busy schedule to just enjoy
life?
*What was it like?
*When do you plan to do it again?
*What do you think you might have missed while rushing through your life?
*What would it be like to live your whole life in this moment rather than constantly pushing yourself toward the next goal?

Nourish and Preserve Your Sense of Wonderment

The possession of knowledge does not kill
the sense of wonder and mystery.
There is always more mystery.

Anaïs Nin

Recently I found myself at a funeral home following the sudden death of a friend, Mary Anne Graney. Near the guest book was a stack of cards and the invitation to write favorite memories of her to share with her family. I stopped to recall memories of her.
My first thought was her ability to make everyone she met feel special. This trait, in my mind, made her special. It was not quite what I wanted to write, but the right words to describe what set her aside from other people did not come to me.
This morning I woke up realizing what I wanted to say. What was unique about her was her ever present sense of wonderment. Hers was a rare gift which I have noticed in only one other person on a regular basis. I can’t recall a conversation with her in which she did not display her gift.
I don’t think I would have recognized her gift had I had not learned about it from a priest I knew long ago, Father Augustine Paul. It is a little hard to define but has also been described as “thinking with a child’s mind,” or openness to experience and suspending judgment.
Cynics would call this approach to life naïve. Life is serious. We are playing for keeps. This is no time to fool around. Some people become caught up in the practical. They leave no time for things which are interesting, fascinating or even wonderful. Dreamers can be annoying to people
who want to avoid the nonsense and just get things done.
Religions have often started out with a sense of awe at creation and ended up becoming a justification for the way of life of its adherents. The writings of early explorers describe the wonders of their discoveries. Often the lands they discovered have become the focus of squabbles about how to use the natural resources they contain. A beautiful maple tree, which I admired for
years each morning over coffee, was finally gobbled up by machines to make way for a store parking lot.
I have written before of the sense of wonderment children have. I still remember a photo I took of my son around age two, running through a field holding up a daisy he had found.
We become jaded by our pursuit of careers, possessions and money, known as the rat race. This is a good descriptive term which suggests roaring ahead full steam toward a goal with no awareness of our surroundings. Sometimes we lose sight of the goal and are aware only of the rat
race.
We have another choice. We can reassess our goals and decide whether they are worth all of our energy. We can work toward a balance in our lives, taking some time to appreciate the wonders around us. We can also share our sense of wonderment with our more frantic fellow life travelers. Mary Anne thanks for your example.

Life Lab Lessons

*What makes some people special to you?
*How is your life better for your association with them?
*What have you learned from their lives?
*How could your life be more like theirs?
*Incorporate their best traits into your daily life.

The Magic of Everyday Life

Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us.

Boris Pasternak

I learn daily of the number of American soldiers dying in Iraq. I hear less about the much larger number of dead Iraqis. I read of the ingrained hatreds among groups around the world and wonder how things could have come to this. The problems seem overwhelming. How the world could be a different place?
Just when things seem most hopeless, something happens to remind me that life is still full of wonderful surprises. They do not appear every minute or maybe they do and I just don’t notice them. When I sense them, they remind me that people are on earth to enjoy what God has put before them rather than to find more efficient ways to destroy each other.
I have seen the most glorious sunset I could imagine at Sunset Beach in Oahu. I was present at the births of three healthy babies entrusted to my safekeeping. I looked down on the Grand Canyon from thirty five thousand feet in the air.
I have heard Dvorak’s Symphony From the New World played in a park in Pittsburgh and the Queen of the Night aria from The Magic Flute sung in concert as well as whistled on the street. I have heard my grandson Joey talking a mile a minute after having to learn sign language because of his delayed speech.
I have smelled the scent of holly flowers meant to attract bumblebees. I have enjoyed the aroma of honeysuckle pervading the countryside and the fragrance of night blooming cereus wafting `across my front porch.
I have tasted Evil Jungle Prince sitting in Keo’s Honolulu Restaurant among the orchids, sipped Sangria at a modest restaurant in Gijon, Spain and relished Pat Davis’s cakes at family celebrations.
I swam in the Sea of Cortez, felt my hair stand on end as I touched a Van de Graf generator and had my hand tickled by a salamander scooting across my palm.
These are a few of the sensory experiences which have surprised me over the years. I did not plan or expect any of them to happen and they are by no means the only pleasant surprises I have encountered during my journey through life.
Thomas Moore in The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life helps us regain a sense of wonderment about the many mysteries of the world waiting for our exploration and appreciation. Diane Ackerman in A Natural History of the Senses gives us a context for appreciating all that our senses bring to our life experience.
I am sure there are many delights I have encountered in passing but have not dwelt upon sufficiently and many others which I have not taken the time to even notice. I hope I can set aside my concerns to better notice the delights God has placed along my path. I also hope that delight in nature can help turn the world people’s attention from its conflicts and give them a context in
which to start appreciating each other better.

Life Lab Lessons

Recall what has delighted you over the years.
Think of the last delight you encountered.
Which of your life experiences means the most to you?
Think about how you could delight someone you care about.
Set aside some time for wonderment about the world you live in.

Things That Make Me Feel Grateful

Let the man, who would be grateful
think of repaying a kindness,
even while receiving it.

Seneca

Several years ago I started following the example of Henry Thoreau. He made it a practice not to get out of bed until he had written down things for which he was grateful that day. I usually have a cup of coffee but like to make my list before doing anything else. In honor of Thanksgiving, I thought I would use this column to share some of the things for which I am grateful.

Thank you God for:

-The cloth-bound journal I found at the Bunch of Grapes Bookstore.
-The wonderful sunrises and sunsets this year which never fail to gladden my heart and raise my spirits. Even on gloomy days, I know that sooner or later one or the other will eventually grace the sky.
-The warm summer sand at Gay Head Beach on Martha’s Vineyard and the lazy waves lapping at the shore.
-Attending two delightful weddings in one summer and meeting new people.
-The many teens honored at the Bishop McNulty Awards for parish service and for the adults honored for working with youth.
-Sharing my perceptions of the world with my brother Bob and his understanding of what is important to me.
-My mother’s acceptance and caring for every person I have ever brought to her door.
-My friend Smoky, the joy he brought to my life and his many friends I had the chance to meet if only briefly.
-Being able to publish three books and write a newspaper column for five years without losing my perseverance.
-Inspiration for my writing each time I get my fingers moving.
-My muse, Calliope, and my ongoing conversations with her.
-Attending the celebration of Rose’s and Russ’s sixtieth wedding anniversary.
-Seeing Aunt Lucille’s zest for life well into her eighties.
-Mike and Joe’s delight in each other’s company.
-Matt’s ability to commune with nature whether anyone is around or not.
-Visiting England, Spain and Portugal.
-Peter’s prolific pursuit of his artistic ability.
-Sue’s professional competence and community contributions.
-Becky’s caring for everyone she meets following her grandmother’s example.
-Coming to a decision about Medicare coverage and its many options.
-Delightful conversations with many people I never thought I would meet.
-Sailing on cruises among the Caribbean islands in February.
-Having owned my own sailboat.
-Visiting a sugar plantation in Barbados.
-Rediscovering my friend Gerry and knowing I can count on his constant support and encouragement.
-A sense of prosperity after years of worrying about money.
-A growing sense of my spirituality and coming to terms with it.
-Visiting St. John the Divine in New York.
-My joints working well again after several years of feeling almost crippled.
-Carol’s love, support and acceptance of me no matter what.

Life Lab Lessons:

*Think of some of the things for which you are grateful.
*List the people who have meant the most to you.
*Tell the ones who are still living how you feel about them.
*Do something in honor of the ones who have died.
*Consider writing down a few things each day for which you are grateful.

The Care and Feeding of Angels

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing
some have unwittingly entertained angels.

Hebrews 13:2

I wrote in the past about the angels among us, working quietly to make our lives better and easing the strain of our life challenges. They are often unacknowledged and sometimes unnoticed.
Even though I refer to them as angels, they are not just spirits. They have human needs too. However, in their efforts to care for the rest of us, they often forget about their own needs. They are just as prone to stress and burn-out as we are, although they are probably less attuned to these
signs, since they are so focused on what others need.
I have often heard from people who are good listeners that no one cares about their concerns. No one imagines anything could ever bother them. Caretakers sometimes seem indestructible, or maybe it is just our wishful thinking.
Whose responsibility is it to care for the angels in our lives? First, it is their responsibility. Everyone knows that a car will break down quickly without regular service and maintenance. While people are not machines, they also need nourishment, rest, exercise, appreciation and support.
If you are an angel, stop to think how much you are doing for everyone else and also what you need. What do you do for yourself? In your efforts to care for everyone else, do you forget to take care of yourself? Do you listen to what your body is telling you? Do you pay attention to your feelings of stress, exhaustion and loneliness, or do you try to carry on as if you don’t have
any of these feelings?
You deserve to take care of your body, and especially of your spirit. Take time to sit quietly and be aware of your requirements as you do for everyone else. You have needs too. Once you
are aware of them, set aside some time for yourself. It may seem selfish, but unless you do, you won’t remain helpful to others.
If you are not an angel but have one or more of them in your life, stop to think about what they may need. Encourage them to consider their own desires and what may please them. There may also be things you can do for them. It might be hard to figure out what they want since they do not often make their wishes known. They may seem like they can go on forever taking care of you as they always have.
It helps to let them know you appreciate all they do for you instead of taking them for granted. But this might not be enough, since appreciation might tempt them to work all the harder.
You might watch them and see what they need. They might appreciate being reminded to take time for themselves. You could let them know they don’t have to be of service immediately or on call twenty four hours a day. Or you could find a way to be their angel at least on occasion.

Life Lab Lessons

*Discover who your angels are.
*Think about how they have enriched your life.
*Make sure you thank them.
*What could your angels use from you in return?
*Do it for them.

Thank Your Friends for Their Help

Do not save your loving speeches for your frends      till they are dead.
Do not write them on their tombstones,
speak them rather now instead.

Anna Cummins

Dear Pat,
A while ago when I was visiting your house, you made a comment to me which seemed like no big deal. You had seen an ad in the paper for volunteers to take part in a study of rheumatoid arthritis. I have been struggling with arthritis for a couple years and thought I might have the rheumatoid variety, but so far had been unsuccessful in finding a rheumatologist.
I had been taking Celebrex and Tylenol for a while with little relief. But lately every time I moved my shoulder, I felt a crunch like I had no cartilage. I was about to resume my search for a rheumatologist, which last time led to a dead end.
The morning after you told me about the study, I called the number you gave me and set up an appointment. I was screened and accepted for the study and finally began treatment. The morning after I started, I woke up with not an ache, pain or discomfort anywhere in my body. I considered it a miracle and felt like a new person.
After being in the study for a couple weeks, I looked around my house and discovered stacks of unfinished projects. When I thought about it, I realized I had been depressed for some time. I work with many depressed people and somehow did not recognize the symptoms in myself.
Every morning since, I have woken up thanking God for leading scientists to the discovery of the medications I now take, for leading me to your house that afternoon, and for your thoughtfulness in telling me about the study. I think I sometimes take others’ help for granted.
Maybe it takes something this impressive to make me realize friends make many gestures which improve my life in less dramatic ways.
We all get busy thinking about our own needs and how things affect us. I have had concerns that our society has been becoming more selfish and people are becoming so preoccupied with their own needs that they do not pay attention to those around them. It is sometimes hard to remember that people traveling their life paths next to us are also preoccupied with their own concerns at the people next to us and gain some appreciation of their struggles. Going further, we can find and share something which might help them a little. Getting in touch with their needs also opens up a channel between us and them and makes a connection with all the people they are connected to. The information you shared with me about the study led to my finding out about the study medications. I shared what I discovered with a colleague, who in turn passed it on to
someone she knew with rheumatoid arthritis whom I have never met.
When I think back over my life, I can recall times when I was helpful to others, sometimes in ways which made a dramatic difference in their lives and sometimes in ways which may have made their way just a little easier. I have learned two lessons from your kindness. One is to acknowledge my appreciation for others efforts on my behalf. The other is to extend myself when I can be helpful to others and make their lives a little better.

Life Lab Lessons

*What have been the most difficult times in your life?
*Which of your friends have been most there for you at those times?
*How did they help?
*Did you thank them properly?
*It’s not too late.

Following the Relay for Life

We cannot direct the wind but we can adjust the sails.

Author Unknown

Recently I found myself in the Spencerport High School sports stadium. Tents rose throughout the infield; a band warmed up. The high school color guard marched in to the beat of their drummers. Among them I found the names of Carol, her younger sister and her nephew.
Around me was a sea of people wearing purple shirts, all displaying a message on the back, “Survivor.”
Everyone had gathered for the American Cancer Society Relay for Life, in honor of those who had survived cancer, those who had not and those who might eventually face it. We had been invited to attend several times in the past, but had not ever done so for one reason or another. This year was different.
The announcer read the names of all the survivors present, their type of cancer and how long they had survived. Among them were a five year old boy, people in wheel chairs and women with the tell-tale scarves covering their chemotherapy-induced hair loss. As their names were read, they assembled on the track. After the reading, they walked together around the track as those who loved them looked on in silence.
Toward the front walked Carol, her older sister Sharon and brother-in-law Gary. I took this in stride until they walked by me. I had not known Carol’s mother or sister Marie who had died of cancer before we dated. I knew Carol’s nephew, Tommy, who fought cancer for three years to have more time with his children Haley and Andrew.
For the past six months, Carol took on her own fight with cancer while I did what I could, often feeling helpless. We both focused on what had to be done and had little time to think about how we felt about the ordeal.
After supporting her through her diagnosis, surgery, radiation and chemotherapy, I stood beside the track watching Carol walk with the sea of other survivors. For the first time since her diagnosis, my emotions overcame me and tears came to my eyes. I felt remnants of my initial fear, sorrow that her family pattern of cancer had finally caught up with her, respect for her
courage in facing her ordeal and gratitude that she had survived it.
I often wondered about cancer but had never taken it seriously in the past. My first question to her radiologist was, “Why do people get cancer?” I have seen and heard explanations on many levels but have yet to find one which adequately answers my question. Cancer has been around for centuries, but not to the extent it is today. Our environment, lifestyles and diet all seem to play
parts. Still it is not clear, at least to me, why some people get cancer and others don’t.
Carol’s encounter has brought me to a new respect for life, how precious it is and my need to cherish it. I don’t think I will ever look at Carol again and take her for granted.

Life Lab Lessons

*Think about how you live your life and how you treat your body?
*What would your body say about how you treat it?
*Find out what you can do to protect yourself from cancer.
*If you have lost someone to cancer, live part of your life in his or her honor.
*If you love any cancer survivors, find ways to show them how much they mean to you.

Read more about NAVIGATING LIFE: Commonsense Reflections for the Voyage and Joseph G. Langen HERE.

Copyright 2008 Joseph G. Langen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter One

A Trouble Teen Seeking Refuge

My Life as a child was hard. I came from a family that did not center on Christ and in which He was not loved. Our father was not there for us; he spent most of his life confined in prison. My mother was not able to cope with the situation and turned her life over to satan, drinking everyday. She could not perform without a husband to help raise the children.

I guess we became a hardship for her instead of a blessing.

We heard about Christ at an early age but really didn’t know what He neant in our lives. Christ was often spoken of in our family member’s homes and I would attend services on accasion, even becoming baptized at an early age although I didn’t really undrstand what it was about.

My family wasn’t the storybook type with the white picket fence and parents that read their children bedtime stories, caressing them before they fall asleep.

Copyright 2008 Alice J. White. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.