Category Archives: Spirituality

Remember Who Loves You!

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In which a love-seeker daringly takes her own good advice.

Whenever a family member or friend is feeling all beleaguered, stressed and overwhelmed—particularly by difficult people—I always like to send him or her off with this direction: “Remember who loves you!” These are the words I call it out to family members as they leave for work. I say them as counsel to friends who’ve been confiding their troubles. I even jot them on notes of encouragement that I pop in the mail.

I’m thinking about this now as I try, once again, to come to terms with the slow progress of my current personal reinvention. It seems to me that it is taking a very, very long time to emerge from my chrysalis. I am ready to flap my wings. That I’m still in transition to finding my next job, well, let’s just say I am not pleased. I want to know what my next right work is going to look like. I want a job. A clear job with a mission and a purpose and a fair income. Impatient? That’s my middle name.

Here’s the thing: I have this book manuscript—The Hungry Ghost: How I Ditched 100 Pounds and Came Fully Alive. And though I’ve been a professional writer and editor for decades, this work is so close to my heart that I’m having trouble putting it out there in the world. To do that, well, it feels kind of like sending a two-year-old off to kindergarten. “I’m not ready,” says the little girl. “You can’t make me!”

The crux of the matter isn’t that I don’t believe in the book. I do. It’s good. And it  feels like it was given to me to give to people like me who every day battle all the indignities of food addiction, compulsive overeating and obesity.

I’m not sure what the problem is. Maybe it’s that I hate criticism. Not so much for my writing. I’ve faced that before. It’s criticism of me and what I believe that I fear. I’m also scared of living large—inviting the whole world to know my story.

I don’t know what’s going on. I do know that the difficult person I’m dealing with at the moment is, you got it, myself!

Because the fact of the matter is, maybe the timing just isn’t right. You know, in God’s time not mine and all that.

So why give myself a hard time? Maybe I should remember who loves me. Lean into the love. Remember a love-saturated moment and recall the feeling I had and summon it up. Absorb. Slow down. Feel it. Take it in.

What do you think? Couldn’t hurt, right? Okay. Right now. Let’s all take a slow, deep breath and remember who loves us!

 

Thanksgiving Locusts

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Some folks DO grown their own food. These lovely wee eggs were a gorgeous gift from my niece, Cathie Searles. That woman knows how to harvest!

I’m not sure, but for a while there, it looks like I was in danger of losing my mind. I do know that I was in Shoprite supermarket this past Sunday (just to pick up my free turkey). On Monday I was in Foodtown, doing my regular shopping and picking up the free turkey I earned there (free food is free food; if you want to know how to get away with serving turkey five ways in seven days, LMK). Today, Tuesday, I was in Whole Foods because they have the best prices on soy milk and tofu—staples for the two vegetarians in my house—and I was out of both.

I don’t need to tell you that all three places were nuts. Crowded. Intense. Thanksgiving is nearly upon us! In order to be grateful we must shop ferociously! Yikes!

I hate crowds. I hate shopping. Three stores in three days! Triple nuts!

This is also gratitude week. So, yes, I’m mad grateful that I can easily get as much delicious, gorgeous food as my family needs (and then some).

However, I was not having fun that first day shopping. Did I mention I hate crowds and shopping? There I was in Shoprite, gritting my teeth and trying to be in a thankful state of mind when I had a flash of inspiration: What if I looked at the crowds not as a plague of pesky, aisle-clogging locusts but as a team of my fellows engaging in a Harvest Festival?

After all, Thanksgiving happens in the fall for a reason. The original one, so the story goes, was a celebration of the season’s abundance. In the burbs here, we mostly don’t grow and harvest our own crops. But we do go out to the store to secure provisions for our fall feast.

So I tried on this new Harvest Festival idea. And Dear Reader, it worked! When I looked at the other shoppers not as obstacles to my progress but as fellow harvesters, all of us together gathering supplies to nourish our beloved families, I was able to chill, get what I needed, and get out of there! I’m pretty sure, too, that I actually smiled at a few people.

The changed perspective worked in the next two stores as well. Eureka!

I can’t honestly say I enjoyed myself. But I did manage to retain my sanity and my dignity. Now there’s something to be grateful for.

No, I didn’t my mind. This is how I know for sure: I most definitely will not be indulging in any black Friday rituals. I don’t want to push my luck.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Spiritual Lessons from Sandy

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Spin me around in a hurricane, and I am going to have, as they say, “issues.”

As in, everything is a learning experience.

The hurricane itself barely affected me, relative to those who lost loved ones, homes, or important belonging. Yes, my family endured five cold, dark days without power in our New Jersey home. And still, we’re dealing with gas lines, minor food shortages and, sometimes, short tempers.

But Sandy did hit me where I live—in the safety bone. Safety is a big deal for me. Always has been. A bumpy childhood will do that to you. Minus heat and light and hot water and my normal routines, minus the sense that all was well in my community, I went a little off center. I wasn’t surprised—you can’t be comfortable in an uncomfortable situation, after all—but I did know I was going to have some work to do.

At the end of our Sandy Week, when the power came on—light! heat! hot water!—I sat still and quiet with how discombobulated I’d been. How attached to my material comforts. How unhinged to have them taken away.

I sat, and ever-so-gently breathed down into all that fear and confusion. That in turn took me to places where there were still the bits and pieces of wounds, places where other people had hurt me.

And while I was there in that place I asked, “How can I protect myself?”

What is required, my viscera informed me, is absolute reliance on the power greater than myself that lives in me, as me.

“But how do I do that?” was the next question. “What does reliance on a higher power, and not things of the world, what does that look and feel like?” Extreme self-nurture, was the answer. Radical self-love. Recognizing that I need to forgive myself for being vulnerable, and forgive others for their own frailties. Lean on myself more, things and other people’s opinions, less.

There was more: Honor my inner light by sharing my experience, strength and hope. Take good care of my body and mind. Give and receive love in everyday actions, small and large. Prayer time, and meditation, too.

I wish it were easier. I really do. But there it is. Breathing in, breathing out. Building my spiritual muscles. Taking life on life’s terms, just for today. That’s where the safety is.

Truthfully, I’m not all that excited about my options. I’m addicted to guarantees, sunshine and happy endings.

But this ever-deepening reliance on a higher power, well, if that’s where it’s at, count me in! You?

 

 

 

 

 

Somebody Turn On the Silence!

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Adirondack magic. Perfect place for silence.

Does silence carry the same weight as noise? Is quiet as valuable a life commodity as talk, TV, radio, video, movies, music?

Yesterday I was at the gym. The gym is a public place, and people, within reason, will do what people will do. Which is to say, talk nonstop for 20 minutes in the hot tub. And talk. And talk. While the music from the speakers blasts. Nice music. Happy talk. But could I have gone to someone in charge and said, “Could we now have 20 minutes of complete silence?”

Probably not.

In my home, I sometimes insist, during the negotiations about who gets custody of the remote, that opting for an hour of no TV is as viable an option as a certain channel.  Occasionally, if I insist with a bit of gusto, we do have the gift of that hour.

Silence is powerful. Silence is not nothing. Silence is rich and full and allows us to be with ourselves without interference or mediation. A lovely book I read recently was about a woman who for almost a decade kept every Monday a silent day. She had a  husband, two sons, responsibilities. But maintaining silence kept her centered and whole, and gave her to herself in a unique way.

I don’t have the courage yet to inject that sort of practice into my schedule. But I aspire to it. I think it would nourish and sustain me. I crave peace, serenity, simplicity. Silence gives me those.

Over the years I have gone on several silent weekend retreats. Delicious!  This was not an enforced silence, like in second grade when the scary teacher threatened some horrid punishment if you made a peep. This was a chosen silence. There were others present. We didn’t talk. We smiled at one another, handed each other a coffee cup, held a door. We were in silence, together. Our silence was rich.

Even during the day, when I choose to turn off NPR, skip Netflix, take a few moments to just be, I am nurtured. I can hear that still small voice, the me that lives in me as me.

That’s  a gift.

I love people, conversation, TV, music, NPR, Netflix. But I love silence, too. You?

Can You Count to 1000?

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My friend Lee recommended the book One Thousand Gifts, not for the story, but for a grand idea it contained. The book itself wasn’t my taste (I skimmed through at Barnes & Noble), but its winning principle is to make a list of 1,000 things you’re grateful for, without ever repeating anything.

So a few weeks ago I started a gratitude journal. Every night before bed I write down at least four or five things I’m grateful for. What is so very cool is that once you’ve run through things like good health, shelter, nice food, gorgeous weather—the obvious stuff—well, you have to look a little deeper. Remember, you can’t list something more than once. I’m up to 289.

At one point, I decided to get really optimistic, and I listed a whole bunch of stuff I would be thankful for were it to appear. A full-time job. A new couch. My guy to win the upcoming election. A self-cleaning house. A puppy who comes with a trust fund and a full-time trainer. Peace on earth. Like that.

But mostly I reflect on my day, what I saw, did and experienced. To do that, I’ve during the day I need to look for things to write down. And with all this looking for things to list, what’s happened is I’ve become more alert and aware. The more I look, the more I see. The more I see, the more I look.

Do this and the next thing you know, you are in the moment. In your life. Right there smack dab in the middle of it, right where you belong. And you’re in that soft and powerful place of knowing that no matter what’s going on in your life you can find beauty, joy, kindness in yourself and in the world around you.

Now that’s a gift, don’t you think?

Growing Up Is Hard to Do!

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I discovered this poem on a friend’s refrigerator magnet. Whew! I could not find the author, so if you know, do tell. In the meantime, I love how it gently and firmly reminds me of a few things: Joy is mine. Joy is not guaranteed, it has to be claimed. I have to do what I have to do. I can only do what I can do. Compassion is power, gentleness is strength. There is no magic but there is possibility, potential, hope and acceptance of life on life’s terms is freedom. This, my dear ones, is how we become grown up.

 Miracles Happen

 After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.

And you learn that love doesn’t mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts.

And presents aren’t promises.

And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open.

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain,

and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone else to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure.

That you really are strong.

And you really do have worth.

And you learn and learn.

With every goodbye you learn.