lonely

Ok, so...........here I am. Relaxed in the cozy comfort of my home.  I have a lot of thoughts growing and moving inside my head tonight and will continue to finish a few pieces of writing that seem to finally have met fruition.  My own quiet vigil on this blustery night. I am in a good place emotionally and spiritually.  Blessed.  Truly. 

I have been generating half baked pieces and for some reason I just couldn't get to the finish line with them.  This piece began one day when I was feeling a little lonely.  It created a source to dig deeper into that dark pit of loneliness, which I don't think I have truly felt myself, but have been privy to others sharing it with me.

The question I pondered........... how can I humanize the feeling?  How can I capture its essence in a descriptive picture that others could relate to?  After a great deal of thought about how to describe the real dark side of "lonely,"  the vision of an abandoned heart in a field covered in fog kept surfacing.  A little beating heart lost in a fallow field.  Once tended.  Now, left.

Somewhere along the line, I was struck by the realization that the feeling of loneliness is the devil's best friend.  We tend to succumb to our growling needs when we feel the most alone.   Humans need love and belonging and if it isn't attained?  We satisfy it by any means, despite our values.  Despite our better judgement.  Loneliness makes humans ripe for temptations.  

Here is the poem that finally fell out of my inside journey.  Sometimes its a good thing to peel away the layers to reach deeply into a feeling.......... just so you know.  Just so you can be with another who may be living in such a place.   Loneliness may be the friend of the devil, but it can also be the enlightenment we need to reach out with love to another human who may be suffering............

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Shivering on a bed of dew,
a tearstained heart tugs on the hem of temptation.
If only........
Flattened by the heave of an unheard sigh
it sits on the edge of green fields blurred by dawn's fog
and looks longingly for a diamond balanced on the tip of tall grass.
hope..... if only.

Sleepy head dreary shivers with cold feet reality. 

Grey light drapes its folds over dismissive hills.

Devoured comfort breathes
the sound of chattering teeth behind parched lips.

Lips in need of a kiss.

Lips in need of moistened lips.  

A heart in need of love

beyond temptation.

If only.......

Ripped flannel, once heart protection
now reveals untended wounds.
This recluse in rags pumps with fear of being one,
Only one in ragtag tunes.

It begins to tumble
through thistles that whistle its name.  

Lonely.  Heart.

seeking..... comfort

only the lonely........
"Hello lonely......."
thistle whistles
hurting wounds.... 

One and only one it mumbles..........

as it succumbs to abandonment smothered in grief.

A crow cackles in the distance.

blue light

Service....... 

It's all about the journey to an awareness of our gifts.  Its all about being open to sharing them.  Whatever the venue.  When we give, we receive more in return.  Sometimes what we end up receiving is new awareness of how we are being perceived, both negatively and positively.  Sometimes, there is a clear indication that our gifts are not welcome.....not wanted.  Sometimes they are embraced by the receiver with gratitude.  It's a bit of a crapshoot because all you can do is give.  Your gifts.  Be who you are.  Say how you feel.  Share kindness.  Be a good friend.  Listen and learn. You have no control really over how the other person will react, respond, receive.  You can choose only how you give and what you give out.

The key is trying to find the right venue, because if you're stuck in a place where wings are clipped and free spirits are not welcome nor understood, gifts collect dust in the back corner of the pantry. 

Meaning.......... Our lives are a journey of gathering awareness while letting go of our egos.  What I may want, what I hunger for is more than likely driven by obsessed ambition.  And we all know that when our vision is clouded over by salacious needs, we lose our footing.  We lose our way because our Spirit disconnects from our ego driven actions.  It doesn't want any part of it. 

Luckily our true Spirit...... like God is patient.  It knows that most of us humans are slow on the uptake.  WE seemed to need several toe stubbing, head slamming, body jolting, heart stabbing life events to finally realize that our lives are in good Hands if we allow our own to be open to give and to receive.  

So, how does one marry the two?  Service and Meaning? God knows.

Hey God!  You wanna shine a little more blue light on me?  Just a little more of that meaning-full blue light?  I promise I will sit still more often this month.......I have a feeling that's what you would like me to do.  To stop, look and listen........ with an open heart and a pair of open hands.  It's time to seek out answers to just exactly what venue would I fit in to be able to be of good service....where is this place that will allow me to offer up my gifts?  It continues to be a mystery.  My destiny is still behind a curtain.

If anyone is looking for me this month?  I'll be close to some body of water.  Light catches in blue down by the water.  And it is blue light that I am seeking..........

Prayer for the Times..

I was asked to write and to lead the congregation in "Prayer for the Times" today at St. Paul's United Church.  It is part of the weekly service.  My dear friend Andrea organized the whole service and delivered the sermon.  She did a beautiful job.  I'm so proud of her.....  she has been my angel this spring. 

The feeling of standing up at the front of the church was humbling and empowering at the same time.  I could hear my own voice and it felt strong.  Strong.  I think my voice is back.  It has a different timbre to it.... perhaps its all that whiskey i've been consuming?  Kidding!   

It was a very special moment and I'm grateful to have been asked to play a role.

Here is my prayer.... the words and thoughts are a culmination of what I have been thinking and writing about recently.   I'm posting it for my loving friend Rick.  When I got home from church, there was a message that his Mom had passed away last night.  Rick and Sheila?  I love you both...... and wish I could be there to help you with ALL that you are feeling.   And know we are just a finger tip touch away from one another.  xx

_______________________________________

Let us take a moment to be still together and take in a collective deep breath............

Hello dear God.

As we stand here before You with refreshed breath of Your Spirit, we give our heartfelt thanks for the gifts you provide every single day... those simple extraordinary offerings we sometimes miss in the flurry busyness of our lives.  Today, we stand in stillness reflecting upon our own lessons knowing that, like renewal, growth is conceived in the heart of discontent, fed by the inner light of silent conversations with you God, until it breaks through the clay of our blended souls.  

We share the same feelings, and many of us share the same happiness and heartbreak.  This is what blends our souls in a spiritual sense of oneness.  We all know the feeling of hungry hope.  You have provided us with this gift, God.  Hope, you have taught us, is a companion of a broken spirit.  It is the oxygen in the breeze that caresses our restless sufferings with tenderness.  Hope reminds renewal to be patient with its re-emerging and to know that most of our personal growth will be invisible to the outward glance, but colourfully recognizable when we gaze inwardly to speak to You. 

Through suffering God, we are learning to surrender.  Through surrendering, we are learning how connected we are to a greater Realm. And it is through our connection with you and with one another, we begin to feel loved in a much different way than perhaps we have ever felt before. 

Forgive us dear God, for we are often slow to catch on because we tend to veer out into the wild and lose our way busy trying to deal with the events life throws at us.  Please help us remember that what may feel overwhelming shifts our gaze and offers us a glimpse of a field of diamonds off in the distance..... those tantalizing sparkling gems with winking twinkling c'mons that have the power to awaken our hunger for enlightenment, and to tickle our parched thirsts for a drop of understanding.

Please remind us God that renewal doesn't occur because of one event.  It may be the spark that ignites the change in direction, but it is not the conclusion.  Rather, it is the impetus set in the clay of our blended souls..... the foundation we rely on for support as we ride the waves of change, one wave at a time.

Please remind us God that renewal in all of its diamond splendour is simply our crooked journey signmarked by our recognition of love dressed in complicated life riddles.  Eventually it leads us to a place we can call home.  We must walk unprotected, barefooted..... pierced by the nettles and thorns of suffering that scracth and sting....... that leave pockmarked scars on our flesh.  

With your Guidance God, we will learn to walk aided and unaided........ to take risks while learning as much from our hurts as we do our triumphs, while reaching out to give while being open to receiving gifts we are offered.  By so doing, we learn that the clay of blended souls we walk upon?  We are a part of that clay.  We belong to a universe who shares the same feelings, who thrive and survive, who suffer and feel joy, who nurture and are nurtured by one another.

Renewal may be conceived inside the heart of discontent, but the light of its darkness seems to shed Your rays on our gardens, inside our homes, waiting to be discovered.  As pilgrims dear God, guide us when we are too surprised by the answers to those life riddles.  Teach us that this is where awareness resides.  This is where growth lives.  This is where we come together to feel peace.  

May we all walk in peace with you and with one another today.  The first day of summer is almost here.

Amen. 

the awakening of temptation

temptation may

steal away focus,

create internal conflict

shrug off moral reasoning

taste like nectar

leave a bitterness

catch your breath

tantalize thoughts

launch you into thin air

cry for freedom

frighten a grown man

start a new journey

tamper with dignity

strip down integrity

be gloriously sinful

stir a curious woman 
 shower you with shame

heighten your cravings

bait your spirit

harmonize two minds

be the answer to a great mystery

spark a lost soul

generate energy

kick you in the gut

knock you to your knees

create an obsession

fill you with shame

force you to confess
AWAKEN

leave you wanting more.

Temptation entices a wandering passion in need of affirmation with its spicy bravado.   It spins self control on its side, wrapping it in an alluring flame with mesmerizing dreams. It chokes discipline leaving it impotent to that charismatic  serpent and charms you into playing out your unrelenting wishes.  Acting on a tantalizing temptation may alleviate the trembling ache of emptiness or it can fuel the heart with an burning desire for more.  Is the allure ever beyond judgment, or does it always embody sin?   

What tempts you?  Have you decided to acquiesce?  

'tis the winter season of Lent. A time for dark soul reflections, confessions and forgiveness. Lead us not into temptation.........

river girl.......

She was never one to walk in a straight line.  Wandering suited her life tempo. You could describe her thinking process that way too, as she much preferred to allow her mind to drift into creating whole scenes of possibilities inside her head.....multi-sensory scenes fed by the flurry of interactions which made up her days.  More often than not, she kept them to herself. Every once in a while, she would share them with people who were open to listening, open to believing that truth requires a broader leap than even faith.

When she combined her wandersteps with her straying mind there was no telling where she would end up.  Maps confined her.  Routines bored her to a point where she would feel suffocated by the deadening air of predictability.  No, straight line ambling made her feel out of touch much more so than the freedom of embracing the mystery of an unveiled meandering. For it was then that she fell in touch with her faith.

Some would describe her as an anchorless nomad, who wasted time. Flaky and terminally beyond practical matters were their opinions.  Others found her unconventional manner beguiling and wished they could trade their own life trappings for one amber taste of a free flowing spirit.  As much as they were captivated, however,  they were tentative about whether they truly wanted to know how vast the realm of the unknown was.  Some seemed to accept her ways without question.  But most people didn't even notice her.  For them, she was an invisible human being whose life never really mattered in their own lives. 

Interestingly, she noticed them. 

For those who paid attention,  they all agreed on one aspect. She was a river girl.  It suited her to be close to unstill waters that drifted from a mystical source.  They could see how much they were the same; how her spirit blended in with the spirits present in the moving currents which created new patterns as it flowed in its unfolding, and cascaded freely towards the open tidal bay.  The same description applied to her. Like the river, her journey was full of surprises.  Her life steps complimented the character of the river and in fact it was where she preferred to meander.

Nothing triggered the broadening of her imagination than a visit to listen to the cold water echo nuances.  On most days, you'd see her standing along its banks, or sitting under a weathered old maple looking down stream, lost inside her dreams.  Sometimes when no one in her family needed her attention, she would set off for a short walk and end up stipstepping along the path until the sun went down...... the sure sign that she had once again lost track of time.

"A rambling stroll down to the river was like greeting a kindred spirit," she often said upon her return.  Hardly anyone understood what she meant, but that didn't bother her.  She was comfortable in her own shoes, with her own beliefs.  It was her truth.  

Strangely, or maybe not, her favourite time of year to filter the clarion sighs of the river was in the dead of winter........ in February when the bitter winds nipped reminders of hallowed stories muffled through winter shadows. At this time of the year, when the world was as quiet as a deep sleep, her whole being was captivated by a sense of being vibrantly alive.  

When the climate was just right, she could grasp the river sounds aching in grumpy indignation.   Her flesh felt pierced by the river's icelips leaving shivers under her woolen bravery.  It was like the river held onto its stories like a holywell holds onto tears and wishes until the silence pervaded the last surface rippling.  It was only then that there was enough trust to reveal its true identity.

Like a few others, the river girl instinctively knew when the long winter shadows formed along the riverbank, then and only then did they reveal their deeply held secrets.  This never happened during the summer months.  Shadows in July are used simply as shade against the heat of the light flowing day.  Shadows in February, however, breathe an ancient hunger, through frosty voices which scrape against their brittled courage.  

Their legends held the ingredients needed to awaken her ability to inhale the truth held beneath the frozen valley, and to fuel her awareness that she was exactly where she belonged............ part of the legacy of life surprisingly unfolding as it should.

pariah existence........

You could take a warm wet washcloth full of soapy bubbles and scrub your skin until it squeaks.  You could rinse away all of that accumulative dirt and grime, replace the tired clothes threadbare and worn with something clean and pressed. You could comb your hair, brush your teeth.  You could even take the time to put on make-up and tempt your lips with a glossy pink.  You could spray a small spritz of light perfume to linger on your freshened self.  And still, the feelings attached to being a treated like a Pariah seep out of your soul, leaving you feeling deep freeze cold. 

It is a wretched feeling to be cast aside, treated like you're untouchable.  Avoided by people who matter, you can't help but receive the loud message in the reverberating silent energy that hovers in the empty spaces.  

Unlovable.

Rejected

Ugly, ugly, ugly........

Soul Poverty isolation living in a shanty heart.

In no time, the Pariah begins to believe she is unlovable, unwanted.... a disgraced wench, scorned by the bitterness of another human being.

Every thing is left unsaid.

Feelings are left unspoken

An exile of the heart begins to form

Silence pokes holes into the unquiet mind making it weep a high pitched loneliness until it seeks out an inner sanctum where it can hide away from painful sorrow and dejection.  

A Pariah feels like she is seen as an apparition when in fact she is a warm blooded human being who yearns to be recognized as lovable and treated with tender attention. She wants to be touched....touched by the warmth of another human beings fingers..... embraced by another persons arms ..... kissed with tenderness.

Days are long

Nights are open-eyed longer as the need to be held, to be touched grows salty tears of longing. In order to survive, you soon learn to harden up, to build a protective shell, to distrust everyone around you.  

You turn into stone.  

A roughworn scaly grey Pariah stone.  

A stone feels no pain................a stone holds no moist tears.

Those tears have dried up and what you're left with are the remnants of what used to be.

Have you ever felt this way? How did you pull yourself out of this shameful feeling of unloved numbness??

purple raves........

"I've got one nerve left and you're standing on it....."

There is a palpable feeling of stress stinkin' up the air quality. Forced fed by fetid behaviour, fanned by frequent confrontations with the volume turned up on a sound of static.  Its like walking through a mine field with a fatigued mind.  No focus.  Ego driven, like a child past his bedtime.  The whine from the perpetrator persistently hits the nerve.  The one nerve left.  Can you feel the shooting pains?  A pressure cooker steamin' mad irrational whistle can be heard on high..........disrespectfully polluting the air. 

stomp, stomp, stomp....................whine.

obnoxious fumes seep out of the heat register in puffs of toxicity.

They begin to point fingers at the culprit.... the one who knows how to step on the collective nerve centre.   She knows how to, but is she aware she is doing it?  Does she have any idea how her ugly behaviour repulses?  Fingernails on a chalkboard.  Penetrating hot pokes into the centre of their senses. Unlovely actions pushes buttons, boundaries, sensibilities.  She stands on the one nerve and becomes a jumping jack....... trampoline enthusasism irregardless of consequences. 

help,help,help,help, outward cries in unison..........

I'm afraid I will lose my cool and choke her.

i want to choke her.......

can't help myself any longer........... like I've been invaded by a bad child, they admit with a fervour only used when one reaches their wits end.  Flooded by feelings, the wits have turned into tiny squeaky bits of brain fluff.  They have no capacity to think things through anymore.............to choose creative responses.... to pick up and leave or to fight off the boiling point feelings.  Pressure cooker perspiration is about to spill over like gooey oozy lava. 

Feathers and fur fly.  Accusations spew forth with rapid pummelling towards the annoying culprit.  The one who sheds tears now of shock and disbelief.  Shattered by their reaction, unaware of her role in the stinkfest, she cowers.

Why do people act in such a manner that completely irritates with constant poking and prodding?  They arent getting their deep seated needs met?  Will they ever?  Doubt it.  The roots are too deeply embedded, entwined in a pattern too complicated to change.  Caught by inconsistent love hurts throughout their lives.  Assaulted by negativity, rejection, entitlement of others, they have no way of coping besides acting in the ugliest manner possible.  They want to be accepted.  They want healthy doses of empowerment.  They want to feel loved.  Yet, their behaviour screams the opposite.  Angrily, manipulatively, frustratingly.

Perhaps these are the people thrown into our lives, into the mix of our communities who make us stretch beyond our perspectives, our reflections.  Maybe, just maybe they are the folks who teach us the hardest lesson of all.   To love the unlovely.

When we are asked to be patient when we have none left.  When we are expected to share the same space that once used to be filled with springtime air and is now so thick with stressy stink.  When we are asked to carry on like there isn't a monster amongst us, how do we cope besides running away and never returning?   What do we do?

The only thing left to do is to look beyond the ugly behaviour and try to see the wounds on a fellow human being.  The only thing left to do is to love the unlovely.   Is there anything more difficult to do than that?

Group dynamics?  Forming, Storming, Reforming, Norming, Performing.   These are the stages of development. This was a week of being in the eye of the storm............ Hurricane season is upon us.  We can ride it out......

tears

Tears find me easily.  They always have.  Stick with me long enough in person and you will see my waterworks.  Sometimes they are so surprising and I stand there, my breath caught in a moment, wondering where they even came from.  Sometimes they are the logical response to a moving situation.  Tears spill out in anger, frustration, in sadness and in complete and utter joy.

Memories can conjure up a good cry, as can a regret.  A moving story, new to me, can generate a pool of salty liquid sitting right on the ledge of my eyes. Deep frustration over a head banging situation has the capacity to alter my demeanor.  I've cried at weddings, concerts, funerals......i've spilled tears over a new baby, over a moving story of determination, when I'm tired and have lost the ability to maintain my sense of independence.  I've cried big whopping tears of joy too with my senses are overwhelmed by the face of beauty.  Put on a song that moves me and I often close my eyes and let the tears leak through............. If I'm misunderstood, and misused time and again, like I was in my previous job, I seem to lose all sense of decorum quickly.  Harrassment does that. 

No matter what kind of tears they are however, their genesis comes from a rush of emotional heat. A harkening sign from my body.  A flushing whoosh of out of control energy invades my logic, my clear head and leaves me feeling like a tiny little girl in need of someone to look at me with a softening understanding.  Its rare that they feel empowering.  Rather, they soak the core of vulnerability and leave you feeling naked......with no guard.  No guard......... Many don't like that feeling.

There are situations when I don't like to be feeling that raw.  It gets in the way of functioning with both oars in the water when you need them most. Crying is a natural reaction, though some people are fearfully uncomfortable either crying themselves or being in the presence of someone else whose feeling so deeply that it pours out and spills down their cheeks. I rarely care about someone else's reaction to my tears though becuase I've learned that I can't control how my tears make them feel.  It's their stuff, not mine. When the streaks come trinkling down their cheeks, I'm fine with it......... how effective would I be as a counsellor if I couldn't accept someone else crying?  Yes, the tissues are plentiful in my office.

Tears communicate both outwardly and inwardly and its the inward stuff I am most interested in because they are such big cues to whatever has been triggered inside.  They find you and send up little rays of light to help you figure out what is happening in your core..... a refreshed irritation moment perhaps?  Grief, loneliness, lost love....this is one side of the gamut of reasons.  Joy, of being understood, of realizing you are loved by another....this is the other side. Grace is often packaged inside a teardrop don't you think?

My list is endless........my tears flow when they need to.  How about you?  Are there certain memories or situatioins you find yourself at a loss ...........at a point where tears find you?  What are your triggers?  And if you don't cry openly, why not?  Where do the tears go if they are turned inward?

And yes, I had a good cry today...............right in the middle of it, leaving me with streaky mascara and a sense of soul fatigue afterwards.  How about you?  Any tears flowing on your end?

hurt

4 am feeds on a loneliness wrought with serpentine emotions .  Night watches time differently as it moves in a dream state, filtering our reflections and fears through glass altering truth. We may have moments of clarity in the deep forest of the dark night, but for the most part the monsters of internal doubt blur our sleep deprived imaginations. Lost love wraps itself in the misery of wet tears and the curling smoke from the end of the last cigarette.  Echoes of accusations, crawl under the skin, spreading goosebump guilt inside a broken spirit. Alone.  Tormented by a ballad ripe with truth. 

Someone turn the lights back on

I'll love you til all time is gone

You haven't looked at me that way in years

But I'm still here.

Tom Waits

new love

Today I held a three day old beautiful baby girl named Anna. Sweet Anna. Such tiny perfection cradled in my arms. She is the daughter of my friend's daughter. First child, first grandchild. New love in heaps and heaps......

I offered to stop in to help the brand new Mom, stressed and exhausted from the whole birthing process, but mostly from how she was treated in the hospital. Her immediate concern was her perceived inability to nurse Anna. She had no reservoir of confidence left. Everything is new and everything feels uncomfortable.....physically and emotionally. After being bullied by the breastfeeding Nurse Nazis, with their holier than thou attitudes about nursing versus bottle feeding and their abrupt dismissive behaviour, this new Mom didn't think she could do it. She didn't believe she had the "goods" to keep her daughter fed properly. It leaves me wondering, not for the first time, if they have FORGOTTEN just how strange and new it feels right after you've had your first baby. Shame on them!

Tired and sore, she was ready to give up and most of this was due to how these nursing Nazis treated her. How sad, when she is so keen to make it work. Her milk only just came in today. This is new......... and yet she was feeling like a failure because she was left with confusion, and many many questions that we all have when babies take over our lives. All normal stuff and worries, exacerbated by a health system that is pathetically understaffed and overworked and cranky!!!!!

Certainly there is a strong sense of maternal intuition that kicks in after you give birth. I felt it myself the first night the nurses brought Martha to me, all swaddled with her little lips pursed, ready to be fed. As much as I was terrified of the daunting responsibility ahead of me, I fell in love that night which kicked in my desire to interact with my new baby. A washing softening bathed me in this feeling. I asked Anna's Mom how she felt, and she described a similar feeling.

Most of what we do, however and how we approach our role as a parent is, in my opinion learned through our own connections. Luckily this Mom and babe have a many loving people in their lives who will support her as they learn together. They are surrounded by healthy connections and interactions. We are social beings.... and we need to recognize that we all need help. Life's events, life's lessons are overwhelming if we feel inadequate starting out!

In my arms, Anna turned her head and began rooting as she sought out sustenance. I showed the new Mom how to best to hold Anna in order to have her latch on properly. It took two tries and they were off to the races. Relief came instantly for both of them. While Anna was nursing....the questions tumbled out in a hurry...... and I did my best to answer them, while emphasizing how the whole bonding thing is really learn how to "dance" with a new being in our lives. I watched the loveliness of the scene with a lump in my throat. It was so beautiful. They were so beautiful together....

I reassured her (I think) by dismissing all of the silly breastfeeding myths.... (ie.... If you give your baby a bottle, they won't feed from the breast! OR you can't give your baby formula and breastfeed at the same time! OR make sure you put the baby on a feeding routine right away and don't feed them in between feeding times!) Why these puritans put the fear of God into new mothers is beyond me except they have become blinded by their chosen passion. The amount of judgement dished out by these people and the impatient nurses is beyond my comprehension. Every new mother is nervous. Every new mother wants to provide, protect, try their best.

The connection between a mother and a baby is unique to the two human beings intimately involved. And like any new relationship, it needs time to grow. Tonight, I think of the two of them learning how to figure it out together........ There will be frustrations and even tears from both of them. But, they will figure it out..... a new dance has begun.... bless them both.

Today, I held a three day old baby. A tiny perfect little miracle in my arms. You can't say that everyday. Wish I could...... wish I could.

reconstructing joy

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice.

Excerpt from Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot.

I read the full T.S. Eliot poem in an autobiographical book entitled "Spiral Staircase," written by religious scholar and author, Karen Armstrong. She refers to this stanza and then explains how it helped her realize how we continue to work on reconstructing joy. I certainly related to her explanation and could see clearly how we are on a constant journey of ups and downs and all arounds as we strive to climb out of confusing stresses. Here are my own thoughts.....

Our discomfort, our struggles are all a part of reconstructing joy. Anxiety and the encumbering fears wrapped in the unknown have the capacity to cement us in limbo leaving us without the ability to move forward. If we work at recognizing these feelings in us, however, we can renovate by using this negative mortar as foundation for building joy again.

We demolish and rebuild….change/alter/reconstruct. Its inherent in us to do so. And sometimes in order to be able to do this, we have to let go of old joys, worn down constructions realizing they are past the due date. Never forgetting them mind you, but not allowing the past to have such a grand say in the rebuilding of our present and future joys.

Joy is never static. Sometimes its a feather fleeting touch. Sometimes we can soak in it for a long time, like a warm bath. Sometimes we can rejoice in it with another person in our lives and let it fills us a glow of love. We can grow in joy, but we grow most in the construction process where we are stretched, refreshed, poked and prodded. Joy is the gift after the growth....after the discomfort. It is always lovely to attain this pinnacle point.....the peak of the mountain where this zestful full bodied smile waits for us.....sitting comfortably in the hands of God.

When we feel joy, we feel whole and holy loved by God.


**the photo was taken at the Art Gallery of Ontario....This new spiral staircase was designed by architect Frank Gehry. Stunning to see in person.

"There'll be hidden worlds that shine...."

Two guys named Joe and Harry built a window with four panes. They use it as a tool to help others learn more about themselves. Each section represents a different portion of awareness ....what we know and dont know about how we see ourselves and how others see us. They called them regions and are defined as follows:

1. what is known by the person about him/herself and is also known by others - open area, open self, free area, free self, or 'the arena'
2. what is unknown by the person about him/herself but which others know - blind area, blind self, or 'blindspot'
3. what the person knows about him/herself that others do not know - hidden area, hidden self, avoided area, avoided self or 'facade'
4. what is unknown by the person about him/herself and is also unknown by others - unknown area or unknown self

And it looks something like this.....It appears to be such a simplistic tool for facilitating a discussion on self awareness, but it carries a depth which can be tapped into quickly and easily. The region which fascinates me the most is the blind area. More succinctly....how the other regions impact it.

Our behaviour is our language. How we act and what we do is our expressed story....and the underlying REASONS why we act and what we do is the key to learning more about our emotional make-up. So often our behaviour is seen by others in a very different light than the one shining on our awareness. This more than likely happens because we repress, deny, suppress and hide behind a facade of shame and guilt and anger.....of fear, of ugliness, of previous actions we are ashamed of, or abuse we have experienced and have been painfully wounded by. Our hidden area.....our own personal knowledge hidden under a facade is often clearly revealed by our behaviour. If there is a disconnect....for example....if we THINK it is hidden from others still and yet our behaviour shows a very different reality, we are in a place of deep emotional pain.

Abuse is a strong factor (and probably the most common ) in the unhealthy disconnect between the hidden self and the blind area. Traumatic abuse, unresolved and festering....HIDDEN from the rest of the world or so the human victim supposes almost always reveals itself in the actions which others can see, which the victim might not be able to. All forms of addictions, substance abuse, sexual, gambling even obsessive compulsions particularly about others, living a double life of secrets.......all deniable, all rationalized and mishandled behaviour and actions by the human being, but sometimes VERY visible to those around them.

The key as a friend or a family member to helping someone shrink their blind area....to letting them SEE how their behaviour is being perceived and how it is manifested is to gently reveal it to them. It's very difficult especially if the self destructive behaviour is a means of coping...of SURVIVING.....of meeting unmet NEEDS....or even of finding a way to escape the harsh realities in their lives because it will be met with brute force dismissal and even anger.

You don't know me!

I'm aware of why I'm doing this. It's none of your business!

How presumptuous of you to assess what I'm doing!

I've dealt with that part of my life! It doesn't impact me anymore.

uh....ok.....if you think so......

Timing is key...and openness on the part of the person acting out blindly is really necessary. There's no point in pointing out to someone that what they are doing is self destructive if they aren't open to hearing it because a power struggle will ensue. If a person wants to live a lie or wallow in their own rationalizations as a means of survival/control, they will stubbornly remain in that frame of mind. Their "JoHari" Window panes will remain rigid. If their need is to be needed.....is to NEVER be forgotten because of unexplored abandonment/rejection issues cause by abuse, the behaviour reverberates blindly and recklessly all over the place. It is quite frightening to observe this happening.

We all have blind spots. Our hidden world sometimes needs to seep out, EVEN when we don't want it to....sometimes as a means to let SOMEONE who is paying attention KNOW that we are hurt and wounded.....we may not even know it when we are screaming for help through our addictions and obsessions. Sometimes learning about how we have misbehaved/misfired racks us with shame and embarrassment. This is often the case. We've been "found out" ..... like being caught with our pants down and it's a terrible terrible feeling. Hunger to be loved and validated....to be VISIBLE often supercedes the need to remain hidden.

But isn't it better to know how we are being seen and perceived...HOW our behaviour is being interpreted than not know? Wouldn't you want to know if you were acting like a complete fool? Or would you rather remain in the dark? I don't know the answer....I'm just wondering....Our hiddens worlds do shine.....right out the window.

Why do the things that connect us slowly pull us apart?

Old Man Willow lives in the concrete part of town, his roots upturned and tucked in the scuffed shuffle of exhaustion. Living on the streets, his shadowy presence looms large. His broad shouldered bearing tackles the comfort of passersby who are afraid of this man with the flowing treebeard and weathered eyes. He rules the streets and in the middle of the night, Old Man Willow owns them outrightly.

"When everyone in this city is safe and warm in the comfort of their homes, when everyone in this city has gone somewhere where there is a roof and a bed, I sit in a hallway at 4 am and wonder if I'm going to make it through another night. Even in the middle of winter, I'm out there and I know I'm the only one. I'm the only one," he says with burdened vulnerability I didn't expect to hear.

Demons and drugs have pulled Old Man Willow into a life of distrusting isolation. His road of darkness has dragged him into the soul of sorrow where defeat eats flesh and leaves weeping wounds. The storms he has endured forced him to bend and twist over and over again and it shows. Life's hurricanes have taken their toll on this human being and have left him with deep in the bone marrow aches and abandoned youthful dreams in tatters.

His dream was to make it to the "show..." He had the natural ability, the athleticism to rise above the ranks of amateurs....to breathe in the glory of the migthy crack of the bat. He was born to play ball in a place where it is a religion. It was in his blood. The ball field was where he belonged. It was what he connected to. It was his love. His love...... but not his fate. His fate was stamped by the choices he made. It pulled him apart like the seams of a worn baseball and left him facing the reflections of acquainted glory in the hallways and on the streets alone, panhandling for a hot cup of coffee.

Beyond the raging anger which sealed his fall from the gracefulness of a limbered soul, Old Man Willow shares his insight with anyone who will ask. Few have asked. He knows it was his own fault, but he also knows he was a victim of the dysfunction he grew up in. Always tough, always on the defence, always fighting to scrape by when others had an abundance of support soared around him, he developed a crusty outer shell. Authority didn't exist in his mind. They were the enemy. They were all stupid. He knew how to throw heat on the mound, but he didn't know how to be coached. He failed at this part of the game.

"I had too much attitude. I didn't listen. I loved to play ball," he says with a life affirming gleam in his eyes, "but I had no discipline. They wouldn't take a chance on me and I don't blame them."

"What happened then?" I asked....

"I partied too much. I fell in love. I figured I had it in the bag then.....that my talent was good enough to make it even though I didn't listen to them......I kept partying and married my childhood sweatheart. We were too young though when I took her away from her family. It only lasted a year and I took her back home and moved on.....I had a few tryouts but I had this big chip on my shoulder. I see it now. I didn't then. I just didn't know how to play THAT game. I thought I was better than everyone else. It was just anger talking. It was just my anger. Nothing's ever come easy."

He sat back lost in the song of his undoing in a place of long ago.

"I could've made it....I was that good. I threw it away.....I threw it away."

The cold years have aged Old Man Willow. His treebeard is predominantly and prematurely grey. His blue eyes have faded. His thick outer shell is calloused with weathered beatings from drugged numbness and broken relationships. Still, when you look beyond his scuffed remnants of this broken man, you see the strength he used not on the ball field, but on the mean streets in order to survive. He used his strength to survive and it has slowly pulled him apart from what he loved the most. It happens to the best of us.

What was glowingly apparent to me as I sat with him in the comfort of a warm office and listened with a combined sense of awe and pity, was an awareness that this man felt emotion far deeper than you or I. He may have had the physical prowess to dominate in a game we shared a love for, but he didn't have the filtering capacity to protect himself from the onslaught of life's feelings thrown with heat. Old Man Willow may scare down the passersby. He may have a shadowy presence which looms large over the concrete part of town. He may even throw a few swings at the demons and not have the self discipline to walk away from a fight. But his true persona is of a sensitive frightened human being who couldn't guard himself from hurt. This is what slowly pulled him apart from the rest. This is what finally took him to a place in his hurt where he finally asked for help.

His help was heard.....by his doctor who has grown to admire his unique patient.....by a doctor who took it upon himself to "go to bat" for a man who has burned many bridges in life. And because of this respect he has for a broken human being, Old Man Willow is going to receive some help. Tomorrow, he moves into his own place. Tomorrow night, his hallway will lead to a bedroom where his own bed awaits made with crisp and fresh sheets. His head will have a pillow. The community, many of whom have wanted to help Old Man Willow, has pulled together to help him. Hopefully he can make the transition from the mean cold streets to a place called home. It won't be easy to break lifelong habits. But, we're all willing to give it a try.....again and again...

and again.......this is life itself.

one star.....

The hunger to belong is at the heart of our nature. Cut off from others, we atrophy and turn in on ourselves. Mostly we do not need to make issue of belonging; when we belong, we take it for granted. Merely to be excluded or to sense rejection hurts. When we become isolated we are prone to being damaged; our minds lose their flexibility and natural kindness. We become vulnerable to fear and negativity. A sense of belonging, however suggests warmth, understanding and embrace. The ancient and eternal values of human life -- truth, unity, goodness, justice, beauty and love -- are all statements of true belonging.

Our hunger to belong is the longing to bridge the gulf that exists between isolation and intimacy. Distance awakens longing; closeness is belonging. Everyone longs for intimacy and dreams of a nest of belonging in which one is embraced, seen and loved. Something within us cries out for belonging. We can have all the world has to offer in terms of status, achievement and possessions, yet without a true sense of belonging, our lives feel empty and pointless. Like the tree that puts roots deep into the clay, each of us needs the anchor of belonging in order to bend with the storms and continue towards the light. Like the ocean that returns each time to the shore, a sense of belonging liberates us and empowers us to trust fully the rhythm of loss and longing. Like a welcoming circle of friendship, it also shelters us from the loneliness of life. Furthermore, when we belong, we have and outside mooring to prevent our minds from falling into the abyss within us. Though we may not reflect too frequently on the vast infinity that surrounds us, such infinity can be threatening; it makes us feel tiny, inconsequential and vulnerable.
John O'Donahue, prologue, Eternal Echoes; Exploring our Hunger to Belong.

Last night, I sat amongst a small group of friends in one of their homes which sits on a hill surrounded by pine and birch, looking down at the unpopulated shoreline of a section of the Saint John river headpond. It was the last gathering before our lives pull us in different directions, before routines rev up into high gear, before the shivering reality of early morning commutes to our work and school destinations have to be faced. We gathered to share a meal...to relax into an uncomplicated mellow conversation where laughter and quiet came freely. It was like a break for the brain. It felt comfortably relaxing like one feels during a massage. There was an inner sense of peace in every one of us. Wrapped up warmly, protected from the biting winter winds, we all felt a lovely sense of belonging within the home cocoon.

The Christmas tree, one cut from the nearby wood still contained its magic....the little white lights on its uniquely stretched limbs reflected beautifully in the window with the dark night lingering behind the glow. From where I was sitting, I could see beyond the treelights' reflection to one bright star out in the night sky. It was so brilliant, so alone and it outshone the sideways moon which seemed to be cloaked in a thin almost sheer muslin of clouds. One alluring star sitting in the east, hanging over the dark horizon winked. I wondered if it was the same guiding light seen by the Magi. It may have been.

I pulled on my coat, tucked my feet back into my boots and headed out onto the porch to get a better view of the solitary twinkling light. It wasnt until I stepped away from the protection of the house while standing on an unsheltered deck 15 feet above the hill, that I realized how bitterly cold and windy it was. It bit through my clothes, and stung my exposed face, the noise surrounded me in a way that made me feel the bite of insignificant vulnerability. The contrast between the quiet warmth belonging amongst friends and the stark isolation surrounded by the wrath of whistling nature was startling. And yet, I was only a couple of feet away from them, still visible, still connected.....my roots planted in the common clay.

I stood beside the outreaching branches of a mature birch tree, one that shades this deck from the summer heat which now stood nakedly majestic.....and I looked up at the star through the tree's bare branches. The wind made the birchskin flap furiously making a rattling old bones noise. The branches scratched each other like nails on a dry skin. Eerie sounds creaked out of the nearby wood, crackling cold amongst the siren lament.

These sounds met my thoughts, which drove me eastward to a place far away from the place where I stood alone. They accompanied my wondering, as I tried to picture the scene unfolding below the same star in a the area where the Magi once journied to acknowledge and to celebrate the birth of a very special baby. I realized this star would not be visible to them from their vantage. This star would be blocked by the violent outpouring raining down on them. No peace in the East. No rest on their land. No reassurance when they peered at their nightsky. Just fear, and bitterly cold harsh anger.

Why? The storied history of the Middle East is a tightly woven complicated strangle which defies my understanding. Resolution and peace seem impossible when surrendering and letting go are marked with the lack of any ability to see beyond one's own interpretation of the history which continues to defiantly unfold below the bright star. Boundaries and borders made up by human beings......fought over with such unrelenting vengeance. I can't imagine it will ever cease. As I stood alone, surrounded by the vastness of my country's unoccupied land, I was left wondering if it all came down to a hunger to belong. Are they fighting for the empowering liberation a sense of belonging provides? Is this the hungry insatiable battlecry?

One star.....millions of eyes gaze at one star......and ask the same question about a place where peace never seems to belong. It echoes a hunger so deep, it's cry penetrates our own.

I stepped back into the fold of my own belonging......crawled up onto a sofa so comfortable and welcoming and fell asleep thinking of the Magi, thinking of the star, feeling for a place where the Prince of Peace was born....and wishing I could bottle my comfort to sprinkle on the souls who know no rest.