Submerged Rocks

I don't know what it is about the month of January that begins in a familiar darkness for me, but then very slowly moves my spirit into a lighter, more transformational place.  I am not sure at what point the dissension initially occurs, the moment at which the downward spiral takes its initial turn causing me to unknowingly burrow down deep, receding into what feels a bit like depression.(if I was a depressive type of person, which characteristically, I am not)  But it is something that I have come to acknowledge over the past eight years or so, ever since I spent six weeks during a particularly rainy January/February, sitting with my ninety year old grandmother in the hospital, watching her slowly whither away while not being able to give in to her wishes for me to "put a pillow over her head" so that she did not have to withstand anymore.  She was ready to leave, her ninety years on this earth filled with mostly productivity and fullness, and I was waiting it out by her side, saying farewell but not knowing when the end would come.  She and I were very close.  In many ways, she looked upon me more as a daughter than as a granddaughter.  I share her hearty laugh.  I share her generosity and her love of the written word.  I share her sense of humor and her sense of loyalty, her sense of duty to those we love.  And so, I shared in her responsibility, taking care of four young daughters who required my full-time attention while giving my grandma the rest.  We moved her out to a facility near where my father lives(two and a half hours away, much too far for him to drive on a regular basis) after we understood that she would need full-time care, and slowly, the time slipped away from her.  It began with the sad fact that she no longer remembered my two youngest daughters, and then, she stopped reading, stopped eating and slept for much of the day.  She was putting the proverbial "pillow" over her own head, wishing herself into no longer.  The entire process took six months, beginning in that early January and then finally releasing her on my birthday in July of that same year.  There is no irony lost on me when it comes to the fact that she made her final transition on my birthday morning that summer.  She and I had several interesting conversations in the week leading up to her death and I knew that where I was dropping her off on this side of life, her own mother would be picking her up on the other side.  I found it all, quite humbling.

The January after my grandma passed, my mother had knee-replacement surgery.  She behaved much like a spoiled child and gave me weeks of aggravation.  Let's just say that when she threw her food tray across the room because the doctor decided it was time to cut off her morphine supply, I decided that it was time for me to spend less time sitting with her in the hospital.  Good decision...

And then, three years ago on February 17, 2008, my younger brother died.  I won't delve into the details about that here as I have written about them many other times on this blog, but his death raised the bar to an entirely new level.

So while I began this by saying that I am not entirely sure as to why January tends to begin in a fairly dark place for me, by backtracking a bit, I admitted myself into a moment of absolute clarity.  By allowing myself to retrieve some of the more difficult pieces that I like to forget, I transitioned myself into a space of clearer understanding and even, compassion.  Compassion for myself.  Understanding.  Transformation.  Allowance.

Yesterday, I took a long walk on the beach.  Not a search for sea glass or sunsets, but a search for answers and understanding.  Each year, I try to come up with a word that will help to direct me and keep me focused for the year.  I do not remember what that word was for 2008.  That was the year that I lost my brother and I think that as a self-protective measure, the word left my consciousness.  In 2009, the word was patience.  Lord knows I needed a good dose of patience for all of the nonsense that was only just beginning!  In 2010, because there are no rules to any of this(except for the ones that I make up for myself), the only appropriate word that rang throughout my mind was once again, patience, and I went with it.  Yesterday, as I walked on the beach at a pace much quicker than my usual beach walk, the word floated into my consciousness.  Transform.  I rolled the word around inside of my mind for a bit.  Transformation.  I thought about what it means and how it pertained to who I am now.  I considered the somewhat negative connotation to the word. Change.  But more about the positive.  Metamorphosis.  And then I thought about the things which we submerge in spaces that we think will somehow protect us.  All of the stuff that we bury in those dark places, only to have them haunt us in ways that we have tried to hide from.  We minimize their importance, the strong influence of which they have upon our lives.

And yet, if we search a little harder and a bit deeper, we might actually find our way back up into the light, just by taking the time to acknowledge the darkness.  Just as submerged rocks can prove to be a serious danger when we are unaware of their presence, when we try to cover up the events in our lives which affect us so profoundly, they can only become dangerous obstacles to the evolution of our souls.  Of who we are and who we are meant to become.

The sun is shining brightly today.  It is warm, about eighty degrees and I can hear a bird calling in the distance.  I have allowed myself to spend some time in the darkness, thinking, exploring, contemplating and just being.  It is now time for me to climb back into the light, step by step, moment by moment, breath by breath.  This is a choice that I am making, this climb, this transformation.  We all hope to transform ourselves but most of us also fight change.  I am giving up that fight.

Do you have a word for 2011?

Wings

Something about the light.  The shades and shapes.  The subtle melding of hues.  The way in which each   bird took its form against the background, reminded me as to how we each use our words to create a picture.  One word building upon another.  An idea clearing into focus.  A story which now exists where there once was none.

Watching the small flock of birds feeding outside of my window, I allowed my mind to wander into both dark and light.  Color and shade.  Stillness and movement.  And I began to consider the movement.  The rest. The fluttering of wings.  The fluttering of wings.

And I began to consider how just as the fluttering of wings can compel another bird into movement, the words of another can invoke more words and more words and more words.  With my story building upon yours and your story building upon mine until the ideas become fluid.  Rippling words concentrically building outwards until there are new meanings to be found.  Unique ideas.  Fresh stories being created in the quiver of an original word.

Each one of us has a hopping-off point.  A point at which something, or more importantly, someone, inspires us.  Moves us.  Motivates us.

We then land in the space where we are more able to nurture our own ideas.  We take sustenance from the words of others, and then when things are done correctly, we use those words to ignite our own notions.

It is a process that allows us to stretch our own wings.  Our own thoughts take shape and we are inspired to fly!  The words come and we compose our own unique flight-patterns.  All built upon the feeling that we get when we read something that inspires the soul out of its momentary rest.

And sometimes, the results are just breathtaking.  Our wings spread further and farther than even we ever imagined that they could.

Our hearts open wide.

And the beating of our wings, of our heart, take on another rhythm which also includes the rhythm of the words that came before.  From someplace else.  From someone else.  And an even richer story is launched into flight.

So I continue to read.  I read books, many, many books.  I read your blogs, filled with your words of life and hope.  Yesterdays and somedays.  Tomorrows and right nows.  I study my surroundings.  I take in all that I can.  I listen.  Talk radio happens to be one of my favorite mediums.  I fall asleep listening to words and ideas, and I continue listening even as I slumber.  The voices become part of my dreams.  I study color and shape and movement.  Not only the obvious, but the subtleties behind what is initially notable.  And my own wings begin to flutter with all of the possibilities.

This last picture caused me to think about how we share so much of who we are when we write things down.  And whether we share our words through publications, books or blogs, we never know exactly when something that we have said, will resonate with someone else, and so on, and so on, and so on.  Words, your words, can be just the flutter that might inspire someone else's flight.  Never underestimate the power in that.

Flutter on.

Welcome Home

I find that as life takes on a faster pace, I have an almost desperate need to slow things down. As someone who used to be a "doer"(raising four daughters will do that to you), I have learned to become a more constant observer and it seems to serve me well. I like catching moments as they happen. I enjoy recording things by camera or using words to express and evoke emotion. I feel that in some ways, I am finally beginning to come into my own. You see, when I was young, as early as eleven years old, writing was something that felt very natural to me. I found that it was a very therapeutic way for me to calm myself as I dealt with some very tumultuous situations in life. Writing allowed me to place things into perspective. It allowed me to compartmentilize my world into things that were good and things that were not so good. It allowed me to connect with a part of myself that understood a little more, a part that was wiser and more maternal. It helped me to withstand a difficult childhood.

Looking back now, I see that for a time, this gift, my coping mechanism, was taken away from me. Professors in college became overly critical of my use of "descriptive language". My father decided that I should become an attorney and that creative writing was a huge waste of my time. I lost something that was important to me. I lost something that meant expression. I lost my absolute love for the written word.

But somehow, my love for writing never really disappeared. It just lay doramnt, right beneath the surface of my life, waiting. Waiting for the right time. Waiting for me to return. And like this loyal dog who waited patiently for his master to return to the edge of the water, my words waited for me. Slowly I find them buried just beneath the surface, and slowly they return to me like an old friend whose been with me all along.

I began to read more and then more and then more. I participated in a wonderful writing workshop taught by an inspiring and gifted writer named Peggy Payne. Peggy encouraged me with her love of the written word, her adventurous spirit and her giving nature. She made me realize that to some people, words are like air and without them, we fail to thrive.

And as I became more of an observer, the words and images flowed back to me. I no longer waited for them to return without understanding that I was, indeed, waiting. I opened my soul back up to the power of the written word. I began this blog...

and the words poured out.

So I wonder when I think about the people I know, the friends I have, the Angel daughters I am raising. What have you left behind? And how will you open yourself up into coming home to it once again.

May you close your eyes and search your soul for the things you left behind. May you believe that you are worthy enough to bring those things back into your life.

I have been dealing with a computer crash since this past weekend so please bear with me if I am a bit out of touch. I am sharing this computer with my Angel daughters who for some reason, think that it's important to do homework.