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Feed Your Spirit

Your spirit’s food is personal; only you know what your spirit hungers for.  Sonia Choquette

“What does your spirit love?”  Sonia Choquette, author and intuitive, asked the group of twenty of us at the Translucent You Workshop that I was attending in the fall of 2004 in Kauai, Hawaii.  She then had us pair up, and take turns sharing, one at a time, three minutes each, repeating over and over again what our spirit loves.

The Red Sox had just won the World Series that day for the first time since 1918.  “My spirit loves baseball,” I told my partner, a little surprised that a childhood passion for Fenway Park and the New England boys of summer came back so strongly.  “And waves, my spirit loves to ride the waves into shore and have them splash over me and feel their power.”  That was no surprise.  We were in Hawaii, and the blue of the South Pacific and the rolling warm water and the white sand were intoxicating.  But I was really thrown for a loop by what popped up next.  With more enthusiasm than I had felt for a long long time, I blurted it out, “My spirit loves to be immature.  My spirit loves to laugh so hard I snort.  My spirit loves it when my husband and I crack each other up at inappropriate times.”  I proceeded to tell my workshop partner how we, my husband and I, walk through our neighborhood making whooping noises when the other least expects it.  Something in me had wanted to sound more grown-up in my spirit-loves, more “Om” and yoga-music calm, but I couldn’t help myself.  My spirit was in charge.  “My spirit loves whooping!” I said in a loud-whooping snorting voice.

It makes sense as I now think about it.  Our kids had just flown out of our nest and we were busting free from old roles that no longer fed our spirits.  Of course there was a whoop in us, a new sense of freedom.  And little did we know in that autumn-of-our-early-whoopage that, over the years, we would whoop our way through the tunnel of Lights at the Detroit airport and onto the cobblestone streets of Lisbon and Rome and grand Paris, that our whoops would sail across this planet, that our kids, the ones who flew the coop, would say with pride that, “Our parents got younger when we left home.”

And today, on a perfectly blue, no-humidity, waves splashing into shore afternoon, I’m going to claim some time at one of my favorite places, on the rocks that edge the shore of my favorite Great Lake, and I’m going to dip into those waves and I’m going to think about baseball and my son, Chris, who right now is attending a wedding in the Red Sox’s hometown, and I’m going to ask myself, as I do often, “Helen, what is it that your spirit loves?” And I’m going to listen, and, once again, I might be surprised by what pops up.

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