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Archive for January, 2016

The Structure of My Life

Divine Spirit is the structure of my life.  I am safe and loved and totally supported.  Louise Hay

You carefully place one foot in front of the other; that’s how you do it, how you climb those mighty “fourteener” mountains of the Colorado Rockies.  And you feel it beneath your feet, the solid ground, sometimes a worn-down path scattered with stones, sometimes a grouping of boulders tossed about by forces of nature, sometimes the smooth backbone of the mountain itself.  And the mountain, the one that you have chosen to climb on this particular day, supports you as you trace its spine high up above the tree-line, as you breathe in the thin clear air that surrounds it, as you almost feel as if you could take off and fly with the hawk that is coasting beside you now as you climb even higher.  Except you don’t take off; you stay grounded, secure and stable on this mountain home, until you reach its peak and the whole of the mountain lies beneath your feet.

I’ve done this twice, climbed a fourteener, with my husband, son and daughter-in-law during the years that they lived in Boulder, and it is an exhilarating experience to feel the energy of the mountain, to feel that you are on intimate terms with this powerful force.  And it was the secure and the stable that I focused upon, that kept me from getting tipsy with all this height and all this thin air and all this expansiveness of space.  But what is it that really lies beneath your feet when you are climbing a fourteener?  Sure, there is the solid surface that can be stomped upon beat after beat as you walk.  But beneath that surface-drumbeat, what gives the mountain its power?  Over thirty years ago, just months into his practice of dentistry in the mining town where we live, my husband was given a gift by a new patient, a miner at the local pit. It was a foot-long hefty crystal, clear and pale-purple and green, the most glorious of rocks that I had ever seen.  And this crystal was found under the ground in the town where we live.  We walk on earth that gleams crystal light.  And the mountains, those fourteeners, and their smaller siblings, are filled with this crystal light, and deep at their center, their energy is on fire.  It is not solid at all; it is dancing and it is thrumming and it is the force of life itself.

And the trees that sprout up from this dancing ground, they are alive with it, too, this life-force energy.  It is not just flowing through the roots as watery sap; it is in the cells of the tree itself, in the bark and the branches, in bud and blossom.  The trees, like the mountains, are the dancing divine.  I met a man recently who can see this force.  He says to soften your eyes as you look up at the tips, and, if you relax into it, you can see it, too, he adds, sometimes a soft glow, sometimes shooting sparks of fire.  And I wonder if we relax into it, if we can see it everywhere, this glowing shimmering fiery spirit of life.  There are times that I see this glow emanating in the people around me.  It happens when I settle into the moment, when I breathe deeply, when I’m enjoying myself, at an open mic night at the Joy Center or at a concert or sitting across from a dear friend at a table.  And, what about me?  If divine spirit is the guiding force, the emanating light of the mountain and of the people who climb the mountain and the people who dwell beside the mountain and the people who dwell beside the sea,  and the guiding force within the sea itself and in the sea creatures, and in the cities that are thrumming with song and in the songs that are sung, shouldn’t it be the guiding force within me as well?  And within you?

I’ve been thinking about this lately, as I repeat a mantra: “Divine Spirit is the structure of my life.  I am safe and loved and totally supported.”  It is a mantra that Louise Hay, in her book, You Can Heal Your Life, suggests as a meditation for releasing energy blocks of the bone marrow, the deepest core part of our bodies, our life-force mountain center.  It is not a new notion for me to feel my body alive with spirit.  That sensation of vibrant sparkling energy has been my body’s dancing companion since I can remember, as I tromped the coastal rocks and swam in the sea of my childhood, as I wiggled and jiggled and giggled in classrooms seats, as I lay quietly in my bed, as I still lie quietly in my bed, as I still tromp about on summertime rocks and skate-ski my way through these wintery woods of January.  I know spirit is with me.  I know spirit flows through my body-vessel.  I know this in my bones.  Something feels fresh for me in this mantra, however.  What if it is not just flowing through me; what if it is, instead and more, the structure of who I am, of who you are?  What if, like our mountain companions,  we are made up of spirit in each and every cell and micro-cell of our bodies, in each and every fiber of our being, and this light-filled loving life-giving force is the structure that we can relax and breathe into?  How would this new notion change things, knowing that we are safe and loved and totally supported?

I am beginning to get this, not just in my head, but in my body.  As I push off in my skate-skiing glides across the frozen and very-alive ground, as I breathe in the sharp fresh air, as I greet the trees on either side of the trail, I hear my own heart beating and I say thank you thank you thank you and I feel myself lifted, supported by the world around me and the words in my head and something deep and visceral and good.  “Divine Spirit is the structure of my life.”   I say this over and over and over again.  And I will keep repeating this mantra until I know it as true, until I know it in the deepest marrow of my beloved bones.



Dwell in Possibility

Limitations live only in our minds.  But if we use our imaginations, our possibilities become limitless.  Jamie Paolinetti

Life is a field of unlimited possibilities.  Deepak Chopra

Nothing is set in stone.  Everything is up for our most outrageous imaginations.  Miriam Dyak

You know that dream, the one where you’re in a house, maybe your own house, and you’re wandering through its rooms and all of a sudden you discover it, the entryway leading to a closet or a corridor or a universe that you didn’t even know existed, and you just can’t believe it, how good it feels, how expansive and wonderfully surprising to move forward into this world of new possibilities?  It’s a dream that changes you, that reminds you that life is bigger than you thought it was, that you are free to leave the corral of limiting thoughts and run wild in a world that spans beyond your known horizon.

I lived this nighttime dream in my daytime life when I was a little girl,  and I still can feel how viscerally exciting it was.  I was a seven-year-old- first-grader the spring my parents decided we needed to move out of our small New England colonial into something bigger, something that would fit the two grandmas and the grandpa as well as our family of six.  And although this new something was just a few blocks away from the house I’d lived in my whole little-girl life, there was no comparison.  This place, a former sea captain’s mansion on a street of former sea captain mansions in the shipbuilding town of Bath, Maine, was huge, as huge as New York City or Hawaii or maybe the whole entire world.  And on a hot day in May, while the tulips were blooming along the neighborhood stone walls, I stepped through this home’s front door and a universe of possibility became mine to explore.

Our family was not financially wealthy, but we sure snagged a goldmine with this mansion that my parents bought for a bargain.  It had everything, an elevator big enough to hide in, a front foyer as spacious as a dance hall where little girls could twirl in pirouette after pirouette after pirouette.  It had a bay window in the den, perfect for the balsam Christmas tree that we chose from our property at Fish House Cove each year, and another room with a piano where we put the television that we inherited from our Grammie Emma.  It had a dining room with two different closets and a back staircase that we raced up with fast-little-kid feet and a front staircase that we slid down on our little-kid bottoms.  It had closets in hallways and closets in bedrooms and closets with built-in chests of drawers that we used as perches for our neighborhood clubhouses.  It had seven fireplaces.  Seven of them!  And one of them was in my very own bedroom!  And it had a mantle for my china animal collection and it was made of slate and I propped my chalk board against it and sometimes I wrote with chalk right on the fireplace itself!  And the attic was right down the hall, a winding hall that passed by my parents’ bedroom and my sister’s bedroom and my parent’s bathroom and even more closets — and the attic was the best, the very best!  The attic was that room in a dream that you just don’t expect, that room that is so wonderful that it simply can’t be true.

But it was true.  And it was ours to explore, this third floor attic that spanned the whole front of the house and became our gateway to the limitless world of imagination.  While our calico cat found her way into a another realm of expansion by crawling up into the rafters and disappearing for hours on end, we kids discovered our own world upon world of possibility.  There was a hardwood floor perfect for prancing and dancing and there were cozy nooks for doll-playing and boardgames.  There were built-in book cases with old and musty offerings from another era, a creaky swing chair and a horsehair couch that looked like it should be in a psychiatrist’s office.  There was the built-in puppet theater and the cedar closet that wasn’t a closet at all, but a whole other world within this magic world where stoles with tiny animals heads with beady eyes hung from hooks and boxes of baby clothes became our dolls’ finery.

We kids loved the attic.  We loved our mansion house.  And I don’t remember one ounce of resistance when we packed up our things and moved from our colonial into this bigger place.  I don’t remember the pang of wanting to hold onto the familiar, though I loved so much about that first home of mine — the staircase that became my stoop for contemplation and the etching of the giant oak that my grandfather  created so long ago, and the rumpus room where we rumpused and romped and watched Walt Disney and Teddy Bear Playhouse on our black and white TV, and the lilac tree in the backyard that became our outdoor playhouse and the giant rock across the tiny street that we mountain-climbed with gusto.  It was an easy move, an exciting move, four blocks and a world away from that first home, and I settled right into the abundance of it all.  And the possibilities for play were endless and we kids endlessly took up this challenge and were endlessly tickled by each new discovery.  And I still feel tickled when I think about it all.

And what would it be like to feel that tickled about the possibilities that lie in front of us now, to move into a bigger mind space where there are closets spacious enough for clubhouses, and foyers that become dance halls, and front and back staircases to race up and down, and an attic that opens to the whole entire universe?   And what would it be like to take the cue from the child within us and settle into this mansion of a mind with ease and know that all is well and that the excitement, the treasure, the fun will find its way to us, that we don’t have to work so hard to figure it out, to make it happen, the thing we want to happen, that it will happen when we relax into this high vibe mansion of a home in our mind?  And what would it be like to know that we are worthy of this place, that it is available always, that it is free for the asking, that it is here in this moment just waiting for us to walk up the front steps and open its mansion door?  Let’s open the door.  Let’s dwell in this place.  Let’s play!

Happy New Year!  May it be filled with feel-great possibilities beyond our wildest imaginings!



The Sea Captain home of my youth: Bath, Maine










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