Abundance #3

Abundance #3

Sometimes Mary doesn’t show up.

I had a rough meeting today. Not that this is totally out of the ordinary. I have grown accustomed to the daily possibility that things can go south in the types of emotionally charged meetings that I either lead or attend. Angry, sad or confused parents are common and so are school staff members who want clear, professional answers about students. I’ve learned to open myself to the fact that anything could happen: good, bad or otherwise.

I’ve learned to open myself up, take my time, breathe, relax and most importantly listen. The other thing I do is invite Mary into the space. Yes, as in the Mother of God or as I like to think of her the feminine divine. I notice a grounding when I do this and possibilities seem to present themselves where doors seemed closed before. This practice also helps me to remember there is something greater than our educational team sitting around that table and in a very real way I feel that I can more easily keep the students’ and families’ needs in mind.

Today, Mary didn’t show up.

As today’s meeting progressed not only was it hijacked by the largest ego in the room, the needs of the student were being pushed to the side. Inexperience, ignorance and a lack of professionalism took over. I attempted to regain control. I failed. I attempted to gently add meaningful input. It was blocked. All of my strategies failed and to make things worse I started to get mad. Then I knew I needed to sit back and breathe and focus on something good and positive.

I felt I needed to give up on Mary and hope for a rainbow and unicorn.

Then, I looked at the student’s mom. I realized that I had always liked her and I can tell she truly cares for her child. As the ill-advised participant was capitalizing the meeting, I focused on the mom and my angry, rapid heartbeat settled. I considered my word, “abundance” and mustered ways to manifest abundance right there and then. Self-love, compassion (even for the ill-advised one) and letting go of control swam through my mind. I smiled and thought about how this meeting was not about whether or not my professional knowledge was being recognized but rather it was about the child and her mother.

Mary showed up.

Abundance #2

Abundance #2

I made a mistake. Not a big one, mind you but I admit, I did screw up and not in just one-way. My error was that my previous blog entry was not actually the first time I had written about abundance yet I titled it, “Abundance #1.” I also noticed that I missed a couple of typos while I was editing.

“Why does this matter?” you might be wondering and to be honest I really don’t think it does. However, my reactions to the mistake(s) are signposts for me that point to growth. Perhaps emotional, perhaps spiritual, perhaps both or maybe neither.

Let me clarify. I have spent some time reflecting on what makes an abundant life. Since this is my word and my vision for the year, I thought it would be useful to parse out what helps to build abundance and what strips life of it. One of the first things I had to face was that perfectionism, in any form, simply is not part of the equation. Attempted perfectionism is at best futile and at worst miserably destructive.

I had to examine the fact, that at least within me, the desire to be perfect was and is fear-based with hints of superstition. “If I do this right and that right and make no errors than nothing bad will happen.” I am fully aware that this thinking is firmly rooted in my dysfunctional upbringing but others along the way have contributed to this neurotic, life sucking cauldron of non-sense.

Interactions with those who feel the need to elevate themselves through corrections of my grammar, spelling or semantic prowess have left their mark. Snide remarks about my behavior at a social gathering or worse yet highly intense interactions about updated, high-end cabinetry that I do not have my house (and never realized I needed) have caused me to be on high alert in regard to the way I speak, act and the material items I should or shouldn’t want.

Well, I am here to tell you that this silliness is stopping, because I am choosing abundance over of the useless pursuit of perfection. I am choosing lightness and abundant self-love over trying to be smarter, better behaved or more stylish than others. Attempting to achieve the later might be either the definition of insanity or hell.

So, my friends I apologize for the redundant blog titles, the typos, the fragments, the swear words and the 1980s cabinets. To me embracing the mess is the fastest path to abundance.

Abundance #1

Abundance #1

Today was Easter, the end of Lent. In the Christian tradition this signifies resurrection of Jesus. I like to think of it as the symbolic marking of all of life’s rebirths. Since the beginning of the year I have been focused on a vision and with this vision is a word for the year and this word is, “abundance.” I have taken the time to draw out a vision board and process through this idea both physically and mentally. I am not going to pretend to know what this activity might hold for me going forward but I do know what I have seen in myself thus far and I am fairly certain that the concept of resurrection is very much in the forefront.

As I walked into church today a regular parishioner who I know somewhat well asked me how tall I am. I thought this question was interesting given the fact I usually only get asked when I am wearing heels and my height towers to 6’. “5-9” I answered. She wondered if I had to wear flats when I was married. Again, this questioning was off putting given that fact that I am by no means a newlywed. “Yes. I did wear flats,” answering as if I was citing from a history text. She dropped the questioning.

My height has been an intermittent point of both pride and frustration since high school. I was always slightly taller than the other girls, reaching 5’7” by my senior year. There were always the petite girls who would cheep, “The boys like me because I am little!” This was always off putting and confusing because the boys liked me too. By the time I got to college I had grown 2 inches and felt looming and difficult to miss. I was blessed with friends who equated my height to that of fashion models but when I look back through pictures I notice I slumped or threw a hip out to better match my contemporaries; in essence to make myself smaller.

When I started having babies, I was more concerned with what my body could do than how vertical my body stood. I gained pride in the fact that I could birth these strong, healthy souls. For more than a decade, my focus (in regard to my body) had been health and performance (as in, can I lift the filled Costco box from the cart to the trunk of my minivan). Then I began to notice a phenomenon. There is something that happens with middle-aged women. It is a kind of second adolescence. All of the sudden I have noticed an uptick in comments about bodies: short, tall, fat, slim, strong, flabby etc… And with this rekindling of concern regarding physical appearance, my height cannot be left alone.

My frustration with these comments is real but I believe they do not deserve the time to even address them. The same goes for any dialogue regarding human bodies unless there is concern for that person’s health (either too thin or too heavy).

So, here is the resurrection part: My word is abundance. My vision is abundance. My dead younger self tried to make herself smaller. My re-birthed abundant self will be tall and strong. Abundant in height and abundant in self-love. Just the way God designed me to be.

Talking to Tattoo

Talking to Tattoo

I talk to my tattoo. The bright red, egg shaped illustration that adorns my inner left ankle will often times talk back. I’ve heard that it is not uncommon for people to talk to their body art, but two years ago I never would have guessed that this addition to my skin would befriend me and bring me the wisdom it has.

The egg is a cross-cultural symbol of rebirth. However, the myth of the red egg being tied to Mary Magdalene’s post-resurrection evangelism adds a greater level of meaning for me. The story goes something like this; Mary M. was out spreading the Gospel to all who would listen and when she told a Roman emperor about Jesus rising from the dead, he chided her and pointing to a basket of eggs said, “Jesus no more resurrected than those eggs are red!” And they turned red! I love this story not only because it involves Mary Magdalene but also because it is a lesson that resurrection is not so much about the after-life but rather it is able to be experienced in the here and now even when faith is limited.

My tattooed egg is nestled inside a semi-circle of seven prayer beads, a reminder that resurrection is possible and more importantly necessary everyday of my life. So, every morning I look down and say, “hi!” and I reflect on ways to re-birth myself into the person I truly want to be and who I think God wants me to be: Loving, grateful, compassionate and soulful. Most days I fall extremely short and I look at my ink egg and apologize and hope for another chance for resurrection the next day.

The Sun and Mountains Remain

I watered Rob’s garden the other morning. His pint sized raised garden bed is home to some beautiful Swiss Chard, Bok Choy and Beets. They are healthy, happy and loved. Their radiance shines through their glossy leaves and gorgeous colors. “Hello!” they seem to exclaim, “It’s great to be alive!” The leeks are a little shyer, their sprouts growing more slowly as they add to their circular depth in private. I initially thought the leeks were angry but as I contemplated them I realized they are just taking their time to grow deeper and wider into their beings.

As I glanced around the area that is now designated an, “urban renewal” space for small plots of agriculture, I noticed the old Indian School that is pushed back from the intersection that also hosts a small high rise and some non-descript residential buildings. The light rail train moved past and my eyes settled onto a vacant lot adjacent to some condos. It was in that lot that I first remembered Phoenix.

My family traveled through the night in August 1978. I don’t remember much of the trip. My father carried me to the car from my bed at the motel in Searchlight, Nevada. My parents must have told me that we were leaving that little desert town and going to Phoenix to find work because I was not startled by the midnight change in my sleeping location. We didn’t have enough gas money to get back to our house in California and I know my parents hoped for more opportunity in Phoenix. The nighttime travel helped to insure the car wouldn’t overheat but August nights in the desert are hot and when I woke midway through our journey, I was thirsty, hot and disoriented. We pulled off the road and a single streetlight illuminated a closed gas station. We seemed to be there a long time but perhaps my 5 year-old brain miscalculated the length of that seemingly fruitless stop.

That’s all I remember.

Then I woke up.

The front bench seat of that Oldsmobile was staring at me. My sweaty hair was damped to my cheeks. I sat up and looked out the car window to see a far off yard with many people with white shirts. The people I saw milling around looked brown and they contrasted against the red brick buildings. The gate around the yard made me think they might be prisoners. It was early morning and the sun was casting her warm orange glow over sharp mountains that seemed to jut abruptly from the earth. I was alone in the car and glanced around to see where my parents and brother might have gone. I realized I was in the parking lot of a restaurant but I had no idea what the large milk silos were that hugged against the building. They looked like rocket ships to me, yet the restaurant sign displayed a carnation flower, which was confusing given the spacecraft.

I realized I was in Phoenix.

Prisoners. Sun. Mountains. Rockets.

I went inside.

Just like those rockets were not spacecraft but rather large storage towers for milk, the, “prisoners” were no prisoners. Well, not prisoners in the common sense of the word. The Indian School would operate until the early ‘90’s leaving behind a large urban corner lot adjacent to the VA hospital.

This is where I stood watering the garden that was ever so meekly bringing new life into the world. I tearfully wondered at how much had changed since I first arrived here. Not merely with the city itself but also within myself. Years had not just brought age to me but rather a plentitude of experience and hopefully some tendrils of wisdom. I think that empty corner lot feels the same.

I took one last look at those leeks that have yet to know where they are springing up and I wondered if they might feel as equally confused as I did when they awaken and realize they too are in Phoenix.