Elephantine Consciousness

I wear an elephant broach on the left shoulder of my black french button up every winter. In the summer, there is no place on my clothing thick enough to hold the trunk, or the roundness of its body, dented with fake jewels that shimmer like real diamonds under the brooklyn sun. When I have had two or more drinks of the most delicious raspberry lambic beer, I lift my little gold elephant to my ear and pretend it speaks sweet words of joy into my ear. Like a child, I pretend it sings to me every morning, as it coats my body with warmth.

And inbetween these moments of golden gobbles, I spend far too many hours lounging...time when I could have been writing my application essays, or studying for my test in April. Time when I could be meditating on my next crucial step. It makes me feel terribly guilty. But soon today I woke knowing that while in this time of haze and headaches from the commercials, or the crappy local news about the slew of enraged citizens with the Mayor's poor response to the blizzard of 2010, I am calm, and okay in my response. All of the sleep was needed, the extra pieces of chocolate, necessary. The home-made dishes, a golden gobble indeed.

And on a night like last night, I watched a special on CBS about the Kennedy Center's Honours for the year of 2010. Oprah Winfrey, Paul McCartney and Obama sat like regal gems, soaking in the honour with humble love. They cried to their tributes, and kissed the sky with white gloves, and golden bands wrapped around their fingers. I watched God emanate from their beings, and that same God in them rests in me. The difference? They thought BIG. I imagined what the energy must have felt like being in a room of our world's true leaders.

And this theme runs through my blood. Think big, GINORMOUS thoughts, all the time. I spoke of this over dinner a few nights before, after a table talk about all of our plans for the year of 2011. Unknown to my consciousness at the time, I said that if I want to help thousands, or perhaps one day, millions of people, I have to think BIG, prodigal thoughts of magnanimous proportions. Do I want to work in Africa, give workshops to hundreds of people? Sing again? Help many families? Publish many books? Speak from love and passion every minute of every waking day, fully conscious and forgetful of the lowly powers of fear?

If I want to truly perform acts of heaven on earth with all of the people I meet in my life, I must take on angelic wings and leave the fear to the floor, as I pick up new ideas in coffee shops, on the bus to work, or when I am with children, who know no limits. I have to manifest a circle of people in my life who know this about me and are not afraid of it. I will walk alone, as well, to this goal, and happily so.

I will heighten my consciousness by making goals each day, of every hour. I will dream of large buildings, soft pages of my own written wonderment, and be the love that I can give. I will start to imagine my organization's name, the outlines of my books, the smell of the printed pages. I will imagine a spouse who holds my hand in all of these endeavors, and adds their own flavor to their purpose in life, as it will blend splendidly with my own.

If I want to experience love in this magnitude, I must give it in equal proportion.

And I will love myself humbly, as I love all of you. And I will remember when I am lounging, low, or down, that where I am and what I do along the way will build upon this steep and complex mountain of consciousness, with many roads, curves, and fresh pine trees, until I make it to where I want to be. And it will be more than enough.

And when I am scared, sad or feeling uncertain, I will listen to the whispers of my little elephant, my source--guiding me with divine love, and white light.

I will see its' jewels cast rainbows on the wall, and know in the power of now.

For Mary, Who Shall Walk With No Shame

My dear friend Mary approached me on break during West African dance to say that she has been out of hand since her mother's recent passing. Her mother died of a blood infection gone horribly wrong just two weeks ago, and to my shock, Mary had an overwhelmingly positive attitude for our upcoming performance on January 8th. She said the performance is just what she needs--the chance to throw her fists outward and upward, to bang our bodies to the floor, to act out the kukilamba dance in wild prayers for rain and a plentiful harvest. To listen to the drums for a beat that our hearts can all dance to with laughter and lightness.

Absolutely.

And like the psychologist that I am, I let her tell me her troubles with the intent to heal. No Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy or Mindfulness techniques. No man-made interventions, just spiritual connection.

She spoke of having sex with men who didn't love her--of getting bar tending jobs because she felt it was the only way to get by until she was out of school. Of smoking pot and drinking a mere day after her mother's death. All I could think was how much more painful the shock was while intoxicated. It all made me hurt for her. And as much as the therapist avoids counter-transference, I couldn't help but speak on my behalf.

I know what it is like to give your body away, and even the lightness of your spirit to someone when all you want to do is discuss the joys of our lives--to inch toward an inkling of spiritual union, of connectedness. Which is really what the art of relationship is--growing together in a deep spiritual union, bound by human universals. And it is not just women who crave this. I know men ache for love and like-mindedness just as much as women. We all want to have that deep connection and the chance to truly create conversations of gold. A chance to show each other who we really are.

We are all searching for love from one another, and we mix in this search with a need to fill deep wounds with pretty pebbles. There is a flaw in this, though. How can we ever learn to give our love if we do not accept that we are already whole? Wholeness is perceived as a lifetime achievement, but the truth is that we are already perfect, and that these bumps in the road are actually the gaps, or space between our thoughts that help us leap to higher faiths, to greener pastures. To sweeter days. Be thankful for them, and hold your head high with no shame. Walk knowing that you are, and always will be, connected to your source, your own spirit. The light that loves you unconditionally.

The source in which we all come from and eventually return to, together.

And then, be kind and forgive yourself.

Where you are right now is where you are meant to be. And if you can, forgive the other person involved too. Jesus was actually pretty cool when he said to "Forgive them, for they know not what they do." Just as we are all trying to figure out what it is that our soul needs, know that these are all lessons that have been brought to us with grace.

They are the greatest lessons in self-love. Know that time is an illusion to this growth. You are okay where you are, right now.

And when you can, send that person involved blessings for health, wealth and happiness. And if it were really up to you, tell them your regrets and realizations. Their spirit will love the honesty. This is true love for humanity, transcended, and when this happens, watch how quickly your wounds heal.

And then, finally, walk upward and onward, with your hands outstretched to the sky. Let the beat of your own drum carry you. Always.

For Better or Better.


I will love you, Mary.

For The Little One Who Loves

Instead of using the bridge to cross over the public garden's pond, businessmen in suits and women in heels clobbered their way to the other side, digging into the thin, murky ice.

Some slid along with their tennis shoes flat to the ground, and one man in particular ice skated ringlets along the edges where the ducks once came near my side in the summer, begging for a piece of my Upper Crust pizza. And although I walked over the bridge toward the musicians strumming and humming on the other side, I couldn't stop myself from grinning. The joy this moment brought was unthinkable from the depths of the subway tunnel.

I decided to take a new route home after the discordant strums of work. There was a little girl in baby blue sparkle pants and her mother, drinking coffee and holding large oversized holiday bags in her other hand. The little girl had blonde hair and kept her jacket unzipped on this rather cold night. She had two front teeth that opposed eachother's growth, as though they were magnets repelling. I loved her for the smile she gave me. We sat together on the train going upground, mesmerized by the moon's beam along the Charles River. Even after five years of being in Boston, nothing about the ride over the Charles River gets boring.

And as we got off the train and settled on a bench for the bus, the little girl spoke to me. "Do you know my name?" she said.

Precious.

"No," I said.

She squirmed on the bench. "DEVON!" she squeaked, holding her hands over her mouth after shouting.

I told her how fitting the name was for her, and that I have never met a Devon with blonde hair like hers. The interaction thrilled her. She was delighted to engage in a small conversation about my hat, the weather, and hockey. I didn't know much about the sport but for this little seven year old it was all the rage. She paused though, for a moment.

"Did you know there's people that don't have homes?" she said.

Children are so aware and honest. I told her that yes, I did, and that I loved them.

Her nose wrinkled up into an adorable little grin! She said, "You looove them?! Do you love me?!"

And as casually as the little one asked and offered love, I gave it. Her mother was on the phone near by, and I didn't want to make it awkward but I didn't want to miss this beat.

"Yes, very much" I said.

We took the bus all the way to my stop, where I regretfully said my goodbyes to her from afar, waving and winking at her as the bus door opened. My wink made her squirm with delight in her seat, grabbing her mother by the arm and pleading with her to say goodbye to me too.

And when I got off the bus, I knew that what I said was true. My love for her was instantaneous. Just as it is for anyone with their heart in the right place, and especially for those who are looking for their path. I love and forgive all and wish her mother strength, love and happiness. I know that they will find this light and that they are protected by the mighty wings of the Universe.

We are all safe, warm, and loved. And I think back on all of my choices in life...the moments that saddened me and the ones that brought me to where I am now. Each a beautiful puzzle piece to add to my collection of lessons. What I am capable of is the kind of love that makes my heart soar for the children that know no limits, and the ones that want to fly.

This is who I truly am.

And it is in these moments that I see the God in all of us. I imagine the little one crossing the pond... not slipping or sliding but ever so gracefully gliding along, taking her time to grow out of her troubles, just as we are all meant to do.

I will love her for always.

Love's Ancient Pulse

I often wonder if at the end of the day, the psychologists adjacent to my office sit in dismay at the sheer saddness they embrace day in and day out. Mixed with morsals of happiness and lowly, infrequent breakthroughs...do they travel home by car, train, bus, bike or foot, whispering from the cracks in their throat...did I do right by the light within me?

There is only so much they can say. It is not enough, to implement a man-made therapy plan and to work miracles. The turnover rates are nonexistent, and the flow of customers, endless. I have people cry over the phone to me that they need help, they need someone to part the nebulus, thick clouds that block their sight from clear, joyful views. Someone to listen to the bouts of hunger in their belly, still full from a family thanksgiving past.

And I hear their cries as I feel my own. They roll down my cheeks and splash off my shirt to the ground.

But I travel with my head high, shoulders back, and hold onto life in my hands. Go inward I say. Find the light that opens at the close. Choose happiness. Choose white, fluffy light.

And this flame will pass on like torches at the Olympics. We will throw our hands in the air, much like the runners, sweat rolling down our necks--living, breathing, and celebrating the fact that we have become that which we always were before the storm--pure, infinite love.

In Everything, Give Thanks

My frequency is shifting from low to high and at a rapid rate. As I begin to read about the angels that surround me, the Seven Spiritual Laws that can set any thought free, and the poignant teachings of Dr. Wayne Dyer, the spiritual master of our time...my life has drastically changed.

I am starting to see every word, thought and intention I have in a new light. People in a new perspective. This shift will also have those closest to me, view my changes dead on. And so I ask, dear friends, to be open, willing, and kind. I share them with love, not fear. I talk about it only when asked, and I promise not to freak you out, for real.

I have dozens of coin stories, each of them placed on the street by the angels at my side, hearing my call.
I want to tell you about the synchronicity of finding a coin from England, with Queen Elizabeth etched in the center. At my lowest, most doubt-induced moment, I find this coin that reads "D. G. REG. F.D."=abbreviated in latin, and stands for "Defender of the Faith."

Have faith. Yes! That's what the angels were trying to tell me.

I found a coin from Switzerland on the bus back to Boston, with the words "The Neutrality State" abbreviated. The night before I provided my first couple's therapy session, and remained as neutral as possible.

Last night, I found a coin from Panama, with the conquistador Balboa on it. I was explaining my goals in life to a dear friend that same night, and there it was, wedged inbetween the door on our way into the restaurant.


No mistakes.

Star Lily

I woke up before the sun today, to my yellow star lilies resting near my chilled window. I bought them at the grocery store the day before, and fell in love with the richness of their butter-yellow petals. Two of them had yet to bloom. I usually buy the battered and torn flowers because I fear they will not experience the love they need before an eventual shrivel. And even though each flower faces the same fate, I knew to pick the budding yellow lilies...still fresh like spring, and kiss goodbye the beaten and worn for another day.

My little lilies have brown cinnamon dots on their insides, much like freckles on child. They are a sweet surprise when in bloom. And in the stillness of the morning, with slight frost on my windows from the chilly evening, I got up from underneath the covers and felt the grooves of their insides, the thinness of their edges. One bud, the largest of the bunch, began to move under my fingers. And with the slightest of motion, each petal split smoothly, and half way out like a banana, freshly peeled. It was as though I was watching a nature show that speeds up the film to show the growth of the flower, in a moments' time. But it happened before me...and I removed my hand so as to let nature take its' course.

The silence of my old red barn house. The deep purple of the night. The african colors of my room. The mini pumpkins that sit on my sill, aging gracefully into their senior year. All of it, miraculous. The space between our thoughts. The moments we are present for. The moments we miss.

The dance our heart really beats for.

At 6am, this is life.

In My Eyes, We Are Whole

Not Good Enough.

This idea beats rhythmically on the train in the morning, huddled next to thousands of suits and the smell of different breakfast blends, and I am becoming acutely aware of them-- of the energy of everyone's single thought in the morning: I am not good enough. I will never be enough.

It manifests itself in the jobs we settle on, or the self-defeating words we choose, or the people we surround ourselves with... its colors radiate so dimly I look to the sun to blind me from the furrow in a person's brow, or from the anger in their voice. From the opinions of others. From my opinions and the expectations I set for myself.

We are not good enough.

Why?

Why do we allow a belief to orchestrate the music of our lives? Oh what sweet music it really is, if we chose to listen to the beat of our own rhythm instead of the thudding in our guts. It is no way to live...how defeating the words sound. I can't touch them but my body used to feel the thought beat down, and now, I choose to release it. I must release it because if I don't it will kill me. It will kill what enormous love, generosity and intelligence I have to really, truly provide to humanity. And as far as I have come, it creeps up in such a byzantine, screwed up fashion.

So I decided to change any potential self-defeating "I'm not good enough" thoughts in my head at Souper Salad, on my first break of the day, yesterday.

My hair was tied back in a cute bun, and my skin radiated after three months of intense job searching. No wrinkles. Pressed clothes. Milk and berries in my belly. A book in my hand. Happiness and bliss in Souper Salad.

I locked myself in the bathroom for ten minutes. My bag was set to the floor. Silence between me and the mirror.

I set the goal to look into the mirror for ten minutes, close up, to where my pupils dilated, in and out. I pressed my face close to the mirror...enough to see the fog form.

Minute One and Two:

Wow. My mascara works well with my lashes, but there are some places around my eye lid that I should surely clean up before I go back to work. Oh no, you are thinking about your appearance, Sarah. Focus. I pull back, then move back into place.

Minute Three and Four:

I am laughing. Why is it so funny? You will surely look like a lunatic if someone were to ever see you, Sarah. Oh no, there it is. You said it in the thought...someone might think your crazy for trying to find the love that you know triumphs in your heart = you are saying you are undeserving. You are not good enough to change the way you think. There it is, for this moment in time.

Minute Five:

Did anyone else in Souper Salad see my bliss at being alone with my book? Do I feel alone?

Minute Six:

I am alone, but I don't feel like I am in poor company. I see a beautiful woman in the mirror. Look how far you have come. Working in a place that loves you. Writing and learning all of your passions. Living lightly every morning, each day. Stepping with a skip. Choosing the path of least resistance. Flexible thoughts. Infinite opportunities. I am good enough.

Minute Seven:

Who ever told me I couldn't be enough?

Minute Eight:

I love you, Sarah. Why are you laughing?! Does it hurt that much to say it seriously?! Say it again.

I love you, Sarah. I love you.

Minute Nine:

Starting to feel the words seep into my skin. When have I ever said this aloud? Why does it feel painful in my body?

Minute Ten:

I love everything about me. I forgive myself for anything I have shamed or guilt tripped myself for in the past. I release those thoughts from here on out. I am whole. I am whole I am whole and free.

And as I left, drying up my tears from the unexpected fiasco in the bathroom, I held my bag close to me. My arms wrapped around my waist.

And slowly...ever soo slowly, the digestion finally took place.

A Fitting Thesis

Countless unopened books rest on my shelf, longing with wide eyes to be cradled in my hand. I know they are there, in the same way I sense when someone is looking from behind. They stare from ajar, and my heart aches for them when I leave for the day, and when I turn off my light for bed.

Some I know I may never read. It pains me that I am not in communication with William Zinsser's On Writing Well, or Maya Angelou's collection of short stories. I may never reread The Art of the Personal Essay, and I certainly may never crack open my text on Literacy Disorders or Genetic Syndromes. I still debate whether I should give away The Depletion of Fossil Fuels, but I fear no one will appreciate the insight in the same way that I once did, if I did in fact decide to toss it after all. The Winds of Change may never feel its' spine crack open again, and it makes me sad for the pages.

When I read through the Music of Many Cultures, I was looking for answers about why I was so drawn to African music. I developed a keen interest in the banjo and discovered the brilliance of folk. The Development of Language taught me all about the abstractions of a child's words...back when I wanted to develop better ways to communicate with the low-income preschoolers I taught. My Anatomy and Physiology text changed my life--I became acutely aware of science and the complexity of the brain. I developed an obsession with fissures, gyri, and sulci divisions... it motivated me to develop an intimate relationship with neurology.

A Pictorial History of the American Indian was given to me by detained and jilted lover. I discovered it on his shelf long ago and fell in love. I was searching for answers about my own American Indian heritage, and more about my grandfather's obsession with the Indians in the south, where I was born and raised. The pictures are sublime, and the descriptions, just what I needed.

He told me to keep it but never throw it away, and I haven't.

I could never throw away Gilberto and the Wind, or Rainbow Fish because somehow, I believe I will read these stories again with children I love.

Once I am finally done studying for the GRE, I pray my workbooks will leave my shelf and fly into the hands of another student trying to succeed. When that day comes, I know I will hold the books closer than ever before, before I give them away for good.

And then there are the books I wish I could fill my shelves with, but either haven't gotten myself to buy them, or I haven't found the perfect one. I imagine it would be just wonderful to have a handbook on the do's and don'ts in a psychology career, or an updated introductory textbook in psychology, so that I can increase my chances of getting a ballin' score on the GRE Psychology exam.

There are also the books I have regretfully shared and was never returned. The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success is somewhere in California, with a friend I am no longer in communication with. I'd like to think that someday when she is in need, she will see the book hidden between the lines, and discover the words were just perfect for the next step in her life.

And when I talk to my mom about manifesting a grand bookcase into my life--one that is twice the size of the bookshelf I own now, my heart begins to swell. I think of all of the books I will someday place in those shelves, organising them in the same way in which they presented themselves to me.

They are the puzzle pieces that know me so well. I am in 150 plus relationships with each of them, and they are all so special to me.

For that reason, I may never let them go.

Like the Wind, It Was

When I live a full day in spirit, there is an infinite well of love to which I can extract light from even the murkiest of waters. It is my source of life, and the energy that fills my belly when I am emaciated from the fear and worry.

Today was not one of those days.

The discontinuity of my rhythm and flow was sour to taste. I'm not sure what was wrong exactly, or if it was the beer the night before. I knew exactly what it was that bothered me about my endeavors, but could not pin point this feeling of pure loneliness.

It is not the kind of loneliness you pity. It was a beautiful loneliness that only the silence of the grey skies could provide, today. It emerged from the slow sway of the leaves and the deadening of the trees. There were no birds, nor bees. Grocery shopping was a nightmare...not even the wholesome sale of globe grapes got me going. I had no desire to individually pack my lunch for the week ahead. I couldn't see past the hour. I prayed for bedtime and a warm bath. A cold one would have sufficed. I didn't crave the feeling of fresh, clean hair, or the smell of sweet satin from my shampoo.

I became lost in old shows I used to watch back in high school. I listened to the messages from old movies like Angus, when the helplessly smart and overweight high school boy falls in love with the prom queen and revels in his success at winning her over, finally. I watched Sex and the City for the laughs, and for those brief moments when I could spot a street in New York that I had walked all my years while living in Brooklyn. I thought about styling my hair in that perfect curl, just like the girls on the show. I contemplated reading books that have accrued an enormous pile of dust along their spine.

I searched and searched.

And where I am, right now, in this moment--and after spending the entire day in a place of uncertainty and tremor, I now breathe out the air that fills my lungs. I close my eyes to inhale, and then to exhale. Inhale, exhale.

I will breathe on as the moon shines tonight, and I will exhale the old air so that tomorrow is warm and welcoming, just as it was today.

Clever it was, this day.

We Cling Like Barnacles on a Boat

An old lady fell outside McDonalds today. There is a large gap between the ground and the parking lot lining, and unable to lift her leg high enough to step over into the lot, she fell right onto her side. There was no one around and I was stuck on the bus, looking at the scene from afar. She remained on the floor, yelling, but I could not hear from behind the windows.

I screamed to my mother over the phone that I had to get off the bus to help. My burst of concern alarmed the medical student sitting in front of me, looking at guts in a textbook.The seats surrounding me looked back to see what I was fussing about. There was no one to help her and I wanted to hoist her to her feet, but my bus kept driving farther away.

Angels.

Angels, I thought. Come.

And out of nowhere, there was a tall man in sneakers and shorts, extending his hand to lift her to her feet. I hadn't seen anyone around within 20 feet of the fall. He came out of nowhere and in this moment I knew how quickly answers come when you ask.

In a frantic state, my plea was answered.

And while I am in transition, from one job to another and looking out into the large abyss of the unknown, I anxiously embrace the mystery of it all. And while I plan my life, life falls before me. The not knowing part would be to anyone, extremely scary and far to great of a risk to give up the job that pays the rent and puts food in our bellies. But today, what is the greater risk, I ask? To fall on my ass, and have the angels lift me to a ground I can confidently and lovingly stand on. I will take that risk.

Love is all around. It is present when we fall on our asses and when we decide how we will react when we are lifted to the ground, by a kind stranger or by the will of our own to keep on keeping on.

When the lady was lifted to her feet, she brushed off the grass surrounding her bottom, and lifted her hands into the air, laughing.

She knows.

Children Know about the Motion of the Ocean and the Wonder of the Waves...and I Look to Them for Light

A young mother with bleached hair and an oversized t-shirt smoked newport cigarettes as she dragged her two-year old across the street to the bus stop where I was waiting to go home. He had a single curl of hair wrapped around his forehead, and a slew of missing teeth. He was barely rolling along, peddling his little toy buggy in a desperate attempt to catch up to his mother. A car was quickly approaching, and thank the heavens she looked up for as second to remind herself that she had a son and that he was in danger. I was about to hobble my way over to him, but after my knee surgery I wasn't sure I was going to make it.

I was enraged. He was barely two and in his matching shorts and shirt, smiled and carried on. I loved him for his laughter midst the chaos and sadness. Once at the bus stop and safe from the street, he picked up a dirtied lottery ticket from the floor and waved it in his mother's direction.

"Mama," he said.

She pushed his arm away, too busy on her phone. Stop, she screamed. Move away, she said.

He walked closer to me. My eyes were glued to him. It was as though an instinct to keep my eye on him kicked in. I was swept in and my compassion kept me going. The bus came, and the mother began to walk on with the stroller. By now the little boy was more than 20 feet away from her, but closer to me. He was safe with me...his buggy and his life was safe for at least a moment. And then his mother sat down near the front of the bus, expecting her child to climb on the bus with his toy and carry it to her. He looked at the enormous gap between the bus doors and the ground...the climb to the platform impossible for a little one.

I could not tell you my shock. I took this moment to wrap him in my arms and carry his toy on with me. I looked at the bus driver, and he gave me a look of complete sadness. We both didn't know what to do. But I carried the little boy to his mother and on our way he smiled to me, and we engaged in a brief exchange of silly faces. He looked at me like I was his only joy. Like the kindness that was his inherent right was all too new for him, and soon to be gone.

I never wanted to let him go. I loved him like the universe loves him. I contemplated running off the bus and taking him into my care. It was a real consideration and a desperate thought. His mother broke the wave of infatuation with her phone and thanked me for remembering her son. I was so angry and appalled by her neglect. But in this moment, compassion emerged in my mind, as difficult and as seemingly impossible it was--I keep on going. I had to end this moment on kindness because if I didn't I would act on rage and fear for him.

From afar I played peek-a-boo with the little boy. His mother hit him for laughing, but we kept going. I held strong for him and didn't look away. His mother became acutely aware of my alarm and began to subside the destructive behavior. Still, what can be done? Do I call the police? My fear kept me frozen but my love for his little life kept me alive.

The bus reached my stop. I had no time left with him. I looked closely at his face and waved goodbye with laughter and light in my heart.

And when I stepped off, and the little boy grew farther and farther out of sight, I began to cry uncontrollably.

It is still hard for me to think about. But beyond this horizon, I find that all I can do is pray for his happiness. All I can do is pray for his mother's happiness, and pray that he is in the universe's hands. I asked for angels to protect him for all of his life and I will continue to think on this, into the night and beyond as I walk around Davis, looking for him.

I will never have a way of knowing how he is, and if his situation will change. But I have hope, and we had love, together, for a three minute bus ride that will forever change my course of action, and my true purpose in life.

The details of this course have yet to be revealed, but that precious little boy has certainly paved a way.

When Love Has No Limits, We Soar

We were both cold from the summer night in Davis Square. I had been enjoying an Oreo scoop...a love I finally rekindled after many years of remaining cookie free. It tasted of sweet goodness after my patience settled in. Of novelty and wholeness. My friend was getting goosebumps from the chill, so we decided to take our ice cream right on home and say our goodbyes. And on our way, three little boys began to circle the square with bright green pamphlets in their hand.

The shortest of the three, with a ribbed T-shirt and spiked hair, probably no more than 12 years old, came our way.

"Miss, we are trying to get to soccer camp."

He was terrified, but the words emerged from within, and I turned my attention toward him and the other two boys. I felt what struggle it might have been for him to muster up the courage to speak to us. My heart was open and welcoming.

"Well, we have a raffle and we are asking for donations. we know it's a lot, but" he said.

"How much?" my friend said.

"Ten, miss. Ten dollars," he said.

There was a pause between us five. And in this moment, I began to hesitate. I have been waiting on a job and had just spent some money and time with a good friend. The reasons to say no ran through my head, and I couldn't believe the fear. Why this fear? It is money. Paper. It had never meant much to me because life was so rich, the night so sweet. It would mean the world to them, and I could tell by their look.

Sarah, what are you doing?!

And I know that this is the light speaking to me. This is Source. This is Love and I will do God's work with joy. With passion.

We both reach for our wallets, and gave two ten dollar bills.

Their faces lit the night and they moved inward toward us. It was as though their whole lives people had told them no. I know that my higher purpose doesn't know that word. Source doesn't know what is missing. It only knows how to give.

This is my goal. Endless, limitless love. And if I want to be more like Source Energy, the energy in which we all came from and return to, the goal of my life is to live this higher purpose. To trust in humanity when everyone is thinking of what is missing, I will give.

"Miss, you have no idea how much this makes our night. You've made such a difference, thank you miss" the eldest said.

The pleasure was shared by all, and the beauty of Oneness seeped deep into our skin, permeating in a symphony of love.

And if We Asked, What of a Talking Drum?

She wore a beautiful lapa with deep red and orange prints all over her body. Her feet were bare and her voice was omnipotent. Sweat covered her back and the live drumming caused a momentary lapse in my normal audition. But my heart was beating to the rhythm as I listened to the instructor's chants. It was as though every single one of us in beginner african dance were amazed at the spiritual release the class was to provide. A hidden secret to unfold outside of the class description.

We started out in five rows, from the most experienced to the least. I was in the fourth row, watching the moves I had to learn by the time my turn arrived. We weren't told what the moves meant, only that it was important to follow the drumming. To keep in rhythm. To STAY in rhythm.

And like life, the release was gradual. I began to swing my arms wider, beat my feet to the ground with twice as much force, and stretch my hands further out to reach the harvest. To eat the food before me.

"You have to eat the food, put it to your mouth! Reach down to the floor with force in your arms! You have to want it... you are not wanting it! You have to love and devour it! Now, we try again" the instructor said.

And for the second time, I began to bend lower to the ground to grab my food, hold onto it, and to enjoy the sign of imaginary abundance. I swung my arms up to the sky and bent my back lower to the ground, my feet in rhythm, and all the years of jazz training, finally shattered. I had been craving this kind of nourishment for quite some time.

She began to chant. "GRAB IT!" She was hovering over me, beckoning me to reach all the way to the floor and fling my body back up to the sky to give thanks for what I had caught. And then I felt it...the joy of abundance that I have come to understand, and a woman with such passion, teaching me to grab my tribal food and commence in the meaning of spirit, of want and desire...of the power of intention. Yes, yes, yes. One thousand times or more I couldn't thank her enough for this single lesson.

She gets it, and yes'm, so do I.

Toes in the Tide

I set out to run yesterday with the goal that I was not to come back until I had the power of intention mastered in the palm of my sweaty hands.

I felt sweet breezes and the flow of neighboring joggers and late sprinters on the Tufts University track. We ran in unison, huffing and puffing. Some runners were leaping while others slumped, probably getting the deed done so that supper and television could ensue.

Many things happened on this jog. I huffed out questions to the universe:

How can I manifest abundance?
How can I learn to see the signs set before me?
How can I begin to fulfill my higher purpose in life?

And affirmations:

From now on, I trust the divine intelligence of the universe.
I source from my higher-self, which knows no limits
From here on out, I trust, love, and respect every moment in my life
Everything was and always will be exactly as it should--perfect, and with purpose

The moon was encased by a swirl of evening clouds. My grandmother's floral necklace bounced against my chest. My knees ached but my paced picked up. I wasn't to stop until I had the answers.

And then there was this little boy. He was about three with brown skin and brown eyes, running around the lanes and about to collide with the runners. I moved him out of the way and brought him back to the center field. As his father came back from what seemed like a mesmeric run, I turned to wave goodbye to the little boy. His face lit up with laughter, and he chuckled at the silly faces I was making. He was safe in our minute together. And it was in this very moment that I understood everything, all too well.

In some cosmic way, his safety was my job for just a split second in time. And our laughter together...the belly laughs that emanated from his tiny little body became my safety, too. My reminder, my comfort. The universe always takes care, and allows us to take care of each other. Everything is, and always will be, perfect.

We just have to be willing to run on the path to process, and learn to detach from the race.

Strong Insight, in Flight

I have had two instances in which I am half asleep and experiencing a meta-physical moment that I believe is my stronger, higher-self speaking. These moments are incredibly rare but I move forward with them, marinating in wonderment.

It happened for the second time this morning. The night before, I spent an hour meditating, intending, and bringing my wants and needs into existence. I spent the time in the splendor of my imagination, dreaming in pastels and beckoning health, wealth, and happiness my way. I began to feel what it should feel like to want and love what I have been offered in life. I began to feel the feelings of what the deepest happiness could bring to my life. I felt all the love I needed in the world to keep on keeping on. It was astonishing, connecting spirit, emotion, and intention together in a magical orchestra that only the universe conducts.

I was sleeping in a bed, surrounded by a forest that overlooked hills with a multitude of red and magenta flowers. Beyond the hills was a horizon of city buildings, watching me as I slept in my forest bed. I was wearing my sleep mask, and could peek out at the ground below. In a moment, a small chestnut colored bird landed on my nose, flickering its' wings and chirping. His feathers tickled my nose and eye lashes, cradled under my mask. I thought, should I push it away? But the tickles made me laugh and the chirping made my heart swell. So I let it stay on my nose, singing.

It was a sundae of sunday merriment, and waking up seemed doable.

Livable.

Jubilant, and Fearless.

Which will

The thought that hard work brings to life the shift from ambition to meaning, is partially true.

The sweat, blood and tears from the start of life up until this point has taught me many things. I have grown out of the shell that withheld the confidence I eventually strained out and embraced in college. I slipped out of my sweaty clothes and felt the breeze of ease in everything I sought to learn. My blood is now very much alive, rich, and giving. I am forever thankful.

Tomorrow is my interview. Everything I have wanted, fought for, and will continue to fight for has lead up to this moment. Every outline, study guide, manuscript, story, lesson, curriculum, leadership meeting, paper, project, fax, and copy I have created has taught me what I need for this job.

This job is a dream. And the angels are soaring, smiling, and delighting in this fact with me.

Hard work has paid off, with ease.

Which will I go for?
Which path can it be?


I don't know which way I'll go, but I know I'll get there.

From A to B to C: for Stephanie, with Love

The children were all uneasy, eating cold pizza from Mama Gino's and anticipating our long awaited canoeing trip on the last day of school. Fourth grader Ashley wanted more than anything to be in a canoe with me.

"You are big and strong Ms. Wolford and you won't let me fall in!" Ashley said, gripping her neon green sparkled shirt in anticipation. I love Ashley for her kindness to others and for maintaining a keen interest in our science experiments. She always reminded me to bring in prizes for the top students, but I told her that a prize meant nothing compared to her intelligence. I knew the comment would resonate with Ashley as she moves onto middle school in the fall. She most definitely thought about it as she rested her head on my shoulder, calming her fears before her first canoeing trip and the two of us knowing, in our hearts of hearts, that we may never see each other again after the trip was over. It was on all of our minds, and the many kind words and hugs that were exchanged that day were never quite enough, as more and more children were picked up at the end of the day and removed from my classroom.

All the little ones in kindergarten walked out of the boys and girls bathroom, sporting their bathing suits and completely forgetting their tshirts and shorts in the stalls. One little girl came out of the bathroom, revealing both buttocks on purpose, and in a squealing bit of laughter, she ran up and down the hall, totally and completely limitless, and I let her, because that moment was hers to have and hers alone.

And when I think of 4th grader Stephanie, I will forever send love her way, and pray for her health, wealth, and happiness.

"I only made a C in Math Ms. Wolford" she said, her long black hair strung over her eyes to cover the build up of disappointment. She whispered to me as though it were a deep secret that she trusted enough to tell me.

It was the two of us, among three others waiting to be picked up near the end of the day.

"Stephanie, let me tell you something about me. I used to get grades that made me very happy, and grades in math that upset me. I would come home crying and not understanding what I was doing wrong, " I said.

Stephanie inched her seat closer to mine. I continued;

"So I started asking my teacher why I got the grade that I did. And sometimes, I would agree with them, but most of the time, I didn't because as I began to ask why more and more, I found that the answers came from me instead" I said.

Stephanie was silent. I gave it a few seconds and went on.

"And your C, and my D, and those jumbled in A's and B's will always be part of our school life. You will see them again and again Stephanie, but they cannot, and will not, be the mark that defines you," I said.

I had the flow and I wasn't sure if I was saying the right thing here or if I would get in trouble for motivating her to see grades in a new light. I never knew with the wackiness of administration and school laws if I were crossing the line, but I didn't care because in this moment it was pure synchronicity--Stephanie was hurting and my experiences might plant a seed of new thought. This was my moment to potentially guide her along into middle school.

We started by looking through old boxes of free workbook giveaways from the teacher's of the charter school's past. There were hardly any with 5th grade mathematics, but we lucked out by finding a BrainQuest for 5th Grade. There was a fabulous math section with all sorts of fun questions for Stephanie. She was glowing and she rummaged through the books.

"When our parents, teachers, and friends can't tell us the answers, we have to find them on our own," I said, shuffling through the dusty books.

"I can study these over the summer Ms. Wolford. I will know some facts that I'm sure will come up in math!" Stephanie said.

And in this moment, I felt like I had gotten through. The seed was planted and Stephanie was already, within a matter of ten minutes or less, changing the way she saw herself and the world around her.

Her mother at last picked her up, begging her to hurry up with gathering her belongings. Stephanie ran up to her mother and started showing her the BrainQuest math questions.

"I can study these," Stephanie said.

Her mother shook her head and carried on with her conversation on the phone. She hadn't known the shift Stephanie was experiencing, but the secret was sealed so tight that no one would know except for us, the strength we shared--the perfection of the moments we created together. And as Stephanie came up to me to say goodbye, her eyes began to swell, but this time it was for this moment--our moment of empowerment.

"This is our secret Stephanie--remember when you go to middle school that you, and only you will know the power of your own intelligence; only you know how much you are worth and no one else can ever determine that. Always remember that you have the power to be whoever you want to be" I said.

Stephanie crossed her heart, zippered her lips shut, and quickly ran off to find her mother.

I took a moment to thank the universe for the magnificence that just occurred. I marveled in the moment that finally came, and at last, I found my purpose.

And if in these moments where I shine the most, where the conversation flows and the heart beats at the thought of infinite possibilities, then I welcome the promising future ahead of me and give thanks to my creators--my parents who gave me this chance to grow with all the children I have met along the way.


Victory is free, and I am soaring.

Angels to Calm the Current

I am hustling all around Boston, from one job to the next, trying to make a post-graduate life for myself and to pursue a dream that has at last boarded the bus, ready for departure. I am smiling most of the time and whispering to myself, "it is well, it is well" in the morning, sipping on the sweetness of my toasted almond coffee.

And I forget how easily peace welcomes me...how incredible the solace feels and then, all really is well.

It is in this moment that I feel my true self, quiet and at peace while the bus jerks the women and children that board. As the woman sitting next to me talks on the phone to a friend about the shortcomings in her relationship, I pray for her happiness, and wish love her way. When a senior citizen holds onto their seat for life, my heart asks the driver to slow down, and eventually, he does.

A three year old sits in front of me with his mother, busy interacting with an electronic game of some sort. His hair is curly and his eyes open to the scenery passing before him. He is marveled by the morning and greets me behind the seat handle, smirking and in love with the peace that we both share. Just before he gets off the bus, he squeals with laughter at the sight of me waving goodbye. And when the doors close, I pray for his mother's success and wish them health, wealth, and happiness forever.

And when I arrive at the VA Medical Center, the bus rushes off before me, my hair flying in all directions. The hospital stands tall against my own height. The river flows from down below the Longwood pathway and the swans glide along, limitless and glistening under the morning current.

And I feel the truth seep into my skin, the current calming, and the angels close by my side.

There should be a celtics ice cream (and there probably is...)

My Baby, Glen Davis--the "Baby," played well last night for the Celtics, but lost it at the end.

First, I must admit how PROUD I am that I can NAME a basketball player other than Allen, from the Celtics. I forgot how intriguing the dynamics are of a single game--every player was emotionally, physically and mentally IN IT. Kobe, on the other hand, fully pissed me off because you could tell with the pinch in his nose and the beadiness of his eyes that he was higher than thou. And even though his plays were like that of a demi-god taking center stage, I thought of Rondo, the ensemble--the pipsqueak, that made little miracles the whole time for the losing Celtics.

I don't know if I believe in the hype but I do know that I might have induced some bipolar disorder last night with the root beer float sugar high, the Glen Davis, Baby come-to-me attitude, and the 7 point loss low, just as we were about to get it right.


One more game, guys, and GOOD, because I cannot handle the mental distress any longer!

Nor can I handle the conglomeration of screaming men just outside my window...

Impulsive? No. Intuitive? YES.

As I move into a professional, "real person" post-college position at the Research Center, I am beginning to face hap-hazardous moments that pinch at my innards, and yet the barf bags remain obsolete-- just like the bags on the planes that once made the world sick at first flight. I'm growing and glowing and it feels incorporeal.

I recently took an initial infallible risk at the research center...one that could have cost me my job if my actions truly soured. My intentions were good and my GUT told me to move forward with it. Out of an incredible fear that someone affiliated here google's my name on a saturday night, I will disclose the details of the event to only my mom...whom, is proud of what I did and together believed that my intuition, not my impulses-- has always guided me. My sense of self has brought me all of the abundance I have in my life, and all that is to come. There ain't nothin nor no one out there that can break that.

The potential catastrophic event, however, meshed and mushed and molded into something truly outstanding--by the end of it, I facilitated a blessing for the center. And when this happened, this wonderful news that my risk actually propagated a series of events in which two researchers now want to collaborate, I am grateful. I sit in this quite room, with the air conditioner buzzing, Rihanna playing, and my research reviews, sprawled out on my desk--amassed in a messy but much needed victory. I take two seconds to wisper thank you to the universe, and I carry on with my typing.

My mom told me not too long ago that shortly after having my sister, she began working as a Bank Teller in my birthplace, El Paso Texas. Her boss informed her on a performance review that if she had any intention of moving up the corporate ladder, that she would have to change her hair style. After having a child and trying her best--the best that she could do, evidently, was to invest in a new do.

It is a projection, a perception, a belief--and we can choose to believe it. We can chose to let the wave of malice propagate the chemical impulses of our neurons--which, most definitely think, all the time, about their actions. Our chemical impulses take those beliefs and rationalize them if we tell it to. But our soul always knows--it always corrects the firing, and it always initiates the rewiring, eventually.

And so my friends, take what people say lightly, or don't take it at all. We can choose to watch the words shatter through the glass that our bosses, spouses, friends and enemies create, or we can change the way we look at things.

And when we start to take this approach, the things we look at, change.