Advanced Placement Pursuit

My eyes burned from the exhaustion since the last of three 1o to 12 hour shifts this weekend at the two residential homes I work at in Somerville. Both homes are transitional facilities, one that help kids cope with emotional, behavioral and traumatic experiences from their past, and the other for young adults with mental health disorders. Every resident I have met thus far has humbled me. Behind each case is a sensible heart and a precious but fragile voice. There are pages written about their progress and the set backs they have faced. I feel foolish when I complain, for anything. My anythings are their dreams of tomorrow and I kick myself for forgetting this.

As I reenter a human services position--something I have been craving for a year now to get back into, I have become reintroduced to a fine gradient that vacillates between extreme depression and those joyous moments of hope. From the laughter in the hallways with the girls trying on different hair accessories, to the young male resident who finally found a job as an assistant at a fancy bar in downtown boston. One step closer to become a chef, he explained, exalted at the idea. I couldn't help but wonder if I had dined at the very bar he works at now, and if I would have ever guessed that he was at one point homeless. I have been sensitive to their struggles before, but never before in this light.

I am left with few words and many pangs of compassion. All I want to do is give them all the words of encouragement that I can, but I need to approach it with caution.

The depression shows itself too, but in a more subtle light. One resident couldn't wait to make lasagna for sunday lunch. I asked her when she was going to make it, and she said when she gets her food stamps for the month. She has two weeks to go. I told them we would make cupcakes together on my next shift, and I am praying I am allowed to. I wanted to offer them a trip to Dunkin Donuts, but I am not allowed to do such things so soon in my new position.

And then there was one resident in particular that stood out from the bunch. He keeps his head glued to the computer, which most of the residents are angry at him for because he takes the only seat available for the shared computer. I have spent, at one time, nearly 15 hours in the resource room with him, both of us typing away at our assignments. He has one more year until his last year of high school, and then it is time to go to college, he hopes. I introduced the idea of looking up scholarships for his dedication to the sciences, and how much he has achieved despite his rough situation. He spoke only a few words, and said that I have no idea how much he is praying for a scholarship. He is alone and without parents. All of the residents, including him, came from homeless shelters, or had been living on the streets before my employer could take them in.

He loves all fields dealing with psychology, biology and the social sciences.

I offered to help him find scholarships that look for applicants such as himself.

"It is my only way," he said. He stopped for the first time from the computer and gave me his full attention.

"You have no idea Ms. Sarah," he said.

I was glad I didn't forget this conversation the night before my second to last shift for the week. Despite my exhaustion, I ran downstairs to find a sturdy bag to hold all the books I wanted to give him before coming to the residence. I had tons of books that could help him develop his interests further. AP Psychology texts, study guides for the SAT, the GRE, and math smart workbooks. Even a biology textbook I picked up when I was considering neuroscience. For this reason, I'm glad I didn't.

Most of the books were untouched or barely written on. He couldn't be happier. He looked through all of them and told me with a soft thank you that he had a month before the SAT's, and wouldn't have to go to the library as much now that he has these books.

It is in these moments that I feel the love abound, and when I am most in my element.

I didn't understand what the purpose would be for me this weekend, after working all of these shifts. And I realize now that it is simply all about planting a seed, or having the urge to be of an encouragement to someone else. Baby steps to a grand staircase.

God will complete the rest of the task, and it is in this freedom that I know I can continue to give at a capacity that is right, for right now, and perfect for just the right person in need.

And I will continue to be humbly reminded that a blessed life is a two way street, and that his presence is my encouragement to keep on, keeping on.

To Make Us Proud

Three years ago, I saw a little boy with bright red hair screaming for his mother from a bench outside South Station. I didn't have money on me to give to his mother, who was holding a crumbled coffee cup out to the tired travelers, asking for change. My bags weighed me down and I was exhausted from the four hour bus ride. Her hair was frazzled and had been let loose in chunks from the frigid Boston air. She was missing teeth, and when I looked close enough, her son's eyes were crossed, probably from a complication during pregnancy. All of it was high risk, and I ached for his little soul, shivering ontop the bus station bench, yelling at more than just his mother.


I clenched my bag close to my shoulder, and slowed my pace toward the two. I had a banana in my bag, with some books and an empty wallet. I thought for a moment that even though I only paid twenty odd cents for the fruit, I was reluctant to give it away. I wasn't sure how they might respond to food, but it was all I had. I didn't want to leave without knowing I could soothe something of the situation. The other pedestrians strolled on by...some took a moment to glance at the little boy, but quickly continued on their way. If at least for a moment in time, we all were on the same wavelength of compassion for his sorrow. For his innocence.

"Is he hungry?" I asked.

The mother looked at me for a second, and looked back at her son. I held out the banana from my bag.

"You want a banana, huh?" The mother said.

His tears slowed. Unsure of what was happening, he looked at me, his mouth open and his cheeks blotchy.

Precious.

"Here you go," I said, handing her the banana.

His mother walked back to the bench, and sat with the little boy, now consumed in the banana transaction. He yanked the peel from the outside and ripped the top half of the banana off from his mother's grip. The tears stopped. He was calm and so was I.

I stood for a moment at the scene that I had just created before me. I removed myself slowly from the situation, and held back from any new ideas that popped in my head. I wanted to keep talking to her, to help with anything else they might have needed. I wasn't sure what that could have been, but as I slowly retracted from the scene, she looked back at me, for only a second.

Our eyes met. Her cup was placed to the side of her hip. The little boy laughed. She drew him near, and closed her arms around his shoulders.

It was a miracle.

And although I experienced that moment with the same emotional intensity I recall for it today, I am able to see this pivatol moment in a new light. For a split second, we three shared feelings of discomfort, hopelessness, loss, grief, glory and God. I will remember her piercing brown eyes, and his bright red hair. There was understanding beyond any well formed definition of love. The experience was limitless.

And when I recall that day, I think back in wonderment at the miracle of miracles. They are deserved by all, and experienced within each and every one of us. It is when we go within, and chose the outward expression of this love, that we sharpen our own lens, and clutter clean our understanding of spiritual unity. Of the power within our beings.

We three were joy in that moment. We were safe. We were loved.

And therein lies the power, glory, and simplicity of God's infinite compassion.

Our Heart's Heart

If our heart had a heart, with a mouth and a mind, what would it say? How could we listen to it when we don't listen to our heart often to begin with?

I've started to listen with a particular level of mindfulness that asks me to sit, for five or ten minutes, in silence, looking for answers I didn't know I had questions to. And as I begin to sit, early in the morning or late at night, alone in my room and without a sound present, I start to generate a new way of listening closely--inwardly, to myself. And what I have discovered is that although my mind races with thoughts of the future, my present stillness resolves the conflicts of yesterday. I cannot take back what I have not listened to my heart for in the past, but I can give thanks in everything that has transpired.

My wings grow stronger in this incredible disguise.

It is in this new way of listening, that I have become more easily able to shed old skin. I've spent several weekends reading through different psychotherapeutic ways of listening to another person, but nowhere in the discussion do I see how to listen to ourselves. At church this morning, I listened to the fears of a couple who have two children applying for Ph.D programs in Neuroscience. I thought of what my books were trying to teach me--how can I extract the essence of the conversation without adding my own opinion? I began to list the ways in which I could effectively listen.

This is what they said:

Their daughter is a high-functioning genius that is interesting in imaging.
Their son is a smart fellow who took on volunteer research opportunities to increase his chances of getting into a Ph.D program
Their marriage is complicated-the husband has adult ADHD and the mother can't stand that he doesn't cap the milk in the mornings.
The wife knows the functionality of her marriage is on a spectrum, rarely unified and often dichotomous.
They love each other, despite the fact that one person doesn't pick up their towel in the bathroom
They have two children who are "trying to figure out how badly their parent's screwed them up."

This is what I heard:

The politics of the graduate school process are wearing the family down.
The daughter fears failure, and calculates all of her success upon acceptance.
The son is hopeful of his future and confident in his abilities
The husband loves his wife and wants to pick up his towel in the mornings
The wife has contemplated separating her husband because she doesn't feel respected
The parents want to understand each other more than anything
The children blame their parents for their issues growing up, but this is really perhaps the parent's feeling guilty about past issues, and are confident in sharing them with me.
The parents are confident in sharing with me...someone they only know as interested in clinical psychology.

I said nothing, except, "What else?"

I had just broken a major pragmatic norm. The wife looked at me surprised. She pulled her pink scarf around her shoulder and brushed her smooth gray hair behind her ear. She paused for a moment, looked silently at me, took a breath and continued.

I just listened, extracting the essence of her words and learning how to hold back from my own thoughts and opinions. I wanted to exercise the notion that when we give our opinions, it is just a nicer way of judging the person in front of us. What our opinions really mean, is that we are taking the conversation personally. Instead, I thought about what her words were trying to convey emotionally. How was her husband responding non-verbally?

And even at my swiftest listening speed, I went inward. What could listening at this level truly teach me? How can I become a better listener for everyone in my life? And as I sat in the coffee room, I began to see the unfolding of this miraculous gift--the gift of true understanding, respect, and selflessness. Yes, this is listening with our hearts in a way that I can understand.

With great compassion.

And as I begin to listen to the people around me, I will think of what their heart wants to say, and the words they choose to express it. I will become no longer threatened, angered, or changed by the words we speak--I will instead continue to move to the rhythms of our inward voice. To listen to theirs, and to hear my own. To extract the essence of our spiritual discoveries, and to honour the tremendous emotional intelligence we all have inside us.

To hear clearly. To give up the need to be right. To learn about the voice that hides deep within us, begging to sing freely.

Thanks Be to the Gift of Fear

It seems that fear slips in today, and leaves when our dreams of tomorrow are fulfilled. But we can't see those days ahead because all we see now is the lack of X, Y and Z. Someday, we say. One day, I know we will 1, 2,3. And oh how splendid it will be.

But today was not one of those days. I woke too late for a day that ended too early. On our fourth possible snow storm of this month, I wanted nothing more than to beat the freezing rain and grab a coffee at a nearby Tufts University coffee shop. Alone, and with nothing but the frozen icicles shaped like daggers, dripped dry on the three story houses that surround my community. The nearest coffee shop was about a half mile down the road.

And on this walk, I saw Pastor Karl, with little success, scrap the ice chunks at the steps of our plain Church. I quickly ran across the street, knowing that in a movie I would offer to help him shovel, and bring him back a cup of coffee from the cafe down the road. But I didn't, and I was okay with deciding to be un-Godly for this moment...this walk was mine today, and I will see him tomorrow, as we gather for worship and prayer. Sacred-selfishness, for now.

I began to see my life ahead of me, though unable to lift my head from the floor, in fear of walking on slippery ice. I imagined good friends and fellow Psychologists, laughing around a dinner table, talking about our hopes, our failures and dreams. I saw my mother and her husband, sitting next to each other, laughing. I saw my sister and her wife holding another child in their hands. My sister wore a beautiful jeweled black rose on her collar, radiant with rosy lips and a beaming smile. And I saw myself, sitting next to my husband, who was holding a child of our own, though I couldn't tell yet if this was a child of our own, or an adopted one. Either way, they were there and I already felt their names resonate in my heart. Yes, yes yes a thousand times yes, this is how my life will be.

And then we think, after resurfacing from a dream so deep, that although it will be that way, it is somehow, not now. And now is the time for us to see the beautiful creation of those comfortable tomorrows. It is in this discomfort that we are truly living...that we are already in the thick of it.

Outside my stoop I saw a bushel of little birds, chirping together in harmony. The freezing rain began to fall, and they collectively looked for shelter. I ran inside to look for bread worthy of sharing with them. I tossed a few large pieces of bread into the branches of a tree sunk six feet deep into the snow. At first the birds scampered out of the way, and quickly returned to their spots on the branches. And as the bread caught onto the branches, the birds hopped an inch closer, slowly, and one by one. I worried that if they didn't hurry the bread would become soaked, but they took their time anyway. And it was in this moment that my insides grew into a state of mild fear for their possible hunger. The bread was right infront of them, waiting to be consumed.

And still, they chirped while the bread sat.

In the distance from the bread to the birds, and the stoop from the tree to me, everything was already beautiful, as it was.

As it should be, for now.

More Than Promise in Our Purpose

I have been running for my effing life all around Boston for the past six months trying to find the perfect job. I used to be an actor during interviews, convincing everyone with my off-broadway performance that I fit perfectly and that I would be heaven sent for them! But where would I find a decent place to work that involved the practice of psychology, neuroscience, community service, families and the youth? It was the perfect culmination of my hearts desire, and I couldn't find it anywhere. Once, I opted to be a research coordinator for a Harvard neuromodulation lab, but I just couldn't see myself going Broadway for a show with no intermission.

And on a sunny, fruitless winter morning at the Aphasia Center, where I am currently working on a book with two other researchers, I sit in bewilderment at how alone I sometimes feel. There are tons of students and post-grads who would be thrilled to have my seat. And while I am eternally grateful for this chance to be published, I find myself wanting to jump out the window and join the pigeons near the heat at the entrance door. The project manager tells me that this collaboration will reserve a seat for me in any prestigious school of my choosing. Dr. Albert knows everyone, afterall, she says. And all I can think about is the old woman who follows me on the bus every morning, using a bent walker for a cane, and eating peanuts from her pocket...as happy as can be. As happy as she makes me.

Instead I think about the sheer joy I had earlier that morning, holding the door open for a pigeon looking to find warmth in the Davis Square T station. The joy of seeing everyone's faces as I expressed kindness to what they call "sky rats."

I love the old woman and the pigeon, and I know now that I was at a crossroads, reliving the two roads that good ol' Mr. Robert Frost described. But I was not sorry that I could not travel both.

But what road would I travel, then?

Twelve years ago today, my father died from his addiction to alcohol. He was a guitar player and singer, with wild curly hair and thick eye brows, the kind of oddity my mother said she fell in love with. Sometimes when she brushes the curves in my eyebrows, perfect like his own, she tells me how much my father loved his music. How much he adored teaching my sister her colors; how he would sing to me while in my mother's belly. And even though living with him was no way to live at all, my mother told me that he never, not once did something he didn't love to do. Find a job you like, he told her. He taught himself how to play guitar at a young age, and never looked to anything else for joy.

And although his image only marks a few moments in my memory, finding a job I like is all the advice I have from him. He whispers that he is sorry in my ear, late at night, and I know to forgive him, as I already have, twelve years to date.

As I clobbered through the snow earlier this week, barely making the bus to an interview with an outreach program for psychiatric young adults, I knew my father was with me. I knew that this job would be mine and that I would perform all my duties with pure joy. As I walked into the S.T.E.P.S program in the beautiful little town of Arlington, I told my interviewer that I do not define any one of them by their disorder, and that I am here to gently remind them that they have a divine purpose on this earth. I looked at their art on the walls, and spoke with a few of the younger girls, whom I later found out had been hospitalized earlier that week for cutting themselves. I shook the hand of a young guy who had a split lip from one too many seizures at the library. They flocked into the tv room, where I sat, waiting to be interviewed. One girl ate cereal out of a sauce pan, and told me she would love to teach me how to drive. The other, held the door for me when I left. I told her thank you and that she was very kind to me.

I thought to myself, how much I already loved them, for the seemingly simple acts of kindness they showed me. Alcohol, addiction, and self-hatred only hold us back and blurr the connection to our higher selves--the source of all our creativity. They will be my greatest teachers, just as my father.


And on the way out, I was splattered with snow and salt from a bus I had just missed. But I had to laugh, because this time there was no preparation for this interview. It had fallen into my hands and I was definitely ready to begin a task extremely familiar to my roots. There was no acting. The words exchanged were ones I cannot even recall, it was my spirit speaking this time, and everything I said couldn't have been more beautiful.

I gently reminded myself that now is the time to be love, to trust in the comfort of discomfort, and to graciously accept the job that had been offered to me on the spot.

Now I see in my simple choices, the same complexity of my father; the kind of challenges that colored his life with beauty.

And he will remind me when I lose my focus, that everything can be fixed.

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.