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.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 1, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
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