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.