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.