I’m thinking about…

I’m thinking about what we cover up.

I’m thinking about the pain we live above.

I’m thinking about the nice face we show the world that hides the scars and wounding and devastated places underneath. 

I’m thinking about what a difficult place the world can be for the children who get hurt and don’t know how to handle the pain or know where to look for support.

I’m thinking about how those same children don’t change inside, they just have grown-up bodies and responsibilities.

I’m thinking about the people who grow up and think that money or a new thing can heal their empty place.

I’m thinking about suffering that has no definition or language. 

I’m thinking about the ways we hurt each other and how we never could if we saw what birthed each action.

I’m thinking that the world would be different if we could pull back the veil and see the little scared person who sits at the controls, like Dorothy did in the Wizard of Oz.

I’m thinking about the millions of people who sit alone in their houses every night, who want to connect,  become more or find love, but have no idea how to do it and are too afraid or defeated to try. 

I’m thinking that it’s our job to grow a rose out of all the shit that gets piled on top of us every day, and to fertilize it with our willpower.

I’m thinking we must insist our rose grow just to spite the dark side.

I’m thinking that it’s our job to pull ourselves up from the muck and scream at the universe.

Not today, you can’t take me down today.

Meditation and the Muse

Recently a friend sent me a photo of a crystal skull. It was beautiful beyond words and inspired me to use it in meditation. Here’s how I do it:

 I imagine my skull is crystal and my spine as well. As I bring light into my body through the top of my head, it hits the crystal skull, travels down my crystal spine and stops at its base. The light then radiates through my being, moving without effort into the world. This puts me in a clear, reception place for writing, the events of the day, speaking what I want to attract and elevating my consciousness. 

Give it a try; I think you’ll be pleased. 

The Muse lives just out of sight. I write for her, not knowing which ‘her’ I mean. The Greeks say there are nine sisters, all daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, who exist to see beauty created in the world. If I sit down day after day and do my work a mysterious process is set in motion which enlists their help and reinforces purpose.

 Another reality does exist, just out of view, where genius sleeps and treasures wait to be downloaded by dedication and effort. The work we do each day makes our presence known in that unseen place. It allows the muse to become acquainted with our spirit and ultimately to relinquish her gifts. Ask any artist or healer. The real ones, the good ones are humble, because they understand that the information comes through them, and is not born of them. So, don’t be afraid to start your day or any creative project with a request. Fire up your crystal skull, radiate light and make yourself found.

Visit to the White House

 

Two of my clients were at the White House on the 4^th of July, summoned by the almighty Obama, when he decided to throw a backyard party and barbeque. Nate is an internationally known musician – a bass player with a band called the Foo Fighters. His partner Jessica is a screenwriter, band manager and mother to their bright big-eyed son, Noah.

 It was evening. Malia’s birthday party was going on inside. Nate was with the band headlining the night’s activities and Jess was on the side yard of the White house watching fireflies explode into light. Noah was delighted. He reached out repeatedly to catch them but always fell short. He ran, he grabbed, and he missed. He was getting discouraged.

Then a voice came from the bushes. A man dressed in black emerged with an assault weapon strapped to his chest.

Here you go little buddy, he said, a firefly caught in his grasp. Noah was delighted.

Where did you come from? Jess asked.

Oh, we’re all around, out of sight. There are a lot of people here now. It’s our job to keep everybody safe.

Jess looked around as he motioned. Men in black appeared from nowhere like a scene in a shooting arcade, acknowledged her, then melted back into the unseen. 

As she was digesting this, Bo, Obama’s dog, came out to poop. The mess was immediately cleaned up and a yellow flag inserted in the ground where the pile had landed.  She turned to her secret service buddy:

What are the flags for?

Wherever the dog poops the lawn will be cut out and replaced. The flags tell them where to put new sod. 

Barbeque was served, ice cream, beer and wine. They filled their plates, sat on poop-free replaced grass to watch the evening fireworks and felt extremely protected.

Simple Splendor

 

The ocean puts me to sleep. It’s amazing. I have plans to do so many things each time I drive over, but as soon as I hit the sea air and hear the gentle roar of the waves I collapse into a complete letting go. It’s as if someone put a sleeping potion in my afternoon tea. My eyes get heavy. My breathing moves to the root of my belly, and my resolve crumbles. What a lovely thing this ocean mother is. Each time I land in her lap she cradles my spirit, insisting I rest, rejuvenate and restore. 

The ocean is busy today, not at all like my usual hide-away. It’s Sunday in late July, which is prime vacation time. I watch legions of tourists migrating with kites, shovels, deck chairs, good books and broad open smiles. The sky is cloud covered and cool, but they don’t care. They are making memories. They swim in frigid water, build castles, pick up stones and roast marshmallows around open fires. I watch, like being at the movies, then take a long brisk walk. 

A tall slender man in a wet suit drips back to shore. The clouds are low so he is dreamlike, emerging from both water and haze. His hair is black, like his suit, and his spirit seems generous and free. He clearly loves what he’s doing and has come to collect his young daughter, so she can learn to love it too. She’s about three years of age and has long streams of blond hair running down her back. He gathers her gently in his arms, knowing she is uncertain, then walks into the sea, the way Stevie Wonder walks to the piano. He owns it. I stop walking and watch, curious to see how he’ll share his pleasure. After a few yards he puts her belly down on the board, holding her steady as she looks into his eyes for courage. When a wave comes, she sails to shore in a smooth effortless ride, her father moving proudly by her side. 

The beauty of this day does not escape me. The simple splendor is plentiful and abundant. Nature is such a pure canvas. It takes me back to my center like nothing else, and reminds me that we are all just specks of sand in a limitless universe.

Meeting the mafia

 1979  Boston

I wanted to take Kristen to Vermont to show her where I’d gone to boarding school. I was entirely comfortable with hitchhiking and mentioned my plans to Keyo, but he became concerned. Keyo, I said, I’ve always hitchhiked and enjoyed it. I’ve met some incredibly good people that way.  I’m a good judge of character. I know who to trust and how to talk my way out of trouble.

He knew he wasn’t going to change my mind so he pulled me gently over to his pack. Karen, I want you to carry my knife. If anyone gives you trouble, you’ll have it to protect yourself. You won’t have to use it, but wear it on your belt and when people see it, they’ll know you mean business. I laughed, Yes, and when they ask me what I do for a living, I’ll say, I’m a spiritual teacher and here is my switch blade knife. He insisted. I took the knife to make him feel better and headed out the next day.

The knife was big and deadly, like nothing I’d ever seen. I pushed a button and a long sharp blade sprang into action. The metal shone of polished silver and frightened even me. I fastened it to my belt, like Keyo had recommended and prepared for our trip.

It began the next morning when a small pick-up pulled over to give us a ride and a policeman materialized from nowhere. He peered in the driver’s window and delivered a lecture about delivering us safely to our destination. No foul play, he warned. The driver was  put out. Man, I stop to do somebody a favor and the next thing you know, I’m being pulled over and treated like a criminal. I apologized and we went safely on our way. We had two more short rides and then climbed into a car driven by two young men, who talked about the Mafia like it was the Boys Club.

We talked easily, laughed and seemed to have a lot in common. They lived near by and offered an evening meal, shelter for the night and a swim in the pool. It sounded good, so we agreed. The car left the highway and threaded along a tall cornfield,  loose gravel pounding the window. Dust blocked my vision. When we reached the house, Kristen and I climbed down from the cab. The boy’s mother came out, asking who we were and where we had come from. When they explained that we were hitchhikers, an already heated conversation exploded. It was in Italian, so I don’t know what was said, but certainly got the drift. It was something like, these people are scum, get them out of here.

One of the men broke away and said, I apologize for my mother. She is very old fashioned, but it’s ok for you to be here.  His mother was heavy set, with thick black hair pulled away from her face, and a mind that measured the world in threats and dangers. This may not be a good idea, I said. No, no! He insisted. It’s late, we’ll swim and then you can stay in the guest house above the garage. You’ll be fine here, don’t mind my mother. I minded his mother a lot and so did he.

None-the-less, we changed into our suits and cooled off in the pool. It was a nice contrast to standing in the hot sun and being bathed in car exhaust. One of the boys went into the field and picked fresh corn. We tore back golden husks and ate it sweet and raw, while lingering in the pool. The sun was going down when we climbed out. I made my way to the changing house, put my hand on the door knob and turned it hard, but it didn’t open. I pushed again. That’s odd, I thought, I must have locked it by mistake. I turned around to ask for help and discovered that the boys had been sent into the house on an errand - their mother was standing in back of me.

She grabbed my arm and led me to a bench, I have locked the door, she told me. You can not enter. You must leave my house at once. Do not harm my boys. You are a mother, you know what I mean. She pointed to my clothes, which she’d piled on the ground outside, then lifted the knife from its holder. You are a dangerous woman and must leave my house at once.

I was speechless. I’d never been seen as a dangerous person and the idea that I might over power her sons with a knife was incredible. Her sons emerged from the house once again, and Italian words flew hot and fast. They stood nose to nose, each pleading their case in shouts and bursts of emotion, without anyone being heard.

One of the boys broke away, grabbed my clothes and showed us to the guest house. It will be all right, he assured us. It’s too late to leave. Rest well and go in the morning. Kristen and I looked at each other in bewilderment, as we hung our wet suits on the shower and talked about the events of the day. We were settling in for bed, when a car came screeching to a halt outside the window. Doors sprang open in unison. Six large Italian men got out, all of them carrying guns. The boy who had shown us to the guest house flew up the stairs.

I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave now, he said gasping for breath. You’ll be all right, Momma has sent some friends to make sure you go back to the highway. We didn’t even retrieve our suits from the shower wall, just grabbed our belongings as we were hurried out the door.

Kristen and I sat in the dark along the road, glad to be gone. I thought about throwing the knife away, but knew it was expensive and that Keyo would want it back. We cuddled together on my suitcase and sang songs, while we waited for some sign of life in the traffic lane.

We were picked up moments later by a man who was on his way home to his four children. He was generous and kind, invited us to stay the night and we accepted. We climbed the stairs to a guest bedroom, pulled back covers on a queen size bed and quickly fell asleep. Only I didn’t stay asleep. I tossed and turned and dreamed violent dreams of people being stabbed by knives. I was so angry with myself for agreeing to carry a weapon, because it was doing the opposite of what it was intended to do; it was endangering us.

In the morning, over a breakfast of orange juice and muffins, I learned that our host was vacationing with his children, because his wife had been brutally murdered only one month before. I offered my sympathies and asked how she’d died. Someone broke into our home while I was away, he said with tears welling in his eyes, and stabbed her to death. I listened to his sorrow and realized that my dreams had not been produced by anxiety, but were images resulting from very real terror.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. We were delivered safely to Vermont, walked around the school grounds, looked up acquaintances and got a ride back to Boston with an old friend, who had career-shuttled from musician to CPA. Upon returning I looked up Keyo and delivered his knife, glad to be free of it! I had learned an important lesson about the energy objects hold and attract, and that my personal safety had more to do with my outlook and essence, than it had to do with carrying weapons.

Endings

It’s hard to stay behind in a house where love has gone sour. There are so many memories. A new place is a clean canvas but an old place is a constant reminder of the past and all that was.

I’m sitting outside on the deck my husband built, looking at the angel sculpture he gave me three years ago on Valentine’s Day. Beyond are the raised beds of my garden which we fashioned our first summer, and farther still the well-crafted picnic table he built from discarded lumber. When I look at the hammock, I think of us in it. The tennis balls he gave the dog still hide in tall grass along the driveway, while the forest swing he climbed so high to rope waits down the hill.

Each sight is full of remembered stories, laughter and times of budding promise. I successfully maneuver around these emotional landmines by focusing on other things, but have no defense against the yellow plum tree. That one is unavoidable and goes straight to the heart. It’s a scraggly little thing that sits along the drive. I pass it when I walk up the hill. Most days I stroll past with only a gentle tug near my heart but not today.

Today it stopped me in my tracks, because it’s just now ripening and beginning to display its sun born fruit in radiant shades of delicious. Those plums defined his appetite and the hunger we had for one another. He could not walk past them without plucking great handfuls of over-ripe fruit. His was a balancing act as he made his way to the house loaded with a computer bag, files and tennis gear, topped with as many plums as he could manage - juice already dripping from the corner of his mouth. The plums seemed to define our sensuality and the ripe fullness of that first year when we found such comfort and solace in the body and spirit of one another.

My heart aches at his absence, as I sit trying not to think of him, trying not to dream about him each time I let go of the day and journey into night.

I saw him a few weeks ago and he looked great, much happier and more himself than ever before. Damn! Shouldn’t he be suffering just a little?

In the end incompatibility is no ones fault. It is just there, huge and sad, a reminder that life does not stop giving us endings.

The Dream

 

I hurried through morning chores so I could be at the pool as soon as it opened. As a teenager, I lived to swim, swimming and diving were my life. I performed every kind of high board acrobatic: flips, back dives, swan dives, jack knives and anything else suggested. Completely without fear, I was the daughter of Neptune and the water was my home. My skills were openly applauded by spectators and lifeguards who passed time dreaming up new and different variations for me to try. I was willing and able to match anything they offered.

One hot summer evening I tossed and turned in my bed, unable to sleep. My mind was spinning and I couldn’t quiet. When I finally dosed off, I wished I hadn’t because I slipped into an alarming dream.  I was measuring my steps on the high board and pacing them off as usual; one, two, three. But in the dream, as I lifted my arms to take flight on the final spring, my foot twisted to the right, my head caught on the board and I fell unconscious and bloody into the water. The dream woke me, breathless and frightened. My white sheet fell to the floor as I bolted from bed and walked through the house attempting to rid myself of its memory. In the morning I dismissed the whole thing as indigestion.

But the next time I went to the pool, I became irritated, restless and uncomfortable. Dread hung over me like a cloud I couldn’t shake or identify – a nasty mood. I swam a few laps to free myself then dripped from the pool and made my way to the board. I wrapped my fingers around the ladder and climbed to the top. I held the side bars and began measuring my steps, creating a shadow version of the dive I would do. When I got to number three, a voice spoke to me. Remember your dream, it said.  I froze, as I relived the images of raised arms, the slip of the right foot and the unconscious fall into the water. There was no way I was going to risk anything with those dark images in my head.

I looked behind me and saw a long line of swimmers waiting to use the board. Too late to back down, I thought, so I jumped off the end, carefully, the way a beginner would jump – and slid safely into the water.

What was that? the life guard smirked.  I climbed from the pool and wrapped myself in a towel. The end of my career on the high board, I answered and meant it.

Blessed Day

 

A gentle current of water, warm sun, a quiet breeze, old growth trees, cliffs, red tailed hawks and osprey – a long row of Canadian Geese, a good friend next to me, my air mattress and intimate conversation. Summer is now official. I made my first trip down the Sandy River. I was afraid a full work schedule and travel might have prevented it.

I went with Jill, a new friend from NYC, who arrived in my life a few months ago, complete with accent and spunky attitude. She was the perfect floating partner.

Going down the river is the finest purist thing I know. It is raw and timeless, a slow sensual communion with nature that carries away all emotional debris in a perfect blaze of splendor. Being on the river brings me fully and completely back to myself. Time stops, there are no tensions, worries, or problems. Mountain fed water and a burst of sun induce relaxation for mind and body that is deep and complete.

I never know what it will be like to float the river with someone else. Inviting a guest is always a gamble. The river is my special place so I am very careful about the person I share it with. Lucky for me, Jill was an ideal companion because she completely understood what it meant to be there. Thank you Karen, she said, I believe this was the best day of my whole life.  

My worst river partner was Neville, an older man who found it impossible to relax and just be. All he had to do was lie down on his belly and rest, but the poor fellow was incapable of relaxation. Instead, he propped his elbow against the inflatable pillow and perched his neck in the air like an awkward giraffe. He churned, lost his balance and plunged into the river repeatedly.

I pulled him to shore several times to teach him how to lie on the mattress.

See Neville, just like being home on the couch; all you have to do is close your eyes and nap.

But the lesson didn’t hold. Once his mattress was back on the water, he tensed up and began to twist, turn and battle. The river will take you. I insisted, there is nothing to do, but be like a leaf and allow yourself to be carried on the face of the current. You will move safely down.

Nothing worked until I instructed him to hold firmly to my toes. That gave his mind focus and dismantled his giraffe pose. By the time we reached the bottom, I was exhausted from paddling both his weight and mine. The experience had lost its charm and dear Neville had scrapes, bruises and drips of blood on his knee.

To my surprise he said the same thing Jill said, Karen, this was the best most exciting day of my life. We must do it again very soon! I smiled and wondered how quickly I could get an unlisted number.

Two summers ago I went down the Sandy with my daughter Kristen and my friend Joan. The sun was playing in shivering sparkles of light on the crest of each current. The blue sky warmed our skin and kissed my body. The combination felt like a deep sensual erotic bath.

Oh my God, I said in a sleepy voice, floating down the river on a day like today is better than having sex.

Joan turned her head in the same lazy manner and said, absolutely, this is amazing.

Then my daughter turned over and looked at us, incredulous.

You women must never have had good sex!

We aim to please

There is something so beautiful about falling asleep with my granddaughter in my arms. The smell of her wild curly snarled hair, her arms dotted with mosquito bites and her feet as dark as the ground she runs on. There is nothing that opens a heart like a child.

I remember asking a new father how he felt about being a dad, and he said, I was not prepared for the joy. Well, being a grandmother is even better. There is nothing my granddaughter could ask that I would not do.

So - now that you know my weakness, let me tell you about my morning. 

Last night Isabella, ten years old, announced that the forest swing was too far from the house and had too many mosquitoes.

Could you put up another swing, ma? One that is closer?

This morning I decided to solve the problem.

I woke early and spotted a limb on an apple tree half way up the drive. It was small, much closer to the house and more accessable than the old growth cedar that holds the forest swing. I did a quick assessment and decided to go for it. If I cut through a lower branch, I could manage enough height.

Inspired, I went to the barn, where three chainsaws sat shining and waiting on the tool bench, like new cars on a lot, sneering at someone who could only ride a bike. I gave them a wide berth, knowing that if I tried to use them, it would be my limb I’d remove instead. I not so secretly hoped the gardener would show up and turn 20 minutes of labor into 20 seconds, but of course, he did not. The best I could manage was a flimsy joke of a handsaw that would require brute strength and long tedious back and forth arm movements, but I was determined. Patience, I decided and time would be on my side. I walked from the barn into a hot morning, shouldering a large silver ladder and a green triangular handsaw. 

I was breathing hard as I propped the ladder against the trunk and began muscling the flimsy excuse of a blade back and forth through a limb it was never meant to cut. The aluminum steps wobbled and sweat ran down my brow as I persevered. Finally - snap, creak, release. The branch fell three inches, then refused to budge. It was entangled in larger limbs along the crest of the tree. I pulled, twisted branches backwards, removed bark from my eyes, threw my body over the limb and used language I will not print here.

Finally, it crashed, a large gangly albatross of a branch with smaller limbs shooting off in all directions. I dragged it across gravel, dirt and pavement to the log pile, pointing the heaviest part skyward and shoving it with a scream to the top of the heap. I found loppers and returned to the apple tree to remove  any branches that might interfere with a clear launch. I gathered rope and a swing seat to finish the job, but had forgotten something to cut the rope, so I trailed back to the barn again where I found a machete. Overkill I know, but at that point I was too tired to walk to the house. I hacked away at the thick braids of twine until they severed. Success!

Isabella woke and came outside, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She could not believe the size of the knife I replaced in the sheath.

Ma, what is that?

It’s a machete; I use it to keep pirates away.

I could see her little brain filling with dangerously fun ideas so I redirected her focus. We stood knee deep in twigs and discarded rope, so I asked for help.

Bring this stuff back to the barn with me, then you can try your new swing.  She was delighted. It took three trips to clear the ground before we were ready. My right arm was sore, I was dirty and exhausted, but it would all be worth it to watch Isabella on her new perch.

Are you ready? I asked.

She flashed a big smile and hopped on, her red pajamas and bare feet leaving the earth.  Up she went, leaning back and forth on her maiden voyage. She made six or seven full swings before hopping off. 

Actually ma, this swing is nice but I think I’ll stay with the forest swing. I like it better after all. This one doesn’t go very high.

How to Remember Your Dreams

(From the Reader’s Choice blog  www.yorkshire-press.com.  

Come by. Ask a question or join the discussion. We’d love to hear from you.)

Dear Karen,

Do you have any recommendations regarding some ways to help remember dreams? I am trying to keep a dream journal but I can’t hold on to them long enough to write them down.

Thanks so much! Summer

I think it’s amazing how we shift realities every night and everyone just takes it for granted. We dress for it, and buy comfortable beds to lie on, so our spirits can leave our bodies to dump out the old, learn new things, rest, recover and regenerate. If we don’t do it – we die. Think about it! That’s amazing. You’re saying, I want to remember where I go and what I do. I want to receive guidance from that place so I can have conscious contact, well good for you! If you are longing for it, my guess is that your spirit wants to be more awake in both places. Dreaming is the veil between realities. If you are strongly focused and centered in this one, dreams seem more distant and a little harder to catch.

First, make a decision to remember. Tell yourself when you close your eyes, that you want to remember your dreams, but don’t say it to your head. Breathe into your center and leave your request in your heart. Then have paper and pen by your bed, have them open and ready, so you can begin to write as soon as you feel yourself in the territory between sleep and waking. Write anything you have in your mind, write before you are fully awake, catch a feeling, a color or a vague scene. Don’t judge or censor anything, just spill it out. If you can begin to pull through small pieces, more will follow. It’s like fishing; you get a few nibbles and write those down, then one morning the whole fish shows up.

I’ve read that getting to bed late and being sleep deprived can interfere. I also think alcohol in the evenings can get in the way of remembering. However, I believe that if your spirit wants to speak with you and that’s an acceptable way for you to listen, that it will find a way to be heard - no matter what.

I used to fast every January with the intention of inviting the dream spirits, as a kind of vision quest. They will always come when you make that kind of offering. Fasting will take you into that realm rapidly and you’ll have vivid dreams that are full of guidance within days. Happy Fishing!