The Voice of Purpose

From an early age I felt I had a purpose but I simply had no clue what that purpose might be. I first picked up my pencil to write at the tender age of eight, sitting in the silence of my bedroom with sunlight pouring in through my window, feeling the sting of being punished and put to bed early. Even then, I knew I wanted to write but I had no idea it was purposeful. I remember distinctly thinking at the time, I don't have enough information yet to write any story!  So I put my pencil down and probably fell asleep.

Fast forward to my adult life. I still felt driven to a purpose. It felt so vague, so out of reach and the idea of a purpose felt so big. I longed for some direction, some course of action that was clearly defined so I would know just what it was I needed to do. In the meantime, I devoted my time to my family and to working a job that helped provide for them, I volunteered and taught and mentored children, all the while knowing these were good things. In between the cracks, I wrote poetry; I wrote a novel; I wrote a how to book that became my first published work. I started this blog. And then I wrote a childrens' story (one that is suitable for children of all ages) that will be published this year. And somewhere along the way, I discovered my whole life, from beginning to now, has been filled with the very thing I thought I was looking for, purpose. When Mother Theresa reminded us that not everyone can do great things, but everyone can do small things with great love, her words echoed what I have now come to know.

Every moment has led me to a deeper part of my unknown self that I am now willing to know. All along the way, my soul has been separating the chaff from the wheat, and life's wisdom continues to be the bread on my plate that I dine upon. I am a much faster learner these days and hopefully a wiser sharer of the wisdom I have gathered along the way. I do not proclaim to have the expertise of spiritual masters or gurus. But I know that wisdom gained and not shared is wisdom lost. I appreciate everyone who shares my daily bread with me. My hope is that it is warm, and rich, and satisfying...oozing with melted butter and a little garlic for spicing it up!

The Voice of Darkness

We are past the cusp of Spring but it is the eve of Easter, perhaps the most sacred holiday celebrated in the Christian world. For me, this time of year and Easter specifically, is not only a time of of personal spiritual reflection but it is also an opportunity to reevaluate my the year the has passed. I find myself considering my own deaths and rebirths. I believe that most everyone has a moment in their year when they are drawn into some thought about their life's meaning. For me, that time of year is always Easter; it is deeply sacred and has carried personal significance for me for a long time. It's message of death, rebirth, and hope is an opportunity for me to allow that which is not working in my life to die and give myself over to a personal rebirth. Without fail every year, it seems Life hears the echo of my deeply held desire and dishes up the golden opportunity to do just that...rebirth myself.

I am personally inclined to self-reflection anyway. But more importantly, I realized something this year about the symbol of the Easter experience. It's messages have so many layers, but for me I discovered a new layer. It is the power of the voice of darkness. I realized that all new life begins in the dark and it is within this darkness that growth occurs. Embryos cannot thrive in light, but must be held gently and with love in the womb. The mystery of life is no different. As a woman who has given birth, I realized that the only way to get through the mystery of giving birth was to love being in the darkness of not knowing. I carried my children from conception forward, excited for their arrival but all the while accepting and trusting the process my body was going through. I understood that for the child to develop to a state where it would survive in the world, it needed to stay hidden in the moist cathedral within my body. It should have been evident that birthing a child is no different than birthing my own life.

Wise teachers have taught there is a season for everything under heaven. And it appears to me, upon reflection, that all life begins in mystery. I know, I mean I deeply know, how hard it is to sit without fear in darkness. To await a call back from someone you love when there has been a misunderstanding; to await news from a medical test that will tell you if you are ill; to wait to see if the seed has taken hold, whether it is a child or an idea; to give space and time for an answer you desperately need for reassurance; to find your courage when you are at the end of a relationship or job. There are so many different dark rooms in our lives that demand of us our faith and trust. I have learned that in life the sun always comes up; the stone that closes the tomb will move away; that the blocks that slow me down are meant to add purpose and define my life in a way that a free pass never does. On the Easter Eve...and on this Easter Day...I wish for you a rebirth and a moment of deep reflection that reveals the Light of Life that guides us all.

The Voice of Power

My world, growing up with powerful women, created a sense within me that I was pretty powerful. Then, I left home before I really understood what that meant (because I thought I was an adult and powerful at 17) and I was quite sure I had the answers. I didn't...but the sense of determination that fueled my life came from this powerful sense that I witnessed as a young girl growing up. The power, however, was always yielded over other people. I have had to learn, through a life that is for all of us very messy, that power is something to be engaged in within me and has nothing to do with what anyone else in the world chooses or does not choose to do.

If you have ever been in a room with someone who knows this power then you will know what I mean. Years ago, my husband negotiated with Caesar Chavez. When Mr. Chavez walked into our office and I met him, I knew he was powerful. I have not been graced to sit in the presence of the Dalai Lama, but I am told that his presence has enough power to fill a football stadium. I am quite sure that Ghandi and Martin Luther King emitted this essence, the fragrance the flower knows intimately. Personalities become personalities because they know this power...Oprah, Sting, George Clooney, President Obama, President Bush, Margaret Thatcher. Their influence in the world flowered because each individual understood that their only real power was in how they held to their inner truth. They intimately understood/understand that it is not what happens, but what happens within them. They all learned (or knew innately) that it was their response or reaction that drove their lives forward. They do/did not necessarily try to influence people, people are/were influenced by them because of their ability to harness and master their emotional responses to life. Each are reflective in their fields, even if you do not care for their influence. The inner power in their life is their mastery...and we are all drawn to mastery, whether it is delivered in the form of a picture, a song, or a speech.

The only path I know to this kind of power is self-reflection and diving deeply under the wave of my own life's circumstances. From Jesus Christ to Buddha to the many masters who have walked on our earth, one of their singularly identical messages is that we must die to our desires to be reborn. I needed to die to the idea that I had power over anyone. In the learning of this painful process, what I have discovered is that the person I was trying to have power over rose to their own dignity and self-reliance while at the same time peace rose within me and healed my heart. It does not mean that I do not care; it does not mean that I don't give voice to my concerns and ideas. The difference is this: I am learning to live with my inner discomfort when life looks differently than I want it to look. To use the power within me calms my inner storms. Only when I say to my stormy waves, "Be calm" that answers come to me. Power is only power when I master myself.

The Voice We Choke

I help women put voice to their stories. In the course of doing my work, I spend a lot of time listening to my clients so they can have their experiences in written form. It has become this remarkable gift that God has graced me with, to be able to translate into word what has been hiding in their hearts. What I have discovered is how desperately hard we work as a society to hide our flaws, our mistakes, and our shortcomings. It is part of our religious training, to rid ourselves of our "sins," to hide our shortcomings from the people we love for fear of being judged, rejected or accepted. Sometimes I have hidden my voice to keep myself elevated in the eyes of another, especially when I felt unsafe or needed the other person's approval. This part of ourselves, this hidden compartment, creates fertile ground for dependence on drug and alcohol, illnesses caused from stress, and feelings of deep isolation. At a recent womens' expo, one of their focuses was on heart health. Heart attack is the #1 cause of death for women in the United States. One of the leading contributors to heart disease is stress. If I cannot be open, honest and transparent in my life, then I will feel stress...and so does my heart.

The Expo really put this before me and has caused me to realize how important having a voice is. It is not an easy thing to do, to speak your truth, confess your "sins" or express your deep disappointment to someone you love. But if air and water are critical to life, so having your voice is equally critical to living without stress. Using your voice effectively is something that is learned; it is a skill set that perspective hones and changes as time goes on. As I look back at my many entries into WWAV, what I see is my need to have a voice and be heard. I came here hoping to help others and in writing it I have also helped myself.

We all make mistakes. As a parent, I have made some humdingers. It is not the making of the mistake that matters. It is the voice we stamp on the mistake that affects all of us. If your perception of me is that I need  perfection to love you, then your voice will be swallowed and our connection will be like eating cotton candy. It might be sweet but it is all air and lacks nourishment. But if I can make you feel safe so you can tell the inner truth that needs to be unlocked from some inner prison, then we are both free to evolve and change. I will learn from you and you from me. Together we can make a difference and take on the challenges that meet all of us along the way. If your voice is being stricken because of concern for what the world thinks, then the world will always matter more than you do to yourself. But, if you can know deep within your heart that YOU are the only thing that matters, there is no conversation or voice that will break or kill you. Transform you, yes. Your voice is the key that unlocks the dungeon of isolation. I wish, with my heart and soul, that you use it.

The Voice that Wakes

A boat that glides through the water creates a soft, rolling wave. As a kid, we used to swim off Sanders Beach in my home town and hope for those kind of waves, especially if we were on floating rafts. The wave would saunter into shore, rocking us to and fro while the sun beat down on our youthful bodies. It was like being rocked by Mother Earth. Then there are the wakes created when a boat moves at high speeds through the water. Those waves are high and choppy and exhilarating. It's not so much the waves are risky, its the speed of the boat. I thought about this analogy when a very dear friend of mine shared the turmoil of her cousins whose mother is dying 3000 miles away from their homes. A life of choosing "high speed fun" over a more thoughtful gentle ride created a destructive and painfully difficult wake in the mother's path. Her children are trying in vain to cope as she sits at death's door.

My inspirations come to me in pictures like "wakes" and caused me to reflect on the kind of wake I'd like to leave when I exit this life. I do not want to live my life in such a way as to leave a choppy slapping wave behind me. I want a gentle rocking and rolling wake at my wake. Being human is such a messy job and few if any do everything well. I don't know how to escape being human but I can stop long enough to reflect on how my actions will be held in the hearts of my family, friends and acquaintances.

Today most memorials are celebrations of life. I like that idea. I like the idea that while I have lived an imperfect life that in the end even my imperfect actions may be interpreted as effort on my part to do the right thing or make the wrong thing as right as possible. Sometimes we cry for the loss of a loved one; other times we cry for what was lost in the life we shared with that person. A very dear friend of mine suggested that we all die as we have lived and that makes so much sense to me. I want to be be honest when I ask myself that question. Life is a two sided coin and, as I always say, cannot be cut to one side. I just hope that my coin has value for those I love. I no longer seek an impossible perfection; I pray that those I love will come to understand my intent. Finally, I am hopeful that my "wake" will always leave a trail of love for my well-meaning heart.

The Voice of Bozo

All of us, at one time or another have walked out of the bathroom, dragging a piece of toilet paper on our shoe unknowingly! I mean this literally and/or metaphorically. Who would do that on purpose, right? I had the delight of having our children with me this past week and whenever we get together we often laugh about those times that we unknowingly play the part of the bozo. It's the walking and chewing gum at the same time dilemma we occasionally all stumble over. There are so many ways to react to the times when we embarrass ourselves but I have come to believe the optimum response is laughter. Making fun of your personal faux pas can be empowering or shameful, depending upon how you see them.

Years ago, when I was in the throes of a major life change at the age of 22 (I was deciding whether or not to become a single mom) I wrote a poem about the need to be bleached. As I work and spiritually counsel others, I suggest to them that life is messy. By way of religious training or societal or parental demands for perfection we end up being uncomfortable with our imperfections, even embarrassed or shamed by them. To stay perfect and bleached, I hugged my authentic self to me and refused the let the bozo out of the bag. But, unknowingly, the bozo was not IN the bag but prancing around me and completely out in the open. That personal bozo of mine was holding up two fingers behind my head while the rest of the world was taking my picture!

I believe that I have come to this place that while I do not want to embarrass myself or do something stupid for the world to see, I also know that I am only human. Flawed in all my Divine perfection, I have come to love my personal bozo. She is delightful and tickles my funny bone and makes me laugh and feel at ease with my messy life. Without laughter, without permission to be imperfect, we shrink. And like the vacuum seal bags that we can put blankets in so they will fit under our beds, we end up trying to "fit" and we take the air out of our life. It might be a good exercise for all of us to pull out that oxygen deprived bag and laugh at our crazy, insane, flawed, and messy life. Therein lie the riches we all seek.