Wellness Coach

Living on the River

March 2016 washing clothes

On March 8, the Dreammaker woke me at 5:30 a.m. with vivid dream images. In my sleepy pre-dawn daze, I scribbled these words.
I am living on a River among a group of people. A four-year-old child that I know in the neighborhood is happy dancing. In the next scene, my clothes need washing. I wonder how to wash clothes on the river when a “magical door” appears and the clothes are washed.

First, I write my associations & symbols of the dream images:
-Living on a river – common symbol for the waters of the unconscious.
-Clothes – outer mask [persona]. Identities /roles.
-Happy dancing four-year-old child – inner Child of wonder and awe
-Washing clothes – Cleansing persona. Transformation. Purification.

Next, I look at the context of the dream from daily life.
Four days before the dream, I told my friends a story about a life-changing adventure. When I was age 54 in 1999, my spouse and I sold our home and stored all our belongings to work as hotel seminar coordinators for a training company. We traveled the USA in a Chevy Suburban for a year staying in 2-3 hotels per week driving from the Florida Keys to Alaska.

As I told the story, I expressed feeling lost on the endless highways. The excitement of travel changed to fears that life had turned brown like a parched desert…Who am I without a home or a community of friends? Everything familiar was dying. In the middle of that travel year, a stroke took my mother’s life. The losses accumulated into a spiritual “dark night of the soul”.

Re-telling the story when I was stripped of all that defined me seemed to open the unconscious waters for the dream and a healing of memories. The dream image of “washing my clothes” was a cleansing of one of my identities that I call “the one who suffers”.  As I reflected on the message of the dream, I knew that another orphaned part of me was welcomed to the Home within me. Attachment to any identity takes energy and thus drains my life force.

The day before the dream, I read one of my favorite verses: Psalm 30 – “God has turned my mourning into dancing”. I remember that I belong to Someone. I am a happy dancing Child.

I am grateful for the dream work that I began in the 1980s with psychiatrist and Jungian analyst, Dr. James A. Hall. In my coaching practice, I guide clients to discover messages from dreams. If dream work inspires you to inner development, please contact me.

Forty Days

2016 collage

February 2nd is a day with many names that speak of the return of light. Next Tuesday marks 40 days since the Winter Solstice as we arrive at the midpoint between the longest day of darkness and 40 more days until the return of light – the Spring Equinox March 20th.

Thousands of years ago February 2nd was a Celtic festival called Imbolc celebrating the washing of earth’s face. Ancient people seemed to understand the power of sacred rituals.

Another name for February 2nd is, of course, Groundhog Day brought by the Germans to America. We wait for light using a groundhog’s prediction for the remaining weeks of winter.

In the Catholic tradition, February 2nd is called Candlemas dedicated to the Virgin Mary as her purification rite after the Christ child’s birth. The word February is derived from the Latin word februum which means purification. At the presentation of Jesus at the Temple on that day, the scriptures say that wise man, Simeon, and wise woman, Anna, recognize Jesus as the Christ, calling him “a light of revelation”.

Whatever Punxsutawney Phil’s weather forecast is on February 2nd, we are all waiting for the wheel of light to return.

I invite you to reflect and journal with me during these 40 days as our fragile beautiful planet orbits the sun waiting for signs of fresh buds with scents of green growth.

How are my senses responding to this cycle of waiting?
How is light returning to my life after the long winter?
How can I listen to the heart-beat of life pulsing towards inner growth?

Goodnight Ritual

sunset Kentucky Lake Barkley

Remember the delightful children’s bedtime book Goodnight Moon? Years ago I created my own good-night ritual that is simple and soothing. As I snuggle under the heavy comforter and close my eyes, a silent and thankful review of the day begins.

The idea of journaling five gratitudes at day’s end always seemed like a good idea, but I haven’t cultivated that practice. My good-night ritual expresses my gratitude for the gift of aliveness on this fragile planet called Home.

As I review and release the happenings of the day, I stumble upon awkward moments or regrets about something I said or failed to do. Yet, I’m tired and sleepy and want to separate from negative thoughts; not keep the loop replaying in my head. I did the best I could today. I practice self-forgiveness and wish for a contented heart empty of self-judgment.

Sometimes I am so relaxed that I doze off into a sound sleep before I complete the day’s review. Other nights, I might sleep a few minutes when something rouses me back awake, and I begin the review where I left off. If I can even remember! Interesting what turns up…wondering what time I boiled the water for a cup of Bengal Spice tea? Was it 3:00 or 4:30? Does it matter? Of course not!

Letting go of my day is one way to practice the little death of day’s end as I greet the dark night of serene sleep. My final comfort is the monk’s prayer that I learned many years ago from my spiritual director, Fr. Paul Jones: May God grant us a restful night and a peaceful death.

Life-Changing Magic

blog august 2015

The words Life-Changing Magic in the title of Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, grabbed my attention. Then, she challenged me to look at my belongings with this question:

“Does an item spark joy? If it does, keep it; if it doesn’t, throw it away.”
I began her method and sorted through closets, cabinets, and chests seeing what sparked joy. I bagged costume jewelry and other items for the thrift store and tossed a piggy bank from childhood in the trash and shredded papers.

As I continued to follow her method, I read how tidying up is really about “examining my inner self”.

The process of assessing how you feel about the things you own, identifying those that have fulfilled their purpose, expressing your gratitude, and bidding them farewell, is really about examining your inner self, a rite of passage to a new life.

One way I have made sense of life’s experiences is through decades of journaling. I realized that during the initial “tidying up” phase, I had overlooked several journals nesting in a basket on my closet floor. Those particular journals were filled with emotionally charged memories from years of difficult transitions. Teachings about looking at the past contend that whatever good that came from times of struggle already resides within me now.

Yet…I resisted bidding farewell to those journals. An inner pendulum started swinging: cling to the past or surrender and let go. Two weeks ago, I awoke ready to face the task.

I read and ripped pages from the journals. Most of the writing was jabbering about selfing. I bid farewell to projects that didn’t happen, regrets, and resentments. As I gleaned the pages, I savored lessons learned, breath prayers, and times of gratitude.

Maybe tidying up is life-changing magic.

A Special Tree

special tree6

On a recent magical mystical trip to Sedona with fabulous friends Misty and Cynthia, Misty and I shared stories about when we met and became close friends 18 years ago. One of Misty’s memories: I would stop talking in mid-sentence; do a swirl gesture with my hand; then say… “and that’s a story I don’t need to tell”.

The wise teacher and writer, Angeles Arrien, inspired me to stop giving voice to my wound-story. Her book, The Fourfold Way, made a deep imprint on my life when she described how to develop the inner healer.

Identify your wound – the story you always share about yourself that is tied to some traumatic event. Offer this wound to a special tree, and never speak of this wound again.

Years ago on an overcast windy day in Dallas where I lived, I walked a familiar winding path that circles White Rock Lake. The ragged bark of a giant oak tree caught my attention. The gnarly limbs reached for the sky while giant roots spilled onto the sidewalk. I offered my wound to that special Tree as a commitment to begin healing the innerspace where my wounded-self lived.

Taking that one symbolic action mattered.  When I show up and pay attention to my own sacred Story, healing is possible. With gratitude I remember that special Tree holding my wounds in its holy knot.

 

Threshold 70

Collage2015 (632x450)

Making a collage for the new year is one way that I visualize my intentions for the next year. This year my intentions extend throughout the second half of life. Born under the sign of the fish, I will turn 70 this year. I think sacred intentions are not like wishes or “head goals”, but evolve throughout life.

My Second-Half-of-Life Intentions ~

  • Be love more than seeking love.
  • Fully embrace opposite poles as the pendulum swings from times of joy to times of mourning.
  • Take simple pleasure in sacramental gestures that consecrate the ordinary and make it holy. Lighting a candle, listening to a friend, and sitting in the stillness of silence.
  • Remember ~ I am a daughter of the Divine Feminine.
  • Accept that I am standing at the Gold Gate learning its lessons of nonattachment to identities, surrender of perfectionism, and acceptance of what is.
  • Grow into the idea that “my being attracts my life”.

When Sue Monk Kidd was turning 60, she visited the ancient site of Delphi with her daughter. As she posed a question to the Oracle, Old Woman visited her. She decided to no longer be driven by ‘what else’, but a finder of ‘what is’.

Old Woman ~ Show me, teach me to become a woman who is wise, resilient, and speaks her voice.

I tell myself I am experiencing the death of myself as mother, the death of myself as a younger woman. The Young Woman inside has turned to go, but the Old Woman has not shown up.
Sue Monk Kidd, Traveling With Pomegranates: A Mother-Daughter Story

One Light

One Light Dec 2014

Before Thanksgiving, I was on a week-end retreat with nine other women at the Sisters of Loretto Motherhouse located in eastern Kentucky. The Catholic Sisters have lived on the land for over 200 years.

On Saturday evening, four of us drove a short distance on the curvy country roads to the Abbey of Gethsemani where Thomas Merton once lived. We went to chant evening prayers with the monks at Compline. Since we arrived early before other visitors and retreatants, a pitch black and empty narthex greeted us.

As we walked into the cavernous church, a lone candle glowed at the altar to guide our steps. We sat in the visitors’ space in silent darkness waiting for the monks to arrive. Walking with soft feet in silence,  the monks took their places in the choir stalls. After the monks sang Salve Regina to the Virgin Mary, Compline was over.

On our drive back to our retreat house, we were suddenly blinded by a country field ablaze with Christmas lights probably visible from outer space! It was Ruley’s Christmas Light Farm complete with Santa and baby Jesus on two acres and one million lights.

The super-sized Santa and the dazzling lights seemed a complete contrast to the solitary candle at the church that cast a vertical beam of light towards the heavens.

There is a time for the pleasure of one million Christmas lights. And…there is a time to seek and find a reverent moment to sit in darkness with the light of only one candle.

There is a light that shines in the darkness, which is only visible there.
Barbara Brown Taylor ~ Learning to Walk in the Dark

Open Your Eyes

Light

Light on the Path

The novel All the Light We Cannot See tells the story of a motherless blind French girl and a German orphan boy during the occupation of France in WWII. A phrase repeated throughout the book sparked deeper reflection.

Open your eyes to see what you can with them before they close forever.

If I say that I will wait until tomorrow to open my eyes and see a different perspective, it is always “tomorrow”, and I do not change. I miss this moment, this day, to offer warm empathy rather than stone-cold judgments.

What if each day is a small replica of my Life? How can I see ordinary routines in a new way? Maybe changing my being starts with changing my reaction to an ordinary day and ordinary tasks like chopping vegetables for soup or filling the bird feeder. Little things matter. It might be the same routine, yet I can re-animate the tasks by seeing in a new way.

One ordinary event that fills me with wonder and awe is searching the western sky after sunset to view the first crescent of the New Moon. That small sliver of light on the backdrop of a clear indigo sky opens my eyes to an unknowable miracle that I am alive.

For in You is the very source of life; and in Your Light, I see only light. Psalm 36:9

Mystery

View from Veranda

For a week in May, I returned to a remote south Texas desert for my eighth solitude retreat at a House of Prayer. Immersed in natural beauty, I hoped that Mystery might find me there listening in the silence at the place I call my spiritual home.

When I arrived at the doorway to the “Big House”, Casa Grande, a woman with a Spanish accent whispered, “Hello, my name is Carmen”. Startled with immediate recognition of her voice and face, I remembered her welcoming words at my first retreat 27 years ago. For the month of May, she was there translating the core community’s books into Spanish. As we hugged and tears of gratitude flowed, she said: “I am sure God arranged this encounter”.

March 21, 1987, journal entry: Carmen took me to my room and said: “Everything is God. Trust…trust…trust. Look at God gazing at you. Behold the One beholding you.”

Was Mystery waiting for me in an ordinary encounter?

At 4 a.m., I watched dawn arrive from the 2nd floor private veranda outside my sparse room. Light began to soften the edges of the sky revealing the shapes of palm trees and deer feeding on tender grasses. My senses woke up: birdsong, clacking of palm branches, soft morning breezes on my face, and the sweet refreshment of morning air.

As I emerged from walking in the deep woods, a bird was singing Hymn to Joy from the tip of a bare tree branch. In the fading afternoon sun under the vast dome of a coastal cloud-streaked sky, dozens of vultures played on the thermals. At sunset, two wild turkeys flew over a high fence each leaving a tail feather in their wake.

Was Mystery gazing at me observing creatures and the harmony of creation?

We never know where we will encounter Mystery. We can be sure that it awaits us everywhere and in all things: if we but listen, behold and receive. Sr. Marie Coombs, hermit Lebh Shomea House of Prayer.

Certitude

Summer ~ Collage by Martha O’Brien

Summer is a season of abundance as each day lulls me into the illusion that the beauty of bountiful flowers will remain. The bright, bold red and orange zinnias, lemon-yellow marigolds mixed with purple snapdragon bouquets grace my home with their perky little nods of splendor.

Flowers fade. Wait… I haven’t fully enjoyed your beauty!

Everything changes. The empty truth: I want certitude.  I want certitude that I will remain healthy and active until that last puff of breath. I want certitude that my loved ones will avoid the suffering of a painful illness.

Wise Cistercian monk, Thomas Keating, at age 91, made this profound statement ~ I am more comforted by Mystery than certitude.

How can I rest in the heart of Mystery when my head wants to figure it out? Fix it. How can I drop all of life’s certitudes and live in un-knowing?

Silence meets my wandering in that vast ocean of the Unknown Presence where things happen beyond logic and reason and simple platitudes. I long to be more comforted by Mystery than certitude.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and looked at the crowded heaven.
And I said to my spirit, when we become the enfolders of those orbs and the pleasure and knowledge of everything in them, shall we be filled and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

Walt Whitman ~ Leaves of Grass Song of Myself [1855]