What's The Worst That Could Happen?

My mother used to ask me this quetion when I would be fretful with worry over something. When I was seven, this seemed to be a constant condition for me. We had moved many times by the time I was newly seven. We moved again, sometime after the school year had already started. I had grown fond of Mrs. Bennett, my second grade teacher at La Marina. I had survived the wetting-my-pants-at-school-on-a-rainy-day incident, the fire on the field at school where nobody did what we learned during fire drills. I even went unscathed by the incident of seeing one of my older sisters in the hall with a big dollop of bird poop on her shoulder. And, just like that, all that I had been through seemed like a day at the Fair compared to the way I felt at Pacific School on my first day, mid year. I was thrust into a classroom with kids I didn't know, forced to sit in the front, at a table instead of at a desk with the other kids, and told to copy the spelling words on the chart, by my new teacher, Mrs. Yez. Ohhhh, my stomach instinctually curls up into a nervous ball at the thought of that fateful day. Mrs Yez was cold, hard, very old and from my adult perspective, way way past the prime age of retirement. The woman was actually a hazard to the children she was hired to teach, and care for during their very formative years. I have come to see the age of seven as the magic age. The age when we become ourselves. We are all pretty much the same person we were at seven, with more experience more self control and perhaps a more worldly view of things. I was sensitive, quiet, introspective, secretly very funny, tall for my age, had a spark of confidence that would later ignite into the fire that now burns brightly within me. Oh, but I digress. Back to second grade. The first thing I did on that day was copy the wrong spelling words.



My memeory has edited much of this year from my grasp. I can tell you that I spent a lot of time in the school nurse's office with a tummy ache (yeah- my third chakra- gut feeling was telling me to do what ever I needed to do to keep away from Mrs. Yez!), I stayed home a lot with "illness". I even remember meeting with the school principal on a couple of occasions to discuss any "problems" I was having. Pretty simply, the only problem I had was that sticky black energy in front of the classroom that was trying her best to extinguish any light she saw. That year, I read lots of picture books with one foot crossed over my bent knee, lying on the nurse's table/bed. It was fine when I took care of myself. When I was forced to bear witness to Mrs. Yez's contained cruelty, I saw how she treated the boy who fell back in his chair (yes he was tipping it- he was, a boy, though- not doing anything abnormal or unexpected for such a gender) who had a smear of blood on his hand as it passed through his hair at the impact sight, I ached inside with grief. She would not even permit him to go to the nurses office. I had probably used up all the nurses passes by then. I am so sorry Peter.



The best thing that happened in second grade is that I met my first best friend, Lara. Lara had long, shining, wavy, thick hair and brown eyes. She was sweet and practical and my gut feeling told me she was a true friend. From my perspective at thirty nine, I can confirm that my insticts at seven were correct. Lara remains one of my closest friends and one of the most important people in my life.



Lara and I talk almost every day. We both contract with the same cellphone company and although I could attribute all of our conversations as simply convenient and fee-free, I have to believe there is a more profound connection here. Yesterday, I was talking to Lara about one of the concepts that has recently come to me in my new vibrational state of bliss. The idea is this: As long as you have your conciousness, you are free. You are free to exist in joy or pain, you are free to vibrate in love of be eaten alive by fear and sorrow. You are free from the bondage of everyone else's will but your own. Even if you are wrongfully imprisioned in Guantanomo Bay in a concrete isolation chamber with no light, you are free. Even if you are imprisioned in a body that has heen paralized from the nose down, you are free. Even if you have killed five hundred thousand innocent people because you were ordered to do so by your commanding officer, you are free. You have your conciousness, you have free will, you are free. Imagine a world filled with people who grasp this concept. There would be an easement of pain, there would be a lifting of sufferring, there would be an erasure of remorse, of self sabotage, of guilt, of revenge, of a need to attack before being attacked, a need to victimize before becoming a victim. There would be no victims. There would be no inflictors of pain. there would be only choice and free individuals who chose to put their weapons down, forgive themselves for atrocities/mistakes they have made, make amends to those they have harmed. There would be forgivenss, and motion in a forward direction.



Imagine the medical community being open to being wrong, being open to new ways, being open to learning from those they had shamed and compartmentalized as quacks, "alternative healers" and downright "dangerous". Imagine this concept in every situation where there is strife, struggle and pain. Imagine the difference it would make if you could never be a victim. If the threat of "rape" were no longer the worst thing that could happen to you. If death were not the worst thing that could happen to you. If loss, or a broken heart, or being wrong were not the worst things that could happen to you. Wrap your mind around it while I tell you a little story.



I met a woman at a hen party a couple of weeks ago. This was one of those tupperware-type parties where women get together in a home, food and wine are served, and something is offered for sale. In this case, it was my favorite line of clothing. The designer of this line is so attuned to the needs and wants of women today, especially me, that I will kneel down and place my forhead on her foot in thanks if ever I have the chance to meet her- which will probably totally freak her out, by the way, but I guess freaking people out is part of my destiny, after all. Back to the story.



A few of us were asked to model the spring line. We each had four or five outfits to strut around in so that other women could see how great the clothes looked on regular, normal people. One of my co-models was this five foot something (hard for me to judge a height this short, as I am six feet tall) beautiful babe with long, flowing blonde hair, perfect boy body and cute boobs. She looked particularly adorable in the khaki capris with the burgandy tissue T and platform espadrilles. She was a vision, and I told her so.



Later, this new BFF, Jill, and I were sipping wine and gobbling gourmet pizza, talking trash and I asked her, "what are your plans for Valentine's Day?" She said that she wanted to do something really hot for her husband of eighteen years. I started to offer up suggestions.



-"Get rid of the kids" - There were three- "Check!", she said.



- "Turn off all electric things, except perhaps music, and light the house with candles." - "oooh good! Keep going!", she said.

-"When he comes home, answer the door in sexy lingeree, or a slinky robe". This is where the conversation got interesting.

"I think I'll wear nothing but tassles on my nipples." she said, "these boobs are for him!"

"Oh, are they new?", I inquired.

"Yes." Jill said calmly, " I had breast cancer, these are new. I got them in December."

Then Jill went on to tell me her breast cancer story. She said, she got the diagnosis in September. That her old breasts were so flat, and saggy that the mammograophy technitian didn't even have to spread them out to have a good scan of them. "My kids sucked the life out of them. They nursed me to death!". Good, I thought, They served their purpose.

"When I found out I had breast cancer, I had a Bye Bye Boobies Party. We served margaritas and had m&ms made that said 'ta ta ta-tas' and 'bye bye boobies'. I got rip roaring drunk with my friends and sent my breasts off with flair!". "I fell in love with my husband during my cancer", Jill added, " We have been married eighteen years and he took two months off from work to do my job for me while I was recovering. One month in September and another full month in December. He did all the cooking, shopping, picking up and dropping off of the three kids, all that I do, he took over, showing me how much he respected me in my job as wife and mother." I was weeping a little by now. " Can I touch them?" I asked, of her perky new breasts. Because we were true friends, and Jill is that kind of person, she allowed me to feel her up. They were perfect. Not too big, not too hard. Perfect, and they matched her personality beautifully.

I gushed to Jill how I loved the way she saw the whole cancer experience. It seemed to me that she could have wallowed in woe and self pity, dying a little inside, shrivelling up as a woman, but had done the opposite instead. What a gift to herself, her husband, her family, friends and to me, who asked her if I could write her story into my book. You know she said "yes", because you are reading this. I told her I would call her story Zues and Juno Get a New Pair of Boobs, and so here you are. A real life example of joy in what could have been considered a tragedy.

There is a lot of pain these days. It is hard to make sense of it. It seems like people are dropping like flies, dying from cancer, suicide, homicide, school shootings. Even for an enlightened soul, it gets a bit confusing. What I can say is this: Death is not the worst thing that can happen. It is a transition. It can be a transformative transition, but either way, the energy of the soul remains intact with or without the body. If your loved one has passed, think of it as a free bus pass for that person/pet. They can now be with you at a moment's notice. They fly free all the time. They hear you and feel you, and though many souls get lost and need help passing into the light that reassures them with it's love-energy, there are ways to help them and they are very much still with us, sans body. So, let go of the thought that even this seeming finality is so horrible. It is not. And, by proxy, neither is any terminal or chronic illness. It is all just an opportunity to experience some aspect of life in human form. Make a party of it. Do it your way! Take a cue from Jill and make melons out of the lemons you were served. There are no rules or restrictions when you realize that if you have your concsiousness, you are free.

Tending Your Own Garden

Tending your own garden is one of those very important, yet secret things we learn to do, first as infants, for if it be unnatural, why are our fingertips so perfectly paired with our gardens? Just the right length, just the right size, and the soil feels good to stir... . As children, we are shamed, 'If you are going to touch your garden, please do it in the privacy of your own room' (preferably under the covers in the middle of the night so we won't have to know about it). Unless you were shamed or frightened into never exploring your own, native soil, you know that with proper tending, almost any tending, flowers can and will bloom. We learn this, one way or another, in our teen or adult years (Thank God!). As soil, rich, black, fragrant soil, even when a gardener sets in, digging with his spade, will never bear a bloom of any kind unless A. We have learned how to bring forth blooms from our own soil first, or B. we have a gardener with an experienced green thumb who is not afraid to get his hands dirty.

If the inexperienced gardener with a spade or a hoe, or even rake sets into our soil before we have learned the nuances required to bring forth the magic of germination, it can taint us to the beauty of gardening for a very very long time. We may even come to the conclusion that gardening in general is some nasty business that has no place in a girl's life. That her soil is dirty, she likes her nails clean and may even go so far as to have her plot of soil paved over with concrete. Sad. So girls, here's where I am going to enlighten you. Get your notepads ready, brew up the tea and light the candles, because we are going to talk gardening!!!!!

This is what I've learned, and would like to share with you about soil, germination and ultimately the beautiful blooms that can and will come forth for any healthy female with the desire to experience the pride of regularly bringing forth a beautiful flower, (or two or three).

The most important advice I can impart to you today is that you weed from your garden any shame, embarassment, self loathing or fear associated with the act of tilling your own soil. Gardening in your own plot is actually one of the healthiest, most sacred rituals you can do, and unfortunately, in our society, sacred acts are sometimes labled as shameful. Not true. Throw those weeds away and never think of them again. Good.

Of course, the best gardening is done alone, just you and your soil and your mind and heart, open, fingers enjoying the feel of the warm soil, wet with dew, you hum along, lost in the pleasure of connection, literally taken away to another place, another time, on vacation. A vacation for your heart and your body. Any time of day is a good time for gardening. Any time and place when you can clear your mind, create a sacred space for you and your soil to bring forth a colorful bloom, in celebration of life. The resulting you will have a glow in her cheeks and take in the rest of the day with ease, even welcoming your gardener in later, your soil already stirred and loosesened, ready for the spade.

Using your hands is fine, just make sure you begin your digging with clean fingers so as not to infect your soil with any unwanted germs. Many women use fertilizer or bell jars ( a bell jar is like a mini, glass, bell-shaped green house you place over the soil where your bulb is buried to provide warmth and moisture in cold weather) to help stimulate and or force their bulbs. I have never tried a bell jar, but am fully supportive of any tools neccessary to achieve the most beautiful bloom. If you are shy about purchasing a bell jar, there are web sites and stores geared toward female gardeners now that won't make you feel dirty or sinister to enter. A site I know of called The Art of Pleasure for Gardeners, is run by women for women. They say 'an orchid a day keeps the wrinkles away'- and I have come to see this as sage advice. Stimulating the blossoming of an orchid increases blood flow to every part of your body and creates hormones to be released that stimulate joy and health, counteracting all the negative stress hormones your body gets flooded with on a daily basis.

Along the lines of air and aerating your soil, part of letting go of the shame of taking time during your busy day to garden, is exposing your soil to fresh air and sunshine. Unless you are trying to grow mushrooms, your flowers need air and sun to bloom. Get out from under the covers. Think of some new ways to till your soil discreetly, but in honor of the life-giving properties your soil will bring forth. Like I said before, the shame has got to go. Your gardener, if he is a trusted partner, will fully support you in this, if you choose, at any time, to discuss the subject of gardening with him. Might I suggest having this conversation over a bottle of wine, prior to enetering an empty house or hotel room? Most gardeners love to talk about soil and wish to start digging just as soon as possible after a conversation such as this has taken place. They can hardly keep their rakes or their spades to themselves once you begin to discuss the nuances of soil aeration.

Soil should be honored with regular tilling, sowing, care and maintence. It should be revered in it's ability to bring forth the beauty of flowers, bouquets and bushels of exquisite, fragrant, richly colored blooms. It should be nurtured and tenderly cared for in it's life-giving, promotion of new seeds, and the gardeners of tomorrow. Never again, will this tender, beautiful plot of soil be left untended. And as for those girls who have had their plots covered over with concrete; break out your jackhammers! Even dormant soil can be unleashed in it's ability to bring forth life.

Family Discount

You know all those excercizes in The Secret, and umpteen other self-help sources that advise you to ASK for what you want and need, that only THEN can the universe provide? So many souls won't even ask. They shut the door on themselves, actually rarely even opening it in the first place, before they risk having the door slammed on their needy, wanting hearts. What a waste. Thankfully, I have become rather good at the asking, and then letting go of the result that may or may not manifest itself. My track record is sound. This technique works. You need proof? No problem.


I recieved my first Wish Box when I was a teenager in the 1980's. I remember that it was a gift and that it was wooden and simple and somewhat mystically pained with copper swirls or triangles or something. The wish box came with simple instructions. Place your written wishes in the box. I remember writing my "wishes", you know, all those things that would lighten the burden of worry from my heart, on tiny strips of paper. I usually wrote the requests as polite inqueries to God, that I may please have.... oh let's say as an example..., a means to go to college, always followed by a sincere Thank You just for taking the time to consider the request. Two years later, from this inquery, I somehow, in a weird twist of fate and events unfolding, found myself in line to take the picture for my student I.D. at California State University, Long Beach. My sister Stacy, who played volleyball on a full scholarship, had brought me home an application and henpecked me until I mailed it, and my transcripts in. I should have seen the foreshadowing of future events...., but I'm getting off track.

The wish box recieved new wishes varying in magnitude of levels of probablity that they would happen, sometimes desparately begging,...."PLEASE let Andrew marry ME!!" And somehow I never gave up on the box, even when some of the really really important events, like Andrew marrying me, just refused to take place. Oh, but then, I have patience. I never took the long wait as a NO answer. I just figured the wish was fulfilled somewhere in the future. Me and Andrew, simple gold bands in a courthouse, with no beautiful dress and no bride's maids - I didn't need all that- Oh, just to be Mrs. Pott. I chuckle now, from this vantage point, at this sweet girl who refuses to give up on things that obviously aren't for her. Ahhh, youth.

When the wishes were fulfilled, like graduating from college, the strip of paper would be thrown away to make room for new wishes. Sometimes I would clean out old wishes, not wanting them any more. Either way, I was always relieved of the burdon of worry that my life would unfold in ways I could not forsee. Like a present.

As an intermediate level wish-maker, I think I used an urn or a piece of pottery, even my journal with the pages left in the binding as wish box, and successfully got:

A real job with a salary, as opposed to a paycheck.

A cool apartment in Santa Barbara with a shoebox-sized ocean view when you looked from the level of the kitchen counter with your cheek pressed up against the glass,

Dates,

Boyfriends,

Friends,

A Husband/Family,

A Baby,

A House, we could afford,- actually the house we wanted but were told we absolutely could not buy because it wasn't nor would it ever be for sale,

My Dream Car,

My Destiny/Soul's Purpose, made so clear that there could be NO question as to the concreteness of the fact that that's what it was,

My Soul Mate, (who happens to be the man I married nearly ten years ago!).

Here's what the wish box/Universe has denied me:

My career in Pharmaceutical Sales,

My career as a therapeutic gemstone jewelry practitioner,

My career as creator of uplifting spiritual enlightment-inducing cards,

My thin, firm body,

My perpetually flat stomach, (actually, I may have spoken too soon on these two items- something odd is happening to my body, even though I have been eating dessert after or for every meal)

My freedom in the form of bringing in my own income/ AKA, my "financial" independence.

as a side note, I have defied the universe on this one, because I have still acted as if the money was mine, making all the hard choices, like "should I spend $133 dollars on something so frivolous as a fully reversable emerald and purple, full length cape, just because I really want it, even though I run out of money each month before the next paycheck comes in from the Boss for managing the household's expenses?" Yep. I bought it. And you know where that got me.

I'm telling you, I have gotten flat out balsy in the requests I've been making to the universe these days. In the past two months I have ordered a pay-off of all outstanding mortages (around $550,000 dollars), A pay off of my car, (anither $24 thou), updating some things in the house including but not limited to: new bathroom, new living room furniture, new bamboo flooring throughout the living room area, a new fence in the back yard, a new water heater, solar panels and I think that was all that was formally requested in the new year.

Now here's where the real fun begins. I called up Stacy, my sister, and left a message on the family answering machine saying, and I quote, "Hi, this is Shelley and I'd like to place an order from the Universe for equipment to film the feature length, major release documentary I am going to make. I would also like to order a computer large enough to edit this masterpiece with the highest quality. In addition, the time and finances required to make this endever come to fruition. And PUT A RUSH ON IT, Universe, this project needs to start yesterday." When the Universe Rep. called me back, I had her read me my order, just to make sure she got it right. She assurred me with confidence that it was on it's way. I have to say, it is so nice dealing with people you can trust. It just alleviates the need to worry about things like did she get the size and quantity right? Does she know that I need resources of all types to make this happen, not just the money- I need a support staff, like an agent and an editor, and a secretary and someone to carry my film equipment through airport terminals so that I may leave my hands free for holding on to those of my children and husband.?

Oh, this Rep is good. She really gets the nuances of the unspoken request. She just takes the liberty of inflating your order to include the things you didn't know you needed. I am so pleased with her service that I have sent a business reply card to the Universe, thanking them for sending Stacy to me as my Rep (and my big sister). I am sure a raise is in store for her. I think she's already ordered it. Oh, and she is so good, I didn't even need to pull that old, overly used card, requesting the "Family Discount".

Is She For Real

This is the title of my book, my fictitious book. Yes, I am a fictional character. It's easier to swallow this stuff if you think of me in this way. I got an idea of how intense I am, just in my existance today, when U., my pet name for Universe, or The Universe, depending on how you see it, threw me some doozies.

I set out like any other person. I got up at five, watched STAR WARS Episode III, Revenge of the Sith, on the couch with the little DVD player my kids use on long trips to pass the time. I drank my coffee, allowed my son, Aidan to join me around five thirty, watching together the poetic progression of Anakin Skywalker, the chosen one, the one pre-destined to restore order to The Galaxy, evolve into Darth Vader, apprentice to the misinformed leader of the Sith, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine/soon to be cloaked and hooded Emporer with some serious wrinkle problems. While watching this I kept thinking how brilliant the body of work is as a whole. It serves as a metaphoric model of our own society and human history and future, in such a beautifully stylish way. I have always identified with the Force as "God", or that energy most of us now refer to as "The Universe" (remember U.?). My childhood (and adulthood, for that matter) was ruled by this concept I recognized as truth. There is an energy that binds all things. This energy can be harnessed for strength, for information, for a clear view that sight cound never provide. The force is about feelings . "check your feelings, Luke". Third chakra, baby! It's all about feelings. Gut feelings never lie, because it's The Force guiding you.





So, getting back to my day..., I was LOVING this movie. I had only seen it once, in the theater, when it came out a few years ago. I really enjoyed it then, but thought the acting was weak, the special effects too numerous and the story too complicated to follow. Just shows where I was in my evolution because TODAY, at five AM all I could keep saying to myself is, 'This is mastery. This is genius. This is PERFECT. This is speaking to my heart truths upon truths. This is George Lucas's gift to the human race. THIS may be how the human race, how all those younglings LEARN the ways of The Force soon enough that they survive and thrive in this vibrational transition.' Whew! And Aidan, who is only four and a half, pretty close to five years old, followed this film and agreed with me on every point I shared with him, right down to the totally cool T-Bird-esk ship Obi Wan takes to track down General Grievous on a planet in the Outer Rim. He said, "cool ship" while I silently thought "cool ship".





After that, we had breakfast, or Aidan had breakfast and Kieran woke up and had breakfast. We played baloon volleyball over the coffee table with two air- filled red baloons. I put on the Charlie's aAngels sound track and we danced to such classics as, Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel and I Like Big Butts, one of my personal favorites. I gave Tom, my husband, what I thought was great news, that I was going to look at camera equipment today, so that I could start filming my documentary, you know, the one the psychic told me last week that I was going to make? The one that will change the World? I told him I'd be visiting Sammys Camera in Santa Barbara with my mom to investigate equipment for rent (or purchase, I secretly thought). I told him this while he was on the toilet pooping. I don't usually talk to Tom while he's pooping. This should have been a red flag for me.





I took a shower, got dressed in a pair of Tom's jeans because my jeans are too big now (fat is phat!, Remember?) I wanted to wear the red, paisly silk strapless bustier over a T-shirt with the jeans, but caution got the best of me. Did I really want to call that much attention to myself today? I settled for a navy and white print wrap dress over the jeans and a very long sand colored cashmere scarf, wrapped around my body and artfully tied at my hip, like a Jedi Knight. I thought I looked cute. I picked up Mom from the house, after she fed me a calorie-rich breakfast and we spilled milk from chalices into the planter (I had been advised to do this in honor of some pagan holiday, representing the center point between the winter and spring solstices by my sister Stacy and good friend, Kym). We headed out into the beautiful, 11 AM sun and made our way across town to Sammy's.





Sammy's Camera was an experience. The aisles were filled with equipment real photographers, cinematographers and film-makers use. We perused these aisles. I saw a display of National Geographic brand khaki canvas equipment bags. I told Mom, "we're gonna need something like that for Africa". She didn't flinch. In fact, she was being surprizingly supportive. This wasn't like her. She was usually trying to contain me, like a genie in a bottle. What was this? Was she more enlightened than I'd thought? I should have noted this as another "red flag", but being the gullible sort, I went straight down to work.





I approached the counter and began to express my needs to the first sales person who made eye contact. "Ohhh, stop right there", she said when I started listing the equipment needs I had for making a feature-length documnetary... "I know who you need to talk to, Sonny. I'll get him". A few minutes later a very cute, very confident five foot something gentleman came to my aid from behind the camera counter. "I need a digital camera", I said, "one that has the capability to shoot a documentary in natural ligting conditions, and will produce a film quality fit for "The Big Screen". "Hi-Def or regular def?", Sonny asked. "oh, definately Hi Def", I replied, after pondering the question for a total of two seconds. "Well... we are TOTALLY out of HI-Def cameras right now." I paused for two seconds, "then regular def it is. I need a camera TODAY! I need to start shooting my documentary." I replied with confidence. Secretly, I was praising this woman that I have become, in her wrap dress with the Star Wars-esk sheik Jedi scarf accoutremont. I was good and I looked good too. I listed off and we discussed the other things I would need, a tri-pod, a case for the camera, a larger battery pack, two boxes of tapes, a cable to transfer the film to a computer which I do not at this time posess, a "take one, aaaaaaannnnnnd, (CLAP) Action!" thing to help with editing (Sonny wasn't even by phased by the fact that I didn't posess the vocabulary for film-making. What a Professional!). The final thing I added to the pile was lens cleaning tissues. Sonny helped me out by giving me a micro-fiber lens cloth instead. Mom and I stood there and we made bets on what the total would be. At first, I threw out, "ten thousand", just to show her that I wasn't scared. "Nooooo", she said, "I think it's less, something like two thousand." "Not possible", I replied. "It will be four thousand, eight hundred sixtythree and thirty five cents" I said with the confidence of one who KNOWS. "I bet it's five thousand, five hundred seventy three dollars and fifteen cents. and if I'm right, you buy lunch and if you're right, I'll buy lunch.", Mom said. And that is how we stood, in joyful glee, while Sonny added up and charged five thousand, five hundred seventy three dollars and fifteen cents to my American Express OPEN card with the business name Terra Celeste on the front. Mom was right, I said I'd buy lunch.





Our errands then took us to the better of the two local "woo-woo" stores, Paradise Found. Mom had a list of things she needed to buy and I wanted to pick up some spray sage in a bottle for cleansing energy in a room without the smoke and a few raw crystals to grid the house of my dear friend Lisa, who has been blessed with a cancer experience. Mom went straight to work, bypassing the fuzzy pink and blue Jesus and Mary statues without a word of jest (a better woman than I- I had to make fun of these treasures!). She selected a lovely transparent lavender plastic Tara figure for my niece, Ari, and I proceded to choose a nice selection of dual-terminated quartz crystals, an eqyptian cat/eye candle to ward off evil spirits form my altar, two bottles of spray sage and a couple of celestite shards. I was done with my shopping, except for the affordable $14 dream catcher I noticed hanging with the less affordable $57. dreamcatchers , Medicine Wheels and Spirit Wheels, while Mom shopped for singing bowls. She bought the dream catcher for Aidan, my son, who informed me nearly a year ago that he "needed a dream catcher near his bed to catch the bad dreams". Yeah, he's one of those kids. While Mom continued to shop, I sat down in an alcove reserved for those who care to embibe in the prescribed music of the moment. I sat, with my palms turned upward, resting on my knees and closed my eyes to meditate and connect for a few moments. I got the urge to attempt to enrgy-heal a cut I had received this morning from a large quartz formation my Mom gave me for Christmas. The cut was deep, but clean and on the pad of my wedding ring finger. I sat, with right hand suspended over left, creating, and at the same time experiencing, the penetrating energy emerging for the palm of one hand and terminating in the finger of the other. I thought, while I was doing this, that I could go later to the hospital and use this technique on my friend Lisa, to help heal her perpetually collapsing lung. I had a moment of fear/arrogance that I could acually mend my own tissue, thereby proving that I posessed the capability to speed the regeneration of new cells and potentialy add this technique to my resume. I thought, 'I am the perfect experimental subject'. While I '"healed" myself, the pain I had experienced jut moments prior, melted away.

Mom finished buying her trinkets and we joyfully meandered two doors down to the Arts and Letters Cafe. I told Mom I had something to tell her/show her, but not until after we ordered. We both chose the soup and Mom augmented ber pumpkin bisque with the grilled artichoke, and I could hardly contain my excitement (another red flag) in my story of the crystal, the cut and the catharsis. I prepared to rip off the bandaid. The healed finger would be the ultimate proof that I had a gift. That I was special. That I was destined to be popualr amonght the sick and dying. I removed the bandaid.....the cut was no longer apparent. The pad on the finger had some dried blood, and if you looked closely, you could make out a small line where the flesh had healed. There was no other redness, swelling, separation, lesion, abrasion or indication of trauma. That was it. I was a full fledged healer. I began imagining the business cards I would have to order when I noticed that there was blood on my left palm. That couldn't be from my miracle finger, I thought, incredulously. I was a healer. The finger was healed. But, the flag was yet again, red, and I had to admit to myself and to Mom, that I was not actually completely healed.





We left the Arts and Letters Cafe and headed to State Street where I knew there existed an antique shop specializing in Asian furniture. When we reached the corner of State and Anapamu, we both asked our gudes to direct us- we both agreed that left was the way to go. The shop was right there, half way down the block just past the construction scaffolding masking the future fascade of yet another Santa Barbara storefront remodel. Mom said she wanted an antique asian stool or short table to set afront her fireplace hearth as an altar for her and my step dad's home. We had a good time perusing the furniture, stopping to admire the three simple milking stools dating from the early 1900's. Mom spotted a little square tea table with a tiny drawer that she liked. It was $175., somewhere in between the $40 and $200 she said she wanted to spend on this item. Instead of buying it right away, we looked at the whole store, admiring antique rugs, tables, stools, buddah heads, asian altars, and pottery. The two owners turned out to be quite interesting and rather charming, as mom purchased be tea table from one and I inquired about the price of an egyptian statue of a cat from the other. Fun!





We took our wares and decied to return to her house for a nap. While in transit, Tom, my husband called. I felt compelled, because I can't keep a secret, and don't ever ask me to lie because I am not capable of it, to tell him of my video camera, tripod and scene-editing board purchase. This was right before he inquired about the fully reversable purple and emerald green full length velvet cloak that had just arrived in the mail. Great. I had hoped to intercept that. I knew when I ordered it, that it alone could create a bit of a stir, but coupled with my behavior and channelling from the last seven days, I know I was in trouble. "I don't know who you are anymore" he said. Fuck. "You are spening like a mad woman. You are sounding crazy. I think our paths are diverging.... ". I, up until that very moment, thought we were growing closer together. He had even expressed an inteest in taking yoga classes with me just yesterday. How could he have been so easily thrusted into a state of doubt of my sanity? I tried to not make ultimatums. I tried to be comapssionate. "I can imagine how you must feel", I said, pretending to be a sympathetic friend, "this may seem rather crazy from your vantage point". I then gathered my strength, courage and wit and began to formulate a concrete argument as to the sanity of each and every one of my recent actions. I even had a truthful explanation for the purchase of the cloak which had nothing to do with pagan rituals performed under a full moon with other cloaked individuals. "I was depressed", I said, "at Christmastime". I had had thyroiditis and all I wanted was something fun. Not the boots Mom wanted to give me but he cloak that my sister Stacy suggested she give me, knowing that this kind of gift was just the kind of thing that sparked my passion. Mom had vehemently refused to buy me such a thing claiming that I would probably wear it. This act of again, trying to keep me contained in an appropriate bottle was just enough to make me order the cloak for myself out of spite coupled with desire. Cloaks are blankets with hoods. I like blankets. My favorite colors have always been purple and green. What's the big deal anyway. The cloak doesn't come with a membership card to the United Federation of Witches, or anything of that sort, so why all the hoopla from Mom and Tom? What's the BFD? What are you all so afraid of????

Ahhhhhh, and now we get to why I need to make my documentary. A documentary on the natural shift of normal every-day people like you and me, from a state of sometimes literal but mostly figurative bondage in the form of worry, misery, resentment, greed, envy, selfishness, sloth, carelessness, regret, shame, hate and the big one that sets all the other balls in motion, FEAR through a transitionary metomorphosis and then out the other side free from the bondage and absolutely revelling in the joy.





I spent a good thirty minutes, and more energy than I had, carefully explaining in a rational and concretely supportive way, all that has been happening to me, and why I had to spend five thousand dollars on equipment to make a real honest to goodness movie. I realize he can't even fathom that someone would be balsy/foolish/arrogant/stupid enough to attempt to do what I am claiming I WILL DO (without even a tinge of hesitation, doubt or trepidation). I love the man, so I try again to make an argument that he will understand. I say that he spends how much (about $20,000 per year, he says) to send our oldest daughter to college? I say that with this money you are investing in something that may or may not pay off in the end. No one who enters college is guaranteed a high paying job upon graduation. As parents, we have faith that the investment is a worthwhile one, albeit "risky" in the sense that the gains may not be seen for many years to come, if at all.





My argument then took us back down along my track record. In the four years since I was laid off from my solid career in pharmaceutical sales, I have focused my efforts on rearing our children, and have worked tirelessly in persuit of honest business successes. I have established two on-line stores to sell my self-created lines of therapeutic gemstone jewely. I have created and published packs of inspirational cards, I have made over a dozen small films for our family and loved ones, carefully creating, editing, incorporating music and text where I was able, to hone my film-making/editing skills. I have written over 85 essays on a blog, that I find to be a solid body of work. I have done all of this and taken care of all of our four children, braiding hair, baking scones, reading aloud, helping with homework, driving on field trips, working in the classroom, serving on the PTA, participating in any and every way that is offered up to me. Saying "no" to almost nothing and with a smile on my face in in my heart most of the time. I make this argument and I get Tom to say that he's still worried about me but that he does love me and always will. Phew. Disaster averted. For now.





I float like an deflaed weather balloon into Mom's house to rest. After I log about 20 minutes of deep breathing- I can not sleep, Mom comes out. I am so excited because the name of the documentary has come to me. I explain the significance of YOU as another way of saying U. (for Universe. for God- which you are). She isn't elated. She is more concerned with the temperature of the coffee she hands me. "Is it warm enough?", she asks.





As we sit down on the couch she takes that authoratative tone, stating, "I think you may be bi-polar. You seem manic". Oh geeez. Not this again. Not today. Not by another one of my allys. Why is this so hard.





I listen to her express her concern. I smile, sensitively, she worries about her children, their weight, thair hair color and cut, their manicure status, and weather or not they are wearning eye cream and sunscreen. I get really close, place my hand on her knee and say, "this must be very hard for you. Not that I am suggesting that I belong in the same ranks with such a man, but imagine the Dhali Lama, imagine Ghandi, imagine anyone who's courage to speak and act in a different way, must affect those closest to them." I look her in the eye and ask her to look at me. I say, "From the time you first carried me in your womb, you know I was special. You have always known that My destiny was to do great things. I'm an old soul, remeber? You were the first one who told me that. When I was four. You know this is exactly what I am meant to do and I will gladly accept any helpful advice you may wish to provide to me as I persuit this inevitable goal",





Mom, suggests, "Ease up, don't tell everybody so much. Don't be so intesnse, it's scary (for me," I know she is thinking). "You don't have to give yourself away just because you can. " And from her words I see/know that I need to stop talking to my people about all of this and start writing. So, here it is. I dare you to ask, "Is she for real?". Read on and make up your own mind.





This is risky business, this job I have taken on. I know it. Good thing I am strong. Very very strong and detirmined to DO what I know I must do. It takes a fuck-shit load of courage to lead the masses form what they know that is "bad" to what they don't know that is "good". My beloveds, where we are going is good, so very very good. All I ask is that you trust me.

Fat is Phat

I've got news girls. The new vibration is a calorie burner. All you smart girls with foresight are going fare well. Those extra pounds are money in the bank, your secret cash cache. Youuuu (I'm looking at you with a sly, half raised eyebrow, pointing my finger at your shy, pretending-like-you-didn't-know-it smile). Hey, stringbean, heads up! Better start eating, because the day is coming that you won't be able to keep the flesh on your bones except to eat ALL DAY. You may even have to travel to Italy to eat, just to keep up with the rest of us. So, I am happy to report that fat is good. Stop loathing those rolls. Stop berating your size and where you have to buy your kaftan. You had the forsight, the instinct to listen to your guides that told you while you were sleeping, while you were centered, that there is a reason for this body size, just like all things that "happen" to you. There is a reason, and it's good. I, personally, am hungry all the time. I can't keep the hunger at bay. I was smart. So smart, because I beefed up with fifty extra pounds for this transition, and I don't know if that was enough. I am going to have to choose some calorie rich foods if I'm going to get anything done during my day.

So, in summary, fat is important. Fat is good. There will be NO MORE negative feelings about the fat. That goes for you too Oprah. Stop struggling and know that you are ready. There will come a day in the very near future when you and your hip bones will meet again and, when you get there, the spare tire will be waaaayyyyyy back down the road, never to be heard from again, even if you go chasing it, which, I might remind you, burns calories.

In The Air

I've been waking up early. Wide awake at three, four A.M.. It's not insomnia, because, I feel rested, and what wakes me up is fun. I begin to vibrate. It's like an alarm clock inside my body on silent mode. Today, I could feel my lips being tickled as the vibration was taking place. It's not a seizure, mind you. I am happy (?) to say that I know what a cerebral seizure feels like. I had three unexplained seizures, without medically-known origin, when I was ten. In the ten-year-old type of seizure, the body shakes violently. The air is forced in and out of the lungs in a violent, sucking hyperventilation. The consciousness is alert to the mayhem, embarrassed by the sucking sounds, perplexed by the fish-out-of-water flipping about, and finally, rather fascinated by the sounds that emerge from the flaccid, drooling lips, when what is clearly being said is "I'm FINE. Do not call 911!" But what the ear and stunned onlooker hears is "THHUUU SSSSSUUUUH UUUOOUUUU" Imagine Boris Karloff's Frankenstein. Yep. That's it. So, having experienced a real seizure, I know that this three AM vibration in not one.

So, it's early. It's still. My body is doing it's fun little buzz that takes my consciousness to some very cool places. What I am seeing and where I am going are getting cooler by the day. You should see the flips and happy spirals my energy can do at this time of the morning. Imagine a very happy dolphin, flipping around in and out of the water. It's almost like that, but more poetic, faster, more multi-dimensional and with prettier colors. If you are feeling a twinge of jealousy right now, I've got news. I think this is the way of things to come. Call it an inkling. Don't close your mind off to the possibility thinking, "that'll never be me", because I am willing to put money down to the contrary. In Fact- I believe, on this day, I will begin my documentary on this Earthy Transformation. You know, get up early to catch it in the act. My vision this morning included the information that Today's The Day IT Begins. The fun stuff you have been waiting your life to do. Wooo Hoooo! I know what your thinking. LUCKY! But hey, if we were all starting up today, how will my documentary be bringing the news of this to the world? I need you to be part of my film. Please sign up on your way out the door, and leave your current contact info.

Soon, in fact very soon, you too will have to consciously ground your joy. I don't mean with a mortar and pestle, you kooks. I mean, send it down the cord. Mellow it out. We can't really go through our day doing psychic flips and spirals while driving on the rainy highway to Costco, now can we. I am almost forty -this year- on September 25th- mark your calender. Forty year old women who are PTA Presidents, are able to cool their elation when need be. Tempering it and then tucking it neatly under their rain coats so as not to upset their friends. Hey, it wasn't easy getting here. Remember? I had to go through the metamorphosis? It was really uncomfortable. My advice to you is just keep breathing through each day, you're doing fine, you're right on track, you don't have to do anything special, just notice when it comes and just keep breathing in out in out. Yes, like that. I'm excited! You?

Changed

I have metamorphosed into another person. Not someone thinner with different hair and lipstick, I'm actually different; changed. I suspected that it was happening. I explained the tremors, the rapid heartbeat away as a vibrational shift. But I felt bad. Really really bad. Now, from the other end, I know I have shifted. I have let go. I have changed. It's a good change. I vibrate now, kind of a buzz, when I am barely awake in the predawn morning. I see myself bathed in blue light and I wonder how people would react to me if they saw me shopping at Trader Joe's, scolding my four year old, glowing in ethereal blue. I wonder, and I know. That's the thing, it seems with the change, with the shift has come the peace of knowing and not needing to know at the same time. I can go into my body and address any ailments, then I can travel to yours and see you, glowing green from your heart, healing right before my closed, dark-entrenched eyes. It's fun, this movement through space. It helps to know geography and the cellular landscape of a human body, just because it is more exciting to be direct in your actions. I keep getting a little tinge of surprise when the crystal orbs I am holding start to radiate in my palms when meditating, as if I am validated that they have energy. I am surprised when I push back the gas that is leaking from the pipes under my stove top and then later check to smell, no gas. I am surprised. I am not surprised. It is fun, this adventure. It is fun to have these abilities and tools at my disposal. I am having fun in my new body with my new mind metamorphosed from caterpillar into butterfly. Or is it maggot into housefly?

Destiny

If you are here, you are meant to feel pain. You are meant to feel sorrow and create sorrow for another. If you are here, you are meant to fall apart. You are destined to have calamities in which all you have striven for dissipates into nothingness.

If you are here, you are meant to struggle in relationships. You will let the people you love down and be let down by people you love. If you are here, you are meant to judge and be judged. You will set your karma by judging another in what you describe as a wrongful action. You will live to experience a situation just as wrongful so that you gain compassion for yourself and others.

If you are here, you will feel want and need. You will feel the bitter chill of winter and not be able to warm yourself. If you are here, you will feel hunger and thirst, filth and disease. You will feel the pain of your body, sick with disease and feel the lonely struggle back to health.

If you are here, you will feel mediocre, and second guess your best ideas and achievements. You will feel lonely in a household full of people who know you. If you are here, you will feel the anguish and powerlessness that come from witnessing the wrongs that people create; starvation, devastation, consumption, pollution, rape, homelessness, war, politics, suburban sprawl, extinction.

If you are here, you will feel the pain of these things on many levels. You will feel the anguish of the loss of someone you have loved more deeply than you ever thought possible . You will want death to take you as well, if only for relief from the pain.

If you are here, you are surviving these things.

If you are here, you have hope.

You have seen sunsets and sunrises that bring tears to your eyes. If you are here, you have tasted food that allowed you to imagine heaven. If you are here, you have had your thirst quenched and achieved a state of warmth that provides you comfort. You have seen the beauty in a flower. You have marveled at the joyous behavior of children.

If you are here, you have been loved and possibly, you have loved.

If you are here, you have laughed. . You have had the opportunity to say, "I’m sorry." You may have suffered through devastation of untold magnitude, but you still have the ability to find joy. You may have lost everything, but found that as you live, you have the ability to find good in your situation. You may even have a sense of humor. You may find the comedy in your tragedy.

If you are here, on Earth, these things are true.

For if not for pain, how could we appreciate contentment? If not for cold, how could we savor warmth? If not for loss, how could we appreciate all that we have, when we have it? If not for compassion, how could we find ourselves free of judgement? If not for destruction, how could we create? If not for despair, how could we measure joy?

This place and time are not meant to be easy for us. It is designed to be a place of challenge and difficulty. How better can we learn but in this way?

If you feel uncertain at times, questioning your divine purpose, you are right on schedule. Have you ever stopped and thought, could this be my divine purpose, just breathing in and out with my senses ready to take it all in? Could it be possible that learning to be human, flawed, destined for mistakes and lovable anyway is the only real destiny? Any other worldly impact only being part of each individual’s experience? Is it possible that the greatest achievement is to live in love when things fall apart around you? Loving yourself through mistakes and mishaps. Loving others by making amends when you have done the hurting. Loving yourself and others by forgiving them for wrongs against you and reserving judgement for the actions of others. Could the greatest purpose be to love the gifts that you encounter on any given day and having the insight to see all situations from a higher perspective?

If you are here, as long as you are here, these things will be yours. They are mine and I wouldn't rush out just yet. For when it is over, when you are gone, when it is all just a memory, there's no way to return, except in that ghostly form of a memory. It may not seem as "bad" from a distance. I may seem precious though. I have a feeling it will and that this moment must be savored, this accomplishment of breathing in and out honored. I am doing it. My destiny.

Seeds of Life

You may have read already that my daughter Kieran manifested herself a hen that resides, free range in our backyard. As a pet, she was interesting at first. She provided an opportunity to really study the behavior of large, semi-flightless birds from one individual specimen. I made some nice evolutionary discoveries that included the shape of her feet and how they resemble the fossilized foot prints and remains of some dinosaurs. I came to enjoy the softness of the feathers on her back. I would be able to sneak a touch here and there as she would pause to inspect my hands for food. I quite enjoyed examining her pupils, dilating and constricting as one of the signals that her mind was working on solving some mystery. She would also blush, when we would pay her attention. Her small waddle would turn a crimson red as we spoke her name or attracted her with food. It really was a fascinating experience to get this close to a creature with whom we, in my family, have ingested as dinner in a less animated form for years. We have consumed chicken, but can't say that we have really ever known chicken.

Within weeks of allowing our hen free range of the back yard, all of these warm feelings I had about the experience of being a chicken owner began to dissipate. From the first "good morning poop" right outside the sliding glass door that leads to my fairy garden, the dark cloud of disgust overwhelmed me. Our hen pooped her weight in greenish diarrhea, huge white and black turds, and explosive splatters of watery speckled spray each and every day. Her favorite places to unload her body waste was on the patio, in front of the door, all over our patio furniture and on every surface other than the grassy, dirt covered ones. After six months of this, I was becoming very depressed. We kept waiting, hoping for the day that Henny would finally begin to lay. I assumed that once she reached her full, adult size, that the magic would happen. Nope. I began to accept the fact that this chicken was good at laying nothing down but poop. I even asked the chicken expert at the feed store, explaining that our hen was seven months old and hadn't lain a thing. She informed me that as the seasons change, and the days grow shorter then hens stop laying, (or cease to begin, in Henny's case). Getting desperate, I imagined all sorts of courses of action; giving her to someone who had other hens, setting her free in the dark of the night somewhere hospitable for such a creature, penning her up in a coop like other chickens. On New Years eve, I put her into the bunny hutch, the coop she was safely tucked away in every night when she was younger. After a night in there, she went berserk. She upturned her food and water, flapped her wings, ran the length of it over and over, clucked loudly and could not be ignored in her state of distress. What could I do? I am not entirely heartless, so I let her out, barking "Happy New Year, Henny" under my breath.

A few days after that, it started to rain. It rained heavily for two full days. The water had pooled in our back yard in some places, up to three inches. Everything was wet. The patio furniture was washed of the dry, caked on hen poop and the patio itself had been soaked and in it's puddled nature, preserved itself from any more pooping, at least while the rain lasted. It was a nice cleansing and made me feel a little better for the moment. The morning after the rain had stopped, I went out to check the flooded areas to assess the damage. From a distance, I could make out a light orb in a plastic bin holding a wet towel, something I had put out for the cats to safely rest in. I walked closer, in utter disbelief. It was an egg. It was pale green, and had smudges of dark fluid smeared across. At that moment, I felt as if I had never been so excited. I pounded on the window of the kids' room, motioning for them to come out. They had the same reaction I had had, making calls to grandmas and friends as if we were announcing the birth of a new baby boy, or that we had won the lottery.

The next day, I was out in my robe, poking around the cat house, a custom, three level, fifteen square foot residence I had designed and had built for our four cats while we remodeled our own house four years ago. I poked my head in to the lowest level, checking for evidence that the cats had recently been inhabiting the structure, and to my utter amazement, I found a stash of six more pale green eggs resting on a crumpled, dirty blanket. Again, I pounded excitedly on the window of the kids' room motioning for them to come out and look. They were awed. They were amazed. They were flabbergasted, and began the phone calls to all the important people again. This news was right up there with, " We're getting married." and "It's a GIRL!", even,

" WE WON!". I felt like we did win. Our chicken had lain ( I actually had to spend ten minutes with the dictionary open to the word /section, on the word lay to figure out the proper way to describe what had happened). I was still a little confused, but had to lay down my confusion and report the news as best as I could. Our little hen was now earning her keep, and pooping less, I'd like to add. We have been blessed with an egg a day since then and are perplexed by the mystery of the process. Henny has never been seen entering, exiting or existing at any time in the cat house. At night, she can be found perched atop the cat tree, which sports a bandini-type mountain of fecal matter below where her tail would be. I have checked for eggs each morning and have deduced through hypothesis and analysis, that Henny lays eggs sometime during the day, stealthily, as she has yet to be caught in the act. We are all grateful for her gifts and have a renewed appreciation for our pet, whom we may not get rid of after all.

The Best Gifts

The best gifts are the ones that melt in your purse, give you chills, create a visceral memory. My favorite gifts of past Christmases were the ones that gave me a happy moment to cherish. Every year, my kids, husband and I return to the Santa Barbara Mission on Christmas Eve. We don't go for the Christmas Eve Catholic Mass. although the kids do like to stick their heads in the door to smell the incense and listen to the music. We return every year to be together, under the stars, to gaze thoughtfully at the life sized Nativity scene. We giggle about the clothes the three kings are dressed in, commenting on the lack of an arm on one of them. Tom reminds the kids what the tree kings' names were. We like to hear our small children say "Balthazar". We talk about the story of the birth of Jesus and why he was a great person. It is not a christian discussion, but more of a human discussion- one that leaves me wanting to be a better person. The kids always play tag in the dark and we are almost always blessed with the sound of the Mission bells, which is one of our favorite gifts on Christmas Eve. It is these moments that I cherish. I hope for you these types of moments that sear your memory with the JOYS of family and the true meaning of Christmas.

Memoirs of a (I try not be wicked) Stepmother

I really do try not to be wicked, but sometimes, it seems to be inevitable. I have been a stepmother for almost ten years, surviving the teen years of one daughter, now in college, and existing as the wicked one to another in high school. The oldest, now nineteen, was my sparring partner from very early on. I have never been much of a fighter but this curly haired fire ball seemed to always bring a fight out of me. We have had some really good ones, screaming, crying, the inevitable ripple effect to the real parents catching on to the brawl and the predictable apology. Always the apology. I am really good at that part- I am always willing to say, "I'm sorry" and acknowledge my hurtful actions. Maybe this is the way I have lasted this long in this role. I realized this Thanksgiving what the gift of this relationship is. I am by nature, passive most of the time. I am reasonable and neutral and can take criticism without lashing out. I am good at not fighting. The only person with whom I have fought with on a somewhat regular basis is, my beloved stepdaughter. You might now be thinking what a wicked witch - fighting with a child! I would tend to agree with you. The gift has been so revealed. Fighting is human and since childhood, I haven't done enough of it. Now that I am aware of this, I am secretly hoping that the urge to argue will subside and instead, I will be supplanted with a knowing smile and a silent giggle. Now that I know why, there is no reason to continue with this low level of human behavior. Besides, my partner is intelligent and gaining confidence and it just makes me look bad. I may be wicked, yes, but at least I am honest and as I've mentioned before, I am imperfect but fully human.

Do I Really Look Like a Snail?

I suspect that fierce self criticism is universal. We see ourselves one way and are shocked when we glimpse a photograph of ourselves and see someone different, literally, not quite what we had in mind. I was taking pictures of my mother this afternoon. My mother is nearly 61 years of age but very beautifully seasoned. She has taken very good care of herself, exercising regularly, wearing sunscreen, imbibing on nothing stronger than coffee and maintaining an impeccable sense of style. I am always surprised when I take her picture and experience the reaction that I did today of, "I look like a snail with a bowl on my head". This opinion is never what I am thinking when looking through the lens. It just surprises me that a woman as confident, accomplished and beautiful as my mother can think this of herself. Of course, her sense of humor is strong and part of her beauty is her ability to laugh at herself, but I still don't see it. She didn't look like a snail with a bowl on her head (a remark commenting on her new feng shuei hair cut), she looked like Mom, the beautiful. I realize that I, too, have had moments when observing a photograph of myself that I felt viscerally that the picture in question did not reflect the real me. But let's face it, who hasn't felt that way? Pictures are beautiful because they capture a moment. They freeze time. I don't usually throw pictures away for this very reason. They are all good, even when they are bad. Here's my beautiful mom, the snail with a bowl on her head.

I Am My Own Guinea Pig

As a self-proclaimed therapeutic gemstone practitioner I take a lot of risks in trusting myself. I am becoming more and more aware that it really is the natural medicine that meets the body's needs best. The funny thing is, I have been extensively trained in the mechanisms of pharmaceutical use. I sold "drugs" for nine years. I can explain to you the physical disease state of hypertension, hyperlipidemia, osteoporosis, benign prostatic hyperplasia and much much more and how these states differ from a healthy body. I can diagram many different pathways that pharmaceuticals are used to alter the state of disease. Of the drugs I used to represent, I can explain their mechanism of action and how they are metabolized and excreted from the body. This is my background. The irony is that after being laid off from my job selling drugs, I have been made aware, at a gradual and increasingly intense pace, that I am a gemstone practitioner and I can use stones to affect people on many levels. So, as my own guinea pig, I have to treat myself first. You know, put your own oxygen mask on before helping others. I have been wearing a daily prescription of stones for years now. The Rx changes from day to day, but not that much. I always wear Carnelian. I love Amazonite- it makes me happy, and Aquamarine makes me strong when I need to speak publicly or defend. Lately, in the last three weeks or so, I have been experiencing all kinds of bizarre symptoms. I am shaky, (where my jewelry-making hands have always been strong and steady, now they quiver and quake), my skin itches, my body aches as if I have a fever, but I don't, I am stiff and exhausted. My sense is that I am going through a vibrational shift and my body id adjusting. It is awkward but I want the shift to occur- I want to grow in my abilities. I keep telling myself, it's worth it, but wondering, when will it stop? I was working today at my desk, under my altar and two stones made themselves known to me. They were Charoite and Rutilated Quartz. Here are their general properties:

Charoite

A stone of transformation. The soul stone that overcomes fear. Charoite stimulates inner vision and spiritual insight and aids in coping with enormous change at a spiritual level. Encourages vibrational change and links to the higher realities. At the same time, it provides deep physical and emotional healing. It helps you accept the present moment as perfect. Charoite grounds the spiritual self into everyday reality.

Rutilated Quartz
An effective integrator of energy at any level. It heightens the energetic impulse of Quartz and is a very efficient vibrational healer. Spiritually, Rutilated Quartz is said to have a perfect balance of cosmic light and to be an illuminator for the soul, promoting spiritual growth. It facilitates contact with the highest spiritual guidance. It draws off negative energy and and breaks down the barriers to spiritual progress, letting go of the past. Helpful for therapists and counselors as it filters negative energy from a client and provides protection against psychic attack.

I placed one of each stone in both sides of my bra until I can create a new bellychain for myself. I am less shaky already. Isn't my work cool?

Uncomfortable

I am so uncomfortable right now. The mess is huge in my house. Every corner, every surface reflects a big project back to me. The garage is so full it is practically oozing stuff. The back yard, my space, is littered with hen poop, dog poop and way too many cats. I have ideas I am aching to act on, but the laundry list of things to do before the creativity can begin is soooo long. It makes me tired, exhausted actually, to think of all that I need to do. Sometimes I wish I could be a cat, my only requirement for the day, to log my twenty hours of sleep, the only hard choice - to sleep under the covers of Kieran's bed or curled up on Cadence's chair amongst the pillows? My husband walks in, looks at me and thinks, "she's at her computer again." Little does he know. The work seems to be my destiny, the cost of what is to be here, now. Oh, I forgot to mention the piles of bills, papers, essential and urgently important PTA stuff that needs to be addressed last week. It is all piled like layers of mica rock, slippery and unstable, ready to slide off my desk. I am now taking this moment to write to you and to myself this reminder of the bigger picture. This is all temporary. The discomfort, the mess, the hen poop and the cats are but a flash in time, insignificant details to pepper my life this morning with the seasoning required to establish a culinary contrast . These are the acrid spices of my dish alone. They are but the palate cleanser for the fun, deliciously satisfying main course that will be served when I have cleared my plate (and my garage).

Do You Believe in Magic?

I do. I want to, at least. I believe that time can stop when I am driven in a thought and I have to abandon the dishes, the chores, the stink under my armpits to shop online for rough stones. I am driven. Time stops for me. Nothing exists. Have I mentioned that I am driven? I can't tell you what I will be doing with these stones or what they will be doing with me, all I can say is that I am driven to seek them out. It boarders on obsession. I have a suspicion that you can relate. The trees practically paint themselves, don't they? The words pour from your soul through your fingertips. You don't even need to edit, do you. I want to be on the short list for the book signing party, by the way. I'm just letting the universe know that. I want to be the matron of honor for Lara's wedding to Mr. X. I've never had that privilege, and I know that no one could do the nurturing matron of honorly magic better than I. The magic is tingling through me. Even the recent string of deaths does not phase me. The energy is alight and we need to know that. Our fleshy bodies are simply tools, like a paintbrush or a string instrument. We need to use them- or waste them, dusty and neglected. They will not last forever- nor should they. Get a taste of the limits and the limitlessness and run with it, sparked and alight with a new fire. GO- lose all sense of time, if only for a little while, and feel the fire flash through you, the undeniable passion happen and exist in full force. Then, take some of that with you into the shower, while you wash the dishes and shampoo the cat barf off of the carpet.

You Only Live Once

....Or a thousand times, depending on what you believe.

Would you be surprised if I told you that part of my soul resides in a rock? Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but I'm beginning to get it. The real stuff sounds crazy. Ask yourself. I know you know what I'm saying. So, here's what I have for you today. In this body, we sacrifice time on the planet for mobility. We can go anywhere- connect with anyone or any thing. Our lives are short- very short, but we can flit around and make our predestined connections. We have friends who have sacrificed mobility or will for time. Trees are connected to the grid through their roots. They may live for thousands of years, pulsing with life. They have to wait for you to come to them. Listen when they call you. Respect the call, connect and exchange, as you will. Rocks can live for millions, hundreds of millions (which can approach billions when we cross into thousands of millions) of years. They sacrifice their connection when they become a fragment, but they then have mobility. They carry stored information, or possibly more. Again, listen, connect as you will. Yeah, it sounds crazy but trust me. You only live once, so go for it. Do the crazy thing without abandon. Paint the trees, show the cord, cry with the rock, see what happens. You can share it all with me. I know you are not crazy.

Maturity Means Letting Go

I think I'm starting to get it. Letting go is really powerful. I used to worry excessively as a child, about everything. I even remember reading a saying that was posted on the ceiling above the orthodontists chair that said, " Worry is like a rocking chair, it takes you back and forth but gets you nowhere". Profound. So, in my maturity, I have applied this idea of letting go to many things. I do not worry too much about things. I kind of don't even think about things I have to do until they are staring me right in the face- This is my secret to effortless public speaking- . I try to let go of my expectations. I see people hurting all the time because their expectations have not been met. I take Byron Katie's advice to "love what is", which really simplifies a lot. I try not to be attached to things- even things with sentimental value. Even memories, don't really need to be held on to- they will survive or they won't survive, and either way, it's really O.K.. I still have to remind myself to not feel guilt for things I have done, or haven't done. There could be nothing more stagnating than guilt to keep you from action. Imagine how many people have not shown their face again at an event, function, gathering or fill in the blank, even when they have wanted to, due to guilt. How stupid is that? I have come to believe that as humans, it is our job to screw up, so if we are doing that, then good for us. No need for guilt. Pat yourself on the back if you have let someone down today and see if tomorrow you can do it differently. Old people seem to get this. They know that family is bliss and that only relationships matter. They tell you to "keep your house clean" and they aren't talking about the house you live in. They tell you that the small stuff doesn't matter and the things that get lost, broken or leave you are just things. They tell you that kids grow up, no matter what, and sometimes you just have to step back, let go and let them fail, just like you did- remember? Boy it feels good to let go. Try it! It lightens your heart and makes you feel a little bit giddy with the relief. Imagine the effect it could have on your worry lines!

39 Wishes

This is hard. I am so used to just appreciating what I've already got. I am racking my congested brain (I have a cold) for my thirty nine wishes. I am trying to write something concrete, not the usual nebulous, "I wish for a fullness of heart..." crap. I really do want world peace. I wish for people to stop feeling the need to kill each other, fighting and defending religious beliefs, heritage, history and territory. I don't like seeing pictures of monkey parts for sale as food. This month's National Geographic had some pictures in an article illuminating the problem of infected monkeys spreading their primate viruses to humans by this type of close contact. It is disturbing to me to see a decapitated monkey head with perfect teeth partially cooked and ready for a stew. I guess I wish to not have to see that. Or maybe I wish to not be disturbed by it when I see it. I wish my house were clean right now. I wish the cats were fed and the dog were not so close as he is to the time of inevitable euthanasia. I wish someone would come and clean out my closets and drawers, purging from them everything I haven't worn in the last year, with the exception of my wedding dress. I wish the polar ice caps would stop receding so that the polar bears will have a place to rest when hunting for seals. I like big carnivores. I wish for all the big carnivores catch some nice meat tonight . I wish I could see the Aurora borealis in both hemispheres and compare and contrast the colors and shapes coming from each pole. I wish I could eat as much cake as I'd like without getting sick, feeling guilty, or hating the rolls of fat the erupt as the consequence. I wish I could love my dark roots, grey hair and small lines that are forming on the edge of my upper lip. I wish I could make a hundred belly chains for a hundred people who pay as they order and feel that they are getting way more than their money's worth out of the transaction. I wish my sister Stacy, my mother and step dad would move to Santa Barbara. I wish that my sister Stephanie would move closer than Philadelphia. I wish to be creative and feel fulfilled in my life. I wish for world peace, inner peace and another piece of really good cake made without hydrogenated oils. I wish to keep on going in this amazing life that I am enjoying so much. I wish for more more more. Was that thirty nine?

Perfectly Imperfect

Last night I attended a great party. It may have been because there was music that left me no choice but to dance. I can still hear "m m m my Sharonna" playing in my head. It may have been great because there were lots of kids who knew each other and they went arm and arm running off to play tether ball and dodge ball together, far away from where I sat sipping wine and spearing salami wedges with a toothpick. It may have been because my husband, who generally dislikes socializing with anyone but his children, actually wanted to stay for the entire party. I loved it because of the people who threw the party, the guests who attended and the generally perfect mix of late afternoon sun, a cool glass of chardonnay and just the opportunity for me to be there amongst it all.

I know I am on the right track in my life when a guy at the party tells me he's heard that there were people drinking wine at the Back to School BBQ that took place the evening before. He alerts me with an air of seriousness and doom-filled authority that this combination of alcohol meeting with lips, tongue and throat on the hallowed ground of a public school is not only illegal but a felony. He tells me this in a manner meant to alarm me into action, now that I have taken on the role of PTA president of said school, but it doesn't alarm me. First of all , I don't know who this guy is, if he is an undercover cop, a DA for the city or just a concerned citizen watching out for the welfare of children. My response to him is "well I too was drinking wine, discretely of course, from a paper bag, directly out of the bottle". How could it ever be a action punishable by incarceration to take in the sight of a hundred screaming children at the end of a very long week , a tasteful receptacle of embibment in your hand, with parental supervision galore, within walking distance from home? The guy said to me, "yeah, wouldn't it be a scandal for the PTA president to be taken away from school in handcuffs from the back to school BBQ." My reply to him (and I really mean this) was "that wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen to me ". In fact, now that I think about it, it could actually be beneficial. It would release me from any future PTA positions as well as the current role of President. I am really quite comfortable looking "bad" in public. I have figured out that being imperfect is not only not fatal but it is what we are supposed to do. Look at the people like Martha Stewart. Being perceived as perfect made her an easy target and pretty much earned her a vacation in a white-collar prison. Fortunately Martha, like many of us, knows that this type of humiliation will not kill you and can actually increase your levels of compassion for others.

There is a quote by Teilhard de Chardin, " You are not a human being in search of a spiritual experience, you are a spiritual being immersed in a human experience". And nothing spells human more than any form of public f**k up. So today, I encourage you to make a fool out of yourself. Please try to emphasize your perceived imperfections. Do something that would normally mortify you and see what happens. Laugh it off when you are obviously wrong, say "I'm sorry" even if it wasn't your fault, please, for the sake of humanity, strive to be perfectly imperfect. You will not (ever) be alone.

Check Your Expectations at the Door

It has been a long time since I took the time to write. The summer was fleshy and full. There were kids, days that became a blur and I can't remember what else. It rushed by fast. I do remember our vacation though. It was one of those remarkable experiences that leaves you happy but with a feeling of longing. It left me with the residual of connections made and ideas experienced first hand, food savored and created with love and passion. It was far from ordinary, but I am beginning to realize that few things ever are.

Our vacation took us to Fiji, to an Eco resort on one of the smaller islands, one of the few that welcomed children. Before we arrived, my husband informed me that Fijians love children and that our youngest would have his own nanny assigned to him. Leaning toward the overprotective, controlling side of the child rearing spectrum, I wasn't sure how I felt about this offering and could not readily commit to relinquishing my child to a stranger upon arrival.

When my children were swept away by welcoming arms to the Bula Club for kids while we registered, I felt a little frantic, not quite knowing what to do with my empty hands. I had, after all, spent the entire summer up until that day wrangling children (and lots of 'em) like a seasoned and weathered cowgirl.

I 'll admit, it took some awkward days of getting to know each other before I let Dakai, my son Aidan's Manny (that's a male nanny, for those new to the trend) really help out. I hung around the Bula Club, taking my turn on the water slide while my daughter Kieran perfected her sliding techniques. I documented with video and critiqued the "dog", "cat", "cheetah", and "hamster" water entry positions, observing with interest my son's interaction with Dakai and the other nannies with their wards. It became clear that Dakai was a sweet and gentle person who anticipated my son's needs and enjoyed his interactions with Aidan, Kieran and the other kids.

The majority of the resorts staff were from a nearby village, truly an anthropologists dream because the culture remained firmly entrenched in its ancient traditions. We, were invited to visit the village later in the week and had to learn the proper techniques for entry into the village (with a song-like call), how to approach the Chief, and how to partake in the kava drinking ceremony. I learned from an elderly and much respected medicine man, who shared his knowledge of the medicinal properties and uses of native plants with myself and my fellow eco tourists, that with the coming of English colonization in the early part of the century came education and opportunity. This is what he told me. He said that he feared white people and the forced education of village children but eventually took the advice of his village Chief to see the change as a door that becomes open to you. He went on to tell me that several of his children are now physicians and have seen the blessing in the opportunity to learn while maintaining the structure of their ancestors' culture. It began to dawn on me what a gift it was, on so many levels, to allow my children such close access to their Fijian caretakers.

The individuals who affected us were amazingly kind, genuine, honest and interested. They learned our names. Pete was a man with a firm handshake who wore a flower behind his ear to accompany his baseball cap. He took us on a jungle hike and to a remote waterfall, where we all swam in the sweet Fijian water. Latia was 23 years old, single, (my 15 year old daughter wanted to know) and told us about his village. He said that the village is like one big family. From the age of 12 or so, boys and girls (with the exception of siblings) were not allowed to speak to each other because they were essentially cousins and were not allowed to fall in love and marry each other. Young men find wives from other villages and after marriage live there, while young women are expected to leave the village upon marrying and raise their children in their husband's village.

We talked with these people, exchanging questions about each other, appreciating their singing and beautiful guitar-playing in the evenings or when ever a new guest arrived at the resort. They joined us on snorkeling adventures. They observed our games of scrabble and checkers and commented on my water color paintings -giving me way to much attention for my novice abilities. Simi, the bartender who was from the main island, learned my name on the first night and said "Hi Shelley" whenever I walked by him. The most amazing experience came the day we were invited to visit the village where the majority of the staff lived. It was a privilege to be invited, for entry into the village was not permitted without invitation. We were asked to wear clothing that showed respect by covering our shoulders and our knees. Four men were chosen from our visiting group to represent us all. They were told how to announce themselves, with a loud harmonious call, followed by a different call from the women in our group. The villagers waited under a covered porch kneeling on grass mats. We were welcomed and each of us received a shawl or necklace made from large green leaves, flowers and natural twine. Labors of love wrapped generously around or shoulders and necks. We brought Kava as an offering, which was a root to be ground up, mixed with water and consumed via a wooden dipping cup from a ceremonial wooden bowl by any one who wished to engage in the ritual. The Kava ritual involved sitting near the bowl on your knees, clapping once, taking the cup and drinking the contents of the earthy drink (it tasted like dirty water and had an anesthetic effect on the lips, leaving them tingling with numbness) passing the cup back to the server and clapping three more times.

The Kava ceremony was followed by guitar, percussive and vocal music and traditional dances, first by six women in grass skirts and grass wrist cuffs and then by four men in warrior costumes, also in grass skirts with spears, painted faces and ratan shields. This part was incredibly special because Aidan's manny, Dakai was one of the four dancers. The skill, artistry and richness of this village culture was so fulfilling, it left my heart warm and my mind racing.

We were privileged because instead of taking the bus back, we were allowed to walk with Dakai, on the beach for the three miles that the villagers walked every day to and from their jobs at the resort. The walk was magical. Kieran stopped every ten feet or so to look at crabs or point at tide pool life and eventually had to be carried by Dakai the rest of the way back. I had that rare and precious sense of a full heart from this unexpected gift of human connection.

When we left at the end of our trip,I hugged a few people and I thought about how they must open themselves up to strangers, culturally very different people, every day. They give us as visitors the gift of their trust and the love that comes trough from the way they live their lives. By taking our children and interacting closely with them, they open these young people up to other types of human experiences and very different ways of living on our relatively small planet. I loved that my family got the treat of being completely surprised by meeting this heretofore unknown way of life and wanting to know more of it.

So life can be a present when you try not to anticipate what is going to happen. When you check your expectations at the door, you alleviate the tension associated with worry, the stress of anticipation and the disappointment of unmet experiences. The pattern is becoming more clear to me. That blissful feeling of amnesia when you compare a situation to nothing nor try and recreate situations again. In this way, life truly is all good.