Dear Santa - Week 2: A Promise Is A Promise

Dear Santa,

Hi, it's me again. I have another request. It came to me after I read what I asked for last week, that everyone should start listening to each other again. It occurred to me that another reason why people don't listen to each other is because we don't believe in each other any more. We're tired of broken promises and empty gestures. So I'd appreciate it if you could put a little integrity into everyone's stockings this year.

My dad wasn't a very educated man. He had to quit school in the 6th grade, along with his older brothers, to go to work to help support the family after his father died in a work related accident. This was years before Workers Compensation, Social Security and Child Labor Laws. Even though he never got the chance to go back to school, he never stopped reading and keeping up with his math, and eventually he owned his own gas station and auto repair shop. That shop took care of my mom, me and my sisters for over 40 years until he retired. The fact that he was not "book smart" did not mean that he was not a wise man. Although he was a quiet man, every once in a while he would come out with a pearl or two of wisdom. One had to do with how a "lady" behaves when she goes out partying with her friends (a subject for another blog, I'm sure), and the other one was about keeping your word. He said that if you give your word, you keep it no matter what. It doesn't matter if, after you promised something, you regret having said it. You keep your word anyway. He said that people who keep their word are always remembered kindly and with respect.

I looked up the word "integrity" and it said: The quality of being honest and having strong principles; moral uprightness; the state of being whole and undivided. I really like that last part: "The state of being whole and undivided."  When we do not keep our word, when we make empty promises, we not only hurt the one we gave our word to. We also hurt ourselves. We shatter our self-worth. We are no longer whole. I think that is what's hurting so many people these days, the feeling that they are not whole.

Since the day my father said those words to me, I have tried my very best to always keep my word. It has become a point of honor with me. I may not go down in history as the most famous writer in the world, or the richest, or the most beautiful, but I know that people will be able to say of me: "She always kept her word." My integrity is intact and undivided. That's a pretty nice way to be remembered.

So if you could just pass out a little integrity this year, that would be great. Then, when people finally start listening to one another, they can be sure that what they hear from each other is the truth. Maybe we can start to believe in each other again. Wouldn't that be an awesome Christmas?

And so it is.

Thank  you,
Sincerely,
Barb aka Flower Bear

Dear Santa, ... Week 1

Dear Santa,

All I really want for Christmas this year is for people to talk to each other. I want them to put down their iPhones, and iPads, and tablets, and "I-everything" and talk to each other. I want them to look into each other's eyes and open their hearts as well as their ears. I want them to start listening to what the other person is saying instead of jumping ahead and worrying about what they are going to say next in response. I want them to acknowledge the other person: "I see you, I hear you, you matter."

I want parents to put down their electronics and their to-do lists and listen to their children. I want them to hear what their kids are really saying to them from their hearts even if they can't communicate it in words. I want parents to be parents and make time for their children ... like, no electronics at the table, and talking to them about their day which is just as important to them as yours is to you.

I want kids to listen, too. I want them to hear the cries of another child being bullied, and to hear their own voices raised in their defense. I want kids to hear birds chirping instead of strangers rapping. I want them to hear Christmas carols and jingle bells instead of the sounds of destruction from video games. I want them to hear the world as God created it, not as man has demeaned it.

Most of all, I want the leaders of the world to sit down and actually talk to each other, not just through their representatives. I also want leaders to listen to their own people. I want them to hear the cries of hungry children, the sorrow of parents who can't find jobs, the anguish of people treated as non-beings because they are considered "different."

I just want us all to talk to each other. I do believe we will find that we all want the same things: love, peace, safety, a roof over our heads, food on the table, and a job to support us. Dignity. Respect. The pieces are all there, Santa. All we have to do is put them together like a brand new set of Legos. Maybe your elves can help. That's really all I want for Christmas this year, Santa. I just want us to talk to each other.

And so it is.

Thank you.
Love,
Barb aka Flower Bear

The Moments That Sustain Us

I spent yesterday listening to a podcast from the Upaya Dharma Center on Joy and Wisdom. One of the epiphanies I had was during the discussion on wisdom. I realized that what has truly sustained me has not always been the big events of my life, although there have been some that certainly have, like the birth of my children and grandchildren, or the recovery from illness or injury.  No, some of the things that have had the greatest impact on me have been fleeting, momentary acts of kindness and love that have seemingly come out of nowhere but left me reassured that there is, indeed, still love and kindness in a world that, more often than not, doesn't seem to have very much these days.

I was reminded of a hot summer day a few years ago. I had just gotten out of work and after being cooped up in a cubicle in a windowless room in my office, I couldn't wait to get outside and stroll the four blocks to the bus stop on Main Street that would take me home. It started out quite lovely after a day of dim lights and artificial air, but it soon became apparent that it was also very, very hot and there I was lugging my purse (more like a satchel) and my tote bag (complete with lunch bag, change of shoes and my book to read on the bus), and wondering if I was even going to make it to the bus stop! Of course I finally did, and flopped down on the cement edging that fronted the church where the bus would stop. I must have looked like something the cat dragged in, as my mom used to say, when I heard a voice with a sweet, lilting African-sounding accent, say: "Mama, you are okay? Do you need my arm?" I looked up to see a painfully thin young black man in his early 20's, dressed in clothes that were very old and worn but clearly clean and mended, looking over me with great concern. His use of the term "Mama" reminded me of how some Native American tribes teach their children to address older women as "Aunt" or "Grandmother," even if they do not know them, as a term of respect. This was clearly the young man's intention when he had addressed me. I smiled up at him and assured him that I was fine, just a bit hot and tired from the walk burdened with all my stuff, and thanked him the way my Native teacher taught me: "Thank you, my son, for your kindness. Peace and blessings." He took my hand in both of his and wished me a good day. Then he walked off with as regal and dignified a walk as I have ever seen even from a monarch.

I have never forgotten that day, especially as something similar happened shortly after my move recently. I was pulling one of those little shopping carts up the inside stairs to my apartment after a stroll to the store and another young man, also with a beautiful accent, asked if he could help me. I assured him that I was fine and was actually the happy recipient of all this free exercise that people paid lots of money for at a gym! He laughed but said he would follow me all the way up to make sure I made it without any problems, just like a good trainer would watch his student. We both laughed at that and he left me at me door with, "And by the way, welcome to the neighborhood!"

Little acts of kindness. Small examples of compassion and concern for each other. Those are the moments that sustain us. Sure, the big events of our lives will certainly have an impact, but when I feel overwhelmed by the onslaught of hate and intolerance, greed and ignorance, that seems to be permeating the world right now, it is these fleeting but life changing moments that sustain me, that assure me there is still some good in the will and that, in the end, good always wins.

And so it is.

Unpacking the Ruby Slippers

The boxes are all unpacked, there are curtains on the windows and even pictures on the walls. I have a fair idea of where everything is although each and every closet will have to be emptied and rearranged before everything fits where it's supposed to fit. From the looks of things, I was not as ruthless with my last round of downsizing as I thought, and more will have to be done. My tiny apartment may be short on storage, but the view from the huge window over  my desk is worth a wall full of closets. For the two weeks that I have been here, we have been blessed with beautiful and unusually warm weather. I have gone on walks around the neighborhood, paid a visit to my favorite bookstore, and finally made it to the Cider Mill for fresh pressed apple cider, homemade donuts and the best jellies and jams you ever tasted. Today the snow has finally arrived along with some pretty gusty winds, and although the leaves will be gone when all is said and done, even the snow on the hills in the distance is picture perfect. There's no place like home.

I feel like Dorothy must have felt when she clicked her heels and closed her eyes, only to open them to find herself in her own room, with her own curtains, and her own bed, and knew at once that she was home. There is something about this place, tiny though it is, that feels like a perfect fit. My two years in the country, which I now think of as a time of healing and rebirth, was, for all of it's joys and beauty, not truly home as much as I wanted it to be. The moment I walked into this apartment when I saw it for the first time, I knew from the top of my head to the tips of my toes that this is what home was supposed to feel like.

Today while the snow is falling and the wind is howling outside, I have a pot of spaghetti sauce with mushrooms and basil from my garden bubbling on the stove. In a place this small, the smells fill every nook and cranny, and that is completely ok. Having been raised by a wonderful Italian cook, if your home doesn't smell like garlic, tomatoes and basil on a Sunday, there is something seriously wrong. My kitties, who have taken to this place like fish to water, are sound asleep on their favorite blankets while New Age music plays in the background. I'm about to open the new book that came in the mail from Amazon (Natalie Goldberg's The Great Spring, about what writing has meant to her over the last 45 years), and give it a read until kickoff at 1:00 - after all, it is Sunday in November which means football. Could anything be better than this?

There's no place like home.

And so it is.

The Years That Answer

"There are years that ask the question, and there are years that answer."

Zora Neale Hurston

If any of you have been following my blogs and books over the last four years, you know the story of how I came to be living in this place up on the hill in the country. For those of you who haven't, I'll give you the short version.

In March of 1992 I piled my most important possessions into my old car and moved myself up north from the city where I had been living and raising my children for many years. The last chick had left the nest, and the second marriage was ending as well. My father had died in December right before Christmas. I hated my job and yearned for a life of simplicity, authenticity and space to pursue my passion: writing. So I left it all behind and moved near to my sister in a little town on the banks of a lazy little river and lived a Mayberry-like existence for 8 years. I worked at my writing part-time, while also providing PR and marketing support for non-profits and working in offices to keep a roof over my head. It was wonderful and I loved it all. I did have a "dark night of the soul" after I had been there for a while which stemmed from finally having no one and nothing to distract me from facing my demons head on and putting them to rest once and for all. I also discovered gardening and this city girl fell in love with it.

My time in paradise came to an end when two things happened. First, computers and software made it possible for non-profits to do their own newsletters and advertising copy, thus no longer needing my services. Second, the local economy took a hit with plants and businesses closing all over the place. This meant that I had to commute farther for jobs. As I was situated in what is referred to up here as the Syracuse Snow Belt, that commute could sometimes last hours in the winter for a drive that usually took 30 minutes. So, sadly, I packed up and moved closer to where the jobs were, but vowing to return. I even planted a prayer tie, a Native American tradition, on the banks of the river opposite my house so that it would lead me back.

For the next 15 years I worked at various jobs and my writing took a back seat. I never, ever, did not believe that I would not someday return to that little town and, in October of 2014, I did just that. A fall and a fractured hip that required 3 pins to put it back together made my 3rd floor walk-up apartment more than challenging. On a whim my daughter called my old landlords and, low and behold, they had a house 2 miles outside of the town where I had lived before that had a ground floor apartment. I was home. And that is where I dug in and declared that I was never going to leave again. Or so I thought.

The quote at the top of the post reminded me that nothing is forever except love. It also reminded me that sometimes the answers we seek have been there all along, but we had to spend some time living the questions before we could be open to receive the answers. So it was that two things came to me recently. One is an opportunity to take my work in other directions I had not considered, but which would require me to move, and the other is that solitude can be a wonderful thing, but isolation is a punishment, not a gift. I knew coming out of this past summer and into the fall that I needed to be closer to the resources and people that would allow my work to evolve to it's next level, and I needed to be closer to my family. I also received the epiphany that I had needed to come up here to learn: home is an inside job, just like happiness. For years I advised everyone to "bloom where you're planted," but when it came to me, I insisted that it had to be in the soil of my choosing rather than what the Universe had in mind for me. When we are more attached to the outcome than to the journey, we are likely to be disillusioned when we finally reach our destination.

So, my dear readers, next weekend the kitties and I are moving to a sweet little apartment in a sweet location with a view of trees, real sidewalks, birds and squirrels galore from my windows, and close enough that the grandkids can come more often. I will be closer to resources that I need, and people who can help my work to grow. This time, however, the move will be by choice, coming from a place of truth, authenticity and wisdom. Sometimes you just don't know, until you know. Just like Dorothy, I always had the power to go home because I carried it with me in my heart. I just didn't know the way until now

And so it is.

It's The Practice That Sustains Us

The other day I wrote a blog post on my website, "Writing A Life," about the 30th anniversary of Natalie Goldberg's book on writing, Writing Down The Bones. She introduced the world to writing practice and all these years later, in her 60's, she says that she still grabs her spiral notebook, and a fast moving pen, and sits down to do her practice.

Another book on writing also celebrated an anniversary recently. Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, the book that gave millions of us permission to discover and birth the artist within us, turned 25. Not long ago, I found this quote on Cameron's Facebook page and it touched me on more than one level: "When the passion goes away, it is the practice that sustains us."  I wondered if she was only talking about writing? Perhaps she was also talking about living.

Life is a practice, from the day we are born until the day we make our transition. Everything we have learned to do in our lives has come out of constant practice until we mastered the task. Whether it was walking, talking, reading, tying our own shoes or coloring inside the lines, it took practice to master each and every aspect of our outer lives. However, we are never given lessons to practice on how to master our inner lives. So we have to come up with them ourselves.

No one comes into this world with all the answers encoded in our DNA. We have to learn about things like love, compassion, anger, jealousy, hatred and all the other emotions through experience. We have to learn to be in relationship with ourselves before we can be in relationship with others and with the world. Where is the practice for that? I would suggest that there are two things we can do as a practice that can help us learn to be in right relationship with ourselves. The first is meditation. The second is writing.

Meditation brings us directly in touch with our authentic selves. We are able to touch our core and listen to it. We learn that this moment, exactly as it is, is perfect, and pure, and whole ... and so are we. From this place comes our power to understand and embrace all of our emotions and learn how to live with them all without letting them run our lives.

Writing practice gives us a safe place to get it all out. We can do it through journaling our fears, hopes and dreams. We can do it through dialogue between two entities or characters acting out our feelings and finding a common ground. We can do it through memoir as a cathartic road to wholeness. When we're done we can put it away, or tear it up, or burn it and let it go. Writing teaches us that we have choices.

I recently watched a YouTube video of Natalie Goldberg giving a talk about 30 years of Bones at the same time that a new book, The Great Spring was also being published. She said that the first book taught everyone "how to do it." This last one showed everyone how she has "done it" for 45 years and what that has meant in her life. Goldberg is also a long time Zen practitioner. She said that her meditation practice and her writing practice went hand in hand. One would not exist without the other.

Practice may not always make perfect, but it sure makes it a whole lot better.

And so it is.

When Less Is More

I have undertaken my second round of downsizing, the first being two years ago when I went from a roomy two bedroom apartment in a large town to a smaller one bedroom apartment out in in the boonies. Now, after two years, I have come to the realization that along with downsizing my outer "stuff," I also downsized my "inner stuff."

One morning recently I went into my closet to pull out something to throw on so that I could get my day in gear. My hand immediately went to a comfy pair of yoga pants, a t-shirt, a pair of ankle socks and my sneakers. There was no thought involved other than what was clean, what matched (in case a discerning crow or barn cat happened by to judge my fashion sense) and what was comfortable for the tasks on my to-do list. Something made me step back and take a good look at the contents of my closet. I realized that I had not worn half of the clothes I had taken with me when I moved. Intrigued by this epiphany, I started going through drawers and closets and found the evidence to be more of the same thing. Then I got my coffee and went into my office area. Not wanting to, but knowing I had to, I pulled open the file drawers, looked into the bookcases, and knew beyond a doubt that a second round of downsizing was definitely in order. The other thought that came to mind was that of all the stuff I had gotten rid of two years ago, the only thing I had missed was one book that I had given away which I could easily repurchase, most likely in digital format which didn't take up any physical space. I had, it seemed, gotten along very well with a third of what I used to own, and rather than feel a sense of loss, what I had gained was more free time to pursue other things besides caring and finding places for all that unnecessary stuff.

So often we are so attached to our stuff because we think it defines us, or because we think we can't live without it. Who we are has nothing to do with what is "out there" and everything to do with what is "in there." I meditate more. I take more walks. I write more (that's a big one). I read more. I spend more time cuddling my cats. I spend less time dusting, washing, and rearranging. I reuse and re purpose more which helps me to leave a smaller footprint on the earth. Most of all, I feel freer.

This week the Internet went out again. Sometimes I think that Third World countries have better communications that I do here on this hill. At first I went into my usual tantrum of all the things that wouldn't get done. Then I slowed down, took a few deep breaths, and asked myself if I wanted to be stressed out or if I wanted to be happy. I chose happy. Then I asked myself what I could do that would be of benefit to myself and others while I waited for this latest electronic fiasco to pass (as it usually does if you wait long enough). The result was three bags of books cleaned out to go to the library for their monthly book sale and a  bag of clothes for the thrift shop. I am also slowly filling up a box with a variety of old vases, baskets and other stuff that has been decorating the inside of my cupboards instead of my apartment - after all, how many vases does one person need? The point is that I didn't die without the internet for a day, and I won't die from the loss of my books or clothes. I not only lived, but I found myself actually sitting down to read a book instead of Facebook and I remembered how good that felt.

What can you let go of? How much do you really need to be happy? And when is enough, enough? Food for thought. Enjoy the meal.

And so it is.