The Gift of Giving

Some of the most meaningful gifts I've received over the years were in response to something I gave to someone else. These weren't always the kind of gifts that were wrapped up in paper and ribbons, although some were. The ones I'm speaking of were gifts that touched my heart and changed my life in some way, and all because I had given a piece of myself to others.

One particular gift came to mind recently. Years ago when I was in my early 30's I became a community outreach worker for an inner city church. The church sat in a neighborhood that had fallen on hard times.The area was mostly African American and Latino.  Unemployment was high as was drug and alcohol use, and child abuse or neglect was all too familiar. Along with providing a Mothers' Morning Out program. which gave at-risk women some much needed free time to themselves while we ran a nursery school of sorts, it was my task to visit the elderly in the neighborhood to make sure that they were being taken care of and that their needs were met. I was also trained to offer to pray with them and, more often than not, just be a friendly ear for those who had no one to talk to.

My very first home visit was to a woman named Blanche. That should have been my first clue as Blanche was my mother's name. Blanche lived in a very run down but very well kept little home that she shared with her adult daughter. Her daughter eyed me suspiciously when I knocked on the door, but when I explained that I was from the church down the block and just wanted to visit with Blanche, her eyes softened. She said that her mother would be so pleased to have someone from church to talk to as she could not get out much any more and that she, the daughter, often worked nights and weekends in housekeeping at a local hospital and couldn't take her mother to church. Blanche was 92 years old.

I found her seated in an old tufted armchair. She was the tiniest African American woman I'd ever seen, with snow white hair pulled back in a bun and dressed in a faded but clean cotton house coat. When her daughter explained why I was there, the smile filled her face.

I was so very nervous. I had never done anything like this before despite all of my training. I was suddenly tongue tied. I didn't know what to say to this beautiful lady and didn't want to let her down. I started pulling out brochures about the programs our church was offering and going into my learned speech. But somehow she knew what was going on in my head, and in my heart. She reached over and took my hand in her two small ones and thanked me for coming to visit her. She asked me to tell her about myself, about my children, and the work I was doing in the neighborhood. She then told me all about herself and how grateful she was for her daughter, for taking her in and taking such good care of her. We spoke of her fond memories spending time at church and we prayed together. Before I left, she leaned over and said, "you did very well, dear. You'll do just fine. Just remember to be yourself because that is beautiful enough for anyone."

I cried all the way back to my office. I had gone there to be a comfort to this lady, and she had comforted me. Blanche made me a better person, and all the work I did after that visit came from my authentic self. She passed away peacefully in her sleep a few months later. I was richer for having known her, and the community poorer for having lost her.

Christmas doesn't come in ribbons and paper. It doesn't come in gift cards and parties. It comes wrapped in love and genuine compassion for others, and for every gift of yourself that you give to another, it comes back ten fold. May your gifts be many and, as the song says, "let your heart be light."

And so it is.

The Gift of Fear

What? Fear is a gift? I'm sure you're wondering what's happened to my sanity, but I can assure you that I am quite serious about that statement. Fear can be a gift. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about danger - that's an entirely different thing. If your house is on fire, get out. If the sirens are telling you a twister is coming, head to the basement. If you're being chased by a bull ... well, you get my drift. Danger is that warning you get to take yourself out of its path. Fear, on the other hand, is a choice.

Fear, by definition, is "a very unpleasant or disturbing feeling caused by the presence or imminence of danger; a feeling of disquiet or apprehension." I italicized those words to point out the fact that what we fear is, more often than not, in our minds rather than in our presence. Mark Twain had a great saying ( I am paraphrasing here): "I've experienced many terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened." So if fear is about what might happen, how is that a gift?

When we are afraid of something that may happen, we are acknowledging that something is missing in our lives, as in: "What if I'm not good enough? What if I never meet the right man? What if I lose my job? What if I get sick? What if there is an accident?" When we feel fear, it is a signal to us that we are not living in the present moment.  The moment that the feeling of fear creeps up on us, it is a signal to sit with the feeling and ask ourselves if what you fear is really real or the result of something that happened in the past. That's when you can open the gift and realize that there is nothing inside! Right there, in that moment, you can know that you are okay. How? Because you're still here. You managed to survive and, in some cases, even flourish, and you did it all on your own. So what do you have to be afraid of? We let the experiences of our past put us in a cage of fear, but here is the kicker ... the door was never locked. All it takes to walk out of that cage is a thought, and the beautiful thing about thoughts is that they were made to be changed!

So today I am offering you the Gift of Fear, wrapped in my best intentions, and tied up with all of my love. May you always find it empty!

And so it is.

The Gift of Story

Every year for Christmas I give myself a gift. I know that may sound a little selfish, but really, who is more deserving than you of receiving something that speaks to your true, beautiful self? I don't necessarily mean something like a trip to Aruba or a new car (although both would be lovely). I'm talking about a gift that touches the real you, the you that struggles year in and year out to be the best "you" that you can be? One year I gifted myself a sponsorship of a wolf in Idaho. The connection with that animal gave me something more precious than money. Another year I gave myself a DVD set of a weekend workshop with Louise Hay and Cheryl Richardson that also had life-changing results.

This year I thought I would do it a little differently. First, I decided that I would give myself four gifts, one for each of the weeks leading up to Christmas. Second, I decided to share those gifts with all of you, for all of the wonderful gifts you have given me over the years. So, here we go with Gift #1: The Gift of Story.

Where would we be without our stories? Who would we be without our stories? All the experiences, the joys and sorrows, our upbringing, our cultural environment, our illnesses, our losses and our gains. But do all of these things really tell the story of who we are, or are they simply a list of experiences that happened outside of ourselves and our reactions to them? Are we still living our lives in reaction to the things that happened to us in the past? And what kind of a story about ourselves are we passing on to our children and grandchildren as they venture out into the world to write their own stories?

I don't believe that our stories have to be about why we are the way we are, as if it is all about the fault of someone or something else. We can certainly tell a story of how we experienced these things and, good or bad, what we learned from them that can benefit us going forward as we write the next chapter. I would certainly prefer to tell my grandchildren stories of the experiences of my life that touched my authentic self and how that made me a better person. I want them to know what is best about Grandma. I want them to remember holidays filled with magic and cookies, of playing in the snow, of helping them write their letters to Santa. I want them to remember the stories that came from special moments spent together, and about the wisdom about the world that they learned at my side. I'm not tooting my own horn here. I'm writing my story.

So for this week, I give you all the gift of story. You are the author and you can write it any way you want. It doesn't have to be a fairy tale. Even real stories can end with "and she lived happily ever after" if you're the one who is writing it. What will you write?

And so it is.

Thanks For The Ripples

Since everyone in the U.S. is focused on Thanksgiving this week, I'd like to add my thoughts on what I am grateful for. In particular, I want to express my gratitude for all those people who created a ripple, whether they realized it or not,  that reached out and  affected my life in ways I could never have imagined:

To my 6th grade teacher who gave me hundreds of punishment essays to write because I couldn't keep my mouth shut only to discover the writer that I could be but couldn't hear until I was able to sit still and listen.

To Professor McGonigal, a.k.a. Abba, who came into my life for only one day but who planted seeds that have lasted over 30 years when she told me: "You are seeking answers but you haven't asked the right questions yet. Go out into the world and DO something."

To both of my ex-husbands (saving this for another post) who taught me that I was strong enough to stand on my own two feet and that if I was looking for someone to ride in on a white horse to save me, I only had to look in the mirror to find her.

To my children who taught me how to be a parent, and to my grandchildren who helped me get even better at it.

To all of my beautiful animal companions, those still here and those who have moved on, who taught me the true meaning of loyalty, compassion and unconditional love.

.. and to the little girl inside me, the one who is  perpetually 5 years old, who never lets me stop looking for the magic and helps me to see it when it's there.

Most of all, to all my beautiful Vibrant Nation sisters whose ripples touch me each and ever day. Keep 'em coming. Happy Thanksgiving.

And so it is.

Is This What Happy Feels Like?

The other day I found myself dancing in the kitchen like Ginger Rogers without Fred Astaire while cookies baked in the oven and turkey stuffing was cooling in a bowl on the counter.

Let me go back about two hours.

I was tidying up in the kitchen after breakfast and getting out the supplies I needed to make a turkey stuffing that was my contribution to our church's pot luck Thanksgiving meal on Sunday. This batch would be baked in the oven outside of the turkey which was being provided by someone else. As I passed the kitchen window I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye; something white was flying around outside. Since it was a brilliantly sunny morning, I figured it wasn't snow. I went over to the window to take a peek and saw ... sea gulls, hundreds of sea gulls, landing in the farmer's field next door. I grabbed my jacket and headed outside.

The wind was whipping around something fierce out there and the brilliant blue morning was quickly turning into a freezing wind and a promise of bad weather to come. I reasoned that the gulls had come inland because they knew more than we did about the change coming in the weather. I could hear the frenzied honking of the geese on the pond beyond the field letting our visitors know in no uncertain terms that the pond was already taken, thank you, and there was no room in the neighborhood for new comers! Despite the cold, I stayed a while to watch the gulls dig around in the field  until they had picked it clean, then as if on cue, they took off like a giant blanket of white and headed for the opposite hill where the remnants of the blueberry bushes and surrounding fields offered the possibility of a snack.

I went back inside where it was nice and warm, and continued working on my stuffing. Something made me go and get my laptop where I clicked into Pandora and brought up a jazz station. As the stuffing cooked I got the sudden idea to bake vanilla drop cookies. For those of you who know that the cooking gene skipped me and went on to my sister, daughter and granddaughter (an example of which were slice and bake cookies that somehow came out so hard the NHL could have used them for pucks), the sudden desire to bake could only have been planted there by some unknown source - either God or aliens.

I measured and poured, scrapped and beat, and before you could say Betty Crocker, two cookie sheets were in the oven filling the apartment with the most wonderful smell ... and I started dancing. It was Count Basie and Ella Fitzgerald doing Cheek to Cheek. Look out Ginger, her comes Barb. In the middle of what I thought was some pretty fancy footwork (I absolutely loved ballroom dancing when I was young), it suddenly hit me: is this what happy feels like?

What does it say about how we live our lives if we have to ask ourselves that question? We are so busy searching for happiness that we miss out on those moments when happiness is right at our fingertips. Had I been so wrapped up in the move to the new place, and the unpaid bills sitting on my desk, and stressing out about the upcoming holidays that weren't even here yet, that I was missing out on all the really good stuff in my life that was happening right here, right now? Happiness is an inside job, and if we don't occasionally go to the window of the soul and look out, we just might miss the sea gulls, and the geese, and the pond, and the blueberry bushes, and our true, authentic lives. Of course, being a jazz fan, I like to think that the Count and Ella contributed a lot, too.

And just to let you know, the cookies came out just fine! Yum!

And so it is.

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It

I was sitting at my computer staring at the screen with tears running down my face. I was watching a young man with a sweet face as he said, seemingly staring right back at me through the magic of the Internet, "You're not broken. There is nothing to fix. You are whole and complete just the way you are. You are loved, every part of you, even the parts you're not proud of." I had to sit there for a long time after the Google Hangout was over to let those words sink in: "You're not broken. There is nothing to fix."

The young man in question is Spiritual Teacher Panache Desai, and if you haven't had an opportunity to see him on YouTube or OWN, listen to his live podcasts or read his book, Soul Signature, I highly recommend that you do all three. For all of the spiritual and transformational teachers and authors whose words I have studied, for some reason these particular words resonated deeply with me and I think I am pretty safe in saying that they would resonate with a great many other people as well. Women especially need to hear these words.

I can't speak for the younger generations coming up behind us, but for women our age the message of not being enough started when we were old enough to understand language and hasn't stopped since. It was always all about pleasing others, be it our parents, our teachers, our peers, our husbands, our bosses, our children, etc, etc, etc. It was about how we looked, what we wore, where we lived, what we drove, who we married (or didn't marry). If we fell short in any of these areas, there was something wrong with us. Somehow something inside was broken and if we wanted to be accepted, we had to find what it was and fix it.

Imagine how it would feel if we accepted ourselves just the way we were? Not only that, but how would our lives change if we decided that we didn't have to "be" or "do" anything? If we could just be ourselves and know that it was enough? For example, I love to write. Writing is my passion. However, I don't have to be Ernest Hemingway. I don't have to be Emily Dickinson. I don't even have to be Dr. Seuss. I just have to be me, Barb (aka Flower Bear), who loves to write because words have the power to change and heal people's lives. What if that was enough? What if living in a sweet little apartment out in the country with my two cats and all of nature as my neighbors were enough? What if learning new ways to cook tofu, re-learning how to bake, and mastering a new crochet pattern was enough? The sights and sounds of an ordinary life, and it's all perfectly okay.

Maybe what is okay for you is starting a new career, or traveling, or going back to school. It's all okay, anything and everything, because there is nothing to fix so that someone else will find you acceptable. You are perfect, whole and complete just as you are. So if it ain't broke, stop trying to fix it. Just love it. Enjoy it. Embrace it.

And so it is.

Knitting Memories

Yesterday was All Souls Day, or, as some call it, Day of the Dead. It is the day when it is said the veil between the worlds is the thinnest and we can connect with our loved ones that have made their transition. It got me to thinking about the different ways we connect with our loved ones throughout the year and how we comfort ourselves in their absence.

My Mom made her transition in 2002 and there is not a day that goes by that I don't miss her. There are so many things I never got a chance to ask her. By the time the questions presented themselves to me, she had started showing signs of dementia and severe depression. Then she was just gone. As I have gotten older, the answers to some of those questions have come to me in quiet moments when I reflect on her life and her challenging upbringing that made her who she was. I find that now, in my 60's, we are probably closer now than we were when she was physically here. When I want to spend some "quality time" with her now, I take out my knitting needles.

My Mom was an accomplished knitter and crocheter. I have never been able to even come close to her expertise with needles and hooks. My sisters and I, and our children, were the recipients of beautiful sweaters and baby blankets, and lovely crocheted lace table scarves. Some days when it is very quiet and I think back to those days, I can hear the sound of her needles clicking away while I was curled up in the big armchair with a book. I was never interested in learning these skills when I was younger, but motherhood brought out the desire to learn. 

Especially at this time of the year, when the weather turns cold and thoughts turn to scarves, hats, mittens and Christmas, my hands start itching for the feel of those needles in my hands. That is when I feel her presence very close to me. Sitting in my low armed rocker, needles moving in rhythmic time, I talk to her about my life as it is now, of the challenges of moving into my Third Age, or Wisdom Years. I tell her how I wish she were here to guide me through it because sometimes it's hard to be the one the others look to for answers to their problems when you don't know the answers to your own. I tell her that knowing I can do anything I want with the years ahead of me is often scary and exciting at the same time. I tell her I wish that she had had this freedom, this opportunity for self-creation in her own time and that it would have been sweet to be able to go through it with her. Most of all, I ask her to guide my hands, as well as my heart, as I weave this gift I am making for someone I love. All the time I am doing this, I am wearing an old sweater that was hers, a tweedy-looking thing that reminds me of the bible story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. Somehow wearing that sweater while my needles move feels as if she is there looking over my shoulder watching my stitches and whispering in my ear.

It doesn't matter how we remember our loved ones as long as we do. They are part and parcel of who we are and the legacy that is ours to continue to pass on. Perhaps you remember them when you are baking cookies, or hiking in the woods, or gardening.  Perhaps you see them in the faces of your children or your grandchildren. Perhaps you need to find that place where you can finally work out all of those unresolved issues and give them and yourselves peace. There will always be that place inside you where they live. For me that place is in my hands, knitting memories one loving stitch at a time.

And so it is.