A Happy, Healthy, Helpful New Year

I’ve chosen a set of words to focus on in 2015 rather than specific goals and intentions.  They’re global enough to encompass positive actions and specific enough to keep me focused.  I’ve ordered them in the way they logically proceed.  I need to be happy to be healthy and from that space only can I be helpful, which is my deepest heart’s desire.

Happiness is a vehicle, a pathway, a modality rather than an end in itself.  I was nicknamed “Joy Ann” growing up by a cousin, and I continue to wear my heart on my sleeve. People know when I’m happy and when I’m not. Happiness feels better.  At age 56 I have a good handle on brings happiness: good conversations, connection to spirit, movement, creative work, comfort, authentic companionship, and beauty to name a few. 

I also know that happiness is a habit--that where I put my attention contributes to my state of being.  As much as I admire people who fight for worthy causes, I don’t want to push against anything because that doesn’t bring me joy, just a rush of adrenaline followed by a chaser of righteousness. With only so much time, I’d rather advocate for something, move in the direction of what I want, and call out the goodness in others.

Acknowledging my exquisite health means not comparing my body to the 25 year olds in my hot yoga classes but rather celebrating the energy, vitality, and wellness that abounds in me at this time of life.  Being helpful means not just writing, giving talks or leading retreats that teach and inspire, but being a light in the grocery line, and I have a ways to go to develop patience with pokey clerks.

My recovery program asks that I take a daily inventory, and while it’s important to note where I’ve gotten off course, I want to use these three words to acknowledge daily how I’ve shown up and contributed to life. If I can say by the end of 2015 that I was mostly happy, healthy, and helpful, I will count that a success.

The Last Clothes Swap

Last night I hosted my last clothes swap.  For 25 years, beginning in graduate school in Austin, I’ve invited women of all ages, styles and sizes to bring whatever is no longer working in their closets to my house. We sort through the items and organize them and then see what we’d like to try on and take home.  It’s a talkative, happy gathering and after a couple hours, I pack up what remains to bring to a charity.  I’ve done this in four cities for probably a couple hundred women, many of them faithful repeat attendees.

I’m letting this lovely tradition go because  I’m moving to a minimalist lifestyle, though my husband calls me a minimalist wannabe because I still have way too many clothes, books, shoes, coats, etc. My DNA is one of a gatherer and I love to shop, especially consignment stores, where the inventory is varied and unpredictable. Yet I’ve observed my inner addict often enough simply wanting to acquire for the sake of having. I've even noticed in winnowing my closet that the items I don’t love were purchased when I simply had to buy something.  The shopping addiction isn’t as virulent as others I have, and used clothing doesn’t break the bank, but I want to be governed not at all by compulsion and delight in my favorite sweaters I can easily find.

I’m also no longer going to host clothing swaps because I want to make room for a deeper connection with friends. As six of us sat around a table eating soup during a break last night,the conversation was easy and nourishing. This is what I really want. But would people come even without an “event”? For 25 years I’ve believed I have to give my guests something of value beyond my company, that nobody would come just to hang out and talk. I've been devaluing my presence, which is why I've needed to have more stuff to feel legitimate.

 I used to drink before I got to a party because I feared the awkwardness of chit chat before things got off the ground, lubricated liberally with alcohol.  Now, over a decade sober, I’m using activities for the same purpose.  We host fundraisers and pool parties, family holidays and meditation circles,  but rarely do we invite friends over to just hang out, eat, talk, laugh, connect.

To explore that experience, I have to let go of the old and trust that not only do I have enough, but I am enough.

Honoring Intuition

 

My husband and I attended a gala the other night and bought two raffle tickets.  During the dinner, they called the winning number and, in a room of 600 people, it was one digit past ours. That caught my attention; there was a lesson for me here. My timing had been off all day--I got to the gym that  morning at 5:40 when it didn’t open until 6 am.  Had I pushed us to arrive at the raffle table just a tad too soon? There had to be meaning here—perhaps it was about forcing my way in the world.

It wasn’t until a couple days later that I recalled the full conversation as Brian got out his checkbook to purchase the tickets.  He suggested we buy more than two, but I’d said no, he didn’t need to give any more money to this organization.  He bought two tickets and sure enough, the next number won.  My husband has a different relationship with money and risk than I, and he’s more generous. Sometimes he doesn’t follow his gut instinct, but this was the first time I was aware that I discounted his intuition.  I asked why he didn't insist on buying more and he shrugged and replied that since it was my event, he would follow my lead.

What trumps our intuition is a question worth pondering always.  What trumps my partner’s intuition is a new question for me. In every moment I have a choice to expand or contract, spiritually.  I can say yes to a risk, be generous, listen more carefully, grow more patient or I can stick to habitual ways of being critical, ungenerous, self-absorbed, and hurried.  Those pathways have developed over a lifetime to keep me safe, yet unexamined, they block me from experiencing the synchronicities that make a day feel special and grace-filled.

One benefit of living with someone for years is learning to trust his expansiveness when I’m rigid and to support his intuitive hunches when I’m uninspired.  Although we didn’t win the raffle prize, if I learn to listen a bit better and say yes a little more frequently, I will have won an ease and freedom that’s priceless.  

 

 

 

To Share Is Divine

A couple days ago I was sitting on the dock looking at trees in fall color reflected in a perfectly still lake.  I imagined taking a photograph I could share on Face Book with the caption “My morning view.”  It was the caption that gave me pause. It’s one thing to want to capture a beautiful scene and quite another to narrate it for an audience, isn’t it? Why did I need to share this moment? Is it narcissistic to think people would be interested in where I am this morning? Am I so self-seeking that I need people to validate my life by “liking” it? Despite my quick desire to share, I stayed on the dock and savored the moment, alone, then wrote about it, and then got my phone and took a picture. And posted it.

Experiencing beauty and tranquility is for me a spiritual moment, and spirituality implies connection. Sharing is what we do when we’re in awe or wonder.  My spirit thrives in connection—with other people, alone without an agenda, or with the power of natural beauty. 

 A desire to uplift seems to run through much of my Face Book news feed, in pictures of darling grandchildren or beloved pets, in stories of strangers overcoming adversity. Even messages of outrage at injustice often focus on the ones working with courage and perseverance to right those wrongs.  I suspect we’re inclined to share with others what nourishes our own spirit not only to be helpful but also because sharing what touches my spirit connects me with yours, and that’s how we all progress.

The Geography of Joy

 

Today I had a rare day off with no prior commitments, so I could discern what I truly wanted to do and where I wanted to be. I packed a lunch and drove to a state park to hike for a few hours. The weather was perfect, there weren’t many on the trails, and I was as content as I’ve been in a long while--perhaps because I was alone and didn’t have to compromise, perhaps because it felt so good to move in sunshine and fresh air, but also because I was in the woods, which is where my spirit finds rest.

Two weeks ago I walked the beautiful beaches of South Carolina every morning, appreciating the majesty of the Atlantic Ocean.  That vacation served its purpose; I appreciate my home and work more than ever.  When it comes to nourishment, my heart needs trees, a lake, a river. Of course I’ll continue to take trips to mountains, deserts, other cities, other seas, but they’re more like good books that transport me to other lives for a delightful time. They’re not home.

It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy, but it's important to know what it is because I’m responsible for my own happiness.  I prefer tea to coffee, fiction to nonfiction, one-on-one conversations to large gatherings, lined notebooks to blank pages.  Do these things really matter? Maybe they don’t for some people. But I’m more useful to other people when I’m content and comfortable, and for me, that also requires a solitary walk in the woods on a regular basis.

We all have our own geography of joy. I’m blessed to live in mine and look forward to returning to this park in a few months with my skis.

 

Living in Life's Closets

 

My husband and I looked at a house this week that we both wanted to love—closer to my work, in the city limits for him, a one-of-a-kind home built in 1934.  But despite its outward charm, once inside, I couldn’t imagine living there and neither could he. While the water issues were problematic, what held me back most were the closets. Granted I’m on a path to minimalism, letting go of more and more clothes every week, but the size and dilapidated shape of those closets gave me serious pause.  I asked myself if I were being too shallow? Perhaps it was time to be more interested in a garden than a closet?

 And then I remembered all the closets that were special spaces for me: I burrowed into the cedar closet that led to an attic when I was a little girl, hid in mine as an adolescent to avoid my little sister and visitors I didn’t want to entertain, sat in the back of my walk-in closet in graduate school and had long soul-searching conversations with myself in a mirror. Today, winnowing and organizing my spacious, clean closet is a dependable source of joy.

Maybe I just love little spaces. Maybe I am shallow and rearranging things calms me down, fills me up, and occupies my time in ways writing and meditating do not. Maybe I’ll outgrow this desire and need at some point.

But for now, closets will be a factor in any new place we move.  Maybe someday I’ll have as few clothes as they did during the Great Depression and spend my time outside talking with neighbors as I hang them on a line.  But trying to become that person before I truly am there is a source of discouragement, frustration, and perhaps even shame.  I think it’s better to know who I am today, what I want, and trust that something that pleases me is also out there.

A Legacy of Love

 

Fifty-nine years ago today my parents married in Salem Lutheran Church, north Minneapolis. It was a Friday evening, chosen as an auspicious day for some Swedish reason.  Shortly after, they drove to Banff and honeymooned all along the way.  The story goes that every time they stopped at a drug store so my father could purchase condoms, he got embarrassed and bought nail clippers instead. That was as close as my mother ever came to talking about sex with me. Even so, I didn’t come along for three more years.

I’m thankful they had such a great love. They kissed every night after work, Mom sat in Dad’s lap regularly, and I fell asleep to the sound of them talking quietly at the kitchen table.  Though I could never make out their precise words, I was comforted by the give and take rhythm of endless conversation.  I think they preferred each other’s company to anyone else, though our family times were filled with games and adult bridge players were a regular presence in our living room.

 My own marriage is less than four years old, and perhaps I waited until I was 52 because Ann and Roger set such a high bar.  I didn’t want to settle for less than sweet compatibility, mutual adoration, and I just wish they were still around to be part of the conversation. 

Keeping the Island Vibe Alive

 

We just returned from a week on a tropical island that was as idyllic as a magazine photo.  The temperatures were perfect, the ocean was clear, warm and glorious, and our time was ours completely. No agendas or alarm clocks.  We had no car so got around on foot, bike, or occasional taxi and kept pretty close to our hotel.  We ate breakfast and lunch together on our patio—simple meals I prepared after our run to a grocery store on the bicycle—and had lovely dinners out.  I didn’t worry about anything; even when our sailboat capsized in the ocean I stayed calm.

Now that I’m back, I’d like to ride this wave as long as I can. I want to be on an inner vacation, so here’s what I’m going to lean into.

Slow down.  Even though I now have certain places I have to be at set times, with a little more planning I can move toward them without rushing.  I spent time on the balcony just looking at the ocean.  I could look at beauty here too.

Do one thing at a time.  I loved preparing meals and cleaning up because that was the only activity I needed to do at the moment.  When I read I didn’t feel as if I should be doing something else.  I want to be that focused more of my day.

Have unscheduled time to let unfold every single day. Part of the wonder of vacation week was just listening to what we felt like doing next.  That’s not really do-able if every minute is previously scheduled.

Listen without interrupting.  I realize that when I interrupt to move things along I’m assuming I don’t have enough time.  I’d like to listen to anyone in front of me as if I have all the time in the world.

Talk to strangers and experience community wherever I am.  On the island, we talked to other guests, to the people who worked at the hotel, to the people we stood next to at the casino and to others on the airplane. I heard wonderful snippets of people’s lives and felt an intimacy I  would like to have with my next door neighbors at home.

 

Minnesota is also beautiful in the summertime, and keeping this relaxed pace alive in me will help me truly appreciate what I have in my life everyday.

Staying Put

I’ve been at the cabin by myself for 48 hours now, and this weekend I decided not to leave, no matter what. I could have run errands, gone to a movie, bought groceries, etc., but instead I’ve stayed put. It’s the rare day without appointments, schedules, or agendas, and yet even when I have the potential for an unstructured day, I’m likely to fill it with a different kind of work or the activities of pleasure. Eating just food from the pantry was a creative challenge and put meals into perspective--they were fuel, not the centerpiece of the day.

This weekend’s commitment to stay put makes me aware of how often I take action simply to be in motion. When a task comes to mind, how often do I ask myself—does this really have to be done right now? Is this how I truly want to spend my time?  I like to think I live mindfully, but how much of my day emerges from habit, routine, and obligation? I’m glad I have mostly good habits and healthy routines, but still, this stretch of unstructured time in one place helped me shift gears. Staying put let me listen to what I truly wanted to do and to do one task at a time.  When I made tea, I just drank tea and a spaciousness opened around me. 

I suppose that’s what the Sabbath is about—once a week our routines are suspended for the sole/soul purpose of connecting with true treasures: God, family, and one’s own heart. Our culture doesn’t really observe a Sabbath any longer, and I don’t either.  I’d like to incorporate a “staying put” day each month, to reset my compass, to reconnect with my inner guidance, and to savor what’s right in front of me.

 

At Arm's Length

I’m not really a horse person, but when I was at Ghost Ranch recently and spied a barn, I moved toward the horses in the pen. About ten feet away I stopped and waved. To my astonishment, two of them looked up and ran toward me, as if they knew me. Too timid to pet them, I took a photo, told them they were beautiful, and thanked them for being so friendly.

Later in the retreat,  we were asked to share something from our afternoon, and I described my experience, including my surprise that the horses were so eager to meet me.  And I wondered aloud if maybe I also assume people would rather not spend time with me, and so keep them at arm’s length through being too busy or too aloof.

Since that brief equine encounter, I’ve noticed how I buffer myself from rejection by not putting myself out there. For example, I didn’t offer any retreats where I work this year, even though I love creating and leading them, because I feared nobody would attend. Silly, I know, but powerful old beliefs that prevent me from fully experiencing the joy of relationships.

So here’s how I’m leaning into greater connection:

·         I’ve asked two friends to talk monthly about our creative endeavors, to set an intention for what’s next, and to support each other imagining it into existence.

·         I’ve invited my mother in law for a weekly supper so my sister in law gets a break and we spend more time with this sweet woman who won’t be around forever.

·         During a recent retreat I stayed in the common area and wrote in my journal rather than stay in my room, and another participant joined me and read . We sat in silent companionship.

·         I rearranged my schedule so my husband and I could enjoy an evening together after days apart.  This doesn’t sound like much, but in the past I would have hoped he would change his plans and then felt hurt when we didn’t get much time together.

Being in a new place on retreat--displacing myself from my routine—allowed me to see outmoded habits that actually prevent the very connections I so desire. It took horses to show me that there’s a world that welcomes me if I only signal by a wave that I’m interested and available.

Making Friends with Willingness

Making Friends with Willingness

I was recently on a four day silent Buddhist meditation retreat. The schedule was daunting—the day started with meditation at 5:30 am and ended at 9:30 pm and included sitting meditations, walking meditations, a talk by the teacher, silent meals and an hour off to do our chores. The first day, I found myself resisting everything. I was a beginner and overwhelmed with
the schedule. Before every activity a voice in my head said “I don’t want to do this.” So I listened and silently replied “you don’t have to.” Because I didn’t fight with it, I could watch the resistance fade, and beneath the resistance was a seed of willingness. That was what I wanted to nurture.

The next morning I decided to embrace the day and to
intentionally be willing. Same rigorous schedule but my willingness brought a sweetness to everything—the meditations, the slow walks outside in fresh air, the community forming in silence, and my own vulnerable self. From that place of allowing, new insights and healing arose. It was a remarkable experience.

Willingness is like a light but instead of an on/off switch, there's a dimmer switch with no end to its brightness. Some of us erroneously believe we aren’t willing if we experience any resistance at all, and so confuse willingness with eagerness. To move in a healthy direction we just need to be more willing than reluctant, to lean in the right direction rather than be paralyzed with inertia.

The Step 3 essay in 12 Steps & 12 Traditions calls willingness the key in
the door. “Once we have placed the key of willingness in the lock and have the door ever so slightly open, we find that we can always open it some more. Though self-will may slam it shut again, as it frequently does, it will always respond the moment we again pick up the key of willingness” (35). Nobody can pick the key up for us, however. That’s our main attitudinal work of daily life in recovery.

·         Willingness is an attitude, start your day
with it.

·         Willingness is a muscle-- the more you
notice where you’re already using it, the stronger it gets.

·         Willingness is a manifestation of grace, so
ask for it and you don’t have to know who or what you’re asking. The act of
asking is enough.

·         Willingness is a choice—make it for yourself because you can do hard things.

 

Whenever I feel stuck, I just need to inventory my level of willingness and pray for more.

The Power of Invitation

 

Most every transformative event, workshop, or experience I have had along the spiritual path started with an invitation from someone I knew.  Beginning with participating in the Delphi Methodist youth group because my church didn’t have one up until last week’s silent Buddhist meditation retreat, I have had a steady supply of expanding experiences I could never have found on my own. I’ve had my heart blown open chanting at a Hindu ashram, come to new understanding of the Creator in a Native American sweat lodge, and discovered some difficult truths at a Benedictine Monastery. I was transformed living with a Muslim family for a summer, re-oriented through three workshops with Robert Kiyosaki, and have been tutored on daily decisions through Abraham-Hicks.  Almost weekly my experience in 12 Step meetings opens my heart, as well.

This history of seeking truth wherever it appears has shown me that there are many paths to the deep heart. Maybe I’ve taken so many routes because I never had children, and most people discover love, kindness, and the power of connection through raising a family.  For me, someone’s suggestion, invitation, or nudge was the stepping stone to another arena for discovery and growth.

So how often do I invite others to something sacred or significant? It certainly is vulnerable to ask someone to share an experience you find profound. What if they don’t? Yet I am so grateful for those who risked my rejection by inviting me to so many wonderful experiences, including the adventure of marriage. As I head off to Santa Fe for my third retreat this month, I want  to be on the look out with a ready “yes” for the next invitation to open, receive, and become more alive.

 

Saying Yes to Discipline

 

I’m off to my second retreat this month, four silent days of Buddhist meditation.  I’m pretty sure I’m going to be stretched because, although I’ve been meditating for 30 years, I never meditate on my own for days at a time.  I’m a corner-cuttter by nature and so sitting until someone else rings the bell will be a discipline. Feelings I’m not used to will no doubt come up, and I just need to remember that they won’t kill me.

This morning I had some intense body work done so that I will be able to physically sit for several days (actually I use a prayer bench and kneel rather than sit cross legged during meditation).  I’ve also been reading John O’Donohue’s book Eternal Echoes to prepare for so much time in stillness.  He writes “Deep below the personality and outer image, the soul is continuously at prayer. We need to find new words to help name the unusual and unexpected forms of the Divine in our lives.”

 My hope for this time in contemplation is to be surprised by what I find within, by the Divine moving in my life. However, I plan to lean into whatever emerges--my resistance, my judgments and my fears as well as any delight, discovery, and joy.

Retreat into April

I’ve just returned from the first of three retreats I’m attending this month.  It’s a bit of a busman’s holiday because I create and lead retreats for a living, yet not running the show is a treat. To be a participant, to follow instructions, to room with a stranger provide rest and a stretch, which is, of course, a key reason to go on retreat. Not being in charge of the schedule helps cultivate openness, wonder, curiosity and acceptance.

I also go on retreats because I crave more silence and open-ended time than I have in regular life. I suspect I could be quiet more frequently in the car, but I tend to listen to books and music and have regularly scheduled conversations on my Bluetooth in order to use my commuting time wisely. A retreat reminds me that silence is also a good use of my time. Retreats shift me from the need to be productive to the experience of simply being.

I go on retreat to be with emptiness. My default position is to schedule something every spare moment. I’ve been this way since high school when I joined every club, performed in nine plays, and had a part time job at the nursing home. I don’t see that tendency changing.   In a retreat context, the person I sit with at lunch surprises me with her friendship, the woman behind me becomes a spontaneous walking partner, and the little suitcase of clothing becomes enough.

I go on retreats because I’m willing to grow. I want to grow as a person, as a spiritual being, as a teacher, meditator, writer, student, friend and wife. I am willing to grow not because I’m broken and need to be fixed. I am willing to grow because that’s what humans do.  Some people grow their compassion and ability to love through connections to grandchildren. Others grow their intellect and sense of justice through advocacy and public service. I’m willing to grow along spiritual lines, which means sitting still with myself, my Higher Power, and others just as we are and embracing what that is today with kindness.

Saying yes to the invitations to go on retreat was the beginning of growth in April. I can’t wait to see how it unfolds.

Best Winter Ever

Here in Minnesota we’ve had an intense winter, and it’s not over. This afternoon the snow came down in a thick blanket. Recently, the Minneapolis newspaper published an article entitled “Worst. Winter. Ever.”  The next day, a clever letter to the editor pointed out that if one likes snow and cold, this year has been amazing.  Fifty nights below zero. Sixty-one inches of snow. “Best. Winter. Ever.” he wrote.

It all comes down to perspective.  I’ve never found it useful or interesting to complain about weather. I’m never served by resisting, complaining, or working myself into a lather about something I can do nothing about. I know I do have an effect on my world—the choices I make affect climate in the end. However, knowing I have an impact and influencing something immediately are not the same.  When I’m upset about weather or traffic, a plane’s delay or a person’s response, I’m actually cut off from the very thing that can have a positive impact.  Namely, my positive attitude.

If I’m in a funk, that’s not the time I can improve a situation.  The old sayings “do no harm” or “if you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” come to mind.  Once I’ve regained equilibrium and good cheer, I may in fact be able to help. But not before then.

Being powerless over something can lead to frustration or a renewed sense of humility. My choice. I know which choice feels better, and every time I choose to remain calm, ask for help, focus on the positive, see the humor, I strengthen that ability for a time when it will be essential that I remain calm so that I can be useful.

Perhaps those little irritations are precisely the workout my spiritual condition needs to get into shape for whatever is around the corner. And even if life goes smoothly forever after, reaching for the wonder of a snowy day just before April feels much better than the alternative.

The Land of Enough

 

Tired of having a full closet and nothing to wear? Recently, I tried an experiment of putting only 40 of my favorite items of clothing on hangers.  Turns out, I never tired of my wardrobe this whole, long winter because everyday I wore things I loved.  That’s the standard to use throughout my household, my relationships, and my activities.  When I’m engaged with people I love, doing what I love, in clothes I love, I have enough.

We experienced enough with my grandparents. There’s a photograph of me, seven years old, in a scarf, shawl, and big pocketbook on my grandparents’ couch.  My three year old sister, also in costume with a huge purse, sits beside me.  We are playing “Bus,” looking at the scenery, chatting, and exploring the treasures in our purses. This ingenious game was no doubt suggested by a grandparent in need of quiet. That couch wasn’t the only special prop. We played “Waitress” with their TV tray on wheels and “Bank” as we knelt before a straight chair with slats for the teller window. 

My grandparent’s house had one doll and one box of crayons and my sister and I got along better there than anywhere else. At our own house we had a play kitchen, dozens of baby dolls, Barbie dolls, a doll house and every game produced. Yet I have few memories of playing with my sister there. Mostly I remember squabbling.

At first glance this doesn’t make sense.  Wouldn’t we be more likely to fight over a single doll than the dozens at home?  But it didn’t work that way because siblings rival for attention, and at Grandma and Grandpa’s we had two loving adults’ full attention. Even when she continued her housework, meal preparation, and gardening tasks, Grandma included us so that we felt it was all play. 

Geneen Roth has observed that enough isn’t a quantity but a relationship to what you already have. Margaret Bullet-Jonas writes that you can never have enough of what you don’t truly want. When I take the time to discern what I want, it’s rarely a thing. Most often it’s a connection to an old friend, a hug, a chance to talk about a new inspiration, a walk in the sunshine, or time to read a good book.

Experiencing enough is a spiritual discipline because it’s never my spirit that wants more stuff. Though it seems scary sometimes to walk away from more, focusing on the riches already in hand is what nourishes me truly.

 

Only Connect

 

Yesterday I passed an SUV with a painted tiger on its back tire cover and the words “Please do not get close.”  Years ago a friend painted on my back tire cover a picture of the globe with the words “Only Connect.” When asked what does that mean? in every single parking lot,  I’d tell these strangers it was my favorite phrase from E.M. Forster’s novel Howard’s End. What do you think it means? Over the years I’ve come to believe that every problem can be solved, every difficulty eased, by greater connection.

These two phrases sum up my choice every day: Will I seek connection or distance? Draw closer to those I love or keep them at arm’s length? Be curious or oblivious about whoever crosses my path? When I review my day before sleep, I can usually tell which choice has been dominant by how I feel.  When I’ve connected I feel loved and loving. When I’ve signaled “please do not get close” I feel empty and alone.

I wish I always made the choice to connect, but I don’t.  Inattention, stress or fatigue keep people away.  Sometimes I tell my higher power not to get close by keeping busy, distracted, and noisy inside. Something that diminishes connection with others is my desire for perfection. Tonight, as I prepare to host dinner for a dozen, I intend to connect with each one by listening with delight rather than with one eye on the oven.   When I’m the hostess that’s a challenge. So I cancelled something I’d planned to do earlier and am giving myself the kind of day that will prepare my heart to be a welcoming world that says—Come closer. I’m so glad you’re here. 

Perhaps the loneliest days are those I keep myself at a distance by going through the motions of obligations or duties rather than pausing to listen to what will surprise and delight me.  This past week I went to the Walker Art Center on the spur of the moment.  That lovely art date made the March afternoon brighter, and I felt connected to the artist, the others viewing the exhibit, and had an interesting exchange with one of the guards. Saying yes to that inspiration, taking the time to act on intuition, actually strengthens my spirit, which in turn, invites me to come closer. Yes, that’s the direction I want to go.

 

 

Happiness

I‘ve been watching Pharrell Williams’ video “Happy” a lot lately (24hoursofhappy.com).  Today I danced along with it and felt that powerful combination of endorphins and music.  The simple words of this song “happiness is the truth” lift me because they are the truth.

I may spend more time thinking about happiness and joy than most people, but I did earn the nickname “Joy Ann” growing up and believe a happy life is completely possible regardless of circumstance.  When I’m content, I’m most useful to others, which is a value I hold. As I release one addiction after the next,  the path to happiness becomes clearer and easier to walk. I’m sure age has something to do with this as well.

Today I want to feel wonderful more than I want to look wonderful. That’s a big shift. When I pay attention to what feels wonderful, I let go of the clothes, shoes, knick knacks, food, activities and ideas that are less than marvelous.  Is that too high a standard? I don’t think so given the sheer amount of things I own, activities I can participate in, and thoughts that run pass my brain.  I only want those things in my life that help me feel wonderfully connected, joyous, and alive.

Everything I’ve ever wanted in my life I thought I’d feel better if I had it.  Much of it worked only in the short run. I’m more likely to reach for an old comfort when I haven’t made the time to be still and listen to my inner guidance, which always has a creative and perfect answer for the moment. Whenever I want to feel wonderful via a binge of sugar, a shopping trip, or some other old way of getting relief, I now get to learn what truly brings a sense of well-being.  This week, when I’ve wanted a change or help making a transition, I’ve gone outside and looked at the sky, called an old friend, organized a closet, browsed in a magazine, and walked in to lecture without a note.

I’m traveling into new realms of happiness and joy, and since I’ve long thought joy is the spirit’s most efficient fuel, I’ve been productive in other ways as well. Which is a nice bonus of feeling like “a room without a roof.”

Winter Light

Minnesotans are watching the winter Olympics more than any other state.  A cynic might say we have nothing else to do, but perhaps we like to see athletes at the top of those sports so many of us amateurs enjoy. Skiing, skating, snow shoeing and sledding help us inhabit our lives fully during this stretch of subzero weather.

What also sustains us through the winters is art, which is why having both the Minneapolis and the St. Paul orchestras locked out last year felt dark in many ways.  This past weekend Brian and I attended one of the first post-labor-dispute concerts of the Minnesota Orchestra. Sitting in renovated Orchestra Hall, chatting with the people next to us about the improvements, awaiting a concert after over a year’s silence, I felt very much part of this community. When the musicians walked on stage the audience was on its feet shouting cheers of welcome and delight.  

At some point in the lush music of Holst’s planets I felt my heart fill to overflowing with the beauty of the composition, the skill of the performers, the fluidity of the conductor, and the proximity of my husband, who took me to the orchestra early in our courtship.  And then I was aware of my mother, dead for 13 years, who was a classical music fan and had attended many performances of this orchestra with my grandfather.  I thanked her for teaching me to be open to this experience in the first place.

Our night out renewed my appreciation for live performance, whether of  classically trained musicians, high school Thespians, sixth grade basketball, or a children’s program at church. While most of us don’t play at an Olympic or orchestral level, to be fully human we must create.  When I attend a live performance, a ceremony, a celebration, or just go to work, I come away recharged and changed, simply because I’ve participated rather than consumed. When we come together to celebrate the best of human beings, we are warmed from within, whatever the season.  

The Daily Work of Recovery

My sadness at the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman surprised me, and I have been reading every related column, article, and blog that crosses my path. Addiction is a professional interest as well; my work is teaching, writing, speaking and sharing a message that no matter how virulent an addiction becomes, there is a pathway back into the world that many of us are walking.  I don’t study addiction or the brain, but I do listen to stories of recovery and relapse daily. Here’s what I’ve witnessed of lifelong recovery from addiction and the all-too-frequent slips that occur for those working to stay clean and sober each day.

Addiction is a disease of the mind as well as of the body, so in order to recover we have to be consciously on that path every single day developing healthy habits.  The most common tale when someone relapses is they stopped attending meetings regularly, lost touch with a sponsor, and/or became too busy to be a sponsor because life was good and full again. After 20+ years in recovery, it’s easy for an alcoholic to forget she can’t drink like 90% of the population—socially, moderately, stopping when it is no longer fun.

Addicts and alcoholics whose disease is in remission gather regularly (weekly) to remember we can’t have even one drink, hit, joint.  We also need to be useful to those new to a life of recovery so that our hearts and our minds move in a healthy direction of service rather than scan every environment for the next fix, which, left alone, addictive minds will do.

Recovery doesn’t have a long shelf-life; we have to refresh it each day to get the reprieve from addiction promised by daily work along spiritual lines. Yet even with all that work, there is an element of grace that I can’t define or predict but can only appreciate and share. 

Today my heart cracks open with this loss of a talented public figure and the local loss of a young woman of promise who left us this week.  I hope that this heartbreak allows me to be filled with more compassion, greater tenderness, and a commitment stronger than ever to walk this well-lit path of freedom from addiction one more day.

A Dissolving Fear of Dogs

I’ve been afraid of dogs as long as I can remember. I walked blocks out of my way to school to skirt houses with a barking dog, avoided riding my bike in the country where dogs run loose, and still scream occasionally when my neighbor’s boxer charges me in the yard.

The fear feels innate yet I could never trace its source, and I’m not scared once I get to know an individual dog. When I moved to Minnesota I went dog sledding to immerse myself in a pack and learn to trust them.  After my initial fear, I enjoyed feeding, harnessing and petting different dogs all weekend.  Not until I was in my 30s did my mother mention that she’d had to give her black cocker spaniel to her own parents when I was born--“That dog was so jealous of you he growled whenever you were around.” Apparently, having an unhappy dog around newborn JoAnn hardwired my fear.  Over the years, I’ve learned to talk myself down from panic into a state of wary watchfulness.

Last month we were at a party where I didn’t know many people; as I sat on the couch the host’s dog came over to me.  I reached out, petted it, and she responded with a happy tail. A stranger nearby commented “you really love dogs don’t you?”  I almost replied that actually I have a lifelong fear of dogs, but I didn’t. Somehow that didn’t feel necessary. Why tell an old story when it’s not accurate? Why tell it when it’s even a little bit true if it isn’t the direction I want to go? Instead,  I smiled, nodded and continued to connect with this dog I’d never met but somehow didn’t fear. 

It wasn’t until I described the scene the next day that I realized the party dog was also a black cocker spaniel, and I felt a tingle alerting me to something significant. What did it mean that the very dog I wasn’t afraid of upon first meeting was the same breed as the origin of my fear? Was the fear gone? When had it left?

Change doesn’t happen like a light switch. For me it’s mostly gradual, morphing into something new at the steady rate of an Airborne tablet dissolving into water. I'm not in charge of the change itself. My responsibility is to notice it.  How easy it is to tell an outdated story because it’s familiar and used to be true. To stay current with the evolution of my spirit, I need a practice of checking in with myself, and I need someone to talk with regularly about my innermost self.  I’ve spent years cultivating both the practices and the intimate connections that allow me to see what’s true and where I’m heading next.

And then, sometimes, the universe gives me a sign that, in fact, I’m already there.

Happy Trudging

Last weekend, my friend Jenny and I spent a couple days at my cabin in central Minnesota.  We created a retreat—eating nourishing food, meditating, writing, sharing, doing authentic movement, and taking a silent walk.  We took the road into the woods and when we got to the spot where I usually turn around, I asked if she wanted to walk back on the lake itself.

She did, so we entered where a family was snowmobiling, and I asked the parents if it was safe.  "Stay away from the shore, where it’s slushy, "the man said, "you’ll get a good work out."  So off we went, our feet going below the surface with every step. It was harder work than I thought it would be.

As we trudged, I remembered a line my hot yoga instructor says often—we’re stronger than we give ourselves credit for.  As much as I wanted to quit, we kept going.  Did we have a choice? No one was going to rescue me on a sled or helicopter me out of there. 

When we got to where the road began again, I suggested we get off the lake.  We knew the surface would be slushy closer to shore, but I wasn’t prepared to see Jenny’s footprints fill immediately with two inches of water. For the first time I wondered if we were safe.  When I stepped onto shore, the snow came up to my hips, so lifting my legs was quite a task.  My ankle boots were packed with snow, I was tired, and each step required a new level of effort.  “Hold my hand,” I asked, and we walked together through the snow. At the road, after unpacking some of the snow from my ankle boots, we walked the remaining mile as if on clouds.

We were both happy we’d done it, though I wouldn’t attempt it again without snowshoes. Regarding physical work or play, I’m not interested in something difficult that’s also dangerous. I don’t need that adrenaline rush. But attempting something difficult that requires stamina or effort beyond an ordinary day has value. It stretches me and revises old stories of what I’m capable of.  Plus, doing it with a friend made it an adventure and a new story.

The Candle Lesson

The Candle Lesson

My husband was out of town last weekend, so Friday night I did what I used to do when single.  I gathered over a dozen candles, dusted off my runes to do a reading, made a cup of tea, and settled in to write. I even found my mother’s silver candle snuffer to extinguish the candles before I went to bed.

In the morning I walked into the room and saw one candle still burning on the coffee table.

It was the only candle I had not put on a little holder, yet no wax had run outside its bounds and the table was untouched.  I blew it out and sat down, shaken into an internal stillness deeper than I have felt in months.  What filled every cell was an awareness--actually a knowing-- that I was not just what some would call lucky.  I was protected and blessed. Is it time to ask more explicitly for this unseen help, guidance, and protection?

While I long to simplify my life, and I do so regularly—culling through books, hosting clothing swaps with friends, dropping off trunksful of stuff to charity--I'd rather do it on my own timetable rather than through a housefire. Is it time to pick up the pace?

This morning, I gave thanks for every item I touched. I truly love my slippers, my tea pot, my plate, my mate. I have a blessed life.  How do I increase the heat of my internal fire? Pay attention, appreciate, release the excess. Share. Repeat.

 

And that's why I'm writing this blog.