Wednesday, January 29, 2014

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  How easy it is to tell an outdated story because it’s familiar and used to be true.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.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

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.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

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.