Have you ever found yourself thinking, “Let’s just keep things the way they are”? It’s easy to fall into the comfort of the status quo, where everything feels familiar and safe. After all, why change or fix something if it isn’t broken or working just fine, right?
But then, life happens. Unexpected events occur, and suddenly, everything is turned upside down.
It’s during these interruptions that we face a crucial choice: do we resist change and cling to what we know, or do we confront our fear of change and embrace new possibilities?
Maintaining the status quo is like finding your balance on a boat. When the waters are calm, there’s no need to question your steps. But when the seas get rough, you have to adjust your stride, find stability, and hold on tight.
Don’t get me wrong, the status quo has its benefits. It gives us space to breathe and assess our surroundings. But if we look closely, we may discover pockets of unease or areas where our lives have become overgrown with dissatisfaction.
Yesterday afternoon, a group of strangers walked into the Discovery Seminar Room to explore how the status quo is holding them back from living their best lives yet. For some, all it will take is a shift in perspective to see their lives and surroundings in a new light. Others will need to dig deep, challenging the limiting beliefs that are keeping them stuck in the past.
For all, it will be a journey into self-discovery where they uncover the incredible beauty of their human essence. Because, no matter where they go with their own personal discovery journey, in the end, they will all find a beautiful truth—they are worthy of love, deserving of joy, and free to take this adventure of life unhindered by regrets or the baggage that was holding them back from living the life of their dreams.
In all our lives, the status quo we cling to so tightly is often the very barrier preventing us from experiencing a life filled with passion, joy, deep, meaningful relationships, inner peace and self-acceptance.
So, the next time life throws you a curveball, consider letting go of the familiar. Embrace change as an opportunity to uncover your true potential and live a life that resonates with authenticity and fulfillment.
Remember, change may be challenging and purposefully setting out to discover the things that may be holding you back in life may feel daunting, but it opens doors to a world where you can truly, madly, deeply fall in love with yourself.
And loving yourself truly, madly, deeply is the gateway to life unbounded!
In 2006, after my youngest daughter took the Choices seminar, following her sister and I who’d gone through earlier the same year, we would always go to the Family Dance on Saturday night.
It became our tradition.
As did, dancing to Tina Turner’s – Proud Mary.
The music would start, the girls and I would step into the middle of the dance floor as everyone formed a circle around us. Nice and easy. Movin’ and groovin’ Rollin. Rollin’. Rollin’. as the music sped up and Tina belted out the words of the song. Nice and rough.
By the end, and it’s a long song, 100 people would be gyrating wildly to the pounding music as we pulled the rest of the room onto the dance floor with us.
Out of breath. Hearts pumping. Smiles wide. We danced and laughed and flung our heads back and twisted and turned our bodies as we lifted our arms into the air, fist pumped the air above our heads and gave our all to the music and Tina Turner’s urgings to keep Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’.
At the end of the song, the three of us would hug and lean on each other as we stood celebrating six minutes of wild dancing as if no one was watching.
People were watching. Our Proud Mary ‘routine’ became a staple of the dance.
It was wild fun. A moment in time that stood still as we moved into the empty spaces of our bodies and filled every cell with the exhilaration of wild, abandoned movement.
Over time, as one daughter moved away and the other became involved in other areas of her life and had less time to come to the dance, I would still dance it with anyone in the room. But our Proud Mary moments together at the dance past on.
Yet still, we carried the rhythm and the music with us. We danced it at C.C. and my wedding, at karaoke one night where a group of “just us women” had gone to celebrate my eldest daughter’s upcoming nuptials. In fact, that night, as the three of us were prancin’ and a dancin’ (the youngest daughter and I always let her older sister hold the mic – she knew how to use it well) a friend text his sister, who was at the party with us, to say he’d just received a text from a group of guy friends who were at the same pub where the girls and I were dancing to Proud Mary. The friend, not knowing the relationship between us and his friend, sent a video of the three of us with a comment about how his friend was missing out! There were crazy women performing Proud Mary!
At my eldest daughter’s wedding, she and her sister slipped away to don white mini-skirted fringydresses, a la Tina, and when they returned, the music started, nice and easy, and the three of us started to dance, Rollin’. rollin’. Rollin’. and then, with wild abandon, nice and rough. It’s our schtick.
Proud Mary is my anthem. My call to action. My heartbeat’s yearning.
Once, at a course I was taking, each of the 20+ participants were assigned a song they had to sing and dance to, alone, in the middle of the floor, with about 40 to 50 people watching. The facilitator did not know my connection to Proud Mary — but there it was, the song she picked for me, the song she felt I needed to embody to stretch myself beyond the comfort of my known way of being in the world.
The facilitator was very wise. She knew the dancing part wasn’t my stretch. It was the living into the legacy of Tina Turner I needed to embrace. To keep rising up, claiming my right to be powerful. wild and free..
Whenever I’m asked, “who do you admire and if you could, would ask to be your mentor, or to at least sit down and share a meal with you?” Tina Turner is always at the top of my list, ahead of Madeiline Albright, Gloria Steinem, and other powerful women.
Tina epitomized rising up from a trauma-riddened past and leaving the destruction behind. In everything she did and said, in every movement, every song, she declared her freedom with wild abandon. Her power was in her decision to walk away and rebuild. To reclaim not just what was lost in her relationship with Ike Turner, but in living her life to other people’s demands and expectations.
Frank Sinatra may have sung, I did it my way. Tina Turner lived it.
Thank you Tina for teaching me (and the world) how to live wild and free, being true to who you are, singing and dancing as if no one is watching, doing it your way.
The #dailypromt-1945 WordPress presents when I log into my blog this morning is, “What is the Legacy you want to leave behind?”
The card I pull from my Deep Conversations box reads, “Where is your fear of responsibility preventing you from taking the next step?”
My mind quickly leaps to a response, “Not taking care of the legacy I want to leave behind.”
Can it be so easy? The answer that is. Not the answer to the answer, because seroiusly, the question behind the question, My Morning QBQ, is much deeper, more challenging, more elusive.
Taking responsibility for self, let alone one’s legacy ain’t easy
We’re human after all.
When I think about the concept of legacy, it feels both awe-inspiring and overwhelming. It’s like gazing at a vast landscape, stretching out before me, waiting to be shaped by my actions and choices. It’s the mark we all inevitably leave on the world, the imprint we make on the lives of others, long after we’re gone. It’s a reflection of who we are, our values, and the impact we’ve had.
But when confronted with the question of what legacy I want to leave behind, I can’t help but feel a pang of uncertainty. How do I even begin to define it? Is it the achievements and accolades I accumulate? The relationships I nurture and cherish? Or perhaps it’s the values and principles I live by, the positive change I strive to bring about in the world?
Thoughts swirling, I glance again at the card I pulled. The question behind the question shimmers. “What about your fear of responsibility? You know, that invisible force that holds you back from taking that next crucial step towards shaping your legacy?”
Seriously? Shaping my legacy? Who said I wanted to leave one, let alone be responsible for it in the first place? And suddenly, it becomes clear that this fear is not something to be dismissed lightly.
Responsibility can be a weighty burden, a call to action that requires dedication, perseverance, and a willingness to confront our own limitations. It demands that we take ownership of our choices, our actions, and the consequences they bring. It urges us to step out of our comfort zones, to embrace the unknown, and to face the possibility of failure head-on.
Yet, despite the challenges it presents, I cannot escape the truth–Taking responsibility is the key that unlocks the door to the legacy I want to leave behind. It is the driving force that compels me to make a difference, to leave a positive impact on the lives of others, and to contribute to something greater than myself.
If only it was a simple as just acknowledging the answer.
Like so many things in life, the real complexity lies in the journey towards fulfilling that responsibility. It requires self-reflection, introspection, and a willingness to confront y deepest fears and insecurities. It demands that I be honest with myself and recognize and remedy the areas where I fall short.
Dang! This taking responsibility for yourself is no small feat. It means acknowledging your flaws, embracing your strengths, and constantly striving to grow and improve. It means recognizing that you have the power to shape your own destinyand that your actions, no matter how small, can have a ripple effect on the world around you.
As I reflect on the question of legacy and responsibility, I am reminded of our shared humanity. We are all imperfect beings, navigating the complexities of life, learning from our mistakes, and striving to leave a positive mark on the world (hopefully). We are bound together by our capacity for growth, compassion, and the innate desire to make a difference.
This journey of self-discovery comes with an enormous responsibility. In that responsibiity we must remember to be gentle with ourselves. To embrace the challenges, the setbacks, and the moments of doubt as opportunities for growth. And, to strive to leave a legacy that not only reflects our values and aspirations but also inspires others to embark on their own transformative journeys.
Because in the end, it’s not just about the legacy we leave behind, but the impact we have on the lives we touch along the way. And no matter how big or daunting it may feel, that is a responsibility worth embracing.
For some reason, as I dive deep into my morning meditation, the words “Remember, The Core” pop into my head. In my mind’s eye, the letters are capitalized, much like Calgary’s downtown shopping area known as The Core. But that can’t be what I’m meant to remember, can it?
In the midst of my meditation, a soft laugh escapes from within me.
The core.
Not a bustling shopping center, but rather my belly—the muscles I am meant to keep strong to support my skeleton, enabling my body to stay upright and in motion.
Today’s meditation was far from serene. I drifted in and out of focus, much like the wisps of smoke drifting along the river’s surface this morning. While the sky above remained a vibrant blue, the river valley was veiled in a hazy uncertainty.
I consult my trusted Air Quality app, a morning ritual I rely on several times a day. It shows a reading of 3 today, down from yesterday’s 9. Moderate risk. According to the app, it’s deemed safe to venture outdoors.
Here along the river, it doesn’t look it, I step out onto the deck. The smell of smoke lingers in the air, its presence visible above the water’s surface.
I close the door, disregarding the app’s advice.
Seated at my laptop, I find myself confronted with unwritten thoughts. I’m aware of what I’m avoiding.
Today marks the twenty-year anniversary of my rebirth. At 9:14 a.m., twenty years ago yesterday, the man whose name no longer holds power over me was arrested, liberating me to reclaim my life.
It was on this very morning, two decades ago, that I began to write myself back into existence.
Yesterday, while working on my book, tentatively titled “Dare Boldly: Cultivating Passion and Joy After Life Knocks You Down,” I took a brief pause to browse my social media feeds.
There, at the top of my Facebook page, a memory resurfaced from four years ago.
“On this day four years ago,” it began.
It was May 21, 2019—the date I shared an article on my blog recounting the significance of that very day in 2003.
The day I reclaimed my life.
The day I awakened.
The day I discovered that hope still thrived amidst the shadows of abuse.
I had forgotten.
Even though my book delves into the journey of healing after that relationship, employing it as a framework for numerous exercises within its pages, I had let the weight of that memory slip my mind.
Yet, as I contemplated the Facebook memory, all I could think was, “Wow, I’ve come a long way.”
This is not the first time the significance of that date has faded with the passing years. Life, like ripples on water, expands ceaselessly, unveiling beauty, wonder, and awe.
Today, as smoke gently skims the river’s surface, the Canada Goose—a faithful visitor who builds her nest on the riverbank below every spring—lands with a clunk on the railing of our upper deck. Standing tall, neck outstretched to the full length of her avian skeleton, she surveys the surrounding land, her eyes watchful for any lurking predators.
And every year, time moves forward, an unbroken stream of passing moments, each carrying its own gifts.
For amidst my journey into and out of abuse, I have gleaned one unyielding truth, a truth that forms the core of my existence and shapes my beliefs in the beauty of life today: Regardless of the chaos surrounding me, when I actively seek to find the value in all things, when I embrace the gifts within each moment, disappointment becomes a foreign concept, as transient as a wayward traveller stopping for just a brief moment at my doorstep before moving along its way.
I have a fondness for rituals. They act as my anchors, keeping me steady and in the flow. They forge a connection to something beyond myself, a collective unconscious that intertwines us all.
One of my treasured bedtime rituals is the “3 Things” practice. It serves as a serene reflection on my day, guiding me towards calm, gratitude, and a sense of flow. Before slipping into sleep, I embrace three aspects for which I’m grateful, three moments of grace that touched my day, and three dreams I wish to carry into the realm of dreams and write them down in my journal.
Recently, I introduced a fourth ritual that precedes my “3 Things” practice—I write down three worries, things that haven’t pleased me, or instances where I could have ‘performed ‘done better’. Once penned, I crumple up that piece of paper and toss it into the wastebasket.
This act of discarding is symbolic, urging me to release the self-limiting narratives I tell myself—the thoughts that hold me back and hinder my moving freely through each moment. By throwing them away, I relinquish the power they hold over me.
Yesterday, I had a heartfelt conversation with a kindred spirit—a beautiful soul seeking ways to rise above the darkness, to believe in their own luminous heart. We explored uplifting ideas, discussing what they were doing or not doing to stay in the light.
During our conversation, I shared a personal practice of mine: leaving love notes to myself on the bathroom mirror using washable glass crayons. “I haven’t actually done it in quite awhile,” I confessed. We agreed it was a good time to ‘begin again’. Always begin again.
As we talked about the love-notes on the mirror further, we came up with another idea. Before going to bed, write yourself a ‘pep-talk’ on the mirror. That way, the first thing you read in the morning will be your pep-talk.
What a great way to start a day, we both agreed and committed to do it.
Later, as I followed my nightly rituals, I remembered my commitment to give it a go. Already in bed, I chose not to go downstairs to my studio to fetch my glass-writing pens. It was more effort than I felt like expending in that moment and like Scarlett O’Hara, who famously said, ‘I’ll think about that tomorrow,’ I gave myself an excuse to not do the thing I needed to do to care for myself in the moment.
And that’s how easy it is to neglect the commitments that nurture our souls. It’s as simple as granting ourselves permission to deviate from our own journey, evading accountability and disregarding the actions that empower us to live boldly and be our best selves.
It may not seem like a significant transgression—I reassured myself this morning. But is that really true?
What if it isn’t solely about failing to fulfill a commitment, but rather, that this “not doing” forms a habit of disregarding the actions that nurture and love myself?
What if, in the act of “not doing,” I unconsciously tell myself that I’m not worth fighting for? That I’m not deserving of my own commitment?
You see, it’s not that I don’t want to engage in those practices—it’s the message my brain receives in the act of “not doing.”
What a fascinating awakening this morning. Not only do I have an opportunity to do better, I’ve also effortlessly identified one of my three things to write-down on the list of thoughts I refuse to carry with me into my dreams tonight.
I am grateful to have woken up to this chance to create a better world within myself today. It serves as a reminder that every journey comprises small steps—each step propelling us either closer to the state of being we desire or further away from our optimal selves. Last night, I took a step away from my desired state.
Some may argue it wasn’t a big deal. Yet, what if the significance lies not in the specific act I failed to complete but in how this “not doing” becomes a habit of neglecting the nurturing and loving things I know are vital for my well-being?
Let this morning’s revelation be a catalyst—an opportunity to cultivate a deeper sense of self-worth, commitment, and conscious participation in my personal growth.
Both my daughters were Caesarean births. Not the birth story I had in mind, but hey, that’s the one they got.
Picture this: my gyno drops the bombshell that I have an “incompetent cervix.” Seriously? Only a man would say that to a nine-month-pregnant woman about to give birth and embark on the scariest adventure of her life. Couldn’t he have used a less terrifying term? Like ‘you have a beautifully imperfect portal to give this child entry into the world beyond the womb’?
Needless to say, it took a lot of post-birth therapy to get over the trauma of his declaration. But, with a lot of my posse of girlfriends, not too mention wine, I’ve come a long way. I’ve even learned to laugh at myself for taking it so seriously. Back then, though, it felt like he was calling me defective, like I was less of a woman because my cervix wasn’t up to par.
Fast forward to the moment they lifted my precious newborn out of the shelter of my womb, and I couldn’t care less about how she took the final plunge into this world. She was perfect, and that’s all that mattered.
And then, the even scarier part of the journey began. Learning what it meant to be a mother.
Being an overachiever and go-get-er-done kind of gal, I figured I’d have the basics down pat and be sending her off to University in no time flat. And then, real life interrupted.
The next day, lying in bed, watching my child in the bassinet beside me, counting her breaths (you gotta make sure they keep breathing. Right?), with every rise and fall of her tiny chest I felt the tension ease. We were off to a good start.
Until, a lady named Jody came waltzing into my room with a too cheery hello and a booklet titled “When you’re not woman enough to have a working cervix” (Okay, I might be exaggerating the title). She explained she was from the Caesarean Birth Support Group and had come to help me get over the trauma of missing out on the most womanly of arts; pushing my child into this world through the birth canal. Seriously? I cringed and pulled away when she tried to show the booklet to me. Who even needs that kind of support group?
Lying there, listening to her go on and on, I wondered if I had so mis-judged my motherly capacities that my daughter wouldn’t be better off remaining under the care of professionals until her eighteenth birthday. Was my incompetent cervix an even bigger indication of my unfitness to be a mother? .Jody carefully explained all the feelings I should be having (which I had no idea I was supposed to be having) as I sank deeper and deeper into an ocean of self-doubt. When she again reminded me that she was there to support me, I didn’t laugh, cry, or chuck my brand-new breast pump at her. I politely thanked her and showed her the exit.
Why do we burden mothers with so much judgment and comparison? We spend ages scrutinizing each other, insisting there’s only one right way to be a “good” mom, or to become one. Why don’t we instead, do what we do for our kids? — Support, cheerlead, and create a loving space for growth and learning.
The fact is, before actually becoming a mother, motherhood was never on my radar; it terrified me. I’d spent my twenties declaring I wasn’t mother material. In fact, the medical experts agreed, after two ectopic pregancies left me with one tiny half of a fallopian tube, they told me I probably never could. Did I need more proof than that as to the motherly material of my make-up?
And then, at 32-years of age, the miracle of my daughter happened and I realized, ready or not, I had to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done, learn how to be a mother for a child who entered this world in her own way, without an instruction book on how to keep her alive and thriving. It was like diving into an on-the-job training course where I learned to grow up one step at a time while doing my best to not count all my mistakes, and dwell on the misteps and falling downs.
Even now, with my daughters and stepchildren as adults, I’m still learning. It’s a never-ending journey where I must constantly let go of believing I have all the answers or know what’s best for them.
So, Jody from the Caesarean Support Group, I didn’t deprive my daughters of anything by skipping the “birth canal journey.” And if they ever feel they missed out, therapy is on me!
What I’ve learned through diving into the deepwaters of motherhood without having any idea of the its destation is that while becoming a mother was accidental, the mother I am today is no accident. My children have taught me, every step of the way, more than anyone else ever could, that there’s no perfect way to bring a child into this world just as there’s no one way to become or be a parent. There is only the way it happens. And when we give it our best, when we stop looking back at all our mistakes or comparing our path to someone else’s or to an ideal we cannot attain, the road ahead is full of adventure beyond our wildest imagingings.
And, when the path is dark and the seas are stormy, when in doubt settles in like a cloud, choose love—it’s the best way to navigate this wild ride called motherhood.
In her view, I was always criticising her for not being the mother I wanted/needed her to be. In mine, I felt like I was never the daughter she wanted/needed me to be.
As we both grew older, the tensions between us eased, but finding harmony in a relationship where we felt comfortable and free to be ourselves was a constant journey into acceptance.
When she died at 97 years of age a couple of weeks before COVID lockdowns began, we’d reached a truce. As long as I didn’t try to get her to talk about the past, which in her mind was me just trying to make trouble as I always did, we had a modicum of peace between us. It was a tentative peace, one she was not willing to put to the test, Which meant, we never spent time together alone. Which, for me meant, we never talked about the things that mattered most.
At the time, wished it could have been otherwise, but my desire to ‘clean up the past’ was to her, a recipe for pain and more hurt. Silence was our companion, the boundaries of which were not safe to cross.
After her death, she began to ‘visit’ me whenever I was in the bath. I was a tad confused and consternated by her choice of venue. She’d arrive, dressed up á la Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany fame, long ebony cigarette holder in one hand, a martini glass in the other.
You are not my mother, I told her. My mother would never be so daring.
She laughed (something I did not recall my mother doing very often in life) and replied that on this earthly plain, the burdens she carried weighed her down so much she could never be find her lightness of being.Just as she could never be the mother I wanted (needed) her to be.
That shut me up.
My mother admitting she might have failed me?
I didn’t dare say it out loud.
It didn’t matter. She laughed at my thinking.
I’m spirit, she said. I can see through all those bubbles you pile on top of you in the bath to hide your naked body and, I can read your mind. Don’t worry. On this side of life, there is no judgement, only Love.
I wrote a lot about my mother’s after-life visits. They were healing, comforting and above all, loving. They filled in the missing pieces, smoothed out the rough edges and built a pathway to understanding, forgiveness and acceptance.
My mother’s and my relationship was exactly as it was meant to be. It was the starting point of the journey that brought me here, to where I am today, grateful, accepting and loving of the path I took to get me here, to this place where I am today.
No matter its hardships, no matter my falls, my tumbles, my getting lost and losing my way, it was the path I took. I cannot change the path behind me, just as I could never change my mother.
There were a thousand paths I could have taken, a thousand things my mother and I could ahve done differently. It doesn’t matter.
It is not the path I took nor how angry or resentful of my mother i was, or how I much I judged her lacking (and wished I hadn’t) that counts today, It is how bright the light I shine on my path, how much joy and love I dance with on my journey from here that makes a difference.
My mother taught me that. After she was gone.
My mother gave me life.
For nine months she carried me in her womb, praying for my safe arrival.
She did not intend to make my journey hard or difficult. She did not intend to hurt me or cause me to doubt who I am or my worth. And she did not purposefully or knowingly do the things she did that caused me pain.
Like me, she did the best she could with the tools and resources she had. She struggled. She fell. She got back up and tried again.
She hurt. She bled. She cried. She despaired.
Yet, through it all, no matter how difficult the road she traveled, no matter how dark the night or bleak the weather ahead, she never quit doing the one thing her mother’s heart told her she must do – love the child that was me, no matter how much she did not understand, agree nor approve of the road I was on. No matter how hard I fought against her. All she could do was love the only way she could. Her way.
My mother wasn’t perfect.
But then, neither am I.
What my mother was is the one thing I can never deny, she was the woman who gave me life. She loved me as best she could no matter how difficult I sometimes made her journey.
I am grateful.
I am blessed.
And,above all, I accept, she did the best she could in the life she gave me.
And in that life she gave me, I have come to know the truth about who I am. I am not the stories I’ve told that kept me walking in the pain of believing I was never enough for my mother, the world, or myself.
I am not the things I’ve done to prove my biggest fears about how undeserving and unworthy I am are true.
I am me, because of my journey and the way my mother loved me. I am awakened to my birthright of worthiness. I am awakened to knowing, without a doubt, I am a miraculous expression of divine love and amazing grace.
My mother taught me that.
A mother is not born in giving birth. She is forged in the crucible of life’s trials and tribulationsteaching her with each painful and uncertain step, to become a vessel of love that can never be broken.
It is my mother’s womb that carried me into life. It is her love that could never be broken, no matter how much I found it lacking, wanting or deficient, overwhelming or too needy, it is her love that continues to shine on the path of my life today.
For, though it is her womb that nurtured me into being, it is not the womb that connects and binds us. It is Love.
To all the mothers, however you arrived at the threshold of motherhood, no matter how far the distance between your heart and the ones you love, may you always know how beautiful, special and divinely graced the world is by your presence.
May you know how miraculous you are, in all the radiant beauty of your unique expression of your love. And may you know, deep within you, that the Love you share so selflessly and with such devotion, no matter how it is received or felt or rejected, is exactly the Love the world needs now.
Yesterday, in a deep and profound conversation with a friend, she shared a writing prompt she had been given.
“Who are you living for?”
What a fascinating question.
Who am I living for?
My mind immediately jumped to the most obvious answer.. I am living for me.
And then it asked, What does that mean?
The question simmers as I smile on this beautiful spring morning where seemingly overnight the leaves have unfurled from where, just the day before, they hung in winter’s naked listlessness.
This morning, my world is awash in brilliant green hues and I feel as light as the spring breeze wafting through the open deck door.
Like the robin who arrives again and again with twigs to build her nest in the rafters above our downstairs patio, the question comes back to me. Am I living for myself or am I trying to be all things for so many people I am not living my true self life where I am creating my world based on what I believe others want?
What does it mean to ‘live for myself’?
Is it selfish? Or, is it the most effective way to live to give back to this world my unique gifts and talents so that I can create better in the world around me?
Is living for myself giving myself medicine first so that I can have medicine to give others?
Is living for myself the medicine I need most?
Wonderful thoughts to ponder as I journey forth into my day.
I asked myself a question this morning. I thought I knew the answer. In my thinking I did, a beautiful, mysterious path opens up leading me deeper into the exquisite nature of my humanness, bringing me closer and closer to my essential essence.
In every step I take along that path, I expand more and more into becoming the all of me that is left when I release my knowing to allow the unknown to appear.
How divine.
What about you? Have you ever pondered the question, “Who are you living for?” Does it resonate or does it lead to more questions? Does it excite you? Do you think you know the answer?
May 1. A new month. Spring is bursting with its giddy desire to show off its finery and bloom.
And I am feeling the pull of memory.
It is May. The month I was set free, 20 years ago this May 21st.
I don’t often think, nor write, about those days, but this month, I plan on writing a bit more often about the recovery from that darkness. About how I made it back into the light.
It’s really simple, my decision to do this. I have begun to write my book about this healing journey called life.
Over the weekend, I created a working title — it helps me focus my writing. Love Yourself First: A simple guide to healing the past so you can live now in love.
I’ve identified my target audience – older adults 55+ and crafted an outline. Noted Key Themes to guide me, drafted each chapter outline and did some research on some of the topics I want to discuss: Things like, Our human need for love. The role of belonging. The importance of bravery. The need to continuously deepen self knowledge, the power of letting go, the value of resilience, the gifts of healing the past and the acceptance of imperfection.
I feel ready. Excited. Motivated.
I’ve got a writing buddy, *thank you Linh) and a Daily Intention buddy (thank you Jane) and, I’ve got a deep desire to ‘get it all out’ – One Word At A Time.
Years ago, when I was released from that relationship that was killing me, I awoke to the grim reality of the devestation that relationship had caused in my life and the lives of those who loved me. I had seventy-two cents in my pocket, a few clothes and my Golden Retriever, Ellie. And I had people who loved me who were hurt and angry. I had betrayed the sacred trust of motherhood. I had betrayed myself and everyone who cared for me with the lies I had lived while in that relationship.
I was broken.
I was blessed.
My sister and her husband gave me a home, a safe refuge to weather the aftermath of the storm. Everyday, Ellie, who had travelled the final two years of that journey with me, and I would walk into the woods at the end of the street where my sister lived and I would breathe deeply in the freedom of walking without ‘his’ voice repeating over and over again in my head all the reasons why I didn’t deserve to live, all the ways I had failed him and was a failure as a human being.
As I walked, I remember thinking of the problems I had to face. The burden of finding a solution to their totality weighed me down. They looked so big. So daunting. So over-whelming. To give myself peace, I would look up into the limitless blue of the sky overhead and whisper to the heavens, “Okay Universe. Here’s the deal. Can you please carry the burden of what I must do so that I can focus on doing one thing today that will bring me closer to my goal of healing and reconnecting with my daughters? Will you please carry the load so that I can breathe freely and take one small step each day towards reclaiming my life.”
One small step. It was all I needed to take to keep myself moving forward on the healing path. Healing didn’t have a destination. It had a journey that could only be taken – one small step at a time.
Twenty years ago, walking in the woods, as soon as I asked the universe to carry the load, the burden lifted. I would feel lighter, more peaceful and calm. And in my renewed strength, I could take the next small step I needed to take to heal. And that one small step became a path of steps leading me away from the turmoil and pain of what had happened with him, into the joy of what was happening in my life without him.
Success isn’t necessarily found in the big leap, the giant step over the mountain. Success is found in the small things we do each and every day to walk our talk, walk our path of integrity, honesty and truth. Success is found in the grace and ease with which we overcome obstacles, embrace tribulations and infuse each moment with love and joy.
Success is found in living each moment filled with the rapture of now. It’s discovered as we let go of regret, recriminations, self-loathing and a host of other internal roadblocks that hold us back from living in the light. It’s found when we keep expressing our gratitude and joy in living this one life now, arms wide open, heart beating wildly to the drum of our one unique song – the song we each possess that only we know and all the world can hear when we boldly choose to sing it out loud and fierce.
This weekend, I wrote an outline for a book I have been thinking about writing for a long time.
It was one small step followed by others. Word by word, the book will appear and as it appears, I will better understand what its path to success looks like. For today, I shall celebrate the success each word brings..
In Choose Growth, authors Kaufman and Feingold, expand upon Mazlow’s hierarchy of needs and put it into a boat. Mazlow never meant for his heirarchy to be represented by a pyramid, they write. When he originally described it he described life as a constant state of growth that is often a two-step-forward, one-step-back phenomenon.
Being able to focus on steering the boat, rather than constantly patching holes and bailing it out, is essential. Being able to steer the boat, and use the experience to grow our human condition, even more critical to our human journey of becoming.
We are born to evolve. And grow. And learn. And keep learning to evolve some more.
But, if we spend all our time plugging holes and bailing water, there’s little time to think about ‘what did that experience teach me?’. Or, “What can I do differently?” Or, “How can I use that experience to grow in my life?”
Years ago, trapped in a relationship that was killing me, the longer I stayed in that leaky boat, the faster I began to sink, until one day, fortunately just in time, I was pulled from the sinking vessel and given the miracle of getting my life back.
It was not a miracle I wanted to ignore or abuse or misuse. It was too important to me. Too valuable to waste or throw away. And, I told myself, that sinking boat… it wasn’t mine to begin with. It was built on his lies. And there was no truth in he who was The Lie.
Since that May day in 2003, I have focused on building a sturdy,healthy, strong boat for myself. At times, I have taken steps back from my two-steps-forward, but the stability of my boat provides me a sense of safety and connection I feel within myself and with those who love me and how I choose to live with intention, helps keep me and my boat afloat.
Nowadays, when harsh waters and crashing waves surround me, I don’t need to spend a lot of time bailing out my boat. I simply hunker down to weather the storm confident that the love, connection and belonging I have found will not be ripped from my sails and blown away by the howling winds.
Today, I’m willing to open my sails to the winds of life and steer my boat in the seas of growth and change, confident that by remaining open to all life’s experiences, whether I judge them ‘good’ or ‘bad’, by being vulnerable with my heart and soul, I will be free to explore all of me — the dark and light, the mysterious and known, the ups and downs and inside outs and outside ins, without getting pulled under by the riptide of despair or crashed against the rocks of shame.
It is fabulously joyful to sail my boat in this sea of life teeming with possibilities, hope, love, joy, happiness, mystery, wonder and awe.
It is fabulously nourishing to be surrounded by people who love and cherish me and whom I love and cherish.
And it is fabulously inspiring to have a life I cherish, a life that is a reflection of my deep belief that we are all born miracles of life, the divine expression of amazing grace, magnificent, beautiful and deeply needed in this world for the unique, creative expressions we bring to it, expressions and ways of being that will create the better we all want to create for everyone.
When we open our sails and allow ourselves to be truly seen and known, when we love every molecule and cell of ourselves, we are free to be our magnificent selves.
Dare Boldly 