Category Archives: Make a difference

The world is a different place today. What a blessing.

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There is truth in everything. But not all things are true. It is not true that we are born for no reason, and no matter how much we fear we do not have a purpose in life, it is not true.  Everyone of us has a role to play on this earth. Everyone of us has a purpose.

Mark Twain wrote

“The two most important days of your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why.”

Yesterday I was blessed to be present as 67 people found their ‘why’. Yesterday I sat in a room filled with the excited voices of  67 people exploring their hearts in order to find the words to express their purpose in a simple, succinct statement that has meaning for them.

They delved into the times that they felt special or important. They tread gently into those spaces where they found value in making a difference. They shared their small significances, their big differences. They shared stories of lives they’ve touched, of moments that moved them deeply, of instances where they felt on purpose, on course, present and accountable for their journey in life and their impact on others. And as they sat with their coaches and shared their memories of those times, the room came alive with our human condition expressing itself in the wonder and awe of the significance and magnificence that each of us contributes naturally and effortlessly to the world through all that we do and every action we take that creates a difference for others.

In the Purpose Room at Choices we tell trainees that our purpose was written on our hearts when we were born. We all make a difference and we all express it in different ways. Our purpose is visible in the little acts of kindness we share, and the big acts of significance we create.

Our purpose is not ego-centric. It is heart specific. It is defined by what lays in our hearts, what rests easily in our spirits, what expresses itself naturally through our being present, every moment of every day.

Our purpose is felt in the smiles we share. The hands we warm. The bellies we feed. Our purpose is felt everywhere, known through everything we do.

For some it is expressed through their capacity to touch hearts, minds, spirits. For others, to create joy, love unconditionally, accept completely. For some, it is found in their capacity to guide, to inspire, to motivate, to lead, to help, to illuminate, to empower, to propel.

We all have an action word connected to our purpose and we all have values we uphold in the actions we take to live it.

I was blessed yesterday. 67 people sat in small circles with their coaches and shared the stories of their lives that illuminated the path for them to find the words that have been written on their hearts since they were born. And in their truth, I stood in the brilliance of our shared human condition and felt the power of our being human radiating throughout the room. In their truth coming alive through acknowledging and claiming their purpose, I felt the true capacity of each and everyone of us to make a difference in this world.

And I am in awe. I am grateful. Because I know that this morning, setting out into the world, there are 67 more people living on purpose with passion and love, with joy and conviction. I know there are 67 people doing their best, giving their all as they consciously set out to make this world a different, more loving, accepting, joyful and compassionate place for all of us.

The world is a different place today. What a blessing.

CDVC: November is Family Violence Prevention Month

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cdvcI am speaking out against abuse on Friday at the launch of Family Violence Prevention Month 2013.

I am nervous.

I am grateful.

I am excited.

And I remember. All these emotions are present in my being present. They do not make me who I am. They are a measure of what I am feeling, in the moment. They are not me.

It was something I learned in my healing journey away from abuse. Anger is present. I am not anger. Sadness is present. I am not sadness. Regret is present. I am not regret.

Just as happiness, joy, gratitude are present. And in their presence I choose what I want more of in my life by choosing to breathe into those things that feed me, nurture, love and heal me. I choose where I shine my light.

Once upon a time I called myself an abused woman. It was not me. I did not own the abuse. I was not the abuse. I was a woman who was abused. It is not mine to hold onto, to claim, to own.

What is mine to hold onto, to claim, to own, is freedom. Freedom from abuse. Freedom from allowing another human being to determine my worth, to dictate my being free, to control my expression of me.

And in that expression I choose how my emotions control me. I choose how I control my emotions. I choose to set myself free.

in freedom, I accept and acknowledge and celebrate the fact that I create, permit or allow 100% of what is going on in my life. I am not a piece of flotsam tossed about by the waves of life, out of control, rudderless, directionless, powerless.

I am powerful beyond my wildest imaginings.

I am talented beyond my greatest dreams.

I have the capacity to make my own dreams come true and the ability to create the life I envision.

Isn’t that amazing? If I have that much power, if I am the one directing this ship, then I am capable of steering away from rough waters, and, weathering any storm. I am able to chart my course, change my path, adapt and shift my direction — as and when I choose.

No one has me locked down or dialled into the coordinates of my life. I do. it’s my choice to not change direction and to change direction. It’s my decision to take A to B or Y to Z.

It’s my life.

When I was in that relationship that was killing me, it didn’t feel like that. Like I had the power, because I didn’t. I had given it up. Allowed myself to fall so far into the distress and dis-ease of his abuse that I could no longer see or feel or even hear my voice of reason, my voice of knowing, my voice of power calling me to rise up and throw off the yoke of his abuse. I had become so blinded by the power of my fear of breaking free, I could not stand up and step free.

And so I fell.

It didn’t feel like a willing fall. It wasn’t that I wanted it to hurt so bad I couldn’t make it stop. It was that I had lost all sense of who I was, where I was, what I was doing and going and being. I was lost.

That’s the thing about abuse.  In its grip, you lose all sense of direction, all sense of self, all sense.

Abuse is insidious.

It kills.

Hopes. Dreams. Spirit. Lives.

It robs us of our will to live. It steals away our heart’s-desire to create, to conceive, to be free. It destroys self-worth, tears apart families, rips apart homes.

Abuse is wrong.

Stop it.

And if you can’t stop it, then get help. Reach out for support. Call someone. Talk to someone. Find someone, something to hold onto that will shine a light on the darkness of where you’re at so that you can find yourself swimming free of the dark and dangerous waters pulling you under.

Abused or abuser, abuse hurts.

Abused or abuser, there is help. Out there, beyond the dark, dank depths of the shame and fear and horror of what is happening in your life.

When I was in that relationship, I believed there was nowhere else for me to be, nowhere I could run to get away. I believed I was all alone.

I wasn’t alone. And there was lots that could be done to stop it. But I was too lost, too scared, too ashamed to see, it had to start with me. I had to choose to change directions, stop my drift and reset my course away from what was killing me.

I couldn’t do it alone. I didn’t have to.

I needed help and support to stop the abuse in my life. And in stopping it in my life, in you stopping it in yours, we create a ripple that begins to move out into the world inspiring change all over the place.

And that’s the thing about abuse — for it to be present, anywhere in the world, we must all in some way collude in its presence. For it to end, anywhere in the world, It takes all of us co-creating a world free of abuse to make it stop.

Heroes in our midst

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I had planned on writing about heroes I’ve met or heard about or seen this week. Because today is Saturday and Saturday is my day to celebrate heroes in our midst.

And there are lots. Like the father who stopped to let his little girl watch a worm crawl across the sidewalk in the rain, or the young man who gave a woman his seat on the train in from the airport, and the cashier who threw in the final 33 cents for a coffee for the man who was short of change.

And there was the police man giving directions to a couple whose English was as scant as his of theirs (something Slavic I think but I didn’t know what). He patiently traced their route on a google map on their phone as I stood beside them waiting for a light to change. They smiled and nodded their heads and he smiled and nodded his and spoke in a loud voice, slowly articulating each syllable of the words he spoke that they could not understand. Didn’t matter. They were all happy to be connected.

There was also the young girl who stopped to help a man with a walker navigate a sidewalk after she’d helped him pick up some oranges that had fallen out of his basket. And a balcony festooned with balloons and banners wishing someone a Happy Birthday. I laughed when I saw all the balloons blowing above and hoped they were the biodegradable kind — but then, this is Vancouver where environmental awareness is second place only to how their beloved Canucks are doing in the shortened hockey season. (Last I heard there was a lot of noise about bad plays and worse goal-keeping — but that’s the lot of hockey fanatics. Their team is only as good as their last win.)

But I’m not going to write of those everyday heroes — they are all around you though so don’t forget to watch for them, to see them and to celebrate their brilliance. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to celebrate the hero in you! Because, no matter how you look at it, the hero in you is dancing around, opening doors for strangers, wiping up spilt milk and taking out the garbage.

The heroes I want to write about this morning though are my daughters. Two incredible young women who have never ceased to amaze me and awe me with their hearts and beautiful spirits shining.

Once upon a time I promised to love my daughters with all my heart, and then I fell. My heart broke and I lay shattered upon the ground. It was my daughters’ love that brought me back to life. My daughters’ forgiveness that lead me back into the light.

I am blessed. So incredibly blessed. And grateful. And humbled.

By love’s majesty. By love’s capacity to heal in the broken places and lead us back to the hearts and hearths where we belong.

Once upon a time, I disappeared without a word from my daughters’ lives. It was a man. Albeit a ‘bad man’, but I disappeared none-the-less, without a word, a note, a sign that I’d be back.

Four months later, I was given the miracle of my life when he was arrested and I was set free.

Almost ten years later, I continue to live and cherish the miracle of my life today. The love and joy, the gratitude and abundance for all that I have, I am and know in this world today.

I am celebrating my daughters today. No, it’s not “Happy Daughters Day” or even their birthday, (though the youngest turns 25 in less than 2 weeks). Nope. I’m celebrating my daughters today because…. I can. I am here. Alive and loving. Alive and feeling. Alive and knowing, I am so blessed.

And because…. I read my daughter, Alexis’ blog todayAlexi’s blog today, and my heart broke open again. Just as it breaks open every day immersed in the love that we share.

I am celebrating my daughters today.

Why not celebrate the one’s you love today, just because you can. Just because you’re here and living and they are the gift that expands in love everyday.

With All My Heart

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There is a civility to life here on the west coast. A politeness that superimposes itself on everyday living, infusing each breath with ease.

Unless you’re a driver, or pedestrian or anywhere near a thoroughfare — but that’s a whole other story.

Heck, even the buses are polite in Vancouver. When out of service their electronic banner doesn’t just read “Out of Service”. The story of their status begins with “Sorry”

See what I mean. Polite.

And see, there it is again. Story.

Story is everywhere. I’m writing a story right here, right now. Sharing with you the story of my life, of where I’m at in this moment, how my story is unfolding for me right now.

Perhaps you can see the chips in the wood of the round table I’m sitting at in the coffee shop down the street from my daughter’s apartment. Can you hear the music? A blend of Indie and folk? Pleasant. A slice of thought-provoking lyrics, just not too harsh for awakening minds to hear on this cloudy west coast morning. Can you see the two men chatting at the table by the window. Grey-haired salt and pepper man standing beside bald man in black. I wonder if salt and pepper regrets his decision to step over and say hello. He keeps trying to interject some positivity into the story of woe the man in black is telling him about how ‘bad it can be’. I hear them both. I know there are multiple sides to every story. Many dimensions to the same situation. And in the end, they are just stories we tell ourselves and each other.

Story.

Those two men are wrapped up in theirs. Each with a different perspective. Each with their own POV of how life is meant to be, really is and can be, or can’t possibly become depending upon the ground on which they stand.

Yesterday, as I walked back from the SeaWall a man approached me. Toothless grin. Orange hair rising in messy spikes from above a furrowed brow. He was dressed in a long down coat, clean, no tears. It was the shoes that gave him away. Tattered runners, the logo long since worn away. The laces long since disappeared.

“Oh thank you for stopping,” he said as he stood in front of me.

I hadn’t really had a choice. He had planted himself directly in my path on a narrow part of the pathway.

And he went on to tell me his story of arriving in from Australia in the early hours of the morning. Of sleeping in the lobby of a posh hotel as they searched for his luggage, his lost passport, missing wallet.

He showed me the tattoo on his arm. A kangaroo with the words, “Down Under Is Tops”, printed in black.

He told me how I reminded him of his mom. Kind eyes with a koala bear in their light. That one confused me but I wasn’t about to ask for clarification. He shook and jittered as he talked. His hands flying around his head as if shooing away pesky Australian flies.

I don’t shake because I’m a junkie, he said. I’ve got MS. And he told me how he needed to get out of town. How he couldn’t take it anymore. Tears welled up in his eyes. Rolled down his cheeks.

Please help me, he pleaded.

I offered to take him somewhere he could get help. (a shelter, a drop in centre where he could get help. Maybe even a place to clean up and… change his story.)

He shook his head vehemently.

No. No. No.

I need $48.00 to get out of town.

I sighed and gave him a gentle smile and shook my head. I can’t do that. Give you money.

There’s a bank machine downstairs in the building, over there. And he pointed to the left of where we stood.

I’m not prepared to do that.

And his shoulders slumped as he realized I wasn’t buying his story.

Story. It is everywhere.

A man at the Art Gallery tells me how he doesn’t take phone calls anymore. Text me. Email me. But please don’t phone me. I wonder what’s his story.

I walk past the Coal Harbour Community Centre and watch a group of mostly women bend and stretch and lean into downward dogs and stand up to welcome in the sun (it didn’t work — it rained most of the day) and I pass people walking dogs and riding bicycles and hear the flap flap flap of joggers shoes running past me on the wet pavement. Carrying their stories with them. Bending them. Shifting them. MOving them along.

I sit and sip a Chai Latte in a coffee shop overlooking the harbour and hear the metal on metal chatter of boats bobbing, a float plane’s engine revving up in the distance. I walk past a public garden space and hear the sound of a shovel as a man tenderly prepares the earth for spring flowers. I walk along and overhear a woman on her cell phone laughing as she tells her listener, “He wants a divorce he can have one. But if he’s driving away in a Porsche so am I.”

I listen to my daughter share her story of dreaming and waking up and seeing life in a whole new perspective as I sit over lunch with her sharing a glass of wine and an assortment of Greek dips. Later, we sit in an oyster bar and laugh and chat and share another glass of wine (Prosecco this time) and chat with our waiter who is from Saskatoon. He’s an actor here, but somewhere within him that prairie boy still yearns for the wide open spaces and clear blue skies of his home, that place where his mom and dad still live. And as we leave, we fall into the lyrical notes of the voice of the man giving us directions and sigh deeply into the sensual textures of his words. His Irish accent lures me into remembering the stories of a distant green island where my roots run deep into the earth of my father’s Irish ancestors.

An then, we join 30,000 people, mostly women, to hear a woman share the stories of her journey out of the poverty of rural Mississippi onto a global stage where her story of the redemptive power of forgiveness and gratitude reigns supreme.

Oprah rocked the house last night. She moved about the stage, sharing stories, sharing laughs, connecting. The dots and so much more. Connecting hearts and igniting minds to the majesty, the wonder, the amazing grace of being alive.

Who are you? she asked and my answer was right there. I’ve known it for some time now. I’ve felt its call rising within me, stirring me up, igniting my passion to be present, alive and inspired in this moment right now.

I am the divine expression of God’s amazing grace.

And in that answer I will do as Oprah suggests. I will live my truth with every breath, with every act, word, thought. I will be who I am with all my heart.

Namaste

What’s It Gonna’ Take?

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I got inspired yesterday. Really inspired.

I went with a couple of friends to  Onalea Gilbertson’s one woman play, Blanche: The bittersweet life of a wild prairie dame. Blanche is a one hour play Onalea wrote and produced as a tribute to her grandmother, Blanche Gilbertson who passed away shortly after Onalea completed her first draft. Performing Blanche as part of this year’s High Performance Rodeo (HPR)  is a dream come true for Onalea. In the five year’s I’ve known her, she’s always dreamt of bringing Blanche to the HPR stage. And now, after much hard work, commitment and perseverance, she’s done it. She’s shared the story of her grandmother here in her hometown. Through original songs she wrote, recordings of her interviews with Blanche, photos and video footage from her grandmother’s attic, Blanche came to life on the Rodeo stage. It was inspiring, entertaining and heart-warming.

And it was a reminder — That’s how dreams come true.

I first met Onalea when I worked at the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre. I’d started an art program and we were partnering with the City of Calgary in the This Is My City project. Onalea walked into my office one day and said, “I want to start a singing group.” It seemed reasonable. There’s a lot of unsung talent at a homeless shelter. Many clients play instruments, write music, sing. Creating space for music to happen was another opportunity to connect people to their creative core. And Onalea’s resume as an actor, singer, performer, writer, poet, unsung hero is pretty vast. Why not do whatever possible to help make it happen?

And happen it did. Over the next year, Onalea’s regular Monday night appearances would become the highlight of many people’s weeks. In the end, The DI Singers would become a weekly staple at the shelter. A place where anyone, from clients, staff and people from the community could come to sing and share in their love of music. Eventually, after a lot of hard work, organizing, begging, borrowing and pleading for the resources to make it all happen, Onalea and the DI Singers would perform the world premiere of   Two Bit Oper Eh! Shun as part of This Is My City and HPR 2010.

Two years later, after more hard work, commitment, perseverance and a whole lot of numbers juggling to make the finances work, Onalea would remount Two Bit as, Requiem for a Lost Girl at the New York Musical Theatre Festival in July 2012. Two clients from the DI would fly to New York along with other performers from the original production to be part of the off-broadway debut of the play.

That’s how dreams come true.

Yesterday, as I sat over a late lunch with Onalea after the performance, I was once again reminded of how special this one woman force of nature is. Beautiful. Talented. Heartfelt and heart-driven, Onalea does not give up. From scrambling to make ends meet on a show by show basis, to work-shopping every line and note of music, to making sure every performer on stage with her is paid fairly, Onalea never gives up on her dream of creating music, being a performer and igniting the imaginations of everyone she comes in contact with. It doesn’t matter how high the obstacle, how wide the gap, Onalea will do whatever it takes to get her over the next hurdle, get herself across the divide that separates her from her dream.

Because, that’s how dreams come true.

They don’t just appear, fully formed, all coloured in and ready to roll out upon the stage of life. Dreams are breathed into existence, moment by moment, step by step. They take care, nurturing, effort, blood, sweat and tears. They take vision and commitment, determination and perseverance. Making dreams come true takes heart.

And Onalea is a woman of great heart.

I was blessed yesterday. I got to see and hear and witness the story of Onalea’s 93 year-old grandmother told through the eyes of her granddaughter who loved her dearly. I got to hear the voice of Blanche recall tales of her life. I got to hear her laugh, see the photos and watch the home movies she’d taken long ago when she was young and life was an adventure waiting to unfold. Because of Onalea’s dream, I got to meet a woman I’ve never met, who, like her granddaughter was filled with a love of life bigger than a prairie sky.

And I got to be part of witnessing Onalea’s dream come true.

What a gift.

And in that gift is the reminder of what it takes to live the life of my dreams. It isn’t about wishin’ and hopin’. It’s all about living large, about taking risks, putting myself out there and living it up for all I’m worth.

I’ve got a dream. Do you? What’s it gonna take to make your dream come true?

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For Ticket Information on Blanche: The bittersweet life of a wild prairie dame please click HERE. Blanche runs until February 26 at the Lunchbox Theatre in Calgary.

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Today’s everyday poem is posted over at A Poetry Affair. Do drop in for a visit!  I’d love to see you there.

Imagine what can be!

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Someone asked me recently why it was I didn’t seem to get too flustered, upset or angry by ‘things’. Things being the inequities in the world, the suffering of others, the crisis that happen every day when working in the poverty/homeless sector.

See, I’m back in the sector that inspired the start of this blog. Not working for a front line agency this time, but for the Calgary Homeless Foundation. And I love it.

I’m on a three-day a week contract with the Foundation, and my heart isn’t heavy. It’s happy.

Go figure.

I missed the work. Which sounds somewhat bizarre — how can I miss working with those who have nothing?

Mostly, as I told the person who asked the question, because I don’t see ‘the nothing’. I see the amazing power of the human spirit, its will to survive, to wake up every morning and take a step and another, and another, no matter what.

We are born to live.

And in this sector, you see it everyday. No matter the circumstances of their lives, people will do whatever it takes to live.

It’s inspiring.

My work with CHF is primarily around community engagement. Connecting emergency responders, community associations, and agencies contracted by the Foundation to facilitate good relationship.

It’s work I love. It’s work I believe is vital in our quest to ‘end homelessness’, to change the direction of people streaming to the streets back home, to affect change in policy and discourse around this ‘thing’ few understand but have many opinions about why it should be kept in someone else’s neighbourhood.

Calgary has a 10 year plan to end homelessness. And yes, the ideal of ‘no more people being homeless on our streets’ is lofty. And yes, the likelihood of it happening is slim. In fact, since the first days of the plan where the vision painted was our streets free of those who had no place to call home, the goal has shifted to recognize that while we can’t prevent everyone from falling on the streets, we can ensure they don’t stay there too long. We can ensure we have the facilities and the resources to provide them a path back home — quickly — before the inequities and despair of being homeless settle into someone’s soul and tear away all hope of ever finding their way back home.

Because that’s the thing about homelessness. Just as the police can’t stop every crime from happening, before it happens, or accidents on our roadways from occurring, before they occur, they can put safeguards in to help prevent crime and accidents. And, should something go wrong, they can get to the scene quickly and ensure life flows onwards again without too much mayhem or angst ensuing from the events that occurred.

In homelessness, we can put safeguards in to plug people into the right resources and opportunities to prevent homelessness, but we can’t always stop their fall. And yet, should they fall, we need to get them out of shelters as quickly as we can.

Shelter life is hard. It’s not about ‘the shelter’. It’s about the life. it’s about the tearing away of your sense of worth, value, pride. It’s about losing your autonomy, independence, personal space.

Living in a community of impoverished people, no matter how nice the shelter is, drains you of your sense of understanding of who you are. We all want to believe we’re doing our best, and if our best has lead us to a shelter door, than really, what else can we do?

And so, we give up hope to find our balance in the crazy-upside down world called ‘homelessness’.

I’m back working in the sector I love. I am grateful.

Grateful there are so many people in this city committed to making a difference to ensure every Calgarian has the opportunity to plug into the resources they need, no matter where they’re at, to find their direction home.

I am grateful.

As I told the person who asked me why I didn’t seem to get upset,I like to focus on creating more of what I want in my life, more of what I want to see in the world. I want to live in a world of compassion and kindness. Getting upset by what is prevents me from seeing what can be when I let go of my judgements around why it is the way it is and breathe into the possibilities of what can be.

I believe miracles happen, everywhere, everyday. To create lasting change in the world, I must begin with with me, with changing my attitude, my judgements, criticisms and beliefs around what is ‘impossible’ to the limitless possibilities of what can be in this world when I become the change I want to see in the world.

Namaste.

The Energy of Money

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At the end of her blog today about how her shopping vice is not unlike a smoker’s addiction, Alexis, my eldest daughter asks, “I haven’t yet figured out the root of my misguided desires, but as this year unfolds before me, I vow to look within my heart (and my closets) to find out.”

And I want to add… You might want to look into your family of origin too honey!

I come from a long line of acquisition soothers. A family of people who used buying things to soothe ruffled feathers, disturbed emotions and uncomfortable feelings. To stuff what we didn’t want to feel, we bought what we didn’t need.

As a child, I remember my parents arguing, a lot, about money. The lack of its greenery cast a dark shadow on every family affair. My father was a spendthrift. A poor money manager, he truly did believe in the philosophy, if there are cheques in my cheque book, there’s money in my account.

My mother was more practical, more concerned about holding to account our spending.

My father’s voice was louder. My mother eventually lost her voice.

Growing up, whenever there was discord, my father bought us something to soothe it over. We didn’t talk about hurt feelings, or familial upsets. We bought our way into forgetting.

Those are the memories of my childhood. And in their shadow, the adage, “Money is the root of all evil,” became the belief, “Talking, thinking, doing anything around money (and anything else that upset me) is unsafe. It will only cause distress and discord.”

So, I never talked about money. Nor did I really think about what I was doing with it. And to stuff down my feelings of discomfort, I spent whatever money I had to avoid the  distress having to think about it created.

When I was in that abusive relationship that almost killed me, money was how he eventually came to control me. He started with giving me gifts. Lots of them. And then, it was money. And then, once I became accustomed to his largesse, he took it all away. I became ‘the burden’ and money became the issue. To ease the burden, I gave him whatever I had, whatever I could. I didn’t care about ‘the money’, I cared more about stopping his anger, his yelling, his blaming of me as the cause of his distress. I wanted the prince charming I’d met to replace the prince of darkness raging before me.

“Look at all I’ve given you,” he’d scream. I couldn’t stand his rage  so I gave in, continuously, until I no longer had anything to give. I’m simplifying, it was more complicated and darker than that, but money definitely was a point of attack for him to access my psyche. And because I had such poor boundaries around the issue, I was an easy target.

The irony? It was eventually a cancelled cheque that lead the police to arresting him. In the final four months, he was attempting to escape the country and took me with him when he fled the city. He had promised that a) he had money in the states and would ‘make it all right’ once he was out of the country; and b) he’d let me go once he got out of the country and could make it ‘all right’.  Ahh, the lies we believe when first we set out to give into deceit…

In those dark and final months of that living hell, money was tight and one day, I found a cheque at the bottom of my purse a girlfriend had written to pay me back for something I’d bought for her. Not willing to do anything without his approval, I gave him the cheque. He cashed it. Because we were hiding out in a small town west of Vancouver, it was easy for the police to track him once my girlfriend gave the police the cancelled cheque  with the bank’s stamp on it.

At the time, I did not have the mental capacity to think through the ripple of that cheque, beyond the message I hoped she’d get — I was alive. Just barely. But I was alive.

I was blessed. My girlfriend and another angel had not given up on finding me and here I am today. Free. Loving my life and living in the rapture of now.

But there are still residual issues that linger — issues that are embedded deeper into my psyche than the almost 5 years of that relationship.

And they stem back to my own family of origin beliefs about  money. And they reach forward to my daughter’s family of origin learnings about… money.

In her excellent book, “The Energy of Money: A Spiritual Guide to Financial and Spiritual Fulfillment” author, Maria Nemeth, PhD asks, “Does [how you use money] bring lasting satisfaction, or are you using it for instant gratification because your life is off-kilter? These are the questions that bring clarity to your hero’s journey.”

I like clarity on my hero’s journey.

I like being true to me, myself and I.

Time to go back to The Energy of Money and redo the work of ensuring I am using money and other forms of energy to intentionally express myself with love and joy in this world of wonder.

Namaste.

 

Shared time, together time, makes a difference

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I stayed in my pajamas all day yesterday. Did not change until I went to bed when I put on fresh ones.

What a gift.

To spend the day relaxing. Reading. Napping. Chatting. Playing crib. Spider Solitaire. Sure, we cleaned the kitchen, did the dishes, put away the clutter from Christmas Day dinner. Made turkey soup, fed the animals, but other than to go to the fridge in the garage to get the turkey carcass or to take out the recycling, neither C.C. nor I ventured outside. Ellie had to settle for brief forays into the backyard — it was so cold I doubt she’d have lasted long on a walk anyway!

Sometimes, the only way to make a difference in my own life is to simply checkout of the ‘big life’ out there. To step back from doing and simply be present to the ‘undoing’ of the moment. To relax into the space I’m in and feel my way through time, moment by moment.

It was refreshing. Invigorating. Enlivening.

And today is a brand new day. A new space and time to create, to live, to experience. A new moment to unfold.

In this space, I am exploring what to do with this blog come January 1, 2013. The intent of A Year of Making a Difference was to write about making a difference every day for a year. As 2012 draws to a close, I wonder… is there more?

And I know there is. There is always time and space and room, as well as the need, to make a difference. To reach out and be of service to the world, to others, to each other. There is always space for difference making.

The question is, how will it unfold in this space? What will A Year of Making a Difference 2013 look like?

As someone who has written a daily blog every morning for almost 6 years, (Recover Your Joy) I am kind of addicted to the habit! But, as someone with a book waiting to be finished, and several projects on the go, is daily blogging the answer?

I’ve got a few days to think about it. To ponder my path. To sit in the presence of the answer unfolding as I let go of ‘making it happen’ and make way for it (whatever the ‘it’ is) to happen. I know the ‘what’ of what I want to do. It’s the how I need to allow room to appear.

In the meantime, I’ve got a structure free day to explore. Coffee with a friend, perhaps a nap. Some writing and some cleaning-up (I didn’t ask for clutter for Christmas but I sure did seem to get a lot! Where does it all come from? Where will it all go? 🙂 ) And later, C.C. and I are going on a date. Dinner. A movie. Some delightful shared time together.

It is in the shared time, the together time, the just ‘you and me babe’ time that the difference in our relationship is known and made and felt.

I am so blessed.

Hope your day unfolds in joy and wonder. Hope you know the blessing you are in the world is a gift to be treasured and celebrated.

Namaste.

 

 

The Politics of Personal Tragedy (Guest blog by Kathy Richards)

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I have never met Kathy Richards  in person — what I know of her I’ve gleaned from communications we’ve shared online for the past five years as both of us got our feet wet in the blogging world. (Oh, and from reading her About page!)

What I do know of Kathy, I really, really like, and admire.

She’s feisty, funny (very, very funny) and irreverent. All qualities I admire. And… she’s insightful and able to put her insights into great prose that stirs the imagination, awakens the mind and sets your heart pounding because nobody does truth dosed with a hint of sarcasm and irreverence like katdish! (Peter P paid me to say that!  Just kidding. He didn’t pay me… 🙂 )

This morning, I’m linking to a blog Kat shared yesterday on her blog, Katdish.net.  When I read it, I asked if I could share it here and Kat graciously said yes.

The Politics of Personal Tragedy

By Kathy Richards

To say you don’t follow politics is tantamount to saying you don’t keep up with the news at all, because in this era of the 24 hour news cycle, everything is politicized.

By now, you’re probably aware that Kansas City Chiefs linebacker Jovan Belcher shot and killed his girlfriend Kasandra Perkins then drove to Arrowhead Stadium where he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, an act witnessed by his coach and the team’s general manager.

You also may have heard various media pundits rushing to make sense of such a senseless act. So far, I’ve heard….. (Click HERE to read the rest of this great article)

May we know Peace. Hope. Love and Joy today

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peaceWhen I arrive at the Lodge where my mother lives for their Christmas celebration, the entertainment has just begun. 9 seniors prance around wearing red reindeer headbands, jingling bells from their hands. They push their walkers, bob up and down like reindeer pulling a sleigh as the narrator reads the classic Christmas tale, “Twas the Night Before Christmas” and ‘Santa’ unloads his (her) sack, filling the stockings that were hung by the chimney with care.

It was sweet and poignant and lovely and there was my 90-year-old mother, pushing her walker, prancing around like a reindeer, smiling and waving her bells at the crowd.

And I wonder where I get it from?  🙂  Thanks mom. You’ve taught me to get involved and be part of the action — no matter my age!

Which is a good thing. Because Sunday is my birthday. The next to the next Big One. You know, one of those numbers that marks a decade passed – another one entered. I’m obviously not ready to mention the decade yet, but… come next year, I’m sure I’ll be accustomed to thinking of myself as part of the ‘new 40’ as a friend recently described her new decade age.

hopeYeah. I like the ‘new 40’, sort of like how my dress size is now a ‘new 8’ which was once a 10 or maybe 12… And seriously, it’s just a number and I can still out-dance even the most limber of 20-year olds, except my daughters of course. They take the cake in dance-offs. But I keep pace. Oh yes I do! ‘Cause I’m not turning 50 something. I’m the ‘new 40’!  (and yes, you don’t have to be a math wizard to figure that one out without a calculator.)

And after the festivities at the Lodge, I got to share dinner with both my daughters. Alexis, the eldest, flew in last night to celebrate ‘Birthday weekend’ (it’s C.C.’s birthday on Saturday) and an early Christmas. Her boyfriend arrives Saturday, as does my middle sister and Saturday night we’ll have a house-full of people eating and laughing and sharing and connecting over a candlelit dinner table where Love will be the most important ingredient we share.

I am so excited.

I love this time of year.

I love the lights, the gentleness of the dawn creeping along the horizon in ever-expanding streaks of pink and rose and amber. I love the quiet of the night, the darkness spread out to encompass a snow-clad world that slumbers gently beneath a blanket of stars.

shutterstock_118318609I love the crinkly bows and glittery trees. The music everywhere reminding us to Rejoice! Rejoice! and the calling out of “Merry Christmas” to passers-by.

I love Santa bells jingling and red kettles inviting us to make a difference. The concerts and the hot chocolate (laced with something special for the adults). The caroller’s singing, the sound of skateblades swishing across the ice.

I love the goodwill that permeates the air, the excited laughter of children’s voices lining up to visit The North Pole so that they can whisper into Santa’s ears their heartfelt wishes for Christmas.

I love the people turning up to lend a hand, help out, make a difference in shelters and foodbanks, in kiosks at malls where charities raise funds for good causes, and people seeking a cause to support that will be a reflection of the difference they want to make in the world.

I love Christmas.

christmasjoyFor at Christmas we are reminded of the possibilities for Peace. Hope. Love. and Joy. in our world. We are reminded to stop, breathe, pause, and let the wonder and the magic of this holy time of year settle upon our hearts as we touch the flames of our magnificence burning at the soul of our desire to make a difference in the world.

I watched my mother dance and prance around like a reindeer last night. I watched her smile and wave to the crowd as she shared all that she has to give — her love — with the world.

And then, I sat at a candlelit table with my daughters. We shared a meal. We laughed and teased, told stories on one another, about each other, for each other while around us, that which connects us wound its way around our table, through our hearts and into the soul of who we are, together or apart. We are Love.

It is my favourite time of year. It is the season of Peace. Hope. Love. and Joy. 

A time to celebrate all that is miraculous, divine and holy in our world.

May we each know Peace, may we each have Hope, may our spirits be filled with Love and may we carry Joy throughout our day.

Namaste.