Category Archives: Peace

A Cry for Peace

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IMG_5842I cried yesterday. I sat on the ridge overlooking the river and tears spilled gently over my eyelids kissing my cheeks as softly as dew clinging to a leaf in early morning light.

I cried for the children who will go hungry tonight. For the boys who will hoist guns as long as their bodies and kill in the name of a peace they have never known. And for the little girls whose childhood’s are lost to faceless men who believe the only way to know love is to rape it from another.

I cried for mothers who weep at the gravesites of their loved ones lost to war and famine and disease and for the father’s who desperately want to teach their sons to grow into men, and do not know the way to quiet the fear within their hearts that their sons too shall never find their way to peace.

I cried for this world, this planet upon which we each rely for our existence, this planet we take for granted and treat with such disdain.

And I cried for humanity, our humanity, our human kind lost beneath our history of destroying one another in the name of God, Allah, Yaweh, Satnam, All Powerful, Vishnu, and 70 x 70 names I do not know but hear whispered upon the cries of millions of others dying to defend their right to worship at the altar of their choosing.

These were needed tears. Gentle. Cleansing. Healing. They were the words my heart could not speak out loud.

IMG_5846And when the tears were shed, when they had run their course, compassion flowed freely like the river winding its way through the valley bottom below, each passing drop changing the course of the one before.

And in their passing, I was left alone upon the hillside, sitting in the sun, cherishing the beauty of the day, savouring the gentle autumn breeze caressing my skin, the sound of the grasses whispering, the geese honking their plaintive lament as they journeyed south.

There is darkness in this world.

And there is light.

It is in the darkness the light shines brightest.

Yet, I want not to see the darkness. I want not to know its thrall, to feel its drag pulling me under. I want to steer clear of the darkness and still I know, it is only through acknowledging its presence that I will be free to shine my light fearlessly. It is only through letting go of fear of its nature I will be free to stand fearlessly in mine.

IMG_5851I cannot rid this planet of war and pain and sickness and hunger. I cannot heal the children of the world. I cannot silence the guns.

I can create beauty in my world. I can create peace around me by letting go of my fear that to witness the darkness is to let go of the light.

It is when I hold onto light for fear it will go out that darkness takes hold.

I cried yesterday. And I will cry again today. And in my tears, I find myself flowing in Love and compassion, holding onto nothing than the truth of who I am and all that is possible when I let go of fearing I cannot change the world.

If not me, who? If not now, when?

We are each capable of changing our worlds, of creating peace where there is discord, healing where there is pain. We are each capable of putting down our guns and holding out our arms in love, peace and forgiveness.

If not us, who? If not now, when?

 

 

On my mat, there is no room for fear.

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I am hot. Sweating hot. It drips off my chin. It runs down my back.

I am lying on my mat, my feet, thighs, stomach, shoulders, arms, left ear pressed to the mat.

It is almost over. I am almost at the end.

I let the thought go.

It is not about beginning and endings. It is about this moment right now. Being present.

That was my intention when the yoga class had begun 70 minutes earlier. To be present.

I want to review my process but remember the instructor’s words at the beginning of the class. Yoga is not a competition. There is no judgment in yoga. There is only you and your body, present in the moment.

It is my fifth hot yoga class in five days.

I have set an intention to be present on my mat at least five days of the week.

I smile to myself. I wonder if my week began last week or if this day is the beginning of my new week.

Dang. There goes my mind. Off on a little jaunt.

I breathe. Bring myself into my breath. In. Out. Breathe in Love. Exhale gratitude. A continuous circle of renewable energy filling me up with all that I need to be present in my practice and my day.

I am relatively new to yoga.

I have intermittently practiced it over the years, okay more off than on, and have only come to the mat with any intention recently.

Yoga was never fast enough for me. Hard enough. It wasn’t filled with pounding feet and racing heartbeats and if I didn’t feel like I’d run a marathon, what was the point of doing it?

I am learning the truth. After thousands of miles hitting the pavement, my knees and joints are grateful. Yoga is about presence. Strengthening and lengthening. It is about the moment, not the destination.

I look around the class. Candles flicker on wooden blocks set into one wall. The lights are semi-dim. Bodies lay supine on multi-colours of mats spread out throughout the room.

There is peace here. Contentment.

And the gratification of a hard workout.

Oops. There I go again. Looking for the win.

I bring my thoughts back to my breath.

I give a quick scan of my body for points of tension.

I meet myself where I’m at.

I feel present. Relaxed. Strong.

The instructor invites us into the frog pose.

I have forgotten my towel. For a moment my mind races with concerns around pressing my upper body into bare floor.

I am dripping. Wet. The scooped neckline of my t-shirt soaked. The nape of my hair soggy.

I move into the pose, my torso pressing down through my knees on the mat, my upper body cradled between my splayed out arms. I rest my forehead on my hands.

I breathe into the pose. I smile as my mind imagines a bullfrog sitting on a lily pad. He gives one giant croak as his tongue whips out to capture a passing fly.

I breathe in. Pull up slightly from my bend and exhale as I deepen once again into the pose. I am seeking the comfort of no tension (not to mention no frogs catching flies).

“I like to read a verse as we finish off the pose,” the instructor says, her voice a melodic chant high above my head. There is a slight burble of laughter in her voice. “It’s a good way to distract your thinking as you hold the frog.”

I smile.

“Fear or Love,” she reads.

I listen, my mind forgetting the discomfort my body is starting to feel as it pushes itself over the edge of what it knows is possible into holding the pose longer than it thought it could.

I listen and smile again. No matter what you choose to do, ask yourself if you are doing it through fear, or love.

Do you  work because you are afraid of poverty or do you do work for the love of doing something worthwhile, contributory?

Do you fear not having food and a roof over your family’s head, or do you provide for them as an expression of your love?

No matter what you do, let go of fear and move through love.

I began my practice afraid I would not be able to do it. That I would look ridiculous compared to the other supple and toned (and did I mention youthful?) bodies in the class.

I let go of my fear.

I am here on my mat because I love my body and want to provide it what it needs. I want to take care of it so that it can carry me through my days effortlessly and with grace.

I came to my mat, my mind filled with fearful thoughts of how less than the others I was.

There is no less than on my mat. There is no room for fear. There is only Love.

Namaste.

PS — do try out  Calgary Hot Yoga.  Great studio!

Speaking the Truth is not always a cake walk

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On the second weekend of the Choices journey, (Givers 1) we talk about the 6 points of power:

  1. Pay Attention
  2. Speak the Truth
  3. Be Responsible for YOUR Life (be accountable)
  4. Ask for what you want
  5. Keep YOUR Agreements
  6. Create Value in ALL things

Speaking the Truth can be challenging. For me, the fear of rejection, my fear that someone won’t like me, or will be angry with what I have to say kept me from speaking up and standing comfortably with my boundaries intact. Because my boundaries used to be so weak and permeable, I continually compromised on my truth and subsequently, lived someone else’s truth. In that process, I became more fearful, not less.

For me, speaking my truth is about lovingly standing my ground without fearing the other person’s reactions. I am not responsible for how people respond. I trust myself to be responsible for and with my words. I trust others to be responsible as well. My trust is not based on their actions, but on my ability to discern how their words and actions affect me. When I respond negatively to someone, it is not a reflection of them. It is something in me that is creating that response. My responsibility is to honour what it is in me by taking appropriate action. It is my responsibility to be true to my values, principles and beliefs.

When I speak my truth, I do not have the right to hurt nor harm someone else. My truth is not a stick with which I bludgeon others. My truth is not a knife with which to spear someone else’s heart in order to open them up to me.

My truth is a reflection of me. How I speak it is a reflection of who I am, my values, principles and beliefs.

When I am angry, my truth reflects my emotion, not my being. I have the right to my anger, I never have the right to be cruel.

Several years ago I managed an organization where the principle was extremely abusive. He believed that it was okay to berate staff, to scream and yell for what he wanted, to threaten dire consequences when he didn’t get it.

I didn’t believe the same things.

For six months, I worked hard to keep staff from feeling the brunt of this man’s abusive behaviour. One of the things I did was organize a two day retreat with the core team to facilitate healing and communication. At the retreat, the principle committed to stop yelling, cursing and belittling staff. I committed to staying on board — with a caveat — if the behaviour continued, I would resign.

One day, shortly after the retreat, the principle started shouting and swearing at the staff in a meeting. I stood up and said, I do not accept this behaviour and I left.

In that instance of speaking my truth I was responsible for my actions and words. My truth was, I do not accept abusive behaviour. I could not change the man. I could not determine whether or not others chose to remain under his abuse. I was not that powerful. My power was in my capacity to make the changes I needed to honour my truth.

Inside me there was a voice that wanted to scream at this individual and rant and rave and really tear a strip off of him in front of his staff. While the momentary relief of doing that might have made me feel good, the truth is — that behaviour would have compromised my values, principles and beliefs.

I value courteous behaviour. I value common decency. I value respect.

I stand true to myself when I step lightly through each moment with dignity, grace and respect. When the footprints I leave are filled with love and do not become potholes for others to fall into.

I believe I am responsible for every thought, word I speak, action I take.

I believe I am responsible for my own happiness. And I trust others to be responsible for theirs.

I believe the world is a place of infinite possibility and beauty.

I believe it is up to me to create it in my own life and to lovingly share my light so that the world around me is illuminated with love that will inspire others to step joyfully through their days — regardless of the weather.

When I stand comfortably in my truth, I am standing in love. In love, I do not hurt others. I do not retaliate unkindly. I lovingly state what is true for me, and do not give myself up to make their truth mine.

There are no boundaries to speaking truth as long as we remember, there is truth in everything, but not all things are true. In our truth is the only place we can stand to live free of fear that our truth is not enough.

We are enough.

In all our truth.

***************

Thank you RH for the inspiration for today’s blog.

What will you carry?

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Art Journal Theme 4: Gratitude

Art Journal Theme 4: Gratitude

The plumber arrived last night. Again. Finally. With the parts he’d ordered last week that finally arrived.

We have central heating again. Finally. After one week of no boiler. One week of layering up inside the house and limiting our movements to just the rooms where we had heaters running, we are warm and toasty in every room again.

I am grateful.

Not only for the plumbers arrival and the successful repair of our boiler, but also for the electricity that powered up the space heaters C.C. and I plugged in to keep the main level of our home warm.

I am grateful Old Man Winter took a hiatus from wrapping us up in frigid temps and gave us a break of near or above freezing for the past week.

I am grateful it wasn’t bitterly cold and we had to worry about freezing pipes.

I am grateful it was only a week.

Imagine if it was the entire winter. Or that we didn’t have electricity. Or a roof over our heads in the first place.

Imagine if we hadn’t been able to afford to plug in the heaters, or couldn’t cuddle up together and watch TV, or play Crib, or read a book in the relative comfort of space-heater heated rooms.

Imagine.

There are so many things in my life I take for granted. So many things I assume will just be there because they always are. Like electricity. Or a front door that locks. Or a fridge whose light comes on when I open the door. Or hot water running from the tap.

There are so many things I don’t think about. Don’t give any thought to. Don’t pause to say, ‘thank you’ to because they’re just there. They’re just part of my daily world of comfort.

 

I am grateful for my daily world of comfort.

I was reminded of the importance of gratitude yesterday as I walked from my office to the C-train to take the ride home. Ahead of me, standing on the sidewalk in front of a wellness centre, I saw a man I know from the homeless shelter where I used to work. I sometimes wondered when I saw him there if he ever even saw me. He was often confused, talking to himself, lost in a world of paranoia brought on by mental illness. When I saw him yesterday he was standing outside of a mental wellness centre smoking a cigarette.  

He saw me as I approached and smiled. Called out a cheery hello. How nice to see you! Haven’t seen you in a long while. 

I stopped to chat. He grabbed my gloved hands in one of his bare hands. His eyes were clear. His face clean shaven. He looked well. His clothes no longer torn and dishevelled. He looked like he was taking good care of himself.

You look wonderful, I told him. And it was true. He looked younger. Healthier. Happier.

He laughed. Yeah. I don’t look like such a bum anymore now do I? And he laughed again. A deep, satisfying roll of mirth that rose up from his belly. I’m living on my own now, he said, before going on to tell me about the meds he’s taking and how they’re really helping. About his apartment and how he’s got people helping him. He smiled and held my hands as we stood chatting on the street. It’s really nice to see you, he said. I’m doing so much better now.

I’m so glad, I replied. It’s nice to see you too.

I don’t miss that place [the shelter] he told me, but I sure am grateful it was there when I needed it. I might not made it if it weren’t for that place. Yup. I sure am grateful.

As we parted I carried his gratitude with me. I carried it as I boarded the crowded C-train and found a spot to stand. I carried it with me as I got on and off the train at each stop to let people get off behind me. I carried it with me as I got off at my stop and walked up the stairs towards the road and pressed the light for the walk signal so that I could cross safely. I carried it with me as I walked down the street towards the car where C.C. sat waiting to pick me up and take me home so that I didn’t have to wait for the bus or walk along the icy sidewalks.

I carried it with me as I walked through our front door and Ellie, the wonder pooch, greeted me with tail wagging and body squirming as she expressed her happiness at seeing me.

I carried it with me as I changed from workday clothes to comfy wear complete with cashmere shawl to keep me warm.

I carried it with me as I answered a text from a girlfriend inviting us for dinner on the weekend.

I carried it with me as I drove to the art supply store to pick up a new canvas to work on this weekend.

I carried it with me throughout the evening as I prepared dinner, filled the dishwasher, washed my face, got ready for bed and climbed under the covers.

And I carry it with me this morning as I sit typing at my desk, the room warmed by central heating flowing through the pipes that carry water from the boiler to every room in our home.

The plumber arrived yesterday and fixed our boiler.

I am grateful.

May I carry gratitude within me throughout the day. In gratitude, I am thankful. In gratitude, I am at peace.

What will you carry?

 

 

 

On the way to making memories worth holding onto

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photo (27)The kitchen sink clogged up at 4pm. By 5 C.C. had it unclogged. Except for the u-joint under the sink.

“I’ll just take it apart, clean it and you’ll be all set within 10 minutes,” he said. Confidently.

Three minutes later, his exclamation indicated something was wrong. Drastically wrong. As in, he broke the pipe wrong and we’d have no kitchen sink for dinner.

Twenty-three guests were arriving in an hour and I was minus a kitchen sink.

Interesting.

But then, there’s always the bathtub which became the home for dirty pots and ladles, cutlery and serving dishes.

In the end, the cauliflower never got made, and forget about the extra yam dish. I didn’t have another pot to use, and not enough time to cook it anyway. The hour spent clearing the drain had completely disrupted my timetable. I had to go with what I had and hope for the best.

And it was, the best… a night of fun, of laughter, hilarity and charm. We ate and drank and sat around the table and told stories and shared in that thing that makes Christmas such a special time of year — community.

photo (26)We ranged in age from 19 to 75. From still at University to long past retirement, we shared points of view and points of contention, from one guests stories of his recent experiences in basic training in the military, to another’s stories of running a billion dollar corporation. We talked about homelessness and homes, education and travel, wine and cheese and everything else in between.

And then, after dinner, the guitars and drums came out and we sang and laughed and then most of the guests left and C.C. and a crew of younger folk sat down to play games and I went off to bed, hoping that tomorrow the plumber would arrive and I would have a kitchen sink to work in.

No such luck. The plumber worked with C.C. and they had it cleared but once he left, it didn’t stay that way. The problem was, when C.C. peeled the mound of potatoes needed to mash up for 21 people, the peels had gone down the garborator and gotten stuck. Really stuck. And then, they swelled and while they’d moved them down the pipe, they got stuck en masse further down.

Draino. Snake. Running water. No luck. We’d have to wait for tomorrow when the plumber was scheduled to return.

What to do. What to do.

C.C. and I decided on a movie. We switched on Pay per View, dialled in what we wanted to watch and cuddled up on the leather sofa in the den.

And that’s where we were when a resounding crash was heard from the environs of the living room.

“What’s Ellie into now?” C.C. asked as he got up to take a look.

“You’d better come see this,” he called out a a few moments later.

photo (23)I wasn’t expecting it. I definitely didn’t think it could be anything so… dramatic.

But there Ferdinand the Christmas tree lay. On his side. Fallen over. Totalled. Ornaments strewn across the floor. pink and rose shards littered across the hardwood and onto the Chinese rug. The tree we’d decorated en famille just a few short nights ago, had fallen over.

It was a mess. Ellie was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Marley, the Great Cat, in sight either. Had they?… No. No way. Ellie’s too old and Marley has never shown any interest in the tree. Ever.

It must have been the gold beads strung across the boughs. They were only on the front side which meant the tree was front heavy. Must have been too much weight.

Sigh.

Nothing to do but clean it up. And start all over.

Carefully we untangled the lights and boughs and de-robed the tree of all its ornaments and glitter. C.C. mopped up the water while I swept up the glass.

It didn’t pay to think about it. The only thing to do was to get it done.

Bonus! As we’d decorated on Monday night, the girls had suggested we needed more lights. I didn’t feel like going out to the store mid-task so we’d made do. Now, I figured I may as well go and get more lights. 

I went out and bought two more strings to add to the glow. Beauty!

And then today, C.C. officially got the sink unplugged and now, the house is back in order. The dishes are done and put away, the table leafs removed, the extra chairs tucked away until Christmas dinner. The tree glows. The sideboard is cleared of dirty glasses and the kitchen is decluttered.

It’s funny. Not having a sink didn’t detract from the festivities and the tree falling over didn’t really rob it of its beauty.

The memories of decorating the tree together remain. The laughter, teasing, conversation and good times shared continue to resonate throughout the house.

Disasters happen. It’s not their happening that makes the difference, it’s what we hold onto in their wake that measures the value of each day, that fill every breath with love — or not.

We decorated the tree last week and had early Christmas dinner so that my daughter could share in the love and joy of Christmas at home. The memories live on. They continue to cast a beautiful light in my heart of all that is so special at this time of year. Family. Love. Community. Peace. Harmony and Joy.

And as to the rest… well, that’s just the stuff that happens on the way to making memories worth remembering.

Namaste.

Get off the path well-travelled

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They are already on the platform waiting for the C-train when I arrive.

He is maybe 6, 7 years old. Ninja backpack on his back. School is waiting. He’s excited to get there.

She is grandmotherly. Red coat. Black boots. Gloves. Matching purse. Her hair carefully coiffed, the metallic blonde of the dye fading at the roots.

He pulls his blue wool toque down around his ears, the rim just covering his eyebrows.

She pulls it back. Straightens it high against his brow.

He pulls it back down.

She gently slaps his hands away. Tells him it looks ridiculous like that and tugs it back into place. The place where she wants it to be.

His smile fades.

She turns to look for the train.

He pulls his toque back down to cover his eyebrows.

She turns back to look at him. Notices what he’s done. Tells him to stop being a nuisance. Tugs firmly and pulls his hat back into place. She smiles at him and says, “There. That’s better. Now leave it alone.”

His shoulders rise up and collapse downward in one fluid movement. He sighs. His hands swing by his side. He doesn’t touch his toque.

It is just a moment in time. A tiny vignette of a grandmother taking her grandson to school. Doing what she believes is her best. The right thing. The best thing she can do to prepare him for his day, and possibly teach him a lesson for life.

I wonder what message he got?

It wasn’t that her looks at him weren’t loving. They were.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have his best interests at heart. She did. I’m sure she loves her grandson to pieces. I’m sure she feels he was being a nuisance. That he needs to obey her, do what she says because that’s the only way he’s going to make it safely to school. If she let him wear his hat the way he wants, might he risk jumping the tracks? Might it lead to his mis-behaving in class, not following the rules, not doing what his teacher says?

You’ve got to obey your elders, I hear her saying in my head. Don’t be a nuisance.

And underneath the obvious concern for his well-being, what other messages were at play?

Don’t do it your way. Don’t colour outside the lines. Don’t think for yourself. You don’t count. You don’t matter. You don’t have the right to … speak up, do it differently, be individual. You don’t have a say. You don’t have a voice.

And for her what fears was she acting out? Did she need to keep control of every little detail so she could feel comforted by what she knows? Did she fear letting him have his way on this small thing would lead to his taking his own path on bigger things? Did she fear the path less travelled?

I don’t know what was going on in their minds or lives, but for me, the play enacted by this duo spoke deeply to my heart. It spoke deeply to that place within me where I want each and every one of us to honour the individual, to celebrate the different, to praise the uniqueness of our being who we are without fearing who we are is not enough.

It spoke deeply to that place within me where I feel powerless to awaken others to the importance of every small act we take with a child. That place where I want to go back and erase all the little things I did when my daughters were small that maybe didn’t celebrate the miracle of their lives because I was too busy to stop and see the gifts of their uniqueness, or too accustomed to taking the path I knew than to see there was a path less travelled that would awaken brilliance in our everyday lives.

It was a small moment with big ripples. A moment where I saw that for us to stop abuse, for us to end violence, for us to free children from living lives of desperation, we need to awaken to living fiercely in Love with this moment right now. We need to step into our power to do every small thing with love and compassion at the heart of every breath we take so that we no longer choose the path well-travelled and step fearlessly onto the path of Love.

 

 

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

It is time to let peace make a difference

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Morning steps quietly through the night, lifting the veil of darkness to reveal her cerulean glory. What a difference a night makes. Yesterday, she was sunny and blue. This morning, she is sad. Grey. Cloudy.

Perhaps, I wonder, she didn’t sleep soundly. Perhaps, unlike me, she was restless beneath night’s blanket.

I slept soundly. The quiet here. the fresh air. The whisper of the leaves upon the trees. The far off call of a loon lure me into slumber. Lull me into ease.

We went for a boat ride yesterday. Four of us climbed into a fibreglass craft, our host manned the helm and we took off across the placid waters of the lake. The wind whipped against my cheeks, pushed the tears out of my eyes. I lifted my face up to the sun and let it dry my tears as I laughed in exhilaration! Alive in the moment I let my body sink into the joy of simply being on the water.

Earlier that morning I had leaped into the water and was one with it — for just a few moments. Did I mention how cold the water is?  It’s cold. Snug in a craft that carried me along its surface, I felt the separation. And that’s okay. I love being on or in the water but I must admit — wrapped in warm clothing, a blanket tucked around my bare feet, on it is warmer than in it at this time of year!

We hugged the shoreline, sped across wide open water, drifted quietly down a river into the next lake over, darted under a bridge where I ducked my head, just in case.

It was an exhilarating hour of exploration. Of watching the world whip by as we sped along the water’s surface leaving only our wake in our passing.

The lake is quiet at this time of year. Labour day weekend has come and passed. Cottagers have begun the process of settling their homes for winter’s inevitable onslaught. Doors and windows are boarded up. Boats are out of the water. Docks extracted and pulled ashore.

It is part of the seasonal passings of lake country. The setting in for winter’s storms and the ice that will cover the waters in months to come.

This town of 3,000 swells in summer’s heat. The shores of the lakes and rivers are lined with homes. Boaters, swimmers, skiers play in and around the water’s edge all through the summer months. And then, autumn colours begin to turn and the cottage-goers retreat to city houses, hunkering down for the cold, dark nights of winter.

And yet, dotted amongst the summer homes preparing for winter are those who live year-round at the water’s edge. it’s easy to tell who they are. Boats still bob at their docks, smoke drifts silently from their chimneys sending up signals to the seasons to warn them that they will not retreat, they will not pack up and scurry away. “This is my home,” they seem to say to winter’s breath curling up at the edges of the water. “I am not afraid of you.”

When I went into town yesterday to use an internet connection at the cafe, I chatted with the woman who runs the tiny bistro/candy store that also serves up the world-wide-web. (The connection at the house is abysmally slow and I can’t load photos from here.)

She’s lived here 15 years. Came east from the coast, she told me on a trip further west. But she met a man and stayed and cannot live. “My life is here,” she said. She’s never made it further west than Toronto. And she’s content.

I stopped at the cemetery too. No one spoke to me there. 🙂  But the sign at the edge of the graveyard was fascinating. It read, “Unsafe conditions may exist in cemetery.”

Unsafe for whom I wondered?

Visiting with our friends who are of Polish heritage, I believed this entire area was only settled by the Kashubian. The cemetery tells a different tale. Murray’s. O’Flynn’s. Connors. The headstones are a story of Irish settlements in the area. When I question our hosts about the Irish presence in the area they tell me of vicious rivalries turned deadly. Of altercations escalating from ethnic hatred to pickaxes and shovels being used as weapons of mass destruction.

“There were years of ethnic intolerance,” they said.

The cemetery was quiet when I stood upon its unsafe grounds and listened to the birdsong in the trees. I read the names and epitaphs and thought of men who fought in the name of their forefathers only to die in the struggle to hold their heritage intact on a piece of ground.

And I thought of war today. Of guns and bombs that hurl through the night. Silent, deadly often unseen killers of mass destruction. Is there any difference?

Where once men looked men in the eye before they killed them in the name of the past. Today, death comes more stealthily. It is carried in on unmanned drones and missiles. And still it comes.

And no matter how it arrives, war always kills the spirit of our humanity. No matter what piece of ground you stand upon killing one another does not make peace.

And I am reminded. It is time to let peace guide us away from war to safer ground upon which to connect with one another.

Reflecting back the light (Guest Blog)

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I’ve never met Jodi Aman in person but, my dream is one day I will. Just looking at the photo on her blog of her beautiful smiling face warms my spirit and makes me smile from the inside out. Today, Jodi shares her incredible gifts with us – she is an amazing soul shining light for all the world to find themselves in the brilliance of their own magnificence.

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What a pleasure to be asked to reflect on how, what, and why I make a difference in other people’s lives by such a beautiful soul as Louise. It allowed me to step back from my life, reflect on my daily tasks, and think about the impact they potentially have on others. (The good, bad, and in between.)

 

Reflecting Back The Light

By Jodi Aman

When I started my inspirational Facebook page Heal Now and Forever Be In Peace  a friend posted this on my wall: There is somewhere close to you and within you where people come to their true nature once again. Evelyn Prieto

So many people see a poor version of themselves. They see the failure, the shame, and the mistakes. All of these hide so many other beautiful stories of who they are. These other stories may be of connection, love, effort, kindness, strength, hope, and/or compassion. And no matter how invisible they appear to be, they are present in everyone’s life.

It is my greatest desire to discover and bring these other stories out into the open, breathing more life into these identities, than the shabby self image they have been experiencing. I begin this process in the first contact with people. I open my ears and my heart to a person’s goodness. I welcome the light within to reveal itself. I pray to Spirit, “Show me who he/she is.”

I want to bore through the dark shame, guilt, blame, fear, and doubt that may be choking them, and see the bright soul as Spirit sees it. Never denying people their hard time, or blowing off the trauma and tribulations of their lives, I simply assume that something else exists as well. Something bigger, less limited. More “real.”  But everything is allowed,  the dark and the light. (Only by being accepted can problems be processed and dissolved.) 

I have faith I will find the “alternative story”, and so people deliver, showing me their light. Maybe unconsciously at first. But, then, I reflect it back to them. I tell them what I have heard in their stories, what I understand from their explanations, and what I noticed in their actions. And, through my eyes, they can see the preferred self that they may have been blind to. Heartened, they begin to be that light in conscious ways, more readily showing it to me, to themselves, and to others.

So, maybe this is what Evelyn was saying, I help people become more themselves. But I realize, through these interactions, I am inspired let go of fear and anger in my own life, and see my problems from a big picture view. When I am lost, I, too, ask Spirit to show me who I am. I get out of my own way and allow myself to see. So then, I become more the me that I want to be. And I find peace and light even in my darkest days.

Jodi is a mom, a blogger, a psychotherapist, and a workshop leader, dedicated to helping other heal spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically. Her free ebook What Is UP In Your DOWN? Being Grateful In Seven Easy Steps 

Find Jodi on Facebook — Heal Now and Forever Be In Peace,

join Jodi on Twitter @JodiAman,

add Jodi on Google+ Jodi Aman, or read more articles at HealthyPlace.com!

Community makes a difference

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Bubbly and peace go together

We gathered together last night to celebrate the completion of “Summer of Peace Calgary 2012”. Seven of us communed around my dining room table, sharing a meal, laughter, companionship.

This is community.

No matter our purpose, our objectives, our goals, this is community. People gathered together, sharing, caring, being of one voice, committed to furthering that goal in ways that create more…. peace, harmony, forgiveness, kindness, … whatever the overarching purpose, it is the fact we are united together in community that makes the biggest difference.

Early last spring when the amazing Kerry Parsons approached me to ask if I wanted to be part of Summer of Peace Calgary, I was a bit dubious. Seriously? You want to do all that by June? Kerry’s passion and commitment to making a difference was compelling. So I joined the group of ‘peace angels’ as Kerry calls them and turned up at meetings.

Turning up is the first step.

Every Tuesday evening, from 7 to 9, we’d meet, talk about ideas, what we could do, what we needed to do to take just one of those ideas forward. The uber-talented Judy Atkinson of Circles of Rhythm generously offered up one of her regular Friday night drum circles as a venue and vehicle to connect people into the rhythm of peace and Drumming up Peace Calgary was imagined.

Dianne and Judy toast peace

It begins with imagining what is possible.

Once we’d imagined what could be,we focused on making it happen and it began to unfold. And it all began with the imagining of the possibilities. What if we could get 150 people to come and drum up peace with us? What do we need to do to make it happen?

At one of the meetings I told the story of my heart rocks and a peace rock ceremony was created. We needed the rocks, Dianne Quan set out to acquire them. We needed to paint peace symbols on them. Dianne had the method, I had the dining room table.

And so it went. From drumming to peace circles to the Peace Academy, peace came alive this summer in Calgary because from our imaginings we made space for it to happen. And in that creative, collaborative and co-generative space, peace happened. In that space of peaceful co-existence and recognition of our essential natures to be ‘of peace’, we set in motion what needed to unfold in order for Summer of Peace to come into being.

And it did. Come into being. In grand and gentle and rhythmic ways. In small and vibrant and resonate notes.

On Monday, Kerry was interviewed on CBC’s drive home program, The Homestretch about Peace Calgary and a $1200 grant we received from GIG YYC as part of Calgary’s year as cultural capital. While chatting with the announcer before her interview he posited that peace wasn’t really happening in Calgary. But it is, replied Kerry. There are so many small and yet significant events happening. Many people gathering to talk about and take action on peace.

Kerry & Marilyn share in peace

Peace is everywhere.

There is always room for peace. Always a place for peace at my table. In my heart. In my life. In my world. There is a place for peace and that is at the centre of my being at peace with where I’m at, what I’m doing, how I’m being in this world to create more of what I want, and less of what I don’t want.

It isn’t that peace doesn’t exist. It is that we often take the path of least resistance, the road well-travelled to get to our destination, to create what we want in life. If we were to stop and ask ourselves — will this create more peace or less if I do it this way? — before doing — we might make different choices.

Like anger, peace requires a change of thought. Counting to ten when anger rises up gives me time to assess how best to express my anger, without causing discord in my life and the life of those around me.

Counting to ten before taking action gives me time to check into my peaceful, or not, state of mind and ask myself, “Is this the path of least resistance? Will it create peace, or not?”

It all began with an idea.

It began with one woman believing it was possible to shine a light on peace in our city. From that tiny seed of a thought, an idea grew into a series of events awakening the possibility of peace.

From that one idea community was created, a community that gathered together last night to share in all that makes us magnificent human beings — our capacity to create change, to ignite possibility, to inspire greatness.

I witnessed an idea evolve into a community of gifted and caring people working together to make peace happen. Now. I am blessed.