June
July
August
September
Ode to summer
It’s Halloween month . . . and, for the first time, I don’t care.
I’ve been away from my online mat space for too long. Now it feels good to satisfy my urge to write.
I had started a post about a month ago about how I believe the Incredible Hulk’s character is based on a perimenopausal woman, but I’ll save that one for a later date.
It’s incredibly disturbing to me that we’re ten days into Halloween month (also known as October), and I haven’t begun decorating. See, Halloween is my favorite holiday. In fact, I don’t understand why it’s not a national holiday. I’d rather have Halloween off than, say, Labor Day or Presidents Day.
I’m one of those people who shops for decorations every year. I mean, there’s always something new and fabulous, like flashing LED skulls, motion-activated ghouls that jitter and shriek, or a Jack Skellington bobble-head. At the same time, though, I have decorations lovingly carried forward from my childhood. I hate throwing the old stuff away–but cardboard doesn’t last forever. And let’s face it: it’s not nearly as exciting as things that light up, flash, make scary noises, or shake.
Husband and I go all-out with the outdoor decorations. We have a pumpkin-carving kit, and choose a different design for our jack-o-lantern every year.
We have a fog machine, a strobe light, luminaries, strings and strings of LEDs, giant spiders . . . the list goes on. We even hook up outdoor speakers and broadcast scary sounds for trick-or-treat. Then, later in the evening, we usually broadcast It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown or The Nightmare Before Christmas.
One year we dressed our blind pug as anatomically correct Yoda.
Yes, I do love Halloween. But here it is, October 10th, and I haven’t even brought the bins in from the shed. This is unprecedented. I’m usually counting down the last week of September, because I won’t allow decorations to go up before October 1. The first weekend in October is ordinarily allocated for the sole purpose of decorating indoors and out.
So what’s the problem this year? I’ve asked myself that too. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m depressed. It’s that simple. It’s the same reason I can’t bring myself to walk Happy Dog every day
or plant bulbs or weed my flower beds or clean up the dog shit in the backyard or keep the house clean or attend yoga practice. I’m. Just. Fucking. Depressed.
On top of that, I’m even starting to feel mildly agoraphobic. Although I’m an introvert, I’m highly skilled at what I call “professional extroversion.” I used to be eloquent, confident and persuasive. Now I find myself making sure there’s no one around before I bring in the mail or take the trash and recyclables out to the curb. Job interviews have become excruciating. Even the thought of interacting with anyone at yoga practice makes me uncomfortable.
Three months of not working, at home alone every day with two cats (sleep all day) and one über-ehthusiastic puppy (wants constant attention), applying for job after job after job, and wondering if the bills are going to be paid has turned me into a perimenopausal, reclusive hag. Wait, I was already perimenopausal. And a hag. But now I’m a recluse as well. (I think I just had an idea for this year’s Halloween costume.)
Yup. That looks about right.
I haven’t been depressed for a long, long time. And now I seem to be wallowing in it. Yes, I know it’s a choice. I know I could be unemployed and happy just as easily. That’s what Abraham says, anyway. But for some reason, I choose to feel like this. I must be getting something out of it, or I’d choose to feel different–right?
Right?
Maybe husband will take matters into his own hands and fetch the bins from the shed this weekend. All I need is a little push.
Valerie photo courtesy Act III Communications
Finding magic and meaning in the mundane
I have no job interviews scheduled today, and thus nothing better to do than drink coffee all morning and write this post. OK, that’s not entirely true. I really should give the front door a second coat of paint, and that ivy patch in the middle of the backyard isn’t going to rip itself out, fly into the yard waste bin and roll out to the curb. I’ll get to it.
Today I want to delve deeper into a concept about which I posted on My True North’s Facebook page last year. Here’s the original post:
Yesterday I had the most amazing revelation. On my way home from work–an hour and a half commute that I thankfully only make about twice a week–I was listening to an audio-only version of “A Night at the Roxbury” (a highly underrated movie, in my opinion) and suddenly realized that it’s a goldmine of brilliant metaphysical insights. Brothers Doug Butabi (Chris Kattan) and Steve Butabi (Will Ferrell) put the Law of Attraction to work without even realizing it. They just do what comes naturally. They’re in the right place at the right time, and the Universe brings them the exact circumstances they need to bring their dream to life. I was totally blown away with this realization! I’ve seen and listened to the movie many times, but the light bulb didn’t come on till just yesterday.
I think it’s a beautiful, beautiful thing when you can find messages like this in the craziest places.
Watch “A Night at the Roxbury” with this perspective in mind, and just see if I’m right!
As you can see, I really do find magic and meaning in the mundane.
The Universe (a.k.a., Source, Spirit, God, whatever term you’re most comfortable with) really, truly does speak to us. I don’t believe in coincidences at all: everything happens (or doesn’t) for a reason, just as every person with whom I come into contact does so for a reason. The Universe is constantly trying to get me to realize that my thoughts have energy that affects my reality. There is so much more than what I can see and hear and taste and smell, if I’d just allow myself to be open to it.
Other dimensions. Other planes of existence. Multiple realities. The Law of Attraction. Whatever you call it, it’s real–whether I believe it or not. So I might as well believe it and try to get the most out of the time I have in the here and now.
Here’s another amazing example of the Universe speaking to me: my maternal grandmother re-entered the non-physical exactly 40 years to the day after her mother. My mother was present at both transitions, and she said they were even close to the same time of day. I can’t explain that away by mere coincidence. My Non-Physical Posse sent me this message loud and clear at a time when I desperately needed reassurance that there was meaning and reason to everything.
I was also present when my grandma crossed over in 2006. I was 40 then, and it was the first time I’d ever seen anyone die. Grandma was 98 and had been in a nursing home for several years, confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak or do anything for herself. But whenever I visited, she understood what I said to her, she could laugh, and her grip when she held my hand was strong. Even though she lived a full, long, life, I still wish she were with me today to continue to share in all my experiences and enjoy my stories. I will forever be grateful for the special message she and Ur-Oma sent me.
I think to myself now that if thestrals were real, I’d be able to see them, along with Harry Potter and Luna Lovegood. And that would be a privilege, not a curse.
A Night At the Roxbury photo courtesy Paramount Pictures & Wikipedia
The healing power of the ocean (and beer)
On Sunday, my husband, Happy Dog and I went to the beach. I am thrilled to report that Happy Dog enjoyed a glorious Oregon coast day without getting carsick.
Not only are we are fortunate enough to live in one of the most beautiful, fertile river valleys in the U.S., whose farmers produce four of my favorite things (wine, lavender, blueberries and mint), we’re only 1-2 hours from the coast, depending on where we go. Sunday we chose our current favorite: Pacific City, home to Cape Kiwanda State Natural Area and Bob Straub State Park (named for a former Oregon governor), the Pacific Dory Fleet and, most important, Pelican Pub & Brewery.
There are undoubtedly lots of other places in the world where one can drink beer on the beach with their dog, but there’s no way you can beat the view from the Pelican.
Plus there are always plenty of other interesting things to watch: surfers, migrating whales, stand-up paddlers, dories coming and going, dune-boarders, kites flying, skimboarders, hang-gliders and beach dogs (as illustrated above), to name a few.
Simply put, it’s where I go when I visualize my Happy Place.
My husband and I only learned to appreciate beer quite recently. We were in Newport on vacation a few years ago before we moved to Oregon. The November weather wasn’t particularly conducive to a warm, enjoyable stroll on the beach, but luckily, Newport is home to Rogue Ales Brewery. We looked at each other and said, “Let’s go taste some beer!”
And thus we evolved into a new phase of our life together.
Part of our beervolution has included volunteering for the past two years at the annual Oregon Garden Brewfest. The Brewfest is one of the garden’s biggest fundraisers–if not the biggest. We pour beer for folks to taste. This year I poured for Flat Tail Brewing in Corvallis, and husband poured for Fish Brewing Company, from Olympia, Washington.
I learned a lot about hoppy beer that day, and I’m starting to be able to taste the differences between beers. I feel very sophisticated. I’ll never be the beer snob my brother is, but still.
Boy, I really went off on a beer tangent there. I really didn’t mean for this post to be about the healing power of beer so much as the healing power of the ocean. So, back to Pacific City.
We started with a walk at Bob Straub State Park. We were pleasantly surprised by the lack of people–it being Labor Day weekend and all.
Not only was it a holiday weekend, it was also 1) sunny and 2) above 70°. But the year-round lack of crowds is one of the most beautiful things about the Oregon coast.
We also enjoyed the offerings of Bubble-Blowing Woman:
Some people just know how to have fun, don’t they?
We then headed north to the Pelican–at which there’s a pretty generous public parking area–and discovered where the hordes of beach-goers were. Not only was the parking lot full to overflowing, the main road and side streets were choked as well. The beach itself was a parking lot with several thru lanes. There were people and cars everywhere. And unfortunately I was the one driving. We did, however, finally find a spot on a narrow side street just a couple blocks from the brewery. It took about fifteen minutes, but in the big scheme of things–like, say, compared to New York City or Washington, DC–I guess I can’t complain too much.
We thought we’d maybe get something to eat, in addition to the beer, but there was a 90-minute wait for a patio table. And, as neither of us had thought to bring our phone along, we had no way of being notified when a table became available. So we settled for sitting on the edge of the patio and enjoying our beer and the ambiance.
All this is leading up to the pinnacle experience in my day, which was so simple as to be almost ludicrous. After finishing our beer (and boy, did we make it last), we went for another walk–this time among the hordes. But believe it or not, when we got down to the water’s edge and started walking south, it really wasn’t as crowded as it looked from the patio.
At this point, there’s something you need to understand about me: there is nothing–and I do mean N.O.T.H.I.N.G.–that makes me happier than walking on the beach, except walking barefoot on the beach, which is something I don’t do very often because of the plantar fasciitis I mentioned a couple weeks ago.
And, as you can see, depending on where we’re at, there are other reasons I don’t walk barefoot on the beach.
On Sunday, however, all the stars aligned, and I took off my Chacos and walked.* And suddenly, magically, everything was OK. Unemployment, pending bills, dwindling hormone levels, the bald patches on puppy’s face that I would learn on Wednesday is demodectic mange, the traffic and lack of parking–it was all completely irrelevant in that one magic moment. I realized I was Present. I was There. I was in the Vortex. I felt completely blissful–like that time I was on painkillers when I had an ovarian cyst and we had to cut our vacation short so I could get home and have surgery. I knew everything would be all right.
There’s that Vortex again.
Sunday was one of those incredible days that, for whatever reason, I only get to have occasionally. Why is that? Why shouldn’t I have these blissful, magical days a lot more frequently? Do I somehow think I’m not deserving? That days like this should be parceled out as infrequent rewards or dangled in front of me like a carrot on a string? I don’t buy that. I can’t buy that. I truly believe I could have as many of these days as I choose to have, but for some reason don’t.
That’s what I need to figure out. That’s what I need to work on.
(*If you have plantar fasciitis and have never tried Chacos, treat your feet to a pair.)
Photos:
Pelican Pub & Brewery courtesy yourlittlebeachtown.com
Spongebob Squarepants courtesy Nickelodeon & kidtoons.tripod.com
Vortex courtesy crestock.com
So many thoughts, so little time
Life is seemingly boring after the events of Blog Week 1. However, I remind myself (and you) that I didn’t start MyTrueNorth2013 with the intention of a Bill Bryson-esque romp through Europe or a Stephen King-esque novel about a killer bat that invades peoples’ homes and flies off with their pets. I started it to write about things that make me think–which, with any luck, lead to big ah-hah moments (at best) or opportunities to enjoy feeling another small piece of the puzzle click into place (at the very least).
Which is why, despite an action-packed weekend into which my husband and I tried to fit a few too many events, including
• dinner, wine and two-fifths of the Brian Copeland Band at Emerson Vineyards (another perfect Willamette Valley evening)
• a dawn hot air balloon launch (sounds corny, but watching thirty or so hot air balloons launch makes my heart soar)
• more dinner, wine, live music and camping at Airlie Winery (it’s definitely not about the sleep)
• a three-hour nap (is three hours still considered a “nap?”) while husband worked Sunday afternoon
I’m choosing to write today about a guided meditation practice I attended at Love Yoga last night.
Meditation is one of those “talk the talk” things I mentioned last week, as in “How was your meditation, honey?” “Ooooh, I felt so centered. I think I really had a breakthrough.” I love the idea of meditation, and I love the insights it can and does bring when I do practice it. But I don’t do it nearly enough.
I have come to believe that meditation is one of the most valuable tools –if not the most valuable–we can have in our self-work toolbox. Though I can count the number of times I’ve done it on my fingers and toes, I can also say that I’ve had a pretty good-sized ah-hah moment just about every single time.
If this is truly the case, then, the next logical question would have to be, “Why in god’s name don’t you meditate every single day? Or three or five or ten times a day, for that matter?”
In a word, laziness. Also, admittedly, a sense of entitlement–by which I mean I think I should just have an amazing, joyful, happy, peaceful, prosperous, healthy life without working at it. In fact, I think we all should. I think every single person deserves to have a wonderful, happy, prosperous life, and it makes me sad that so few do.
Anyway, last night Melissa led us through four 15-minute meditations, during which we were free to be comfortable on our mats any way we chose. Guided meditation works much better for me, as I’m one of those people whose completely undisciplined mind needs that gentle direction and constant redirection from the never-ending hodgepodge of thoughts that I just can’t seem to stop.
Less than 24 hours later, I can’t remember exactly what she said, or how she led us through the meditations. However, more importantly, I do remember the ah-hah moment that resulted.
Louise Hay tells us in You Can Heal Your Life (Hay House, 1984) that
“We create every so-called illness in our body.”
Now, this may be hard to swallow. I know I find it hard to swallow. The personal responsibility placed on us by people like Louise Hay (not to mention non-physical entities like Abraham) seems patently unfair to me sometimes. OK, most of the time. But I guess I don’t have to like it for it to be true.
Hay’s book Heal Your Body (Hay House, 1984) contains a pretty comprehensive list of dis-eases and physical and emotional complaints along with their corresponding probable causes. I use this list frequently to try and figure out what the hell’s going on with me. The weird thing is, every single probable cause she lists for my physical or mental gripes is spot on.
During last night’s meditation, I found myself–as I very often do–thinking about the past and being saddened by my thoughts. (See last week’s post Will Someone Please Invent Time Travel, Already?) On the way home, I started wondering–as I also very often do–why my thoughts always seem to be so overwhelmingly focused on what has been, instead of on righthererightnow or what’s yet to come. And then I started thinking about what Louise Hay says about foot problems.
Without going into too much detail, I can tell you that one of the several physical ailments I suffer from (read “cause myself to suffer from”) is plantar fasciitis. I also have osteoarthritis in one of my big toes. Guess what Hay’s probably cause of foot problems is?
. . . . .
(I’m giving you time to guess.)
. . . . .
(Did you guess it?)
. . . . .
(Drum roll)
. . . . .
“Fear of the future and of not stepping forward in life.”
Didn’t I say she was spot on?
So I kept my train of thought chugging along its proverbial track and asked myself, “Couldn’t my obsession with the past and how I seem to miss the Good Old Days and all the houses I’ve lived in and and things I’ve done and enjoying time with my family and all my dead relatives and friends and pets and vacations I’ve been on and being a kid and riding my bike around the neighborhood and not having any of these hateful adult responsibilities more than I enjoy being righthererightnow and anticipating all the wonderful times still to come be construed as ‘fear of the future and of not stepping forward in life?'”
I think it could.
(You may want to go back and reread that paragraph. It actually does make sense, as well as seeming to be mostly grammatically correct.)
Louise tells us that new thought patterns–or positive affirmations–can heal and relax our body. For foot problems, her recommended affirmation goes like this:
“I move forward in life with joy and with ease. I stand in truth. I have spiritual understanding.”
Her step-by-step method to allow and encourage change is pretty straightforward:
1. Look up the mental cause. See if this could be true for you. If not, sit quietly and ask yourself, “What could be the thoughts in me that created this?”
2. Repeat to yourself, “I am willing to release the pattern in my consciousness that has created this condition.”
3. Repeat the new thought pattern to yourself several times.
4. Assume that you are already in the process of healing.
Whenever you think of the condition, repeat the steps.
Easy, right? It should be. But this is where Laziness rears its ugly head: it’s easier to be a mess and wallow in the past and be unhappy and complain and cry than it is to do the hard self-work. You really, reeeally have to want to change yourself and feel better and know that it’s worthwhile to do the work, or you’re just going to be stuck in that same rut forever.
I vacillate between desperately wanting to change and thinking, “Why bother?” After all, these patterns of thought have worked for me (more or less) for almost a half-century. Why should I bother now?
I’ll tell you why: because I’ve had glimpses of how good it can be. I know now how it feels to be in what Abraham-Hicks refers to as “the Vortex.” I recognize when I’m in there–and when I’m not, I want to be.
The most beautiful (and ironic) thing of all is that I love knowing I’m the only one responsible for all of it: how I feel, the good and bad things that happen to me–all the love, joy, fun, health, wealth, peace and serenity, or lack thereof, that I experience in my life. There’s no one and nothing else to blame when things go wrong, and only myself to celebrate when things go right. That’s not to say that I don’t feel immensely grateful: the Universe is a kind and generous place that works in concert with me and my thoughts. My parents have done more for me than I could ever express in words. And my Non-Physical Posse always has my back.
Today I choose to enjoy the Here and Now.
Namaste.
Procession photo courtesy Institute for Great Lakes Research, Bowling Green State University
Vortex photo courtesy Crestock.com
Another day, another … whatever.
It occurred to me yesterday morning that it may appear to some that I overreacted to last week’s yogurt scarcity.
Recall, however, that I did identify the event as “another one of those Final Straws,” and that this sort of thing happens to me with “disturbing and irritating frequency.” Also please note that I am fully aware my favorite yogurt has not been discontinued altogether; it’s just that our local Safeway no longer stocks it, either temporarily or permanently. Just wanted to get that straight.
To illustrate this disturbing trend, following is an abbreviated list of products upon which I–and, to a lesser extent, my husband–had become very dependent, only to experience the repeated pain of their disappearance from the marketplace one by one:
• Aziza eyeliner pencils (the earliest product discontinuation trauma I can remember)
• Simply Organic Grilling Seasons marinade mix (the best marinades we’ve ever tasted–what the hell happened, Simply Organic?)
• Trader Joe’s unsweetened powdered chai mix (some people like to control the amount of sugar in their beverages)
• Burt’s Bees Bay Rum After Shave Balm (made hubby smell delicious and gave him a soft face–what’s so wrong about that?)
• Lily of the Desert Aloe 80 Clarifying Facial Scrub (are we the only ones who like scrubby facial cleansers?)
• Safeway’s O brand organic peach/mango fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt (seriously, am I the only person in the country that thought this was the best flavor ever?)
• Patagonia stainless steel travel mug (husband temporarily “lost” his [read “left at friend’s house in Seattle”], so loving wife tried in vain to find him a new one online)
• Star fruit (I haven’t seen one in the produce section in years–have they gone extinct?)
• OXO Good Grips Soap-Dispensing Stemware and Glass Wand threaded refills (who knew our dish wand would far outlast the availability of the exact sponge refills needed to make it work?)
Look–here are refills available for purchase online:
Don’t be fooled: these refills are NOT THREADED. They snap in to an OXO Good Grips Soap-Dispensing Stemware and Glass Wand identical to ours in every way but one.
And don’t even get me started on my favorite TV series that have gone by the wayside in (relatively) recent years:
• Seinfeld
• Queer Eye For the Straight Guy
• Most Haunted
• UFO Hunters
• 30 Rock
At least The Simpsons is still going strong after 24 seasons. Yaaaaaaay Matt Groening! Yaay … uh … FOX? … Er, never mind.
Anyway, you may be wondering what kind of profound truths I have gleaned over the years from these recurring disappointments. I’m one of those people who reads meaning into literally every seemingly coincidental object or event with which I come into contact. For example, puppy and I were walking this morning, and I saw a squirrel use a crosswalk. Really. It was absolutely extraordinary, and I had to stop and take a moment to ponder the meaning of our timing such that we were privy to this singular phenomenon.
I interpret all these seemingly random product discontinuations as a message to be more
See how I made the word look like what it means? I don’t care what those snooty graphic designers say: it’s amazing what you can do with Microsoft Publisher.
The sad (and odd) thing is that the older I get, the less flexible I feel. Yoga definitely helps with the physical flexibility, but I need to do some real work on the other kind. A former yoga instructor used to say, “Flexible spine, flexible mind.” Does physical flexibility, then, lead to mental flexibility? Not necessarily.
What does it mean to be flexible? I find that I sometimes learn more about the meaning of a word if I take a look at its antonyms. So, what’s the opposite of flexible?
• rigid
• obstinate
• unaccommodating
• unadaptable
• unbendable
• stern
Ew. That was easy. I don’t want to be any of those words. These words sound much nicer:
• soft
• springy
• stretchy
• adjustable
• limber
• willowy
I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with a nice, neat conclusion to wrap up this post, but I just realized that through the process of writing it, I’ve come to understand another small part of my life–which is the whole point of this blog anyway–and I don’t really feel like I need to provide a nice, neat conclusion to wrap it up. I hope you’re okay with that.
This blog is like my online mat space and yoga practice: it’s by, for and about me. If, by chance, there are others of you who spend an enormous amount of mental and spiritual energy questioning
E V E R Y T H I N G ,
maybe you’ll identify with these posts. I hope so, anyway.
[Afterword: I just Googled “starfruit” in an attempt to find out why I haven’t seen them in the produce section for quite some time. Look what Snopes.com has to say about a 2008 e-mail warning about the fruit:
The item quoted above, typically titled “Star Fruit Can Kill,” has been circulating on the Internet since at least May 2008. The original author is unknown to us, but the piece draws its information from April 2008 news reports surrounding the death of Tang Gon Sean, a 66-year-old Malaysian man Star fruit who on 29 March 2008 passed out after eating star fruits, was taken to Shenzhen General Hospital, and subsequently expired there after falling into a coma. Ten other patients at that same hospital experienced symptoms similar to his, and two died, said Tan Si-Yen, the doctor quoted in those news reports. All had eaten star fruit.
Relatively little known in North America, star fruit is popular in China, Taiwan, India, Philippines, Australia, Central America, Africa, and Brazil. While this foodstuff’s proper name is carambola, it is more commonly called “star fruit” because of its shape, which causes slices taken from it to resemble stars. It has a sweet, mild taste somewhat akin to a cross between apple and lime, and is rich in antioxidants and vitamin C. It also has the potential to harm kidney patients.
Star fruit contains a neurotoxin that affects the brain and nerves but which people with healthy kidneys are able to filter out; it therefore poses no danger to those whose kidneys function normally. However, those with renal problems lack protection from that neurotoxin and thus risk “star fruit intoxication,” a condition that manifests with insomnia, hiccups, vomiting, numbness of limbs, decreased muscle power, twitching of muscles, confusion, and convulsions, with the time between ingestion and onset of symptoms varying from thirty minutes to fourteen hours. Intractable hiccups are often the first symptom to present itself.
While the majority of those hospitalized for star fruit intoxication do recover, some deaths have been associated with this condition. Star fruit-exacerbated complications in kidney patients are rare, but they are potentially fatal, and thus this fruit is best avoided by those with kidney problems, including those on dialysis. Indeed, dialysis is the only treatment known to be effective in treating this illness, yet it must be both daily and intensive to have the desired effect, and continuous dialysis has been recommended for severe cases.
The National Kidney Foundation (NKF) advises in its Dietary Guidelines for Adults Starting on Hemodialysis: “Always AVOID star fruit (carambola).”
Information about the interaction of renal patients and star fruit did not first surface in April 2008; medical literature has been documenting reports of and studies about the star fruit’s effect on kidney patients at least since 2000, with such findings subsequently reported by the general media.
Barbara “star report” Mikkelson
Last updated: 11 June 2009
WTF? Intractable hiccups? Convulsions? DEATH???!!! I’ve never been so thankful to have a perfectly-functioning set of kidneys in my life.
Will someone please invent time travel, already?
Is it a bad thing that I’ve started to watch the clock and wonder what time is too early to start drinking? I’m pretty strict about waiting till my husband gets home in the evening so I’m at least not drinking alone. But lately I find myself wondering if 3:00 is too early? Maybe a glass of wine or two with my salad at lunch? That sounds pretty sophisticated–although not as sophisticated as when I’d go for lunch at T.G.I.Friday’s with work colleagues and order a Long Island iced tea. (Really, that only happened once. Or twice.)
Sometimes Okay, frequently I find myself wallowing in retrospection and regret. And if that doesn’t sound unhealthy, I don’t know what does. It’s like if I just focus long and hard enough on whatever aspect of the past I happen to be obsessing about, I can magically transport myself back there and do things differently. And then when it doesn’t happen, I get even more regretful and depressed.
Then I have to try and pick myself back up by repeating all the mantras I’ve accumulated over the years, starting with the most recent:
Then I move on to:
You are loved. All is well. (Abraham)
This too shall pass. (Unknown)
Leap, and the net will appear. (John Burroughs)
It’s all a journey. (????????)
Rub some dirt on it. (husband’s Little League coach)
There’s no crying in baseball. (A League of Their Own)
Ball up. (tactful, loving brother)
Then maybe I’ll listen to my Abraham-Hicks CDs, or, alternately, Rush or Pink Floyd, and things either continue to deteriorate or husband comes home from work and we watch 30 Rock.
I think the real problem is that I’m simply not very good at at being Present. Oh, I like to talk the talk. (“How was yoga, honey?” “Oooh, transcendent. I was really in the zone tonight.”) But when it comes to walking the walk, I’m just not There. And I’ve been aware of There and studying There and trying to be There for almost ten years.
[At this point, I need to overwhelmingly, enthusiastically and lovingly thank my friend Shelly for introducing me to Mary Graham and the Creative Living Institute.
Shelly, Mary and CLI expanded my world and became a turning point in my life.]
Maybe this is all okay. Maybe working towards There is what life’s all about. Maybe I won’t ever get There. Maybe I will. But I do know this: beating myself up about every decision I can’t change isn’t going to help. Maybe if there’s one small gift I could give myself, it would be to love myself as much as or more than hummingbirds, flowers, sparkles on the water, moonlight, shooting stars, butterflies, autumn leaves and Carolina wrens.
The Law of Attraction at work.
If, like me, you’re a student of Abraham and the Law of Attraction, the following will make a lot of sense.
Yesterday was not a good day. Sometimes the smallest thing sets me off. More often it’s the combination of the smallest thing coupled with perimenopausal hormone levels. Then, because the Law of Attraction is a real thing (like gravity) and is in effect every day all the time, most times things just deteriorate from there–unless I’m able to reroute my attitude, which doesn’t often happen.
The thing that set me off yesterday was a trip to our local Safeway for my favorite yogurt and discovering they apparently no longer carry it.
Let me be clear that this kind of thing inexplicably happens to me with disturbing and irritating frequency. This leads me to believe I either have really bad taste or I belong to a very small, elite minority with such highly evolved taste that the rest of the world simply can’t keep up.
Anyway, the AWOL yogurt was another one of those Final Straws I mentioned in an earlier post. It prompted an f*bomb-laden text to my darling husband, who is painfully aware that I don’t always respond to these types of personal challenges with my Highest and Best Self. The text said:
You know what? Fuck Abraham. Sometimes I really just want to be able to hate my fucking life without the fear of attracting more shit.
Ew, right? Right. Enter the Law of Attraction. Or, if you prefer, the very similar Threefold Law, as stated in the Wiccan Rede:
“Mind the threefold law ye should, three times bad and three times good.”
In other words, like attracts like. That which is like is drawn unto itself. As within, so without. You get the picture.
Back to the yogurt. I decided to try the Corvallis Safeway about 15 minutes away. Guess what? No Nancy’s yogurt there either. So I went to Market of Choice, and SUCCESS! All the Nancy’s yogurt flavors I could ever want and then some. Hurray for me!
[Insert thoughts of rainbows, butterflies, unicorns, playful kittens.]
At this point, I should let you know that I had brought puppy along for the ride. Remember happy dog from the other day?
I thought you might. She is cute, isn’t she? Unfortunately, she also gets carsick. But I naively thought she was over it–with good reason, as she hadn’t gotten carsick for almost a month.
Here’s where things started to get weird.
We were in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, and I was just about to go in when she barfed up copious bright pink vomit containing all manner of yard debris, including grass, plum pits (hence the bright pink hue), scilla bulbs, mulch, and a rather unhealthy amount of colorful string from the rope toy she’d been busily ripping apart for days.
“Hello, friend,” said the Universe. “This is especially for you. Thank you for your order. I am happy to comply. Please come again.”
Can you see where this is going?
Poor sad puppy. Poor grossed-out me. I cleaned up her travel crate as best I could, and we headed straight home. I then found myself following a garbage truck for the next 15 minutes.
“Hello again, friend,” said the Universe. “Aren’t I doing a good job giving you exactly what you asked for? Enjoy your drive home.”
When I got home, I realized I’d forgotten about leaving one of our two cats out on the patio in the kitty cabaña.
She, of course, had barfed up a large hairball and was meowing at the top of her lungs to be freed from the vomitorium.
“Hello, friend,” said the Universe once again. “Have you had enough? I can keep this up all day, if you like.”
I’ll wrap this up. I apologized to the pets for being the worst mom ever, fed them dinner, cleaned up the car and the patio, threw a load of vomit-splattered towels, blanket and crate pad in the laundry, and thanked the Universe for being so responsive.
Husband came home from work shortly thereafter to find me tear-streaked and sprawled on the couch in front of the stereo listening to Rush loud enough to shake the entire house in a manner akin to the classic Maxell audio tapes commercial, drinking wine straight from the bottle.
“Mind the threefold law ye should, three times bad and three times good.”
Indeed.
My True North 