Intention Gym

learning to love ourselves grows our spirits

After viewing Gay Hendricks’ videos about upper limit problems, I now clearly see how pattern/habit works.

I think of how my children would dig out grooves in the soil on our northern property so that the melting snow and downfall of rain could run in the gully established for it. They would take turns running their stick tools repeatedly in the soil. When a rain would come, they would go out and unblock the areas where rocks, tree needles and clumps of dirt would try to dam up the flow.

my cheer leading shirt

Habit is both my friend and my prison. As I mindlessly attended to the preparation of my rental rooms for airbnb, I watched myself. I am such a voyer of my life. I had no difficulty emptying the dishwasher, putting the laundry in, making the beds, cleaning the bathroom. Even picking up the small broken leaf fragments from the floor is ingrained.

But the larger things, the higher limit things are resisting me. There is a block. There is a big, fat ole rock that has rolled into the groove of wanting my book published.

Looking closely at the inner beauty

First I do that which is programmed in my data base because I see it as successful. Perception is completion.

After five years of running a bnb, the habits are in charge. But the larger dream, the dream of having Walking the Streets of Blood are a challenge.

I laugh at myself for not wanting to seek out yet more rejection from publishers. As I hang sheets on the line I think of Stephen King who came home from his menial, unfulfilling job and was able to sit down and put in another work day of writing. He sent his work out repeatedly to be rejected.

As I work in the even, open and flowing groove of habit, I am mentoring myself. I am talking to myself about the possibilities.

The conscious mind can be a life coach. The pre-frontal cortex can be the loving parent. The higher mind can be a cheerleader.

And the ability to calm down my frustration with myself for not being what I can see myself called to be is very like what my children did. They did not go out and swear at the blocks in the designed flow of energy. They simply removed the blocks. And soon there were little rivers moving down the hillside according to their design.

Thank you to Stephen King, and two children for reminding me of that lesson today.

Living in the Future Is Nowhere Land

It is an absolute virus of mind warp. Our culture teaches us to drive blind. If I were driving in the manner that I live life, I would have my eyes down on Google Maps and be doing searches for alternative paths. I would be searching Know the City for places I am not moving through. I would be reading blogs describing someone else’s past in order to formulate what my future destination will be.

Looking through a lense

This is “impaired” living and I should be given a whopping fine. I and everyone else is dangerous on the energy road when we have our eyes down searching inside ourselves,  searching out forecasts of futures that are actually just projections of our past.

What we see is a mere reflection

How many ways of lost can a directionally impaired person become? Oh it is enough for four or five stand up comedy routines.

I had my eyes on the future picture of a perfection coupling when I married the man who at the first meeting was drunk and actually set his pocket on fire while lighting a cigarette. I thought it “cute”.

What about the man who asked me to lunch but only had enough money to buy himself wine? No clue there….
Or I had my eyes on the projection of perfection fairy tale when I took a job that left me chopping wood for my furnace for nine years in a town wherein suicide was considered the best method of dealing with depression. Grimm at best.

Shadow Self

The future is nothing more than the recreation of the story of our past.

When I first read the studies that 95% of our mental activity is traceable to the area in our brain that was constructed by our experiences under the age of 7, I pushed back. I resisted with all the mite of my five, six and seven year old self. I slammed doors in my mental construct housing. I threw glass objects at the walls of restriction in a futile attempt to break out of the truth telling.

And then, I examined the ashes of my past narratives. How many times had I burned to the ground and I was left only with charred photos of what I had convinced myself was the truth.

I stood in the ruins of four different massive failures in my life with sooty fingers and realized that I had created all of it by not knowing that I was creating all of it.

I did not hear nor did I see what was in the present because my eyes were down.

I would pet the nice kitty and only realize it was a mythical beast of destruction AFTER it had consumed a part of me.

What I hope to God I have learned and what I hope I can bring to my clients as a coach is the understanding that all of us need to keep our eyes on the road.

What is happening now? What thoughts am I having? What fears and anxieties am I paving the road ahead of me with… a stretch of turbulence, a tight winding on the edge of a cliff?

The future is in the breath. The future is in the dreams. The future is in the light that surrounds and protects us. Get off of your devices and be present.

You create all of it.

Everything will change. Everything will shift. Welcome to NOW.

And breathe.

Everything Does Not Exist

Everything Does Not Exist:

I have been surrounded by some people recently who are ill. He or she has had a relationship fracture. A dear life partner has been caught by a disease or the turning upon the body of itself.

Meanwhile, the social media feed has become a sewer pipe of toxic waste. The environment is under attack. Political systems are like a dissatisfied person sitting on a bar stool. Random flirtations with something new, looking for answers in all the wrong places.

Children of only the select few are protected. Women’s rights are being eroded so much it is like watching a glacier recede. The society is time traveling to the 1950’s. Naomi Wolfe in her book Vagina analyses the fear based resistance when women are gaining power. It accounts for much of the current claw backs of equality.

An issue that has people in a state of disbelief is the strategy of passive genocide. From the earliest day in American history, the settlers embraced the concept of Outward signs of Inner Grace.

And in today’s political climate of the billionaire congress, there is a reversion to the old philosophy which has always run underground.

If a person is selected by God, that person will be male; that person will be white; that person will be physically attractive; that person will be healthy and lastly the badge of God’s love comes with the presence of wealth.

The removal of protection for the weak, the ill, the deformed, the outcasts, those who are not a mirror image of the white male billionaire model, is the logical result of the philosophy of grace and damnation. Passive genocide works. Street people die in the cold. Drug addicts overdose in a system of selectivity. The “lower classes” have a higher infant mortality rate.

While the uber rich are having new hearts popped in like battery renewal. Hips, knees, shoulders, kidneys, facelifts, breast renewal options float around this select group.

At the same time, so many are in free fall out of the middle class because of the lightening strike of a single illness. A factory closes; a job ends and with it the entire structure of a life crashes to earth.

The greatest darkness that a social system can carry is the blindness to the understanding that no single person, or family, or class must earn the right to be included. Care and protection is a birth right. And it is in those countries that have the vision of equality that economic success is most vibrant.

The soul of a nation can be blighted. Slavery, native India genocide, racial hatred is a deep sickness that will be carried within the history of a country. The first step in creating a world that is calm, a world that is safe is to address the soul sickness that is held within a nation’s story.

Compassion, inclusiveness, equality, commitment to humanity are the real outward signs of inner grace.

Inevitably, each person and each nation selects a philosophy, a cosmology to reside within.

It is a time when each of us must select a way of moving in the world if there is to be a world which survives. We all count. We all count.

Kelowna: What the garden teaches.

Today I awakened at 7 am because it is too hot to mow the lawn at noon. I pushed the hand mower around my yard like a three year old would a Fisher-Price toy. I made patterns and swooped. When I saw some raggle taggle weed poking out from my giant purple Iris clump I would drop the handle and go over to pull the taunting weed out with a sudden jerk.
I drifted off to weed a neighbouring bed of peonies and daisies.

Then I was back to mowing. The oriental enamelled leaves of the new Japonica in the center of a patch of front yard are breath taking in color. If they were jewellery or the paint color of a convertible car they would be admired, stop people in their tracks, cause wonderment.

I walked behind the mower with its toy like noise. The grass smelled sweet releasing the odor of memories. I could hear my neighbours of 24 years talking together over the fence. My guests sat on the deck reading the books that I had placed on the shelf.

The tulips were here to explode into color the fireworks of celebration. Now their petals curl in. The petals have lost their color and curl into a fist before dropping to the ground. Their job is done once they had exclaimed, “Winter is dead. Winter is dead.’

As I walked the yard I saw the flat handed white of the daisies opening up. They are a busy, simple flower that has crept into my lawn and every bed they can reach.

“Good for you, daisies,” I encouraged them as I mowed.

There is something so deeply extraordinary about the acts that we repeat to the point that they become a ritual. Mowing the lawn is one. I first mowed a lawn when I was eight and it was with a push mower. Now I am 72 and every garden I have ever moved through comes back to me as I walked.

A transition of seasons, the changing birth and dying of species of flowers and plants, a rhythm of existence is not about anticipation. It is the farthest point possible from anticipation. Now becomes a discovery. And how I move through that which I have planted is about acceptance and excitement.

The columbine are gigantic this year. In previous years, they were closer to the earth and timid.

I plant, I weed, I attend to the repetition of taking care of what is around me. The repetition sows the seeds of delight.

And above all, it teaches me how to connect to the earth when I am working in the garden. It teaches me about intention, selection and persistency of practice.

I do not know if this seed will flourish or perish. It is about trusting that no matter what happens the lesson will blossom. 

Floods, Storms, Rain, Heat…Frowning Nature: Kelowna Floods

Today I planted some hot peppers and tomato plants in the 20 degree heat. I first had to clear the leaves, seeds and broken off limbs strewn across all of the surfaces after the violent storm of the previous night. After several hours of raking, I cleared the signs of the destruction and could turn to production.

As darkness approached, I lay in my bed looking out my window at the gigantic maple tree which looms over my home.  It was sown in 1946 or 1947. The branches flung out slapping at my roof and then snapped back in the opposite direction. Winds reached up to 80 kilomteres an hour. I could see the arch of limbs flailing frighteningly close to the glass through which I viewed the show. Idly, I thought about how one of the branches could snap off and come through the roof pinning me to the bed, or crushing my limbs with its limbs.

 

 

But eventually I was too tired to stay awake to see if I would die. Rolling over onto my left side, I turned my back to the threat. I figured that I would be there if anything happened, so I stopped watching the dance. I fell into a fitful sleep.

Currently, my house and my neighbourhood crouches on the edge of the edge of the lake. Some people have lost their piers or their beach front decorations to the water which now stands at 127% over the top of the lake. Residents receive updates from the city which may tell us to evacuate should the water begin crawling towards us. We walk along the disappearing beaches and watch the news nervously.

We are told the snow pack is only 20% melted and there is little joy in hot weather when you are so aware that the orange bladder like snake that has been laid along the waterfront will not prevent a turbulent surge of flood water.

It is an unsettling time. The B.C . election was just decided by a count of votes in one district. The orange buffon is visiting various religious capitals to generously share  the vapid, idiotic and effete personal style that he wears. In case any country has not seen exactly how misguided the United States has become, he takes his travelling freak show far and wide.

There is an irritability in the energy field. The bombing in Manchester, the striking and killing of a bus load of Syrian children, the revolutions in Venezuela and the Philipines are all pushing into the spotlight which becomes a darker and darker place.

And so we wait. We wait to see if the lake will rise and send us out of our neighbourhood. We wait to see if the B.C. government will form in a way that honors the earth and conducts itself in an humanitarian manner. We wait to see how the circus act President will end his performance. We wait to see if our federal government will fulfill the sunny ways promises.

Today I planted and walked around the garden with so many questions in my head.

. Where is the centre of this turbulent time? What truth is waiting to be revealed?

The sun was warm on my shoulders as it melted the snow into torrents down the hill sides. All I can do is stand quietly barefoot in the garden.

Overhead a bunch of Canada Geese flew very low and close to me. They were all squawking at once. There was no formation. Each flew alone, low and loud.