Category Archives: wisdom with age

The Ice Mountain Physio Challenge

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After breaking my wrist, I was so carefully in submission to my body’s need for healing. I envisioned my bone mending and did all I could to support that process. Since I had never broken a major bone before (pinky toes don’t count) I knew little of the result of hibernation for six weeks.

I skipped along to the hospital to have the cast cut off and discovered the snipping of the support opened up a world of pain. Diligently, I pushed through and twisted my hand into the shapes the physio recommended.

And then the snow came. The shovel and I became a team. I cleared a “landing pad” for my car out in front of my house by digging the blade of the shovel in, doing a mindful squat, supporting the majority of the weight with my good hand and then carefully twisting my left wrist to deposit the snow. My goal in this game of reclaim was to have the ice mountain gone that had been build by the snow plow and various clearings.
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blue snow

Today the sun is shining for the second day and just a mound about the size of two tires stacked together sits out in front of the house. It is like my debt… such a small percentage of the original blockage is still sitting there. The joy of going after a goal and completing it is within a 100 scoops of my shovel. Every victory is to be celebrated. And the result has been a stronger body after six days of the snow workout and a much more responsive hand.

The mountain in the way of self confidence can be removed… one habit at a time. Every victory is to be celebrated.

Getting Lost in Control Mode

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As I was pulling weeds this morning, it hit me. It was a special effects, explosion of color energy, transportation to the centre of observer seeing so clearly how I operate moment.
When I see me, I know it is a true “vision” when it is not a harsh, judgemental, OCD perfectionism, adult watching rebellious teenagerish tinted vision.

We see through our own shadow.

I tried to pull the invasive plant from the hardened soil and it broke off in my hands. And then I stood careful not to crush a “real” flower. I was barefoot in the dress a bed and breakfast guest left for me.

I walk around with it on, lately, most of the day. I put on no bra, do not brush my hair and get up straight out of bed to do my work. I have over a 100 guests a month to prepare for.

And so I stood in the silky, modest dress without any attempt to seem like anything.

“I use the walls as a defence.”

As a child having a dangerous father who let me know at any time he could kill me if I was not compliant; having a dangerous father whose body was inhabited by a kaleidoscope of six rotating personalities had left me wary.
The one thing I could do once I left home was to refuse.

At home, I could never refuse. It would cost me my life.

living in the structure

It left me singularly alone. The nine years I spent in University were spent by and large in a library.

The orderly books were my defensive structures. There was quiet. No one could suddenly begin screaming in anger or pain in a library. There were no games. A book was checked out, checked in and read within certain parameters.

My safety, my sanity, my ability to grow depended on my controlling the gates of my existence.

I went through four roommates my first year of college because I refused to engage. The head of the dormitory called me in to see why they kept leaving me.

Trust was a foreign concept to me. Withdrawing into silence, into long midnight walks on a deserted campus, into ideas and books and biographies of others’ lives served me well.

Added to the taint of trauma was the fact that I was an empath which meant that just walking into a room filled with people would be strenuous. That woman over there bend over her drink has been battered. The loud, heavy man is carrying so much grief it almost dissolves my own body.
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And so I controlled any contact that I had with others. I had to go to work. I had to make money and function in the world but I was an actress.

I had learned early on that crying at my desk in second grade would only lead to the bully gang finding me at lunch time and circling me to beat me. They would turn the zippers of their jackets outward and strike me with them until the zippers left welts.
One does not cry when one is beaten at home because there is no room for solace in the school.

Chickens see the spot of blood and will go after the weak one. This is what I learned in primary school.

For three months of the year I could not go to school because the bruises were too telling. Someone would know. I must not betray the family.

I was taught that when I was the most injured, I must hide it.

I became an actress. My shining intelligence, my feigned self confidence, and my carefully built muscular body made the struggle invisible to those around me.

creating a strong body image.

And I could always control who was around me.

I could always refuse to answer the phone; refuse to go to the party; refuse to join a group. It was how I survived.

I will be 73 years old in August. As I stood in the garden in the silky dress without having undergone any morning rituals of artificiality, I saw that my way of dealing with my experiences was neither mistaken nor unnecessary.

Bare feet on the ground, a broken off weed in my hand, I said to myself, “This is where you are now.”

There was no need to grade my “performance.”

I am just here to learn. And maybe it is time to stop hiding who I am.

That thought felt good.

Blindness. Walking in confidence

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Spiritual blindness clouds my vision at times. I keep returning to the programmed scripts of scarcity, competition, victimhood and this flat paper doll world construct where in we are standing in our underwear waiting for some outside source to dress us up. The giant hand will cover the shame of who we are without acceptable stylish cover. The controlling hand will give us the fabric of status. We will be anointed by validation. We will be absolved of our denuded humanity by the powerful outside authority.

The distance between where we believe we can go and where we can get to belief is always something I am aware of. Like someone walking in a mirage desert projecting in a landscape of oasis, my programmed reality is at odds with that which my spirit knows to be true.

The big work for me is to release the struggle. How do I go from what I am now to what I know myself capable of being? Where is the map? What are the instructions? Am I supposed to read it by the full of the moon or with a candle held behind it so I can see the tracings of the journey?

Like some lost, skitterish animal, meditation finds me stuck in a gully, or trapped under loose scree. Meditation brings me back to the container of now, of breath, of body, of allowing all of the fear-pain-anger to just exist in now.

we live in a grid

What my practice has done for me is to allow me to push the “Start Over” button. I have also found that sitting silence or chanting until my tears fall without check allows me to be loving to myself. I return to my intention to stay in the experience of growth.

In the past, I was in a self created classroom not unlike the one my mother described in the 1930’s. When she made a mistake, the ruler marks raised welts on her hands. When she did not learn at a rate or at a predetermined level of performance, she had to sit on a tall stool wearing a tall hat.
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In the past, I was in the classroom of perfectionism and I was brutal and unforgiving of myself.

Meditation allows me to push the re-set intention button. I start again. I view myself with loving kindness. Because I have come to understand that being human is basically a bitch, I know to be kind. Because I have come to appreciate that being born into a body IS the hell we all fear mistakenly fear in the afterlife, I have come to be more compassionate to all of us.

William James knew

One time when I was in Floatspace, I saw the souls as lights. They were in the waiting room between lives and each one chose to come down the shoot of energy into his or her mother. Each one made the commitment to come to earth and agree to be born. As I floated in the salt water, I saw a hundred thousand lights travelling to earth to agree to enter a body. They agreed to suffer pain, face death, walk in the mass delusion of whatever their culture had constructed because they wanted to learn.

We see what we believe

It takes my breath away, the bravery of souls. We are here to learn. I am here to learn. And it is through meditation that I can keep my focus and like an adventurer ask the question: What is the real map?

I get lost. I stumble. I forget to be grateful. But I know that this life is where it all happens. It is where we truly learn to love.

How to Live in Interesting Times

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These are not trivial times. You would have to have been abducted and put in some shed, bunker, outback hill hollowed out captive at random especially built structure to be unaware.

 

Every beautiful thing is here

It is a time of triggered, reactive, defensive, spewing of fear. So many are feeling like their nervous systems have been tasered and as they finish their convulsions of neurological energy epilepsy, they lay limp looking around for WHO did that. They find some post on facebook, or twitter, or snapchat or some news source and attach all of their explosive overload onto that one thing.

The other day a troll fight broke out about Oprah and Weight waters. What was her motivation? Was she altruistic? Was she simply marketing? God help us all if we can’t believe in the Oprah Ministry of Follow Me.

I put up a response as I watched some insisting that Oprah was being disrespected and attacked by others’ comments. Reading through the thread again, I saw not one disrespectful comment. I was curious.

Then I got it. Good lord the media is corrupt. We have to cover our heads to protect ourselves from the revelations that most of the structures, systems, institutions, inculcated belief systems are mind prisons and simply not reliable. We are like a partner in a marriage that has been betrayed and can no longer believe in anyone.

People are like children. The safety corner is gone. The sanctuary is a myth. Daddy is a monster and has committed atrocities that we weep to see.

So what is left? The limbic system is running the show. We have four choices when we are in rapid foaming at the mouth fear states: fight, flight, fornicate, feed.

The cracks mean reformation

And so people are triggered instantaneously. They are having trouble with insomnia. They are experiencing neurological diseases for some yet unexplained reason. They are walking around with a skin crawling type of anxiety.

Blaming themselves works for a while and then they look outward.

The question becomes, “Who is attacking me now?”
How else do you explain the tsunami of cortisol flowing through the society?
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What if the crow were yellow?

So we attack one another. Somebody out there is doing this to me. Something out there is doing this to me. And then the eyes squinch up and they fall upon somebody who is attacking the vestiges of faith they still manage to cling to.

Oprah… no. I will fight for this symbol of light and truth.

I joking said that people are so triggered at the present time and so engaged in verbal fist fights on social media that I dare not post I like sweet pickles.

Somebody will come on the thread and say only garlic dill pickles are real and good. Sweet pickles are chemical, GMO, owned by a devil company, poisoning heavy lead mercury nano robot bone marrow depleting.

And heaven protect us all if I had said olives are the best.

And so we have become like children or frightened animals and race around looking for someone else to blame for the clearly and truly chaotic energy place the world occupies today.

Now more than ever, we are called upon to ground ourselves and become mindful. To see the flash of fear energy entering the body or leaving the body is to be in a place where you are no longer a victim.

It is what meditators strive for. It is what paramedics strive for. The calm understand that people are hurt right now will allow you to be able to see everything with the higher brain function. Instead of being a victim, you can become an emergency worker. You can show up with love. You can show up with compassion. It is what we are being called to do.

And I have no emotion around Oprah, pickles, which music group is the best. The heated debates are the result of marauding gangs of victims looking for a way to release fear. It is unnecessary.

The result is a population that is more fearful and more easily manipulated.

Sit down. Meditate. Check your body. Everything you need that allows you to grow up is right there.

You eat whatever pickles or olives you wish listening to any music that makes you vibe high and learn to believe in yourself and your instincts. There is no Daddy or Mommy. We are grown ups.

When weather becomes the truth

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Sometimes we live in our heads, or in our past, or are lost in a scripted narrative someone else has penned. But when each of us opens the door and the percussive wall of cold strikes the entire body, all of the accompanying orchestration of violin thoughts stops. There is only the skin taking the temperature.

 

extreme weather

The frozen patterns like faces press against the windows partially imprinted on the car. It isn’t until the extreme falls away after turning on the heater that I go back into the droning, circle patterned of flying thoughts.
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Part of the pleasure of walking the icy sidewalk into the howling wind is the weather itself bringing me into the breathing moment. I hear my lungs at work. I see the air warming and steaming out of me. The cold is slapping me out of it. I am only this step, this foot, this warm boot, this creature moving on the ground.

And when I was in Peru and laid in the hammock, I ran sweat slipping my body surfaces like waterfalls on a sculptured hillside. The walk up the path would begin with the skittling thoughts but as I shoved myself against the moist, hot air I recognized that the trailing end of a narrative had melted and disappeared. With several more steps I would begin again but the line of thought dissolved even earlier on until I was released from any interest except my breath and the wall of opposition the tropics pushed against my progress. At times, I felt I was behind myself trying to catch up with the place my body had now moved into.

Extremes of weather hold some fundamental truth. There is only the body, the skin, the breath, the intention of movement and it leaves us free of the embroidered speculations in the mind. It stops us cold.

A Full Moon and Mortality

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It is a time of sadness. I am sleeping deeply with the comfort of my habitual sadness blanket wrapping me alone. I am a mummy in my bed, the cold air cracking in my window strokes my face.

meditation on Christmas
The Ice full moon burns cold in the empty sky and next door my neighbours have colored lights strung on every branch in their yard. They are unafraid of child wonder excess in their unfenced territory.
I have a single ornament swinging from the hook meant to cradle newspapers. The gold star is all that I have left from what I threw out when I changed my life.
Under the fat moon the snow was blue, last night, and sequined. But I could not capture my reality with my camera as I stood there. It would not read whether I stood or crouched.
Reaching out. Not reaching out. All the same, my ego tells me. I am a vessel sink and the memories pass through me like water carried away somewhere I cannot know. The seven families that I have passed through are present at Christmas.

Just now, I lack the fire to excite myself. Teaching myself patience day by day, I sit meditation and feel into my thoughts like breath, like water passing in and through me.
I watch the desire for the perfect self appear and pass away.
And I listen to my ego chastising me for the errors that I insist upon repeating.
I wrestle with the desire not to wrestle with my thoughts and simply drop my eyes to feel so much grief for being human. The grief of yearning for more than I could possibly hold in my own two fists is singing to me.
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I watch and endure the waiting for the end of waiting. I think of the magnificent sparkler moments when I just burst into the light an ecstasy moment of love.
I am sitting waiting for passion to carry me out of this frozen time, to carry me above the rigidness of anger. I endure the invasions of barbarian thoughts destroying everything in their path.

We create the self. We go beyond the self
I work on myself learning how to accommodate the chaos of being alive in a body in this time, at this time, marked by the franking of my sex, my family, my culture, my identification.

The only untainted goal is to be between restless desires for a split moment and let the tears like water flow from me, flow through me to clarify my vision so that I maybe present when I am called upon to love.
I sit and watch the invasions of my barbarian thoughts and forgive myself for being merely and so magnificently human.

Gathering thoughts like socks

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It has been neither nor, not either or lately. The weather has caused the persistence of my flowers setting hopeful buds and the continued infill of grass in the bald spot in my lawn.

 

Trees heavy with no snow

Trees heavy with no snow

I have also been floating in some kind of bubble since I returned from Los Angeles for the Airbnb conference. There I was surrounded by 15000 other hosts and constant stimulation.

I followed my “open door” policy that I adhere to when I am travelling. If a door is open, I go in. I found an architecture school retrospective and a feminist film festival. The experience was delightful and I felt happy, excited and at home.

l-a-castle

Los Angels looks like a Castle in the distance

Getting back to Kelowna was less stimulating. I fell into distraction mode by watching netflix every evening.

So I am neither totally at home as I stretch out my desire fingers for more stimulus, nor ready to travel. It is an in-between state.

I find myself thinking a great deal about Christmas.

Christmas is, basically, about time. It is when we slide from past images of ourselves surrounded or trapped; supported or sabotaged by our immediate family.

Rituals are powerfully present. The old ornaments are dug out of boxes. The archived rituals like museum displays of half remembered or reconstructed narratives surround us.

Some try to recreate what went before and others like survivors of an undisclosed war suffer flash back intensity moments.

 

out my winter window

out my winter window

Another group tries to sand away the family chisled pictograph stories and start again.

The pressure from the societal mindset to experience the “most wonderful time of the year” leads to scarcity mind. Comparisons lurk everywhere. It is a time of the highest suicide rate in Western culture.

The chasm lies like an earthquake severed landscape between what we are told we “should” be experiencing and what we have actually experienced in our lives.

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We are desperate to cover up the crevassed split between that which we see in our own lives and the mythical saccharine made for TV movies.

But we do have the ability to walk about this shifting landscape and between the seasons with grace and skill.

We each find our own way forward to the place where our own version of the everyday super hero lives.

We can move away from the seasonal quaff from the cup of bitterness or booze. We can clear see the mindless expectation that are trying to script our decisions.

Getting to the next thing… the next season… the next stage of who we are becoming is an immense relief.

The question is: “Who am I now?”

“Who am I now?”

“Who am I now?”

We step as children into our own past and re-author all of it with every new thought.

Freedom to love comes from freedom from the old stories.

What is this time that now holds me?

The season moves to a wall of cold and winter shows up. Christmas shows up with so much possibility.

 

my livingroom sanctuary

my livingroom sanctuary

We are free to run towards others with a child like innocence and love. I am here. I showed up.

It is all new. It is all now. What fun.

What next? Staying grounded.

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The Waking

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BY THEODORE ROETHKE
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground!   I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
XXX
My goal is to walk so softly on the ground. But there are times I stumble, swear, feel blinded by some fog created by my urge to keep myself safe and protected.
The tension between the urge to create, go big, just fucking DO something and the necessity to be careful, orderly, not to take risks or attract too much attention from the Eye of Sauron has pretty much been the back beat track of the movie of my life.
What my ego is constantly whispering to me is ,”Not good enough. Not enough effort. You could have been so much bigger than this version of yourself. Why did you waste your time, your focus, your energy, your day, your week, your life!”
I think of those heart-felt movies where in a marathon runner has his crippled little brother on his back.  He chooses to run with the weight of the destroyed relative throughout the race. At times, I see my ego that way. I just keep carrying him or her or it with me and sometimes the being is just too heavy for me to run the marathon with any spectacular results.
But that image and message, too, are from the ego weight creature I carry.
At present I have been evolving in the way I almost inevitably do. It seems to be my style. I am stoic and patient for a time with an issue and use my super human suppression skills to cloak the problem in a field of invisibility. And then I stumble onto the next plan hidden behind the bushes.
My neck has disintegrating discs which have radiated migraines, ear aches and jackhammer skull pain for decades. It has gradually gotten better as I build the strength in my body and learn to work on flexibility.
My digestion has been a mess since I witnessed the Paris Attacks on the street where I was staying in November.
My message to myself is highly nuanced: I am doing well. I am armoured and impervious.
I had only one flashback after seeing the blood and hearing the screams of those dying. I have had no nightmares at all. I congratulated myself for staying in a field of love during and after the attack. There was no hatred or personal fear arising.
But my body has had unpredictable purges since December. I am clearing. I am clearing unexpectedly, rather constantly.
So somewhere along the way, I decided to deal with the ignored messages from my body.
xxx
First I went to body talk and the reader said I was carrying massive amounts of pain but it was not my pain. It was pain from others that had lodged in my body. She placed her hands on my spine and released tension which I could feel leaving like water from a burst pipe. The flowing out of that which I had been holding was something palpable.
Next, I decided to go for physio. I had two treatments releasing some locked areas in my body around my neck. After the second treatment, I suffered barely endurable pain. And I am tough. I have prided myself on my ability to “take it.”
I felt as if my skull were being attacked with a jackhammer from inside, from my brain. I had a massive migraine, pain shooting up my neck and out of my ears and the constant presence of nausea. I awoke in so much simultaneous distress it was impossible to focus on any one area.
I allowed myself a sugary drink, took a tylenol 3 and decided to just drug myself asleep with gravol.
When I went back for my third treatment, the physio indicated  that unlocking knots in the body can allow for information to start flowing that has been repressed. On the right side of my neck is an area that refuses to let go, he informed me.
I pointed out that I had a shard of bone standing up on that side on the front of my shoulder.
He stepped back and looked concerned. He said that it was an indicator of a dislocated shoulder at some time in my past.
When I went home with the new information to add to the missing puzzle bits of my life, I sat with the idea that this happened when I was under the amnesia blanket of my blacked out childhood. I have protected myself by not remembering. I have allowed myself to move forward in a healthy manner by not “knowing” what happened to me.
What is behind the doors.

What is behind the doors.

So in the last four years I have been able to gather further evidence. A energy therapist told me of my broken cheek bone. A woman’s retreat presented the information that not only my father but my grandfather were dangerous to me. And now I own the information that my shoulder was dislocated and never reset properly.
When parents hide the damage to their children so that they will not be found guilty, so much becomes unvalidated experience.
What I have come to understand is that my journey has been about using my mind to reclaim my full presence. I studied. I read. I attended conferences. I went for counselling to Elizabeth Fry on and off for eight years. And then I let it rest.
connecting with spirit
Next I moved onto working with spirit. I found a group of Catholic nuns who worked with energy and it was while I was attending their support group the entire understanding came to me. I was attacked at 18 months on by those who should have been my protectors.
What I came to accept is that I was lucky to be alive.
The grief was mammoth. I cried almost steadily for three months. I had not know. I had not let myself see. I had not consciously “experienced” the attacks at all. But the suppression was not working in my life.
The spiritual work continued with the guidance of Gabor Mate in a retreat and through his books. My meditation practice became the anchoring center of my life. I began to be able to love and not hide how much others meant to me.
I sat with Peruvian Shamans and with a Black Foot Medicine man. And I read. I read everything about how the brain works, the patterning of DNA. I studied Buddhism, Tao, Hinduism and I opened myself up to the deep connection with spirit.
What I have done in the last three weeks is a result of my adventure. I worked first on knowing that I was determined to survive. Then I used my mind to understand on that first level. The spirit work was only possible because I intellectually understood how important it was to get beyond the mind.
Finally, reconnecting with the messages in my body is the final and most illuminating step. I can only allow those neurological connections to bring messages because I am strong enough now. I have worked out, used weights, established habits of nurture and strengthening my body so that I can actually see how strong I am. That has helped me tremendously.
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What happens next? Don’t ask me. I didn’t plan this journey. I just let it take me to where it will. It is only afterward that I can see how “on purpose” my path has been.
“What falls away is always, and is near.”
I no longer fear to be seen. I no longer fear the Eye of Sauron. The greatest evil is to not see who we are and why. The greatest evil is to not allow ourselves to grow by doing whatever it takes. And I wait for the next directives with a vast curiosity. Life is such an adventure.
The kiss that has awakened me from sleep is my own.

Exhaustion and Anxiety

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I am repeatedly grateful for the CBC and the information it brings into my little attic hideaway. This morning they featured a show about the book Exhaustion: A History.

 

 
The concept of exhaustion being a contemporary post-modern experience is one held far and wide in today’s culture. The exhaustion that takes contemporary focus is the Chronic form of psychological fatigue triggered by bio-chemicals in a fight or flight syndrome. Or that is what contemporary specialist believe it to be. So we buy into this definition.
However, Anna Katharina Schaffner, the author points out that the pervasiveness of weariness is nothing new.
Galen writes about it in antiquity. The Medieval period called it acidia or an excess of acid in the body which created a condition called melancholia. It was considered a sin and sloth was the result.
Hans Seyle who is the father of the research on stress and resultant depression was stressed himself when he could find nothing measurable about energy. He came to a standstill when he asked, “What is energy?” The only answer that has presented itself in the scientific field in Western science is the measure of calories.
What has been woven into the psyche of the modern cultural Akashi record belief is that there is ‘something out there that will steal our energy’.
The bottom line of the historical focus on the depletion of energy is, according to Schaffner, a belief in the waning of efficacy; a falling away of energy and vitality as we age.

But the real anxiety is about the approach of death.
So historically philosophers, medical scientists, social scientists, psychologists have danced around the changing presentation of exhaustion. For medieval times it was thought to be the humours; during the Victorian Era a blanket of lassitude was the result of invention, modernization and education of women.

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Certain periods in history allowed only leisure classes the luxury of exhaustion and depression. However, today the world wide sense that this is the first time, this is the worst time for exhaustion with a sense of personal powerlessness is in error.
The fear of diminishment has been a constant in Western Culture since the age of Antiquity.
A big difference between Western Culture and Eastern Culture is the concept of a mechanistic “battery of energy” that loses its charge. In contrast to Eastern belief that Prana or Qi are replenishable sources.

Grounding in order to grow

Grounding in order to grow

 

The person who is feeling a diminishment can go to a practitioner and reconnect with source. Or the individual can go to a movement/breath practice mode which revitalizes the body and mind.
For me, the most interesting concept in the interview is that each person; each decade; each cultural moment is so intensified that we lose perspective.
The issue of facing one’s death, of having a healthy supportive connection to one’s body and of knowing we are not unique means that we can release the victim mode. We can see how connected we are to all who are alive on the earth and to all who have lived.

Once we understand that, we are able to move in the world with more compassion for ourselves and for others.
Thank you, CBC.

The “savings” account.

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carrying shadowsI read in one of the many how to save your marriage books, while I was still hopeful, some interesting advice. (Obviously the methodology requires two so THAT didn’t work.) The coach-therapist suggested that the couple store up good feelings so that they could draw on them when it was necessary in times of stormy weather.
Coupled with my reading on discipline fatigue, I was thinking about designing a life strategy. As I did my daily five loads of laundry, hanging the purple sheet, I thought of how edgy and irritable I get when I stick to my check list, and work with a total focus on building new habits.
I kick like a four year old… “don’t want to”. The promise land of supportive habits is mapped out on my giant calendar check list pasted above my reading chair.
“But what happens when I am just plain tired of making myself do better, be better, push for bigger goals,” I thought as I hung the golden colored bed sheet.
It was then it hit me. I have a less than peaceful relationship with myself. There is tension between me, myself and I.

Basically, she is always dissatisfied and reaching for more. I make a plan… and the vast stretch of the day with undulating hours like some ocean or desert spreads before me. I am both overwhelmed and bored..
“What I need,” I advised myself, “what I need is more treasure in my treasure chest of good feelings.”
Quitting such habits may cause improvement in the viagra cialis erectile function of a male. Suffering from erectile failure in the bed? Well, a reliable medicine sildenafil viagra generico along with healthy diet can help us in improving our sex life to a great extent? So, let’s talk about them in detail now! List of Best treatment for premature ejaculation. 1. The physician would give you correct suggestion after examining your body and also suggest some precautions to take. generika levitra always in stock All in all once a student buy cipla cialis is an independent learner eventually, as it has little interface to offer between trainers and a student. Bingo, bazat. There it is. That could help my primary relationship.
Instead of only allowing myself a beggar’s hoard of joyous moments, what if I went after them with intention in order to help out when I was just so done.

Saving positive moments

Saving positive moments

“But not just indulgences, “I remind myself. “You need to stick to the habit building plan.

I stood back and looked at the purple, golden, yellow and hot pink sheets waving on the line. Beautiful. So simply beautiful. I start with that image. I start now.