Where Am I Now?

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Washington State passes

The question of where I am in life keeps popping up in my head. It is the result of linear thinking, three dimensional floating in my own waters of delusional aquarium life existence. “Where am I?” “How am I doing?” “What next?”

The sense of not knowing has been hanging in the air like some heavily laden perfume. The smell of repressed depression has lingered in the environment for almost three years.

The journey this summer has caused a sharp break in that sense of constraint. Driving across the states of Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Utah and Colorado through the haze of smoke nestled on the horizon was an adventure.

The flat land stretched out for days. One night I was listening to the University of Utah’s jazz program that runs for several hours. Darkness, stars, flat almost deserted highway and beautiful Cab Calloway pieces were surrounding me. The show told me stories about the history of jazz and its great musicians.

Travel is so much a metaphor for life. The assumptions that I make about the next stretch are usually in error. Sitting in the heat inching along in Vancouver, B.C. because there were accidents on all three major egresses is good practice for patience. I put on my favorite CD and sang along. The thoughts peeking out from the back of my mind was, “Oh no. This will go on forever. It will take hours to get out of here. Now I will be late for the entire journey.” But it was a small voice.

My bigger voice was telling me, “You are here.” Period. Who knows what conditions will exist in an hour, in a day, or tomorrow. The mountain pass was challenging with the rapacious, semi-suicidal semi-truck drivers jumping one another, cutting in, passing on impossible curves. I thought about the economic downswing or more accurately the depression and how much these drivers had riding on each trip. Their very desperation was obvious in their driving.

So it is now dark. It is now road construction with the lanes winding in unpredictable loops with the orange toy-like markers directing where to swoop next. How long will this go on? As long as it does.

The sky in the flat states is stunning. Blues so intense that they made my eyes sting. The clouds become the landscape. The clouds become the geography in these planed horizons.

My cell phone was reassuring. I texted both of my children to tell them where I was on the journey. “I am approaching Boise now,” I would indicate to my son and my daughter. The cell phone and the Tom Tom embolded me. I felt supported.

Because I was unused to driving and it is difficult to predict travel time, I stopped only for what I called liquid in or liquid out. I would get gas, use the washroom and replenish my water. My meals due to my financial straits were usually almonds and grapes that I could eat as I drove.

Bathrooms, washrooms, rest stops. Well now that is an entirely different issue. Some places were clean and welcoming. Others I had the urge to go to a local emergency room to have my nethers disinfected by a surgeon. The rule of thumb seemed to be the further away another service station was, the less the proprietor had to do to maintain the facility. Only show in town mentality rules.

I was very excited when I saw the first outcropping. Climbing a hill somewhere (I frequently let tomtom make the decisions and had no clue which state I was crossing) I saw a big of greenish earth and rocks jutting out.


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As I stepped on my 2003 Nissan Sentra’s gas pedal and she jumped into charge mode, I saw a young man with a woman on the back of a motorcycle coming up behind me. She had black hair tied back on her neck and a white peasant off the shoulder blouse. Her feet were barely clothed in minimalist sandles. The sleeves on her blouse whipped around her arms. I smiled and envied her freedom. She rode in the open air, up a pass without protection. (Also, what crossed my mind was the fact that a daughter of a friend had spent her life recovering from a motorcycle accident whereby she had her leg sliced and experienced multiple operations.) Both thoughts rested in my mind at once.

The real sense of accomplishment came when I saw red. Finally, the beautiful red earth of Colorado began to show up in outcroppings along the road. Getting there. I was getting there.

Driving along the highway to Boulder was challenging. I got off the road and got lost early on but found a way to circle back. Tomtom was furiously trying to correct me but I refused to listen. I was a bit frightened and would only double back on tracks I know I had laid down. Too insecure to break off onto a new road, I ignored her voice.

By night fall I was well and truly exhausted. It had been a long day, a long three days and I just wanted to find a place to stay. I got to Boulder with the kindness of stranger. Three different times cars behind me laid on the horn and came close to hitting my rear end. It was dark. I was lost. And the exits were just coming too fast for me to process.

Exiting in Boulder, I drove around in circles. Finally, demoralized I pulled into a parking lot next to Chucky Cheese and laid down in the backseat. I thought to myself just stay here until morning. I had tried two motels and been told that a state wide Baseball tournament had every single hotel/motel in the state filled up. The rooms had been reserved a year ago. I texted both of my kids that they could find me at Chucky Cheese and laid down.

Then the voice started.” You deserve better than this. What are you doing woman?
Just take a few minutes to rest and calm down. The universe supports and cares for you. Trust.”

I locked up the car and went for the first time in my life into a Chucky Cheese at 10 pm at night after an eleven hour day of driving. The noise was blinding. The colors were deafening. But behind the counter was a small, dark haired obviously gay kid who was an angel. He looked up the hotels, called the first one on the list for me and I ended up with a reservation.

My previous rooms had been under $70 a night with a free coffee in the morning. My gluten free cereal was in plastic refrigerator dishes and I added milk or coffee cream to them and ate them in the morning. This time the room was $135 but it was better than being rousted in the night by a security child in a dark uniform.

So I followed the “loosey goosey” directions from the desk clerk. On the street he had indicated, I got out at the first motel and discovered that was not the place. They had a $150 + room still available but not my reservation. I walked over to the next motel. A young, efficient woman at the desk told me ‘everyone’ came there by mistake. What I was seeking was around the bend.

Well, yes!

So on the third try, I scored the motel room and thankfully went to sleep. I was glad I had decided to leave Boulder and go up or down (Lord only knows) to Louisville to find this haven. The next day I headed to the Snow Lion dormitory only to discover that once again life is always fascinating.

The first room assignment I received changed early on. However, I was sent an email calling me Bob Hanson and moving me in with two “other” men. I replied that it was very generous of the dorm to provide me with two men when I had been around no men at all for the last 28 months. Perhaps, I should mention that I wasn’t Bob.

So a third room assignment was emailed to me. I printed out the email and included it in my documents before the journey. When I arrived at Snow Lions in Boulder at noon, I presented the paper.

No, the Resident director informed me. No that isn’t your room. It had been changed yet again and I had to wait until after 3 pm to get into the room because it hadn’t been cleaned. So I filled out the required paperwork and went away.

I walked around Naropa campus, going into rooms, moving in and out of various buildings trying to get a sense of the place. Finally, I ended up sitting upstairs in a large space looking like it was set aside for meditation. I sat quietly for an extended period of time grounding myself, dropping the anxiety from last nights three hours of driving in circles, being lost and releasing frightened thoughts as they came up. I was here now whatever that meant.

I had crossed the mountains, climbed the passes, driven the plains, found motels and gas stations. My body was not sore. I was not feeling depleted. Whatever happened next, happened next. And as I sat in the room with pictures of Buddha, I thanked my spiritual practice for being a home for me, no matter what happened in the outer world, I was safe, protected and fascinated by the journey. Gratitude arose and I sat in it.

A Bigger Life

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Fear has kept me small. To give myself credit, I have been doing a great deal of work on myself. Shamanic Practice, reading and study and deep grief exploration. My house has been my cave, my hermit crab shell, my tiny Victorian sanctuary. The sense of isolation and loneliness has diminished from the howling I could die from the pain wounding when my marriage broke up to a sense of being a survivor on a space ship. I had the plant to care for. The plant of my body. The plant of my house. My garden kingdom needed care. And, of course, my plants.

A shelter with blooming walkways

I wrote and published five books, read prodigiously, hesitantly began to connect with other people. The Centre for Spiritual Living provided me with a surety of social contact when I joined the choir. The director Barbara Samuel encouraged my growth and risk taking. From the first session when she said, “Lean into it, baby. Lean into it” I started to find a place to stand, on a stage, singing, in front of others.

It helped me to claim my expressive self. It helped me to find spiritual sisters who are also intent on dropping victim dialogue and living in a more vision out manner.

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And on the 18th of July I made a large commitment to myself. After nearly two decades, I drove alone in a car for long distances.

To fully understand the level of challenge this was for me, let me explain that during the past decades when I drove alone to go to Whiterock to visit a friend, I invariably ended up in the far reaches of North Vancouver. I became accustom to just ending up somewhere on a beach and circling back. It was the path of least resistance.

The last time I drove to Vancouver, B.C. for a visit and stayed alone, I turned around and dove back home crying most of the way. Just too overwhelmed and confused by the city, not being able to find where I had parked my car, feeling fragile.

So I got in the car, drove to Vancouver, negotiated the passport office and headed out across Washington State, Idaho, Montana, Utah to Colorado a distance of 1743 kilometers or 1083 miles or 941 nautical miles. I had my golden laughing Buddha on my dashboard, my tomtom nagging at me from the next seat and my handbook for Naropa Buddhist University Summer Writing Program in the back seat.

The journey across mountain passes, through accident sites, negotiating construction zones whereby the lanes where capricious, passing and being passed by semi-trucks crowding the long stretches of road left me chanting, “You are safe. You are protected. You are in the flow of love.” I found myself talking to my body frequently.

My main emphasis of conversation was to be aware of my physical response. “You don’t need to tense up body. Let go. You are fine. Let go of your neck. Let your hands be gentle on the wheel. Let your shoulders relax.” And it worked! Some days were 18 hours long. Some days I was behind the wheel for 12 hours due to accidents, work zones and various other normal anomalies. But each night as I found a $70 motel, I lay down without any sore or aching parts on my person at all.

First came negotiating the streets of Vancouver. Watching the people standing in groups talking in East Vancouver with their lurching, skeletal forms changed to students with the golf hats, technology wired to their bodies outside like surface veining and then the hearty tourist people in North Face climbing gear exploring the wonders of Canada Place. Finally, business people who were all seriously late. I think they were already three days late when they woke up on Monday. Heel clacking, rushing the lights, texting with head down charging down a street with remarkable peripheral vision on display marked the successfully rapacious.

But the one thing I noticed was that the moment when a smile broke out, the time when people seemed most alive was when they stood together in groups. It didn’t matter what social strata they represented. Three or four gathered on a corner and their faces lit up. Addicts, students, tourists, business people. A shared human pleasure.
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Driving through the border was interesting. I said I was going to Boulder, Colorado to go to school. The ten year old looking skinny blonde guard asked for my keys, opened my trunk and went through my suitcase. Lots of books and writings. Notebooks and shoes.

He asked me again where I was going after he shut the trunk. I repeated my destination. He inquired if I had rented out my house and if so for how long. He asked to see my plane ticket back to Vancouver. I very quietly took a breath and swallowed all of the smart ass remarks that immediately arose and I said, “I am driving.”

“Yes,” he said, “you are driving down. But how are you getting back?”

“I am driving down. And I am driving back,” I said evenly. I was thinking….. hence the car.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at me again. My age on my passport doesn’t jive with the way I look. I am wearing too many bracelets. I have a Buddha on my dashboard. Just too many strange things but nothing concrete. So he waved me through.

Later I discovered an apple had slid under my seat so I was smuggling in contraband.

Making my way through Seattle to the exit was a two way conversation. Tom Tom was telling me to shift lanes, to take exits. I was telling my body, “You are safe. You can just relax.” There was a flurry of words as I moved from one lane to another.

Ellensburg. Made it to Ellensburg. When I was attending college at Western Washington College in Bellingham, I thought the Ellensburg, Yakima area a blighted place. The thought was that it looked like a site where an astroid had hit and left a crater of featureless desert. But now returning forty years later, I found it beautiful.


I wondered how many other judgements I had made in my life were too quickly formed and made from a place of prejudice.

Driving over the high mountain pass in Washington under a nearly full moon, I gunned the gas pedal to pass the endless trail of semi-trucks. I saw one truck run a car off of the road and not even slow down. They wanted to make time in the darkness so they were aggressive. I kept trying to get far enough ahead so I didn’t have to deal with them in both lanes, jockeying for position, scooting past one another, cutting into the lanes.

I was proud of the fact that I just did what had to be done and for over an hour pushed to get beyond the mess of competitive giants.

I was growing. I was stepping up to challenges. I was keeping myself calm and not asking, “what if?” Just do now. Just do now.

What comes in?

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We have all seen the doorway that has served as a place to record the growth of a child though out the years. There is something poignant and universal when we view the ledger of a person thriving. Some years the gaps between marks is very small and then… The spurts are times when the child changes height, configuration and more subtle are the rapid changes in abilities and skills.
The vision I have held in my mind for these last 28 months since my old life fell away, or exploded, or imploded or was surgically removed is a vision of a caterpillar being encapsulated. Within the shell, a dissolving was going on.

The person who was became a formless mush. The sense of purpose was gone, the passion for life, the focus on the future fell away. The form of formlessness was where I floated. One day I had a vision of a self with no centre.

The centre I had held for the last 16 years was held by my concern and love for my husband, my job, and then my art. All of these fell away. So I sat meditation each day holding my grief like my baby and had the vision of a big mush of an entity with no centre.

At times I was almost werewolf frustrated and just needed the bright moon to call out to. At others I was in deep acceptance that what was happening was a process and that one day I would reform, I would feel a calling. What I didn’t know was what I would be after I passed through the process.

In April, it began. I volunteered to care for babies and toddlers at the Women’s Place. Sitting with a warm baby on my lap, having two three year old girls climbing me and touching my bracelets, earrings, necklace and saying , “pretty,” was healing. These open, vibrant souls are so present that each time I finished the session of day care I felt like I had left an acupuncture treatment… for the heart. They offer love like there is no tomorrow.


I joined choir because the director Barbara Samuels said to me, “Lean into it baby. Lean into it.” When I walked into the room I saw radiant, amazing women wearing (hold on to your door handle Kelowna residents) color. Real for sure color. Not urban camoflage that is meant to blend everyone into the same beige-gray. Purples and Golds and Coral and Greens were pure and bold. I was delighted. And each choir practice I was puzzled, challenged, stretched and could feel myself grow.

The writing in the dark experience of forcing myself to spend hours every day working on my voice became a doorway. Accepted into the Naropa Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetry Summer School program spurred me on to go the full out choice. I had given up my M.F.A. in Bellingham in order to protect my then husband from the draft. The dream of completing it had stayed with me. So now I am in the process of winding my way through the labyrinth of entry into Naropa’s M.F.A. program in Boulder.
I have never been to Boulder. I know nothing about the program but it feels right.

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So as I stand assessing my life, looking at the doorway at the markers I see that April was a growth spurt. All of the work, the intention to live consciously and authentically is starting to manifest a new life for me. I feel taller, stronger, more substantial.

And what I now understand is that the “hole” in the centre of my being is a blessing. It is where all of my strength comes from. It is the garden at the centre of my physical being. It is quiet, empty and filled with silence. I do not need to try to jam another man into that empty place. I do not need to try to move emotional furniture in and make it a crowded room. It is where the divine lives.

The relationship with my body is more loving. I have worked out most days and built muscle, strength and substance. My heart is what I call “more fluffy” because of the children, the choir, the singing, the shamanic practices.


There are times when the patterns of the last 18 years are a source of loss memory. There are times of discouragement and desire for a strong calling.

There are nights when I am deeply sad.

However, I have friends around me who are on a spiritual path and they whisper sweet everythings in my ear. Their presence helps me to walk to the doorway and look at how I have grown. I am about to take what feel like big risks in the world. But I see myself as a fully formed butterfly and I trust my wings and the wind.

I am about to fly.

When are you “in” and when are you an “outsider?”

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Much of my life I have felt I was an outsider. While others might have had safe homes, mine was a war zone. I was kept home for three months out of a year I see from my grade four report card most likely from being bruised so badly I couldn’t be in public. When I did attend school the possibility of frustration leading me to tears was a haunting presence. The report cards exclaim to my parents, as if they are the school’s ally, that “Cherie will frequently burst into tears for no reason.”

The dyslexia which I only discovered after it appeared in both of my children, caused me to have difficulty learning to read. I would sit quietly and listen with interest when my father read G.H. Well’s Outline of History out loud to me for hours at a time. So the failure to read was obviously not a sign of lack of intellectual curiosity or a lack of depth of mind.

leaving the fire and darkness


My teacher in Grade three kept me in at noon hour to work with me until I made a break through. Bless her persistence. It is when I first knew that one caring person could change your life. It is probably when I knew I wanted to be that teacher, that person for others’ lives.

However, the social outfall of being abused, emotionally weak (with a hyper sensitivity to others’ energies) and having learning disabilities lead to a deep sense of shame. I retreated into myself. Others would bully me, isolate me and my response was not to defend myself, to step into my power but rather to shrink even further.

What effect has this had on the landscape of my life? Having a quick, perceptive mind locked in a shame-filled personality is a formula for failure.

Although I scored in the 98% on the standardized National Education Exams for all grade 11’s and all grade 12’s in the United States, I had few close friends. I could not speak out freely in class unless I was suddenly overcome by my inner power. When people talked about oppression of national minorities, about denying power to others, with a mindless philosophy that would lead to pain for others my mouth would open. I would blurt out something that I didn’t even hear or register. It was like channeling. My teachers told me I was brilliant. Classmates would come to me to ask what was going to be on the test or just before an exam ask me for answers to something they could not decipher. But that was one of the few times they spoke to me.

I know now that most of the failure to be seen was mine. Having taught acting classes for 25 years I have seen how those who carry pain and low self esteem make it almost impossible for others to show affection and to include them.

Where am I now? Today when I saw that artists had created banners for a street in our town, it came back. The full hit in the gut pain of being outside, excluded, not validated, being invisible. After working as an artist almost daily for 18 years, my work is not on display.

Is it that my work isn’t considered important? I am not selling. The work continues to be shown in secondary venues. Even though I garnered awards in the European shows in Florence and Vienna, I lose money when I have booths at local fairs.

Because of my spiritual beliefs and because of the interior plastic surgery I have done on myself in the last two years I am able to sit with the deep grief I feel coming up. Again, my body tells me I am less than others. I am not included. I am somehow damaged and a lesser being.

These stories are old stories. They are the stories of a little girl who is dressed beautifully and sent off into the world. But under her starched puffed sleeve dress are bruises on her arms, finger prints in blue and green.

Under her bow on the back of her dress are marks and fractured bones.

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I am neither an insider nor an outsider. I am an artist who is called to create by some higher urge. My visual art, my poetry, my plays, my voice rising in choir, my dancing and spreading my arms out to take the space are my soul’s work.

These people whose banners are flying have spent time building a network. They validate one another in this tribe of artists. Social equity results in more exposure of their creations.

It is the hours over coffee, the showing up at events, the building a following that pays off. Literally pays off. So this is another in the lessons that I am learning.

I also realize that I can never quite trust my interpretation of events. As within so without, my spiritual teacher reminds me. How much of my reality am I creating and how much of my reality am I misinterpreting? As Buddhist teachings say, “If you see Buddha, kill him.” So being able to drop the story and just know feeling excluded hurts. Feeling invalid and invisible hurts.

The work is to feel that in my body, sit with it as if it were a baby as Thich Nhat Hahn says. Let it cry. Then move on to make my life more satisfying. Grieve it, feel it then heal it.

The questions always comes back, “Who are you when you are authentic?”

I am still struggling. Perhaps, because of my family history my social development is not very far along. But today, this day I am working on the problem that life has given me. My heart is open to those around me who offer me friendship.

I am learning that if a friend needs me, to stop everything I am doing and just go be with that friend. I am learning that I no longer need to isolate myself. I will never show up at an event or in life simply to push my agenda or to garner financial gain for my art. It is against my nature.

But perhaps, I can begin to see that by being genuinely caring there are connections I can make to others. That I don’t need to hide any more.

And as for bullies. Yes. They exist in the cultural community as well. But now I am strong enough to either turn around and leave ( if the energy feels negative) or to speak out against the attempts at manipulation. I am no longer afraid to speak up. And I don’t need to zone out, to disconnect and allow the channeling voice to speak. I can speak from my heart in my work, in my friendships and in my life.

Living with Intention and Love


I might be growing up. Gratitude for my lessons.

One day, my banner will be waving for all to see. I know this.

Distant and Dealing

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I have not posted for six weeks. The sense of making each day count has been the driving motivation for me lately. After reading Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project, I made a chart for my refrigerator. On the chart are those things which are most supportive of my well being, in other words the care of my body.

At the top of the list is drinking water. From all that I have read, getting enough water can offer immense support for the “plant.” Inflammation is a response which must be avoided. Inflammation damages the body, creates stress and can lead to a cancer response. Drinking enough water also keeps the body from signaling “hungry, hungry,” when in fact it is dehydrated. Toxins are also carried through with water. Honoponopono practice which is traditional Hawaiian spiritual practice has as its core drinking water. A blue bottle is placed in the sun (try that in the Okanagan winter). As the sun goes through the water, it is believed it activates it to heal. The thought that the practitioner is supposed to hold is that all past “scripts” are washing through the body. What happened to me when I was two or twenty or sixty is now flushed out. Now. That brings to you now. Without a story, a bag of past grievances slung over the shoulder. Just you, the ground, the breath and the flow of water washing through the body.
Sleep is the next item on my chart. Getting eight hours sleep can pull down the inflammation response very efficiently. When the body is rested, it feels strong and calm. The daily attacks: bills, broken appliances, family disasters, angry people are inevitable. But if the body feels strong and rested, a person is in a more capable state. Solutions are easier to discover. I also find that it is easier for me to not attach to the difficulty with an emotional state that strangely enough usually outlasts the problem. So often in the past I start to out run the tiger long after it has retreated to the dark forest again. The sound of my own hyperventilation and pounding anxiety would accompany me long after the threat had passed.
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My goal is to make contact with old friends or to meet new friends every day. As with all activities, it becomes easier the longer I do it. At first, going through the door after my long retreat was like breaking through one of those aluminum foil barriers on a jar… only it was over the door. One evening I went out just because I didn’t feel like going on.
These simple items top my list on my happiness project chart. Another part of the process, is to realize that it is a process. When I misstep or don’t have an X to put in the box, I realize that I am changing myself for the better. I celebrate that and treat myself with compassion because I am my friend as well. Right?

Christmas Eve

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Beautiful blue eyes

I have been staying with my daughter, Dominique, and her husband Troy since I was coughed up by the Greyhound Bus after a twenty hour ride on rough roads. The fact that somewhere along the journey my suitcase that I foolishly dropped my medications into and that was full to the gills with Christmas Presents had gone veering off in a separate direction from my bumpy trajectory could not lessen the experience of arriving.

Firstly, seeing my daughter was wonderful. Secondly, just being able to stop the alternating of the rough jostling with being kicked out into the yellow-green slime of light that coats all the surfaces in the small “cafes” lining the route was a cause for celebration. Had I been able to unbend my knees sufficiently to dance, I would have. However being in hedgehog-fetal position to try to fit onto the seat through the night precluded anything more than being calmly thankful that I had enough stamina left to disembark.

Lastly, I had the practice. My mind wanted to run to the first window which was victim. Oh poor me. No suitcase. Then came the second window which was blame.

“You stupid twit, why did you put your medications in the suitcase. You traveled all over Europe. Twice. And you knew enough not to separate yourself from clean underwear and medications.” But because I have been basting my brain with Buddhism, the last part of that alternative of bad vision was minimized. I managed to shut the curtains shortly after, “You stupid twit.”

Then came the use of the practice…. being patient. I asked to file a missing luggage form but was told by a very terse woman (who had previously hung up on my daughter) that they waited five days or more before filing a lost report.

Rahne is a serious, focussed leader. Her eyes say it all.

Now my mind did its work. I saw that the woman was angry. I saw that her life wasn’t working. I saw her treat people without respect including hanging up on another caller as I watched and I wondered, “How’d you get that way?” Reading Wayne Dyer and How to Win Friend’s and Influence People taught me a few skills.

I was patient. I didn’t crowd the woman but I didn’t go away either.

I came back to the depot three times, phoned three times. Politely. I explained that my daughter would be living with a werewoman after my withdrawal from my bionic woman meds. My poor little waifs of grand daughters would be deprived of their Christmas presents.

And lastly I went for the heart or the jugular. I said I had no other clothing and needed a change of underwear after 21 straight hours on the bus. What human being could resist that plea?

During the recounting of my tale, it spilled out that I had purchased my ticket on line. The woman’s face shut down like a castle gate under attack.

“On line. We don’t want you to purchase tickets on line. We don’t get any commission for finding lost luggage for people who purchased a ticket on line.”

Poison words. I had poisoned my case and now had to begin reworking our relationship. She was mistress of that desk and I a mere suppliant. The very repetition of the phrase, “on line” was for my benefit because I was obviously an “idiot.”

Part way through the days of sweet persistence, she deigned to fill out a form while asking me questions. I described my luggage in laborious detail. When we were done, she handed me a slip of paper indicating that I now had permission to pick up my suitcase. And when the detailed, adjective rich depiction of my suitcase was complete the line for description on this power-of-pick up form simply stated,” suitcase.”

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She could, apparently rule her kingdom with an iron will.

So I called the Greyhound national office… It is in Texas. The woman who answered gave me the Canadian corporate headquarter’s phone number. And thus began my Christmas conversation with Emmanuel. I explained to this savior the details of my plight… now for the eighth time. It was good practice. I was becoming more succinct and gently hopeful while maintaining my dogged persistence with each retelling of the saga of the lost suitcase.

He said I should call the national office in Texas. I told him that I had. He said,” You should ask the depot to put a trace on it.”

I said, ” I asked the depot immediately.Yes. Yes I have tried for three days, six different times,” I informed him.

“Why don’t you go to another depot and fill out the form?” he asked.

I fell for a moment into a pool of confusion. Whaaaat?

“The nearest town with a depot is four hours away and I took the bus. I don’t have a car with me, ” I said starting to blank out from the sheer confusion of those I was dealing with.

“Well, I don’t really do that, the tracing. But I can ask for a trace if I file a complaint at the same time,” he offered.

And there it was. The rune in the full moon light. The switch to the sliding bookcase. An opportunity to educate the Houston, B.C. Greyhound Depot staff on the company policy. A chance to help those poor fools who thought they could call a business and ask a question without having someone slam down the phone. My intention was to stay out of anger and just keep the attitude that everybody was going to be alright. Even my dark blue almost black, 35 lb, cloth covered suitcase with a pull handle and wheels.

On the fourth day, Donna, who reigns supreme, allowed me to fill out a form. From then on everything changed. She actually looked at my face when we talked. She immediately faxed the request to the stations along the way where some, in her words, “idiot” could have miss-routed my luggage.

The next day after the fax went through to the six stops along the way, my luggage showed up. The woman was actually happy for me. Her face had softened. She said, “Now your grand daughters have their Christmas presents.” She let me hug her.

I will write a letter. But now it won’t be a letter of complaint. Communication is the problem all down the line. The mistresses of the desk needs to know that, yes, a trace can be filed immediately. The company needs to know that a review of procedures will help bring in more customers. And the driver needs to know not to leave Christmas parcels out in the parking lot where some “idiot” will back over them.

My body is now nicely humming along with all of my bionic woman meds, I have clean underwear, the Christmas presents are under the tree. I have learned so many things about travel, about loss of focus when packing, about compassion and not least of all about why I want to be rich enough to fly first class.

Merry Christmas everyone. Blessings out.

Teagan is a loving, sensitive, bumptuous soul.

Moving Up

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I have had my ups and downs in the last year. The ups are like an elevator overshooting the floor I want to be on and I either get out for only a short while or just stand waiting for the momentary euphoria to pass.

mating for life, partnership


Reading and studying; meditating and praying; seeking counsel and shamanic practice has moved me a few floors higher up. It has given me a larger view as I look down over my life.
Recently while at an event, the woman who dated my ex-husband on our anniversary, went to coffee with him while we were still trying to get back together, went to dinner and movies with him approached me. I went into shock and lost the feeling connections with my legs. In my head I could hear the question, “What do you want from me?”
It was kind of a report card for me about where I am spiritually and as a person. I felt sick to my stomach, weak and sad but in the moment I understood that her issues involved her sense of self worth. She, wounded in some way, could date and call it not dating. She needed to show her self off in black lace and find solace in a man.
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As I stood checking in on my body which is my practice, I felt fear, anger and actual nausea. If I had had any feeling in my legs I might have fled. So instead, I made eye contact. I thought about why she could possibly want to talk to me when I had had friends who had tried to carry on a conversation with her and been rebuffed. She had walked across a very crowded room to stand in front of me. Months ago I had wanted to warn her to protect herself against the known dangers of being in any relationship with this man: health issues, financial issues, mental health issues. But now, I have come so far that I realized that her journey is her journey. Unless she specifically asked me a question, there was nothing I could do.

Fire in the sky sunset


I remained pleasant, made small talk and as soon as I could feel my legs again, I excused myself. My grief was enormous and I went home to crawl under the covers for two days. I cried for my loss of a dream. I cried for the betrayal of someone who would not only go out on our anniversary, but would come to me the next day to tell me. But it was like the returning fever sweat of Malaria. It came and it left.
So how did I conduct myself? What was my report card? I had one negative thought as I was talking to her. I thought, “I could give her some suggestions about that dry skin problem.” Mostly, I just saw how desperate being desperate for love makes anyone.

The perfect love is nurturing


Today the frozen sun is out and I am beginning again. I have come a long way and I am proud of myself. I see where I want to be…. and how I want to be in the world. The elevator is on the way up.

Why Bother to Play?

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I once had a friend who reads charts react to my straight forward statement that I was Leo but had ten houses Virgo. She responded, “The only thing worse would be to have Capricorn rising.”
“Why,” I asked.

Her response was that I would be serious, work oriented, have no patience for small talk and focused on the bottom line at all times. All I said was, “Yep.”
So knowing that play is anathema and can only be indulged in if it is in the name of some higher goal, makes me more comfortable with what is. I am not a social freak. I am simply ten houses Virgo with Capricorn rising.
The way in which we give ourselves permission, fascinates me. There is permission for delusional behavior. The ability to create excuses is profound and creative. When I put on weight because it is “winter” or “too hot” or “not the right time” to make healthier choices, I am a genius at establishing an inclination to live in the future.
The future is such an exciting and vibrant place to live. It is like my own little Disneyland. There will be castles, jewels, ball gowns, muscled arms, trees with sparkling gold pieces growing on them. My art will be in airports gigantic and impressive. The rich, fit and handsome man will swoop me up into his bosom to blossom. And he will not have old man/woman chest.
The difference I experience in my body, the overwhelming sensation of lightness of being that sweeps over me when I change my focus from now, now, now to tomorrow is magical. It is in its very nature a sign of my delusional capacities. I am my own genii. The opium pipe of possibilities can trance me out of action.
As I recline on the silken pillows of these current hours and exhale the shimmering visions of “what if”, I lose power. However, there is always a struggle within me.

My desire to be a “good girl” has ironically enough (Yes. Alanna I know what irony means) lead me into every sewer slosh in my life.

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The result of not seeing the anxiety and short-circuited thinking in myself combined with my laser-like focus and intensity has meant that I have been running furiously in the circular race below tide line, trying to get dry as the ocean splashed over me… anyone read Alice in Wonderland?

out the window in winter

So settling into what I am, the ten houses Virgo; the Capricorn rising; the ENFJ; the sensitive personality; the ebullient creativity and just moving forward without fighting the “what is” gives me more energy for the moment.
I have never been more authentic, transparent or curious as I move through life.

And one thing I know for sure, is that I don’t like to play unless there is a goal, a product, a statement I am making with that play.

But dance. Yes. I will always dance. Because it is good for my body. And it makes me smile. Okay you thought you got me there, right? No!!! Smiling is good for my immune system. So that is why I dance. I don’t bother to just play.
Now I can go mark, “Write in your blog,” with a check mark on my chart for today.

What if I weren’t afraid?

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I asked myself that question this morning. The sense of a tiger in a packing box came over me again. Another day of gray, the feeble light mimic of sun stopping just inside the windows. The fact that the intentions in my life are moving forward so cold molasses slowly into action states, builds a closed circle of
despair.

so many doors to other realities, other futures


Because of the loneliness at night, I have been unable to break the habit of watching old television shows at bedtime. Frequently, I fall asleep while watching and it is somewhere between 2 and 4 in the morning. So when I awaken the choice is to “do” the day with only five hours sleep or to shift back into my downy nest and sleep unbidden by any appointment with destiny until noon.

Waiting for the bright light of knowing

My day is punctuation by the sound of the clock ticking and by the appearance of Dick, the mail carrier. He is a round man who frequently wears his coat like a cape. The diamond earring glistens in his left ear and he chats about his wife and daughter at times. But he is dependable and committed to making his crisscross path from side to side on our street in a timely manner. He flys off again his cape glistening with raindrops bouyant behind him.

Getting a grip on the day always feels like a struggle; however, the years I have spent reading, listening to Hay House and watching You Tube videos inform me that it is not about the day, or how I choose to live it. The struggle is something I order from the limiting menu of perfection. No matter how “well” I have done in a particular yesterday, each new day begins with regrets: I didn’t floss twice, I missed the third glass of water, I didn’t write in my Gratitude Journal.

The habit of critical mind has become much more quiet about the performance judging of people. Instead of measuring them up to cut them down, I now hear the voice in my head say, “Isn’t it wonderful that I get to know this person.” There is so much I am learning about and from others in our shared stories. How many tragedies people have undergone in their lives… the childhood disease that left her deaf on one side, being sent to boarding school at seven, being betrayed by two husbands, multiple bouts with cancer, etc. From the outside, we assume we know another and an impulse is to be competitive with her or with him. Most people are valiant survivors of multiple woundings. The very fact that others around them are not aware of their strength is in and of itself a testimony to their resilency.

Competitiveness with the gifts and successes is my de-facto setting. “She got a book deal. What is wrong with me?”

I am a master of this type of dualistic, poverty of opportunity thinking. Then the really grotesque competitiveness comes out. We all laugh at comedy sketches of two old geezers comparing gun shot wounds in the battle of life. One has had a cold, the other six bouts of pneumonia. I understand that we, sometimes, celebrate how badly victimized that we were as a means of displaying our merit badges.

Nonetheless, we hold courage in our hearts each day as we set intention and carry out actions. For me this fragile edge is the gripping place. If within twenty minutes of awaking, I sit meditation for heading out into the day with compassion and love, I feel like I have my ship’s bow lined up to cut across the waves. I won’t go under no matter what happens.

The aching restlessness that inhabits me at this time is like a large, lurching, drooling dog. It wants to run, jump up, sniff different object-tasks, pick things up in its mouth. “Patience,” I tell myself. “Patience.” I hold the choke chain firmly in my hands.

I have debts to pay down, I have a task of turning this blog into a book. The late illness still leaves me coughing with a sore throat and ear aches. So my body is saying it isn’t ready for one of my manic sweeps of accomplishment. (Oh how my monkey mind loves these workaholic binges.)

My sprained knee did not magically heal with mind control. So I have started acupuncture. It says quite a bit about the condition of my chi when both knees, my shoulder blades and my hands began to ache like fresh injuries. My entire body became hot and sweat covered blanketed. When I came home, I crawled into bed for hours.

So looking at the circle of dysfunction: surgery after surgery; broken relationship; no sense of being needed in my work arena; weak financial condition; deep loneliness. Each item in the circle feeds into the next until I have established a closed system of victim hood and powerlessness.

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I am making new friends and I no longer try to hide anything about my life. I don’t offer up the bitter, hard lessons I have learned like over-dried fig turds on a plate. But if someone asks me, I will be very open about the events in my life. I refuse to carry the shame which was not my shame either from my parents or from my ex-husband.

Moving my life to a higher level, I now am saying my affirmations and intentions out loud. Yesterday, I wrote them on index cards and placed them around the house. They become the voice in the background much as successful people who have had parents who hypnotically repeated, “You can do it”.

So I am learning to parent myself, to act as my own cheer-leading team.

Strangely enough, what I have come to realize is that being filled with shame as a child, feeling like a lesser being really stopped me from loving. I would feel rushes of love or affection to those around me but I wouldn’t feel good enough, important enough to act on those urges. I would want to pick up George’s dropped book, help Jim with his homework, hold a sleeve up for easier access when Susie was putting on her jacket. But when we fell lesser or damaged, we become invisible.

And I think the worst of the situation is that we become so self absorbed that we can’t see that our heart’s urge is power. It helps to heal ourselves when we understand that others really seek affection. It is ultimately a selfish act to send love out.

Passivity is what I struggle with at this time. How much sitting meditation, journalling, waiting, making myself stronger physically is necessary? When will the universe part these heavy mists and give me some stars to navigate by? Am I missing the messages?

When I had acupuncture the bright note was my report card for Chi. Over the decades when I have gone to Chinese medicine doctors I have always been told that my masculine side was outrageously dominant and my feminine side almost wraith like. Yesterday, after 24 months of a life of quiet and contemplation, the male and female energies were almost equal. The workaholic pathways of action over accomplishment are re-patterned.

I am giving birth to a new self and sitting by the death-bed of those delusions which had me dancing mindlessly to their tune. But it is difficult, the patience, the reformation and internal struggle. I want my old toys to play with.

Currently, I am “using” entertainment to dull the pain of not knowing and it is eating up hours of my day.

each of us is unique and similar

Driving home instead of driving to Choices to get a big slab of carrot cake last night was a major victory. The sugar fix is on its way to being extinguished. I win some and I continue on with some delusional behaviors. But how exciting it is to watch the dynamics of learning how to be in a life.

Now. What would I do today if I weren’t afraid?

Going Backward Kelowna

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The recent civic election in Kelowna left me sickened. I have watched Sharon Shepherd grow as a person and maintain her political presence through the most difficult of circumstances. She is a woman in a town that is controlled by the old boys’ club. She is small in stature and has a voice which is not meant for theatrical exclamations. Yet whenever she has been met by challenges, she has chosen to stay true to her vision of a sustainable city. Her concern for the environment, for maintaining neighbourhoods, for giving people time to understand a new development proposal before just driving it through has been consistent and non-wavering.

Kelowna's access to waterfront is the power struggle

During her campaign, she returned funds from the fire fighters because her stance has always been to be a free agent who does not have to “pay back” those who give her funds for her campaign. Her ethics and her stalwart refusal to cast aspersions on others have made this short woman cast a long shadow.

My belief is that when this town wakes up and realizes that the natural beauty, the environment and the social diversity issues are the most valuable assets the town holds, she will be seen as the large spirit that she is. She has left a legacy of humility, rigorously ethical behavior and consistent concern for the citizens who live in Kelowna.

All citizens have had her attention: the gay, the bohemian, the financially fragile, the young families, those who live in small houses in older neighbourhood. She has demonstrated her commitment to those attributes which city and urban studies programs say are the guarantees that a city will stay attractive. The rich, these studies tell us, are fickle. They will come and buy in until the environment goes. They will purchase a seasonal condo in the sky until there are no arts events to attend. The IT community can move anywhere to work. If there is no social diversity, bohemian culture, they will move on.
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What we are seeing in so many cities in North America is a desertion of cities that do not provide an environment that will attract a lively, vivacious culture. If we have not learned that the 80’s and 90’s mentality leads to the decline of a city’s culture from observation, I guess we will have to learn it through reliving that trajectory.

Will tall building keep citizens from waterfront?

I feel very discouraged by what I saw happen in this election. Do the young, the environmental warriors and the intellectuals want to stay here and fight for a collective vision or is the direction of the newly, elected council and mayor just over whelming?

One thing I know for sure, we get the kind of future we voted for.