Searching for Meaning

Do we ever really stop? Do we finally come to a place of deep understanding with a solid feeling of connection that lasts? Do we arrive there after years of turmoil and searching, content that we’ve arrived and never have to ride that train again?

It seems that during the winter season, we are called upon to go inside and sit with our questions. Where I live in the mountains, ready or not, winter comes with a definite icy awareness. I am indoors more. Today we are in the midst of a series of storms. To me, a storm feels somewhat dangerous. Being from the foggy city of San Francisco, regardless of how many winters I’ve experienced in the mountains, I feel insecure. I watch the snow rapidly falling, swirling, landing and sticking to the trees and ground. I wonder if it’s going to overwhelm me.

Although I understand the necessity and the actual blessing of snow, it unnerves me. It’s hard for me to appreciate the absolute beauty of snow although I sit within a warm and cozy cottage. It remains a foreign element to me. This feeling is exacerbated by STORM WARNINGS, AVALANCHE WARNINGS, the dread of power outages and downed lines. It happened one winter since I’ve lived here…we were without power for five days. It had been a heavy wet snow and took down electrical lines. Large tree branches had fallen across the streets making driving impossible and walking dangerous. I was fortunate to have an alternate heat source that didn’t rely on electricity. A few of us gathered and huddled around the little oil stove. When the power finally returned, I was flooded with relief.

Being without electricity for that period, I entered a primal part of myself. A part that is based in survival. And the certain awe that nature holds the final card. We witness it when we experience or hear about hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes and other natural disasters. Our ancestors lived in a pre-technology, pre-electricity era not so long ago. They didn’t have the cushions of safety and security that we’ve come to expect in these times.

Sometimes, there is a quality of merging that takes over. I notice (despite the refrigerator’s occasional loud hum) a feeling of deep quiet. The snow has a way of muffling external noise from the nearby highway. And within that quiet, a calm descends. When I sit on the enclosed back porch and knit while staring out the sliding glass door, this feeling can supersede any fear. I have momentarily accepted winter, the snow and my place in the order of things. That is a place where I’d like to live from more regularly. In that place, there is quiet revelation. I don’t have the need to know more in such moments. The quest for meaning releases and I have an experience of deep peace and connection.

In the New Year, I desire that for myself and I pray that it extends around the world…the experience of deep peace and connection.

Blessings to you in the new year and always.

Solstice 2022

It’s been so cold where I live. The plowed snow has turned into blocks of ice and each footstep down an icy path has to be watched. Last week, following a friend down such a snow-covered trail, I did the splits. She was ahead of me chattering away and was oblivious to my near fall. A man driving a snowplow nearby, applauded my quick recovery.

Yesterday, I drove south an hour to feel the warmth of sun and the busyness of a city, especially busy during the holiday season. This is a season that we have masterfully manufactured and turned into a time of stress for some and profit for others. While there, I went to Barnes and Noble Booksellers to get myself a calendar journal for 2023 and a wall calendar for my daughter. I note the ways that we mark time. My new Jane Austen calendar journal doesn’t show Solstice. I think that it should and I write it in the little square.

Shouldn’t every calendar should show the days of turning. The days where there is a pivot, a change in the light and the dark. Tonight marks the longest night. In Pagan cultures, this has been and is a cause for celebration. The longest night marks the rebirth of the sun. As winter stretches out before us in the northern hemisphere, with Solstice, there is also a rebirth of hope…that spring is going to come. For now, there is a need to contemplate, to release what no longer serves us and to plant the seeds of what we want to grow this year. Planting them in the deep dark within, like the flower bulbs in the garden, we harmonize with the cycles of nature. I wonder, if I lived in alignment with these cycles and let myself be guided by nature’s calendar, might I feel less bound by the man-made pressures of modern living.

It’s a quiet Sunday morning. I sense the desire to pause, slow the day down and give presence to the tasks that I’ve set before myself. And not to be concerned if everything on the list doesn’t get done. To make it alright that everything isn’t checked off the list. Tonight, I plan to participate in a free online Solstice event with Michael Meade, author, mythologist and storyteller.

A poem I wrote as I begin this day…

The days of turning
the longest dark
the deepest inward opportunity
But we’ve created a fantasy world
of distractions, diversions
that distance us from nature’s cycles
And we wonder why we’re
“out of touch” with reality
why we falter in our daily lives
We live our lives virtually
because it’s what we’ve been handed
by those who decide
what entertainment is,
and tell us what we need
At the end of the day,
I resort to such distractions
because “the world is too much with us”

Today, I pray for the pause…I want to slow things down and experience each thing that I do or say as the miracle it is. Anything, everything is worthy of my attention, deep noticing and gratitude.

Blessed and happy Solstice to you. May you find what you’re looking for today and always.

Looking Back, Learning Something, Going Forward

It’s snowing–like the early days when I first moved here to Mount Shasta. The blanket of white is in place and now the snow is falling heavily, coating the tree limbs and sticking to the walkways, driveways and streets. I probably won’t go very far by car today…and if it’s icy, not on foot either. I’m fine with that, for today. I have plenty to do here.

Last week I shampooed the carpet in my dining/office/art studio–an all-in-one room. I was expecting company at the end of December and it felt like a good start towards cleaning and preparation. That and baking pies, cooking meals and freezing them. Then, I got the notice that my daughter’s family couldn’t make it. Their son, my grandson, has three mandatory basketball games scheduled over the Christmas holiday! I thought this was a time to gather family together! I wrote to the coach at the high school. I objected, to no avail. Apparently no one else has challenged this tradition in the sixteen years that it’s been happening.

So, change of plans. I am sifting through my writing to see if it might be of use in future projects. The thing is that I like my writing. I learn about myself when reading an early journal. I witness my predicament as a woman at a certain stage of life. I realize the links this writing has with other women across the planet. I appreciate when I write as if I’m a writer that someone might actually read. I have fun employing metaphors. In rereading something I wrote all those years ago, I recognize the passion I felt at the time.

Here’s an example that took me on a journey. I wrote in third person–it’s been noted how writing in third person gives a degree of security when sharing something that you deem to be very personal.

They were skimming photos of nieces and nephews that he’d known from their past life together. She barely flashed a photo of herself with her new boyfriend but it was enough to hit him like an icy splash of water in his face. It smacked his dream down–the dream of her coming home and resuming family life with him. She noticed his response and felt sad but not like she should fix it.

I wrote this on the heels of my divorce after thirty years of marriage. The divorce was a long-time coming. I chose not to leave while our two daughters were in school. And then I left, gradually, but finally.

A good friend of mine has said more than once that “When your spouse dies, you grieve this very big loss and society expects that of you. However, when you get a divorce, there is less recognition and compassion for this very big loss. ” That would include the loss of your ideals, your dreams, your mate, your growing old together, family gatherings where you can both be amicably present. There can be a sense of having failed and sometimes shame. it’s every bit as hard as death and usually as final.

I had every reason to leave. He played the part of an abusive alcoholic with occasional bouts of sentiment. I played the part of the battered wife who tried harder. We were young, nineteen. Both of us fresh from dysfunctional childhoods, both lacking a real sense of who we were and what we desired for our lives. These many years later, I feel the loss although less potently. I have reviewed time and again, contemplating if there was a point where we could have healed our marriage. I realize that I had sacrificed too much in trying to make it work. Both have to want it and both have to try. There is that lopsidedness that women employ to try to make it work. It’s got to be a mutual effort or not at all. My mom, in her final years, made a wish that I would have someone to grow old with. Her marriage of seventy years modeled the second class and disrespected position that she held within their home. I wouldn’t want that and I don’t think that I want to care for a man in his waning years.

Taking a walk has been a way to gain perspective when I’m facing a difficulty.

Her lower back ached like an old blues song, whiny and deeply felt. Each breath tugged at the ache; a yawn immobilized her. This one-hour walk which had seemed like a good idea, a positive way to begin the new day, had turned out to be a test of her endurance. Why this pain–this relentless sob of pain? It caused her to mark each step; no sudden uncalculated moves.

Reading this early writing, taken out of the context of my larger life, I recognize the struggle of someone (me) who was trying to find my way while clearing out the clutter of other’s ideas of who they think I should be. I had been, like my mother, the woman who endures and stays in a marriage no matter what. Then, I no longer was
that woman.

She wondered what her life had been about as she lay there on the sofa staring out the cottage window–the new poufy-valance curtains she’d sewn defying the ruggedness of her environment. The heating pad warmed the small of her back while the hot water bottle heated her stomach–she was a toasty sandwich in between. And there were no definitive answers. She was as dichotomous as the opposing genders, as sun is to moon, ocean to desert; wizened parent to defiant teenager. Everything she desired she didn’t desire. Grown up while staunchly rooted in a forbidden childhood. “This isn’t good for you!” “But I want it!” tantrums at times.

The story continues until it doesn’t.

“…Growth of a Purpose.”

” I began to have an idea of my life, not as the slow shaping of achievement to fit my preconceived purposes, but as the gradual discovery and growth of a purpose which I did not know.”

Joanna Field

Joanna Field was the pseudonym chosen by Marion Milner when publishing her books. Her first book, A Life of Ones’ Own (1934), was a chronicle of seven years of her life as she traced what made her happy and what she wanted from life.

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It seems that some people (how many do you know) appear to be born into their purpose while most others stumble along trying to discover their purpose. And even if you have a sense of your purpose, few people actually get to live from that knowledge. You have to consider “Can I get paid a living wage to live my purpose (or passion)?” Do you wait until retirement years to do what you love and answer the call that you always knew was there but didn’t quite fit in with your parents’ or society’s notion of what was an acceptable profession and/or would earn you a comfortable income?

Human beings on the whole are a study. And we continue to be studied and analyzed and categorized across the various genders, cultures, belief-systems, how we govern ourselves and you-name-it categories. And we study ourselves by other’s criteria typically in the form of self-judgment, self-criticism and self-denial. I have an acquaintance who mirrors this to me on occasion. She reflects on herself and her choices and her dissatisfactions. However, in her reflections she continually finds fault with herself for not landing on her specific purpose or getting to the root of her discontent. In self-criticism, she can’t rise to an occasion of celebrating who she is and what she brings to the table. “WHAT DID I COME HERE TO DO?” she wonders as she wanders through her life, estranged from herself.

I sometimes note that this friend has really good qualities of cultivating her friendships. Is that a purpose? Hmmm. Why not? Because you don’t make money at it or it’s not a profession or a career. However, it is an essential and prized quality, often overlooked as a life purpose. If she could look at who she is as a friend, what she brings to it, how she celebrates others, perhaps, within that there is a life purpose, one she could even make money at if she translates the qualities it takes to be a good friend into something marketable. I don’t like that word a lot. However, as women, and as a single woman, it is important to find what you love and then figure out how to make it into a deliverable service that others want to give you money for.

I tend to witness the “gradual discovery of a purpose” over the course of my life. Someone once suggested that you return to your childhood likes and recognize in that your purpose. What did you lean towards almost organically? If your dreams, hopes, desires, natural tendencies weren’t vandalized by parents or authority figures, perhaps in there you can see where you purpose lies. What I enjoyed doing always revolved around making things–learning to cook gourmet meals at a young age, crafts delivered in the mail monthly that my family enjoyed once I put them together. Playing school–teaching. If I rummage through those early years and into my young marriage, I can see the woman whose salvation lay in how I took the broken pieces and wove and rewove my life through making things, through writing, through painting.

Maybe my purpose has more to do with qualities of resilience through creativity, through art, through cooking and each one of these isn’t complete unless I find a way to share them with others. That’s a key piece of the purpose behind any gift that you may have…how do you share it with someone else. The benefit for me is in the process of creating. the completion of that process is in some way sharing it with others…whether through a blog, through an art exhibit, through a dining adventure.

Valuing our gifts in a world that doesn’t…that’s another topic entirely!

Loneliness and Creativity

Observation on a Buddha Rock

I know loneliness
a rock separated from a streambed
My particular glamour
is less appealing here
Like this displaced rock
am I commonplace
or too old

This rock
a misshapen Buddha
solitary Bodhisattva
witnessing the cleaving
remembering the whole

What dissension shattered humankind
into separation
Lonely and separate as this scarred rock
perhaps once praised for its cool detachment.
Who cares to take the time
to decipher the untold encrypted story

A star has fallen
to the bottom of the sea
fossilized
while a starfish rises
in the darkening sky
experiencing
alternate realities

God is in us–
is all right with the world
Has the solitary rock learned compassion
Is that the panacea for loneliness

by Christine O’Brien

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In her book, Freeing the Creative Spirit, Adriana Diaz guides the artist/reader/ creative explorer, into many exercises that enable creativity. The subtitle of her book is: “Drawing on the Power of Art to Tap The Magic And Wisdom Within.” One of these exercises invites the reader to find a rock. And then, to sit with the rock, examining its many surfaces. To see the rock as a living being and to become in some way intimate to its experience. To draw it from its various angles and perhaps to write about it as I’ve done in the poem above.

We seldom do this, stop and be present with an inanimate object. Who has the time? I certainly didn’t when I had a bustling household with children, husband and pets, a part or full-time job, extended family. I wonder though, if I had taken the time, even once-a-week, if I wouldn’t have been more present, more grounded and more available to myself and others if I had paused to deepen a connection to myself and to something in nature.

I titled this blog Loneliness and Creativity because when I feel lonely and venture into the creative space, loneliness disappears. In the naming and writing of this poem, the feeling of loneliness dissolved into “art.” Have you experienced that? It’s almost magical, in fact it is magic. It’s an alchemical experience. The base ingredients of one’s loneliness, feelings of isolation or separation blend with the pen, the paper, the paint, the brush, the clay, the camera–whatever the medium that you are using–and are changed into something higher and lighter.

I’ve experienced this more than once. And I know that I’m not the only one. When Covid hit the headlines in 2020 and we were told to isolate, I began to post photos on my Facebook page of the beauty that surrounds me living here in the mountains. Those of us who live here see it daily. However, I have family and friends who don’t live here and since I believe that beauty lifts the spirits, I made a commitment to do this. In this way, I connected with others indirectly. And, I also allowed myself to be the witness with the camera who recorded this beauty. And this beauty was a salve for me too.

All of this to say, we each have creative resources. Regardless of what any former teacher or person of influence in your life might have once told you, we are all artists and our unique way of expression has value for oneself and others.

The Written Word

I had “high tea” with an old friend, a man, yesterday. We met at the local art gallery. We were pleased at the presentation of our two unique pots of tea with matching cups on coasters set on a tea tray with a mini pitcher of agave for sweetening our Masala chai’s. He had the black tea version while I had the rooibos (not caffeinated) version. The presentation elevated the art of sipping tea. We felt special. And the whole thing evoked a conversation about an acquaintance of his, a potter in Sebastopol, who at some point in his career visited Japan and returned with the inspiration for a whole new line of pottery with a Japanese aesthetic.

Conversations are funny animals…they start in one place and then wriggle into another entirely different arena. I mentioned that I had begun clearing clutter once again. Not exactly clutter, but I had ripped several pages from a journal dated 2020, not that long ago. I quickly found that on each page was something about which I became curious. This led me to investigate further online, to inquire into why I had thought something was important enough to write down in the first place.

Sorting through my written words, reading them before I decide to discard them or not, certainly stalls the clearing process. There on the same page is a reminder to buy applesauce with a notation of the Werner Herzog film “Where the Green Ants Dream.” I did rent and watch that film and found it to be insightful and sad. But I hadn’t seen the other film, “Neither Wolf nor Dog.” I added it to my list of films to watch.

Then, there were notes from a Permaculture group that I had met with briefly, before Covid. I can let those pages go for now. Then the reminder to “Do something for someone else”– always a good idea. And then to “dress wild.” I wonder if I was feeling too conservative and hemmed in by inner and outer strictures at the time. I don’t think that one took–maybe I added some brighter colors to my wardrobe. Lists that were fulfilled…or not. Tomato plants, applesauce again, reminder to buy a birthday card and book on meditation for one of my daughters. And to call my oldest brother to see if he remembers “the old man” in the neighborhood when we were kids.

As a woman of the age that I am, I wondered on paper about what my job description is these days. Is there an affirmation that I need that might propel me forward in my life…a way to live that is fulfilling to me and helpful to others…I wondered. I added books from my notes to my books-to-read list. And there they were, the directions on how to make a face mask. I pondered in pen if there was a group that embodied artists for social change.

My friend and I duly noted how one can get diverted so easily from an initial task and end up pursuing another direction. How could I resist following the note to listen to an interview by Frederik Skavlan, (a prominent Norwegian TV host, journalist and cartoonist) with Leonard Cohen and his then partner, Anjani Thomas? I told my friend that I’d send him the link to the interview which was quite good. And a link to Pearl, a once-upon-a-time Mount Shasta spiritual icon. In her very late years, there she was reciting a poem about aging and she broke down and cried towards the end of her recitation.

My friend said that when he and his elder men companions meet at another café daily, they discuss what it means to them to be aging. And they comment how they no longer “fit” in this world. And, he also said that they talk about getting rid of stuff. He might pick up something that he either received as a gift or purchased on a whim at one time. He has had it for say ten years or more. It has no particular use other than being novel. He dusts it off, studies it and decides he can’t part with it yet.

I tell my friend that Al Gore was also on the stage in the interview with Leonard Cohen. Cohen had said something like “It’s only catastrophe that encourages people to change.” Al Gore begged to differ on that point…he believes that we are at a critical time on this planet. And that “A course correction is urgent and indicated.” And that we need to employ our foresight to change that course. Hindsight is a luxury that we don’t have in this case.

Later on in the day I listened to four young Norwegian men singing Hallelujah…one of Leonard Cohen’s songs that has global appeal. I find it difficult to easily part with the written word. It takes me down so many tunnels. Enjoy your day.

What we live inside of…

We each have our daily experiences. In the short story, the author documents a slice of life, or a moment in time. Both the ordinary and extraordinary are explored –whatever the writer finds interesting and/or mundane can be told. I share the following experience because within each day, I find that there is an opportunity to learn, to discover, to understand something else, someone else…or myself.

When I leave my bubble (Mount Shasta) and travel even a short distance away, I get to see outside of the familiar. I carry my beliefs with me…but if I stay open, if I look and listen, I hear (and sense) all sorts of things.

Another small mountain town one hour to the east of where I live, is surrounded by the abundant beauty of natural wonders. There lies a beautiful mountain lake, an astonishing waterfall and vistas that take the breath away. And yet, according to the liberal woman behind the desk at the Chamber of Commerce, the local citizens’ views of the world are ingrown and staunch.

I inquired “What is special and worth seeing (aside from the astonishing waterfall and beautiful mountain lake).
She said “Not very much.”

She moved here from Hawaii about ten months ago. She lived in Hawaii for forty years. She farmed the land, grew organic vegetables, and sold them to the local restaurants. The high cost of living had finally pushed her out. She has a sister here, so it seemed the obvious choice of where to go. She misses her organic garden, a broader perspective and environmental awareness.

“Is there somewhere you would recommend to eat?” I asked.

“Nowhere,” she said. Then added, “At least you have a health food store in Mount Shasta!”

And, yes we do.

As I headed for the door, she tossed me a final possibility “There is the Stand By Me bridge…the one made famous by the film Stand By Me.

But she had no idea where it actually was.

I left there to go to a neighboring town about ten miles away where I remembered having a good sandwich several years ago. A sign on the door read “if the lights are on, we’re open”…but no one was there even with all of the lights on. I was directed to the local hotel that “serves a good lunch” said a woman in the parking lot who also tried the door of the café to find it wasn’t open.

The hotel is an old building from perhaps Gold Rush days. I walked into what I thought was the entrance and it turned out to be the bar. Three men’s heads turned as I walked in. Obviously not from here, was written all over their faces. The bartender directed me to the café. The waitress was dressed up in a skirt and heels and her hair wrapped in a do from another time. She was pleasant and noticing you’re not from here, are you.

I ordered, what else, cheese burger with fries. It was obvious sandwiches and burgers were their specialties. The locals came in as I sat eating my lunch, not so inconspicuously, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with too many customers. Slightly eavesdropping, the conversations were the daily ones that people have with family and friends that you see all the time. And, of course, there were the sideways looks at me.

After I paid my tab, I headed to the restroom “First door to the left,” the waitress directed.

“Nope, not that one,” someone from a table shouted at me.

I proceed to the second door to the left.

“Not that one,” someone from another table shouted at me.

Third door to the left…ah the prize. Isn’t it always the third whatever that is the magic door, key, word.

I slipped out the back of the hotel and headed to their astonishing waterfalls. There’s no question about the popularity of this place which boasts a campground and State Park. Love of nature brings people from all over here. We have that in common. Perhaps that’s a good start, finding out what we have in common with those who we don’t agree with politically or otherwise.

What do you think?

Doing Your “Ministry”

Last week, I watched the film, Hallelujah, about the life of Leonard Cohen and the journey of the song that he wrote, Hallelujah. A documentary, I was drawn quickly into the film. The soulful closeups of Cohen were mesmerizing. His deep bass voice seemed to touch a chord that my whole body responded to. And the words, his words are soulful. When I left the theater, the thought that rang true was
“He was doing his ministry.”

There was a period of five years when Cohen lived in a Buddhist Monastery. It was during the end of that period that he discovered that his manager had embezzled most of his money and sold the publishing rights to his songs. This forced Cohen out of retirement to recoup his losses. Those last years of touring around the world to sell-out crowds, in my estimation, brought out the quintessential minister/entertainer that he was. There was an added profundity, humor and presence to his performances. The audiences responded to his charisma.

All of this to wonder…how do I do my ministry? How do you do your ministry? What does that look like? In previous blogs, I’ve written about my Conversations with Daniel…a man with whom I had extensive intimate conversations about male/female relationships. For three months, we met weekly. I recorded our conversations and gave him a copy of the recording to review before the next meeting. The intention, was that we could witness how we communicated as a man and a woman in conversation.

Daniel quickly established himself as the teacher and that left me in the role of the student. However, in reviewing the recordings, he witnessed his ways of dominating the conversations. He made his best effort at being less imposing. He also had a lot of knowledge, wisdom and passion and a strong desire to impart that. It was challenging for him not to interrupt and insert himself frequently. Towards the last of our twelve weeks of conversations, I noted that I was doing at least an equal amount of talking and there seemed to be more of a balance.

Daniel passed away yesterday, suddenly. I got the news last night by telephone from an acquaintance. It was like dropping a mini-bomb in the midst of my bumpy life. Today, the day after, I can’t quite believe it. I was listening to one of our recordings last week. I put his name on my to-do list “Call Daniel!” I got so busy preparing for an upcoming art exhibit that I didn’t call him. And then the finality of the news, the phone call– “I’ve got some sad news. Daniel died.” The shock and immediate protest on my part. “No!” I wanted to turn back the hands of time by even one day so that I could call him without hesitation and without an excuse.

The reason I bring Daniel into this is that he was doing his ministry. His life was his ministry. His journey and sharing it with others was his proclamation. “I’m here!”
In the last ten to fifteen years, Daniel became a quieter man, following a spiritual teacher and doing a daily meditation. He was himself always, through his various stages of evolution. He was a poet, a writer, an actor, a friend. And likely more that I don’t know. His lived life was his ministry.

I sometimes collect quotes. This one appeared in my paper pile yesterday:

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you,
and that you will work with these stories from your life–
your life–not someone else’s life–water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.
That is the work, The only work.”

author unknown

This quote reminded me what a ministry might look like. Being you is your only purpose and a brilliant one at that.

I dedicate this post to my friend, Daniel.

“…I Use Both”

“I have a brain and a uterus, and I use both.”

Patricia Schroeder

In these times, and probably throughout time, women are called upon to show that they are more than wind-up dolls who look pretty in a box on a shelf or as foldouts in men’s magazines. And, to prove that they are so much more than a free labor force solely intended to care for a man’s needs and their children’s needs. Also, in my opinion, women are called upon to re-value themselves in whatever capacity that they show up in their lives.

That seems to be at the core…the ways in which we value ourselves, the beliefs that we hold about our value as human beings are central to our forward evolution as women in these times. My mother, through her lived life, believed in her second class status. Her parents, my father, her religion and the world of her era reinforced this belief. That’s nothing new.

In my generation, we found ourselves trying to break out of the well-crafted muzzles and find our voices, singly and collectively. We had to prove that having a monthly cycle didn’t mean that we were less capable at that time of the month. Nor did it make us less wise or under-the-influence of escalating emotions. We had to prove that what we were contributing in the workforce was at least equal to what any man was contributing and that we deserved equal remunerations for it. And that we could advance in the workplace and hold our own. Today, we continue to strive for this. And we’ve discovered that any forward strides that we might have made regarding our rights are not set in stone. What is given can be taken away.

The quote above, “I have a brain and a uterus, and I use both.” makes me consider testosterone-driven men. How does the level of testosterone influence high-powered executives or political leaders? Have there been scientific studies? Should this unharnessed hormonal influence be considered when we vote for our leaders? I haven’t heard that this governing male hormone has even been taken into consideration over the course of history. Men advance in their jobs and we applaud their forward thrust. When we see that in women, there is not necessarily scorn, but it isn’t valued in the same way…because it doesn’t fit within the box where a society continually tries to place women. Men are hormonal most of their lives. With women, our hormones are cyclical.

This last paragraph is written tongue-in-cheek (or not). It’s just so ridiculous not to take the wholeness of our masculine and feminine natures and apply them to the challenges that we have created for ourselves today. A collaborative effort is a way to go…if only we could learn how to effectively collaborate. Matching the driven nature of the masculine with the tempering effect of the feminine. Each one bringing their own genius, wisdom and expertise is where we would ideally be going. A marriage of sorts.

Basically, value yourself, do your best and carry on.

Getting to “the bones”

I read Women Who Run with the Wolves many years ago. It was one of those books that, when I spied it standing solo on a little pedestal at the East West Bookshop in Palo Alto, California, I felt compelled to pick it up and open it. It was a new release at that time (1992) and only in hardback and expensive for my budget.
I opened to any page and read a paragraph and was surprised to see the relevance to a current situation in my life. Yet, that wasn’t reason enough to spend $28.00 on it! I walked around this very engaging shop and all sorts of book covers caught my attention. However, I gravitated back to Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ book. Again, I opened the book to any page. The words jumped out at me and I was riveted.

Recently, I had met a stranger at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. I was weaving in and out of the water as the ruffled waves washed gently on the shore. A man’s voice behind me inquired “Isn’t it cold?” I replied that “Yes, it is and I love it.” He asked if he could walk with me. I agreed and we walked and talked on a very deep level for the next several hours. It wasn’t like we were strangers. It was as if we had met lifetimes ago and then designed to meet each other at this time and place and share our life-findings so far.

As we talked, we became vulnerable to each other. The sharing was personal, sometimes intimate and philosophical. As the sun dipped behind the clouds, I began to shiver. He casually placed his red hooded sweatshirt over my shoulders. He was a handsome man, slender, blonde hair cut in a stylish clip for the times. He gave me a large rose quartz stone to hold in my hand as we walked beside the sea. “To calm you,” he said. The entire experience felt comforting, as if I was walking with my Guardian Angel.

We had walked a length of beach and then, finally, turned around to return the way we had come. When we got back to our cars, he gave me his phone number and softly, like a butterfly, brushed a kiss across my cheek. I thanked him and went home feeling loved, guided, protected. I was married and although there was tension in my marriage, I had no intention of leaving my husband at that time. I wasn’t planning on calling the phone number. There was nowhere this relationship could go. Although, I did call it once and got his message machine. I never called it again.

When I opened the book in the bookstore that day, this was the quote that I read:

The Passing Stranger

“…The person who might take us out of the ice, who might even psychically free us from our lack of feeling is not necessarily going to be the one to whom we belong. It may be…another of those magical but fleeing events that again came along when we least expected it, an act of kindness from a passing stranger….Then a something that is sustaining appears out of nowhere to assist you, and then disappears into the night, leaving you wondering, Was that a person or a spirit?”

Clarissa Pinkola Estes from Women Who Run with the Wolves

I bought the book.