Balancing Thoughts and Feelings

"Your heart has been sending you in the right direction, but now it's time for you to let your gray matter weigh in on the current situation. It's not that emotions aren't important elements in your life -- they are. But right now, you need to think more logically than emotionally. Make a list of pros and cons, research all of your options, and give yourself plenty of time to make the right move. If you go from your gut exclusively, you could end up making a mistake."

I had been sitting in meditation for a couple of hours. The CD music had long been over. I was listening for an insight, and answer to the question, "What is taking all my energy to resist, keeping me in a tired state all the time? 

So,  I blessed the spaciousness I had the privilege of sharing with the oneness of all creation and went on about my day.

Later, when I had left that meditation space completely, I read the quote above. 

Unable to let it pass unconsciously, I read it again - and again - and then again. 

this was the answer to my question.

Well, not the answer, but the space into which I was drawn to find the answer.

So, I got the CD playing again, relaxed, and placed myself directly between my thought body and my emotional body -imaginally speaking. 

On the one hand, my thoughts had a word or two to say about the options I had for a direction I might choose.

On the other hand, my feelings offered options for emotions which would be accompanying the various choices available.

I held each in a hand of their own for a few long moments, sensing the balance which was coming into this inner space where I was sitting.

I felt a bit uncomfortable at first and anxious about the possibility of no resolve.  

When I was able to let that go, I also was able to let go of having to receive an answer.

I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and my decision was clear.

My gut was going in the right direction, but I needed to be more strategic about how I went about following through with my plan.

Holding thinking and feeling in balance is always a winning model.

 Ideas are not in charge. 

Emotions are not in charge. 

I am in charge.

Who is this "I" who is in charge?

It is I who has made a decision.

When I make a free decision, I live without resistance.

It is then, that I am not tired all the time.

I am energized.

"So, why has this taken so many years to learn?," I ask myself.

The answer: This is a natural process, operating when I have been energized,  of which I am now aware.

What decisions are looming in your life - especially the one which you are resisting?

Yore, Yesterday, and Now

Time is passing slowly,  the doors which were opened after almost half a century have occasioned  fresh air to blow through the place of memories.

With the fresh air and the bright light of the sun on that place, healing has happened.

I am recalling how difficult my own reunion with my daughter's father was. Just below the surface of the forgiveness of everything, was a raging fire of resentment for the way everything came to pass.

When the resentment resurfaced, my emotions were in charge, and I struggled to function - let alone - maintain a sense of disidentification from the teenager who is now at the other end of her life.

 I did not want my daughter to get to know her father and come to be good friends with him.

At the same time, I did not want them to  get to know each other without me.

Also, at the same time, I was elated that my daughter could actually and finally meet the father whose genes she inherited, as well as many physical features.

In a blind attempt to bridge the gap between then and now,  experiencing the full  enjoyment of their meeting each other was clouded by the dust which had settled on the memories of yore.

Fortunately, for the sake of the event, I also was filled with a natural sense of delightful relief that this long held secret dream of connecting was becoming really real.

Since that week, almost a year ago now, I have done some extensive reflection on why it was that I held the man in my heart as an undying love.

This goes deeper than the undeniable fact that we share a beautiful daughter's origins.

I have come to see how much he was like my own father - a charismatic, handsome, aloof, and charming musician. Whether he actually slept with other women will always be an unknown, but he sure was good at socializing without my mother, with his musical band of minstrels.

My father also was seriously an alcoholic. Life of the party and a master at throwing good parties, the drinking finally took its toll and he headed for his life saving bottoms out crash. By then he was in his 70's.

He was a spiritual man, Mason, and a guide for my brothers and I into the source of the power of the Mystery. I can recall those moments vividly to this day.

In my relationships, I feel comfortable with addicted men. Perhaps my daughter's father was such. I sure spent my weekends in wild abandon at the end of my teens. I have forgotten most of the details of those couple three years.

While I may not remember details, but I can say even today, that my love for that man was the one and only time I loved with everything I had to give.

I do remember my feelings when I was finally pulling myself together and beginning to establish some boundaries and a sense of self worth. It was then realized I was pregnant for my daughter and went numb emotionally.

I felt he and I had gone our separate ways. We had a conversation or two around the  "what if I got pregnant?" He flat out had decided I would get an abortion which, at the time, meant a needle in a back room somewhere. He was sure he wasn't going to marry me - or ever get married.

We had  just drifted apart. I had been replaced and was doing my darnedest to replace him. (Those were the days before the feminine revolution).

I was confused and paralyzed. My mother was angry and hysterical over what I had "done to her". My father was silent, seething with anger under his silence. They asked me who the father was and I lied.

They never asked me what I wanted to do about my pregnancy. They simply whisked me off to an aunt - which is the way it was done then.

However, at my aunt's there was an uncle and two cousins who were  resentful of my being there -justifiably so, given the mindset of the times.

So, arrangements were made for me to stay with a rich woman, a famous water color artist, and take care of her bed-ridden mother and clean her house.

Later, I entered a home for unwed mothers for the duration of the pregnancy.

Every day from when I first I left home to go to my aunt's, I wrote a letter to my daughter's father, then threw it away. It would be to no avail. He had made up his mind who he was and where he was going and I would be an unwelcome intrusion.

 Slowly, I stopped writing the letters and focused more on the  blessing of the growth in my womb and my delight in anticipating the moment I could hold her in my arms.

When that moment arrived, I thought of him again, really feeling he would be delighted as well. I remember feeling the loneliness of regret- a small cloud of realizing the next steps surrounding the elation of being a mother holding the most beautiful daughter ever to be born.

 When it was time to fill out the birth certificate, I am sure I wrote his name as the father. I spent hours deliberating whether or not to leave it blank.

Later, back home and engaged to another, this man who I have held dearly in my hear,  he photographer as well,  offered to take pictures at my wedding. The groom was adamantly opposed so that didn't happen.

I saw him in a car park in Singapore while there en route to Australia some years later. I had run into his mother a couple of  months earlier. She told me he was in Singapore, and gave me his address. I did not get to  talk to him in Singapore.

For  almost a half of century, his energy has been living in my heart, occasionally showing up in my reveries with some illusion or another.

But, now that it has been almost a year, since I met him as a real person today and not a half century old illusion, it has become possible to be real about this whole thing.

Like my father, he is aloof and emotionally unavailable. I sensed that he was almost paralyzed by his own overwhelming emotions  accompanying this meeting of this child - now a beautiful woman - of our love.  He was graciously present, while at the same time keeping his emotional distance at all costs - at times bringing up a woman friend as a reminder of the present day - or mentioning his recently departed wife of forty years.

We both were in the whirlwind of yesterday and today all spiraling  and bringing chaos to the chronological pattern of it all.

Maybe he has the same affliction as my father. Maybe he controls his great emotional passion with some form of self-medication. I do not dare to venture into the actual facts, nor do I need to.

What is important is that I come to grips with my own addiction, my own comfort zone, with those who have acquired a self-medicating habit, whether it be drinking or puffin' the magic dragon.

At the moment, I'd rather be alone than dancing with my father's likeness.

Dancing is supposed to be a joyful ritual, not a pain filled sense of being alone in the arms of a ghost  on a crowded dance floor.

The door is open now, fresh air blowing in and carrying oblivious dust away. With the light of the sun, exposing the heart of the matter, a healthy perspective is now possible.

Then was then. Now is now.

When is a time you have had the privilege of bringing the long remembered and forgotten past into the present and felt the healing power of holding the two in balance, allowing the presence of such a perspective?

How to Be a Mother-in-law

Realizing things were not going well at all, and being one who prefers gentle loving bonds, I began to read all I could find on the how to be a good mother-in-law.

Research shows that 60% of mil/dil (mothers-in-law/ daughters-in law) experience stress in their relationship. I am sure that all can understand that there is a natural competition which dwindles as an obstacle to right relations  as each adjusts to the change in roles and responsibilities.

In the mean time both mil and dil engage in a dance of self-silencing in order to enjoy each other's company as they move through the awkward stages of accepting each other as each is,  rather than what each prefers the other to be.

Also true, is the fact that mils have been the successful butt of stand up comedians for years. Mostly, however,  those jokes are about how men experience their mils.

In an article by Susan Adcox, "How to be A good Mother-in-Law and Grandmother", she lays down the rules. As  I read the rules, as was the intent of the article, I asked myself:  Am I critical?  Am I too helpful?  Am I possessive? Am I  pushy? How do I be a mil AND grandmother?

In this and several other readings, I noticed that a common theme was the onus was all on the mil to be whatever it takes for there to be a good relationship between the two. But, are we not all adults now. Isn't the onus on us all to become accepting of each other, establishing boundaries which respect each other and the healthy role each plays in family dynamics?

,I then googled "how to be a good dil". Mostly, the listing there was also about how to be a good mil.

 One  link began like this:  Anthropologist Margaret Mead wrote, "Of all the peoples whom I have studied, from city dwellers to cliff dwellers, I always found that at least 50 percent would prefer to have at least one jungle between themselves and their mothers-in-law."

All I read mentioned RESPECT as the key to healthy family ties.  Some of the stories brought tears to my eyes. All that I read assured me that I am not alone, dancing on egg shells. Eggshell dancing is a fine art here and I tell you the truth when I say I love eggshell dancing.  

None of the articles reassured me that I might have a chance of being a grandmother who gets to know her grandchildren.  Not a real possibility anyway with all of them living so far away, and/or already full grown adults themselves. 

Unconditional acceptance is the only way to live freely. We all are who we are. 

There finally are no pat answers or perfect way to dance. There IS,  however, the possibility of mutual intent to trust that each other acts with the highest good. 

 Let it be. Let it be.

Have you had the privilege of having to live in the tension of in-law relatedness? How have you come to terms with this natural phenomenon?

A Reunion With the Joy of It All

Vermont slate sidewalk at 7 Highland Drive. My father, Grandmother,
 and I drove to  Vermont to get this slate to build the sidewalk.

By the time July arrived, I really was not interested in attending my 50th high school reunion.

Every year around my birthday,  I claim a promise for the year. For 2011-12, I promised myself to participate in connections and be inspired.

Each encounter had been just that during the year.

So, this reunion, coming at the end of the year of being inspired, was on the agenda, whether I was really interested or not.

While mingling at the picnic - the first event -, I was able to put some memories into perspective, as initial recollection of high school was that it was a lonely time. If I was lonely then, I sure wasn't now.

On the WCS Class of 1962 facebook page, several of us had become good friends. I hardly knew most of them in high school -even if we did spend a lot of time together in one way or the other. Yet, when we met at the picnic, I felt we had been friends forever and was feeling the blessing of meeting once again.

At the picnic, I listened to tales and memories, but didn't ask many questions as I had planned on doing. I listened to many stories, however brief because I was in somewhat of a daze which did not encourage the speaker. I have reflected on what I heard. Predominantly, many of us have recently retired or would like to retire. I felt this desire for us to feel that we can move into a new phase of life, with the memories of our experiences in high school and in our families and careers. Those who come after us - the newer  generation - are already standing on your shoulders.

One of the most popular and gracious of classmates  was recalling 6th grade. She said when she thought about our 6th grade trip, she thought about me. While she was relating a really fun-time tale, I was remembering that teacher just plain did not like me!!

I drew a blank with so many encounters.

 When one handsome stranger standing before me,  told me he remembered how entertaining I was and that he remembered laughing a lot when I was around, I was wanting to ask him for an example, but instead my brain was scanning that time in history trying to place him, recognize him, remember something, anything related to what he was saying.

A kiss on the lips from another handsome, yet recognizable stranger,  convinced me each  encounter should have been such - but alas, bacchanalia it wasn't. Enough said on that subject,which, in high school, was never far from the forefront of our consciousness, was  it?.

I really enjoyed watching another bearded elderly gentleman, who I called "crabby",  get happier each time I saw him and called him that. Probably, he finally smiled because he had finally recognized me.

A lovely couple, both at this reunion and the last one, swore on their grandmothers' graves that I introduced them and at the time I was with one of the guys I remember as being really hot.  I have absolutely no recollection, and will be convinced to the day I die and beyond that they have me confused with someone else - and I am quite certain, that even though I dated many, that hot guy was not among the many.I would have remembered the attraction alone. Oh, well. Enjoy the credits, I say.

At he dinner at Harts Hill Inn, I was drawn to staying on the dance floor at all costs. There was such happy energy there.

Tall-white-haired-and-handsome-as-ever, after years of encountering the vast wilderness, has had so much time to meet his inner self and from there encounter the Spirit of the land for the living of his life. His presence alone was an awesome encounter. I think that is why I kept pulling him out onto the dance floor - he with his broken foot and me with my broken ankle!

Or maybe the lure was the happiest couple in the world . Seems to me there were many happy couples, but these two stood out in the crowd. They definitely have something special going for them. Keep on dancing, I say!!

Our classmates all are sensitive to Spirit- so many signs of this showed up here and there during the weekend. I also heard much depth conversation on social crises. A very distinguished and dignified classmate's  stories of his successes as an attorney is a fascinating example - especially the time he got a felon off the hook so the guy could work as a decoder for the US government.

This was my dearest friend's first reunion. She was beside herself with joyful anticipation of who she would see and what they would share. When she and the foreign exchange student  - so in love back when, reunited by falling into a dance, accompanied by the music of kabobs sizzling on the grill behind them, the world stopped for a short minute.

The DJ, tall and suave, was wired with ecstasy, providing the music of the era to enfold us in a community of memory, while his lovely wife, captured the whole thing in visual memories.

I so admire the team who organized this particular reunion. They came out of the woodwork to work together for this grand gathering of a very special group of people. It is as if we were destined to have a memorable occasion and they made it happen. One classmate on the team is a master at handiwork. She facilitated the very memorable reunion shirts and embroidered our beautiful name tags

An old and dear friend, told me that it was he who catalyzed the whole thing by convincing the classmate who did get the ball rolling, that it was needed.  His wife, has "grown up" to be such a beautiful woman.  I hadn't seen her since we lived on the same street, so young and so long ago.

While we are on the same street . I could not believe my eyes and would never have recognized the girl who lived across the street  if she hadn't made herself known to me.  The boy from down the street and I had the privilege of connection at a couple of reunions already. He and I - and one other classmate - go all the way back to the baptismal fount (almost) at First Presbyterian Church.

What is quite amazing is that so many of us can remember so much from so far back, and by talking to each other, finding out how many of the rest of us were in the same classes, although we don't necessarily recall each other in those classes, we remember the teachers which put us in the same classes at the same times. With each memory of this, our common history became richer and more real.

I was also very impressed with how handsomely my fellow classmates have aged and how beautiful are the women. On facebook, I have seen several reunions of about the same time period.  Our class is really the most impressive of all I have seen. We must all be really happy, have a playful relationship to life, and definitely seem to be enjoying the great adventure of this final Act on the great stage of life where we have all  grown to know and love so much.

Other events of the reunion - groups getting together before and after, golf match, breakfast, reuniting with teachers,  the remembrance of classmates who have passed on, and the Mariner's plus one canoe trip are but a few of the centers of activity accompanying this reunion.  The reunion not only includes that getting acquainted before the reunion, but also the connections which have formed since. The potential here alone is priceless.

So hard to feel the pain when surrounded by such joy. Is this not what it is all about after all? When we take photos to add to the album, do we not always take them of the happy times - the high times - the good times - the precious moments?  Yes, we do. So it is with reunions.  They bring us into the present time with the best of those years we spent in school.

Now that I have begun writing, I  am ready to  write for a long long time. But, this is a blog, and the account of our 50th reunion has run its course.

But, those of us who write are having the time of our lives right now. We are all loving to recreate images of the experience and the evocation of reflections on its significance.

What for you were those precious moments at a reunion you have attended  - those moments which changed your perspective, bringing the joy of the life you lived with these people in to the present moment?

Lou Finch, Judi White, Jim Samuel, then and now!

The Same Smile

Hope, Faith, Birth, Purity, Renewal, Promise, Passion, Becoming

Two contributing factors to the writing of this blog entry:

One - My first born and only daughter will have a birthday this week. Her own second born daughter is within eighteen days of the age that I gave birth to her mother.

The other - Reading the book, The Same Smile, a story written by a mother and daughter telling of their saga of reuniting after many years, following adoption.

Our journeys have many similarities, one of which is the endless presence of  hope for reconciliation.

In the book, mother and daughter shared pictures. My daughter has shared pictures, but mine were tucked away in the closet. Until yesterday, in a curious search, I believed most were lost in one of the hurricanes which ravaged through the house a few years back.

Most of them have been lost, but I found a treasure trove of bits and pieces of history, which I have chosen as a beginning,  to share with her as a birthday present.

If she chooses someday to come and visit me here in my home, there is still more to share. And, when my scanner works again, I'll scan more to send.

In reading The Same Smile, I became aware of the connective power of sharing pictures. I have  perused my daughter's "album of yore" over and over again searching for more glimmers of commonality. She carries much of her natural father's energy as well as mine.

So, having wondered what it is that I can share with her to assist that connective power within her, I am now hoping that these few photos will be the gift she needs for us to be able to become closer.

Both of us, and her natural father, too, carry the energy of being able to keep our distance - aloof, yet sensitively observant.

Having stuffed down my regrets at relinquishing all rights to my daughter when she was ten days old, they, as might have been expected, came out of their hiding place, when we did reunite.

Given the opportunity for unconditionally forgiving myself and everyone involved, I found a new strength for this process in getting to know my granddaughter.  For many reasons, I suspect - no, I know that I made the right decision way back then - given who I was and my circumstances at that age.

Now, today, creating the future as we go, is  is all there is for us to live. Sharing photos and stories which accompany the stories is like a Celtic circle dance  - this dance weaving a long held dream of reconciliation, into our lives today.

It will happen or it won't happen. I am hoping actively that it will happen for us.

How have you brought the past into today through photos and stories?  What has been the result? 

Hello!!!

.

From Seeds Planted to Life Today.

I owe it to myself to write a counter image of high school years, one which I also experienced on the great roller coaster called adolescence.

All boyfriends aside - a phenomenon which took up a great deal of space on that timeline - I willed my memory to search for seeds planted which have grown to be the me I am today.

Countless ventures, groups, and skills race by my internal video screen, all of which nurtured the seeds.

None came anywhere near being filled with overwhelming love for being alive as did ...
Mrs. Bauer's  dancing classes where she taught us to express joy physically,
Mrs. Samuel's and Mrs. Magendanz's patience at piano lessons,
George Wald's passionate choir direction and masterful organ playing,
Mr. Golden's intense obsession with our writing from our hearts -  even as journalists ,
Art instructors at the Munson-Williams who encouraged us to  manifest what we saw and were feeling,
Phyllis Diller's sense of humor,
Mr. Yorra's encouragement to do your 100% plus best,  and
 Ms. Reinman's ability to take us to the source of imagination  to experience the story or poem.

Accompanying all of these was a mystical sense of self-discipline, a lot of which hasn't manifest even today. Progress is good!!!

Life's traumas are a gift as well. How they came to be so is a mystery. I was clear at twenty, that being a change agent for individuals and communities was written in the Akashi records-  and the stars -  for my life, my husband's and our children as well.  We had one great adventure as change agents in changing times.

All those seeds which had been planted deep in my being, then began to bloom as a counselor - a guide into the world of Spirit - a place of unconditional love and acceptance of what has been, what is, and what can be.

These days, I look for the signs of the same seeds having been planted in world leaders and those people who are working with abject poverty, with PTSD victims, with chronically abused children, as nsocial activists,as  burned out educators, and as other agents of social change.

I do know that there will be no lasting change without creative/artistic energy blooming in these circles of the future.

Who planted the seeds of who you are today, how you feel, and what you will? Who are you today, how do you feel, and what do you will for the future of this planet and for your own life?

Adolescence is Traumatic Enough

Mother of the World by Nicholas Roerich

It wasn't until I saw the movie, "Carrie" and identified with her, that I thought it was time to process  a really bad experience in my teenage years. Carrie in the movie was a very exaggerated caricature of  of an extremely traumatic experience of adolescence. The movie delivers a huge punch in the gut packed with emotion that accompanies a tragic reality, one which has been dumped on a girl now and then. This includes me.

The boys next door, a bit older than I, were, like their sisters, me, and my brothers, left on our own for most of the time to figure out how to make our way in the world. The boy next door,  a handsome James Dean of a creative/artistic type, enjoyed sharing stories of his sexual conquests. I was included in these fictitious conquests and quickly gained a reputation as an "easy lay" at the ripe old age of 13.

Another dynamic which came into play about the same time, maybe as a result of nis stories, but maybe not,  were the Flag Street boys. They were a gang of wanna-be studs who were known to brag, also, of their wanna-be  conquests. I was definitely on their most wanted list of prey.

At a school dance, a group of frat-athlete types who ran in a pack as it were anyway, created a line, taking turns breaking in from the other to dance with me. It took exactly three changes for me to realize they were mocking me. I have often wondered why they thought that was a cool antic.

I am not saying I didn't have something to do with the believability of all this. I was needy for affection, as were so many of us at that age. But, not more so than many others in the growing dysfunctional malaise of the end of the Fifties.

As a School Counselor, I encountered this problem in the student body more often than not each year. Empathizing each and every time, I was able, from having worked through my own experience of this   dynamic,  to easily raise the right questions - both to the boys and to the girls.  It was happening in fourth and fifth grade, which I found difficult to believe. But, there definitely was the bragging on  about sexual  prowess - elementary, middle, and high school age.

I suppose a certain amount of this is to be expected, and in today's world it isn't just the boys doing the bragging. The girls are good at keeping a running count of their own sexual acts, too. One difference today is that the conquests are real and socially acceptable - speaking here in generalities.

When a girl, and it is mostly a girl, gets targeted and cruelly exploited, and finds herself hurting as a result, if she isn't already seeing herself as worthless, the emotional damage of this kind of abuse cuts to the core of self-esteem, ripping her heart out, leaving a numb and empty space.

She experiences herself, as in "Carrie",  as deliriously happy to be accepted and to be at the arm of a really cute guy, and crowned prom queen - only to be rained upon by pigs blood.

 It takes a long time and a lot of support for healing to occur.

Today, I can reflect back on it with an understanding of the difficulty it is to be a teenager - victim or bully.  It is all part of the emotional roller coaster and insecurity of  adolescence.

The "Carrie" story was a gross exaggeration, but not so far from real for a chosen few innocents.

 I'm sure this all too common traumatic incidence is one of the main reasons I became a Counselor.

Being a kid was a lot of fun in many ways, too. Pain and joy untold, as Nikos Kazantzakis  put it, however never does take away the scar of being the one so traumatized that is slays an entire self-concept.

These victims might just as well have been gang raped, and, in some few cases, are.

All of us have had to recover from one tragedy or another in their lives, maybe quite different in content. Surely as an adult, the scars are tolerable, but maybe not. 

What was a traumatic experience for you as a youngster?

A Year Past a Year Promised

This past year has been anything but routine. The promise I claimed for myself on my birthday last year was to actually connect with these people with whom I share a deep bonding, only imagining how that would finally play itself out. .

During the summer, grandson Wilder came for an extended visit. Justin, Caroline's son - also my grandson - was there as well. The two of them really had an opportunity to bond.  I realized while he was there, how important real connections are to me.

In September, I travelled to Oklahoma and spent a week with Randy, Stephanie, and Chris. After a weekend at an international horse show where Chris placed in all categories entered, we drove to their home and I spent the week following Chris and Stephanie as they went through their daily routines. I had only been there to visit once before when Chris was still an infant. I never did get to spend much time with Chris while I was there, but at least I did get a feel for being connected in the real to my family.

A day at Conna wilkinson's with Jan Sanders and Pat Webb as we journeyed through Jan's workshop to find our heart's song was also a very significant event of the year of really connecting as colleagues.

In December, when Caroline, Paige and I rendezvoused in Seattle area with Caroline's natural father, Kurt, and his son Raoul and wife Jenn,  forty-seven years of yearning for this connection came to be real. We spent a glorious weekend getting together over meals and sharing a bit of our lives. All of us are cautious souls and very intuitive, so much of the connection was from our hearts. This connection was so powerful as the genetic bonding that has always been there became real.

In June, travelling to Italy for the international conference in Rome, was a connection with the roots of my love for psychosynthesis, deeper connections with people I actually know and those I only know by cyber connectedness. This conference was a connection with a great vision of supreme synthesis for this planet, and the conference itself was a demonstration of its possibility. A day in Assagioli's archives was a connection with his life and work. The holiday I treated myself to following this, was a connection with the environment which inspired Assagioli's greatness and I was inspired in turn.

I would have to say that a visit to Trevi Fountain in Rome, was more like a symbol of the experience of this past year and the promise claimed within in. The fountain's energy is pure, vibrant, intense gentle refreshment. I experienced the rootedness of continually flowing water from the fountain and its ancient sculptures. As the water flowed in the fountain, I experienced a release of wishing things were different and gratitude for these events of being so deeply connected now.

. I threw in coins over my shoulder with wishes for this next year, promising to return to these wishes during this reflective time of year when I claim the promise for my 68th year.

Now, I am headed for my 50th high school reunion this week. It is one more opportunity to be connected in real time to classmates of yore. But, we are a half century away from high school days, so it is also an opportunity to meet new people who happen to share a common memory of childhood and youth.  I am saying this as a generality, of course, for some have reunited earlier or been connected for the many years since high school. even by marriage.

The reunion is a turning point in many ways.

For this next year, I promise myself to venture off into paradise, both vocationally and personally. This is a year of shedding the cloak of routine relationship and mediocre expectations.

I will to live a healthy lifestyle - a demonstration of being a responsible elder.
I will to see a North American psychosynthesis conference through to its ultimate success - my contribution to responding to what the world needs today.
I will to travel far and wide for the fun of new encounters and celebrate friendships  -expanding my tolerance for bliss all the way to joy itself.
I will to plan a family reunion where my immediate family is all together for the first time ever since grandchildren began to enter the scene - daring to assert the value of such a gathering  as that which we all deserve to experience.
I will to comfortably be who I am and never more what I am expected to be to keep the peace.

If I organize my blog so to publish it in the context of some theme or finish my book about reuniting with Caroline or get trained as a psychosynthesis coach or any of the other myriad of possibilities I have to consider, well, fine and dandy. I feel I have finally ditched the work ethic which kept me going for so many years. I feel I am replacing it by entering the circle of the dance of this life's time. I intend to have the time of my life this year.

Reflections on a year past and claiming promises for a year ahead makes it easy to dance in the moment, even through the highs and lows of daily routine. What has been your greatest moments of the year past? What are you anticipating as worth it all in the coming year?

A Day in the Archives

This is very long. You might want to begin further down where I placed two stars. **

I walked down the hill from Villa la Stella to Casa Assagioli to spend a day in the archives of Roberto Assagioli. It was going to be interesting since I have difficulty seeing writing, let alone typed print.

But, with my new glasses, I was hopeful. I also wanted to go there to soak up the environment that inspired Assagioli and get a sense after his life there in Firenze.

We were 46 people sitting around the room in an oval. We introduced ourselves and where we were from. People were there from North America, all over Europe, and other places as well. 

We were then led in two groups - English and Italian speaker. In the English speaking group there was continual translation in to French as well.

As we began the tour, we stopped at a table with Assagioli's stamps, each choosing one, stamping it onto a paper, and pinning it to our shirts. I chose to just pick one up and stamp it. It was "Silenzio"!

We crossed the courtyard into the basement, and past some untouched archives which had been stored in the attic previously, but moved due to a leak in the roof.The project which brought us here is an ongoing restoration and organization of these files.

We left that building and entered Assagioli's garden. There were unripened grapes hanging, hydrangeas of different colors, a fruit tree or two, and other flora. This garden was bordered by a brick wall and on one side a steep hill rose beyond, covered with olive trees and Italian cypress scattered along the hill's rise.

We then returned to the main building, began the climb to the top floor. First we stopped at the library, noticed the foyer's intricately designed ceiling, and sat in another room with an original ceiling.

Once at the top, we had light refreshments and heard more about the history of Casa Assagioli.  

Funny, the things you remember most. For me, it was the cat door cut from a bedroom door and a bit of a biography on the cat whose name was Freaky.

We descended to the original ground floor for lunch. I sat in the sun alone in the courtyard enjoying eggplant Parmesan and the most delightful zucchini and cheese salad. I had two chats with others out there under the Tuscan sun - about politics, astrology, and Florida travels.

** Finally, we got to spend time with the archives. I found "Social Psychosynthesis". It was a small group of files with hand written notes - some in English and some in Italian.

I was having difficulty reading the hand written scribbles because they were so light and the paper had aged. But, I was into the magic of encountering the archives of a man whose work so changed my life. I thought I read on one, "You belong!"  I was delighted that those words came off the small piece of paper with such clarity.  But, as I looked again, it read, "You belong to at least one group, or you should belong to one, even to many."

Assagioli would collect these small papers of notes and use them to write or prepare lectures. There were lots of references and some quotes. But, there was nothing new to me in this small file. This was an affirmation of the learning I had already accomplished about social psychosynthesis.

I took a good length of time to meditate in Assagioli's office, first on the floor by a window, then in a chair next to his desk.  One of the designated assistants, there to help us locate archives, flitted by three or four times, distracting me, until I finally was in a deep meditative state, oblivious to anything or anybody around me.

  I listened for a message which I had asked to receive as I entered this meditation.  I received a message, loud and clear, "You have not yet reached the deep underlying contradiction to your community's ability to move ahead. Look for signs today." I felt entirely refreshed when I reentered the reality of the office.

I then entered the room that held Assagioli's esoteric research and was drawn to guided meditations which had been typed in English. Browsing through them, I was deeply addressed with awakening to their focus. They were all on becoming a life of service in the world. Yes, they had the esoteric qualities of imaging, the colors of the images having symbolic qualities. This was not new to me.

What deeply addressed me was that each was planned out to be experienced over several months. I noticed tears in my eyes. I was connecting at a very deep lived with my own life experience here - with  my own history as a life of service in the world. I was elated and was really feeling that "I belong" which I first saw in Assagioli's notes on social psychosynthesis.

As I was connecting the two insight,that of belonging and that of service in the world, one of the assistants came by and intruded on my processing. She assumed I needed a break and hurriedly  closed up the file correctly, a file to which I planned to return. She asked me where I got it from and if someone had assisted me in locating it. then, she took it back to that room, leaving me to take a break.

 Needless to say, I had my first sign of the deeper underlying contradiction. I got up and took that break obediently.

When I came back down I asked another assistant if she would take a photo of me next to Assagioli's desk. She didn't feel comfortable with that and said so rather loudly, asking another assistant what she thought. The other assistant, the same one who assisted me in taking a break,  was standing there shaking her head in the negative, with a somewhat "tsk-tsk" attitude about her.

I don't know why I asked her to take that photo. I already had one next to his desk. I took it as another sign of the underlying contradiction, decided I had what I came there for, left, walking back up the hill in tears, nevertheless.

Gleaning the  meaning of the events of that day in Casa Assagioli have been productive, yet inconclusive. 

One clear image I have of where we all need to work is to recover a strong foundation of unconditional positive regard in our collegial relationships. Social synthesis has, at its heart, a trust in the ability of each of us to see through the Mundane into the Divine purpose of our encounters  and interrelationships. Each is responsible for interpreting truth - not projecting one's own characteristics, fears, or dogmas. There is a great diversity of perspective in the unity of a community. Assuming another's relationship to life is not someone else's responsibility.

I am sure I perused the files I need for future reference and am equally certain that I came away from the day with exactly what I needed. While some of it was humiliating - humiliation is good, too. It is a state of being where reality shines.

Every day has, within it, an opportunity for insight. My own intent to soak up the environment which inspired genius in Roberto Assagioli did not go unheeded during this day at Casa Assagioli.

In fact, each time I return in my remembering to this place, I leave with another insight.  Some places are like that. This one is like that for me.

Where are places, which for you, stand as endless inspiration and insight?

Pilgrimage to Assisi

Almost fifty years ago, I became acquainted with the life of St. Francis of Assisi.

The story of him being called to rebuild the church left an image in my head of a small one room stone chapel for me to hold dear for so many years.

The story of him dancing naked in the square, being stoned, and singing out songs of gratitude became a vital sub-personality in my psyche - or a powerful presence on my meditative council, if you prefer. 

The story of his creating an Order of brothers who reached out to be service in the world has been an image for me of healthy community purpose.

When I visited Assisi this summer, it was with a tour bus because I did not want to go alone, although I was the loner in the crowd. There were four who spoke Spanish and English, two who spoke only Italian, two who spoke only Spanish, and me who speaks only English - but fortunately understands Spanish.  The guide translated into the four languages on the bus. When we arrived another guide took over. She translated into English and Italian, while the bus guide translated into Spanish.  Neither of the guides translated into English well, so I was glad I understood Spanish. 

We visited the church where St. Clare attended with her aristocratic family. Inside we viewed the small chapel where Francis received his calling to rebuild the church. 

We visited the stable where Francis was born - interesting to learn that he was also born in a stable.

We visited the church his parents attended and saw where he was imprisoned for taking off his clothes in the square outside of the church, giving the clothes to the poor. It was significant for him to do this  since his father was a mercantile goods merchant. He was disidentifying from his expected role in the community. His mother,  who I suspect understood this, was also imprisoned for defending him.This was not the square where he danced naked.

We moseyed on down the old streets to the cathedral at the top of the hill which was built around the little church that St. Francis rebuilt. Once we got to this little church, I was amazed to find that it wasn't a little stone chapel at all. It was a beautiful Gothic cathedral in and of itself.

 Walls and ceilings were covered with  frescoes of stories, created for a population which basically could not read. One of the smaller altars told a story of St. Francis in heaven with his colleagues. On the left were souls being helped in to heaven. On the right were souls doomed for eternity. There I was - five feet from a Michelangelo creation. I didn't need to go to the Sistine Chapel anymore, because I was in the presence of this, also his creation.  (I couldn't see the frescoes on the ceiling here, so I wouldn't be able to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel anyway).

I had pondered going to France to make a pilgrimage to one of the many black Madonnas there, but here I was. There were many fresco black Madonnas right here.  Later I found one in a shop, but couldn't imagine how I'd get it home, so I purchased a decoupage version instead.

The bus took us to St. Mary of the Angels where St. Francis and his Order maintained their center for the duration of his life.  In the center of this cathedral is a small rustic stone chapel. It looked like the chapel I had imagined all these years as the one St. Francis was called to rebuild.  I find myself wondering if I missed something in the translation along the way, or perhaps history has chosen to change the story for the sake of the journey.

I never did make it to the square where St. Francis danced naked. But, we did drive on to Cortona, the town made famous by "Under the Tuscan Sun". There, I sat in an outside pub on the square. there I had a lunch of thinly sliced salamis and a glass of house wine from Umbria, this province where I was. I imagined Frances Mayes,  the author of the book, might have sat here to, reflecting on her own journey to create a new life for herself.

Such a pilgrimage, whatever way it is made, to those places which, are sacred to the traveler, is an adventure into the Soul. 

Where would you like to go for your pilgrimage to the Soul?  In that place, where Soul can create dance, healing can begin.

Grotto Giusti - the Descent into Hell

There are mineral springs on the surface and in caves  in Montecatini Termi in Tuscany, about an hour from Firenze by train.

 Three of us ventured off to sit in the mineral springs and feel its healing in our bodies.

 At the spa we chose, which happened to be the only one open at this time of year, we bathed in the pool, did aqua massage and then each had different massages. Mine was an aryuvedic massage, done by a real master in energy healing.

 I left burning with desire and headed to the grotto.

 I took off all my clothes - again - and donned a heavy white canvas robe, designed expressly for the trek into the grotto.

 Walking slowly down a long slope, I stepped through a door made of strips of plastic, and entered the dark cave. It was lit by dim spotlights placed strategically.

 There are three locations in this grotto, with steam rising from deep cavernous streams, heated by a volcanic source of fire. They are called inferno, purgatory, and hell.

 I wandered around the paths of inferno, breathing in the steam comfortably and feeling myself relaxing even more deeply than from the extremely relaxing massage. As I descended in to purgatory, the steaming streams seemed to be even more deeply cut into the rock laded with stalagmites and stalicites. I stood silently focusing diligently on deep breathing. I was not having much success. In fact, my heart began to beat strongly. Amazingly enough, the beats were strong and steady, unlike their every day state of being where they are weak and irregular.

 I was totally alone here in purgatory. No one else had ventured into the caves. I faced toward hell, estimating how long it would take to get there. On the other side of it, was a place to refresh and cool down.

Here I was, right in the middle of the journey between inferno and hell, which up to this day, I would have considered one and the same. Intending to be strong and transcend this wildly beating heart, which I was beginning to experience as one with the heart beat of the caverns,

 I contemplated the risks and sense of adventure in going on straight to hell. Better judgment got the better of me and I headed back toward inferno and back on up the path through the plastic strips of curtain, and up the slope.

 As cooler, drier air surrounded me, I nevertheless found it difficult to ascend. Half way to the top, I noticed a ledge and immediately sat down on the side of the path. The attendant was almost chanting, 'You will be all right. Breathe deeply, relax...".  He brought me some cold water in a small glass, then brought me more twice again.

 I do have to say, at this point, I did not experience the trek as fearful. Perhaps overwhelming. The canvas cloak was soaked, indicating that there was much more steam in that grotto than I was feeling on my face and hands - yes, and feet.

 When, my heart returned to a somewhat normal-for-me state of being, I ventured on up the rest of the slope, went into the dressing room, removed the soaking cloak, and redressed.

 Not disappointed for not taking the whole journey, exhilarated by what I had seen, heard (which was mostly the beating of my heart), and felt, I began to sum up the blessing the descent had been. I heard and felt my heart beating as normally as a healthy heart would be beating. I was sure that the intensity of the steam in purgatory was not, however, worth the endurance. Nor was I sure that it was other than illusion. I'll never know for sure.

 I do have to say that I am left with wondering what would have been the experience of hell.  But, alas, I guess I will have to wait for another day to go hell!!!!!

Remember a time when the environment, for you, was entirely overwhelming. Describe the experience.

Tuscany: The Heart of Italy

Real life experiences are preferable to guided tours.

This was my opinion, anyway, of my recent trip to Italy.

I am quite certain that I did not express to Wanda, my hostess in Montecatini, how grateful I was that she welcomed me into her home and shared her life with me.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon, stayed two nights, and left on Sunday morning.

Wanda lives with her mother,   Maria Pia, a lovely Italian woman, closer to my age than to Wanda, and in perfect physical shape. I should be so fortunate!

She made dinner of tomatoes and tuna, one of my favorite summer dishes. The tuna did not taste anything like Starkist. It was like a fully cooked ahi tuna and flavored oh, so delicately. There were green beans and cold cuts, including prosciutto. I could have survived on the bread alone. The olive oil is the best I ever had. The red wine was delightful. Even though the food all during the trip to that point was exceptional, I could feel the love and anticipation that went into preparing this meal for a special guest.

On Saturday, after a trip to the coffee bar to taste Wanda's favorite pastry and taking time to make things right with the owner when I needed hot water for my self-supplied totally decaf packet, we drove into Montecatini Alto where Wanda works as a pre-k teacher.

First, we stopped at a church which is over 1000 years old. There she met a former student and his mother. She hugged him and they talked in Italian for a short while. Even though I did not understand, I could feel how at home Wanda felt there.

Next, we visited the farm where the olive oil is made and where she and her mother bought their fresh produce. Three men, each of a different generation, greeted us. Again, I could feel how comfortable Wanda was with them.

We went on to visit her school, empty except for a custodian, now that school was over for a summer break.  Wanda said the building had been a Mussolini post, but that her school room on the other side had not been. The walls were covered with wildly creative products made by students. Once, more I could feel the love Wanda had for these children she got to spend time with. Outside, her colleague, (co-teacher) was driving by. She stopped for a minute and then went on her way.

We went on into the mountains, winding around narrow curvy roads, honking at the edge of each turn and drove to an ancient villa which had been purchased and refurbished by a young family.

 The woman was not able to receive us because she was expecting twins very soon. Her shirt was short, revealing a huge belly and protruding navel.  I remembered being in the same condition and could feel her exhausted state. I wonder now, how the birth process was and would love to hold those little babies.

Finally, we arrived at a quaint restaurant for lunch - eating being my favorite pastime. A shaded outside     area with orange and yellow plaid tablecloths, the place could have been featured as an exclusive place to dine. The owner was the father of one of Wanda's students. He was so very friendly and accommodating even with his limited English. We had wild boar and an absolutely delicious homemade pasta - thin as noodles, but cut into squares. As was the case everywhere, the house wine was absolutely delicious. Then we had mushrooms.. My friend, a chef, has said that you cant go to Tuscany and not have mushrooms. We had a traditional type and fried and took home what we didn't eat. Maria Pia had them for her dinner.
'
After lunch, we drove on to another village in the mountains. There we saw where Maria Pia had been born and lived her early years.Wanda related that these were not the happiest of times. We climbed up to the fortress, and to another ancient church build by the Medici family. We passed the home of billionaires, peeking in to see their fancy cars parked everywhere. They looked so out of place in these narrow streets and ancient buildings made of stones. The gardens which grew on the side of the hills, as steep as walls, were elegant. Everywhere and everything was ancient elegance. Back at the small flat, Wanda calls home, I showed the photos we had taken to Maria Pia. I could feel her sadness as well as the gentle memories of her roots.

Sunday morning, we checked the train schedule, and then drove to Wanda's favorite place, an inn in the Chianti region. We arrived at an ancient place, a farm which had been transformed into an exclusive inn.  We talked to the owner as she hung out her third story window. Well, Wanda talked to her, but, again, I felt Wanda's sense of belonging where she was.

We walked along a grassy path on a hill side to a mineral water fed pool overlooking the region below. There were grapevines all around us, as well as fruit trees, including my beloved apricot. We sat by the pool and meditated for awhile. Washing the water over our faces made the cool breeze even more refreshing.

Wanda senses herself as being called at this time to grow and to change her circumstances.

A promise I would claim for Wanda is that she feel the brilliance of her beautiful Spirit, the one she shares with her students and their parents, and I'm sure, like with me, all the people she meets.

Thank you Wanda, and Maria Pia, for trusting me enough to open the doors of your home, and sharing with me, your wonderful life in Tuscany. The gift of olive oil from the farm in Montecatini Alto will be finished far sooner that the memory of a journey into the real heart of Italy. And Thank  you Maria Pia, for the beautiful wallet made in Florence. I promise I will wear it out.

Most of all, thank you for the heart connections we have shared. We shared the pain of trying to communicate. You did a great job. I am sure you are still amazed to be a translator.You translate with your heart. I have felt it. And most of all, by being able to empathize with you, I was able to feel, like you, at home where I was there in Montecatini.

Such encounters with real lives is a precious gift, far surpassing the beholding of the wonders of the world. When has this been true for you?

History and the Class of '62

Red bud blooming at end of May in Crescent City

Mao's Great Famine: The History of China's Most Devastating Catastrophe, 1958-62.

There we were, the class of 1962 of Whitesboro Central School, knee deep in rock'n'roll and the beginnings of folk music.  The civil rights movement was well under way.

 The big news of John F. Kennedy's election was that he was the first catholic president. Little did we know what his legacy would really be. Most of us probably didn't even know who Mao was.

We,  the class of 1962, were born about the time that the attack on Pearl Harbor burst the bubble of American invulnerability and followed shortly thereafter, in the vast span of history, the atomic bomb was dropped on Japan. 

We lived in the dawn of the space age when Sputnik was launched into orbit. Before that,  we were the first to watch TV - Howdy Doody, Dick Clark, Lone Ranger, Perry Como and George Jones, Ed Sullivan, and all other such legends.

We also tasted the first McDonald's hamburgers and fries. However, we did prefer Voss' Dairy (best burgers and ice cream and Rick was in our class) and then there was diner with the juke boxes at the end of the booths.

As we grew up, we experienced radical social changes. We lived the ambiguity of this time warp. Mothers increasingly had to go to work while we watched the very happy Cleaver and Nelson families act out their humorous crises. 

 There were no African Americans  in our school until one black boy and one girl enrolled in our senior year. At the same time, the barriers melted away between  Italians and Polish, as evidenced by  a guy at one end of the hall humorously yelling, "Hey wap wap!", only to then hear, "Hey pollack!" coming from the other direction. It was horrifying to hear, nevertheless. I well remember getting an "F" in speech for having the topic, "Racism in Oneida County!"

We hung out at the plaza, went to beach parties at Hinkley Lake, went skiing in Old Forge, skated at Flag Street playground,  never missed the Firemen's Field Days and carnivals, did the twist with Chubby Checker, swooned over Elvis,  and sneaked into drive-in movies to make out- just mentioning a few as the memories beginning to flood in like a tsunami on the horizon.

Our Senior skip day was a disaster. They were waiting for us with a vengeance. Ah, yes! Detention! My favorite hang out!

Now, I am on the crest of that tsunami which was only the beginning of an era of social upheaval. I am beginning to compare today's world with the world out of which we of the Class of 1962 were born and raised. 

How quickly my imagination shifts from  the tsunami of those radically changing times we lived, to the beauty of the red bud blooming in May in Florida, steeped as I am with the crises of the planet today. 

What else is there to remember?  What's different about today than when you were born and raised - the world into which our grandchildren and great grandchildren are coming in to experience?