April Fool's Day

April Fool
Do you ever wake up realizing you’ve been making choices and decisions from a place of fear and pain rather than from a place of love? Ironically on April 1st, I woke up today with that understanding about my own self. I’m amazed at how the human brain uses sleep time, night time, to sort and file and “clean house” and re-think in order to solve issues and bring about clarity and organization to a mess of jumbled up, chaotic thoughts.
April Fool’s Day Eureka Moment
There’s a hidden art some of us perfect without even knowing we’ve mastered it; self-sabotage. I woke up with eyes wide open after my son asked me yesterday after telling him about some parts of my life, “Mom. If I were here telling you what you’re telling me, what advice would you give to me?” The question stopped me in my tracks and I immediately knew how I would respond to my own child. I had never even considered treating myself with the same support and love, the same as a mother looking in from the outside. I went to sleep, thinking about the wisdom he offered. The minute my eyes opened (literally and figuratively) I saw how time after time I’ve climbed my way through the self-sabotage ranks. Those two little words were standing in front of my brain waves as clearly as a physical object in the room: SELF SABOTAGE.
“Self-sabotage” is defined several ways, but this one speaks loudly – “Self-sabotaging behavior results from the same cause, a misguided attempt to rescue ourselves.”
An attempt to rescue ourselves from suffering the unpleasant realizations life always circulates that causes our own mind to spin and whirl and tangle itself up inside of “what ifs” and “buts” and “why?s”. While trying to save me, I hurt me. I lose me.
The biggest self-defense mechanism of all.
I’ve thought all along that I was really good at embracing “success”, reaching for goals, taking steps that will bring good into life. But this morning I suddenly saw an invisible dance I’ve been doing that tells my inner child, “You’re not good enough. You’re not worth it. You don’t deserve….” I saw how I’ve chosen to subtly “punish” myself for allowing bad things to happen, for allowing my own self to be so vulnerable at times that others have entered and caused damage, punish myself for things that are most often completely out of my control but that I’ve internalized into “it’s all my fault”, "if I were perfect" "if I tried harder" "if I were only better".
Over and over my mother has told me that the one and only reason we are here on this earth is to be happy, to seek out joy. That should be an easy road map, but there are a few of us out here that manage to knock ourselves off course because those qualities end up making us feel good about ourselves, and we view ourselves as being too small to earn “the good life”.
I hope today I can trust “awareness is key”. I hope I can start changing what I’ve never before been able to see. Time to go kick life’s ass and follow the “path of greatest ease” which was the challenge placed before me the last time I spent time in Maui with wonderful healers of hearts.
"Live long and prosper"……
Love yourself.

The Older I Get

The older I get the more I believe in the concept of being responsible for what you send out into the world. “What goes around, comes around.” My mom is one of those types of individuals that doesn’t have a bad bone in her body. It’s always been beyond her to ever think the worst of people, to ever intentionally wrong someone or belittle or hurl a heap of her own hurt towards someone else. Qualities I hope I’ve inherited because in my eyes, that makes her one of the most amazingly beautiful women I know.

The older I get the more I realize that whatever I project outward or carelessly blurt without having loving intentions DOES and WILL come back to me. Or perhaps, I plant a seed that continues to grow and gain momentum. Insecurity creeps in, insecurity spews out, but doesn’t just dissolve into thin air. It intensifies, feeds on itself, grows and becomes bigger than ever. Self doubt builds inside and spills over and instead of a small bump in the road becomes my personal mountain to climb. And in the process of sending the negatives out, I end up hurting others. And the ripple effect has been unleashed.

The older I get the more I realize there’s this fine line of speaking your voice, releasing your feelings so another knows what you’re going through and holding your tongue until you’ve surrounded those feelings with enough love that the words you share aren’t reflecting your own bitterness, your own hurt, your own sorrow, pain or confusion. This is a process I haven’t yet mastered but one I’m examining right now. I wish I could more easily be just like my mom, because through her I’ve never known any other thing but being blanketed by love that makes everything easier to handle.

The older I get the more I realize how much we affect one another. Quietly sometimes. Uproariously other times. I see our impact, over and over. It’s amazing to me to think that we have this enormous power over one another, power to lift or power to smash apart, power to uphold or power to weaken, power to honor or power to disgrace, power to add grace or power to deplete. The older I get the more I try to rise above it all, but I fail miserably at that, too.

The older I get the more I simply see that truly there is some sort of karmic value to the energy we choose or choose not to expend and project from our deepest DNA, from our souls and hearts. It makes sense more and more that we need to tend to our own bodies, heal our own inner workings, mend our own hearts so that we are better equipped to make this world better by us being here. Projecting good karma from a cellular level opens up empty spaces and places that pull the same kind of good karma in, always filling, always nourishing. Today I am choosing to focus on the energy I’m holding for myself, for others. Am I adding to or taking away? Building or destroying? Loving or hating? What am I sending out, what keeps coming back in?

The older I get, the more I see it in action, the more I feel it moving through me and the more aware I am when I’m doing it all wrong; “what goes around, comes around, what comes around, goes around……”

Reflection

(Rhonda’s words:)

She kept wondering…

“Why can’t he see it.”

Maybe it isn’t there or

Maybe it’s all her.

And then he told her about watching the little girl.  Her intention to feed some ducks.  Good intention.  Warm and generous heart.  But she chose an unconventional approach keeping the bread intact and rather than using crumbs, used whole slices.  Maybe she had a disability that kept her mind from thinking of another way.  Maybe she was lazy.  Maybe no one had shown her a way where the ducks would be more responsive.  Maybe she was doing exactly what her mother had told her to do.  But he wanted to go show her the right way to feed the birds.  He saw her foolishness.  Wanted to change her, fix her and make her understand what she was doing was wrong or inefficient.  He didn’t want to accept that the little girl just wanted to feed the ducks in her own way.  Her own pace.  With her own insightfulness.

The story made her realize something they both choose not to see.  A need to control life outside and  within.  A need to want to dive in and alter what simply is.  Change something for the “better” or “best”.  Yet neither realizing the best is in the moment, happening just the way it is.

She had to eat.  Had to nourish her body.  While her soul was screaming for something, too.

And at the table while eating vegetables… she read the following from a book, “Healing Through the Akashic Records:  Using the Power of Your Sacred Wounds to Discover Your Soul’s Perfection” by Linda Howe.  And it all came together.  She saw it more clearly.  Identified with words what has kept eluding her. She connected her own need to eat vegatables with her need to feed the ducks, the way she knew to feed the ducks.

(Linda’s words, words that could have been Rhonda’s:)

“My father’s death was a slow and terribly painful one.  Perhaps you, too, have been helpless in the face of a loved one’s suffering.  The compassionate space of the Records gave me relief from the sadness and angst I experienced during that trying time, and this in itself was a tremendous healing gift.

But I remained troubled.  I felt tied in knots about how my siblings should respond:  both to my father’s care and to handling the emotionally wrenching situations themselves.  (There were knots tied within knots tied within knots – I am the second child of eight!)  I was certain I knew what each of my brothers and sisters should do, and I felt strongly compelled to manage and direct their actions.  As you might imagine, my direction was not always welcome.

The Records revealed a different approach.  They led me to an understanding that all of my brothers and sisters were entitled to their own experiences of our father’s death.  They showed me that not only was it inappropriate for me to guide, urge, or try to inspire my siblings – for I truly did not know what was best for them – it was also unnecessary.  I came to understand that each of us had a unique relationship with our father and that it was insulting and demeaning of me to force my perceptions on another. This was not an easy realization to come to:  none of us wants to discover that our behavior has been insulting or demeaning….

…I came to know and trust that everyone could take care of him or herself. ..

…This invaluable discovery – that each one of my siblings had his or her own rightful pathway through our father’s death – is one (lesson) I cannot now unlearn.”

And a few pages later, Linda writes:

“I know how hard it is to live with hurt feelings and the scar tissue that has built up around them.  I know how difficult it is to be held hostage to old patterns of interacting with others.  I know how demoralizing it is to keep trying to change but to fail again and again.  And I know what it is like to use your shortcomings against yourself.  It is because I have suffered these experiences, too, and have been relieved of them, that I am sharing this method with you.  Believe me; your efforts will bring tremendous liberation.”

(Rhonda’s voice:)

The challenge for her becomes what Linda suggests is the first step;  "don’t judge, fear not….  resist not.” 

All things she’s heard him say in a different kind of way.

Can she see in her what she sees in him?

Can he see in him what he sees in her?

Knowing Myself Inside My Guitar

I’m trying really hard to stop focusing on what and who has been lost over my lifetime, who is currently slipping away. (including loss of self on too many occasions to count) I keep reminding myself to focus on the gifts that come in; every day, ALL day. I’ve been waking up thanking the stars, the sky, the earth, God, the universes for all the up-and-coming surprises of the day. It’s been a huge internal transformation.

But I got slammed back a few steps when my friend pointed out that my Taylor guitar is showing signs of cracking in the body. Not just in one place, but a couple places. This situation felt worse than a kick in the stomach for the simple fact that I’ve not always allowed myself to invest myself in the biggest passion I’ve had since birth; music. For some reason, or for many (such as “you’re not good enough”/”you’re not worthy”/”you don’t deserve it”) I’ve invested in other things that come and go, but very seldom have I invested in instruments, equipment, lessons, etc. It took me a long time to reach a place of self-acceptance and self-love, a place that felt safe enough finally to purchase a really nice guitar that quite frankly was “beyond my means”; more than what I could afford. But I saw it as an investment. Not just an investment in my own music career, but an enormous investment in my soul.

And a year and a month later it’s already broken. And I feel that familiar “tearing apart” that loss often yields in its wake.

I just got off the phone with the man whose hands are going to try to lovingly restore her. I’ve been beating myself up, wishing I would have watched more closely, investigated what needed to be done in order to properly and completely care for such a valued part of my life. And this is what I was told after talking about how difficult it can be to monitor the proper humidity levels. (I’ve been semi-joking that the guitar is trying to catch up with my own dings and scrapes and brokenness.)

According to Tim;

One never knows when a guitar is built where the wood came from and where the wood that once was a tree survived. What conditions surrounded it. Usually if a guitar cracks, especially a cedar top, chances are that tree lived an extremely stressed life from the very beginning. It probably knew all kinds of adversity that other trees weren’t subjected to. It probably suffered periods of drought, of torrential downpours; extremes. Most likely, that tree was damaged, but remained so incredibly strong it managed to make “the cut”. And once shaped and molded into its new state, one can never know the misuse, the dropping, the twisting or bending or reshaping that that thin layer was put under, the tension constantly present. It might have been neglected.  And once it was held and cared for, it was allowed to give in to the pressures it had always known. And the places that now are weak are asking to be supported, to be reinforced. Those additions might change its sound quality – slightly. Maybe for the worse, but most likely for the better. And there might be more repairs that need tended to in the future. But chances are, the guitar will be stronger than ever, more beautiful than ever, scarred but “added to” because of the character marks it will proudly portray.

I’m a little bit blown away by this new life lesson given through an experience that at first felt so negative and so heavy. This guitar found me. It sang to me, spoke to me when I heard it played for the first time. It continues doing so each time I look at it, play it, hold it. And from this day on, I will cherish it all the more for its strength and daring and determination.

QTIPS and Caring Enough

It hit me once again this morning.

Many of our patterns of behavior run deep; generations deep. So many of them aren’t even in our conscious mind. We move through them not realizing what we’re doing. Or not doing. A great grandmother always puts others before herself. A grandmother doesn’t take care of herself, always gives to others. A mother is so busy taking care of everyone outside of herself, she misses the symptoms that wreak havoc with her body later on… Too busy on the outside to care for the precious commodity on the inside.

I used to get so mad at my mom for not taking care of herself. As a child I’d watch as my dad would lay into her, verbally, too many times physically. Shoving her off a bar stool onto the floor, kicking her with his cowboy boot. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t fight for herself. Why she wouldn’t stand up, run away, get out, give up and make changes. I didn’t realize until my high school years how much resentment I had because of that one thing about her. I used to be unable to sleep at night, worrying. Thinking it was my job to protect her.

I’ve come a long way from that little girl who watched in horror. I’ve learned to love a dad who used unhealthy substances to try to mask his own pain, his own mental anguish. I’ve learned how to practice a deep, deep well of forgiveness and acceptance.

Without all of it I wouldn’t be me, here and now.

Mom eventually separated from my father, went back to school to become a teacher, and moved to Arizona where finally, she found ways to heal. She found ways to feed her own soul, to recharge her batteries, to find her own passions and joys and discover who she was. I remember loving our talks on the phone. She would tell me about alternative health therapies she had been trying. She would tell me about experiences around campfires with friends. She told about dancing in the middle of her living room while holding onto a long, flowing scarf. How free she felt, how uninhibited.

My mom went from being what I thought was “weak” into being the strongest person I know. Actually, now I know she’s always been the strongest person I know.

It’s just now dawning on me, after years of dealing with my own chronic pain that my mom fought even longer with her own chronic pain. But unlike me, she didn’t really talk about it a lot. I’m sure she didn’t want to bother people or dump her problems on anyone. But as her daughter, I saw it. I felt it.

For so long I misunderstood my mom’s inaction from abusiveness and later her action of moving away. For a long time, I felt like she went away from me. And at that time I was a single parent, so I felt like she went away from my son, too. I took everything about her actions so personally. QTIP = “Quit Taking It Personally” Now I see how she left FOR HERSELF.

What dawned on me today was the beautiful gift she gave in her absence. In her own way, she showed me that in order to be best for others, you need to be best for yourself. You need to take care of yourself in a way that honors your entire life – a life borrowed for such a short while. No one else can care more for you than YOU. And sometimes, as I’ve known, it’s difficult to even rise in the morning and brush your teeth, comb your hair, take a shower, get dressed. Those tiny bits and pieces of feeding your soul seem horrifically hard.

Care enough for you.

Care enough to take the little steps necessary to keep you safe, warm, healthy, balanced, more whole and less stagnant and LESS STRESSED. Keep finding ways to fill the soul. Big ways. Little ways. Any way that gives back and puts back in what has been depleted. Guard yourself wisely. Make adjustments. Rest. And sometimes, as I’ve been told by a healer in the past, “rest, rest, rest and then rest some more”. Listen to what every part of you is saying. And then take action and direct your steps where they need to take you. Care enough to give the best you can be to those who are counting on you each day. Do it for you, not them. Benefit from your own self love so it spills over onto others. Do it so you can live out your truest potential, serve your highest calling, find your purpose.

Care enough.

Memories In E Minor

It gets harder to write, to try to put into words what takes place when you know your parent is battling with severe memory loss.

I answer the phone and my stepdad tells me mom is crying.

Why? What happened?

She heard piano music and was reminded of me, her daughter. And as much as I loved hearing that she misses me, that she remembers the sounds of my songs being played, it broke my heart to feel and know her sadness. Her tears then took her to her own hands, hands that once knew how to play in C Major, E Minor. Hands that no longer fit the keys because the left is all twisted, shrunken and atrophied because of Dupuytren’s Contracture, a disease she forgets she has. “I don’t understand what happened to my hand…”

How do you find a way to comfort the pain someone has kept bottled deep inside until now? Until life’s ugly little game of the brain drying itself out comes along and steals away everything most rational and what was once “real”. I’m convinced the pain eventually rises, eventually spills over and out from cells that once tried to hang on and stifle emotions and fears. Sometimes I think that is what Alzheimer’s is; an extreme purging of the shattered and tattered heart.

I wrote this in 2010 after looking at some pictures I had taken of my mother’s hands. Today I’m remembering her at her piano, playing old hymns, sometimes singing loud enough for me to hear. And remembering my response to run into the music room, sit by her side at the piano bench and sing along while watching her fingers dancing over black and white keys. As much as she misses my piano playing, I miss hers….

Written in 2010:

My mom has disliked her hands for years.

She hates all the wrinkles. The way her veins stick out and her students used to ask "why" or the way in which they wanted to touch them to see what they would do. She despises the lack of elasticity.

But my mother's hands have always looked and felt beautiful to me.

She has suffered from a disease known as Dupuytren's Contracture which has robbed her for years. She lost almost all function of her fingers on her left hand as they locked closed and began their process of atrophy; the petrification moving slowly up her arm, shrinking tissue and making her so self-conscious.

She hides it.

Keeps it tucked away behind her back or in her pocket as much as possible.

Once in awhile I catch her tugging at her fingers. Making faces like they hurt. But she doesn't say much. Just endures.

I always pay close attention to her hands, both of them.. the healthy one and the one that seems lost. And I feel like I have learned so many valuable lessons from them.

I have learned that life is about surprises... good and bad. And about coping, dealing, and reacting as positively as a person can with the way the dice is rolled. I've learned some surprises are nice... like holding hands.. brushing of fingers across the face... or her hands reaching out to me to tuck hair behind my ear. It's about surprises like being blind-sided by things totally out of our control... like pain... like disease... like heartbreak.

But her hands continue to show me strength and courage.

I love holding them. Even the one that can't really "hold" in return.

I've learned that hands, whether they are whole or broken and bent have the ability to heal.

To nurture.

To uplift.

To ease and comfort.

To hang on or let go.

To tug.

To touch beyond the surface of the skin and into one's soul.

There's an old saying that a mother holds her children's hands for just awhile...

But their hearts forever.

I'm lucky that I have a woman like my mama holding onto my heart forever.

Aunties, Vikings and Mom

Several things draw me to the Hawaiian culture; the Aloha spirit (the actual word meanings of “Aloha”), the beauty of the natural setting and people, the way their islands produce a “laid back”-ness, but one thing I love most? No matter what the color of your skin, you immediately become known as “Auntie” to any child with which you come into contact. And with that simple little word comes all these huge emotions within me. All of a sudden, I feel instantly connected, instantly recognized as someone of value, instantly honored, instantly responsible for playing a role or part in that child’s life, even if it’s just a few moments of interaction. And any time I hear that word… “Auntie”… I am brought into the love I have for my own aunts, my own nieces and nephews, the ones who have helped shape and helped guide me, who continue to do so. Just like the word Aloha, and all Hawaiian words, there is a layering of meaning and not just meaning, but EMOTION under every word, every syllable. Intentional, like Sanskrit words. And that intentional flow holds energetic power and grace.

I spoke with my mom last night. I’m pretty sure I woke her up so maybe she felt a bit more disoriented than usual. She has struggled with pain most of her life and I’ve often wondered if that genetic link is part of my own cross to bear. During our conversation, she started describing her left arm, her left hand, and couldn’t remember what was “wrong” and why it is crippled up the way it is. I reminded her of Dupuytren’s Contracture… that darned ole “Viking’s Disease” that has made residence in her body. I’ve learned a valuable lesson from my stepdad, that somehow being light about heavy and dark things brings about more space for acceptance, healing, understanding… it brings joy into sorrow and light into darkness. So I played my humor card and made mom giggle at her own ailment. And through the laughing, we stumbled on a thought; maybe she was predestined to host that disease… a disease that can be traced back in time, a disease that only certain people with a certain blood line contract… maybe she has that disease because through her and through her experience, our family tree is being “healed”. Let me explain further; part of my training in Lomi Lomi has included the recognition that as healers we are challenged to be a bridge not just for other people, but for our own families, sending prayers of healing, energy and love into our heritages to cleanse and heal and make whole. Mom had the “eureka moment” of feeling THAT was why she suffered, why her body suffered; for the benefit of those who went before, for those who will come in the future, a physical manifestation of a way to purify. Then she laughed and said something like, “if that’s not the reason, at least it makes me feel better about it.” That way of thinking seems so simply profound to me and so hope filled.

So what do the two have in common? Being called “Auntie” and being called to heal our families? While meditating on both this morning, I find myself linked into the feeling of complete connection. We make a difference. Our choices, even the choices we make of how to spend our time THINKING (are we thinking on things that bring peace and love into the world or are we caught up in tangled up strings of panic, confusion, frustration, disappointment, etc?), our choices deeply affect one another. Our thoughts deeply affect one another. And I’m starting to see that we not only influence one another during this time and place, but we affect those in our past and those in our future. Oprah once quoted I think someone else… and I love this quote, “Take responsibility for the energy you bring into this space”. When being called Auntie by other people’s children who are trusting you with that name given, when caring for a mother and trying to gently be present and supportive, when contemplating whether we can make huge changes not only in the present but beyond, life’s energy - God’s love - encompasses me, sings to me, breathes new life and freedom into me. And I hope somehow I can take that gift given and pay it forward.

 Aloha kakou.