One morning before the holidays, I saw the beauty of the mess. The bits of paper scattered across the floor, was evidence of gifts wrapped with fun and love. Shoes dropped about were a reminder of returning from out in the world to the ease and comfort of home. Cloudy rings on side table coasters brought memories of smiles over conversations with family and friends. Every bit of mess had its touch of beauty. I found something in this seeing, a happiness simpler than the cleanest house could bring (even though I dream of that house!). What else might I take the time to see in a new way?

I sat outside of a jail today. I was in the area to handle some local business, and the jail plaza offered shade and seating nearby. "Why put yourself there? Find someplace else," I told myself, expecting a sense of oppression by the thought that people were locked up there. It was a beautiful day: blue skies and sunlight and trees, and elementary kids swarming together just down the way. Then a new thought arose, "People walk out of here free. People walk out of here free.". And I smiled. Not all people, of course, but those that do must feel something on stepping outside of those doors; and some, maybe only a few, will feel the solidity of earth beneath a stepping foot, feel the wind in tufts across skin, look up to the sky, breathe, and know what it is to be grateful.
It doesn't take a physical jail or legal release to know this feeling, to breathe in 'free', to feel a rush of gratitude at that.
Out of what locked doors will I step today? What constraints will fall, what doors open wide. How many free breaths will I draw, knowing that they are so, grateful for release?
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My little heart skipped in my chest, and I was only a girl.  Elvis had looked into my eyes and smiled.

Never one to be caught up in the hype of anything, or star-struck by who or what most people seemed to be, I was only mildly impressed when my mother announced she had scored prime tickets to see Elvis Presley, live, at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.  Her excitement, though, was electric; I could feel her barely containing a general explosion of positive, frank emotion.

Our coveted seats were just a few rows from the arena edge, and were on the aisle.  My mother's tall, strawberry blonde, blue-eyed, stunning-smile good looks and warm nature always drew approving glances.  I was a shy, little girl with long brown hair, wearing the gray felt cowboy hat she had ordered with with my initials stitched in an elegant cursive across the front in orange thread.  I imagine, together, we made quite a pair; although I was wholly unconscious of it at the time. 

Elvis emerged into the flashing lights, dazzling in the white jumpsuit.  People screamed and screamed, then were quieted by the silky voice, and an uncontrolled urge to sing along.  He sang a few more songs, in that short, intensive concert that is the hallmark of the world's largest rodeo.  The lights came up and the audience roared to see the man revealed as man, in the center of the dirt arena, smiling and waving as a white horse was brought out to him. 

Elvis ... in a white jumpsuit on a white horse, showing first his horsemanship, then moving to the edge of the arena.  Long before 'the wave,' this superstar created his own in the Astrodome arena, by making the gently paced walk, leaving no barrier space between himself and the crowds--one of the more 'accessible' arena walks I had seen, or have since seen, at that Houston rodeo. 

My heart pounded in my chest, although I willed it not to, as he and the roar of the crowd approach us from the left.  My mother had hoisted me up on her hip, stepped into the aisle, and was waving wildly; I held my arms against my sides.  "Aren't you going to wave?"  "No!" I said.  I was shy and thought it was all rather silly.  Then he approached.  This leggy redhead and her solemn little daughter were in that clear space, right up the aisle, a few yards away, so there was clear view up to us.  His smile broadened when his gaze found my mother.

Then, Elvis looked at me.  He looked right into my eyes and smiled.  In that instant, so many things happened.  My insides leapt, involuntarily, and my heart skipped a beat.  There was so much warmth, charisma, and honest connection in his glance that I suddenly understood a part of what endeared him to so many, and drew them to himself.  No longer able to contain anything, and wanting to give something back to him, a smile exploded on my face, and with one arm grasping my mother for balance, the other shot up, waving wildly, with glorious abandon.

I can still feel it all today.  While I never became a raving fan of Elvis' stardom or persona, hearing his voice or seeing his face in moments of softness or warmth had a new dimension for me.  I tell you more about that, perhaps in the story of my only, and recent stop-off at Graceland.  I didn't faint in Elvis's bedroom; but I was glad I went.

The comfort of love opens my capacity for love all around me:  in every eye met, young and old, whether like me and not.

Self-congruence, chosen moment-by-moment, delivers a profound happiness.

The ground, the sky, the air, the trees are so worthy of my attention, and bring me back to who I am

It is pleasant to be done with tears for a while, and rest and breathe in simple smiles and warmth, a absence of grief and worry, to simply en-joy, and live.

I am so glad I’m here.

[journal entry, 3/3/2010.  An advantage of occasionally thumbing through old entries.]

“This is important,” she said.   And it was.

When I was a little girl, my mother said, “Today we are watching this.  This is important.”  She told me about horse racing, and explained the Triple Crown.  She told me how it hadn’t been done in so many years, how rare it was, and we might just see the start of something today that hadn’t happened in a long time.  And she told me about a horse named ‘Secretariat.’  The big horse’s name was all through the commentators’ words, odd at first, but increasingly easier to hear than even stranger words to me like “Old Kentucky Home,” ‘mint juleps,’ and ‘colts’ and ‘mares.’  I didn’t know horses, but in that dingy apartment near hot Houston, Texas, even I could feel electricity in the air.

Awaiting the start, we watched the replays of the big horse’s previous races:  how he tossed his head at the gate, came out slow, and ran from behind.  We watched how, in the end, his powerful form kicked in, pulled ahead, and ran them all off their feet.  But this day was slow for me, and the talk was long.  I wondered why we were there; and when would this race begin.  Then my mother said, “There he is.  That’s our horse.  That’s Secretariat.”  “What’s a ‘Secretariat,’ I asked?”  “I don’t know. That’s just his name.”  The big horse tossed around, with an impossibly tiny rider.  Everything had taken so long, that in the lining up, the getting them in the gate, I thought we were in for another long wait.  The last gate hardly closed, the bell rang, then, “Bam!”  They were running; and ‘our’ horse was last.  We watched them all, thundering, thundering, ahead, behind. Secretariat was last, but she said, “It’s okay.  Just wait. Wait … That’s what he does.”  And he did.  When it looked like no creature could have more strength, Secretariat did, and pulled ahead.  My mother and I were both cheering; I felt more excitement inside that I could have imagined.  He won, and I walked tall and smiled broad for having seen it.  Days later we were there again, the Preakness—he won—and then the impossible Belmont.  The proud horse trotted out, ‘our’ horse, the one that belonged to a family, a farm, but also to the rest of the world.  We shared the breathless fear when he started the long race too fast, out of what we knew by then was his normal gait.  With other watchers we worried as minutes and yards stretched out and the finish line looked too far away.  Our own hearts and voices were drawn along by the televised roar of a crowd on its feet, and the throat-catching tremors that even professional announcers were too human to quell.  We watched him run faster and better than any had done before or since, to accomplish something unbelievable for any live creature on earth.

I loved and forever remembered Secretariat.  As triple-crown winners came and went, something in me knew it was nothing like what the big horse had done.  When I first heard that the film came out, I couldn’t wait to get there, and share the same wonder with my own children.  To look at the screen, seeing it not just then, but ‘again’, and be able to say, “I remember,” was a privilege; and I left the film with a stronger walk and a shining face.

My mother gave me that.  In that quiet room, she took the time to connect with the wider world, and bring me along for the ride.  It was a gift of excitement beyond our daily lives and cares and worries about living and making ends meet.  She opened me to something more than a horse and races and dust and crowns.  “This is important,” she said.  And it was.

At a significant crossroads of my life, I walked away from graduate school and office work in order to write music.  A difficult challenge I faced immediately was that the creative process of writing music seemed possible only during moments of inspiration.  That was a model that was not going to work, if music was to be my work during the quiet hours of the business day that I had now set aside for that purpose.

In facing this dilemma, what swirled back to me was a quote I had read in 'Heroism,' my favorite Emerson essay: "See to it only that thyself is here, and art and nature, hope and dread, friends, angels and the Supreme Being shall not be absent from the chamber where thou sittest."  Here were all the elements and qualities of an artistic moment;  and all it took was to be "here."  That one line rang out from the surrounding text in the essay.  I copied it down, and was suddenly ... inspired!  I had an idea about how to honor the creativity gods and put that quote into practical action.  As a beginning, I created a careful calligraphy of the quote on parchment, as a reminder of what I was about to do.

What I did:  I set an appointment with myself, every Friday at 10 am.  At 9:55 I closed and locked the doors, and turned off computer and phones and everything else, resolving to respond to nothing but the piano for the next two hours.  And I mean, absolutely nothing.  I determined that no amount of knocking on my door or emergencies truly needed my attention during that brief part of my week.  By 10 AM, without fail, I sat on the bench and faced a piano that was empty save for 3 things:  blank staff paper, a pencil, and the calligraphy quotation.  I sat; and I waited.  I touched the piano, and played fitful, unrelated chords and strings of notes, mechanically and wholly uninspired.

A remarkable thing happened, every Friday, without fail:  within ten minutes of beginning this time of simply being 'here,' I was writing inspired music.  Every Friday, without fail.  It required only an honoring of the time and space and my own intention for me to be accompanied in that room by "art and nature, hope and dread, friends, angels, and the Supreme Being."

It is a lesson I carry to this day.  When I am not sure what to write or paint or even what business development or technical approach to take, I give it the honoring of time, space, and myself being present.  "See to it only that thyself is here," and inspiration will honor you back, without fail.

There are some experiences that only a woman alone can have, especially one who is willing and ready to have an adventure.  Tonight in Munich was one of those.  I had the rare privilege of joining a “Stammtisch” with retired German gentlemen, Leopold, Leo, Axel, Henri, Walter, Walter, Wilhelm, and Georg.  To my benefit, Walter (Walter #2, that is) spoke fluent English—having worked for many years with a 1,500-member office of IBM in Munich.  Henri was curious and social, also to my benefit, as he was the one who noticed and connected with the lone American woman, bravely plowing through a hearty country meal and beer, and issued the rare invitation to join the Stammtisch, or ‘standing group.’  This particular one meets every Friday night for dinner at the same restaurant.  There’s a permanent sign on ‘their’ table, marked as such, and both the manager and barkeeper stop by to chat and check on them throughout the evening.  Having already taken two social risks, earlier—one by joining a German couple at a dinner table, because I did not want to rudely take up the empty table for six standing nearby, and two by assigning myself a table inside when a sudden cold wind and rain swept through the sidewalk, driving us all elsewhere.  I thought that my quiet adventure would complete with a last sip of beer, an indulgent coffee, paying my bill, then abandoning the reserved seat I temporarily hijacked to get out of the rain.  That was only the beginning.

It’s a good thing I am a bold and brazen woman—in spirit and choice, although safely demure and polite in presentation--or I never would have accepted the invitations to: 1) join this group of eight German men sitting around a table drinking beer, who were all strangers to me and spoke little or no English; 2) let them order me another bier, taking me well beyond the one-German-bier-limit for a 100-pound, light-drinking woman, although politely selected on their part as a ‘small’ one by German standards; and 3) let them sandwich me between my interpreter and 85-year-old incorrigible flirt, Wilhelm, who boldly and immediately proposed that he and I should “make a family” together!  I said Nein, Nein, with a merry laugh.  Perhaps, however, I missed out:  I was informed by my interpreter, Walter #2, that Wilhelm, an avid cyclist, was the most ‘fit’ of the bunch!  I hope Wilhelm the Conqueror, as he styled himself, will be delighted to know that I was mightily tempted to take him up on it.  Life is short; he was so sparklingly charming; and I was, indeed, traveling alone.  Yet all stayed demure in actual behavior at the table, even while an errant innuendo took flight every now and then.

While mutual conversation was limited, it was accepting and lively.  It was a great privilege to describe my work as ‘making computers easier to use’—with all gratitude for Walter #2’s fine command of the English language, and willingness to translate it—and my role as a ‘chairwoman’ of an international conference that took two years to plan, just completed in Munich (my apologies to my co-chairs, Jakob and Filip, but in this golden moment I took all the glory for myself).  Even more fun was to connect with various ones over shared interests:  with Walter #2 about birds and nature—blessedly setting aside that we both had backgrounds in computers; with quiet non-English-speaking Leopold—who I must say, looked like a ‘Leopold’—about fishing and the bane of every fisherman or woman, that of catching boots and tires; smiling over Leo’s gambling exploits, about which all of his friends there laughed and were extremely proud; over a quiet admiration, that I never let on, of Axel’s good looks and attractive nature; over Henri’s hospitality, breaking all the rules of the Stammtisch by admitting a foreigner, a woman, and even a loner outside the group; and with Wilhelm, well, no interpreter was needed for that one. ;)  With Georg I had only the pleasure of his gentle relaxing as I insisted on using the German pronunciation of his name, and with Walter #1 only an overheard conversation apparently about osteoporosis; but all were so kind, and with universal-language eye contact and softened approaches, that let me know that I was never an interloper, but welcome—whether as entertainment or ornament or simply co-human-being—and able to be wholly at ease.  Perhaps I earned my place by an early expression of intense respect for Bavarian bier as the best on earth; and reporting that, not only was I now celebrating with it after the conference was done, but that I had duly enjoyed a tall glass every night of my stay in Germany.  Also a help were the few sufficiently fluent phrases I picked up from the Pimsleur language series in recent weeks.  My less than elementary speeches were greeted with surprised accolades that made me smile.

It took some time to make the many goodbyes, exercising the twinkling fun of intentioned memory by calling each of the eight of them by name, pronounced in German, no mistakes.  The meek and shy surprise with which they answered was a lovely parting gesture.  Then a picture was proposed, which ultimately was punctuated by Wilhelm slyly saluting my cheek in the grand old style.

As so now, when I should be packing, all I can do is drink water, tell this story, and pray that I don’t get a hangover when I have to get up at 3:30 in the morning (there is something not quite equitable that I have this concern after only 1 ½ biers, but I suppose at my size and tolerance I should count those as doubles, or triples when we’re talking fabulous, wunderbar, irreplaceable Bavarian bier).  This, mien freunds, was a one-of-a-kind experience. Should I ever forget it, I will be in a state past all forgetting and ready to go into der sterns.   Thank you, kind herren of the Stammtisch; thank you Pimsleur language learning series; thank you Munich, for raising such fine and friendly neighbors; and thank you, my own delicious self, for the ongoing willingness to savor, enjoy, and dive in to the rare and lovely experiences that life has to offer.  If I died tomorrow it would all have been worthwhile, having lived each moment to its fullest, and been granted the divine privilege to make myself and others smile. 

One hour to boarding:

1.       Smile at everyone you see.  Listen intently as the passport control person reels off conversation in Spanish to a co-worker.

2.       Take in the artistry of Madrid airport design:  Curved wood, festive gradient colors, and textured steel.  

3.       Allow the wonder to show on your face, and silently connect with the older Spanish gentleman smiling in sweet surprise and gratitude for your own appreciation of it all.

4.       Weep when you hear what you know is a rare hidden ‘sound sculpture’ in an escalator corridor.  Smile when you look up and identify the near-hidden speakers, and that you are experiencing a secret artwork that no one around you knows they are part of.  (In the style of sound art pioneer Max Neuhaus http://tinyurl.com/336yecy, whose exhibit I was privileged to experience at the Menil Collection, Houston, 2008—look for these hidden gems around the world)

5.       Walk past the chain stores and duty free shops, and into a local brand design shop.  Buy cute shoes, dress, and jacket off the sale rack.

6.       Risk not exchanging to Euros yet, and play credit card roulette as one card works in one shop, but a different one works in another, even though the signs say that all take all of them.

7.       Use your bit of Texas Spanish to be polite to shop clerks and food servers.

30 minutes to boarding:

8.       Choose a café with local flare and order the “Rustico” plate—a sort of beef tips with potatoes, carrots, and peas, that comes with local beer, all for only 10 Euros.

9.       Calculate 15 minutes to eat before restroom break and a long walk to the gate and boarding. Pretend it’s a 3-hour European-style meal:  taste the food, feel the texture, experience the perfect blends, savor the delicious beer selected as the best accompaniment to the dish.

10.   Stop to take pictures as you walk to the gate.  Gaze out the window at the low hills and houses, knowing you are seeing Spain, even if you can’t touch it this time.

5 minutes to boarding:

11.   Stop in gift shop and pick up Spain gifts for the kids.

12.   Memorize the beautiful Spanish face of the ticket agent at the gate.

13.   Trade seats with a nice German man to sit by the windows and take in as much of the landscape as possible before leaving Spanish airspace.

14.   Say “Gracias” to the flight attendant.

15.   When you reach your destination and discover that your bag was lost, experience extreme gratitude for the cute dress, shoes, and jacket in the style of contemporary Spain..

 

You know, I just might ‘count’ this day as having “been to Spain” after all.

Many years ago I read a description of 3 or 4 types of mothers.  I remember only two:  one that I, decidedly, am not, and one that I clearly am.  The ‘not’ was the “Earth Mother”:  a stay-at-home mom who is concerned with every aspect of her household and her children’s lives; an admirable woman who cooks healthy food, spends much time and attention on her children; keeps her house clean.  The other, the one I connected to, is the “Rainbow Mother.”  I figured that the mother who wrote the article must have been a working mother who fancied herself as such so gave it that elegant name.  The name also added positive connotations to what our world, and often my own self-judgment, sometimes made ‘bad’ about how I was living and parenting my children. 

You see, I love to work.  My mind and soul love to have intensive stimulation talking to and working with other adults.  My body and soul love yoga and trapeze and group free-form dance, away from the children where my mother-care brain can rest.  The author described the Rainbow mother as one who parents by example, by demonstrating how a full working and adult-growing life can be lived.   I had a friend at work who once said, “One way I take the best possible care of my child is to find the most excellent day care for her while I work.  The care-giver is part of the ‘village’ that is raising my daughter.”  I, too, have found it helpful to help my children create relationships with other adults in their lives; it is good for them to get other perspectives and have others to talk to.

Other wisdom I have lived along the way:

Dance in the living room before mopping the floor.

The hours and days, even moments away from the children are essential to good health.  The mother-brain needs rest; and protective chemistry needs time to recharge.

Mothering lasts a lifetime, in some form or fashion. Even if we survive our children, we never case to be their mothers.

The mind, body, emotions, and spirit require attention to care to remain healthy and continue the living and mothering of daily life.

What wisdom can you share today?

If, by the law of averages, most of us are average, who am I to think that I could or should be anything but that?  I can hear the voice of a career counselor looking at my work saying, “That’s extraordinary!”  Was it really?  Perhaps I should simply be out there, putting my head down and making a living.  That’s what most people have to do.

There are those who say, “Live your dreams!” “Do what you love!”  Are those the extraordinary few who have done it?  From their vantage point, or course it is possible.  From their very core they know only what is true for themselves, and, making a proximity error, assume that is the case for everyone else.  “Just believe in yourself! Just do it!”  There is no recognition of a potential need for ordinary workers and self-sacrifice.  Does a garbage collector aspire to his profession?  If it is in everyone to be extraordinary, then who is to remain ordinary so that some of us can be ‘extra’?

And, yet, there are those who do extraordinary things.  Might I be one?  How will I know?  On paper, my accomplishments look rather extraordinary, intimidating even; and, yet, I always feel mediocre, like there is something else to be done or achieved.  Maybe that is just what it is to be alive:  A continued striving from one moment to the next.  Is there a time to sit and be content?

I ask these questions of myself while on retreat as a monastery guest.  After years of living a cloistered, ordered life, do the monks encounter a continuing desire to move forward, increase, grow, achieve?  Or is that a product of a moving and striving outside world, a world driving all of us, giving us cause to believe we want more?

What if average is better than we imagine?  What if most of us stay in the middle, putting our natural gifts to use in the simplest ways, without striving or struggle?  What if that is what average is?  Perhaps that is exactly what I want to be.