Love is Sacred Surrender

Love is a Tango by Catrin Welz-Stein

Love is a Tango by Catrin Welz-Stein

“Something amazing happens when we surrender and just love. We melt into another world, a realm of power already within us. The world changes when we change. The world softens when we soften. The world loves us when we choose to love the world.”Marianne Williamson

Choose Love.

One of the best lessons I’ve ever learned about love is to just let go, to let it take you.

You can try to outrun the longings of your own soul, but eventually you will need to turn and face the possibility that everything in life is about love.

There is nothing else.  Just love.

And if you do not allow the jaws of life to rip open your chest and do surgery on your small heart, enlarging it and stretching it beyond what you think is possible, you will miss out on the tastiest, most juicy parts of life. You will plan the most wonderful party and forget to go. You will arrive just in time to clean up the mess and take out the trash.

The fact of the matter is, you will be half the person you were meant to be, if you don’t surrender yourself to love.

But.

It hurts.

It scares me. It reveals parts of me I don’t want anyone to see.

But.

It calls me out in my smallest moments.

It requires that I stand for something. It means I must step up and walk my talk.

But.

I am uncertain I want to be that vulnerable, that raw, that tender.

What if I give my heart to you and you hand it back to me, without comment.

Or worse, you look me over and say, “No thanks.”

What if I let this great rush of water take me, and I land on your doorstep, muddied, with sticks in my hair and half my clothes washed off?

What if you take one look at that hot mess and think, damn, I could do better than that.

But.

What if you don’t?

What if you take one look and say, “It’s you. Migod. You’re here. You’re finally here.”

***

What I know about love.

It’s the honeyed-water of life.

It makes everything softer, lighter, and more open.

I also know it takes a courageous heart to even attempt to walk into its currents. It’s not for the faint-hearted or lily-livered or for those who like remaining stuck inside the life raft, wearing their orange vests.

If you open to love, you’ll get wet.  If you dive in, you’ll be soaked.

Love is messy; that’s what makes it a cake you want to bake. 

Love is thumping your head against the wall and waking your neighbors and starting all the nearby dogs barking. Love is bumping and grinding and falling apart afterward and thinking, God damn! What was that?

Who left my hair matted and my heart pumping and my toes curled?

Oh, yes.

You, love.  You.

***

Walking Away by Gabriela Insuratelu

Walking Away by Gabriela Insuratelu

Love is also quiet. Angry. Bored. Spiteful.

Love can be a troublesome little f*ck.

Often, it will stand on your last nerve, just for shits and giggles.

It will ask you for more than you ever thought you could possibly give.

Love is the ultimate self-improvement course. It is continuing-ed and life-long learning rolled into one. It is trial by fire and poop patrol and ‘I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-do-this’ spiritual practice.

Love is sacred surrender.

Love will shape you into a vessel that can withstand anything.

No matter how difficult your journey toward love is, it is something you do not want to miss.

It will forge a version of you that you could never become without it.

Risk it.

Risk your heart.

Risk everything and be glad.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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Little Altars Everywhere

kitty altar“A sacred altar in your home can serve as a focal point for meditation or simply a refuge where you return when you need a spiritual boost.  It provides the space to lay down the burdens of your everyday life and just BE.  By dedicating space in your home to spirit, you coach your mind…and your loved ones… to believe that peace, serenity, and connection with the Divine is an ever-increasing priority.” ~ Ramdesh Kahr, Spirit Voyage blog

Refuge from the outside world.

Earlier this month, I started my 29th year of Buddhist practice.

For nearly three decades, I’ve had a sacred space in my home which allows me to practice Buddhism, morning and evening. I go to a couple of meetings held in other peoples’ homes about twice a month, but the roots of my practice are in my home. My altar serves as a place of peace, meditation, solitude, connection and joy. I plug into the golden stream of life force and my own inner wisdom when I am seated in front of my altar. I can hear my heart there.

I sit down and converse with my soul every time I chant.

The way in, is within.

When I was a kid, it was a curiosity to me to think that one needed to go to church to connect with God (or higher power, spirit, mystery, goddess). Why go anywhere when that great glowing light exists inside each one of us? All we have to do to find it, is quiet ourselves and become still. Then we can hear the multitude of luminous messages life’s sending our way.

To me, a home doesn’t feel safe (or like a home) without a place of spiritual grounding and solace. I can’t imagine not having an altar in my home. As a woman, it is a place where I can not only pray but also receive guidance.

It’s a place of sustenance and light. It feeds and sustains me as I go through my life.

Sacred Altar

Sacred space.

To create your own altar, first consider the purpose for which you will use it. Then collect things that you love and that remind you of what you are working on accomplishing through caring for your spiritual life.

Some altars contain vision boards or personal photos.

Mine has the last birthday card my father wrote me, which we found next to the bed where he died. It also has an autographed photo of Elton John that one of my students got for me when I was hospitalized last year, as well as other family photos.

Some altars center around candles, feathers, crystals, carved bowls or cut flowers. Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) altars are typically dedicated to the life of a loved one or several loved ones. They often include photos, mementos, flowers, bread, beer, sugar skulls, and hand written notes and letters. Every one I’ve ever seen was completely unique, though often filled with splashes of bright color.

Some people use statues of the Buddha or Christ or Mary or Kuan Yin as centerpieces.

For others, perhaps they have photos of a beloved pet or a child they’ve lost.

Truly, it depends on your sensibilities and what is important and sacred to you.

An altar is a reckoning place.

The point is, your altar should reflect you.

There’s no right or wrong way to create a sacred space in your home. There’s only what feels right to you.

A peace beyond price.

So, cover your space with small treasures. Find that perfect table covering or piece of lace or tie-dye. Fill a vase with sunflowers or eucalyptus. Smudge the house with sage or burn sandalwood incense. Light candles, ring a bell to clear the air and chase away anything you do not want to share space with. I had a friend who does energy work put a red thread around my entire house so that only supportive entities and beings and my angelic guides are allowed in.

Once your altar is ready, christen it by reciting a prayer or a portion of a poem, a sutra, or a selection from your journal.

This is a place of sustenance for you.

When there, feather your nest. Quiet your soul.

Step out of life’s chaos and soak in silence.

This is where you do your heart work. This is the place where you can deep-sea dive, swim, or just float.

Here, you are both the oyster and the pearl.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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A Gratitude Prayer

dulyposted_infinite-gratitude_quote

Let Yourself Off the Hook.

It’s OK to unplug and disengage from the news of the day, from the horror, genocide, war, poverty and sickness that seem to be everywhere. We aren’t terrible people if we need to sit and look at the sky, silently counting clouds, feeling the wind as it shifts. We aren’t selfish or awful or lacking compassion if we take time to care for ourselves, as best we can.

What’s Good? What’s Right About the World?

No matter how bad we feel about what’s happening in the world, feeling bad will not make others feel good. Only by making small choices to focus on what’s good, what’s right, what’s important — moment by moment by moment — can we ever hope to change things. Only that will foster the kind of life condition that will allow us to energetically shift and shape our future.

Use a balm of Patience and Kindness.

It won’t happen in a day or a week or a month. However, it will definitely happen. It will happen when enough people acknowledge and give thanks for the simplest pockets of joy they experience. Even on dark days when nothing goes right. Even when surrounded by madness. A heartfelt conversation. A good book. A purring cat. A bowl of ripe strawberries. A chance to tell someone you cherish them while he or she is still here to hear those words.

Each Day Fill Your Cup with Blessings and Gratitude.

For these and so many other blessings, I give profound thanks.

***

I posted a slightly shorter version of this on my Facebook page this week, mostly to encourage myself.  However, I was surprised to find it shared and re-shared all week, so perhaps many of us were feeling despair and needed a reminder.  Thanks to those of you that wrote to me and re-posted and reflected on these words. XOXOX

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues

Robin Williams 1

 For Robin Williams.

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”David Foster Wallace

Girl, Interrupted

I spent much of my late twenties and early thirties in agony. Sometimes, it was low-grade dysthymia; sometimes full blown clinical depression. I am empathic and highly sensitive. I had plenty to be happy about, but I wasn’t happy. Everything looked beige. Everyday was overcast.

Oddly, for me, sadness felt normal. It was the landscape I lived in. I didn’t know what it was like to not feel sad, to not cry at poignant commercials, to actually feel like getting out of bed, or changing my clothes, or showering. I wore the same pair of leggings and underpants for weeks. I would change my top so no one would notice.

I ate my anger, sadness, and grief.

I packed on the pounds and insulated myself from a world that burned at every turn. An intuitive, I could sense the sadness and bullshit others were masking. I wasn’t buying their song and dance.

Their eyes told another story.

The Family Tree

My grandmother was an impressively cowed depressive. My father had the blues more often than not. So did my aunts (on both sides of the family) and several of my cousins.

I joined the cement boot brigade in full regalia after I broke up with my high school sweetheart in 1991. Astute at pretending everything was just fine, I continued to work part time, going through the motions like a good soldier.

However, inside my head, the wind howled ceaselessly. I railed and wept and cut myself down to size.

That room in my head – with the black walls and the pin hole in the locked door – settled around me. For years.

The changes were subtle. I slept. First a little. Then, more. Then, pretty much any time I wasn’t at work.

I don’t remember what prompted me to seek therapy. Maybe it was the fact that my ex was a radio disc jockey and, seemingly, whenever I went anywhere in my hometown, his god damn show was on. Imagine hearing the voice of the person you loved most, everywhere you went.

Still, if memory serves, Caytie, one of my closest friends (and a co-worker) was the one who suggested I use my health insurance to, well, take care of my health. (And, god bless her for that intervention.) I made some calls and interviewed a couple of therapists. I chose the one who didn’t want to sign me up for psychoanalysis for the remaining years of my life.

Once I landed in said therapist’s office I learned that just because I still recognized the sublime ridiculousness of my predicament, and could occasionally laugh about it, didn’t mean I wasn’t supremely fucked up. (My terms, not those of my therapist.)

What’s up with the weather?

Up to that point, I assumed that a bleak landscape in life was a given. If you live in hurricane alley, you sort of expect it to storm.

However, my therapist informed me that there were possible treatments for what ailed me. Color me surprised. Not a single soul in my family believed in therapy (or in asking for help of any kind).

We’re a stalwart, stubborn, stoic bunch. We bootstrap our way through life. After all, we aren’t a bunch of pussies.

Down the Rabbit Hole

As you can imagine, therapy itself was a big step for me.  A huge step.  Sort of like drinking the Pacific Ocean with a straw.

Actually using medication – well, that was going too far.

So, I white-knuckled it for another year before I would accept help.

Who Turned On All The Lights?

In 1993, after two years of darkness, I started taking medication.

Within about ten days, the whole world lit up. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and started my day without two pots of coffee and a round of blasting caps. The light around me was blazing and beautiful. Everything – everything – glowed.

Clear-headed and hopeful, for the first time in years work and exercise appealed to me. I stopped drinking diet soda and eating a dozen donuts a day.

I slept at night, but didn’t need to nap all afternoon. My brain fog and lethargy virtually disappeared. I lost weight.

It was a miracle.

And for a while it was the lifeline I needed.

Eventually, though, I needed to understand the mechanics of the subterranean gunk that caused my depression. So, I read everything I could about the illness. I even went to work for a mental health advocacy agency prior to going to grad school. I screened people for depression in Seattle, and helped those who needed it, find help. I read memoirs by Kay Redfield Jamison, Jennifer James, and Martha Manning. I worked on discovering what triggered my depression.

For me, it turned out to be a confluence of things like genetics, poor gut health, allergies, and eating foods that made me sick.

I need exercise – and in particular – I need to get enough sunlight, or my mood plummets precipitously. So, I moved to the Southwest, got off of gluten, lightened my carb intake, stopped drinking alcohol (except at Thanksgiving and Christmas), and – most importantly – I stopped postponing my life out of fear. If I failed, so be it.  At least I would have tried to actually live.

Living the Life I Imagined.

14 years ago, in a great leap of faith, I left the corporate job that was killing me and I started to write, teach, edit and create.

I allowed myself to exist as a sensitive, intuitive, empathic weirdo. As the person I’d always hidden and sheltered and starved.

I built an authentic, crazy, creative, truthful life.

In fact, my messy, unfettered creativity saved me.

Yesterday, when I heard about Robin Williams’ suicide, a tidal wave of sadness hit.

In tears, I searched for images of him to look at his eyes.

It was difficult to find a single photo where he didn’t look completely bereft. He’d made millions laugh, but he himself was clearly in agony and had been for quite some time. He masked it well with his antics and his mirth and his extraordinary talent. But as anyone who has walked the halls of hell knows, it’s easy to recognize a kindred, troubled, fellow inmate. His eyes reminded me of those days when I’d look at myself in the mirror with a single-minded self-loathing that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

I saw hell there — and even though I felt such grief over his death — for me, there was solace in the knowledge that his agony had ended.

“Let us be kind, one to another, for most of us are fighting a hard battle.” ~ John Watson

So let’s start treating mental health issues like illnesses, instead of character flaws. Let’s stop the shame spiral associated with being awake and incensed over the bullshit going on in the world. Let’s stop pretending that ‘being normal’ is something anyone should aspire to be.

Let’s stop blaming people who hear voices or feel acutely the very wrongness of most of what’s considered acceptable and inevitable and OK. (Things like genocide, war, starvation, greed, ecocide.)

Let’s stop assuming that the status quo is worth preserving.

Being sensitive, empathic, and caring is a gift. Those of us who refuse to drink the Kool-aid are actually acting from a heightened sense of awareness, not complacency.

The fact of the matter is, the world needs us. It needs our gifts, our voices, our very essence in order to heal.

We are change-agents because we are awake. Sometimes that’s a gift, and sometimes, it’s a curse.

Robin knew that all too well.

May he rest in peace.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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As You Close One Door, Another Opens

doorway

“Buy experiences, not things. Spending on experiences makes people happier than spending on things. Things get broken and go out of style. Experiences get better every time you talk about them.” ~Jean Chatzky

THE UNRAVELING.

So much is unsettled right now. So much is unbound and unclear and uncertain.

At night I am restless and dreaming of seeds sprouting. My joints ache from moving boxes around in my mother’s house as she sorts and culls and throws out the material things she has spent decades collecting. What was all this for? What is the meaning of all this mess and loss?

Right now, I admit, I do not know.

I am just trudging through the days, organizing, sorting – trying my best to help her navigate the grief of the changes she’s going through.

She imagined a different sort of ending. She imagined that she would live in this tiny, crooked, cramped little house until she died. She paid for that to be so. It hasn’t worked out.

Instead, it created a rift, a tear in the fabric of our family that we cannot seem to mend.

LIFE IS MESSY.

So now, Mom’s got the dry heaves. She can’t eat. She’s sick with sadness.

Packing to make the move to Arizona where I live, she’s consolidating her two bedroom house into a small guest room and bathroom. 75% of what she owns cannot make the journey with her. There simply is not room for it in my home, and I don’t see the point in keeping things that you are not actually using on a regular basis.

CHOICES AND STILL MORE CHOICES. 

We stand together and sort, discuss, pack and cull.

“Which of the Santas do you want to keep?”

She is torn. She wants them all, but in the end, I sort it down to five.

We sort the Easter ornaments, the Halloween ornaments, the linens, the dolls, the dishes and pots and pans. We sort books and cloth napkins and baskets and clothes. We choose a few pieces of art and a few of the items that make her feel like she has a nest. We pack the seashells my father gave her and the cloth dolls she has had since her girlhood. We choose some of the videos and coffee table books, some of the spiritual books. I sort books, looking for anything I already own. We set those duplicates aside, to give away, sell or donate.

I know this process is different for me than it is for her.

For her, this is a death.

I am a witness, but these are not my things, my dreams, my sense of myself.

EACH THING REPRESENTS A MEMORY OF A PERSON OR A PLACE, LONG GONE.

To my mother, these things are a source of pain, of solace, of remembrance. She handles each item with nostalgia, remembering what prompted her to purchase it, save it, put it away. For years she collected and saved baby clothes for the child I never gave birth to. She only recently let those go, despite the fact that I am in my fifties.

I imagine it was bittersweet for her to realize that the daughter she imagined I would become, was not the person who showed up.

Instead, my writing became my creative life. My essays and poems spilled out, bloodied and squalling, wondering what the hell had happened to them, how they’d arrived in all this burning light and clamor. However, I produced no human babies for her to dandle, dress in little sleepers, or watch as they sucked their thumbs. My mom still feels disappointment over that loss.

She doesn’t know that I was inconsolable about it at one point, too. That I resigned myself to it by the time I finished graduate school at the age of 38. It gutted me to realize it was unlikely that I’d be a mother. However, to be a mother, you must have a father handy.

I didn’t meet any father material while I was actually fertile. Instead, I met divorced men who’d had vasectomies. I met men wrecked by other women. I met men with unresolved sexual abuse issues. I met men who needed mothering, rescue.

And, the thing is, I didn’t want to be a single parent. I wanted a partner who was whole and ready. Otherwise, children were not an option.

So, that aspect of life whipped past, searing me with dust and grit. I know now, we trade off – one sort of life experience for another. There are no gilded choices in life. There are always costs.

CLOSING ONE DOOR, OPENS ANOTHER.

While I work, box and clean, to clear and shutter my Mom’s house – I see her grief, up close. I see her pride and her sense of the unfairness of this.

It’s a sobering lesson in letting go. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

Still, the fact of the matter is, we can’t take our crap with us when we leave this life.

And our attachment to those things that belonged to our Nana or Granddaddy or father only lives in us. The things themselves are just things. They are meant to be enjoyed, but held lightly.

UNPACKING SHAME AND RE-IMAGINING WHAT’S NEXT.

“You think you are the biggest crap collector ever, Mom? You are total bush league in comparison to most people in this country,” I tell her as we eat salads at the picnic table in the front yard. “You don’t have a tenth of what many people do. And they just keep buying more and renting larger and larger storage lockers to keep it.”

Then I relate the story of a mutual friend who was featured on Hoarders.

“They took away 25 garbage trucks full of stuff from her house. 25 truck loads. You have nothing, in comparison.”

I see it’s dawning on her that she will live through this process and, perhaps, even see something better on the other side of it.

***

LEARNING TO TRAVEL LIGHT

When I left Seattle a week ago, I’d set up a schedule for her so she could just pack and sort and worry less about the end game. I set up donation pick-ups and took pictures of her furniture. I plan to list and sell what we can, and then she’ll donate or give away the rest.

I came home and immediately started to go through my books and clothes and dishes, searching for things I no longer use, love, or need. I filled four boxes effortlessly. My plan is to do monthly donations of four boxes until next June. After that, I will do donations twice a year for the rest of my life.

I look forward to streamlining my possessions and living in a home that is clutter-free.

My hope is that when my mom arrives at the end of September, she’ll see the value of living without all that stuff. The people and moments and memories that matter, live inside of her. She carries them in her blood, her DNA, her cells.

I hope that eventually she’ll remember this process as the beginning of something good. I hope she’ll see this smoothing and sanding of her soul as a benefit, a gift.

Experiences, not stuff. I never want to mortgage my life again to buy stuff.

Instead, I want to make memories. I want to eat wonderful meals, drink lovely bottles of wine, or take unforgettable trips to Africa or Japan or Australia.

Those are things to savor. Once in a lifetime things.

We can’t take any of it with us, so we’d best learn to travel light.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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Not My Circus. Not My Monkeys.

800px-Trapeze_Artists_in_Circus“There comes a time in your life, when you walk away from all the drama and people who create it. You surround yourself with people who make you laugh. Forget the bad, and focus on the good. Love the people who treat you right, pray for the ones who don’t. Life is too short to be anything but happy. Falling down is a part of life, getting back up is living.” ― José N. Harris

No drama llamas need apply

The older I get, the less tolerance I have for drama. Simply put: Life’s too short to deal with people who are constantly in a state of nuclear meltdown.

Of course, we all have our moments of quiet hysteria, but when a person starts writing on the walls of my life with the contents of their poopy diaper, I have to draw the line.

Years ago, I might have harbored the illusion that I could help them.

Now, other than possibly harboring a momentary fantasy of using a high-powered hose to make a point, I’ve got little interest in engaging with or encouraging crazy-making behavior.

The truth of the matter is, we’re each responsible for cleaning up our own stuff.

If our messes weren’t meant for us, we wouldn’t experience them.

Therefore, I have plenty of drama of my own to deal with.

Your drama is, well, yours.

You figure it out.

Not my circus not my monkeysDon’t Summon the Flying Monkeys

Does that strike you as harsh or unkind?

It isn’t.

It’s actually a real kindness to allow each person to glean the grace and wisdom associated with their particular life lessons.

Enabling a person to avoid dealing directly with the consequences of his or her behavior, implies you believe he or she is still an infant, incapable of handling the situation.

And trust me, no one miraculously grows a spine if they are treated like an invertebrate.

However, said person will hate you for helping them. Almost as much as they will resent you, if you don’t.

It’s one of those hilarious Catch-22s.

The Harsh Fires of ‘I Told You So’

I have a good friend whose son was embroiled in a nasty divorce a few years back.

As his warm-hearted mother, my friend (and her husband) stepped in, paid their son’s attorney fees, bought him a house to share with his kids, and just all-around acted like Santa Claus with a big purse full of money. Not because they could actually afford to do this.

No, they did it, in spite of the fact, they couldn’t afford it.

The reason?

Their excellent, if slightly misguided, intentions to rescue the grandchildren from the clutches of their truly icky mother.

However, at the time, I told my friend it was a bad idea to rescue her son from the sh*t he’d stirred up.

“He’s going to hate you for it.”

I didn’t want to be right, but I knew I would be.

Now Entering the Jerk Hall of Fame

Sure enough, number one son turned out to be a real asshole.

Not only did he spit in his parents’ faces – blaming them for everything from his poor self-esteem to his student loan debt – he walked away and left them $300K in the hole.

He told them in no uncertain terms that he owed them nothing and would never repay a dime of what they’d spent.

What a guy!

He learned nothing from his mistakes.

Cause and effect is strict.

Sometimes the best thing you can do, is offer your prayers and your belief that the person you love will overcome their suffering.

Believe it. They can stand on their own two feet and solve the riddle they’ve been given.

They can. They will.

Waking Up.

Yes, there were lessons in the dung heap for both my friend and her husband.

Emotional support is one thing. Rescue from consequences, not so much.

Still, I am comforted by the knowledge that their son will receive a box of doo-doo on his doorstep at some point, likely in flames and smelling up the joint.

Perhaps his own children will grow up and do the honors. Or, better yet, someone else he mistakenly trusts, will take on that role.

One thing’s for sure. Reckoning always arrives.

Even if it’s a day late and a dollar short.

Bust a Move & Say a Prayer

So, remember: whenever you think you should step in and offer assistance, consider whether that’s actually the best move.

Perhaps offering more prayers and less advice is the better choice.

And when the circus comes to an adjacent town, stay home.

Believe me. Just stay home.

Monkeys will ring your doorbell soon enough.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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Five Life Lessons I Learned From My Dog

Belle-Boo, 2013 - Photo by Shavawn M. Berry

Belle-Boo, 2013 – Photo by Shavawn M. Berry

“If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.” ― Will Rogers

Lesson One: Be Present.

Be here now.  My dog never has to be reminded. She lives in the current moment, letting the past fall away without resistance. Each individual moment is all she cares about. No past. No future.

Because she is not burdened with what happened yesterday, she is untroubled and alive. She leaps out of bed, does her morning/evening constitutional run around our back yard, barks hello to the neighboring mutts, chases birds and watches passersby. Then, she returns to the house to scarf down her breakfast (or dinner, depending on time of day) and settles in near me (usually by my feet) where she blissfully sleeps, often for hours at a time.

Her life is happy. She teaches me how completely simple things can be, every single day.

Lesson Two: Be Loyal.

Many people underestimate the value of loyalty. They see it as old-fashioned. But dogs are totally loyal to the people whom they love.

Belly listens for intruders as she snuggles up to me on the couch, reassured by my presence, but always ready to demonstrate what it means to embody her role as dog detective and all-around built in security system.

She’s the definition of true blue. I know for a fact that she’d never let anything bad happen to me. Ever.

And she will be with me all of her days.

She instructs me in the fine art of truth, beauty, and a fierce, uncompromising brand of loyalty.

She will never pack her bags and leave me. Never.

Lesson Three: Be Grateful.

Because dogs are so good at living in the moment, they take nothing for granted. They enjoy and accept what is, but they know that it could, at any time, pack up and leave the house.

A dog is much like a child of about two years of age. When I leave, Belle won’t remember that I will come back, so she is forever overjoyed by my returning presence. She practically throws me a parade every time I return home. Whether I’ve been gone for hours or mere minutes, makes no difference.

My dog is ecstatically happy to see me.

My dog wants to alert the media that I have returned.

My dog covers me with kisses and educates me, let’s me know – unequivocally – that she’s thankful that I am her person.

Lesson Four: Be Tenacious & Ask for What You Need.

If Belly needs anything – I am her go-to-girl. Need to potty? See me. Need a snack? See me. Need to hide from a thunderstorm or those evil fireworks? See me.

She’s not embarrassed in the least by her moments of genuine neediness. If she needs help, she seeks it out.

She once stepped on a brier in the backyard, lodging it into the pad of one of her front paws. As soon as she saw me, she lifted it up and showed me the sticker. I pulled it out and she was good as new. She knew what she needed and she asked for it.

Although I cannot, in fact, control the weather or what other people do near my home, she believes I can.

She seeks me out, sure that I am the answer to all that ails her. And generally speaking, I can be a source of comfort for her, so in many ways, she’s right.

I do control the weather, the food, the kitties, the house.

However, although I may have the keys to this tiny desert kingdom, Belly’s bark is still my command (and she knows it).

Lesson Five:  Be Love Every Single Day.

Pure-hearted is how I’d describe my doglet. She’s built of pure love.

She came to me as a three-year-old, after living with a family that often left her crated all day long. Eventually, they left her alone in their foreclosed home with nothing but a cat for company. When I first saw a photo of her (sent to me by a friend who was seeking a permanent home for the little bug) she looked unbearably sad. Seeing her face made me want to cry. I wanted to scoop her up and cover her in kisses.

I realize now that the reason she loves my cat, Elvis, so much, is because he reminds her of her time in South Carolina when she was soloing with only a kitty as a companion.

Belly’s completely bonded to me now, but initially the adjustment after I adopted her was a challenge. She liked to bolt whenever a door opened. She was convinced that she’d never get to go out at all unless she took her chance whenever a door opened. This brought up all my abandonment issues from childhood. I lost my dog when it dug out of our fenced yard and got hit by a neighbor’s pick-up truck.

After a tumultuous start, Belle and I falteringly came to terms with each other.

She’s realized that she’s at home, right where she is. If I sit on the couch, dog sits on the couch. If I take a nap, dog naps. If I sit and write, dog sits close by. She watches me and sends me all her love. I feel it brushing my skin and surrounding me every waking moment.

She’s my co-pilot and my confidant. She’s my side-kick and my trickster sister.

She embodies unconditional love.

Miss Belly teaches me every single day to embrace my incandescence; to show my light, rather than hide it.

She’s the ultimate guru of woof-woof wisdom.

What would I do without her?

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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Calling in the One

Wedding Photo

Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.Rainer Maria Rilke

Dear Soul Mate/Side Kick/Spiritual Partner,

I’ve been extremely patient.

Really. I’ve been so patient, I think I deserve a trophy or a crown or the keys to the city. Something.

And while I’ve been watching out for you – that immediately recognizable mug – that warm laugh, that spot-on sense of the ridiculousness of life – that ability to electrify me with the sound of your voice, I’ve patiently and diligently dealt with a whole slew of men who weren’t relationship material, so I could ready myself for something real, something deep, something wonderful. With you.

I’ve wrestled with uncommitted boyfriends, horn-dogs, and friends-with-benefits. I’ve counseled broken-down divorced men and survivors of sexual abuse. I’ve dated liars and cheats.

You name it, I’ve chosen it from the menu of life.

To be honest, my love life’s basically been an underwhelming cavalcade of maybe. And no. And, oh, god, no.

And I realize a big part of that is on me.

Blessed are those who can both give and receive.

For a long time my receiver was out of whack. I was great at giving to others, but receiving? Not so much. I now know that we pull into our orbit exactly what we think of ourselves in our most quiet, personal, dark moments. And I admit, I’ve often loved the idea of someone more than the reality.

So I needed some time.

I needed to become the person I was looking for.

Unfortunately, along the way, I got some not-so-great advice.

I was warned against choosing a relationship over my work as an artist. (Why, I ask you, did I have to choose? Do any men you know have to make that choice?)

And, as I aged, I noticed that younger women I knew hadn’t gotten that memo.

They wrote novels and had babies and took tenure track jobs; all with their husbands strolling along side them.

***

I once told a man who loved me madly that I couldn’t stay with him because “I wanted to be young.” I was 26 and he was 40. I still needed time to stretch my legs, to explore, fly. I wasn’t wrong to want that at that age. Yet, he was ready to nest.

So, he found someone else not long after we broke up, and had a baby on the way within days of getting married.

That may have been my only chance at the possibility of having a child and I showed it the door, half a lifetime ago. (Operative words: may have been. No guarantees.)

Ask. Believe. Receive.

Still, I refuse to look back with regret. My choices made me who I am. And I know what I want.

I simply don’t accept that all that is open and hilarious and whip-smart and lovely within me can’t find a confidant, foil, agent provocateur, comrade in arms, and twin-flame.

You.

I’ve felt you, coming toward me, for years.

I hear the gravel of the trail under your feet as you hike toward the summit. I feel you making yourself at home within these four walls. I see myself throwing my head back, laughing, my dog taking laps in the backyard while we sit in the spa and watch the moon float above us.

I feel the tenderness, the gentleness of your spirit.

You calm me down. Your presence fills me with wonder.

I was assured when I started to practice Buddhism, almost 29 years ago, that no prayer goes unanswered.

Well, I’m ready for an answer, dear one.

So, I’m requesting a response.

Drop me a line when you have a minute. Give me a call. You know how to find me. I know you do.

I need to see your face.

The sooner, the better.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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Don’t Forget to Have a Big, Juicy, Creative Life

 Summer Night by Akageno Saru via DeviantArt

Summer Night by Akageno Saru via DeviantArt

“Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or your novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space when you were a kid?  It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.” ~ Anne Lamott

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

Today would be my father’s 88th birthday, if he were still here, whirling around the sun.

However, he died at 76.

Eleven years ago today, we spread his ashes on Puget Sound. There was a squall afterward, followed by a white-hot sun breaking through the clouds, just as I mopped up my tears with my sleeve.

He survived two wars (WWII and Korea) and burned through five marriages, including a couple that existed simultaneously, due to his ability to conveniently forget to divorce one wife prior to remarrying a new one. I can’t say I felt he was ever particularly happy with his life. He seemed to often compare himself to others – his friends, colleagues, acquaintances. He felt he never measured up. Others were more successful, moneyed, or lucky than he was. 

He cared much too much about what others thought of him. Or what he thought they thought of him.

Forget the fact that you can never truly know what someone else’s life is like from the inside. If we measure ourselves through the lens of what we perceive others are accomplishing, we will inevitably feel bereft and fall short. The only comparison worth making is to our former selves. Are we better people now than we were yesterday? Have we grown?  

Those are questions that are worth pursuing.

comparisons

Working to become more, to become better than we used to be, now that’s a worthy pursuit.

Following your bliss.

No longer blaming others for your shit.

See, it’s all on us.

Every choice. Every morsel. Every drop.

Shake off what troubles you.

The only thing we get from blaming others for our troubles is a bad case of the victim blues. 

The Nation of Victimization is no place to make yourself at home. It sucks there.

It gives all your power, all your energy to others, instead of investing it more reverently and prudently, in yourself.

It’s the exact definition of how to strangle your own joy.

Love, Not Fear.

So, I reflected all week on those wise words (above) from Anne Lamott. I posted the quote on Facebook, and it sure resonated with a lot of folks.

How many of us decided at some point — who can even remember when — that we needed to keep up with the (totally imaginary) Joneses? How many of us think that we must have no jiggle, no gray hair, no cellulite, no wrinkles, no flab — or we’re not welcome on the beach, in the pool, at the spa? In fact, I lived at an apartment complex for six years prior to moving to this rental house and I visited the pool there exactly zero times.

Why? What on earth possessed me?

Ostensibly because the complex was full of young hard bodies and super models, and I balked at the inevitable comparison, as the flabby professor. 

Perhaps, I feared their judgment (or worse, my own). I didn’t swim, but I should have. I should have proudly sunned myself, not given a damn, looking like the middle-aged woman I am.

So, just live.  Live Well.

Life is short. Our days are never guaranteed. What we do with them, and who we spend them on, matters much more deeply than any amount of money or the ability to outshine someone next to us. We each arrive with our own particular brand of wonderful already inside us. Our job is to set that wonder upon the world. To shower the world with the gifts we have. To open our hearts and minds. To become someone worth remembering, someone worth knowing. And that is never about what you possess or what you look like, it is about what you are.

So, my advice (to myself, more than anyone else) is to love your big ass and your juicy face and your real life.

Don’t waste your life living up to the expectations of others.

They won’t regret what you didn’t do. You will.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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The Summer Solstice: The Turning of the Wheel

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At this solstice a very unsettled and confused energy surrounds us. The Sun at zero Cancer is near a retrograde Mercury at 27 Gemini. As we know retrograde planets apply to redoing, relearning and reconstructing, and Mercury, a representative of our awareness and thinking and collectively how information moves between us and how we communicate, is asking for a turn around, a retrace, a re-look at how things have been. This signature shows that the next few months will be saturated with how to move forward by redoing, or more so, rethinking how we do things. ~ Cosmic Intelligence Agency

Summer’s here.

It’s the longest day of the year: the summer solstice.

It’s a day to set your intention for the rest of the summer season. It’s a day to celebrate the full return of the light (in the northern hemisphere).

To me, it’s always felt like a day of rebirth. We are six months from the darkest, shortest day of the year. We’ve survived another winter, and weathered another spring. Now it is time to watch whatever we’ve planted over the past months sprout and grow.

It’s a demarcation of joy.

Here we are again: wading into ripening fields of wheat, into sunflowers in bloom, into bees pollinating our oranges and peppers, into hummingbirds and nectar and an aching azure sky. We can sleep in the tall grass or a hammock, we can laze and swim and listen to wild calling birds. The whole world is golden and slow, like a hive dripping with honey.

And this summer solstice…

Turning things around. Retracing our steps. Re-envisioning life on earth. Reconstructing and relearning and rethinking.

We’re being asking to look at everything through a different lens.

For me, this is showing up as surprising upheavals in my personal life.

I will soon take on the role of caretaker for my mother. After years of invitations, she’s finally embraced the idea of becoming a snowbird. She’ll winter in Arizona and summer in Seattle. She’s making this change not because she wants to, but because circumstances beyond her control, force it.

No matter why it has happened, for me, it’s good news.

Not that I don’t worry about the responsibility I am taking on; I do.

But I trust myself to care for her, and I want to have her with me, something that hasn’t been true in her current situation.

Little Earthquakes, Everywhere.

He who puts out his hand to stop the wheel of history will have his fingers crushed.Lech Walesa

So, the metaphorical ground beneath me is shaking, violently.

And I am clearing out a room for my mother.

Our roles are reversing.

I’ve ordered a new shower curtain and emptied the medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom. I’ve shredded pounds and pounds of papers and re-organized my files, so I can move my office and set up her bedroom. It’s something she’s done for me countless times.

She’s giving up most of what she owns, so the move can happen quickly. She’ll bring a small portion of her most beloved belongings with her, but not much.

“Bring what you love,” I told her.

And while I ready things on my end, she’s packing and stripping her house clean.

Moving again at the age of 79. I can’t imagine.

It feels a little like being torn in half for both of us. Part of me desperately wants her here, and part of me is terrified because this will be her last stop through this life. She was born in Arizona, and now, she will likely die here.

A Burden Shared is a Burdened Halved.

For others, these changes are showing up as fissures in their relationships, as divorce, as illness.

One of my closest friends is surrounded by numerous family members dying of cancer. Another is dealing with the addiction of someone she loves deeply. Others struggle with chronic health problems, with dying parents, with financial collapse.

Everyone’s got a full plate. We’ve all got our share (whether it feels like a fair portion or not). Somehow, there’s comfort in knowing we’re all saddled with our own burdens. No one’s immune.

At mid-life, it feels strange to stand here, welcoming the summer, ushering in such huge change.

Another season blusters in, and the cycle continues.

Life is a banquet. Try everything.

These days, when I look in the mirror I see my mother’s face.

How is that possible?

It seems impossible that so many years have passed since I spent June days learning to sew and ride horses at my friend Nancy’s house. Feral girls, we swam and talked and tramped through the long, hot days. The air smelled like lilacs and Walla Walla sweet onions, like tar and wet earth.

Now, Nancy’s long married and living someplace in Canada, or so I hear. I last saw her the summer I turned twelve.

And I am 1,500 miles south of that patch of dirt we called home, watching desert birds, puzzling out the circuitous path life takes.

What surprises me is that it never fails to surprise me. I awaken to find everything’s shifted, almost overnight.

Only the sky and the passing seasons remain constant. Only they can see the lovely patterns they make.

© 2014  Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved

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If you like this piece please share it with others. You can like me on Facebook  or Twitter to see more of my writing and my spiritual journey.