“If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” — Woody Allen

I believe each one of us has Spirit (God, Goddess, or Higher Power – whatever term works for you) on speed dial.  By that I mean we have direct access to the divine wisdom we need to live our lives, unravel our problems, work on ourselves, and manifest our dreams.  We simply need to ask.  And we simply need to listen for the answer once we do.  We also need to allow spirit to step in and “drive the car” or determine the direction of our lives, rather than (from our ego’s perspective) thinking we know best what is right for us.  And none of this is particularly easy to do.

For years I resisted the idea that Spirit was, large and in-charge, so to speak.  I wanted to wrest control from it, and, usually, drive 100 m.p.h. in the opposite direction.  My aim was to drive the “car” (my life) from the back seat.  I wanted to navigate my journey from the passenger seat and, of course, control the outcome.  The result would come from my determination.  I would make it happen.  I would will it into being.  Surely, I was a better judge of what direction I should take than Spirit was.  The result of this attitude – which it took me years to get over – was predictably underwhelming (in terms of me actually getting anything I really wanted).

It turned out that resistance was like a disease that had only one cure: trust.

That said, I had been burned ten too many times.  I found human beings to be very short on attributes that elicited my trust.  I wanted proof that they might be worthy of my trust before I would ever give it.  And, predictably, people lived up (or down as the case may be) to my low expectations. The universe continued to provide me with experiences with people who weren’t worth my time or trust.  They, in turn, reinforced my sense that the world was unsafe, and that I would be screwed over if I opened my heart to anyone.

OK.  So, that’s where I was at.  And I have to say, it wasn’t a fun way to live.  It provided me with plenty to complain about, but not much else.  And it certainly didn’t help me locate the life I wanted to have:  a job I enjoyed surrounded by people I respected; a good personal relationship; and solid connections with family and friends.  There were a few (very few) people I trusted.  But, for the most part, I lived with a whole lot of fear and distrust.

What ultimately changed my extreme bout of fear/distrust was a series of experiences that showed me that Spirit was a living presence in my life.  I realized that even if I was betrayed or hurt by another person, I could handle that disappointment and move on.  In other words, I trusted myself to survive.

One day in the spring of 2000, as I stood waiting for a bus on Sunset Boulevard, a homeless woman approached me.  She was incoherent and filthy.  Nothing she said made sense, and I was, to say the least, uncomfortable.  People around me didn’t seem to notice her.  She was just a part of the “scenery” of Los Angeles.  The bus arrived and we lined up to board.  Just as I was about to climb the stairs into the bus, the woman walked up to me clear-eyed and articulate.  She whispered directly into my ear, “Do the thing you fear the most.”  I had goosebumps.  At that very moment, I was thinking I should quit my job.  My misery was palpable, but I was terrified.  Then the universe spoke to me.  For the first time in my life, I listened.

I quit my job (which was sucking the marrow from my bones) and I started to build the life I have today. I put my trust in Spirit because I had to.  I dove into the unknown because I had to.  I knew that I could not continue with things as they were.  I was starting to exhibit illness both physically and emotionally.  My life did indeed depend on me trusting the guidance I was given.

Twelve years later, my life is in a completely different place.  Not just literally, but spiritually, physically, emotionally.  I let spirit “take the wheel” and my real adventure began.  Along the way, I started teaching writing, fell in (and out of) love a few times, got my heart broken, bruised my ego, smacked myself upside the head more than once, but I kept going.  Again and again, I saw that when I listened to guidance and followed it, the results were good.

I took my teaching job in Arizona because I told Spirit I would go wherever I was needed.  I came to Phoenix sight unseen.  I picked out my first apartment online.  Moving here was a really difficult transition, but the results have been wonder-filled.  I have learned to love this vast, arid place with its prehistoric flora and fauna, its Wild West mentality, its hard scrabble ways. I like to think I was sent here to shake things up a bit, and to learn about myself and life in a very deep way.  And although I didn’t plan to live here, I can’t imagine another place that would have shaped me – as a woman, a teacher, and a writer – in such a profound way.

All this came from trusting that Spirit had my highest good in mind when I was sent here eight years ago. I guess I write all this because I feel in my bones more changes are afoot for me, and I am actually glad that I can give the reins over to Spirit.  I trust Spirit (or “my team” as I call my spirit guides) implicitly.  I know that when I “let go and let God,” things fall into place. I don’t need to force anything to happen.  I don’t have to paddle madly or hold my breath or swim through a key hole.  Spirit knows me, body and soul.  It knows what my dreams are.  It knows what I need, and it takes care of it.

These days, I trust that any person I encounter has been put on my path for a purpose.  They are likely a “teacher” for me.  I am likely a “teacher” for them.  We have spiritual work to do together, or we would not cross paths.

I trust that I am safe.  I know the universe has my back.  There is nothing to worry about or fear.

It’s a good place to be.

© 2012  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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In my classes on Tuesday this week, I discussed an article that had appeared in the New York Times Sunday January 15, 2012. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/15/opinion/sunday/the-rise-of-the-new-groupthink.html

   The Op Ed piece, written by Susan Cain, outlined the virtues and values of introverts – who need solitude and silence – in order to think, create, and innovate.

I asked my students what they thought about it, knowing that a few would relate to the message (likely also introverts) and a majority of them would find it perplexing since most extroverts view introverts as “quiet weirdos who inhabit some planet other than earth.”  We had a long discussion about the “noise” of our current way of living and how that can be detrimental to our ability to come up with new ideas and solutions to the problems we face.  Cain’s piece suggested that a committee is not an effective way to generate creative ideas or to discover new ways of doing things.  It tends to fall into “group think” and therefore limit the scope of what it might consider if members were allowed to sit quietly and think about what might work.  And still, business persists in using a collaborative work model almost exclusively.

The discussion with my students left me feeling depressed because so many of them roiled against the idea of embracing silence. “I could never shut off my phone!  What if someone called?”  I told them that was why God invented voice mail.  The consensus was that something important might happen and they might miss it.  God forbid! I explained that I spent my childhood riding in a car where no one talked on the phone, and I (apparently) survived it.  Some of them laughed, but mostly a general feeling of unease permeated the air.  They didn’t want to experience silence.  In fact, they looked terrified.

On Wednesday, I decided I would take my idea of embracing silence for a test drive. I would try a day without any technology for at least 8 hours.  I got up and checked my email at 8 AM, wrote a short message on Facebook at the same time saying I’d be off line for the day and signed off the computer.  I left everything off – including my phone – for the whole day.

And you know what? No one called me.  My life did not burn to the ground.  In fact, I wrote and read. I did laundry and some clean up around the house.  One article I encountered in the new issue of “O” Magazine was on a new book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking.  http://www.amazon.com/gp/mpd/permalink/m1D9J30ZWWUQQJ/ref=ent_fb_link

The author?  Susan Cain.  I felt like spirit was sending me a clear message.  Slow down.  Shut up.  Take time to listen to your life.

And I appreciated the reprieve from the constant cacophony of voices and postings and messages and missives.

I meditated and later I watched a movie.  I made shrimp Pad Thai and cleaned up the kitchen.  I took a nap after lunch, surrounded by three deliriously happy cats and one blissful doglet.  In other words, I had a really good day.  Nine hours later, I plugged in my phone and started up my computer.  The first message I got was one that informed that the servers had been hacked at work, and they were being shut down to protect our personal information.  So, twenty minutes after I got online, all my work technology stopped functioning.  Part of me giggled at the irony of “taking a day off from technology” the day before everyone (including my reluctant students) would be “taking a day off from technology.”

I got up on Thursday knowing that I could not use any of the technology I rely on to teach.  I made some editing hand-outs for my classes, and when I got to work, I ran the first batch of photo copies of something that I’ve made in over two years.  I taught two of my three classes as usual.  The third course I had to cancel due to the fact that the planned activity was a grammar quiz online.  I sent them home to do it.  Luckily, they could access it since it is not on the school’s teaching platform.

On Friday, the problem had been corrected, but the servers were jammed and crashing repeatedly because as many as 300,000 people were trying to access them.  I didn’t even try.  Colleagues were beside themselves because they couldn’t get to their email.  I thought: Really?  Do you really think your students can get to your email either?  I spent the day doing other things.  Again, I did laundry, read, meditated, and worked on other aspects of my To Do list.  Around 3:30 PM, I tried and got on the site on the first try.  An hour later a colleague helped me get my email synced up.  I had three emails from students.  That’s it.  I posted announcements assuring all my students that we would adjust the schedule to make up for the lost time if we needed to, and I signed off.

This past week I learned how compulsively we are addicted to the stuff we use every day to communicate.  I also learned that it would be good for me to declare every Wednesday as a technology free day.  As an extreme introvert, I need the silence.  I need the perspective that only solitude can give someone like me.  The experience of listening to life – the sound of the leaves moving gently in the trees, a dog barking in the distance, the whir of the furnace, the sound of my shoes on the tile floor – none of this can capture my attention in the bang and clang of our 21^st century lives. Susan Cain discovered while researching her book that introverts are the change agents and problem solvers and creative geniuses of the world. We need silence.  We need time away.

I realized that for me, I need to ferociously guard my quiet time.  My life depends on it.  If you are an introvert, yours does to.

© 2012  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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I talk to my mother every Saturday.  It is an appointment neither of us likes to miss.  Now that she’s in her late seventies,  I am acutely aware that my ability to dial the phone and hear her voice is a treasure. Those hours of random conversation are some of the best part of every week.

I’ve been talking to my mother every Saturday for nearly 35 years.  Except for a few years in the early nineties when I moved home after many years in New York City and for the 18 months I lived with her after my father died, our conversations were situated over long distances.  So, we’ve talked probably every Saturday for 30 of those 35 years. In other words, most of my adult life.  I have usually lived hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from her.  Not because that is what I wanted, but because my ambition, educational aspirations, and vocational opportunities were just not available in the small town where I grew up.  (Initially, I set out to be a rock star.  That, as you may imagine, was not a job that regularly appeared in the local paper’s want ads.)   Yes, I could have stayed there.  Lots of people did (including both my brothers) but I had the itch to go out into the world and have a big life doing big things.  

Initially, my mom wasn’t exactly supportive of that whole “big life” idea.  But she grew into it.  Just as I grew into my deep appreciation for the grounding she gives my life, for the way in which she allows me to find my own way, no matter how many times I call her quaking in fear, out of money or brokenhearted again, certain that love will never bloom for me.  I called her when depression nearly derailed my life.  I called when I converted to Buddhism (and celebrated with her a year later, when she converted as well.) We’ve talked when both of us were mired in grief so profound I wondered if we’d ever see the sun again.  She’s heard about my victories and my defeats.  She’s dealt with my navel gazing, and my star gazing, with equal aplomb.  Absolutely, nothing is off-limits.

This much is true. My mother is the one person in the world that I know will love me no matter what I do, no matter where I go, no matter what happens.  She is my advocate, my archer, my anchor and my shield.  She “gets” me.  She has known me since I started to flutter in her womb 50+ years ago.  There is no living human being besides her who can make that claim.  I started my life as a part of her, and I carry her with me wherever I go.

Our conversations — starting just after my eighteen birthday — up until today are as big a part of the weave and warp of my life as anything else I have ever done. Most of the early years, I talked and she listened.  As I have gotten older, I longed to know what she was thinking, what she was reading.  I wanted to hear her piece the week together:  her day with my twin nephews (her only grand babies), the time she spent with friends, the to-die-for taste of lemon cream pie at Shoo Fly Pie in West Seattle. We talk progressive politics. She recounts what she hears on NPR. She tells me that she cleared the yard, took her blood pressure, and read five books her older sister gave her before she died. Every week, we untangle the days together. I drink coffee and pace around my house.  I read her my latest poem. I tell her about my students and let her talk to my dog. I wish that she was closer, but the reality is, my mother lives in my blood and marrow. The miles do not separate us. We are always in each others’ thoughts and prayers.  And I love those small moments — the times we choke on our tears as we say goodbye — because those are the things that actually matter in the long run. My ambition for the outside world could never buy me anything as valuable as my mother’s voice crossing through thin air to reach me each week.  I hate to imagine what the void in my life will be like when she’s no longer here.

For now,  I am grateful for the grace and blessing of her presence.  And I look forward to our next sacred conversation, sure I will be surprised, delighted, enlightened and otherwise fed by the love carried underneath our words.

Photo Credit: Cathleen Cunniff

© 2012  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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You don’t have to justify the good that flows to you; it is a given. You are of more value in the joy of your cross-stitching than in the struggle of your ironing. ~ Abraham Hicks

I believe we are surrounded by a benevolent universe, not a hostile one.  I guess that makes me an optimist.  I think there are gifts tucked into every experience.  Even sorrow.  Even heartbreak.

Lately, I realize that with trust and surrender and grace, life is much easier.  I don’t fight with what is.  What is, is.  What is the point in resisting it?  And when I stop pushing against the energies roiling around me, I feel peace. As Marianne Williamson once said (quoting “A Course in Miracles” I believe): I can be right.  Or I can have peace.

Put that way, I choose peace.  Every time.

So, I marvel lately that despite my troubles, I am generally (and genuinely) enjoying my life.  Part of this I attribute to my Buddhist practice of nearly 27 years (OK, maybe more than part of it); part of it flows out of my realization that feeling good is preferable to feeling bad; and part of stems from getting older and realizing that whatever I turn my focus onto, increases.  That means if I want to experience peace, I cannot watch violent television, horrifying news, or read garbage that denigrates me as soon as I pick it up.  I cannot complain about what I do not have.  I cannot focus on exclusively (or even partially) the dark side of life.  I must consciously choose to see both the light and the dark, equally — with clear eyes. (That doesn’t mean, I am uninformed about what’s going on in the world.  It simply means I don’t take a “bath” in it and tell myself I am staying “informed.”)

As human beings, I think we sometimes enjoy drama a little bit too much.  We like our messes. We enjoy jumping in mud puddles and battling imaginary enemies (or real ones) or eating things that poison us (be they relationships or toxic food or terrible jobs).  We are so strong and so smart, we feel we absolutely must swallow a whole six pack of sturm und drang in order to feel alive.  That is what makes us “deep” or “artistic” or “important”: our ability to hit ourselves in the head with a hammer over and over.  Well, I used to hate myself with the best of  ’em and wallow in a whole lot of ugly self-pity.  I dragged around clinically depressed for most of my twenties.  Thing is, when I approached my life from a place of blue & lack,  I found I only experienced more of the same-old, same-old.  The more I railed and moaned in agony over my shit existence, the more shitty it became.  Nothing ever changed.  Clearly the sturm und drang approach wasn’t effective at producing anything — anything — I actually wanted.

I’ve heard the definition of stupidity is to keep doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.  If I wanted a different life, I needed to take a different approach.

So, slowly I made changes.  I quit my toxic job and took a spiritual sabbatical (a.k.a. long term unemployment).  I read and slept and looked for work and wrote and I found my way back to myself.  I eventually got a job teaching (where I have been for the past eight years) and cleaned up my finances.  I looked into the darkness of my life and sought out the light that was there.  Even in the blackest nights, the still small voice was there.  I listened to that kind voice.

I ignored the ravages of my “monkey mind” (the ego part of me that rages and tells me that I might as well give up because I am a piece of crap and I will never amount to anything).  The kind voice simply said, “Keep going.”

The kind voice said “Get quiet.” It said, “Be grateful.”

That still, small voice — whether you believe it is God, or spirit, or Mary or my wild intuition, or my hyperactive imagination — saved me.  It gave me the keys to the life I have now teaching and writing.  My focus now is on feeling good and appreciating the wonder and fullness of my life.  And I realize, the little stuff –a good cup of coffee, my dog snoring at the foot of the bed, flannel sheets, fresh blueberries — those are the things that make life sweet.  Yes, the world is still full of sorrow.  But I cannot let my focus wander there for long. Every day, I begin again. Every day is another chance to see kindness, generosity, sacrifice and love. Every moment and every breath can be a force that pours light into the equation. I can dance even on the blackest night.  It is my choice.  Always.

© 2012  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart. ~ Helen Keller

As a kid, I loved and admired Helen Keller and Amelia Earhart as two women who threw themselves into life full throttle, with absolutely nothing held back.   I read voraciously about their lives, always marveling at their risk-taking and their open hearts.  I knew, even then, that these were women I wanted to emulate.  I wanted to walk the tightrope they walked.  Not in terms of flying around the world on my own, or overcoming the adversity that a childhood illness can bestow.  No, not that.   What I wanted, that I saw they possessed, was a life that deeply touched other lives.  I aspired to that sort of life. I didn’t know it then, but I wanted to both teach and write, in equal measure.

When I think back on 2011,  I see that time and time again, I was stretched beyond what I thought my limits were.  And every time that happened, my spirit did indeed step outside of the confines of what I thought was possible. Repeatedly, I was shown an alchemical process of growth that does, in fact, turn lead into gold.  My heart — though fragile — is also strong enough to be be broken open by life, and still keep ticking away.  In fact, a heart broken open (as opposed to a heart closed down by grief or anger) is the exact thing the world needs right now.  We need to be more openhearted and kind.  We need to see beyond difference and find common ground.  Spirituality and true presence in the only moment we have — right now — is the only thing that will heal us.  And by extension, it is the only thing that will heal this planet.  If you look around with your eyes wide open, you will see, it is in dire need of our tender care.  So how can we build a better world?  How can I give my heart?  How can I make a difference?  Those are the questions that are rolling around my brain this morning, on the last day of this tumultuous year.

For me, I must start with myself.  Change is only possible externally (out in the world) once we turn our focus in, to our own inner lives.   This is where our spiritual housecleaning must begin. We cannot be snarling messes emotionally, spiritually, and psychically and not expect that to show up in the world as equal portions of snarling, unconscious, toxic mess.  How could it be otherwise?

Where to start, though?

Wherever we are.

So, if I am feeling like a heap of crap — time to get out a shovel and dig around to figure out why.

If I want to see love bloom in my life —  time to really turn, look, and start to love myself.  If I cannot love me, certainly I make that job difficult, if not impossible, for others.

If I want to affect the environment — time to make personal choices to shop locally, cut down on driving (if you do drive, which I don’t), cook at home, nurture your personal and professional relationships, and only eat things that nourish you.  For me, that means less meat (and only organic, grass fed, compassionately raised meat, if I do eat it), more plant-based foods, less sugar, and no wheat/barley/rye.  Food with gluten makes me ill.  I might as well accept the truth!

If I want to contribute to the civic consciousness of my community, I have to stop thinking that half of the population of the community is insane, out of touch, psycho, or just plain wrong.  I must see everyone with new eyes and an open heart.  (Believe me, as a progressive, this is extremely challenging.  I know that all of us just want what we deem is best for our families and friends.  I just wish that our views weren’t so polarized.)

Is any of  this easy?  Hell no.  That’s why it is called “spiritual work.”

2012 is just a few hours away.  No, I don’t believe the world is about to end.  In fact, I believe a better world is about to born.  I know this in the marrow of my bones. And that starts with me becoming more conscious and more kind and more loving — first toward myself — and then toward others.

Happy New Year.  May we all bless the world with our gifts and our wakeful consciousness in the coming year.

© 2011  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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And once my soul got the sense that I actually give a crap about giving her some room to roam free, I could refocus and start to get a few things done.  Yesterday, I felt a sense of accomplishment rather than dread.

Today as I drink my morning coffee, I am watching the birds with my cat, Edgar, cackling from the window sill.  He loves the hummingbirds that alight on the bush outside, and so do I.  I am admiring the seriously JUMBO grapefruit ripening on the tree in the middle of my backyard. I am giving the cats treats and rubbing the dog’s belly. I got a lot done yesterday, so today is a day of rest. I plan to savor my solitude and silence, perhaps read a bit later, but otherwise I have no plans.  It feels good to just be.  I highly recommend it.

© 2011  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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The past couple of days felt a bit like being put through a grinder, emotionally, spiritually.  There are times I wish I wasn’t so empathic.  Every bit of news, every violence, every sadness seems to threaten to sink me.  I am still sad about a relationship that ended four years ago.  But the more I resist feeling that, the more it bubbles up and settles me into a heap on the floor…so, as they say, resistance is futile.  That sensitivity comes bearing gifts as well.

What else?  What else fills my life and let’s me know that I am lucky indeed? Doglet and cats, sleeping in a circle around me as I write.  Coffee.  Pistachio gelato.  My mother whose grace and love and beauty astonish me.  My friend, Lisa, who I met twenty-five years ago this summer.  In the intervening years, we have kicked each other in the ass from time to time, but mostly we have been sounding boards for our process through this spiritual life.  In the meantime, we manifested so many of our long cherished dreams.  She’s a painter now.  I’m a writer and teacher.  When we met, I was a waitress and she was a hairdresser.

I guess what I am getting at, or digging around in search of tonight, is the reminder that we cannot know why things happen when they do and what the purpose of the knock on the door, the ending, the leaving is really about. Sometimes it isn’t clear for a long time.  But remembering grace is always with us, sure makes the darkness easier to bear.

© 2011  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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Mari and I met when we shared a room at the Markel Evangeline Residence on West 13th Street in New York City  during the fall of 1983.  Both of us were attending NYU.  She, to study theatre; me,  music.  She’d just arrived from Galveston, Texas, and she threw down her bags and embraced me the moment we met.

“I’m Mari,” she said, sweeping me into her arms.  I am a good six inches taller than her, so this was quite a feat.  Her voice was smoky and warm.  The way she said, “Mari” sounded like “Maudy” to me.  I was a shy girl from the Pacific Northwest, a wallflower, and a waif in those days.  Tiny as Maricela was, she filled up the whole room.  Her spirit was effervescent, her laugh contagious.  I loved her from the moment we met. That fall, we shared bunk beds in a room with six others: Carla, a grad student from North Carolina;  a young woman from Cincinnati named Cyndi;  and two nameless Swedes who spent most of their time in our room walking around naked.  We quickly discovered how much we had in common:  Elton John,  films, theatre,  music and a certain infectious joie de vivre. We became friends on the spot. Mari was like that.  She walked in and sat down in the middle of your life, and within minutes, you felt sure she’d always been there.

“Let’s go to the Feast of San Gennaro,” she said, grabbing me by the hand, a few days later.  Once out in the street, she hailed a cab and ferried me down to Little Italy.  Along with a throng more than a million  others, we gorged on pizza, calzones, and glass after glass of wine with peaches floating in it.  We people- watched and salsa-danced in the street.  We giggled like school girls.  A lot.  Mari made it easy to laugh.  My first years in New York have her fingerprints all over them.  We regularly hung out in a creepy loft she shared with another girl from Texas named Shelley.  We drank lattes and compared notes on our lives.  She was the one who took me out for my 24th birthday.  We ate dinner at Beefsteak Charlie’s and got plastered on sangria.

“Sangria, we just met a girl named Sangria,” we sang to the tune of Maria from The Sound of Music.  We staggered home, singing and stupid drunk, laughing our butts off.  I smashed birthday cake in her face after I opened my gifts.  It was always like that with Mari.

The  last time I saw her, I didn’t know it would be the last time.  She’d invited me to come see a new David Mamet play called The Blue Hour.  It was part of what later became The Goldberg Anthology.

At the time, Mari was summering in Burlington, Vermont doing theatre and working  as Mamet’s nanny.  Predictably, I remember little of that night, other than the fact that Mari was wildly happy.  We chatted amiably over drinks and canapés and fruit.  She hugged me fiercely when we said goodbye.  In a matter of weeks, she left for Chicago to work in the theatre.  We wrote letters back and forth for a few years, but lost track of each other after I left New York City in 1991.  A year later, I saw an article about her work in a new play in Backstage, but our circles never crossed again.

During the mid-nineties while I was in graduate school, I saw her one night on an episode of ER.  She played the wife of a patient who died after a fall from a ladder.  Most of her dialog was in Spanish,  but the grief she portrayed as a young mother losing the love of her life, felt palpable and real.  She was so good.  I was thrilled to know that she was still pursuing her dreams.  Later, I saw her play the role of God in a guest spot on Joan of Arcadia.  I figured she was living in LA, but I had no way to reach her.  And the trail to where she might be stayed cold until about a year ago when I searched for her, first on Google, and then on Facebook.  That’s when I found out she had stage IV cancer.  It seemed impossible to believe.

I sent her several messages of support, but we never had any direct contact this past year.  Still, she  knew how I felt about her.   I know she did.

Last week,  she was interviewed by a local TV reporter in Austin, TX.  She looked like a fragile baby bird, gaunt and tired, but still burning with life.  She told the reporter,  “[Cancer] taught me how to live. And it taught me the goodness of people. […] It [has] nothing to do with dying.” She spoke eloquently about love, saying repeatedly, “It’s all about love” (austin.ynn.com).  How can mere words capture such a spirit? How can we possibly hold onto such a fierce, spitfire, siren-song of a girl? Mari shimmied and danced and sang her way through almost five decades, lighting up every room she graced.  She loved tamales, and her Mexican heritage, and her husband, Mark, and her whole extended family with absolutely nothing held back.  She celebrated her life, even on her deathbed, squeezing every drop of juice out of each moment. I’m proud to say I knew her; I sure as hell will never, ever forget her.  So, Adíos Marquita Linda. You did good.  You did so much good.

© 2011  Shavawn M. Berry  All rights reserved

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            So, what did I do?  After my session with Mary, I initiated some intensive internal work.  I dove for the “pearls” I knew were inside of me.  I began by slowly and carefully removing all my masks.  Asking myself, who are you and who do you want to be, I started my work.  I believe we all carry different archetypes inside of us, like the magical or wounded child, or perhaps, anger-girl (I know her well), studious-serious-chick, or doormat-woman who works like a dog. I contain all these and more! Last month, I started to delve into my inner life —the “shadow” side of my personality, as Carl Jung referred to it — and I was surprised by the amount of relief I felt.  You cannot imagine how relieved I was when I started to embrace all of myself, instead of just the parts that I deemed to be “good” or “right” according to society’s standards.  For years, I’ve tried to be perfect.  (We all know how that works out!)  In beginning this inner work, I developed some much needed compassion for myself, my choices, and the way that I have survived some pretty dicey and difficult stuff.  I have done my job, paid my bills, and taken care of my business even from the depths of despair. I realized the need to express gratitude to my body, my mind and my spirit. I read the books “calling out” from my bookshelves; listened to music; bought myself a guitar; and ate a lot of chocolate! I took long languid baths and was continually reminded of my need to care for my life completely—with the kindness and sensitivity that I would give to others. And as I did this, those exhausted parts of me, the parts of me that I had disowned or disavowed, stepped forward and thanked me.  I greeted the child inside, and remembered how she loved to draw, walk in sunlight, and eat red licorice. I found that if I truly listened to my life — really putting my ear to the ground of my being, I could clearly hear my intuitive voice.  The realization hit me that in truly embracing all of myself, I would find the answers needed to make the changes I wanted to make.  I found catharsis in the wholeness I discovered through this process.

            In December I watched every Lifetime movie I could get my hands on, especially the cheesy Christmas romances. My favorites were “A Very Merry Daughter of the Bride” and “Undercover Christmas.”  I laughed and I cried, watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “A Christmas Story.”  I slept and I read, finally stemming the long-term exhaustion I had been experiencing.  I decorated the house; played with my cats; and got in touch with the lovely simplicity of enjoying daily life.  Imagine that!

            I also had incredibly healing discussions with my closest friends and, of course, my mother. The reason I mention all of this, is that as women, we tend to put ourselves at the end of our “to do” lists. If (and that’s a big if) there’s time after everything else has been taken care of, then and only then, can we step up and take something for ourselves. I don’t know about you, but I can’t keep living like that.  I need more balance.  I want to feel a sense of serenity when I contemplate my life, not a sense of overwhelming doom!

            On New Year’s Eve, I sat at home, drinking champagne and coloring a spirit mandala, like the one above.  I thought long and hard about all the things I still want to accomplish and see flower in my life.  As a result, I came up with the following ideas. My goals for the coming year are four-fold:

1. Take care of what’s important to Shavawn, first. In other words, my passion & play (writing, music, and creativity) comes before work, no matter how urgently work is thrown in my direction;

2. Take care of my spirit and my body—including plenty of rest, good nutrition, exercise, and time for my spiritual practice;

3. Take care of the “important stuff” in life: responsibilities, family, bills, obligations, things I have agreed to with a resounding “Yes!” from my heart;

4. And, finally, let go of the need to meet the expectations of other people. I have to live my life for me.  I have to make my life mine, and only mine. What others think of me is none of my business. (This may horrify some of you, but, that’s OK!)

I am convinced that if I pursue these goals, I will be successful in all areas of my life.

Some of the reading that I did was truly transformational.  The most helpful books include

· Living Your Unlived Life by Robert A. Johnson & Jerry M. Ruhl, Ph. D.

· The Eden Project—In Search of the Magical Other by James Hollis

· Trust Your Vibes by Sonia Choquette, and

· The Water of Life by Michael J. Meade

If you are struggling to find balance in your life, I highly recommend them as a place to start.  As women I think we owe it to ourselves (and to those we love) to put ourselves on our “to-do lists.”  If we do, the resulting joy will translate to everyone we touch.

© 2009 Shavawn M. Berry

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At the end of a long, challenging year, I am feeling reflective.  Here are my last words, my advice for the coming year…or for the coming decade, perhaps!  (They are, mostly, self-directed, I think.)

Make sure to experience real, pulse-pounding, I-can’t-breathe love at least once.  Watch the sun rise on the north rim of the Grand Canyon.  Listen to the stones sing in Sedona.  Remind yourself to find the spiritual grounding you need by dragging a stick in the sand at the beach or by climbing a tree so you can see the stars better.  Nothing outside of you can define you.  You are the creator of your experience of life, the author of your story – make it one that you want to live, you want to tell.  Don’t think that money will fill you up; instead fill your life with messy sensory experiences: pastels, glue sticks, bits of paper, glitter….Give something back to the world—a poem; your child’s life; a loaf of wheat bread; a crisp dollar; a soft blanket; a kind word…Have reverence for the water, the moist earth, the dome of stars floating above you…Take a few uncalculated risks.  Pray.  Breathe.  Sigh. Sleep. Dream…Make mistakes.  Your life is a container of absolute divinity.  You possess wisdom and a reason for being. 

If you live full throttle, with your neck out, running along the edges of all that you want to savor and experience, you will—without a doubt—experience true joy and no regrets. 

© 2008 Shavawn M. Berry

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