Vacation Away Gone Awry

A Romantic Story – Part 2

 Well, I thought I was going home.  But God had something much richer in mind for the Droste New Year.   This is the romantic part.

As I laid in my restless state on the bed at Breitenbush, my mind whirled through all of the logistics; change both of our air flights into Portland, take the big SUV rig back, weather the acute discomfort of tramping back up to the office and being nice to the poor woman I had bellowed at yesterday.  Will you give me my money back?  How about a credit?

On and on the grey cells wound around themselves, until I just threw back the covers and marched up to the office.  I didn’t care what it cost.  This was all wrong.  I didn’t want this to go down as the New Years I wasn’t with my sweetie.  I thought it would be ok.  I’m independent.  I’m strong.  We’ve done vacations apart.  But it wasn’t right.  It was somehow spiritually wrong for me to be there.  I listened.  I left.

Breitenbush, (that same, dear woman), was ever so kind and generous, giving me back all of our money in the form of a gift certificate we used that summer.  Thank you, thank you!  I packed up quickly in a lighthearted mood, piled it all into the four wheel rig and headed down the mountain. 

I called Rob.  He felt terrible I was leaving, “I’m a big dud”, he protested.  (But I think he was secretly glad I was coming home.)  I called Robbie who acted just like you want your girlfriend to act.  Supportive of your every move.  On my way up the mountain, she enthused, “How independent of you, that’s great you’re going anyway!” - - on the way down the mountain she agreed, “You have to go with your heart”, of course you want to be with your sweetie at New Year’s.”  We all need a friend like Robbie in our life.  We need that support around us; friends and community to join us on the ride.

So I’m hurtling down I-5 in that big rig, listening to rock and roll, singing my lungs out to Aerosmith; in a great mood.  I’m going home to my sweetie!  I can’t wait to see him! 

Then it starts raining.  It starts raining hard.  I keep driving.  I spot something solid and white.  Oh, good Lord, is it a snowflake?  No, it’s just rain, it doesn’t snow in Portland.   Hurtled another couple of miles. . .yes, it is indeed snow.  You’re kidding me! . . . .ok, what’s a little snow?  I went to college in Wyoming!  I’m a mountain girl! I have on my sheepskin vest from LL. Bean.  I can handle this!  I’m in a Toyota RAV-4 for God’s sakes!

Two hours later, creeping along at 5 miles per hour in a full out blizzard, mindful of the corpses of cars stranded at the side, I reached the airport. Shoot, I need to gas up this rig.  Ok, after slogging through 20 minutes of traffic for a half mile just to fill up, I figured it was time to call the airlines. 

When I left Breitenbush, I had cavalierly decided to take my chances, figuring I had a better chance of getting a boarding pass if I went in person instead of dealing with a faceless entity on the phone.  But now, it was definitely time to call. There may not be any planes going out in this chaos.  The tinny voice of the agent patiently informed me that every plane was booked to both Oakland can San Francisco for the next two days.

Ok, I surrender. It’s the end of the journey. I’m not going anywhere. 

I call Rob.  He wants to come up.  Oh, would he?  Oh, God love my dear husband! “No, no, you’re sick”, I assured him I would be fine.  I’ll find a hotel room, I have lots of good books, I’ll order room service, talk to girlfriends and hunker down.  It might even be kind of fun.

Thank you great Spirit for Comfort Inns!  I was finally inside, out of the chaos, safe, warm and secure.  Robbie calls, “Where are you?  I’m watching this freak snowstorm on TV.  Are you ok?”  Oh, it’s wonderful to have good friends!  She decides very quickly that indeed, Rob should come up; after all, he already has the changed airline ticket for the next day, why not use it?  She decided that we could enjoy a lovely, romantic New Years in snowy downtown Portland, holed up in a luxury hotel, watching movies and ordering room service.  She announced that my job that night was to find us a hotel and of course, I enthusiastically agreed.  What an adventure this is!  She helped to make it fun!  Dear, dear Robbie!  I secured a lovely room at the downtown Hilton in the executive tower.  When Rob called back and I gushed, “Yes, indeed come up!”

Thank God I didn’t take the car back or cancel any flights.  For once in my life, I had waited until it was the right time to act – stay put until it unfolds.

I couldn’t wait to meet him at the airport the next morning.  I felt as giddy as I did in the first six months of our relationship.  I could not wait to see him!  He looked so handsome ambling down the corridor, and I rushed up to him and wouldn’t let him go.  He announced that he’d have to be a lot sicker than this to let me spend two days in a hotel room at New Year’s by myself!  Not too shabby after seventeen years of marriage . . .

He called me intrepid.  Isn’t that way cool?  The compliment went straight to my heart. I’ve always wanted to be intrepid.  (Picture me in that big rig, barreling through a white-out in my LL bean shearling vest.)  This western girl knows what she’s doing on icy roads.

We enjoyed two blissful nights and three days in pure luxury; reveling under a poofy comforter with a zillion thread counts and an espresso pot.  We laid around in our thick robes of heavy cotton and watched the latest movies on our huge screen TV. We had a sumptuous New Year’s Eve dinner at an exquisite French restaurant Spirit chose just for us.  We talked about the shifts and movements of the past year while spooning gooey, rich onion soup and sturgeon beurre blanc. We had a long, visionary talk about the year to come, while gazing out the window at the magnificent Christmas tree on the deep blue lit square. We took pictures.  We strolled through the snow.

The next morning, we treated ourselves to a room service brunch to beat the band.  Happy New Year!  We did a little light shopping downtown, and whiled away three hours in famous Powell’s bookstore, browsing through rare books, sipping coffee and eating baked goods.  I found hard covers I’ve had on my list for years.

Spirit knows what we need even more than we do. The fruits kept multiplying.  It was harvest time!   We were in showers of joy.  It’s ok to change course.  Even when it all goes awry - RE-INVENT!

Vacation Away Gone Awry

A Romantic Story – Part 1

We had it planned for months.  We were going to relax at Breitenbush, our favorite hot springs retreat, high in the Oregon Cascades during that magical week after Christmas.  We were going to live the dream of bringing the New Year in at Breitenbush!  We even treated ourselves and decided to fly instead of braving the eleven hour gruel over two mountain passes.  We were packed and set to go.

Alas, pretty much from the get go, the perfect plan went awry. 

For starters, Rob woke up sick the day after Christmas. This was not part of the plan.  The night before our flight, we finally broached the subject, “Sweetie,” I asked, “Do you think you’re going to be able to go?”  There was a cough and a grim reply, “We’d better talk about our options.”

It was pretty obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.  However, I knew I still wanted to go.  But of course it had to be his idea. “Let’s meditate and get grounded”, I suggested.  I proceeded to spend the “grounding”  half hour in constant chatter, “I want to go, how can I still go?”  After our “meditation”, he casually mentioned, “Well, you could always go and I could meet you up there later.” Ok!  I tried not to be too eager as I called the airlines.  It was all arranged – he would fly up two days later and we would figure out his transportation from Portland to Breitenbush later.  I was all packed, I was ready and I was going!  I felt so relieved, so light of heart.  . .

I set out the next day at the inhuman hour of 5:30 am.  The transportation was grueling; taxi to the BART, Airbus from the BART to Oakland airport, fly to Portland, rent a four wheel drive and begin the two and a half hour drive to the hot springs.  I arrived at my beloved Breitenbush at 3:00 pm. 

It was freezing.  I don’t know what I expected, but after living in California fourteen plus years, I had forgotten what it feels like to be really cold. I wasn’t dressed for it, (didn’t even bring a hat) and trudging up from the parking lot to the office of this very rustic place, I was already cold – very cold.  Not to mention, I was slipping and sliding on the snow packed ground in my flimsy California shoes.  I checked in and received a huge bag of bedding for the cabin, enough for two of us.  I lugged it back to the cabin in those silly shoes with no hat or gloves and finally arrived at the cabin, only to find people in there!  My cabin!  So, I slid back up to the office, (still no hat, gloves or decent boots) only to discover they had double booked my cabin and I would have to move the next night.  I bellowed, “No”; I bellowed again,” NO”; and then a final, NO!  I was having none of it.  I was out of control. I just couldn’t help myself. 

Bless Breitenbush staff, they made it right (what choice did they have?) and I settled in to a much smaller cabin than I had originally reserved, but at least I wouldn’t have to move the next morning.  I unpacked everything and carefully made it home but I couldn’t get away from the unsettling feelings.  I felt . . . well, off – this was not the way I wanted to start my relaxing, renewing hot springs retreat.  I know what I’ll do.  A soak!  I’ll go for a soak in the meadow pool. Yes, that’s what I’ll do – I know that will make me feel better.  So, off I went in search of the serenity of the meadow pool and warmth.  I stripped my clothes and slid in the water.  Of course I couldn’t get comfortable.  The rock was stabbing the back of my head.  I moved.  Now I couldn’t see the view of the river. I moved.  I was too hot.  I moved.  I sat on the rock and immediately got cold.  I moved.  Finally, I just put my clothes back on and trudged back to the lodge in that frigid air, sure that reading in the cozy library would be just the ticket for my relaxation and perfect happiness.

I secured my favorite perch and surrounded myself with a myriad of pillows, positioned just right for my perfect comfort.  I opened my new book on Paul McCartney I had saved just for this vacation.  I couldn’t focus.  I was so comfortable, perfectly comfortable, but you know, I was just a little hungry.   I read a little longer.  I still couldn’t get into it.  (It is a perfectly good book, and I have since enjoyed it thoroughly). Maybe I needed a little something to eat to tide me over before dinner. 

Back I tramped to my cabin, (at least I had my hiking boots on now), and I ate a balance bar.  Now what should I do?  Maybe I‘ll just take a nap.  I tossed.  I turned.  I sat up in frustration and restlessness. My renewing, relaxing vacation away wasn’t working.  I just couldn’t get settled in -- myself.  Breitenbush was fine.  It was me.  Here I was on vacation, fidgety and anxious, exactly the opposite of where I wanted to be.  Where was that state of rapt attention?  Where was the delicious focusing and savoring mind state I enjoyed so much while on vacation at home?  What was wrong?

I was first in line at dinner.  Conversation drifted from the next table of several politically correct individuals with their spoiled kids smugly talking about their “green” jobs and dropping famous environmentalist’s names I vaguely recognized.  I hated Breitenbush!  How could I have ever liked it here? 

I decided I must just be tired and I went to bed with a book, (a different one).  I dreamed I had cancer.  The doe-eyed nurse sadly informed me that it had spread throughout my body, and there was nothing to be done for it.  Then, hot on the tail of the cancer dream, I was at work in my boss’s office feeling horrible that I had forgotten the project she had asked for that Friday.  She had asked twice.  I had forgotten both times.  I think I was preoccupied on a cancer task force team. Despite her protestations, I set my German jaw and announced that I would work that night and finish the project.  I woke up in a total funk.

After messing with the heating coil, cone and grounds just to get a cup of coffee, I trudged up to the lodge (in the freezing morning cold) for my breakfast. I came back to the cabin to meditate and pray in search of the elusive serenity I hadn’t found since I got there.  I got tired.  I hate it when I get tired in the morning.  It’s a listless, flat kind of tired, I’m bored with life kind of tired.  Maybe I needed to take a little nap.  I laid there and it became quite obvious that I just didn’t want to be there.  I knew in my cells that Rob wasn’t coming up on Wednesday.  There was no way he was going to be well enough to navigate through this frigid mountain.   I dreamed of pouring coffee from our nice, heated thermal pot.  It was time to go.  I’m done.  I’m going home. 

(To be continued)

Stay tuned for the romantic part.. .

Rolling with Lena

Of course she was there right at 10:00 am, early in fact, and I was downstairs and ready.  Off we rolled . . . I just wanted to be with her – see a little bit of her world.

Lots of water; it seemed everywhere we were, we hugged the water.   It was a bright sunny day in early March.  We rambled along up the Embarcadero and I saw the funky artists’ colony I’d read about – and . . .who are these hordes of people?  Humanity streaming in from everywhere . . . to . . . a white elephant sale.  You’re kidding me!  How much fun could that possibly be?  I guess people just love a deal. 


On we rambled into another world, (the whole day was like another world), past cafes in funky painted warehouses, murals on the side, gritty, gritty, gritty Oakland feel; people making a life, creating a raw sort of beauty amid the cement and worn out buildings; not a tree in sight.  But the water was always there – constant, beautiful, achingly bright; lighting up the whole ramshackle scene.

We rolled through the industrial back roads beside 880 and I was surprised at all the pristine beauty back there; MLK Jr. Park, a huge expanse of a space, surrounded by and surrounding water.  Harbor Bay Parkway took us to . . . oh my goodness!  The Raiders headquarters!  A gorgeous black, white and silver building, clean and sharp in the sunlight, with a pool and a fountain in the front.  Lena had a great idea to take pictures of me pointing at the Raiders sign to send to Rob, a Raiders fan since he was a boy in South Carolina of all places.  We rolled around back to the offices and oh goodie, the door was open!  She tried like the dickens to get that hat from the guy behind the counter in vain, but we took pictures of me in the big Raiders chair. 

Off we went on Doolittle, past the Oakland Aviation museum, Rob would love, and back towards home, but it wasn’t near over yet as we rolled by the massive Port of Oakland, container after container; reminded me of the The Wire, and the whole world within a world culture inside there; one of the biggest national ports ten miles, no five miles from my home!  We stopped at Middle Harbor Shoreline park off 7^th St.; an oasis built right into that gritty urban port; never even knew it was there – must be pretty safe; we saw a grandmother pushing a stroller, a father with his kid, two women strolling, deep in conversation; clean, and pretty and well-tended.  Amazing! 

Then came what might have been my favorite part of the ride; West Oakland.  Now that is a world within a world for surest sure.  I got a completely different sense of place than anywhere else in the whole Bay Area.  It is a true neighborhood.  I imagined all the history as we rolled by De Fremery park; site of the Black Panther rallies in the 60’s.  Lena told me the story of riding in Robert Kennedy’s limo through West Oakland the day before his tragic encounter with a crazy gunman in LA.  She didn’t even really know who he was – she was just an excited kid, riding in the back of a limo.  She told me about the day Martin Luther King Jr. was shot and the wailing and rage in the streets of West Oakland and how you sure as shit didn’t want to be white that day.  She was walking home after they had let school out early and she was with a little white girl she watched get beat up, scared to intervene because she’d get pounded her own self.  She picked up the pieces of the shaken girl afterward and stayed with her until they got her home. 

We rolled by McClymends high school, home of the “Macites” and oh Lordy, I can’t even imagine what has gone on in there.  She was lucky enough to have a mom who got her into another high school.  She showed me all the places she had lived; her first apartment, the home she lived in when her mother died, her cousin’s house; the projects; my God, she must have lived in ten different places in 4-5 square blocks.  I just imagined folks not really ever leaving; making a full life for themselves amongst family and neighbors in this ten square block area by the water. 

The houses were beautiful behind the bars, old homes with color and character.  The corner stores were still there.  People had lived and died there in all of the drama of a human life, creating web after web of connection, growing wider and deeper through the years right in that space.  A few tattooed whites were braving it; urban pioneers are they.  We saw a young white woman striding confidently with a pit bull on each side, arms fully inked and decided neither one of us would want to mess with her.

We ended the ramble at I-Hop.  I got this sweet rice milk thing so we could use the bathroom in the taqueria next door.  We are all managing to coexist; black, white and brown in the streets of Oakland.  Really kind of amazing.  I’ll never forget it.  All those images are seared on my memory for evermore. 

“Urban Hiking” (Coined by dear Lindsey)

museums, murals, gardens, gothic cathedrals, Victorian hotels, hidden stairways, historical societies, sweet villages, shopping , cafes, discovering restaurants, playing tourist in your own home town . . .


Discovery Walks in San Francisco with Ann


Thank you, thank you, God for my fellow flaneur, Ann Cromey! She loves adventure like I do, ambling up and down the streets of San Francisco, discovering old and new neighborhoods that delight. We both pore over books detailing interesting, urban walks and share adventures with each other once a month on Thursday afternoons. We’ve been to several neighborhoods in the City, some of which she has never explored and she’s lived in San Francisco for 30 plus years.


We’ve wandered through the colorful murals of the Mission, the botanical gardens in Golden Gate Park in the early spring, funky neighborhoods with pink and purple cottages, hidden alleys with murals painted on garages, winding, hilly streets, small bookstores and tiny branch libraries.


We have found hidden gardens in the back of institutional concrete buildings and discussed horticulture with an Episcopalian monk. We’ve enjoyed picnics on the top of Twin Peaks, and shared some of our most intimate secrets, feeling safe and secure, high above the world.


We have mounted countless city stairways, elegant and hidden, and peeked through the railings at pretty gardens and stained glass windows on small wooden homes.


We have found our way into gorgeous Gothic cathedrals and modern churches with colorful murals of interfaith saints and dark, interesting art surrounding a funky communion altar.


We came upon a cowgirl lesbian bar in Bernal Heights, with extremely interesting characters of both genders, and enjoyed a cool drink in the back on a hidden outdoor patio. You would never know it was back there! I love that - a secret world, hidden from direct view. I have always been enchanted by the little worlds within the big world.


One afternoon, in that same spirit, we found a hidden neighborhood inside a part of the city called Edgewood. It took some time to find it, climbing brutal San Francisco style winding hills, but we were greeted by a whole other world up there.


There was a cul-de-sac of four very interesting houses, one with a larger than life metal carving of a bear mounted in the front yard, complete with totem poles and colorful stained glass windows. We peeked in a garden down the street that seemed to go on for miles, high above the city with a Japanese inspired hot tub. Further down, we spotted a ramshackle writer’s retreat type hut, perched in back of a larger house. I imagined myself with a pot of tea on a cold winter morning, writing in that little sanctuary. Dear God, I can only hope that the owners are not using it for a storage shed!


Another afternoon we changed our plans spontaneously when we woke up to Bay Area summer fog. We decided to explore Japantown instead of a hike overlooking the ocean. (what ocean?) We had a couple of hours in the afternoon and wanted to immerse ourselves in a different culture.


We started with a lovely Japanese crafts boutique, where each piece had a story. We traveled back in time, immersing ourselves into the stories and found them fascinating. The store keeper was only too obliging to tell us of his wares and how he came upon them. Ann had given him a beautiful pair of hakama (wide legged pants) she had collected on her trip to Japan. She had worn them only once and wanted them to go to a good home. The spirit of Vacation at Home is always keeping it simple, paring down and giving away what you no longer need.


Next, we wandered down a corridor that had been built to reenact a typical market street in Japan. A noodle restaurant called to us and we sat down to a delightful lunch of braised tofu, noodles, odd looking vegetables and great conversation about Ann’s travels in Japan thirty-eight years earlier. The restaurant was packed with people of all different ethnicities and it was lively and energizing, setting the tone for the rest of the day.


I had been looking for a crisp cotton kimono robe for Rob for years. I wanted it to be an authentic Japanese yukata and I was waiting for just the right thing. The shopkeeper graciously brought out several yukatas with gorgeous Japanese designs and I chose the first one she showed us. (The first one is always the one). She wrapped it so beautifully and carefully. It looked exquisite. I am not used to people taking their time. Moving slowly and thoughtfully is definitely part of being on vacation. I tucked it into my pack and couldn’t wait to get home to give the gift I had waited so long to find to my sweetie.


We wandered outside of the mall and found ourselves in the middle of an open air square, surrounded by Japanese inspired gardens. We found a Buddhist temple up the street, knocked gently and were admitted by a young monk, who graciously invited us into the sanctuary. We spent several minutes in utter silence and reverence, allowing ourselves to be absorbed by this sacred space. What a glorious respite from the street life of the city. Back on the street, we stopped in a Japanese grocery and bought a package of mochi; minature, flour, rice and bean sweet treats I had never tasted before. We found a perfect bench in the middle of the square and munched happily. Did I like them? Well, sort of – it was mostly adventurous and fun to try them.


Two hours passed quickly, and on our way back to the BART, we came upon a marvelous Victorian hotel, spanning almost the whole of a city block! We looked at each other, “Should we go take a peek?” Of course! Part of vacation is being interruptible, allowing life to beckon us with its surprises. We passed a delightful slice of time wandering up through each floor, taking in the authentic velvet couches, needlework pillows, gilt edged framed art above the fireplace, wide, hushed hallways with freshly painted wainscoting and even a turn of the century wooden pulpit on the top floor! How cool is that? (Both of our husbands are Episcopal priests).

We fluttered down the red carpeted stairs, floor by floor, admiring the gleaming bannister and the quaint sitting areas on each landing on our way to the information desk. We wanted to see a room! The concierge was only too happy to oblige and the next scene found us in the middle of another world, complete with a massive four poster bed, a Victorian chest of drawers and vanity and a huge claw foot tub in a roomy bathroom with black and white diamond tiles. We collected the brochure and rates and vowed to come back for a weekend expedition on vacation at home.


This whole expedition took place in approximately five city blocks, not more than a couple of miles from where we live. Who says we can’t have a perfectly marvelous vacation at home in the space of a few stolen hours in the afternoon?

The Ecstasy of the Inner Life
embracing silence, listening deeply, union with love, engaging passions, sustaining rituals . . .
 

Experiencing the ecstasy of the inner life is the core spirit of vacation at home. I am learning how to savor the world from a place of stillness. Getting still during my morning meditation teaches me how to get still in the midst of a full life. I know what it feels like to be still and I recall it, even during the most chaotic, busy days. 
 

The fruits of meditation are often harvested during everyday life, and not always during the formal meditation period. Listening during meditation teaches me to listen to myself during the day; to listen to what energizes me, what calls to me and what gives me joy. A period of silence in the morning fills me with hope and excitement for the day. 





The Quakers advise us to center down - to sink slowly into the depths of ourselves. Be as quiet as you can possibly be. Rest in that special, sacred place. Be at peace. Be at leisure. Learning how to embrace silence has taught me how to be on vacation at home.


I discover myself in these morning sojourns. I center down to my core and live in my essence. I pay attention to what inspires me, what engages me and what gives me joy. I get in touch with my spiritual gifts. My deepest desires begin to rise to the surface and I realize who I am and what I have been created to be.


Resting in God is the ultimate vacation.


I have two favorite periods of the day; my private time in the morning and slipping underneath a down comforter at night with a good book. I cannot imagine a morning without a long, leisurely private musing underneath a plush throw, surrounded by my kitties, candles, incense, a pretty journal, my basket of spiritual books and a beautiful altar that changes with the seasons.  


I like sumptuous velvet robes, flannel pajamas, and cozy fleecy tops on cold mornings. I like billowy white cotton nightgowns and bare feet in the summer. I wash my face, put my hair back in a ribbon, sometimes I even put on a pretty bracelet or ring! It’s always uplifting to look at something beautiful. It just gives me that lift of heart, that hope that carries through me through the day.


Wrap yourself in beauty. Nurture yourself in beauty. Be always in beauty.


It is essential to be comfortable during meditation; I am not a fan of hard benches or excruciating yoga positions. I see nothing wrong with drinking coffee during meditation with lots of half and half.

I look so forward to my morning meditation time that I’m excited to get up. Although we live in a very small, one bedroom condo, we are blessed to have a beautiful view. I can see the whole sky from my meditation perch. I see the lights of the magnificent Catholic cathedral and the faint outline of trees. Sometimes I can see the faint crescent of the moon. It makes me feel big inside.

Sometimes I just sip my coffee slowly and stroke the cats. That is my meditation. Other times, I am inspired to read from a daily meditation book, a poem, scripture, or a book that fills my heart and opens my mind to the day. Other mornings I sit as still as I can and fill up with Spirit. I recite a mantra or sacred word, focus on my breath, or repeat an inspirational breath prayer or phrase. 
 

Sometimes I just gaze at the candle or the fire. I imagine that flame burning inside of me. Sometimes I put on headphones and listen to chant or soft piano, taking the sounds deeply inside myself. I listen to guided meditations and spiritual talks by people who inspire me. Gazing at flowers is another favorite prayer. 

Some mornings I am moved to journal, especially if I have a full heart and mind. I find that I must express myself, downloading my thoughts and my feelings. I try to write down an experience that moved me as soon as possible to capture the small details and the feelings as authentically as possible. 


I actually re-live the experience when I write about it and feel it again. Later, sometimes years later, I read back through a journal and I experience that special feeling even again. It is especially helpful on the flat, uninspired days, when I need a lift. It gives me energy to reread my journals. On the down days, I remember that I was once animated and happy and I will be again. 

It is important for me to change it up, keep it fresh, keep it new, and alive with Spirit.


I look at photo albums during my meditation period and re-live the time with friends, the birthday, the holiday, the vacation or even a lazy afternoon, picnicking in the park with Rob. (I’m so glad we took pictures that day in Golden Gate Park.) 
 

Sometimes I meditate on a picture or a postcard of a beautiful scene where I have experienced great joy and inspiration. It comforts me, knowing that Notre Dame and the Breitenbush Hot Springs meadow pool actually exist, not only in my imagination, but in reality. I gaze at the picture, then close my eyes, open my heart and go there. Both journaling and sorting through photographs encode these jewels of experience for me and makes them real once again.


I often write down the things I’m grateful for and copy down inspirational quotes word for word so that I can remember them during the day. Language is so powerful in affecting my feelings. 

There is a spiritual practice from the ancient Christian tradition, called Lectio Divina, a way of reading that engages the heart. This holy listening guides me as I read through various types of spiritual literature. It is a strongly affective spiritual practice, influencing my mood and feelings as I read sacred scriptures, poetry, and my own journals with an open heart. It is a simple practice of reading quietly and stopping when a particular word or phrase stirs my heart. I stay with the words, closing my eyes, silently repeating them over and over, sucking on them like a lemon drop. I let my heart absorb these sacred words until they become a part of me. I recall them during the day like a prayer.


I have recently been experimenting with a slightly different schedule. I’m quite excited about it. It is a small change that is leading to a very profound shift in my daily life. When we got back from Paris, I was jetlagged and yearning to go to bed almost as soon as I got home from work. The first couple of nights I forced myself to wait until 10:30 so I could get back on my “normal” schedule. The third night I gave in and climbed into bed at the unbelievable hour of 8:30 pm. I woke up at 5:30, (without an alarm clock), fully rested after nine full hours of sleep. 

My morning time felt so expansively delicious that I tried it again the next night. The next morning found me up and rested at 5:15 am, (again, without the noxious alarm clock), and I settled in for two glorious hours of meditating, reading, praying and journaling before work. I got ready slowly, took time with my make-up, brushes and lotions and chose the clothes and accessories to carry me into the day. I even had time to chat lightly with Rob!

I felt like I had a secret day within the day; an inner day designed just for me.


I loved it so much that I have decided to stay with the new schedule. I do the best I can, often times, the dictates of life prevent me from getting into bed by 8:30. But I find myself slowly rearranging my life so that I can climb into bed with a book no later than 9:30. My solitude in the morning time has always been so sacred for me. It is the most magical, special time of day. Why not extend it?


I have created several renewal spaces in our small home. In addition to my morning altar area, I have also been known to meditate in the comfort of our bed, propped up by pillows and surrounded by candles and fresh flowers. Lying in the hammock on our balcony, enveloped by our urban garden is another favorite sacred space. Our home is my sanctuary.


This is a delightful luxury I give myself every single morning. It doesn’t cost a thing, but its value is priceless. I arise from my meditation time and feel my hope rise to the day. Possibilities abound. I know the next 24 hours will be unique, special, unlike any other day, and full of adventure. It’s time to snuff out the candles with a pretty antique silver snuffer and move into the sacred grooming hour, beginning with running a scented bath . . .


I'm so grateful for my vivid inner life. It's mine; nothing can take it away from me. No matter where I live it’s always with me.


Thank you for taking the time, dear reader.
Karla

The Hunger Games


I felt wild and dreamy. It was surreal being in that throng of people at midnight. Just normal Emery Bay mall where I buy my pants at Banana Republic by day, taking on a decidedly edgier quality by night. I felt a surge of excitement, mixed with fatigue; an interesting combination of feelings, making for a very different state of existence, wholly receptive to what comes next.


I’ll never forget the moment I got it. I leaned forward and it felt like my whole body was seized and thrust into the story with her. It was if I was in a dream. I was with her on her journey. I was her. The symbols and the analogies and my own memories kept coming at me faster and faster as I plunged deeper and deeper into her world. And I felt the danger and the fear and the relief from each witty idea that saved her. I loved it when she hit that apple, drove that knife in the mahogany table, sawed the swarming branch of tracker jackers on the pack of meanness below.


I was with her during the interview with Caesar when she had to figure out a way to be clever and alluring; to rise up with confidence, take a chance and put herself fully out there. How well I remember that feeling, you’re on the stage and they’re all watching you, wondering what you’ve got. And you know they’d just love to see you blow it. And life can be so fierce and heartless when you’re hung out there, hungry, in a new place and it happened again and again growing up; three junior highs, three high schools, I don’t even know how many grade schools. I pretended I had confidence as I improvised my way through the pack. I needed them to like me. I needed sponsors! Sometimes I was a hit, other times I ate lunch alone hating for them to see me; sometimes they put gum in my hair and violated my locker; one particularly brutal year they all ran away every time they saw me, but then . . . there were the brilliant times I twirled with a red ruffle at the end of my skirt that turned to fire.


It gets better as you get older in some ways, in that confidence sort of way, but some of it gets harder. The competition has much higher stakes and you make decisions along the way and decisions get made for you and your destiny rolls out with the savages and God help you if you don’t have friends who have your back. But even then, there are those with power and money and it’s probably not you and you hope to God you’re not going to get sacrificed at the altar and end up in foreclosure with no health insurance and a pack of wild dogs at your feet. And the 1% in the city are so much slicker and faster and cooler and smarter than you could ever be and those are the times when your confidence is down and you’ve blown your game and you know it. I thought about those vacant, desperate men like my dad who lost his job at 50 and his confidence and identity along with it and finally succumbed to the wild dogs who tore him to shreds. Poor guy – Mom sure wasn’t a Peeta – and he didn’t know how to recognize a Rue. And he went down and he went down hard, taking his son’s hope with him.

And may the odds be ever in your favor. Chilling.

Oh, God, that just can’t be true. What about love and loyalty and the angels along the way? What about the Rues and the Peetas and the Gales and the Cinnas and even the dunken Haymitch angels? What about the hovercrafts and the silver parachutes and all the times you got some ointment for your shattered heart? What about the poets and the books and the rock and roll that saved my butt in high school and to this day. What about Breitenbush Hotsprings and Point Reyes and Paris and the fog in the early morning? What about the softness and tenderness in the jungle? And you recognize each other and you receive each other and you wrap around each other in mutual protection with a spot of humor thrown in for fun. I thought of all of mine. You all started cascading through my memory. You know who you are.

And President Snow was right. Hope is stronger than fear. He used it to manipulate, but it’s bigger than that. It has more power than fear. As Gale said, “If we don’t watch, they won’t have them.” You don’t have to buy into it. You don’t, you don’t, you don’t! Those game makers were so creepy, weren’t they? It brought me back to my AT&T days, working as an economist in a cubicle. I worked with a lot of smart people. A lot of them were even kind. But we were wasted. And for what? And I’ve seen the heartlessness of the system even with the big guys, the CEOs, the Senecas, who loved her pluck, rewarded her for it and took the fall. And didn’t you just hate it when they kept changing the rules? Opt out! Find your own way. Make your own rules. Even if you die, you were still you.


Find something you’re good at it and keep working on it until you know that you can rely on it to survive. She was a huntress. And she was smart. And she was strong. She was so beautiful because she was so real and so utterly unaware of her appeal. She was just being who she was and she was fiercely loyal to those she loved. No matter her faults, it was that loyalty that made me fall in love with her. It made her so pure. And Peeta gave her back that loyalty and more. Oh, that we all might have that special person. If you’re lucky enough to find them, hold on to them tight and be as kind and good to them as you know how to be.


I’m learning how to recognize the angels and how to receive their goodness. And I’m learning that it’s never going to come from money or a system. It’s the people I love and love me back that are bigger than any heartless system or corporal meanness and it’s the giving and receiving of that love and that loyalty that will keep me alive in the end. I’m still alive - throbbingly so.

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