I wake up happy this morning. Love it when this happens. I am warm under my comforter. (Perfect name, that—comforter.) Along with happy I feel deliciously lazy, rested. There is sunlight against my bedroom blinds, and shadows of trees getting pushed and shaken by the wind.
It isn’t even a choice this morning. I didn’t have to stop and deliberately, consciously, meaningfully choose happy. Happy just is.
I could be this forever. Right now always.
Peaceful. Settled. Nothing niggling at me. Body and head all comfortable. Heart and spirit peaceful.
I fell into happy this morning, even before I woke up.
Such a gift.
It feels like waking on the first morning of summer vacation. Though my calendar tells me today summer is passed. It is the Fall Equinox, and Yom Kippur, and Mabon. A blessing day today. Balance. Full. Perfect.
I am sitting at my work table now, in my studio. Vince Guaraldi and David Benoit and George Winston playing piano for me, Charlie Brown music. Watching the wind pull and push at the aspens and the firs. The aspens have become gold this past week, brilliant against the blue sky and the dark of the firs. When their leaves fall, we will have Dorothy’s yellow brick roads everywhere through the woods around the house.
The Universe, Source, was nudging me all last week, singing to me. Ideas, suggestions. Then it pointed me to Julia Cameron’s book The Vein of Gold, and the task ‘Lullaby’. ‘For five minutes each day (five private minutes), hum or sing a lullaby to yourself.’ The task is on pages 164 to 166, if you are looking for it.
It is true, you know. The world is music. The world is sound. We are sound. Vibration. Nada Brahma.
My Mom sang to me, to herself, and with the radio. My Dad sang with me, my sister and brother, in his ‘own personal key of music’ as he would say, perfectly off tune. In the late afternoon heat of July, Dad driving us home after swimming in the lake, singing Jingle Bells all the way.
My chosen lullabies, the songs I sing to myself, might not be what you would expect:
I am at the lake. Sun, sky, water. Birds that I can’t see sing a chorus. They’re all hiding in the trees. The ice is gone. The open water is cold but the ducks out there don’t seem to mind. Two Canada geese are causing a ruckus. Splashing, then flying, honking out the noisiest Spring courtship I have ever heard.
There was frost this morning and the thermometer read zero. That was three hours ago, the sun still rising. Now the sun is full high in the sky and there is heat where its light lays across my legs. This is balm to my heart. Open. Feeling.
This is being present. This is resting in what is all around me, here, now. My body relaxes. Nothing to fuss over. Nothing to be ready for. Just open. Listening.
I have coffee beside me. Decaf with cream. Caffeine and I don’t always get along. I sip it. Warm now rather than hot. The air is cooling it. Doesn’t matter. I like cold coffee with cream as well.
This morning is a gift. Mist on the hills at the far end of the lake. A faint layer of cloud above me. No wind. The water is glass except where the ducks have passed by. The geese are silent now, perhaps their courtship complete. I wish them well.
This is peace and perfection. Right here, right now, all of me is present to this moment, my life. Head, body, heart, spirit. Whole. One. There is no other place to be, no other thing to do except be here now, present, writing.
It is windy today outside my studio window. Sun. Cloud. Spring, and the weather can’t make up its mind. I’m voting of course for sun, my favourite. It is warm enough to have the window open. The air smells cool and green.
Fresh air. That is what I am inviting in today. I’ve been thinking about disappointment, what it is, where it comes from, what melts it away. I’m airing out an old belief here on the page.
I woke Saturday morning with the oddest thought, flashing by so quickly I almost missed it. But I didn’t. I caught it.
There, caught in the net of my awareness. I am a very young child, a baby. Baby-me is thinking ‘I am a disappointment’. The adult-me watching this knows this is referring to my parents. This is all feeling, no words, but adult-me is translating the feeling. Accurately.
A feeling that becomes a belief. Baby-me is believing that I am a disappointment to the ones I love and who love me back.
I write this, and now I ask myself, ‘Have I believed this all of my life?’
Is this belief true?
My heart says loudly, lovingly, firmly, No.
I can tell that my head still believes, despite my heart knowing the belief is not true. I trust what my heart says over the belief that sits in my head.
Time to sort this one out.
I was born with crossed eyes, strabismus the doctors call it. Some cultures believe that people with crossed eyes can see both into the future and the past. Cool.
Not so cool for first-time parents, though, who are loving and worrying about their brand new child in equal measure. And then there are all the well-meaning family and friends who are saying……
There is a scene in the movie ‘Shrek’ that I remember. Shrek talks with Donkey about ogres having layers like onions. I’d say that Shrek got it right about the layers, and it applies to people as well as ogres.
I repeatedly learn that my discoveries about myself, my beliefs, and so on, have layers. I have discovered a new layer, so now I have a Part 2 to my post of two weeks ago ‘There is something right with me’.
Every morning I choose that I am perfectly healthy, and I choose that I love myself unconditionally. I use Dee Wallace’s Red Dot Exercise, and I pour all my love into my physical body. I feel love flash and spark its way through me, become a mix of both love and pure brilliant joy. I use this as my meditation, focus on feeling without words, without thought. Just resting here, myself loving myself. And then I get up, put my meditation cushion away, and go about my day. I do this because, even though my body has healed from fibromyalgia, my mind is still healing.
It is while I am doing my going-about-my-day stuff that I discover a new layer to my old belief that there is always something wrong with my body.
I am loving my body, but I am not trusting my body.
I know that, for me, love automatically includes trust. So what is this division I have created? I can love my body, but I cannot trust it. What is it that I am not trusting about my body?
I trust that my body is healthy now. But. I don’t trust my body to stay healthy. I don’t trust that my body will not get sick again. I don’t mean sick like getting a cold. I mean a long sick, like getting fibromyalgia again, or getting cancer.
I know where this is coming from. Whenever I watch TV, I see ads for all kinds of prescription drugs. I always feel like they are whispering fear to me—you might get sick again. I am so new to not taking prescriptions at all (yay me!), that I am still adjusting to knowing I am well, my body is well, I AM HEALTHY. I feel good, but I have to get used to this new pattern of thinking and knowing and believing. It has to become just as much a part of me as the I-am-sick pattern was.
I am working on it, becoming my new pattern of I-am-healthy. I am playing with it, creating it. I have moved the feeling of love into my body. Now I need to move the feeling of trust in as well.
What do I trust about my body right now?
I love to walk. I know, without thinking, that my feet and legs hold strength and carry me wherever I need and want to walk or run or skip or climb. This knowing is trust.
This is a beginning. I will start here. Feel love in my body for my strong legs. Feel the steady knowing touch of my feet on the earth as I walk. Feel the rhythm and roll of my legs and hips, one step becoming the next, the next, the next without division or stutter, moving me across space and through time. Movement, balance. Breath in my body and the sound of my heart. I sing the body electric. Surely this is what the writer and poet Walt Whitman knew when he wrote those words. This is what trust in my body feels like.
This is the feeling I am looking for.
Love and trust in my walking body, in breath and beat, pleasure in movement, fills all of me without effort. This feeling memory—I choose this. Well, whole, perfectly healthy. I choose this. I know this. I trust this.
My beautiful body, walk with me.
See the December 24th post for ‘The Red Dot Exercise’.
My resources page is now up for anyone who is curious about who I am learning from. Everyone and everything listed on this page has helped me heal and become whole. Some you might connect with, some you might not.
Jennifer McLean’s ‘Healing With the Masters’ webcast series is a great place to start. She talks with healers, teachers, light workers, scientists, business people–all whose work is heart-centered. The series is free and an excellent resource for discovering who and what you connect to, one of the reasons why I say that Jennifer is generosity personified. This is where I started when I began healing the fibromyalgia. Find the series at healingwiththemasters.com. Thanks, Jennifer!
In yesterday’s post ‘Start with joy’, I write about finding joy in my physical connection to an image of beauty, to water and earth, and to a memory of myself at three years old.
For me, the process of finding a healing memory is intuitive. I trust that I can recall all of my life, and that I can use what I recall to bring myself to wholeness and health. The type of emotions in the memory make no difference, whether my head is judging them comfortable or painful. I choose to use all of my life in this healing.
This takes love. In the process of ‘I Remember’, the love I use can be for anything. It can be for a person, an animal, a place, a toy, a pair of shoes. Love is connection, and gives somewhere to begin. The point is the feeling, and the stronger it is, the better. Love includes trust and acceptance. It allows me to trust and accept the process I am doing, my memories, and myself.
This is what I do.
I choose a space where I feel comfortable, safe, and private. Most often, I use my studio where I write and draw. My studio is my heart and my nest. It is filled with things I love, that make me feel happy and inspired—toys from my childhood, favourite books, handmade gifts from family and friends, photographs. These things are play, beauty, and heart.
A quiet atmosphere is necessary. It is vital that I hear only my inner voice during this process. I close the door. My family is used to this now, but initially it took some training for all of us. I learned to know that I am worthy of time alone with myself, and my family learned that my temporary absence would not create disaster. They understand not to interrupt me or disturb my privacy. I use earplugs or relaxing music to mask any noise in the house. This allows me to focus.
Friday morning I wake with an image of butterflies resting all along my open hands, my arms, shoulders, the top of my head. Think yellow, rich, warm, and bright. Think wings, a forest of them, some still, some moving gently.
Even now as I write days later, I see this, and the joy I felt then I feel now. It expands within me, from my heart out to my fingertips, down through the soles of my feet, up through the crown of my head. Such an unexpected gift, this image and the joy that it gives.
The gift is how this makes me feel, body, head, heart, and spirit. It moves me into joy, into love, into peace and balance, without effort. I recall the image and I am changed, now.
It reminds me how there are other gifts in my life that create shifts for me. They are the memories I have, some just a flash of a person or place I love, others long and detailed that fill my senses and draw me whole.
Memories heal me when I allow them that power. It is a memory, one of the long detailed ones, that has brought my body back into healing after fibromyalgia had drained it and flattened my life.
Let me tell you a story about water and earth, body and joy.