Looking from the Dark Side

Captured by mystic voices that speak in a foreign tongue.

I tune in and then tune out because I can’t understand.

Feel small and helpless, like I’m sitting on the moon looking back at Earth.

Resting far from home in this desolate place. Cold and dark. Alone.

So far away, there is no reason to reach out. To do so would be pointless.

Silence surrenders to muffled voices. Can’t escape them because they are mine.

I tune in and then tune out because I can’t understand.

The ground beneath me is hard, sandy and foreign. The winds are silent.

Wonder how I got to this place and dimly recall a journey. Seems a long time ago; another lifetime. Was that even me?

I remember moving forward through a fog only to open my eyes here. Why wasn’t I watching? How did I get lost?

The Earth is a small, beautiful blue green ball, beckoning from the dark expanse of space. Glowing.

How is it that I’ve come so far from home? I stretch an arm out towards Earth but know she is out of reach.

The sight of her sends a shiver across my chest and down my arms. I feel a mysterious, yet familiar warmth.

What a beautiful view. Think I’ll stay for a while.

Photo Credit: Dictybloke

The Empathic, Naked Soul

This morning I was overwhelmed by sadness, and for no apparent reason. I was curious because nothing was “wrong”, yet I still felt like having a good cry.

So, I let a few tears wet my cheeks, all the while wondering, “What is this feeling?” “Where has it come from?” “Why now?” The answer that came to me was this:

“You continue to evolve and grow. You have arrived at a new phase in your life, while having outgrown your old belief system. You don’t recognize who you are yet.

Everything is new and unfamiliar. Your reflection in the mirror is the same, yet something is different and you can’t quite put your finger on it.

You are mourning those parts of yourself that you have allowed to dissolve. They have simply fallen away effortlessly, and your ego’s bubble has been burst. It has no reference points.

You feel homesick for those lost parts of yourself. No matter how painful or uncomfortable they may have been, they were familiar. Your soul is now naked, the slate wiped clean, ready to start anew. You are looking for something familiar, some comfort to help you settle in. Just remember.”

Remembering the Innocence

I looked into that imaginary crystal ball, and travelled back to a place of innocence. Another place of unfolding and growth. A place of allowing, even though I wasn’t aware of it then. It was happening despite the choices I made.

I was delighted by what I remembered and bathed in this melancholy, feeling refreshed and more alive. The heaviness turned to curiosity, which in turn led me on an adventure. When I was finished, I felt home again in this new place — remembering me.

Just for fun, here are some of the things I remembered:

Watching the Waltons on Sunday evenings.
Drinking coffee with Coffee-mate — yuck!
Gathering snowy pieces of wood from the woodpile for our fireplace.
Eating Cream of Wheat cereal with lots of brown sugar.
Making onion sandwiches with white Wonder Bread and mayonnaise — yum!
Picking raspberries with my sisters down the lane.
Playing KerPlunk and Snakes and Ladders on a rainy afternoon.
Watching my grandmother wash her face with Noxzema.
The sound of popcorn being made in the kitchen.
Wagon Wheels and bologna sandwiches for lunch.
Freshly washed sheets hanging on the clothesline, frozen in the wintery breeze.
Watching my mother’s silhouette in the moonlight while she tucked me in.
My aching calves during haying season.
Wearing bell-bottoms and bangs.
Watching autumn leaves chase the school bus while it meandered along the winding roads towards school.
The sound of the frogs and crickets at night.
Resting on dirty bended knees, and smiling while watching tadpoles wiggle around in mud puddles.
Climbing a tree, barefoot and feeling safely hidden by its whispering leaves.
Laying on in the cool green grass, watching wispy clouds sail across the sky.

Melancholy is Becoming You

Memories and melancholy danced in my thoughts. Instead of avoiding my sadness, instead of running from it or pretending it didn’t exist I played in the sandbox. The sands of time if you may, brought me home.

I remembered pieces of my childhood, memories that brought me validation of having “been somewhere”. Memories that honoured my innocence. I felt on the brink of something new.

There is humility in allowing and witnessing the unfolding of yourself. There is courage and comfort in stepping outside of yourself to take an admiring glance at how far you’ve come. Remember?

We’re constantly growing even when we’re not aware of it. When the unknown, or unfamiliar may feel a little overwhelming, turn around and see from where you’ve come. See your footprints. You are on a path.

Go ahead, pat yourself on the back. Look at how far you have come. And wonder what is ahead. Be curious. There is courage in not always knowing where you are headed. Encourage the unfolding; trust it.

Loving who you were will ignite inspiration to move you forward into the unknown. It will connect you with a space in time where you loved who you were; when you loved where you were. Love where you are now because someday you will look back upon this time and this memory for sustenance.

What memories do you have that make you feel whole in your life now?

What gives you that boost to keep going when you feel a little lost or overwhelmed at the newness you’ve discovered in yourself?

What new memories have you made today?

Photo credit: Morning Glory

Irrational fear and the value of compassion

On my birthday last week, I received a phone call from the hospital confirming my appointment the next day for minor surgery. My jaw tightened as I picked up the phone and the caller was announced through call display. “Happy Birthday”, I thought to myself cynically.

I had never had surgery or general anesthetic before. The idea always conjured up a deep fear in me. While growing up on the farm the experience of animals having to be “put to sleep” had been stamped in my subconscious. No matter how many times people told me the surgery would be okay, because of this ingrained memory I couldn’t fully conquer that irrational fear.

After being checked in at the hospital, Carol handed me my new outfit. A nightie that opened to the back, a robe to thankfully cover my bare bottom, some long green socks (why did I bother shaving?), some netted blue booties and a blue netted, very stylish cap… not!

She escorted me to the “throne” for question period and to prepare for the IV. Once reclined and covered with a warm blanket, the tears started to roll. I wasn’t truly crying, I mean I wasn’t heaving with sobs or anything. I was absolutely terrified and just couldn’t help myself. To my embarrassment my legs started shaking uncontrollably.

While the IV was being inserted (the least of my worries), Carol gently rested her hands on my feet and talked to me to keep me calm. She was being extremely attentive and sensitive to my space and assured me there was an excellent team waiting for me in the operating room.

She mentioned that this procedure was very “Hollywood” and understandably that added to the drama. After bidding me goodbye and wishing me luck… she returned five minutes later to tell me she had spoken with the team. They knew how nervous I was.

Carol has compassion down to an art. I knew she was doing the best she could to make me comfortable. She genuinely cared about my well-being and was doing more than her job in my opinion. I felt hopeful of getting through this because of her support. That compassionate connection softened the edge of my fearful state.

Laughter IS the best medicine

Carol had prepared me for the arrival of the anesthesiologist, Dr. White. “He has a unique sense of humour.”

When a man appeared at my feet and stood watching the activities, I suspected it was him. He didn’t speak. He watched and waited for the nurse to collect her things and make room for him to sit beside me for more questions. I waited for him to say something… hi, maybe… but he stood in silence.

I couldn’t wait any longer, so I spoke. “Are you the joker?” I asked teasingly. There were a few awkward grins and then I asked, “Are you my anesthetist?”

“No. But I am your anesthesiologist” came the playful retort, with an accent on “ologist”.

He sat down and the questions began, speckled with quick-witted humour. He reminded me of Robin Williams and I told him so, but he thought he more closely resembled George Clooney.

We chatted about farm life after I told him about my fear of “being put to sleep”. I mentioned throwing bales of hay around and shovelling manure. He observed that if I were not speaking to him my choice of words would be different: “Shovelling shit instead of manure,” he’d said. I felt like I was meeting Robin Williams on the set of Patch Adams. My legs had stopped shaking.

He signalled to the team that he was finished and would see them in the operating room shortly, after he had gone for a beer. I asked if I could join him. He waved his arms at everyone and said, “Yeah, let’s just forget about this surgery and we’ll all go have a beer.”

Putting fear to sleep

With “Robin” standing by my side in the operating room, I fell to sleep with a smile on my face. The butterflies and fear had subsided and I surrendered to the experience.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye, putting the first dose of anesthetic into my IV and I felt a warmth pass over my solar plexus. Then another dose and I felt sleepy, like I was sitting on the couch falling asleep while watching a movie. The last thing I remember was the nurse on my right wrapping the strap around my arm to monitor my blood pressure.

This was a relatively smooth trip, thanks to my friend Jim for escorting me to the hospital, driving me home, and caring for me the next day. He was my rock.

And thanks to Carol the nurse and Dr. White, my fear was put to sleep. The time with Carol kept me connected and reassured. The time and conversation with Dr. White kept me present. It stopped me from thinking beyond the moment.

Humour is only humour in the moment. I’ve never thought about this before, but you can only laugh now. Even in the worst stage of panic and fear, humour can be your saving grace.

Do you have any irrational fears?

How has humour saved you?

Note: After I posted this I was reading Tess’s blog over at The Bold Life where she was asking the question, “What bold, daring and thrilling thing have you done lately?”

You might want to pop over there because today is Magic Monday and the person who leaves the best comment will receive a copy of  “Invitation to Greatness.”

My comment was based on the experience you’ve just read about: The most daring thing I’ve done recently is to realize that I don’t have to face fear alone. By allowing other people into the picture, fear’s message changes shape and the real truth becomes a colourful collection of shared experience.

Photo credit: Laudu