1. Be true to yourself.
2. Have faith.
3. There is a wealth of help from the angels.
4. We are infinite. Stay in the present and build your life. No need to look to the future. It is a hollow existence.
5. Love IS all there is.
6. My daughters are the most valuable inheritance and I know I do not own them, and adore watching them grow into who they truly are.
7. Fun is more important than serious.
8. My mother and I are similar. I went further in eradicating fear, and my daughters are going even further.
9. Speak the truth.
10. Forgive and be forgiven.
11. Laugh in the rain and snow.
12. Give worries to God.
13. How you treat EVERYTHING is a reflection of your capacity to give and to receive love.
14. Read what interests you. Read a lot.
15. Less alcohol, more meditation.
16. Eat gelato and jog.
17. Be social and relax when you're not.
18. Go to museums and stand in front of art and regenerate.
19. Wear a Teflon skin.
20. Never give up on your dream.
21. Accept gifts and give them, expecting nothing in return.
22. Set goals and smile when you reach them, grin when you are almost there, frown when you're far away.
23. Ask for everything you need. Then believe it is here.
24. Talk to your loved ones who have crossed into another existence. Tell them how proud you are of them, and ask for signs when you need help getting to the next level.
25. Recite poetry and write it.
26. Be kind to a nervous cat and watch him relax.
27. Give thanks for good friends who call and invite you to dinner or to have a drink.
28. Plan more dinner parties.
29. Having cable is nice, but not having it is so much more parallel to getting centered.
30. See every sunrise and sunset.
Most of the time I do okay in not missing my mother with a guttural ache. And even tonight I am maintaining. But I do miss her, however, the angels tell me she has left me everything I need to write the memoir about her and me. And so I am.
I am so blessed. I have miraculous daughters. Just the kind of women you see and smile over, and then, once you get to know them, really get to know them, you find out what incredible strength and heart power they possess. They take the invisible and make it real.
So tonight, quite spontaneously, I want to jot down this poem, in honor of not only my mother, and my daughters, but also to women, in general, who make it work everyday, and do the doggone best they can.
Sarah and I laugh at the little porcelain ceramic house I've bought for a Christmas decoration. "She's washing the dog," she says, as we squint to see what action is happening in the lit window of the tiny object. And sure enough, there is a woman, maybe Santa's wife, washing the dog in the sink. But only she knows how good the water feels on her hands, the warmth of the dog and the solitude of doing one's work. The castles, she builds, reaching for a towel.
8. Infinity. Forever. This is what I think of when there are squabbles and misunderstandings; poor communication. We are all infinitely connected and one. Holidays bring out the egos, feelings, everything human that tells us how supposedly separate we are. And there's the bucking bronco challenge: to go deep into meditation and remember how infinite we are and just why love is the answer. Problem solve toward love. Use the quiet, alone moments to learn how to do that.
You know how you hear of parents with colicky babies sometimes driving around until their baby is asleep? That is the beauty of getting quiet with yourself and allowing all the scraps of thoughts, the refuse of ego to filter through and go into the nothingness, dissolve. At our core, we are blissful joy. Each human being we come into contact with is simply a mirror of ourselves and an interpretation of spirit. Seek the core. Be the pioneer in your family and decide to react toward love, even when it is laughable to do so.
I'm not even going to start this off with guilt, because I don't feel guilty and it feels so good. The past days have been spent getting aligned and geared. And I am both. I'm releasing my anger to God and becoming acquainted with my guardian angels and spirit guide.
It is miraculous and reviving. My daughter, Sarah, has her fifth eye wide open and can channel the angels and spirit guides. I have been trying, and soon will be able to, also. I have been told I need to relax, get more sleep, eat healthier, and slow down.
So you can see why I'm not apologizing for not posting these last few days. I have been under major reconstruction and I am so thankful. Oh yes, and I've been told by my spirit guide, Lena, that I am beginning to grasp gratitude, patience, and silence. And did I mention releasing anger? How much is buried in me I do not know, but instantly I knew why I stuff down food, nibble on sweets when sad, and more. Awareness is a blessing.
Most of all, Sarah's and my angels and spirit guides tell us they love us. My father and mother wrote, too. Love, as when he passed is my father's message. He instructed me to give my worries to him and to God, and to let my agony go about my mother. That she left me with plenty to write. My mother wrote that I need to go back and read all my notes, and just try (to write).
My message to you? That we are always connected and never separated from anything. The angels draw from my daughter's hand, the number 8 and she traces it round and round until I feel a burst of joy.
Infinity.
Constant and refreshing love. What we have been craving. It is always alive. As are we. Death is just a doorway to a grander existence. Purpose and passion.
Release the anger and live.
Now, for any skeptics reading this, I mentally asked the angels questions that my daughter did not know and yet she wrote the answer. I sat there stunned. And the handwriting was filled with delicious swirls, nothing like my daughter's handwriting. The angels send us a message: They love us. We are loved. An infinite amount of love. Fear and doubt is all that separates us.
If you haven't seen "127 Hours" run to it! I was walking home from my tutoring job in the Bronx and feeling quite sad and alone. I asked my spirit guide, Lena, to help me get out of this funk. Suddenly there was a penny on the crosswalk near the sidewalk. I bent down to pick it up, said thank you, but the usual happiness was not there. "Please help me." I asked again, my hope fading. As I put the penny into my coat pocket, I looked up and noticed I was right in front of my neighborhood movie theater. I'd been wanting to see "127 Hours". I looked at my watch. It was 5:15 pm. I looked at the showing schedule above the cashier and saw it started at 5:30 pm. But I want dinner! I thought. Yet, I bought a ticket and went in. I sat in the theater. I was the only one until minutes before the movie began, people came in and sat down. I pulled my coat up to me and put my gloves back on. When the movie started, I knew I was where I was supposed to be and I thanked Lena.
As I sat there and watched Aron Ralston's ordeal, I understood the identification I was having. Everything about the dynamics of relationship poured through me and I drank it in. An affirmation of life's abundance and appreciation rushed through me. Ralston's pain was mine. His epiphanies mine. Dormant seedlings sprouted inside and when the movie was over, I bolted from my chair with an exuberant clear knowing. The six or so of us in the theater, left with an awkwardness. I felt like speaking to them, but instead charged down the stairs and out the door, but I really wanted to turn around and say, "Wasn't that great?!" Their faces showed the realization without words. I left the theater and immediately thought of "It's a Wonderful Life."
Yesterday, in my memoir workshop, one of the ladies came to me, as she always does, and said, "Sheela, I'm not doing well. I'm not myself. I'm all jittery."
And I, as I've begun to say for the past few months when she says this, I respond with, "It's okay. You're here and that's what's important. Sit down and just write one little itty bitty paragraph." She looks at me with suspect, and then sits down and writes. It is always good, thoughtful, and with just the right detail.
A singer and musician, she has a beautiful rare voice, and I what I hope is a tradition to our workshop by asking her to open it with a song. Last week was easy for her since she had finished a musical program the evening before with members of the residence, but yesterday, she again looked at me, confused and frightened.
And then - as quickly as she'd said she couldn't remember any words - she looked straight ahead and began to sing, "I'm Sitting on Top of the World," with a rolling falsetto that enraptures me. And when she finished, we clapped, and no one louder than me. I could have listened to her the rest of the afternoon.
"You have the most wonderful voice," I said to her, and she looked me in the eyes. "Thank you, Sheela," she replied.
When the workshop was over, she stood and said she felt "wobbly." I said, "Go to the Dining Room and eat and you will feel better." She said she had mixed up her meds. I'd seen her much more shaky in the past, so I knew she was okay, just a body of nerves, her inner dialogue strangling her with petulant thoughts.
The rest of the afternoon her song stayed with me.
My post a day is waning, but I am okay with that. I am living each day and some days a post is not available to me and I realize now I don't want to post something genuinely not coming from my heart. Yet, onward I go with discipline - for each day that I do get into that heartfelt place is a better day for me - as a writer. Speaking of writing, soon I will have ten (10) days off to work on my writing projects which include: one short story, the nudging of a novel that refuses to go away, a spiritual primer, and the ongoing memoir, "Jumping Off the Cliff with my Mother."
Today is Thursday and I'm panting for Friday, my only day off with this current schedule. I am excited to clean my apartment and decorate it for Christmas. I've got a few lights in the bottom drawer of my dresser, saved from last year, and the deli owner across the street is selling little Christmas trees in the pot and I'm going to buy one and have it year after year. I like the idea of a living tree. As the holiday season closes, seeing all those discarded trees and wreaths by the curb disturbs me until I realize they will be picked up and used as mulch. Life goes on. And that is a deliriously beautiful thing.
"All is well. Everything is working out for my Highest Good, and from this only good will come and I am safe." - Louise L. Hay
We spend our lives seeking safety, security, and then, one day, realizing it is an illusion. Embracing the uncertainty is the action. Stepping into the unknown and letting whatever happens, happen, while making right choices. Sure, there will be times of complete collapse, mistakes made, wrong choices, and the effects of those causes. Yet, to stand up, shake it off, and continue, ahhh...that's where the joy resides. That's where the money is.
Getting quiet and swimming downstream is where all the good stuff sits waiting for us to experience. Going upstream like the salmon ain't it. It's finding relief and turning, resorting to the most natural inclination riding inside, and relaxing into it, and swimming. Not a fierce, choppy "get outta my way" pace, but rather, to glide to the rhythm of the Higher Self. "Follow your bliss," Joseph Campbell said. Asking the ego to work with us and not against us; to take the back seat in our vessel, sure, to come along for the ride, but as a passenger is to connect to Source, to Love, to Eternity, where we've been safe, anyway.
I'm currently teaching ESL and last night I began subbing a more advanced class for seven nights in December.The adults in this class speak strong English. I thought of my low-beginner class and realized one day they will be like them. I am on the journey with them because this is forcing me to strengthen my grammar and punctuation, too, and that will improve my writing, as well. I never thought of teaching ESL and yet, through my choices, this is where I am, and it is perfect in my progression.
I've missed (seriously?) two days!! But I forgive myself. Forgiveness is huge. I grew up with perfectionism hurled at me and it, I am reading, is one of the most destructive garments to be wrapped around a child; neglect as its sibling. Now I'm not blaming my mother who must also have been dressed in it in her youth; I simply forgive her for carrying on the tradition. And so I forgive myself for missing two days.
Perfectionism gives birth to self criticism, an inner belittling voice that never stops talking. It comes to me like the curl of steam from a hot cup of coffee when I pick up my pen or put my fingers to the keyboard. Or when I begin to work on a project that at first excites me, and then causes me to wince, wondering what will work, what won't?
Which is why I've been working on ridding myself of perfectionism. Meditation is a great cure. Being alone and quiet entices petulant perfectionism to come and be reckoned with, and allows me to grab her by the sleeve, hugging it out. And then I can say with complete confidence: "I love you, Sheela. You are smart, funny, insightful, generous, loving, respectful, and a damn good writer!"
Friday. When I wake up and realize it's Friday, I feel so free! Each hour is precious and I try to use it well. Right now it is a little after five in the evening, and I've taken care of my chores and now it's time to sit and get really quiet. I'm going to make some turkey soup, watch Super Nanny, but that's it. The rest of the night is to write and work on my workshops.
Yesterday, I found an old bookmark I bought long ago. On it is a quote from Winston Churchill. It reads: "Never, never, never give up!"
During any holiday season, everybody
needs a reason to smile.
The one man and many women of my Memoir group in Flushing are quiet today. One woman reads her story and weeps through it. I first notice as they are silently writing and I see a teardrop slide from her eye to the paper. "Are you okay?" I whisper. "Yes," she says, wiping both eyes. The power of writing. I have asked them to write about a landscape that still takes away their breath. The crying woman mentions several scenes and each one touches a spot in her that only she knows. I urge her to let it all out - that crying indicates the heart is healing the wound - and just to have a good cry.
Another woman who has been with the group for the year we have been meeting is cranky and silent. She is my favorite (shhhh, don't tell) and I catch her staring at me. Later, she snaps when I announce we will meet again next Thursday. "Of course we will," she says, "I mean last week was Thanksgiving so of course that was a change, but otherwise we meet every Thursday at the same time."
I pause and agree, wondering what has made her so off center? And then I figure it out: Perhaps her Thanksgiving wasn't so great. So I ask them all how their Thanksgiving was? Fine, they say.
I know, fine is code for don't ask.
So I ask them if they'd like to meet on Christmas Eve since our regular Memoir time fell on the 24th? They stare at me. "Aren't you busy?" one asks, "My daughter is coming in from Boston and my other daughter will be out of the Country, so I can meet with you. I'd be honored to meet with you," I reply. They ask me to bring the one daughter who'd be in town. "If you'd like," I offer.
"They grow up and you have to let them go," says my favorite angrily. And for a minute I think she was talking to me until I realize she simply is thinking aloud. Perhaps her daughter had had plans at Thanksgiving and she had not been included or not able to go or hadn't been invited? My heart pulls for her.
I ride home thinking about my mother who I will not celebrate Christmas with again. We had such a rough go of it, but at the end, she and I both knew the truth and that is what causes me to pine for her even though I know she is better than free.
I will take my daughter with me on Christmas Eve and she will delight the ladies and my one gent. I will take them all a one-year anniversary gift for our Memoir group. I will fill up the candy dish they act like they don't want, but reach for throughout each session.
"We have gotten so used to eating well," says my fav, "that nothing is new or surprising anymore." Except maybe letdowns. I will surprise them the night before Christmas. I will give them reason to smile. Just the way they did for me when two of them broke out in a song for Hanukkah. I listen to them, and ask them to please sing one song for every meeting. One woman who always tells me she is "tied up in knots" is one of the singers. When she sings, her voice is soft and smooth like the way my mother's hands went over my arms when I was really upset.
I read Gloria Steinem's book on self esteem, "Revolution Within" on the ride home. I remember the woman who cried so freely and painfully at the beginning of the memoir session. She lingers behind as one of them often does as I put the chairs away and gather the books. She rides in the elevator with me and gets off at her floor. "Adios," she says, smiling with the frozen jaw-like way she does. "Later, gator," I say, smiling as the doors close. On the 7, I read how one man who has been a bully all his life transforms when he realizes there is a universe inside each of us. I read and close my eyes. I swim in my own universe, blessing everyone in theirs.
I have missed several days. I am going through a very sad time. But I also know there are no mistakes and this, too, shall pass, and not only is all well, but will always be well.
Tonight, as I walked out of the school where I teach a beautiful group of adults learning English, I looked at the shockingly white clouds and felt the brisk cold of December. About three years ago, I fell in love with the Northeast's winters just as I fell for the dry heat of the Southwest. Both regions took me a while to adapt, but in love I am. Just today during an incredibly riotous rainstorm, I took a long overdue nap, first staring out the window, marveling at the wind and dead leaves being hurled five stories high against the pane glass. I thought of moving. Where would I go? What would my purpose be? Would I get more done or less? Happier or more sad? And then I fell asleep and woke up two and a half hours later, still with a dull ache in my head, but feeling much more like myself.
I took the F train to Queens, and instead of getting off at 34th Street to switch to the N or the Q, I stayed on and got off at the 63rd Street and Lexington stop. This meant I would need to walk three blocks to the 59th Street stop. I was glad. Manhattan was alive - as always - and lights were everywhere. I reached for my camera, but stopped and simply took it in, felt the cold air, looked in the shop windows, and just walked. And I decided to take the 47/50 Rockefeller stop the next time I was going home. I want to see the Christmas tree up close. NYC is magnificent during this holiday period; a close second to fall or third, counting spring.
On the train I took out paper and wrote an assignment a day for my ESL students for when the organization I work for closes for the holidays. I don't want them to stop learning. I want them to succeed. I want to succeed. I want health and happiness. I want to be able to have hearty holidays with my daughters and their mates. I want lots of hugs, kisses, presents, laughter, and conversation.
And I want to explore all possibilities. I want to feel safe. I want to feel free to speak and to give and also to receive.
