Following the Leader: Infinite Intelligence

Raised in a Fundamentalist Christian Church, my mother would tell people how her two younger children, my brother and sister, were at church just days after their births. My parents "found Jesus" in the cold of Alaska, literally. I wish they were here so I could more clearly ask them the details, so forgive me if I go Gabriel Garcia Marquez on you, but here is how I recall their description in becoming saved.

It was a high snow-banked winter in Fairbanks when my parents spotted a lit building in the distance as they drove, seeking what I don't know, but I think they were at a crossroads, known only to them. They went in and were welcomed by the few there, men who I would later remember eating chocolate-covered ants and bugs in the foyer of the small church. Alaska in the late 1950s, even before it became a state was a North Pole carnival. Only the strong survived.

My parents were smitten with Jesus and everything the church represented and off they went. My mother sat in the pew, calm and happy, now I know, as she could be.

I loved the community it provided and as I grew into the faith, equally loved prayer time, that moment of silence when you closed your eyes. My first taste of meditation. When I was older and in the dogged years of my teens and early 20s, I found Communion time to be such a relief when hungover. I could close my eyes and miraculously recuperate, if only in the reprieve of fast sleep.

Once I turned 21, I shook the hand of our preacher when he gingerly told me - as a woman - I could not pray or preach in front of men. Years before, I'd similarly been told by the professors at the Bible College I escaped to that I could not take the Latin classes as they were reserved for the men who would become ministers. If I wanted to serve the Lord, they advised, become a Sunday School teacher to the young, missionary or best of all, a minister's wife. I left what I now call "my parents' church" and walked away.

What truly saved me, though, and what has kept me awake and alive to Spirit started with my remembrance and love for The Parables of Jesus. I went back and read them and realized his genius. But I politely and still do say good-bye to any organized religion. I call myself simply a spirit here to perform service for the highest good.

My fifty-six years so far have been tumultuous, blessed, challenged, super-sized and questionable. But I always believed and continued searching, first intrigued by the work of Joseph Campbell. "Follow your bliss"? I mean, come on, that's paradise. Doing it, however, was tenuous. Yet, onward I went.

Then, I found Deepak Chopra and Christiane Northrup, Julia Cameron and more. Moving to NYC in 1997, sometimes I'd be on the subway train reading and would feel such an explosive happiness from what I was reading. Yes! my heart screamed.

Putting it into practice proved another challenge.

Born to a nervous set of parents, I am the same. Worriers are We. And sadness and a general depressive state can accompany our generous and artistic moods. I don't want to live like this anymore. I never wanted to and yet it followed me like a dependent puppy. Out in the work world, I could overcome it by helping people and as an excellent caregiver to my folks when they became ill. In 2010, I was my mother's hospice caregiver. Yet, how could I cure myself of fear, worry, and low self esteem?

And then last week, my daughter, Leila, and I went to have a Reading by Elaine Clayton, another reason why I love Facebook and social media so much. Elaine told me of my inner, magical child whose strong ties to the Eskimo and Native Americans tells me that I am satisfied with a bundle of goods, fishing ability, and the wide open. Leila said I came out of the Reading beaming, youthful, and thrilled and I was. I felt every remark and nudge Elaine and the Universe provided.

Enter Tosha Silver and Florence Scovel Shinn this past month. The latter I had all four of her books compacted into one paperback, sitting on my shelf, thanks to a kind Brooklynite who left it on his or her stoop and it found its way to my hand. I had just looked at it a few weeks ago while writing a new workshop for Workshops by Wolford and not knowing who this woman was or how I had come to have her book, and then I put it back. Fast forward to this past week when I received Tosha's book Outrageous Openness: Letting the Divine Take the Lead after discovering her through Dr. Northrup on her show on Hay House Radio. I clicked to Tosha's Facebook page and saw the Budweiser neon sign behind her and laughed, intrigued. I asked her to be friends and she accepted and then I started to take in her posts and my heart lurched with understanding. "You've found the missing piece of information," it rang!

I purchased her book and read it all at once, two days ago. Everything I have studied gave the green light. My worrying state could be controlled, no, deleted! And I had the control as long as I remembered to let the Divine lead the way.

I can do this.

As I read Tosha's magical book, I gasped at her tribute to Florence Scovel Shinn. Wait a minute? Wasn't that? Didn't I just? I dashed to my bookcase and there was Florence's book, smiling at me. Silly girl.

Thank you, Divine Intelligence.

I am reading her book right now, The Wisdom of Florence Scovel Shinn and feeling the wholeness of infinity. Everything my parents' hoped for and did; every search made by me; every PBS program listened to, every suggestion, notion, and wise bit of advice I'd heard or been given was reciprocating, applauding, cheering me on. Here ya go, girlfriend!

Tag, you're it. Jesus take the wheel.

As always, dedicated to Eddie's and my best work:
Leila Sandra (center) and Sarah Nancy (left).
"Follow your bliss." - Joseph Campbell

I've so got this.

Sheela Wolford is a scrappy enthusiast who knows her purpose is to encourage. A writer, starry-eyed mother, good daughter, and better sister, she is working on a Grief Journal, a memoir about her mother and her, and a book about the years she spent in brown Adidas shoes, figuring out her life. Like her on Facebook on Workshops by Wolford.  And for heaven's sake, go buy Outrageous Openness.

A Protective Parent

Twelve years ago, it was a scorching hot day in West Texas the day after my father died. I'd slept at my sister's house that night and in the morning couldn't sleep anymore, so a little after dawn, I slipped out of her house for a morning walk.

The sun hit the top of my head immediately and within a few paces, I realized this was the exact route where my father and I used to "powerwalk" after the birth of Sarah, my second daughter. As I stood there, the tears came fast and with the heat on my head, I found myself powerless to the agony that my father was really gone.

There was no wind that day, but in that instant, I felt a quick breeze move around my head, past my left ear, and I heard my dad's voice inside my head, saying, "It's all about love, Sheela." And as he said it, I could feel his mild frustration in relaying this information which I had felt in waves the night before coming from him even though he was in a coma. I heard him loud and clear that morning, as digesting his words, I stumbled along and ended up sitting on the bleachers of the junior high school across from my sister's house. And as I sat there, I felt a peace encompass me. And so my journey to understand and to practice and to receive love began.

It is all about love.

Fast forward to the first two weeks in April of this year when I served as hospice caregiver to my mother who was severely debilitated from a stroke occurring on the last night in February. Nearly 12 years after my father's passing, I had learned a lot about love, and now with my mother's troubles, she and I began to miraculously heal, sometimes within seconds, deep and destructive wounds from our past, our weary relationship with each other. During the past year, I had asked for her forgiveness and freely given mine to her. Our condition as mother and daughter on the mend, the time I spent with her from March 15 until her entry to the next dimension on April 13, was simply one miracle after another. And intertwined in those miracles was conversation which healed our hearts, and opened the doors to our future.

My mother was, it became known, afraid of dying because she thought she was a bad person. And in comprehending this, we were able to bludgeon the massive walls she had built for protection. I encouraged her to repeat affirmations stating her worth and then I'd have her say, "I love you, Nancy." And when she did, the transformation immediately melted those gruesome walls. By the time she told me she was ready to go, she was indeed ready and spiritually intact.

But before that, there were times when her defensive anger exploded in accusations. One day while in the hospital, I asked her if she'd like my sister and I to pray over her? She agreed and so I began. I asked for my mother's peace whether in this body or out, and suddenly her eyes opened wide and in a low voice she said up at me, "You just want me dead!" Stunned, I instructed my sister to take over, and she did. As an elder in her church, she is wise in prayer and spoke a beautiful one.

On the drive home, my sister and I were still shocked and saddened by our mother's words to me. We wondered why we were so loyal when abuse seemed to come to us so easily from her? That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept hearing her words and feeling the pain of a new wound growing from the old ones.

But the next morning, I arrived at the hospital to sit with my mother and I knew what I had to tell her! I went into her room and sat in one of the hospital chairs at the end of her bed. I watched her sleep. And after a few minutes, I knew I had to tell her now.

"Mom," I said, rousing her. Opening her eyes, she stared at me meekly and said, "good morning". "Mom, I want you to listen to me," I said authoritatively, my voice already cracking with emotion. "Remember that dream you told me about? You know where you said you and I were walking in silence, looking at each other, clasping hands, and then jumping off a cliff?" "Yes," she replied, her eyes skirting to avoid contact with my firm gaze. "Well, I get it, Mom," I exclaimed. "And no matter what you think of me, I want you to know, that this is our moment, Mom! This is where we jump off that cliff! I do not want you dead," I implored, "but I do want you to know that you are clean and a good woman, and deserve to know that you will be in peace, and not in pain, and will return to where we all came from and where we go when we leave this world, and you will not be judged and you will not go to Hell!" I said, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. "I love you, Mom, and I realized last night, that while you are afraid of dying, I am afraid of living, and Mom, I want you to know that if you will stop being afraid to die, and stop thinking you are bad, then, I promise to you, right here and now, that I will stop being afraid to live!"

"It's a deal," she said, looking at me, resignation on her face, and taking my outstretched hand to her, and so in this fashion, we carried on until on April 13th when she went and went ready. As the hospice nurse had instructed me, I knew she would go into a semi-coma a few days before she would pass. The day before she left, she woke up as the aid was gently washing her body. She reached up for me and I stiffened wondering if she was going to do what she had done a few evenings earlier, in trying to swing at me in a last ditch state of utter anger and fear that she was indeed dying and she needed someone to blame again. But this time, she caught me by the neck and suddenly I was being pulled down to her. I went voluntarily, and once I reached her face, she began to kiss me on the cheek. Three kisses. Emotional, I thanked her, only a whisper would come out. Everything between us was healed and complete.

But now it has been nearly two months to the day of her death and I realize I am still afraid of living as a writer! Help came fast, though, while listening to Doreen Virtue on http://www.hayhouseradio.org/ who said that the ego protects us from failing. Of course! The caller on the radio show was stating how she was trying to write a book, but became frightened each time she tried to write and that's when Doreen told her about the ego's protective nature to shelter us from failure by never allow us to begin.

I knew that from everything I'd learned about love and what I thought of the ego, I'd missed a big lesson. All along, my ego had been a protective parent, shielding me from failure, but also from productive success! Suddenly I saw the ego in a brand new sense, and I made friends and announced help in that area was no longer needed. Now, I understood why love is indeed what it is all about. I asked love to step in and to guide me. I asked my mother to help me write the memoir I am writing and now know is complete and ready to be told after my time spent with her. That was the missing piece of my story. But even so, two months later, it was still not being written. But now I know why and now I am in process. A good friend from way back emailed me while I was home with my mother. As synchronicity will have it, he just wanted to see how I was doing, what was I doing? He, too, is a writer, and as a result, we have agreed to force a deadline on our writing projects and to coach and monitor each other. We have until June 30th to finish the first 100 pages, July 31st to write the next 100, and by August 16th (when my mother first became disabled from a surgery gone wrong) to complete the first draft, followed by September 20th (my father's birthday) as the date for our designated Readers to have commented on the drafts, and on September 30th, to have a second draft as well as letters prepared for agents and publishers.

And now, I have the tools I need and in this order:

freedom from ego
love
guidance
creativity
wisdom
courage
respect.

Since my father's words to me, and my mother's death, the song, "His Eye is on the Sparrow" plays through my head when I am sorrowful, scared, or doubtful. I know it is my parents, telling me to jump.

I am.

Dedicated to Frederick Reed and Nancy Lee Hastings