That time I was like God

This past summer I was the assistant director for a play which was cast from a pool of students ranging in age from 5 to 17. 

I have a testimony of using the Human Knot exercise to bring a cast together and quickly get over the "don't touch me" heebie jeebies that people often have.

First we did a small group with the small kids and a small group with the big kids.  Once they figured those out, we brough everyone together and did a big knot.  It was a massive success!

Two weeks later, one of the leads - who had not been present for the Human Knot - was having a very difficult time touching a girl (who he is supposed to "be in love" with) and struggled to do the sword fighting because he was afraid to get hurt.

So I thought to myself, "We must do the Human Knot again!" Luckily, the first time was SUCH a success that the entire cast was excited to do it again, especially knowing that it would help out a cast-mate.  This was a very fine group of kids, I might add.

So we got into one MASSIVE Human Knot. 

Did I mention that my son and my daughter were in on this?  They were. That's important to remember.

So there they were: tangled and sweaty and doing their best not to hurt each other. I have learned that the Human Knot in these situations isn't so much about teaching the kids to "figure it out" but rather to have them learn that I can see more than they can, so they can trust me to get them where they want to go. Which in this case is out of a hot, sticky, embarassing mess.

It transfers to the rest of the play process: during the Human Knot they build evidence that as long as they will hold on and listen and not give up, I will talk them through it, and lead them to open space and succes!

Well, this second time was a real doozy. 

In the first twenty seconds, the frightened actor and his female counterpart ended up face to face, arms wrapped around each other, knowing they had to be resepectful of their incredibly tight personal space.  It changed them almost instantly.  They were ideally suited on stage the rest of the rehearsals and performances.  But we still had to get out of the knot, even though my goal for that one boy and one girl was accomplished fairly quickly.

Fast forward through a gruelling 35 minutes and the center of the Knot was just as tight as ever, with my son wrapped in arms and pits and when I went to check on him, I accidentally scratched his arm with my wedding ring.  

He cried like I had broken a bone.  I tried to apologize and asked if he wanted to let go.  He said, "No, we have to finish this."

I was proud of him then.  But in about four minutes, I would be more proud.

Because we discovered that Liam was the Key to the Human Knot.  Literally EVERYONE had to go over one of his arms and under the other before the Knot could be undone.  And there was no other way.  He was already emotionally shot. He had already been scratched and kicked in the calf. 

I asked him if he was up for this.  He squared his gaze at me, eyes full of tears, and with the most brave expression I've ever seen on one so young, he said, "If they all have to go through me, just get it over with. I can hold on 'till it's done."  My eyes welled with tears.  

"Okay, guys, this is how it's going to go.  Everyone has to go through Liam.  He is the Key. Please be careful with him; I know you are all tired and he's already been hurt.  So be careful and pay attention!"  

Even with the warning, he was kneed in the face 3 times, people stepped on his arms, one person came up too soon and hit his elbow a weird direction.  He fell over once and someone fell on top of him.  He was near to bursting.  I could feel his pain and it hurt me. 

But he kept going.  "Just do it!" he'd say when I questioned him.  I realized in that moment that his reaction was so emotional because it was a very physical reinactment of the summer previously, when he had played the unequivocal lead in the play and he had felt the pressure then of everything depending on him "just holding on."

It took another ten or twelve minutes. Everyone passed through my son's arms, and as soon as the last one was done - everyone formed in a circle, smiling and relieved - my son dropped their hands and turned backstage.  And he cried.  He gave out the most heart-wrenching, keening sob I've ever heard. 

He released all the emotion that was pent up inside. I expected the cast to be judgemental of this emotional outburst. I feared it. Especially because up until this point, my son didn't have very many friends.  People thought he was emotional and weird.  This wasn't helping that impression. I was so worried people would actually think less of him, even as I thought more.

But as I looked around the stage, I saw only love, compassion, and concern.  I heard them make comments of, "He held on so we could finish."  "He was so strong." "That must have been so hard for him," and "He just broke down."

Many of the boys especially went to put their arms around Liam as he cried. They told him it was ok.  Not one of the children in that room was embarrassed, overwhelmed, or frightened by his emotion, because they had all seen what he had done for them.  

Now, I have told this story before to illustrate and teach a few things.  One is that the kids really trusted me as a leader after that.  Two is that my cast - even and especially the boys - were not afraid to cry. We had an emotionally healthy cast.  Very close and careful. 

But the third lesson I learned yesterday in Sunday School when we read Isaiah 53, especially verses10 - 13:

Yet it pleased the Lord to bruise him; he hath put him to grief: when thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin, he shall see his seed, he shall prolong his days, and the pleasure of theLord shall prosper in his hand.

He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied: by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many; for he shallbear their iniquities.

Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death: and he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.

It pleased the LORD to bruise him. He hath put him to grief. He shall see the travail of his soul and shall be satisfied.

It sounds almost heartless.  How could God watch his child - any of his children - suffer and be satisfied?

But look what Jesus did.  By His suffering He said to God, "I am willing, I am obedient, I love." 

By His pain, sacrifice and endurance He said to us, "I love you and I want you back!"

How could such love NOT be satisfying to a Father?

I know now what that is like.  I saw my son put his pain aside long enough to see others through a trial. He took time for himself to heal afterwards, make no mistake, but he didn't give up on everyone else just because he was hurt. 

I realized that for a minute there, my son was like Jesus.  And I  - for a moment - got to feel a glimmer of what God felt watching His Beloved Son pass through His life on earth, for our sake.

I am humbled to have been in the position I was.  I created that situation.  I lead them.  I watched my beloved son sacrifice, hurt, literally bleed and succeed not only for others, but for himself.  I saw that my son had a higher value than his comfort. He wasn't being self-less, he did not abandon his self. He was being true to himself.  I know that because he still - to this day - wears that experience like a badge of honor.  "I held on! I did my part!" 

You can see it, can't you?  How perfectly God teaches me that I might understand and build a testimony of Him, His Son and His Plan by the power of the Holy Ghost?  

It was a messy day, but the message continues to teach me.

Faith looks like...doing.

I was so excited to start this particular blog because things were going well.

Let us now take a moment to notice the title of the blog:  My Mess is my Message.

It states pretty clearly that I have a mess...and implies that I might have more than one.

My current mess looks like me trying to balance all my "opportunties."

I put it in quotes because my anxiety makes them seem less shiny than they are.

And by anxiety I mean this weird underlying sensation of fear. I once described it as if my life were a two layer cake with a thin layer of fear frosting between the cakes and along the edges. Yes, I have these thick layers of yummy goodness...and with every taste there is the added flavor of fear.

It's less yummy.  It's the fight or flight response when I don't need to do either.

So what am I learning?

I'm learning to use the Feild technique.

If I get overwhelmed, I go out to my deck and have a chat with my backyard, pouring all my energy, anger, and garbage onto the healing sponge of mother earth.

I'm learning to use "daily reflection" which basically is me writing in my journal.

There was a time not too long ago where I was writing for hours a day.  I took a break to read a book.  And then it was eight months later. So, the daily reflection is me trying to kick-start writing again.

Because I NEED to write.

I had so many messages a few months ago...and I believe I still do.  I just have to find and voice them again.

Also: I'm losing my ability to sing.  That really stinks.  I haven't really sung in months, and any time I even try it physically hurts.

I was a good singer. I don't know what's happening. After I lost my voice in the spring, things just aren't the same. And I don't know how to get it back. Moreover, when I pray about it, I am just told to write.

I don't know....so I guess I'll just "do" for the time being.

Taking care

I have pretty fantastic nails.  I mean it.  Strong, perfectly healthy nails that are pink and then naturally white as they grow longer.  The kind of nails people spend lots of money trying to fake, those just grow right on me.  It's amazing, then, that I used to just let them break.

I would let my nails grow.  I would admire them and even brag about them on occasion.  I have met more than one woman jealous and delightfully green while admiring my nails.

My strong nails could take quite a beating. Car doors, zippers, cupboards and drawers wouldn't phase them for weeks at a time and then suddenly one day CRACK! Some tiny thing, some silly movement, and a strong beautiful nail would just crack in the most painful or ugly way.

Sometimes the nail would bend back first, causing my finger to bruise below the nail-bed.  Sometimes it would just break clean off, though a little too far down.  And other times the nail would break in the weirdest shapes, leaving an weirdly dangerous, sharp and jagged claw behind.

This always bothered me for obvious reasons, but mostly because once ONE nail broke, I had to cut them ALL to match. I hated that.  Especially my pinkie nail.  I rarely if ever brake a pinkie nail. So it is the worst to have to cut that lovely thing down to size.

Then my hands look chubby.  I can see how dry they are.  Now all the dry cuticles and hangnails are not only visible but prominent to the eye!  Ugh.  My hands aren't beautiful anymore!  So for a while I try to focus on them being "Capable Hands" instead of "Lovely Hands."

Sure, both are great.  But I had problem with that. It meant that every couple of weeks, I let a single broken nail change how I defined myself.

This morning I looked at my perfect nails and I decided to clip them. Not super low like I would have to if one broke.  I simply cut them to a more manageable level; they are less likely to break if they are short.  And they are more attractive just a little long.

As I put the clippers away I realized something:  I have a pattern of WAITING for a nail to break.

But not this time.

This is evidence that I am learning. I am changing. I'm not waiting for things to fall a part.  I'm not waiting for something to go wrong first.  I'm not waiting for catastrophe.

I'm not WAITING.

I'm DOING.

I see what needs to be done and I do it. Because I don't need the inconvenience later; because I don't want to define myself differently based on an accident. Because I am the creator, not the reactor.

It's working because I'm working. Even when I think it's not working, I'm working. And then I get to see that it's working.

I got what I wanted...I guess that means I get to go again.

Here's what's happening:

I am getting what I want.

And.... Yikes.

I mean it.  Have you ever outlined what you really want, be it things, opportunities, activities, or talents?

First of all, let me just say that it has been truly difficult choosing what I want enough to focus all my attention on making that happen. Whether it be new pans, a bottle of Martinelli's, learning a new song on the piano, or a sword. Sure, it's easy to say, "Ooo, that would be nice!" It's totally another thing to actually have the guts to look at a picture of it and say to your brain, "I want that.  Get me THAT. NOW."

And that's only the first two steps in the process!!!

Some amazing things are happening in my life, things that in many ways I have been waiting for and afraid of for many many years. I'm getting what I wanted. And it's interesting to see it in those terms. 

Because what having a Vision Board has really taught me, is that I have always gotten what I wanted.  I just didn't tell myself about it first.

Ever get to the end of a shopping trip and wonder "How did marshmallows, 10 lbs of $3.99/lb grapes, four candy bars and a stuffed camel end up in my cart?"  (Let's hope your list is different than mine, but I"m pretty sure you catch the drift.)

When we go shopping without a list, we end up grabbing whatever "looks good."  And it can get even worse than that.  Sometimes I have actually bought and paid for things, only to get home and realize that I had picked up only cereal the kids liked, or that I already had a box of hair dye.  Two, in fact. Ugh!  Now I've spent my money on things I didn't need and can't sustain me!

This has been my life in many ways.  I have gone shopping in the universe without a list.  And then I wonder how I ended up with all this stuff I don't need and don't really want.

Well, now I've made a list. I take the list to the store. I'm actually getting what I want.  Now, God is in the picture for me, so sometimes it's what I want, though not exactly in the way I was expecting...but I'm still getting what I want.

I feel nervacited for the future. (That's nervous and excited, for those who are not familiar with My Little Pony).  Because in a world where I can and do get what I want, well, that's just brilliant!

Evidence of Love

I have talked about opening the love letters. Specifically I was talking about the many letters and cards people had written me over the last year or two which I had kept closed and locked away in a “special place” where I could not see them. 

Out of sight, out of mind.  Isn’t that how the saying goes?

This idea - that of opening the love letters - applies all over the place. I’ve been seeing it everywhere since I wrote it. 

I have found myself saying more and more often this phrase: Look for love where it is not where you want it to be.

For example, if I was looking for love everyday in the mailbox, I will find it rarely. But if I look at the compiled evidence of love, I find it daily. 

The same with God (who is my Higher Power). The same with spouses, children, angels, friends and other family members.

There was once a few years ago that I was struggling in my dance with depression. I call it a dance because sometimes I lead and sometimes depression does. In 2009 I was struggling to move my feet as depression led me in dizzying circles around the proverbial dance floor.

I turned to a new crutch (candy bars) until an old crutch (theater performing) presented itself. I must have been bad off, because my husband encouraged me to be in - not one - but two plays a the same time. Which meant he would have to watch both children on his own for quite a while every night after work.

We had quite a mess in the first production - a Shakespeare - and I had been asked to be the stand-in Musical Director for the second, which was a beloved Sondheim Musical. 

I remember one particular night that I came home and I must have brought some weird gunk home with me because my husband sent me straight to bed saying, “You are acting weird and I don’t want you projecting it on me. Go get some sleep.” 

I beat myself up in my journal. I beat myself up in the mirror and I beat myself up on the scale.  I even beat myself up in my prayers. Until the last few seconds before I fell asleep on my knees, tears still fresh on my cheeks, and I finally spoke to Him. I don’t recall the words, but I know it had something to do with love.

I woke the next morning to another bright, shining, sun-soaked July day. I thought I would be sick. Birds were singing. It was warm and people walked about the place with grins plastered to their un-depressed faces. 

I got to rehearsal and a few more little things fell apart. I was feeling utterly useless and forgotten.

Then I heard the thunder.

I looked out the window and saw thick grey clouds, complete with a platinum lining, pouring rain upon the thirsty ground.  I love the rain so much.

And I knew it.  I even said it out loud, “Oh!  God loves me!”

A woman in my cast overheard and said, “He must not love me; I hate the rain.” And she laughed.

I cried. 

Ever have those moments when you just know something?

I have. And this particular time I knew that the rain was a sign God loves me. It could not have been more clear if He had walked in with a dozen roses. 

Similarly, on closing night of the second production, my husband brought me a delicious mango smoothie.  He picked up the children and he went home. This bothered my castmate.

"Isn’t he staying to watch you?" she asked in a snarky tone.

"I don’t think so," I say, smiling.

"Didn’t he bring you flowers or a card or anything?"

"Yeah, he brought me a smoothie."

She rolled her eyes and grimaced, “Not much of a closing night gift, though. I mean, doesn’t it just make you mad that he doesn’t support you?”

I laughed. I mean a giant, shake the rafters, throw back my  head and just laugh laugh. 

"Wait," I said when I could catch my breath. "Which part of his actions is un-supportive? When he encouraged me to be in these plays?  When he takes care of the kids for hours at a time so I can rehearse and perform?  When he has to spend his days off without me because I’m HERE? Or when he brings me one of my favorite treats that would not interfere with my performance?”

She was stunned. And so was I. 

"Wow," I said. "I don’t think I realized until just this moment how much that man loves me."

I suggest we make a list today, just sometime on a scrap of paper somewhere. And list all the evidences of love in our life. 

I sincerely believe you’ll be surprised at the answer when the question you ask yourself is, “How am I being loved?”

You are. Perhaps you’re just looking for it in the wrong places.

 - March 6, 2014

Grant Bought Me Pants!

Yesterday I was shopping for work pants; I found great stuff that made me feel and look like a million.  They started ringing me up for the sweater, the shirt, the sleek black pants with deep pockets. 

I knew how much I had in my checking account and how much was in my currently-inaccessible savings account (I don’t have internet on my phone; cry for me later). So when the total came up three dollars over the amount in my checking … I knew I didn't have enough. I felt that familiar sickened constriction in my stomach.

And the thought began to form, “I have to put something back, because I don’t have enough -“

But then I remembered my Money Friends.

My eyes lit up and I said, “I have money!”

I opened my wallet and pulled out one of my friends.  I said - out loud,  much to the surprise of the sales girl at the register, “Hey, Grant!  Would you like to buy me some pants?”

"Yes, indeed I would," I heard him answer in an attractively gruff voice.

I unfolded him and snapped him in my hands.  Then I handed him over.  Grant bought me pants!

I went to my savings account later at the bank and replaced him; I don’t think I’ll ever want to be without Grant again.  Because he may look like a grumpy gills, but apparently he loves to take me shopping.

Thanks, Grant!

 - February 27, 2014

Expression is the antidote to my Depression

I attended “Master Your Influence” in February.

Kirk kept asking people if they had their vision boards up at home.  I did not, because the last time I had, I was only able to take off 2 things before “life happened,” and then I just got really mad that the painters tape would so easily peel off my sueded walls. I had thrown out my vision board about 8 months ago, actually. Scrapped the whole thing.

On the way home from the last day, I thought about putting up a board and felt distinctly that it was not the right time. Which may sound mad…but if it was one thing Kirk had taught me, it was to follow inspiration. 

Fast forward through two weeks of keeping an “Inspiration Journal” and a “decisions journal” and a “drawing journal” and it hit me one day, “Put up your vision board; one for everyone in the family.”

So I did. We even had a Family Night about it. But this time I used cork boards. WAY better for the walls, I can tell you.

And the very next day, well, I got me some evidence that Vision Boards are powerful. 

1. I finally had something to put in my “Black Journal” which I actually call “Comment Prison.” Yeah, about 65 somethings… wow.

2. The idea I’ve been waiting for for over 7 months, it came to me!  The very reason I started the Inspiration Journal, the reason I put up the Vision Board!  It came THAT FAST. And it was - LITERALLY - idea 101.  What does that mean?

That means I LITERALLY had ONE HUNDRED other ideas/inspirations that needed to be expressed FIRST, before the one I was looking for could come out.

Wow, right?  

And that sort of breakthrough just scared the garbage out of Dot People. 

Creation

There have been times when I would wake up and think, “What’s the point?!” I’d stumble out of bed, aching in ridiculous places and on occasion barely able to walk as I carry my girth about. and that question would pound in my head, “What’s the point?!”  

Whelp, nowadays, I just look up to the left and see my Declarations.I read them.  I act them out. I hear them as I read them out loud, often in accents.

I look up to the right and see my self, drawn by my own hand, surrounded by all the characteristics and adjectives that make me pretty darn special.

And I look at my Vision board, a whole space on my wall dedicated to reminding my brain what I want.

Oh, yeah… I remember: Creation.  Creation is the point.

Slick

Things have been going well, right?  Yeppers.

I have chosen my messages, I’ve practiced in front of the mirror so that my body language communicates those messages. And it’s working!!

Case in point:

I’ve always thought I would be a fantastic ghostwriter.  Now, for those who don’t know what that is, I’ll define it: “a person whose job it is to write material for someone else who is the named author.”

Basically I encourage people to find and tell their story. I use my talents to help them say what they want to say but feel they can’t for whatever reason. And if I have to actually write it for them - it’s still THEIR story and I just helped. 

I am really good at this.I LOVE doing this. It’s one of the things I put up on my Vision Board at MYI in February. 

And then, in the last week three people have asked me for creative writing help.  Small, tiny, minuscule help, perhaps; but help none the less and I will not scoff at the opportunity to help someone tell their story!

I guess that explains why today I have had a similar number of experiences…but each giving me the message that other people think I’m stupid and that I stress them out. Well guess what? 

I graciously receive the positive, and tenderly turn aside anything else. 

So there, world. I am a duck, and negativity is rolling off my back.

 - March 3, 2014

Love Letters

Open the love letters...

I have been writing cards and letters to people for years. I began because I had a writing desk and I like to write.  I kept on because it was a way for me to show gratitude and flex those muscles. 

But then I began to use it for something else….I didn’t define it, which is why I didn’t realize or own it was happening at all.

Long story short I would surmise, “No one writes me back, so what I do and my love must not matter to them.”

Then 3KE showed me how to “build evidence.” 

Two weeks after MYI, I was cleaning out my writing desk; this special spot in my home had been created and set apart for romantic meanderings of my mind, And it had fallen into a disgraceful state of disrepair.  There was garbage and coupons and old pictures as well as toys and empty pens covering my little corner of the house.

I began to separate things into piles. Garbage. Pictures. Toys. Things to File. Letters to save. Wait…What? 

That’s right, I had received some letters.  Moreover, that specific pile started to grow. I found more in the drawer; some were sticking out of my favorite books in the bookcase nearby. I read them over. They were incredibly heartfelt and specific responses to my basic existence - not necessarily something I had said or done for another, but just how someone had seen me one day and thought, “She’s great.  I should tell her.”

I literally sprinted down my stairs (dangerous on my injured foot) to check the cedar chest.  I opened it and piled inside on top of the “past” were MANY letters and cards I had received in this last year alone.

That was my mess. A mess because I had just tied them with a bow and hid them in my cedar chest. Then cried that I never got any in the first place. 

But now I know that “for things to get better, I must get better.

For things to change, I must change.” - 3KE

I took a purple binder, I added sheet protectors.  Then I set about filling those sheet protectors with the love-filled notes, letters and cards. Now I can - and do - pull them out any time I want and be reminded:

I am loved.

I am remembered.

I matter.

I know it because now I have evidence, exhibit A which outlines how I matter to a member of my church. Exhibit B which recalls a time a kind word from me was an answer to prayer (implying that I followed inspiration).  I have exhibits all the way to Q that lauds my smile. I will have to start the alphabet over soon! The evidence is piling up. 

Gooey Yak Hairball Removal Squad

Gooey Yak Hairball

"What’s the matter, son?"

"I just need to cry so much!" he says, his head and very eyelids weighed down by some invisible force.

"Okay, you can go cry if you want," I say soothingly.

He does…and comes back up to the kitchen.

"Mom, it’s not helping."

"Want to try some Kirk-tools?"

His eyes well with fresh tears and he nods.  

"Let’s start basic.  How big is it?"

He stretches out his hands and bends at the knees, showing me that he’s holding basically the world on his chest, and the weight of it is too much to bear.

"What color is it?"

"It’s goopy."

"Is it getting all over you?"

"Yeah," he says through tears. "It’s big and hairy and goopy and multicolored."

"Like a yak hairball?"

He smiles a little, but then nods. I can almost see it there, mucking up his hands and dripping on my floor.

"Want to keep it?" I say mischeviously.

He shakes his head, chin wrinkling with emotion.

"Want to get rid of it?"

"Yes!" He cries.

Okay.  So I lead him and the YakBall out side on the front porch.  I help him visualize the Salt Flats over the mountians - a place far away where the yak ball won’t hurt anyone else. I tell him to aim for that ridiculous sculpture we see on the drive there.  He smiles.

He has to drop kick the yak ball three times before he can follow through and see it leave.

Then he goes inside and sobs like the dickens. 

And after that goes on for as long as it needs to, with plenty of quiet reinforcement from his mommy, “It’s okay to cry; just let it out,” He grows quiet.  He slumps, relaxed in our recliner.

"I feel so light now," he says softly.

"That’s because you let it go, sweetie."

"Thanks, Mom." he smiles and takes my hand, "I’m glad you learned how to do this."

Me, too. 

 - March 6, 2014

I am a Witness for the Prosecution

I am a witness for the prosecution

Last night I dreamt I was in a high school locker room. I was actually helping put up a vision board in the dream, complete with sprigs of flowers, pictures and declarations.  I was helping a woman discover what she wanted.

Then I heard a ruckus outside in the hall.  It sounded like a woman saying, “No, don’t, that’s not what I meant!  I don’t want that!” And a man’s voice saying, “But you keep egging me on.  You keep inviting me back.  I might as well just take you now.”

I could hear a word in the back of my dream-mind: rape.

He flung her through the door into the locker room, I guess hoping it was empty.  There was a part of me that hoped he would not see me and I would be able to run for help. But a wall of lockers disappeared as he walked in and he looked right at me.  His victim lay on the floor, not even crying; it seemed she had already given up.

He looked like this when he walked in (no offense intended to the actor it resembles):

Except he was wearing a pink tie. 

He advanced on me saying things like, “What, you think you  heard something? You didn’t see what she’s done up to now. She is asking for it.  She doesn't even want to be safe or pure. She wants me to take her over. You didn't see anything.” etc.

I was slinking into the corner, away from him as he came closer until I realized um. NO.

I stood to my full height, which was practically nothing and said, “I did hear you.  I heard her say NO.  I saw you throw her in here.”  I looked him squarely in the face and said, “I know what you look like and I know who you are.  I will be the best witness of your worst nightmares.” 

He started to change. He grew.  He got more muscular and more physically frightening.  But I knew - as one knows in dreams - that he was just puffing up like a blowfish.  Because he was scared.  OF ME.

I pushed him with the power of my words and the power of my energy all around the room.  He backed up.  I had the power. He grew and grew until he was this:

Little more than a big clumsy ox.  He was no match for me, though I reached maybe his knee. 

He finally looked at the woman, his victim on the ground, then to me.  I stood  between her and him. He waved his hand at me, “Ah, I’ll just get her later.”

"But not today," I said, "Now you get out of here and never come back." As he was leaving I added, "And don’t mess with my friends again.  They know I know you.  You know I know you.  I will witness against you."

Then I woke up. 

This is the dream I had after I had been led to mentor someone in 3 Key Elements education for the first time. 

 - March 12, 2014

An exercise in ketek (Holy Vorin Poetry)

And if you don't know what this title means, I heartily suggest that you check out, purchase, or otherwise find a way to read the Stormlight Archive books by Brandon Sanderson.

It's a form of poetry he concocted that consists of five parts and reads the same forwards and backwards, making a complete thought.

Kenneth challenged me to write one.  So I came up with this:

"Thinking defensive; Engaged arms firing weapons. Watch, react, watch. Weapons firing, arms engaged. Defensive thinking."

And then later that night, after reading some fan fiction/fan site challenges stating how difficult it would be do to a 121 word ketek, I thought I'd try.  

"Being lonely is soft, blown like petals upon keening wind with beauty apparent though fleeting, falling; carried on swirling currents downward gusts which moves the eye along lines before unseen, un-thought, unexplored, open and frightening. You see new shapes and paths; born possibility might grow, writhing toward sunlight as blossoms dress earths bounty, thirsty lips and open eyes. Here alone I’m alone here. Eyes open and lips thirsty; bounty! Earths dress blossoms as sunlight toward writhing grows; might possibility born paths and shapes new see you. Frightening and open, unexplored, un-thought, unseen before, lines along the eye move which gusts downward currents swirling. On carried! Falling, fleeting, though apparent beauty with wind keening upon petals like blown, soft is lonely being."

It was a little difficult, and obviously not perfect in every sense of the poetic definition. 

Here's what I really loved about it: 

Many years ago I gave up on poetry, assuming I was "not good" at it. 

So a new form of poetry with clearly defined rules that doesn't compare me to other poets whose works enjoy generations of analytical and devoted followers is good by me.

It gets my mind thinking again.  And that's the sort of thing I can wrap my arms and my brain around. 

That was different...

The Boy comes out of his room grumpy with angry eyes flaring under furrowed brow.

"What’s wrong?"

"What?" He asks defensively.

"I want to help."

"Oh yeah?  So help."

"I don’t know what’s wrong…"

"But you want to help.  What’s your idea to help."

I want to yell that he’s not making any sense…but really  he’s just not making MY kind of sense.  So I answer the question he’s asking rather than the question I WISH he would ask.

I close my eyes, put my head down and open my eyes again, reconnecting with my tenderness before I speak.

"My idea is that you tell me what’s bothering you. Then I think (I put my fingers to my temples with my eyes closed, like Sherlock searching his mind palace) of a solution.  Then I tenderly share that solution with you, (I use my hands to gently give him the idea from my heart), and then you take it in (I take a deep breath) and let go of whatever is bothering you.  Then you would feel better.  Would you like to do my idea?"

He frowns, “No.”

"Okay," I smile, "thanks for listening and watching anyway.  I’m here for ya."

 - Feb 16, 2014

I am Frodo

Who did Sauron send to stop Frodo and get the ring?

Did he send his gentlest orc or lowliest pencil-pushing tree imp? Nope.

He sent these guys.

And then he sent these guys.

Then, when that wasn’t enough, he sent these guys.

And when that failed, he sent a friendly, pathetic spy hoping to slowly poison the hero…

And when that didn’t seem to be enough, he called out and amassed an army, leveling a full scale assault.  He came at Frodo with all he had.

Do you really think Satan is any different?

He may start small, he may even start strong, but he shows his hand as he starts to panic. 

Because, look, you’ve got a mission.

You have both friends and family who love you

as well as allies who know and support your mission.

You’ve got support you don’t even KNOW you have.

They’ve got your back in a big way.

You are strong and your message gives you power to influence others.

It will be tough.

And you can’t save everyone … maybe you can’t save anyone.

Maybe it will be too much…

But remember that you have a stalwart companion who signed up for this.

He sees your struggles, cries for you, and wants nothing more than to help carry your burdens.

And if it really gets to be too much, well, he’ll carry you.

And then he’ll rejoice with you and heal with you.

And It will look like this(hint: you are the child)

: