Happy Holidays!

Dear Friends and Family,

In November an asteroid passed 202,000 miles from Earth! Liz, a junior at Boulder

High School, is taking astronomy and assured me that the Earth is relatively tiny and hard to hit, but STILL! Contemplating asteroids, booming population and shaky financial times, I’m either prone to party like Ms. Lohan or contemplate the meaning of life. Given my allergic reaction to alcohol, I gravitate towards studying my navel. On a recent NPR broadcast Terry Gross asked Nobel prize winner Seth Perlmutter: “If it is an infinite universe, how can it be expanding?” Perlmutter explained some of the science behind the phenomenon and concluded: if one doesn’t like being boggled on a daily basis, astrophysics and the exploration of supernovas is probably not a good fit for them.

Heck, I’m no astrophysicist, although maybe I’ll go back to school for another degree (just kidding, Mom! Mom?), but I’m boggled daily by the visual splendor of Boulder, by the miracles that my children are – from their remarkable talents to the challenges that they have overcome. I am deeply moved watching them navigate life; they are both kind, intelligent, wise and determined women. I’m blessed by their presence and glad they chose me to be their mother.

Only weeks after a frightening kidney infection, last month Bella had exceptionally painful surgery on her ankle, and yet she remains resilient and upbeat, maneuvering around lithely on her scooter. She loves her home in Durango and her major is environmental studies at Fort Lewis. Her animal family sustains her when the going gets rough. (I can’t imagine from who she inherited her love of critters!) Liz studies singing and writes songs and is working on a novel. Our kitties, Pablo and Toby, think she is the cat’s meow and tend to distract her from homework every opportunity! In the last year Keesha (age 16) has almost died so many times I think she may have stolen both cats' nine lives for herself.

Maybe it’s crossing the 50 mark, maybe it’s the world circumstances or maybe it’s just because I’ve always been an existentialist pain in the ass, but every day feels like the ripest cherry plucked from the bunch. Recently I heard the saying: “There is no bad weather, only bad clothes.” I mind winters far less because of a collection of fuzzy hats, gloves and scarves, puffy coats and rubber boots. I am learning to live my life that way – to rearrange my days so that I have enough time to meditate daily and to write or attend yoga or dance class when not doing school work or shuttling Liz. I am rehearsing for a show at the Dairy (not dancing with cows at an eco-site - the Dairy is our local arts venue). A happy heart generates the energy to live several lives within one life and to give of myself fully. When we do what needs to be done at the expense of our joy, it’s like going out into the cold without a coat. One may be burdened by debt and responsibility, but if we don’t do something for our spirit and soul, our bodies will most assuredly say “No” in a big way.

In Soulcraft, Bill Plotkin explains: “the movement toward spirit is a journey of ascent… transcendence, while the movement toward your soul is a journey of descent… a journey that deepens.” My spirit loves angels and dancing, water slides and swings. My soul knows I have near misses with small asteroids daily. It walks me into the terrain of my shadow and the bittersweet of what it means to be human. Soul sustains my spirit’s quest for lightness and peace.

I am boggled by the miracle of life and marvel that I ended up living in a little cozy yellow house in a bucolic, forested place with loving, supportive friends. My humble roots would not have predicted this. But even without humble roots we have all been battered enough to appreciate what we have. They say life brings us to our knees and that’s when we connect to our concept of the divine. Marianne Williamson once said: “I finally decided to just stay on my knees.” “Surrender” does not mean giving up; it means an open heart that has been broken so that we reach more quickly when a friend falls. “Surrender” transcends religious affiliation, because when we surrender, joy is seated in our heart no matter the circumstance or what is happening around us. We plug into the joy and just get that this is an illusion and all that matters is Love. We trust a greater plan and we live from love.

It’s definitely a practice. When life isn’t testing us, it’s testing everyone around

us. We take turns catching each other when we fall. This September we were offered up some record highs that enabled strolls under trees with leaves changing into the most vibrant reds and golds I had ever seen since moving to Colorado. But then the snow arrived with a bang, and I woke to branches down all around town. Shoveling it from the sidewalk felt like shoveling wet sand and my lower back was grumpy and so was I. But I was dressed right: in my tall snow boots and brown down coat, long underwear and sweat pants. After shoveling, I stood and gazed about. Everything was perfectly still and hushed. The snow sparkled and the sky was a blue bead I wanted to wear. We tend to hold on to what we know and the gloomy ways of the world, but if we can become present and aware, the serendipity of the moment will be a rising sun in our hearts.

Happy Holidays!

Love & Blessings,

Jen

Halloween, Sex and the Number Two Test

…to be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others…
~ David Whyte

People often ask how I know or choose what I’m going to write about next. I’d like to report that I carry a literary witching rod to divine a lofty inspiration from some higher source, but that’s generally not the case. I do two things. The first is called the #2 test. Usually while I’m driving I scan through recent events. If an idea is too intellectual, I skip over it because clearly my ego would be writing about what’s “important" (yawn) and not my gut and heart. Every now and then the divining rod strikes it rich and the material has to come out as soon as possible. I rush home and let it flow. If I ignore it or I can’t get home in time – you guessed it: the urge passes and I forget whatever it was I wanted to write. Naturally, the urge will return in some form and sometimes even when I do get home in time, I read it over and realize, well, it’s crap.

The second part of the equation is humor. If it’s not somewhat funny, no one wants to read it. Generally, if it’s funny there’s a darker underbelly to the piece, which gives you an idea about my sense of humor. But darkness is not necessarily twisted - soul seeks darkness. In Soulcraft, Bill Plotkin explains: “the movement toward spirit is a journey of ascent…transcendence, while the movement toward your soul is a journey of descent… a journey that deepens.”

So, today what got me racing home at high speeds was… s-e-x! Well, at least the idea of it. This weekend I went to a couple of Halloween parties. I dressed as Nefertiti, complete with a hat I made for the occasion. Totally ignoring the heavy eye make up and bejeweled dress, some guy asked if I were a “Bic Pen.” Really? That gave me an idea about how to use the headdress next year. Granted, I passed over sexier options, choosing instead an elegant sack, and at one of the parties, I watched as men gravitated to more skimpily dressed women. No surprise there, but it reminded me of the Halloween party in college when I dressed as a frumpy yellow bird and all the guys asked my two lithe friends, who were dressed as a kitty cat and a school girl in a low buttoned shirt and mini skirt, to dance while I sat in a chair preening my lemon yellow feathers. One of the guys pulled me aside and said: “You’re the kind of girl we’d want to marry, but who wants to get married in college?” I was such a nerd; it's no wonder I was a virgin until age 21!

I have no issue with being playful and wearing fun, sexy costumes, especially on Halloween. I've worn my share of them. And when I was married there was clarity and it was easier to venture from base and be flirtatious. Married but not dead. But as a single woman I want to be conscious about what I'm putting out there and what I want to attract. My last lover taught me a lot about spirituality and health. He said that most people “bleed sexual energy,” which depletes power and the capacity for deeper relationship. (I liked to remind him that when I met him at a Halloween party years ago I had my hair down and teased and I was dressed in a skin tight, one-piece snake suit draped in a strand of ivy.) The fact is some men are visual and won’t see my mind unless I show them my ass first. Alas, I wasn’t in the mood this weekend to be luring men, at least, not that way. I like to remind myself that as much as I learned from that lover, we weren’t on the same page. If I am meant to meet a long-term partner it’s probably not going to be dressed as a wanton middle-aged Lolita.

Certain traditions say that when a woman has sex, she carries that partner’s energy along with her for seven years. Maybe I knew that back in college or maybe I was a scared canary. Sex is never just sex – at least not usually for women. The heart gets involved in a way that can shred us. We think we’re going to be calm, cool and collected, and the next day we are crying and thinking about puppies dying in scientific labs and the affect of global warming on bees and is he ever going to call me again? On the flip side, one may have sex with a man who seems and looks relatively stable and then Pow! The intimacy triggers something shall we say... unexpected. Humans are complex!

It’s one of the reasons I’m not looking for sex for sex’s sake. Besides worrying about the puppies, birds and bees, I want to understand my heart more fully, and I think it’s been shut down for a long time. It’s why yoga has been so important to me. I remember last year when my favorite yoga instructor, Matt, led a class that focused on “heart openers.” Heart openers, I innocently thought, were exercises that stretched the pectoral muscles to free up my shoulders and arms. But NO! Fear the cruel yoga instructor! (And they all look so innocent. BUDDHIST BULLIES I say!) When it came time for savasana, I was a blubbering fool curled in a fetal position trying not to sob audibly and disturb the peaceful corpses lying next to me.

I’m happy to say my heart is accustomed to opening more readily thanks to the safe space of yoga, tango or BodyMantra. Don’t get me wrong. Sex is a show stopper. It’s glorious, transcendent, life changing at its best. But it's more fun with a committed partner. Our culture seems to breed men and women fumbling towards one another with the idea that we can complete each other in a night, that the other person will erase our pain. We go into relationship with too much expectation - we wonder why it caves under all that wet snow! We might be relieved that – God forbid – we are not seen in public alone...again. We jump in without taking the time to feel our way fully, without understanding our hearts and the deeper quests it leads us on. Our media flaunts sexuality as if sex is no more life changing than eating a bag of chips. Sadly some people who've been abused and never taught otherwise are inured and their hearts and feelings are shut down so that it isn't any more special than Cheetos. While some teens may be ready to experience it with a sense of fun and wonder, other kids feel obligated and lost, slamming the heart shut for another decade or for good.

There really is no answer here. It’s like the question about what I’m going to write next – sometimes the urges we follow, whether on the page or between the sheets, turn out to be great and then other times… not. I guess what I’m hoping for is more creativity when it comes to engaging with the opposite sex – especially for middle-aged singles. Friends often say that dating in our 20’s was fun and easy. At 50 people are crumbling fortresses of terror. Halloween is our signature holiday.

I feel a certain peace when my yoga teacher comes over to kneel on the back of my thighs and ease down on my upper back as I’m lying on my stomach; my heart opens like a tide pool on my yoga mat. I feel this same serenity and safety with a couple of dear male platonic friends - one I've only known a year and the other I have known for five years who told me he would never sleep with me because down the road it wouldn’t work out and we would lose our friendship. I thought he was wrong at first, but now I know – in my heart – that he was right. What I've come to find with both is this unconditional acceptance, a freedom of interrelating with someone from the opposite sex without expectation.

Granted, it would be nice to have a sexual partner, but ultimately friends with benefits seems to end up biting someone in the ass. It's been so long... I want to bite an ass. Sigh.

While I’m not officially declaring abstinence, I have made a commitment to sink into the feeling of what it’s like to be by myself... making snow angels! And, without getting lost in another person or carrying yet another man’s energy around for seven years. (That is such a weird concept.) There will come a time for losing myself – again – to delicious, blissful love, but first I want to know my heart. I want to urge her out of hiding. It’s all perception. I could focus on the disappointment of going to one more event without a date, but I am beginning to trust that being single is right where I’m meant to be. The universe will open the door to a relationship and when that happens, I will be ready to walk through the door without leaving myself on the other side of the threshold.

In the poignant book by Martha Beck, Expecting Adam, as she contemplates whether she’s going to abort or keep her unborn son with Down’s Syndrome, she asks herself: “What is it that people do? What do we live to do, the way a horse lives to run?” Later in the chapter she reveals: “This is the part of us that makes our brief, improbable little lives worth living: the ability to reach through our own isolation and find strength, and comfort, and warmth for and in each other. This is what human beings do. This is what we live for, the way horses live to run.”

I may be single, but I don’t feel alone. My life is graced with a wonderful immediate and extended family, close friends and dear teachers who sustain my heart and make every moment worth living.

Death is a Grumpy Cousin I Can't Shake

This morning was one of those times where I woke up with one sock on, one off, tangled in the sheets and crying as though my heart had just been broken – not about anything specific. Pretty much about everything: How long do I have with my old dog? Or with the pony - I am so darn attached! With my parents? They have to live forever because I don't know what I'll do without them. Why is it I live so far from my brothers and sister? Or what about my best friends - how long do we have? My circle of women is so dear to my heart. Why do dear friends move away or I have to move from them? Will my daughters overcome their health challenges? Will they survive college? It was one of those mornings where I was wide-awake when the alarm went off and I was happy to hear the alarm! The minute I got out of bed the anxiety and sadness fell away with the other sock as I attended the practical business of the body. I splashed my face with cold water to calm the salty eye-puffs.

Life has a way of tenderizing us. It’s called Death. Maybe it’s why I feel drawn to working with the grieving families at Hospice Care of Boulder and Broomfield Counties. I’m not sure I will get that placement for practicum, but I am applying. I’ve always been a depressing person – just get to know me a little better and you’ll see. Actually people who work with the dying and mourning tend to be funny. It’s why nurses are so witty (right Susan?)! It’s why my mother who was almost killed numerous times in WWII has such a wicked sense of humor, but also a deep kindness. Heck, I was even a depressing kid. At age 5 my mom would take me on a date and I would say things like: “Let’s talk about death.” Maybe she took me on dates when she was trying to lose the guy! I can’t help I got stamped with “existentialist” before being shipped onto this planet.

Then I got plopped into a family who had just come from Europe and the horrors of WWII. They had lost everything except the clothes on their back. There was a sense of underlying fear and: “It’s us against the world.” Death was a grumpy cousin we couldn’t shake. I didn’t play at other kids houses and they didn’t come to mine, unless I was at my dad's and Lynda's every other weekend, but those encounters with other kids were few and far between. I'm not sure if the other families thought we were weird Lithuanian immigrants or if my Mutti felt she couldn't trust strangers not to kidnap me. I played alone in the backyard or with my Aunt Helena who was like an older sister.

Helena would spin imaginary games for me that took us up onto the roof; she buried

crystals for me to find as part of the adventure and wrote notes that led me from one location to another on a treasure hunt. If not with her, I was playing with Pinky the big black lab. I had 5 imaginary friends who were so real to me, I introduced them to my friends when I moved to Santa Monica. I watched a lot of TV after school (Gilligan's Island, I Dream of Genie, Petticoat Junction, Green Acres, Bewitched) and then my Mutti and Papa, aunt and uncle and Mom all sat around the kitchen table for dinner. I was even allowed a “thimble-full” of beer. This was a very happy childhood that I treasure remembering - just different.

Then, frumpy, overweight kid suddenly does the swan thing and ends up fairly popular at Santa Monica High School. It was like some cosmic joke had been played on me. I hid behind my cheerleading costume, totally bewildered. Painfully shy, the facade suited me. The traditional roles gave me something to be. Parochial elementary school taught there was a right and wrong answer - none of this critical thinking stuff. I didn’t even know how to begin to form an opinion! Until I got to Santa Monica at age 11, I had been raised mostly by adults. I had never been to an overnight at a friend’s house. I didn’t even know the clapping game: “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?” I was an unsocialized Golden Retriever who had only seen other dogs through glass. I missed all the cues. I listened to classical, not rock and roll. When I did speak in high school, I was so painfully serious. But I took myself so dang seriously, because death was still a concept in my head. Intellectualizing death kept it at a safe distance. My feelings were shut down; they were too dangerous to allow out. Oh, I cried a lot, but I stuffed the deeper feelings. I had no idea how to broach anger. But when the concept of death got to my heart via heartbreak and love and loss and changes...when I had the bravery to let it move out of my head and into my heart, which came in waves from age 25 to 45, the experience was shocking and searing. Putting words to that kind of realization of impermanence is pretty much like trying to describe

a spiritual experience. Words became inadequate. When we awaken to the reality of imminent death, we can’t take anything too seriously, because tomorrow it will be different. It deepens our appreciation for the people we love and the time we have with them. Laughter heals.

The pursuit of an open heart didn’t stop at age 45, but now I’ve made peace with the idea that there are going to be mornings I cry my eyes out. It’s okay. That’s part of the deal. Sometimes I’m going to win a trip to Italy or be associated with aristocracy in England. On some level, I’m still the homely, lonely kid which causes me to appreciate others and the potential fun on earth all the more. Feelings are like the waves I body surfed. Sometimes I’m going to get rolled on the sea floor, but I’m going to stand up, crunching on sand, with more experience and exhilarated. I’m not going to stay planted on the shore telling everyone: “Don’t go in - the waves are too big!” With some discretion I’m going to dive in again. True happiness blossoms in the heart as an ongoing state of being when we can let sorrow tear through us like a hurricane and realize we will still be standing when it's over.

Excerpt from William Cullen Bryant's poem, "Thanatopsis"
So, live that when they summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach they grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Midnight in Paris, Daylight at Goodwood

I was looking at the star chart (or vision board) yesterday that I created a couple of months ago, and it dawned on me that several of the pictures on it resemble the English countryside, including an aristocratic home on a hill. When I created the board I had no idea I would be traveling to West Sussex in England and staying with the delightful Duke and Duchess of Richmond. It’s interesting that I chose these pictures based on the feeling of joy and freedom I’d like to create more fully and sustain in my life, and the trip was an intensification of those feelings. It is said that a state of “wanting” or “wishing” will only bring more “wanting” and “wishing” into our lives, but if we generate a feeling state of already being and having, that’s what the universe will offer. It isn’t personal – it’s energetic. The trip sucked me out of my mundane, albeit serene and happy, existence and plopped me into a rare experience. I'm sure when I am in my 90s I will have trouble

distinguishing whether it was a dream or reality.

Goodwood Revival, the world’s most popular historic motor race meeting and the only event of its kind, is a step back into time. Lord March and his wife, Countess Janet, host the memorable event, and they seemed to manifest everywhere as they made sure their guests were content. The Saturday night gala's theme was "Space Barbarella" - the costumes were elaborate, the ball gowns exquisite, and the sets and entertainment astounding. It was a pleasure to meet Lord March's daughter, Alexandra (Atty) Lennox, as well as his sister, Naomi (Nimmy) March, at the event. The Goodwood web site describes the event like this: “The Goodwood Revival is a magical step back in time, a unique chance to revel in the glamour and allure of motor racing in the romantic time capsule of the golden era of motor racing at one of the world’s most authentic circuits. The Revival is staged entirely in the nostalgic time capsule of the 1940s, 50s and 60s that relives the glory days of Goodwood Motor Circuit. The Revival offers visitors the opportunity to leave the ‘modern world’ behind and join motor sport luminaries … in an unabashed celebration of flat-out wheel-to-wheel racing around a classic racetrack, untouched by the modern world."

This event celebrates the history of the cars as well as the Goodwood race track, once a leading motor venue in England. My brother, Derek Hill, raced Lawrence Auriana’s 1962 Maserati Tipo 151, like the pro that he is. I could hardly bear watching as he tore past weaving his way ahead of other drivers to end up in second place. My mother, Alma, was saying the rosary as we huddled under an umbrella when it began to rain and I was shouting: “That’s my brother!” The crowd was breath-lessly on edge and the exuberant announcer sounded relieved to finally have a show on the track worth detailing. A few seconds late in the pit change, they lost a position, but Joe Colasacco, Derek’s co-driver, brilliantly held on to 3rd place in pouring rain and miserable visability. I cheered every time he came around the track and had not lost ground.

While other relatives were not permitted onto the podium, serendipitously, Mama Alma – with a reputation of her own – and I were invited up as Lord March and Atty Lennox gave the drivers

their awards. If it weren’t for my mother, I wouldn’t have even been invited. Her personality plus and humor as well as deep kindness wins her many invitations despite the fact that Phil left us three years ago. We thought of him at every turn.

Derek was rewarded with the Will Hoy Memorial Trophy for the Greatest Drive in a Closed Cockpit Car. Toasting Derek and Joe with champagne on the podium was one of the highlights of the trip. Other highlights: getting to know Larry, Irene and hanging out with the team, chats with the Duke and Duchess, tea in the driver's tent with Uwe, dinner next to Alain de Cadanet, Eddie Cheever and Brian Redman, meeting Jochen Mass, dinner at Goodwood House, being chauffered in a Bentley or Rolls, strolling the countryside and petting the goats, meandering the paddock - and admiring the cars, dressing in costume, firework rockets traveling horizontally over my head at the gala like missiles, the spitfire airshows, and meeting so many people with extraordinary stories.

When I think of the theme of my blog: “Being in this Body,” I think of all the places that we go and the experiences that we have that help us to realize we are so much more than a body, and yet, the sensuous pleasures of the body are unique to life as we know it. The visuals, sounds, smells, and tastes of the trip transcended most experience. Traveling transports us out of our common experience and all that we know; nothing is the same and we are granted a new lens to see our old lives. My imagination has been reawakened, which affects everything I do. Too, my trust in the creativity of the universe and its timing is renewed. Weeks ago, I saw Woody Allen’s film, “Midnight in Paris” and while it was broad daylight in England, life imitated art as I spent a magical week living a dream.

The Depth of Depp and TMI

I am getting ready to go to England with my mother and brother, Derek. We will stay on Lord March and Lady Janet’s Goodwood property and attend a gala, teas and the antique car races. My mother and late stepfather were frequently invited to this and other amazing events, but raising two daughters, I rarely had opportunity to join them. I’m sure the event will make for a fun blog post, considering the theme of the ball is Space Barbarella. All four days we are asked to dress in 40’s or 50’s attire. Personally I would like to dress in costume daily for the rest of my life!

Recently, I watched two movies featuring Johnny Depp: “Benny and Joon” and “Don Juan DeMarco.” Both inspire the audience to live less mundane lives – to wake up to magic and the present moment. The latter questions perception and reality. What are the stories we choose to believe and how to they create not only us, but everything around us? Do our stories serve to help us feel more alive or to kill us? What if

every time we thought something we asked: “Does this make me feel alive or dead?” When does the inner critic slip in (when we least expect) and take the pen from us. Observe. Question. Consider.

Some stories are just plain funny and worth retelling, but some serve to drag us down. In retelling them we relive them. The greatest threat to our egos is to be creative and open to the unknown – to be guided by Love and the Great Mystery or God – whatever your version of that is - and to see what unfolds. How will we be used (by God, by Love, by our higher selves) in each moment? If we are stuck in past stories, we block an opportunity for a deeper exchange with the person or people across from us. An open heart will save the planet.

I look forward to this trip to England, because I don’t know what to expect; however, I am concerned about my mother. I told my friends she had experienced a “TMI.” My nurse/dancer friend, Susan, asked if perhaps she experienced an overload of too much information, or perhaps I experienced an overload of acronyms. Since going back to school for a counseling degree I have definitely been bombarded with acronyms and terms of diagnosis. People have strings of letters after their names that are a language unto themselves. And, yes, my mother could very well be suffering from too much information – she seems to have two speeds: hospital: zero mph and regular life: 120 mph. Rather, she was diagnosed in the hospital with having experienced a TIA (transient ischemic attack), which mimics a stroke and could warn of an impending stroke.

But my mother is not one to dwell in the past – not even yesterday – which has been her savior on the most part. Instead of going into the story that her high-speed life could be her demise, I am going to hold out for the idea that she knows exactly what she’s doing, and has lived a most incredible life as a result. (I can see why she admires Johnny Depp so much.) As to the question if she listens to what her body is telling her – only she can answer that.

Messages from Hummingbird

My fruit trees are busting out with apples and pears, and the squirrels, magpies and deer are feasting on what I don’t gather. Days are still hot, but nights are cooler. The elementary school is alive once again with the laughter and shouts of kids;

the bell rings regularly. I bought a 4-foot ceramic colored fountain for the little side yard under my kitchen window – the window that faces the school. The fountain graces the raised flower box that is blooming fuscia bougainvillea, rosemary, columbines and bluish-white hydrangea – it’s my little corner of Italy.

I hung a hummingbird feeder the other day, but I noticed it wasn’t getting use. Online I read to tie a red ribbon on the feeder to call attention to it – and it’s true the elegant feeder did not have enough red, but as soon as I tied the ribbon and walked back into my house, a hummingbird appeared to drink! After he drank his fill, he flew towards me and hovered by the window long enough for me to say: “You’re welcome. Come back any time!”

Who says Dr. John Dolittle is fictional? Speaking with animals requires nothing more than changing the frequency. If there is someone in my family who currently does not have animals as part of their circle, it is because they are in transition in some way. Animals are important to our tribe. My grandmother Mutti occasionally put my ailing parakeets under a spell and operate out their tumors. I stood by to hand her

what she needed, or to hold the tumor that she would later dissect. My other grandmother, Nonnie, rescued her one-eyed cat, Taffy, from a dumpster – it had been shot, but she nursed it back to life and he lived many years. Aunt Helena (pictured here to the right) spent years caring for dogs, cats and rehabilitating a wide array of wild birds - a bathroom was converted into an aviary.

But it was my childhood mentor, Elizabeth Lukather, (a Karate Kid sort of mentor) who taught me that animals really do talk to and listen to us. They might not know our language, but they still understand the intention. She once opened her front door and found a huge snake curled on the steps. She told it that she was going to close the door and give it half an hour to go find another resting place. When she opened the door again, it was gone. It helps to show the animal a picture of what you would like it to do. When I can’t handle a bigger issue between my animals, I call in JoLee Wingerson, an official animal communicator and owner of Spirit Whispering (www.spirit-whispering.com) and she’s taught me some tricks of the trade.

Granted screaming “SIT!” at a dog doesn’t count as communication and will only make him think you are trying to bark louder than he can. Training, like the kind Cesar Millan or the book Raising Your Dog with the Monks of New Skete promotes, is the greatest gift we can give a dog. To become his leader diminishes a dog’s anxiety and

will extend his life by a few years. Similarly, my daughter, Bella, studied with Buck Branaman (left), featured in the documentary BUCK, now appearing in theaters. These great teachers are able to convey, without aggression, to the dogs or horses that we are on their side and there is nothing to fear. As a result, the animals relax and respond to our requests.

This morning as I watched the tiniest hummingbird I have ever seen take a poop bigger than a raven’s, I was using the end of a lime to watch the sides of my sink. I was thinking how weird the germ fanatic culture was when I was growing up – people were slaves to the media and Clorox as though nature is dirty or being clean and using chemicals meant everything else would fall into place. I remember how amazing I thought my Aunt Judy was for having a couple of her babies under a tree. (At least that's what I remember - if it wasn't under a tree then it was something close.)

Unfortunately, I was still chained to the cultural norm when I had my kids. I want to do it all over and have my babies on a blanket on the grass, under the hummingbirds and pine trees and bougainvillea who would instruct me because the more I listen to the plants and animals, the more I hear and the less the culture has the ability to lull me into its clinical spell.

Heaven is a Belly Button Moon

This was a perfect summer evening: 75 degrees with a breeze. I walked the goats, Lily and Ramon, through the green field with the sun setting in a flair of coral clouds on one side and a gaggle of geese flying across a huge full moon – Lady Sky’s belly button – rising to the other side. I felt perfectly squeezed, like an orange been juiced or a washcloth wrung – since I’d just been to a 2.5 Core Power hot yoga class. The gifted and inspirational instructor had used an image that stuck with me. He had said to relax our butts into the matt in savasana like a cool stone dropped into honey. Never mind my butt, I want to kiss like that. I want to live that way… like a cool stone dropped into warm honey, because it requires that I slow down and appreciate the sweet surroundings. My kids used to tell me they imagined swimming in a large pool of vanilla pudding. It’s remarkable they grew up without food obsessions. I’m hoping it’s partly because I taught them moderation and that sugar isn’t evil. Well, it can be, but if you tell a kid they can’t eat sugar, they’re going to grow up and they aren’t just going to imagine a swimming pool of pudding – they’re going to build it!

But anyway, there I was with the goats, looking around at the awesome beauty and I cried with gratitude. I felt like a soft serve dipped in chocolate wonder. Life is delicious!

Last night I danced on my kitchen table on the Unitarian Universalist altar. Wait. I better back up. When I was asked by renowned polar bear artist, Barbara Stone, to create a dance with the theme of “family” for an event she was having at the church, I immediately thought of the kitchen table. Well, more specifically, I thought of how at Thanksgiving my grandma, Mutti, would pull several long tables out of storage and push them together in the living room (because she and Papa didn’t have a dining room in their little house and the kitchen only sat about five). She would set the tables with white cloths and beautiful dishes. When everyone had gone to bed I would sneak out with a blanket and pillow and sleep under the table. It felt like a tent, but too, the table seemed to be alive with anticipation of the upcoming celebration. For the purposes the dance, I flung myself around my own sturdy kitchen table that I brought to the church.

I named the piece “Memories of the Kitchen Table” because another memory dear to my heart is when my mother would return home from a long day of teaching, my aunt would return from school, my uncle was home from the Navy, my grandfather had just come home from a long day at Public Service and we would all gather at the kitchen table while Mutti served dinner. She occasionally pulled up a chair, but she liked to serve us. I was the only child present, so I didn’t want to be asked too many questions, but I loved to observe. I can’t remember much of what was said – I lived there from the ages 2-10, but I remember the camaraderie and sense of union.

While this event at the church was artistic and not religious, it was spiritual, as Barbara related the amazing tales that led to her original art works and a harpist played and Jeff Stone, Barbara’s ex-husband, recited poems and played Celtic tunes. I celebrated the memories of the table and did what connects me most to the divine: I danced.

Heaven is a cool stone, warm honey kiss, the tall grasses brushing my legs as I follow the goats, the white disc moon and burning sun disappearing behind the blue mountains. Heaven is the warm evening breeze and the magpies eating apples from the big tree that shades my front porch. Heaven is the hummingbird that mistook my red shirt for a flower this morning and buzzed in my face; it’s the last year with my old dog who helped me raise my kids; it’s the yoga instructor’s voice lulling us deeper into our hearts that expand if we let them, bigger than the moon or the sun, so big that we know for sure that war is an illusion and peace was all there ever was.

I Made it All Up!

In a recent blog I wrote: “the only real truth we will ever have is in the moment. The rest is a result of confabulation, imagination and longing.” One of my three thoughtful brothers (all three pictured to the left) replied: “I would love to know what moved you to use ‘confabulation, imagination and longing’ to describe everything but the ‘moment’ in which we live. Not that I disagree, just an interesting description of everything else.”

He's my little brother - he better not disagree! Now that we're clear about that... "confabulation" is a great word. It reminds me of a con man with flatulence rolling around on inflated inner tubes. But alas, the denotation is: “to fill in gaps in memory with fabrication.” Using a recent incident: I had a clear memory of something occurring. Blank looks all around; no one else in the family remembers it – not even the person it supposedly happened to. How could this be possible!? Did it happen? Did it happen differently or in a different context or to a different person? I was flabbergasted (that word sounds like what happens when you let go of an inflated balloon that has not been tied. Sometimes I feel like a balloon that has not been tied). How could my memory fail me so completely? I didn’t set out to fabricate a memory to fill in the blank, but evidently my imagination took over.

Memory is fickle – we might not even know when we are fabricating. Everyone generally has a slightly different take on the past. You might be able to agree: yes, we all went to the Grand Canyon together, but everyone will remember different visual, sounds and experiences. Siblings might agree that they all have the same mother, but they all know her differently. So, the past is unreliable. The future is no more reliable. Our imagination draws pictures in our mind about what’s going to happen and if we let our egos get attached to those pictures, chances are we’re going to be let down big time. Expectations are a direct line to disappointment. Longing fuels our visions of tomorrow, but according to Neale Donald Walsch, longing in this moment shows the universe we want more longing. Whatever state of being we are emanating will grow stronger. The key is to get to the end feeling that any person or place inspires in us… and conjure that feeling now, in this moment. (If you want a great book that teaches joy and hope check out Martha Beck’s Steering By Starlight.)

So, this leaves this moment. What are we going to do right now? Or now? Or now? :o Philosophers explain that we are always in motion, like a pendulum, with only slight hesitations. We perceive “moments” as though they are still, but that is an illusion, so even the moment is fluid. Still, it is where we are. In those hesitations, are we engaging our senses? So many books such as A Course in Miracles or Eckart Tolle’s The Power of Now teach us how to interject ourselves into the moment, how to value what is and focus less on what was or what will be. The moment is intimate; it asks us to acknowledge what we feel about ourselves and our relationship to others and what we’d like to accomplish before we die.

The future is a guessing game and the past is a series of little deaths, of moments we will never recapture, half of which we might have made up. The only way to regret less and choose joy is to be fully awake right now.

This Delicious Dance

Within 24 hours I shot a bow and arrow and a BB gun and went pole dancing. Things get a little wild when you visit Utah on the biggest Mormon holiday of the year. I hope I’m not going to Mormon Hell! My sister, Vanessa (below), who lives in Salt Lake City with her husband and two adorable children, and I had a lot of fun. The pole dancing gave us plenty to joke about, but too, it inspired some insight.

It’s no news we live in a culture that struggles with gray area and subtlety. Sex is either suppressed for being bad and dirty, or blatantly displayed. Pornography is rampant as a backlash to a culture too busy to make love in the way that sex is best practiced. Ideally, sex involves all the senses and is sacred. I’m not saying you have to be married, but the most memorable sex is generally experienced within a consistent and trusting relationship, between a woman who loves her body and a man who knows what he’s doing and doesn’t do any of it quickly. (Well, that’s the hetero version, but you get what I mean.)

The most wonderful things in life are not rushed. Delicious meals take a while to prepare: sautéed mushrooms and risotto, fresh broccoli from our own garden with butter and garlic, baked kale chips – taking care to be creative benefits us mind/body/soul whether we are making a meal, tending a garden or making love. Sex is not meant to be fast food, but everyone is so tired and busy trying to keep up with the culture we created that prevents us from true intimacy. Most of us are just trying to make it to the next check. But the more we scramble, the emptier lives become.

Which brings me back to pole dancing. I wasn’t sure what to expect. No men allowed; there were women of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities. First, we stood on one end of the room and learned how to walk across the room – to quit slouching and hiding: “the girls” up, barefoot on the demi-pointe and looking straight out (and not down at the ground). It felt like charm school from the 60’s. We strut to our designated shining gold poles that we had carefully cleaned with puffy, yellow rags and Windex before class officially began. Our instructor, Sophia, was middle aged, with full, auburn curls that dangled to her mid back. She had a voluptuous figure, but walked delicately, using her hips and hands strategically. This was all new to me. I had grown up in an era where athletic girls were the most desirable. In the 70’s, we were busy making ourselves out to be more like men. I was more comfortable shooting the bow and arrow than sidling a pole. But Sophia explained that claiming femininity is powerful. Loving our bodies is imperative. Curves – even a little tummy - are more delightful than gaunt, stick-figure models.

But when Sophia proudly explained she once “frisked” the produce counter and left the store with half of her groceries for free, I wondered if she’d gone a little too far. While I appreciated some of her tips, I was getting tangled in double messages. It felt contrived to use my body separate from my mind and heart. Do we really have to be gripping a pole to come to terms with our femininity? There’s a way to be sensual without being objectified. The process lacked play. The fireman spin was so fun I found myself whipping my leg into the turn over and over, touching down and jumping up from the floor to do it again until Sophia cleared her throat and said: “We are NOT children on a playground!” I felt like skipping around the room and starting a game of tag, but I stood there and it dawned on me: I am a little afraid of my sensuality. Maybe spinning was a ruse to avoid intimacy. Maybe I’ve been taught that sensuality is dangerous and wrong. Maybe that programming takes a lifetime to overcome. It’s probably why so many good girls are tigers in the bedroom, freed from the waving finger of the perverted judge – but, they haven’t learned how to integrate it into their lives. It’s so black and white, and it doesn’t have to be.

It’s a delight to be a woman. It doesn’t serve the world to hide or diminish our light. We are all – men and woman alike – reflections of the divine. Pretending to be what we are not throws us off track. Tell the little girls of our culture, it’s not about getting sexier, but becoming more comfortable in our own skin and loving that skin. Unfortunately things get a little twisted because we are all starved for the real thing – for nourishing, satisfying meals, for the caring connection two strangers can feel for one another without touching. We are becoming more detached from ourselves and others, and therefore, when we do come together, it is a sort of clamoring.

We frisk and flirt to win attention because we feel separate from God, but we are never separate from God - or whatever you want to call the Force. Separation is an illusion. We don’t need anything to complete us because it is already inside of us. If we stop running and begin to live our lives with sensuality and presence: cooking thoughtfully, clearing out extra stuff, reducing what we use, while having fun at it, then GRACE will step in to replace the RACE to nowhere. With this knowledge we choose a partner because we want to be in their company, because their presence makes our lives richer, grander...because we like how they smell and feel and how they touch us.

Imagine lying in the woods next to a rushing, exploding river, next to the man or woman you love on a soft, fuzzy blanket, surrounded by your favorite foods. Imagine kissing slowly, tenderly with the taste of fresh peaches on your breath, the feeling of the silk dress and bare feet pressed to the velveteen. You are best friends and lovers. And let it be enough to just be you on the blanket. You are your greatest witness. THIS sensuous vitality is what being in the body is about and it is a celebration of the sacred reflection that we are – it is a holistic presence, and interjection of the gift that we are into time.

In gratitude,
Jen

The Mystery of Parenting

Future counselor or not, I don’t think I could begin to give parenting advice. Parents learn quickly: What in the heck do we know? But it helps to share the moments that go well. Still, just when we get a little cocky and think we have something figured out, it either backfires or something new springs up out of nowhere. It’s like some persistent virus or the brooms in Disney’s "Sorcerer’s Apprentice." Disney’s version in Fantasia was based on Goethe’s poem "Der Zauberlehrling."

Essentially, the apprentice (played by Mickey Mouse in Disney’s version) grows tired of hauling water and when the sorcerer leaves, Mickey dons his boss’ hat and uses the wand to enchant a broom to help carry water. But when the broom goes out of control flooding the room, Mickey cuts it in two, but then both halves come alive, turning into full brooms like planarians and carrying more buckets of water. The more he axes the brooms, the more brooms there are running around until chaos reigns and water is pouring from the house until the sorcerer returns.

Parenting isn’t quite so bad, and there are plenty of resources to consult, but in a way, it is that bad, especially if we don’t take responsibility for our stuff, and as a result perpetuate unhealthy patterns. But, no resources can tell you exactly what’s right for your kid. It’s an intuitive process of educating ourselves, listening, remembering how we felt as children and applying the combined knowledge creatively (on our best days). On our worst days we say to Hell with the books and intuition, and we set all our best efforts back ten paces and flood the house with stress hormones. If we are to parent well, our contract should guarantee hot meals made for us, at least seven consecutive hours of sleep, and an annual trip to Hawaii (kid free)! Taking care of ourselves so that we can take care of others is so important.

I am surprised at how many people do not remember their childhood, or don’t remember how they felt. I am a day dreamer and my short term memory has never been that great, but I remember what it was like to be three like it was yesterday. My main beef as a kid (and I had plenty for which to be grateful) and a large part of why I have become a counselor had to do with being taught to stuff my feelings. In general, kids that didn’t were ostracized and criticized by adults. There didn’t seem to be a happy medium – there were either good, quiet kind children or raging, unruly children. No one knew how to walk in the gray area. That's not anyone's fault - it was cultural.

As counselors we are supposed to be up on the latest innovations, discoveries and decisions about diagnosis. Fortunately, while we are required to have an awareness of diagnosis, we can refer to a psychiatrist for that. Ultimately, after all of the reading and classes, it comes down to using experience, smarts and intuition – like parenting: reading, listening, remembering, being creative and holding unconditional positive regard.

“Unconditional positive regard” was coined by humanist Carl Rogers. It would be a great concept to also apply to our children who are trying to stay afloat and swim forward in a sea of technology and hormones. It’s no wonder so many of them disappear into a bedroom and close the door! We are their guardians, which means while they despair and flounder, we are asked to remain centered so that they can stand on our foundation until they build one of their own. We are discovering now that brains don’t develop until much later than we once thought. Being their guardians doesn’t mean pandering to every desire, but it does mean we are asked to deal with our own stuff and face our personal shadows. The better we are at clear communication and boundaries, authenticity and compassion, the better models we are for healthy living. So, I guess I can’t proclaim: “Do as I say and not as I do.” Lord knows I have resorted to that a few times. This sweating, breathing, parenting, eating, loving thing called life is messy, but more now than ever there are techniques and support to get healthy and mindful. We don’t have the excuses our grandparents had. The Sorcerer always comes home.

Life and Death

My dad, Jerry, wrote to me about a conversation he had with a friend of his who is dying. Dad said that the conversation felt “unsatisfying,” that he may have made his friend feel worse. The trouble with death is we can’t fix it. I remember when the family guinea pig died. My mom and stepdad were out of town and I was taking care of my much younger half siblings. They watched as I dug a hole in the front yard to lay the little furry squealer. My sister (about age 4) was crying as I lowered it into the hole, but my brother (age 2) was angry. “Don’t put it in there. Wait until Daddy gets home. He’ll fix it!”

In my reply to my Dad, I wrote that I can't imagine what it's like to be losing a friend and trying to find the right words. But, I continued, in my minimal experience with death, it seems like people always want to find the right things to say when the best thing we can do is to listen and be present with what they are telling us. I remember when my dad’s mother, Margo (or Nonnie as we all called her), was nearing the end of her life. She said: "Everyone seems to want to tell me what I'm going through when I'm the one dying." Maybe I was afraid to hear what she'd say. Fear gets in our way. Death is a solitary, often lonely, process it seems, but we can learn from each other's experience of it. So maybe just my dad taking the time to be on the phone with his friend was enough.

When my stepdad, Phil, was facing death, deteriorating from Multisystem Atrophy (MSA), he seemed so resigned and lost in a way. One day I was sitting next to him on the bed watching TV and he said that he had dreamed he died the night before. I asked him what it was like and he said: "It wasn't so bad!" and then he laughed. I couldn’t believe we were laughing about something so grave. But, I learned that to keep our senses of humor even in the face of death is the way to go.

I am fascinated by death and how people die in peace - or not. For an assignment for my Masters in counseling program, I interviewed a chaplain at our local hospice. He said that he helps people find meaning, which helps regrets take a back seat. He said he listens to their stories and then points out how they contributed to the world and to others' lives. As a counselor, though, we primarily work with the grieving families so I’m not sure I will move in that direction. I want the chaplain's job!

One of my favorite books is A Year to Live by Stephen Levine. He says: “In whatever condition and conditioning we find ourselves, whether we have just won the lottery or discovered we have only a year to live, there is a basic, even essential, gratitude contemplation that is always appropriate…It acknowledges the enormous opportunity of being alive and awakening to our true nature.” Every page of that book is precious and I am moved no matter how many times I read it. Essentially, when loved ones around us are dying we are given, again, the gift of life and an opportunity to deepen our relationships to self and others and to appreciate this day, this moment in these dear bodies. And when it comes to their experience of transitioning from this planet, all we can do is listen and bravely follow their cues.

The Doing and Being of Fame

Yesterday an author told me that when he interviews family members of a famous individual, they are considered “sources” and it is not “kosher” to pay sources for interviews and access to all of the tapes, letters, records and photos. I countered that family members are the people responsible for preserving the memory and name of the renowned individual. Is it “kosher” to feed off of another individual's fame? Ethics always trumps technicalities, no matter the field. Family members know that person intimately and would be happy to "collaborate." Any other information from a distant source is hearsay. If the family has limited resources – or even if they don’t – it is honorable and customary to compensate them for collaboration on a project that creates history. On the other hand, as a writer, I know that authors don't devote years to a project unless they have a sincere interest in a story. And if they want to make big bucks, they probably wouldn't have chosen writing as a career.

My stepfather, Phil Hill, was famous. I remember acting as his “protector” (hardly a body guard) at an event at Laguna Seca where he was signing autographs. He had not yet been diagnosed with MSA (Multisystem Atrophy), but likely was ill because he tired easily and needed breaks. My job was to cut off the line when he needed an extended break. I let one guy cut in line because he was an enthusiastic and educated fan who was about to cry. Good Lord, man, pull it together! Another man asked if I would be so kind as to sign his program instead. He was thrilled and left me at the back of the line scratching my head in wonder. Another man became belligerent and refused to leave. He glared at me and pushed out his chest. He was joined by the vulture I witnessed at every event who collected as many signatures as possible and made his living feeding off the fame of others. Someday he would cash in on the posters and photos. Repeat visitors were welcomed if they had a sincere interest in Phil’s history, but objectification is disgusting no matter what form it takes. But who am I to judge? Maybe the guy waits in long lines for signatures because he enjoys the others around him. Maybe he educates fans about the history of the racers he doggedly pursues.

What does this have to do Doing and Being? Fame is a burden, but the passion that made Phil famous was not. Emotionally, he supported my bliss (dance) 100% because he could see that it lit me up and gave me meaning and a reason for being. Regrettably, Phil never wrote an autobiography – to tell his story as close to the truth as possible, but to him what mattered was the intensity of the moment: telling a great story and telling it well. He knew how to masterfully dole out details that led to a climax that had everyone in awe or stitches (depending) by the end. He loved music and Christmas and the smell of a garage. He loved Planet Earth, Animal Planet, his cats and Formula 1 at 3 a.m. He loved caviar, Italian proscuitto (anything Italian or English) and George Latour’s private reserve cabernet. The reason people enjoyed basking in Phil's presence is because he knew not only how to DO but how to BE. He lived moments fully and deeply as if they were his last. He was one of the most authentic people you would ever have met. Whereas many famous folk master a “Scheiss Freundlich” attitude, Phil had no interest in wearing a persona. What you saw was what you got.

Why is it that someone who knew how to tell a great story never told his own? I think he trusted the visually gripping and aesthetically appealing photos he took and later published in collections, which includes a book he was in the midst of finishing when he died. He trusted his friends from Road and Track to recount memories. He trusted his son, Derek, who is making a documentary, and his daughter, Vanessa, who has a far broader involvement in the car world than I do. He knows that they will tell the truth because they understood the private, classy while INTENSE man he was. I knew Phil not as a racer or car collector, but as a father figure. He was deeply kind, tender, generous, intelligent and terribly, wonderfully funny. While he understood the underbelly of humankind, he chose to focus on the light – especially in his last years. It will be interesting to see what is written about him, but based on how he lived, I think he decided that the only real truth we will ever have is in the moment. The rest is a result of confabulation, imagination and longing.

Double Bambi

I was running with my daughter’s dog when I heard “click, click, clippity-click” behind me. Could it be a woman in spikes? A jogging tap dancer? I turned to see a deer trotting behind us. Where did it come from? Although near the foothills, I was in a neighborhood where the homes are built close to one another. I stopped and she stopped. (For purposes of the tale, I am going to call the deer female, although – being that it is springtime, it could have been a male who had shed his antlers.) I had never been so close to a deer. Her ears were huge and oblong, and her eyes exceptionally large, round and doleful.

“Oh sweetie,” I said, thinking I was talking to Bambi. “You must have lost your pack! Follow us and we’ll take you to a park.” This was so city-chick meets wildlife. What can I say? I grew up in Phoenix and L.A. and watched way too many cartoons. I began to walk and the deer suddenly snorted and pawed the ground with her front hooves, which sounded like swords hitting the pavement. Suddenly lambykins didn’t seem so docile. Actually deer expressions don’t change like they do in the Disney films. She pretty much looked the same, except that she was staring directly at my daughter’s dog, Oliver, who was looking up at me for direction.

“Get her!” I said to the dog and the dog barked at the deer, but the deer stood her ground, snorting harder. This could escalate matters, so I stood between deer and Oliver and indicated for the dog to stay behind me, which he did like a good pooch. If I let my daughter’s dog get hurt, she would do a lot worse to me than any deer. But what was I going to do?

I thought of our horses and whipped a grocery baggie that I carried for poop from my fanny pack and waved it wildly at the deer who only snorted and pawed again. Evidently, deer are more closely related to bulls than horses. I unbuckled my fanny pack and began to swing it just close enough to watch the deer’s fur whooshing up slightly as the buckled passed by. I tried backing away, but the deer followed, so the speed of the fanny pack increased and now I added a savage dance that included sounds made by martial artists. I was worried that someone would look out from their window and call to their partner, “Honey, come look at this idiot mauling a deer.”

Finally the deer let us back up and when it was out of sight, Oliver and I bolted. I think Oliver’s compliance was a mix of good training and serious intimidation by my primitive dance. Thanks to Facebook, I learned that deer can do serious damage to dogs. Friends had spent $400 - $1000 in vet bills on dogs who had been attacked by deer, so it’s a good thing we got away unscathed.

But the story doesn’t stop here. I have been using the Medicine Cards by Jamie Sams and David Carson with illustrations by Angela Werneke for 15 years, pulling a card when I was dealing with a particularly challenging situation, which usually averaged a couple of times a month. I am deeply connected to animals and they have been messengers throughout my life. But I didn’t think to pick up the deer card and read what it said when I encountered the real deer. However, the day following the incident, I decided to pull a card related to one of my daughters and a difficult situation she was enduring. It had been a couple of weeks since I consulted the cards. And, yes, I pulled DEER! There are no accidents.

In summary, the story of deer goes like this: she meets a disgusting and frightening demon who blocks the way to Great Spirit’s lodge. Demon wants all others to feel like Great Spirit does not want to be disturbed, but fawn is not afraid. Her fearless love and compassion astound the demon and “her love…penetrated his hardened, ugly heart”(53). He shrinks, like the Wicked Witch of the West and deer passes unharmed. The moral of the story is that deer proves the “power of gentleness to touch the hearts and minds of wounded beings.” But the personal key for me in this reading was: “Stop pushing so hard to get others to change and love them as they are. Apply gentleness to your present situation and become like the summer breeze: warm and caring”(54).

As a mother, I often think I’m supposed to DO something to HELP my children or I will be a failure as a mother. But sometimes they have to go through the given experience for a reason. All I could do was BE! So I released all judgment, expectation and worry, and instead offered love, acceptance and support when necessary. How simple was that? Next time when an animal appears out of nowhere I will realize she’s probably a messenger.

The Gravity of Regret

Sometimes emotions sneak up when I least expect them, and when they do they throw me off balance. I stumble inside, and inevitably the emotions show up on my face. My kids tell me I’m a terrible liar.

Daniel Charon, former dancer with Doug Varone dancers, is in town teaching master classes at University of Colorado for two weeks. Modern dance has a group of early founders, all of whom developed their own movement language. Each artist informed and shaped the art form. I did the “Jose Limon thing,” and so did Daniel, so his movement phrases were gratifying for my body to learn and execute.

Daniel lives in New York City and is planning on getting his MFA in dance. I brought up names from the past – to see if he knew teachers/artists with whom I studied and whose work I performed there back in the ‘80’s – Clay Taliaferro, Ruth Currier… But, suddenly, time stood still. I was having a “sliding doors” moment. Why hadn’t I gotten my MFA in dance? I could be teaching at a university! I was good at choreography – I could have bodies to work with and be paid for doing it. What had prevented me from making a career of it? Why had I given up modern dance to pursue musical theater? Who was I kidding? I can’t even sing! I did it because I thought going commercial would make me more money, which would justify to my parents that it had been worth paying for me to get a dance degree. I was under society’s spell: money = value.

I always tell myself I have no regrets, but while I was standing there talking to this wonderful artist, I felt like throwing myself on the ground and having a tantrum. I don’t spend a lot of time in the land of regret, so as I moved into the first set of dance exercises (which, thankfully and ironically, were on the floor), I let regret eat at me for a while. After all, our shadow feelings will reemerge if we don’t give them some attention. Regret feels icky like jealousy, but not nearly as intense. (The last time I was jealous I turned into a fire-breathing dragon and nearly seared all the trees in my backyard!) If jealousy had a visual it would be the Biblical gnashing of teeth or eating wild animals raw, blood dripping through teeth. In light of that, I could handle regret.

Gravity is part of the dynamic that creates what movement will follow next. If the arm is swinging down, we see how far it will swing back up… we use the weight to create the next “organic” move. Modern dancers were using that term way before the farmers! So, choreography grows not out of a defined vocabulary but out of momentum and conflict between forces, such as coming into contact with another body. Regret feels like too much gravity sucking at my heart. I had to come up for air.

There was a reason I didn’t follow that path. It’s easy to forget the how and why we chose a particular road, because memory is fickle and reality is an illusion. Back then I was tired of dancing, and I quit altogether. I focused, instead, on raising two beautiful daughters I wanted more than anything in the world, and during what little free time I found, I wrote. When I returned to dance in 2005, it was like meeting an old lover and realizing that we were meant to meet again. I have been head over heels ever since. Had Terpsichore and I married all those years ago it may have ended badly.

Sometimes we do things because it makes sense, and sometimes we follow our gut and it makes sense later. Our ego voice (if you haven’t met mine, I’ll tell you now her name is Nasty) tends to want to judge… all the time, as if she has nothing better to do. Nasty judges the way I talk to my children, the food I eat, the way I wash the dishes and the choices I’ve made. The key is to ask her to go back to her dark corner and then step right back into the moment, into the blessing of BEING, because this is where joy is living without illusion and complication of too much thinking.

A Tail Between my Legs; A Rose Between my Teeth

What do you think when I mention: “Oneness,” “The Unknown,” or “The Other.” Spirituality? Heidegger? Perhaps, but no: Argentinean tango. There is no more sensual way to learn about how you engage with the Other than to tango. The leader indicates – with his or her heart – and the follower listens with her heart, trusting implicitly; both hearts open and willing to connect.

Yesterday I found myself telling a partner: “Why don’t you lead me straight back a while so I can feel my heart.” But he didn’t. He kept taking me again and again into the front cross step and several moments of puzzlement, I realized I liked it. I surrendered. He is not all that experienced – this is a beginner’s class after all – but he knew what he wanted, which makes him a good leader.

“Sorry,” he said at one point when he gave me a physical double message and I stumbled.

“It’s okay,” I replied. “You have the harder job.”

“What’s that?” he asked, “Making a woman happy?”

I laughed. “Yes. Good luck.” The adorable, young guy was one step ahead of me.

To the untrained eye, it might look like I go to tango just to be held in the firm arms of young and old men alike. Well, okay that’s not such a bad side benefit, but what I’m learning is it’s not about sex. I take that back. It can be about sex if you and a committed partner are seeking another way to tap the sacred, but ultimately it’s about discovering the heart of the Other in a safe environment. Yes, Heidegger, it’s about a “way of being in the world.”

Brian Dunn and Deb Sclar, our fearless leaders, explain that in Argentina, in general, people are more comfortable being physically close. When they hug it is a bear hug, a warm and solid embrace. In America people – especially relative strangers – don’t hug or, if they do, often they hug tentatively. Brian and Deb demonstrate their American version of the hug and it looks clinical, like perhaps they should be wearing turtlenecks and scrubs. They explain that each dance is an opportunity to fall in love with the stranger across from you, no matter if they are the same sex as you or not. The emphasis is on connecting – physically and emotionally – with the Other, and on taking responsibility to step into the assigned role of leader or follower. I look forward to the day when I’m not thinking as much and can flow with the process.

The first lesson, I attended with my friend, Seth. I was looking straight into his playful hazel eyes.

“I think you’re supposed to be looking at my heart,” he remarked.

Being that following comes so naturally to me, I replied: “No, I think I can look anywhere I want to.”

Within seconds Deb announced that followers are supposed to “look at the leader’s heart, no matter his height. That way the women’s neck remains unbroken and long.” It definitely improved my concentration. Then, we were asked to switch roles. Seth looked down. “Oh wow,” he teased, “You know I am not looking at your breasts.”

“Yes, I know. They happen to be close to my heart.”

Every five minutes or so, followers rotate counterclockwise, moving to a new leader and a new experience.

Yesterday was my third lesson. Dancing with a more experienced partner is wonderful. Robert’s cues are gentle but clear and we glided easily between the parallel step and cross step system. I knew exactly where to step and it was powerful. There are no words exchanged, but strong intention and connection. On my next rotation I met Saunder. It was his first time possibly doing any form of dance whatsoever, and when the music began it was as though his computer had crashed; he was frozen. My eyes drifted up to his face and I thought perhaps I would be forced to shout: “Get this man an oil can, quick!” But then, he leaned and slowly his left foot moved to replace my left foot. Creak. The instructor noticed our immobility. I was thinking, “Yes, please help the poor guy.”

But Brian, the instructor, addressed me. “Do you do other forms of ballroom?” It didn't sound like this was a compliment.

“No.” I replied.

“So you always stand like that?” There must be some mistake, I am thinking. Saunder’s the tin man.

I didn't know whether to fold my arms or put my hands on my hips. “Stand like how?”

“Upright. Like if I were to cast you in a movie, you’d be Superwoman ready to take off.” I looked at him blankly. Didn’t he know? I had to be prepared. You never knew when I might have to don my cape and kill evil villains with my spikes. “Relax!” he translated.

“Okay,” I replied with my tail between my legs. Let me tell you, it’s not easy dancing with a tail between your legs!

So Saunder and I started again. We were moving, slowly, but we were moving. Brian was watching. I relaxed.

“Wait,” he interrupted us again. “Why are you leaning back?” I leaned forward. “No. Don’t do it with your head. Lean in with your heart. It’s not about your back. You’re protecting your heart.”

How in the heck was I supposed to unravel the tightly wound fist that had been living for years inside my chest? Didn’t he know how scary strangers could be? He hadn’t gone on some of my dates! But, that’s another story. I want to remain vulnerable no matter who is standing before me. I’d spent too many years as a chameleon. It was time to unveil my soul, but how? I could sort of feel the subtle shift to which he was referring. I wanted someone to take me by the feet and shake me out over a balcony like a rug. But that seemed like asking too much. Where is Superman when you need him?

I have studied ballet, jazz, modern, African, and tap, but this has been a whole new venture. All forms of dance have taught me something valuable, and now, tango was offering me a direct reflection of how I engage with the Other.

I thought about my first lesson, when I was asked to dance "hands off,” guided only by the leader’s heart without actually being in contact. I remember my partner’s chest hairs and the top button of his shirt, and the way my heart was pounding like a lost puppy’s. “Concentrate!” I told her, when I should have been whispering: “Feel it.”