Healing Touch Summer Newsletter

Thanks for checking out my latest newsletter!

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'In The Flow' launches...

Plug into this new Facebook page and help get the conversation started about what it means to live in the flow!

Geared toward women and girls (and the men who love them!), In The Flow is about empowering each other to live and move from a state of ease and grace, guided by intuition and introspection.

Through workshops, events, celebrations, and above all, a supportive community, the goal is to help females reach their highest potential. We'll look to cycles -- in nature, in our bodies, in our culture -- to reclaim a sense of purpose and connection.

Whether you're a girl, maiden, mom, seasoned single or crone, you need girl power. Visit the page and LIKE IT! And keep watching for conversation, inspiration, and events.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/In-The-Flow-Empowerment-Productions-for-Women-and-Girls/221435611204122?sk=info

Spring Healing Touch Newsletter

No, my blog hasn't gone all-newsletter, all-the-time. I promise to post something other than Healing Touch news. Stay tuned....

In the meantime, all you newsletter junkies, check this out:

https://docs.google.com/View?id=dcd9qd87_54cbb2dtdb

January Healing Touch Newsletter

New Year, New Moon!

Start 2011 with some good energy...check out my latest newsletter here:

https://docs.google.com/View?id=dcd9qd87_52frdz7sgc

Thanksgiving Healing Touch Newsletter

Here is the link to my Thanksgiving Healing Touch newsletter. Thanks for looking....

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I'll Meet You There...

I am the most powerful person in the universe.

Do you believe it? Or are you already rolling your eyes?

How about this? YOU are the most powerful person in the universe. How does that feel?

No, I'm not about to lead you in a round of affirmations designed to boost your self-esteem (although affirmations definitely rock and I reserve the right to use and share them at any time). I'm just in the kind of mood where it's fun to see how far my mind can bend, and if I can mess with your mind too, all the better.

So first I'll say that both statements are true. And then I'll add this: there is no such thing as true or false, or right and wrong. There's only what you or I, in our own private universes, allow there to be.

Don't bother protesting. It'll only slow things down. Just go with me here. If it makes you feel any better, know that I'm as uncomfortable with this as you are. And I won't laugh at your squirming if you won't laugh at mine.

Here's where my squirm begins: I've recently resolved that everything anyone says or thinks about me is "true" and everything I say or think about anyone else is "false." So when my son says "mom, you don't listen!," I have to believe him. When my boyfriend says "you expect me to feel like you feel" or "you always have a script that I have to follow," I get really pissy and angry and usually self-righteous, and then go Jeez! He's right. Because why would these people be in my universe if not to show me who I am? Defining who I am is the closest I can come to defining right and wrong, good or bad, true or false. And even when I arrive at some hard-won truth, it's only ever my truth. If you haven't noticed, we all have our own variations on what is right and wrong, good and bad, etc. and that kind of sucks, because I'm much more comfortable when everyone falls in line with MY way of thinking. Aren't you?

But this isn't about comfort. In my experience, seeking truth is rarely comfortable. Especially when I make my vastly superior judgments about others and then remember my stupid resolve. Now, goddammit, when I point the finger and say he needs to be more self-aware, or he needs to get in touch with his anger, I have to realize that my observations are only true about me. I need to be more self-aware. I need to get in touch with my anger.

You might wonder, why bother with such an annoying experiment? I'm not sure myself. I only know that I was upset the other afternoon, fuming that so and so shouldn't have done this or that, running through all the things that made this SOB such an SOB. But it wasn't making me feel any better. I reached for my journal and jotted a few things, inlcuding this quote from Rumi:

Out beyond right and wrong, there is a field. I'll meet you there.

I've always liked this, but only in a vague way. It's been like one of those drawings that are one thing when you look at the black space, but something else when you look at the white. I can see the old woman, but the guy next to me sees a young woman. Usually, if you stare long enough, whoa! you see it.

I needed help to see it, and it came the next morning, in a service I attended. The speaker threw out the same quote from Rumi (another whoa! moment for me). The point of meeting out there, he said, is that it is the place of forgiveness. Aw crap, I thought. Not the F word again. Have you ever been lost and end up circling the same spot, noticing the same landmark again and again? Well, forgiveness has been a big ol' rock in my path. It tends to block my view of the field, which is a place beyond duality, beyond the black and white, where we give up being right or wrong. Rumi's poem continues:

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about
language, ideas, even the phrase 'each other'
doesn't make any sense.

A lot of it doesn't make sense to me. At least it strikes a chord. I'd like to make it part of my universe, but at this point, I'm still doubting my powers. I like what India Arie says in this song:

Been trying to get down to the heart of the matter. But my will gets weak and my thoughts seem to scatter. But I think it's about forgiveness. Even if you don't love me anymore.

That last line hurts, I'll admit. It feels like a huge white flag. While I'm still on my feet, me here, in the right, you there, in the wrong, there's still some fight in me. Still a chance to win....what? Love? Approval? Yes! The point of being right is to feel worthy, lovable, deserving. Conversely, being wrong means I'm bad, unworthy, unlovable.

But...maybe it doesn't work that way. Maybe my right can be your wrong, and my truth can leave you cold and what you love, I hate, and oh, let's call the whole thing off! There's a nice little spot just over here, soft and green....

The Art of Sitting

I finally did it. I forgot one of my kids. I've managed to keep track of pick-ups, drop-offs, carpools and playdates for multiple munchkins going on a decade now. But the other afternoon, talking on my cell to my brother while my oldest son played soccer, I realized I was ten minutes late to pick up my younger son 4 blocks away. I dragged my daughter to the car and we sped over. It wasn't just being late that was unsettling. It was the completeness of my space-out. I'd dropped him at kung fu an hour earlier, and never made the connection I'd have to be back. Adding to my anxiety was the certainty that this kung fu studio has no real system to keep the kids from wandering out the open door after class. And Boone, poor forgotten one, happens to be a wanderer.

And wander he did. Luckily our house is only two blocks away, but...well, let's just say moms have different worries about different kids. One you might not hesitate to drop blindfolded at Union Station with nothing but a debit card, and the other might awe you with fantastical details of an underground world populated with worm people, but not remember his address even after you incorporate it into a rap.

The good news is that Boone did go home, find no one there, and was in the process of heading back. The bad news is that he burst into tears when he saw me, scared because I hadn't been there. Have one of those moments, moms, and experience the fear I bet we all share: I am not enough. (Fill in the blank ...not smart enough, loving enough, organized enough...)

We want to do it all. And most of us come pretty darn close, but there's a price. Last week two of my mom friends were diagnosed with adrenal fatigue. Having had this myself, I know it's no picnic. (Or maybe the kind of picnic I'd throw together on the fly in an effort to impress someone, where I spend $200 at Whole Foods on imported olives and chocolate truffles and then run to Linens N Things for some marked-down cloth napkins, and doesn't World Market still have some of those cool beach mats? And a little light jazz on the Ipod would be the perfect touch if only I could remember the name of that band, and shit! the forecast calls for rain, there must be someone I can talk to about that.... yeah, maybe that kind of picnic.)

And while I'm speaking for moms here and can attest to the slogging-thru-mud feeling, the cotton-wrapped head, eyelids of lead, the jolting awake at 4 am drenched in sweat, I'm not pretending stress doesn't affect men. In that phone call with my brother I heard the same refrain from him I've heard for years: "I fucking hate my job. I don't want to be around people. I want to go live in the mountains and be left alone."

But we're not a society set up for restfulness or introspection. We bluster around making sure everyone knows how busy we are, yet we don't have the guts to be true to ourselves, to say no when we want to, to risk being judged when we miss the Open House, or ignore requests to volunteer. When we're not appreciated for these sacrifices by people who are too busy resenting their own sell-outs, something inside starts to boil. In this way, our guts (or glands) have us.

Sometimes, when I'm riding high on the illusion of super-momhood, emblem pinned proudly on chest, cape flapping loud and proud, some tiny piece of kryptonite trips me up. The other day it was my favorite Target store, which now carries groceries (awesome) but had to be rearranged as a result. Doesn't anyone know that a complete overhaul of Target is hazardous to an overstressed mom? I felt like someone had added a double shot of espresso to my carefully rationed afternoon decaf. Then dropped in a hit of speed. My heart nearly exploded trying to find a lightbulb. Menswear where toys were? Towels moved upstairs? The only department I could see that hadn't moved was intimate apparel, and what mom shops there? I happen to be wearing a cast-off bra from my mother that's 2 sizes too big.

Without these mini breakdowns, though, could I remind myself to slow down? Or would I be like my friend Jessica, who sat next to me at the school playground while she shared her diagnosis? Though she'd known something was wrong, she was surprised to be labeled with a 'syndrome.' Why not call it the busy mom disease? she wondered. But I'll take the label if it validates the craziness. And I'll continue to be ticked off that we have to --any of us, not just moms -- seek validation. Jessica's taken action, cutting her work hours to part time so she can be sitting at the playground. She tells me she's learned more from sitting on her butt on this bench once a week than she has in years. She's talking about mom things, but I think she's named the prescription for the syndrome.

Sitting. It should be elevated to an art.

Because when I practice being still, that's the only place where I am enough. In that quiet space, when the schedules and the commitments fall away, when I slow down, do nothing, and allow that thing that breathes my body to have its way, only then is there no forgetting. Just remembering.

Franz Kafka puts it nicely:

You don't need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Don't even listen, simply wait. Don't even wait. Be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked; it has no choice. It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

Summer Healing Touch Newsletter

Hi! I haven't been able to post lately since I've been so busy with my study of Healing Touch Energy Medicine. I invite you to view my newsletter at the following link:

http://docs.google.com/View?id=dcd9qd87_299n5rvkcn

Thanks!

Tammy

Decision Deconstructed

I've been wrestling with a tough one lately. Having aced the test to become a Census worker, (turns out I am employable!) I'm given the role of crew leader. At nearly $20 an hour, the job seems an answer to prayer, and at first I'm high on what seems a perfect opportunity. My confidence is given a boost, I get a chance to polish off my social skills, even my long neglected wardrobe feels the love.

But the demands of the job begin to scare me before the first week is over. We'll be expected to work a minimum of 40 hours for up to 3 months, and must meet DAILY with our supervisor. Leaving the city during our employment is frowned on. In fact, if we have prior travel plans, we have to disclose them immediately, and thereby risk learning first hand where disgruntled government workers go.

This leads to: Step 1 of The Decision, what I call The Seeds of Doubt.

First, let me take a detour to provide a framework. Imagine this life event as the size of a seed. Jobs, money, even the need for money, all small seeds, and us people the grand gardeners. We scatter certain ideas, hopes, requests, labor over others, but ultimately what we turn our attention toward is what grows. And most importantly, our garden is ours alone. No one else's seeds exist. In other words, we are each creating our own reality. Opportunities come because we ask for them, believe in them, or just plain need them. Within this framework, who am I to walk away from a Census job? At some level, I made it happen. Do I now thumb my nose at the universe because I can't fill out my D308 correctly the first seven times?

Enter Step 2: The Head Battles The Heart.

The heart says Working with forms and numbers and nonsensical protocol makes you anxious. Trying to find a reliable sitter makes you crazy. Missing homework and dinner with your kids makes you sad. Wondering what happened to your plan to start your second novel makes you miserable.

The head says Stop whining you big baby, this is some serious dough! In two months you can pay off your credit card. You think every other working mother doesn't have these same feelings? Take off the tiara, for Chrissake! Or, (on better days) You should be proud of yourself, being chosen to train and lead 20 other people. What a great experience!

Round One goes to the head. Yes! I say. I'm sticking with it. I'm committed. But then I wake up on the fourth day of training to find my car towed. I hop a cab and make it to class on time, but I'm discombobulated. I worry all morning about how I'll pick my kids up and get downtown to the auto pound. I obsess over whether this incident is a message of some kind. (I parked the same place I park every week!)

Later that night, after walking about a mile with kids in tow (no pun intended), I'm given the ransom amount from the pound: $275. The tow fee plus a charge for a city sticker. And that doesn't include the $60 ticket left on my windshield. Apparantly the street had been rezoned to 'no rush hour parking' two days earlier, and though the city was kind enough to put one small sign at the end of long city block, I'd missed it. Poof! There goes more than half of the money I've just earned. The next day at training I learn that, in my frazzled state the day before, I left out a piece of paper with my employee number on it, a big no-no in the Census Bureau, where confidentiality is Rule One. I will not be given a class of enumerators to train. Instead, I will be trained to fingerprint other employees and then assigned as assistant to another crew leader.

My doubts have taken root and are the size of saplings. There is only one thing I know: I am not seeing the signs.

Step 3: Asking For Guidance.

Thankfully, there is a short hiatus while other workers are trained, so I decide to tend to my doubts lovingly, even talking to them like good gardeners do, to see if they'll respond. I boil it down: Should I quit? It takes a nearly impossible force of will to stop here, with this simple question. I don't want to re-enter the battlefield. I want to watch what unfolds when I respect the vast, unknowable force behind everything. I wait.

Meantime, I receive a phone call that there is an opening with a visiting Healing Touch practitioner I've wanted to see, who was initially booked. It's an opportunity to be worked on and learn from one of the best, an opportunity I would not have been able to take had I been given a group to train. The session I have with him lasts 4.5 hours and leaves me exhausted, enlightened, amazed...I could go on, but one insight is significant: I'm asked to recognize the way I shoulder others' feelings because I think it will make them love me. Ok....sure. I'll do that later. For now, I've still got this Decision thing going on.

And I think I'm getting somewhere with it. Dropping my daughter at the local park, I see a group of Census enumerators meeting on the front steps. I feel an instant weight in my stomach at the thought of being one of them. Hmm? Is this a sign? An ordinary gut-pull?

I walk to my friend's house, wanting to tell her how I am waiting on "Guidance." On the way, my eye is drawn to the bright red of a cardinal swooping through the trees. Since my friend has borrowed my "Animal Speaks" book, I ask for it and immediately look up cardinal. It says that the appearance of the cardinal reminds us that we always have the opportunity to recognize the importance of our life roles. The cardinal has a loud and clear whistle, and the female joins in on the whistling, which is unusual among birds. This reflects the need to listen to the inner, feminine voice more closely. The cardinal also signals the need to assert creativity and intuition more strongly.

Less than an hour later, I've told my friend, my mother, my boyfriend that I'm quitting. Do I mean it? Or am I trying it on for size? Three is the number of manifestation. Say anything three times and you put enough energy into it to put it into motion. Could it be? At last....

Step 4: The Decision. It's made. It feels good. Mostly. Except for that pesky fearful knot that always wants to know what's next. If not this, it asks, then what?

I flip on my CD player and hear, from the new MercyMe CD, this line: Won't you be my hands healing?

I email my supervisor that I am not the person for the job.

Step 5: Sitting with Discomfort.

This is where the end should be. But as I go the rest of the evening and the next morning without hearing from my supervisor, I am increasingly uncomfortable. I'm embarassed to admit it, but my thoughts go something like this: I really let her down. What if she's mad at me? What if she doesn't like me? My God! Like a bolt, there it is. If I have these feelings about a woman I barely know, just think how much I must take on from people who are significant to me!

Which leads me to wonder: when and how did it become so hard to speak up when something is not right for me, without guilt or fear? And why did I ever allow someone to make me feel that being a mother or writer or energy healer isn't enough?

As it turns out, the job, albeit short-lived, was incredibly valuable. I only hope that each time A Decision comes along, I can move a little more quickly to steps 3 & 4. Ask for Guidance. Make the decision. I'd like to be a little like Tom Papa, the host of 'The Marriage Ref' (a show my 10-year old loves to watch with me!). He listens to both sides but you get the sense he already knows what he's going to do. "I'm ready to make the call," he says. He does it, the audience laughs. And on goes the show.

My Parachute Didn't Open

Okay, I know it's been much more than a week since I promised to follow-up on "The Color of My Parachute," my earlier blog about having to see a vocational expert to determine if I'm employable. I haven't known what to write because the experience was just plain strange. The "expert" did a lot of thoughtful nodding, and several times said "interesting, interesting" as I told him I was in the process of becoming an energy medicine practitioner. I described the Healing Touch training I'd begun at Swedish Covenant Hospital and this seemed to stump him. After a short, oddly vague round of Q & A, he said 'Well, I don't know much about that field." At which point I was dying to ask how he came to be known as a job expert. I wondered if it was anything like becoming ordained through the internet. $29.99 for expertise in ten areas. $59.99 lets you claim to know everything! But I bit my tongue.

He also asked about my sleeping habits, what my kids' school schedules were, and whether I had trouble getting up in the morning. The fact that I'm in the process of a divorce and not taking antidepressants seemed noteworthy. He actually jotted something on his pad. I believe his next words were, "You certainly have a lot of energy." I wasn't sure if he was being literal, or attempting a joke about my new career.

We finished earlier than the allotted time, and he told me he'd be writing up a report. It's been a few months and I don't know if any report was ever submitted. Neither my lawyer nor I have ever seen one. I'll admit I'm a little disappointed. Now I'll never know what I'm worth!

The Buddha at my Table

I woke up this morning feeling royally pissed off and not sure what to do about it, not even sure, for that matter, what I was mad about. As luck would have it, I had some time to myself to think on it, which is just what everyone needs when feeling angry — time to stew and think, and stew some more. What I wanted to work out wasn't so much my shit list (that's easy: getting divorced, being stood up last night, financial insecurity, no cream for my coffee). Rather, I wanted to know, what am I supposed to do about it?

What is the best way to deal with anger?

I've spent the last 14 months trying to master an "is that so?" attitude. This comes from Tolle's book "A New Earth" in which he tells a parable of a Japanese monk who responded the same way to a variety of accusations and injustices: is that so? The lesson is to rise above circumstances by refusing to react.

I'm no monk. But, speaking of monks, I did have a monk in my dining room last year and his presence happened to coincide with another angry time. I was on my way to a therapy session and my babysitter Prisana, who is Thai, had just arrived. My son came in to say that there was a man in an orange cape at the table. I came out of the kitchen and sure enough, there was a Buddhist monk, bald and be-robed, at the table. Prisana introduced him. He didn't speak English but he did a lot of smiling and nodding while I served him tea. Then I rushed off to sit in a room with my husband and listen to him say things like "I'm sorry I broke our contract," and "Can we wrap this up in 4 weeks?" (Fun trick — if your computer does that talking thing, type in those words and have the computer speak them. That'll really recreate the experience for you.)

Leaving, I felt an anger like I've never felt. I literally could not see straight as I drove home. But I kept thinking of the buddha at my table. Had he ever felt such rage? How would he express it? Was he sent to me as an example? I was certain there was a message there. (Because really, what are the odds? How many of you have had a monk at your table?)

So since then I have tried, truly, to maintain my 'is that so?' mojo. I've tried being the change I want to see in the world. I've tried being the still pool, examining my anger at others as disguised anger at myself. I've read The Law of Attraction and understand that anger lowers my vibration and attracts negativity. I've screamed into pillows, torn through journal pages, cried to my therapist. You name it, I've tried it.

Yet this morning I woke, once again, with a stiff neck and throbbing cold sore and thought enough! I reached for some of my metaphysical books (Deb Shapiro's 'Your Body Speaks Your Mind' and Louise Hay's 'Heal Your Body') and looked up my maladies. I read that the neck is the bridge between thoughts and feelings and is connected to expression. Do you need to speak your heart? one book asks. Under cold sore, I read that festering angry words and fear of expressing them are indicated. And because earlier this week I was fitted for a night guard, I also looked up teeth grinding and found that teeth are connected with honoring boundaries. Are you saying what you really mean? it asks.

Hmm...I sense a pattern here. But again, what to do? Express, or rise above? I've discussed this with several wise people in my life and have gotten some interesting advice. One tells me to play with it and see how it feels to express anger with someone. Do I feel lighter? Or like I have an emotional hangover? Another tells me to stay present, to express it, own it, and let it go. Why is this so hard? I think because we're taught to be polite, to not bring up a problem unless we also have a solution. But what I want is permission to speak without thinking, to make a mess, to even say Go F@#%k Yourself!

Healthy? Or not? Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that venting does nothing but train one in aggression. That the trick to dissolving the knots of anger is to recognize it, then embrace it with awareness and tenderness. He gives this meditation: Breathing in, I know that anger has manifested in me. Breathing out, I smile toward my anger.

Maybe that's why the monk at my table was smiling so enthusiastically at me! I don't know. I'll grind on it tonight.

These Shoes Were Made For Ogling!

I gave my boyfriend a hard time for having expensive shoes, only to be told that, according to GQ magazine, a man's shoes are one of the first things a woman notices. Really? It's certainly not true for me. I couldn't tell a Florsheim from an Allan Edmunds. And yes, I had to ask him for that info. That's how clueless I am. I am also, needless to say, not very well-heeled.

So I was stunned recently when I went to meet him at the train station. He texted me that he was already there, but I didn't see him anywhere. Since he's in a wheelchair, I went to look by the elevator. Not there. I approached the station attendant, about to ask if she'd seen him.

"I'm looking for my friend..." I began.

"Brown shoes?" she interrupted.

Not the guy in the wheelchair? Red coat? Dark hair? No, he was the guy with the brown shoes.

I stared at her, thinking how the heck do I know what shoes he's wearing?

Now I simply have to know. Ladies, do you really notice shoes? Please respond! Meanwhile, I stand corrected. In very average shoes.

This Year's White Elephant

In writing my last post about how I spent Christmas Day, I'll admit that I left something out. The elephant in the room, so to speak. Close friends have seen it hulking there in the corner, but I haven't known exactly how to talk about it.

It's a gift I got Christmas morning: an email from my dad, asking me to forgive him for being a complete failure of a father. He was scheduled for a risky heart surgery. After years of living with a severely enlarged heart that was pumping at only 15% capacity, he was getting a new aortic valve.

As it happens, my heart is fine. Good and strong. Compassionate. Even forgiving. In fact, I've given plenty of thought to forgiveness. But what I discovered Christmas morning is that thinking about it doesn't necessarily translate to feeling it. I mean, here was the ultimate white elephant, which, according to Wikipedia, is defined as something with a maintenance cost exceeding its usefulness. Or, both a blessing and a curse.

To his credit, my dad was up front about his reasons for reaching out. He wanted to get right with God. Okay. I can understand that. Still, I wasn't sure where to put his offering. Display it loud and proud? Stick it on a top shelf to gather dust? So I wrote back as honestly as I could. I told him that this his unexpected Christmas present was probably one of the greatest I've ever gotten. But, like any long-anticipated and long-desired gift, it couldn't possibly live up to my expectations, because, mixed with the relief and gratitude I felt reading his email was also a lot of pain. I'm 43 years old and still angry that I didn't get to have a dad to do all the normal father/daughter stuff with. I'm sad that I never felt that I knew him, or that he knew me.

And his timing...well, let's just say that I'll never again doubt that there are greater forces at work in the universe. His change of heart (no pun intended) comes as I struggle with my own divorce from a man who turned out to be uncannily like dear old dad. Both in that club, you know, that starts with the letters 'phila..' and I'm not talking stamp collecting.

But it was Christmas Day, and I was seriously scared my dad was going to die. I wanted to go all Frank Capra-esque. I wanted to gather up those bad feelings like so much shredded gift wrap and stuff them away. It would really tidy the place up. So I sat down to write this blog, a book of flowery quotes about forgiveness by my side. I read what my pastor had emailed me, pointing me toward Jesus as an example. I waited for my heart to open with a burst of white light.

But I finally had to admit that my dad's 'gift' didn't look like the one in the shop window. In fact, a second email from him made me feel decidedly ripped off. He said he had no interest in reliving the past and really just wanted to start with a clean slate. IF he lived, that is.

Call me ungrateful, but isn't that a little like giving something with the price tag still on it? Look what I paid for this baby!! Don't you love it? Huh? Huh? It was too similar to these recent, illuminating words from my husband, his cell phone still vibrating from some illicit text: I SAID I'm sorry, what more do you want? Or, for you Fargo fans, think of the way William Macy tells Marge, the pregnant cop, I'm cooperating here! just before he flees the interview. At least that scene was outrageous enough to make me see what I hadn't before: there are people who will say one thing but do another.

Am I one of them? I'll talk forgiveness, but will I give it? I've asked myself, what more DO I want? I certainly don't want an interview with either my dad or husband. Their answers would mean nothing. The words themselves are the white elephant. Both blessing and curse. Costly, and ultimately useless.

My dad came through his surgery with flying colors. My brother told me that my name was one of the first things he said when he woke up. I admit I was touched. But 6 weeks have gone by and I haven't heard from him. No big deal. So nothing's changed. Except that I have realized something. My dad has asked me for forgiveness, with strings attached. I'm trying to forgive him, with strings attached. For me to cut those strings I have to accept that he is being who he is. I'm never going to get exactly what I want from him, but the truth is that I don't need anything. I can turn back to my little book of quotes, and now one makes sense. It's from Robert Holden, who says that "in essence, true forgiveness is the willingness to believe 1. you are whole. 2. no one can threaten or take away your wholeness."

That's big. Elephant-big. I'm not sure what to do with it. I just wonder if it's a coincidence that, in a class I took recently, the instructor, who was Texan and full of folksy phrases, had this to say: 'I know these ideas seem too big to swallow all at once. But you could eat an elephant if you had to, one bite at a time.'

I Need a Better Moisturizer... Is That True?

Life has certainly been strange. On Christmas day, after dropping my kids at their dad's house, I had four hours to kill on my own. I've never spent any part of Christmas alone before, but decided to make the best of it by seeing a movie. First, though, I stopped at Walgreens to shop for some face cream. I was surprised to find it bustling. Apparently there are plenty of us misplaced souls out there. Anyway, it was twenty minutes into my alone time and I was feeling pretty good. Ahh, time to shop! Time to give serious consideration to whether Oil of Olay is worth the extra outlay.

Sadly, I'll never know, since in the end I went for the cheaper Neutrogena, and even then was too cheap to buy the one I really wanted, the one with that beguiling word: ageless.

The movie I chose was "It's Complicated." Call me crazy, but I expected nothing more than a lighthearted romp. I did laugh hysterically, but was also moved to tears more than once. I was especially stunned when Meryl Streep's three grown kids cry at the idea of her getting back together with their father. It's been ten years since their divorce and the kids tearfully explain that they're still getting over it. I imagined my own three kids a decade from now saying the same thing. Ouch.

I also loved the part where Steve Martin has to be brutally honest with Meryl Streep and, in response, she says "Wow, so that's how grown-ups talk." It got me thinking about other things grown-ups do, besides fail their children, see movies alone, worry about their age, or remember when Alec Baldwin was buff. Something immediately came to mind (and I'll share it only because I know you are grown-up enough not to laugh).

Lately my friend Victoria and I have been filling out Byron Katie worksheets. For fun. Katie is the author of great books like "I Need Your Love. Is That True?," "Loving What Is," "Question Your Thinking, Change the World," none of which I've read, but I'm meaning to. So she has you do this exercise where you begin with a judgement you have about someone, then ask 'Is that true? Can you absolutely know that it's true?'

The idea is to debunk beliefs that may be causing you pain in your relationships, to understand that others are simply distorted mirrors of yourself. Cool, huh? I mean, really, you've got to try it. Forget Scattergories or Taboo or even Wii Fit. The next time you're with your family or loved one, grab a legal pad and start shouting out your grievances (You only wear that shirt to annoy me! Your mother hates me! You are so f@#$% selfish!) It's scary at first, but if it works you sort of recognize that you're not alone, that we're all misplaced souls. At the very least, it makes for a memorable night.

And by the way ladies, the bathroom mirror is NOT distorted, so yes, you do need a good moisturizer. Look at Byron Katie (fabulous!). She would absolutely say that this is true.

The Color of My Parachute

I made an appointment today to be evaluated by a vocational expert. What fun! At long last I'll find out if my current job as stay-at-home-mom has earned me any street cred, or if, in fact, serving sausage patties twenty years ago at Bob Evans was the apex of my career.

This amusing little diversion is being "offered" to me compliments of my estranged husband, who was kind enough to bring this matter before a judge, who was gracious enough to pen the invitation on fancy paper with a Cook County logo on it, and even stamp it with a fancy stamp!

It's all part of that intricate pas de deux known as The Divorce Proceeding. I'm while I'm told that it's not uncommon for a working husband to want a non-working wife to be given a gentle nudge toward employment, I know of only one other person (my cousin) who was "invited" to career counseling. Her ex is a prince, a successful hotshot who had it all, including a pregnant girlfriend in Mexico. My cousin was tested and questioned and evaluated and told she might make a good office manager. She's now finishing anatomy and biology on her way to becoming a registered nurse. Which is a shame, because she makes a mean cup of coffee.

I can't wait to find out what MY skills are! There's that bachelor's degree hiding around here somewhere (buried under my Victoria's Secret undies, perhaps?). There was that pesky 12-year stint as an entrepreneur and business owner. But that's all a vague memory, made murky by years of lactating and, you know, other mom...stuff. Because what do moms really do anyway? I heard on the radio once that if you break down the duties of a mom and assign market value to each one, a mother would earn a salary of $118,000. Ha! A conspiracy theory, no doubt, started by lazy, unqualified whiners who want credit for living the easy life.

Not me. I'm ready, EAGER to be tested, to have another man tell me what I need to do. Lead me, I say! It's just that, well, the $2,500 pricetag of this particular dance is a little baffling. Wouldn't a new computer be a better investment and help generate income? How about a training course? Or even childcare to allow time for new pursuits? But gosh, thinking of ways I might spend $2,500 just makes my pretty little head hurt! I'd rather think about what I'll wear to my appointment. The frilly apron is nice and goes with anything. Or the mom jeans and white sneakers. Oh, and I can't forget my giant Mary Poppins-inspired carpet bag. It's one of those magic ones that allows me to stuff the three kids inside and forget about them. They don't require much, really. Just a little air. Otherwise they mostly take care of themselves.

Yes, I am really looking forward to this opportunity to show off my talents. I might speak a little French. Or play the pianoforte. I might even take a refreshing turn about the room (to show my figure in the most pleasing light!)

Hmmm. What color is my parachute? (And will it match my shoes?) I think it's more of a mantle, anyway. As in a cloak worn by women in Victorian times. How fitting. I'm a modern day Elizabeth Bennett. Plucky and independent. And I have so many more choices than she had in her day. Nevermind that determining my own path is not necessarily one of them. There's no time for that when I have laundry to fold. And yes, that's on my resume.

(Check in next week to hear which vocation the magical expert chooses for me!)

Yearly Resolutions are for Wimps. Not Divorcees.

2009 seemed to be a year of major upheaval. I found myself going through a divorce, but, with a good handful of friends contemplating, initiating, or reeling from their own break-ups, at least I had company. (Granted, not the kind of company you want for dinner unless you plan to hide the sharp knives.) I think I speak for most divorcees out there when I say that what we want is Resolution. Not a silly list of do's and don'ts. Real Resolution. An end to the re-hashing, the second-guessing and what-ifs. A giant kiss-off to quitters, cheats, Peter Pans and control freaks. A rousing 'up yours!' to the judges and lawyers playing God in our lives. A signed document that sets us free.

Except. The document is just the first step. What divorcees really need is the manual. The 2010 Code on Divorcing Gracefully.

This Manual (mine at least) might include the following:

Stop working on euphemisms for what happened, such as: my husband had an interesting take on 'to have and to hold.' Or 'the grass was greener.' Or, as the legal documents would have it, it was a matter of 'lifestyle choices.' Stick with 'we're divorced' and don't feel compelled to launch into the unabridged saga. Face it. No ones cares as much as you think they do.

Accept that, yes, SHE is 12 years younger. Know that whoever 'she' is, she will undoubtedly stay the same age, while he ages and becomes pathetic. Allow yourself small satisfaction on this point.

Stop flinching when your son goes on about the girlfriend and how awesome she is because she calls him 'dude.'

Believe your therapist when he tells you that your Ex did you a favor. Resolve to continue therapy if you have to donate blood to do it.

Stop expecting to understand your Ex. Remember that peace described in a very famous book, the kind that passeth all understanding? Ponder that, and enjoy the superior feeling that comes from knowing verbs that end in 'TH.'

Know that cooperation with an Ex is overrated. Learn to make decisions — about finances, housing, kids, career — on your own. Embrace the single mom power and mystique. If you've never done it, raise a fist and yell 'girls rock!' (Except girls who call boys 'dude.')

Don't take it personally when friends treat you as if you're contagious. They simply want immunity from this particular plague and know there's no magic pill they can take to get it.

Enjoy alone time. Learn the difference between loneliness and solitude. Consider these wise words from Anne Lindbergh, who writes about solitude in her memoir Gift from the Sea: Woman must be still as the axis of a wheel in the midst of her activities, she must be the pioneer in achieving this stillness, not only for her own salvation, but for the salvation of family life, of society, perhaps even of our civilization.

Follow your own bliss. Stop following a blueprint with someone else's comments scrawled all over it. Thank another wise soul who said that the best revenge is a life well-lived.

Live 2010 well.

What do you buy at Crate and Barrel?

So I was wandering through Crate and Barrel last night having a text message fight with my boyfriend. I went in specifically to kill time, hoping that if I admired the $2000 leather chair or the espresso stained coffee table long enough, I might someday attract them into my living room. But naturally I was distracted, because it's really hard to fight when you're using only a thumb, and I didn't notice much of anything. In fact, I circled the same floor two full times before realizing it, and then I was so disoriented it took me a crazy amount of time to find the escalators.

Fight aborted (not resolved), I tried to focus on some dinnerware. The store was about to close, but I felt a desperate – okay, angry – urge to buy something, anything, quickly. I stood in front of a mini waffle griddle for some time (security definitely had me in their sights by now). Not a mini griddle; a regular griddle that made mini waffles, but there was no top to it, which really confused me. Still, I wanted it. It was cute. And good for smacking someone in the head.

I didn't buy it. Instead, I started thinking about the crap I DO buy: that at fortysomething, I deserve to have these nice things. That these things represent a happy home. That if I can't afford to have a dining room table with matching sideboard, I've somehow failed. And speaking of failed, how about this one? That I'm too old to have a boyfriend, for Pete's sake, and to be feeling the same communication frustrations I've felt a hundred times.

I moved on to contemplate a napkin ring. Shiny, gold, pretty. Suppose that when I said to someone that my feelings were hurt by a certain behavior, that person were to hand me a so-called napkin ring. Wouldn't cost much, but as a gesture, how nice. Then if that person wanted to say 'we really need to look at the entire table, at the way you're serving things up,' well...fine. But start with something shiny, please. That's all I'm asking.

People who shop here must know this. They're undoubtedly mature, self-actualized grown-ups. In order to be able to make a decision faced with so many beautiful options, a person has to have her life defined. Traditional? Or contemporary? I thought I was traditional, with the kids and husband and house. But now I find I'm contemporary, with an Ex, an inflated T-Mobile text package, and a boyfriend. I'm wandering the aisles, wondering where I fit and what fits me.

The same thing happens when I go walking in a nice neighborhood. I love to look at houses. And in windows, if possible. The nicer the house, the happier the family. Isn't that right? I'm not so foolish, but I do covet various places not so much for the houses themselves, but for the life I imagine would go with them. If only I could live there, or there, I'd feel younger, be more forgiving, listen better, argue less. My days would have that gauzy, soft focus look, like a Hallmark movie.

But why do we (because I assume I'm not alone here) ascribe such meaning to structures or objects? Why do we think life has to come in a certain color, match a set, or be made of brick? Is it that it's easier to look at pretty things than at ourselves?

I don't know. But if we had a nice big shiny bowl, we could throw all these questions in and have a party. I'll text you the details when my thumb stops aching.

Fint Som Snus

Hasn't everyone had that experience of seeing an old friend or acquaintance out of the blue, maybe in the grocery store, or at the gym, and ducking before being spotted? Why do we do that? For me, there's always the certainty that of course so-and-so won't remember me. Nevermind that we sat next to each for three semesters and I know the name of her first pet (Ginger) and that poor Ginger was run over by my friend's dad in their driveway. No, I am the owner of a sort of invisibility cloak.

So I'm making it one of my goals to attack 2010 with a little more presence. Driving by a 1-hour t-shirt place the other day, I even considered having a shirt made: Yes, I AM taking up space. A more confident cloak, so to speak. To ready me for those inevitable run-ins.

But don't you hate how those run-ins have to turn into run-downs? The whole 'what's new?' thing is exhausting. 2009 happens to be My Year of Divorce and I haven't begun to compose my What-Went-Wrong (in 100-words or less) essay. That's led to a predicament. I'm lonely for friends, but don't want to be constantly rehashing my life.

Still, a girl's got to eat, and an old roommate happens to own a fabulous Swedish restaurant on Foster Avenue called Tre Kronor. I haven't kept up with Patty like I've wanted to. We lived together before either of us met our husbands. Now she has five kids, owns and runs both Tre Kronor and The Sweden Shop with her husband, and still looks fabulous and has a friendly smile for everyone. They're the hard-working, have-it-all couple that have me reaching for my cloak, thinking 'they're much too busy for little 'ol me!'

I was telling a friend all this as we sat outside Tre Kronor devouring a heavenly apple danish. The waiters are perky, Nordic-looking students from North Park University, and they wore powder blue t-shirts that said "Fint Som Snus," which translates, I'm told, to "fine as snuff," or, as we would say "right as rain." Patty's husband Larry happened by, and he surprised me by saying he wanted to call Patty over, sure that she'd want to see me. Conveniently, they live right across the street, and moments later she was running over. She gave me a big hug and the first words out of her mouth were "I've missed you!" I don't know if it was hearing that, or if I was still high on the apple danish, but that breakfast, that run-in, made my week. It couldn't have come at a more perfect time, desperate as I was for a reminder that no, I wasn't invisible. I was fint som snus.

My friend will never know how good she made me feel that day. Unless I have a t-shirt made. What's Swedish for thank you, thank you, thank you!!?

I Love You...For Now

The subject of unconditional love has been coming up repeatedly for me lately. I went to see (500) Days of Summer at the McClurg Theater downtown -- a fabulous venue by any standard, yet something about its cavernous interior always gives me a surreal sense of isolation, even when the seats are packed. Or maybe the surreal sense comes from the time I was there for the debut showing of Public Enemies, starring Johnny Depp and filmed in Chicago, and all the extras were there too, dressed in period clothing, which made for that time warp feeling. Or maybe it's that, earlier, I'd actually seen Johnny Depp on the red carpet and the place will be forever lonely without him. Talk about unconditional love...

But I digress. In (500) Days of Summer I loved the part where the main character Tom, in the throes of lovesickness, says to Zooey Deschanel's character Summer something like "I want to know that you're not going to feel differently about me tomorrow." And she looks at him with those big doe-eyes and says, "I can't give you that. No one can."

It reminded me of the lyrics to a Split Endz song: "You know that I love you, here and now, not forever. I can give you the present. I don't know 'bout the future. That's all stuff and nonsense."

Harsh, I thought. But true?

Unwillingly, I re-lived my first heartbreak, when my college boyfriend turned to me one night and said "I don't love you anymore." In my twenties I believed love was something you couldn't turn off. It was like a magical spigot, once turned on it would be stuck on, pouring love like water into eager upturned hands. Twenty years later, I've seen a few faucets dry up. Sometimes in little drips, other times like a sledge hammer coming down on an old fixture. When my husband told me he'd been cheating on and off for ten years, and had just spent 12 hours with someone in Las Vegas who was destined to be his new love, it was a crash course in the changeable nature of love.

Now I find myself wondering if the only love that can't really be destroyed is the love we have for our children, or our parents. Those primordial relationships are in our very DNA. We'll stretch the ties to near breaking, but only because we're confident there's some high-quality elastic there. With anyone else you can spend years learning each other and one day be handed a big red-letter F, flunking an exam you didn't know you were taking. There's my cynic.

But then I'll moments of such expansive, joyous love toward someone and it does makes sense. Time truly seems to stand still. In that kind of love there's no future because there's no room for it. Constructs like tomorrow, next week, next year only cage it in. There's still a learning curve, yes, but no striving, no grade.

I wonder if the next time someone says "I'm just over you," I'll be able to remain philosophical. And I can't decide if knowing it can happen at any time makes love more precious. Or just makes me sad.

Warrior at the Ready

Yesterday, while I was in the middle of a yoga class, my muscles warmed, my mind clear, my sister popped into my head. I haven't seen or spoken to my sister in more than 2 years. Last I saw her was in a hotel room at an Embassy Suites in Colorado where my family had lured her for a drug intervention. She's a crystal meth addict, and was high that day. Despite our tearful, pleading letters, despite our interventionist's efforts to reel her in over 4 long hours, despite the bed we'd paid for at a rehab in California (we had new sheets in the suitcase! With pink flamingoes on them!), the intervention failed. My sister fled the room and we were forced to deliver the "kiss-off" letter. Just your standard "you are dead to me until you're ready for help" letter.

Two years later, she's still not ready. So I've put her out of my life and, mostly, my thoughts. Which is why her interrupting my downward-facing dog was remarkable. For the first time in a long time I had a clear conviction that I would see her again. Alive. I just felt it.

Then my mother sent me an email saying that she had a meltdown yesterday over my sister, that she cried all day. Now my mother and I don't talk about my sister much anymore. It's easier that way. So it seemed a strange coincidence that she came to us on the same day, disrupting our careful indifference. I told my mother that maybe she's thinking of us, that our "feelers" are being activated for some reason. Still, there's nothing we can do. If she calls, we've been instructed to repeat the script: I won't talk to you unless you're calling for help.

I'm hoping that my sister doesn't call my mother. She'll crumble for sure. She won't be able to follow the script. Better if she calls me; I've prepared. I've done some warrior poses with this very situation in mind. I still haven't the slightest idea if I'll say the right words. But in the meantime, I've got strong thighs and the hope that they'll get me where I need to go.