My Safe Place

 The other day, I was sitting in a virtual classroom with 90 other students, when the professor asked us to each participate in an exercise designed to evoke a feeling of safety, of feeling supported, loved, and comforted. He asked us to focus on a moment, a memory that was both vivid and that would produce those feelings.

Immediately, my thoughts wandered to all the possible memories I could have chosen: me being in my grandparents' barn hayloft with a mother dog and her pups, or me talking to my uncle's Percheron horse as a nine-year-old girl, my grandmother making new potato hash browned potatoes... but I rejected all of these and chose something more recent: one time I awoke in the middle of the night as a grieving mother, sobbing into my pillow, and feeling my husband's arms around me. His presence, his unspoken support, his love, his comfort - they were all tangible. 

As we went through the exercise, our prof engaged all of the five senses. As he drilled down into the memories we each chose, he was able to bring them front and centre. When it was done, I was one of many who dabbed at their eyes.

It was a powerful experience for me, both during and afterward. My eyes filled with tears of gratitude, of love, of letting go of that pain, of a feeling that I was kept safe and sheltered from the horrible storm in my heart. The feeling stayed with me long after the exercise was over. Each time I thought of that moment, the same feelings came back. I had discovered a new Safe Place, one to which I could return when I felt overwhelmed, anxious, depressed, or threatened. 

Free photo by Pexels at Pixabay

Our professor took us through that exercise so that we could experience for ourselves the power of emotions and the need for acknowledging them in our lives and the lives of our clients. Point. Taken.

Shortly after I wrote the above words, my kitten, Willow (aged 7 months) crawled into the space between me and the arm of the loveseat. I started petting her head and neck. And then she lifted her head, looked at me, and crawled up on my chest and laid down, her face nuzzling under my chin. She stayed there for a good fifteen minutes, soaking in the love, absorbing the sense of peace and calm in my body and in the room, and dozing off amid soft purrs. 

For a few minutes, I was her safe place. 

When she was all filled up with comfort and with love, she got up, hopped off my chest, and went to her perch on the cat-tree to groom herself and survey her domain. Cats position themselves where they can see their people as a way of marking their territory. We are her people. She feels at home here. Now, she has returned to the back of the loveseat, and has laid down just behind my left shoulder. Her left front paw is on the back of my upper arm. She has fallen asleep. Connection. Trust. Safety. Love. Peace.

That's the feeling everyone needs to feel. I need to feel it; she needs to feel it; you need to feel it. And we need to feel it often. At least once a day, Willow comes to me for that feeling of safety and love, usually right before we settle down for the night. It's security for her. It's belonging for her. It's Home to her. 

We can call that return to security whatever we like: grounding, meditating, centering, breathing, pranayama, enjoying the moment, going to our happy place, or whatever. For me, it's going to My Safe Place. As part of a healing and growing process in my life, it's essential. And it feels SO good. It's designed to - because we are each designed to connect, to feel safe, to feel settled and secure. 

 * ♫ ♪ ♫ *

If you want to learn more about living a lifestyle that lets go of the past and releases the future, you can try my book, after which this blog is named: Get Unwrapped!  It's not long, but it's worth reading slowly. Get it here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91697

Being Colorblind

I used to say it. I used to think it. I never EVER ONCE, in all my growing-up years and even into adulthood, considered that I might be part of a mindset that unknowingly promotes racism. But I was. And I said it, and thought it.

What did I say? I said that I was colorblind. I said that I didn't see color.

But of course I did. I'd have to be blind not to see color. And what I thought and said about NOT seeing it only further alienated me from the very people I thought I was allying myself with. Because guess what... THEY see it. They see it when they get up in the morning and look at themselves in the mirror. They see it when they try to wait for a bus, reflected in the eyes of those who notice them standing there. They see it when they are outside taking a walk and decide to stand in a building's overhang and wait for a friend to come out.

And for me to say that I don't see color ... discounts and dismisses their experience of the world. It makes them invisible, and let's face it - everyone wants to be seen, to be acknowledged for their existence. The color of their skin is just as much a part of them as having fingers and toes. And their skin color dictates how the world treats them, what kinds of choices they make about everyday things, how they feel about their society, and how they interact with people who are outside of their circle. It is like an insult to them when I say I don't see color.

Photo courtesy of
Alec White at Pixabay

I have learned instead to say, "I see you." I have learned to say, "Teach me about your experience of your culture." I have learned to honestly ask people what it is like to BE them. I have learned to honor the existence and the history of those who are different from me, and to be curious about it, and to celebrate what is different and unique about each individual. I have learned not to assume that just because a person has a particular skin color, that all people who have that skin color feel this or that way, or think this or that way, or act this or that way. They don't. They don't in the same way that not all white people have similar beliefs or lifestyles or political leanings. It does a disservice to everyone to pigeon-hole people based on anything they might hold in common.

While it is true that we all bleed red, that we are all the same underneath, that every life matters, the reality of our society is that people of color are treated and viewed by so many in society as less-than. The reality is that racism is rampant and it runs amok in our world. The fact of the matter is that white people, like myself, have a societal privilege in our western culture that people of color do not. And it is for this reason that I join with thousands and millions of others in saying, "Black Lives Matter."  I don't say "All Lives Matter" because that silences those whose lives don't matter in today's society.

I saw an illustration of equality versus equity a few years ago that has stuck with me. It is a three-part cartoon depicting three people: a tall person, an average-sized person, and a little person, who are trying to watch a ball game from behind a five-foot wall. In the first illustration, the tall person can easily see over the wall. The average person can see but just barely. And the little person cannot see at all. Then there were two illustrations under that one. The one on the left put an equal-sized box under each person. In this illustration, the little person could just barely see over the fence, and the taller ones had an even better view from equally higher-up. This one was labelled "Equality." On the right, in the illustration labelled "Equity," the tall person who did not need a box, was not given one. The average-sized person was given a box tall enough so that he could reach the same height as the tall person, and the little person was also given an even taller box so he could enjoy the game from the same height of the tall person. In this way, each of them could enjoy the game to the same degree.

This is a wonderful illustration of why I believe that those in the dominant culture do not need to be stroked and given special consideration. They already have the privilege of seeing the world without assistance. Those who need help and recognition should get it to the degree that they have been disadvantaged. And the history of white culture has many, many examples of the oppression of other races, especially black people (and yes, this is documented!) throughout the history of our interactions with other people who don't look like us.

From the time I was a little girl of ten years old, when I met a black man for the first time, I have been intrigued by people of color. But what I didn't know then, and what I still didn't know even as recently as ten years ago, was how difficult it was (and is) for those who are not white. We don't even think about the same things as people of color when we think of everyday activities that most of us take for granted. Going for a walk in a quiet neighborhood after dark ... going into a store in broad daylight ... walking the dog ... driving a car with tinted windows ... paying for an item by check ... waiting in the park for a friend ... all of these things we take for granted and never once think that we might not make it home alive. But people of color, and especially black people, do. Every. Day.

If recent events have not highlighted these facts for you, then it might be time to honestly investigate how best to honor people who are targets of racism in your city, in your province or state, in your country. Look for stories told by the actual people themselves, and not by white people telling their story for them.

Listen. And say it with me. Black Lives Matter.

#BLM #ISeeYou

That first dip

I have aquaphobia. I've had it ever since I almost drowned in a pool incident when I was 13. The feeling of panic of those moments was something I am highly motivated not to repeat. It was the loss of control, the feeling I could do nothing to save myself, that made the experience so terrifying. I have since learned to go into a pool, and although I don't call myself a swimmer, I can at least go into the water - even though I don't volunteer to go.

Photo free, CC0 Commons license from Pexels

It took me many years to realize that I had the same kind of traumatic experience (although much more drawn out over years) growing up in the home that I did. My mother's temper was like this giant wave of unpredictable outcomes for me, and I learned a deeply-ingrained belief that people were going to hurt me. I therefore began to fear them. Especially women. 

So now I am in therapy for the trauma that those years brought into my thinking and feeling, affecting the way I interact with people, how I think about my role and the role of other people in my daily life. And a couple of weeks ago, I took my first dip off the side of that pool into the traumatic memory that has become the signature experience of my childhood, the one that represents all the other traumas I went through. 

I will not lie. It was intense. It was scary. It was uncomfortable. It was a whole host of other things that I can't even begin to name. But my therapist walked me through it and allowed me to keep control of the experience at all times. And I was able to go into that memory and interact with the people in it, especially my child-self, in a way that was healing for me. 

I'm not saying that this one time was a cure-all. It wasn't. But it was a good first step, a way to know that I could bring myself into other incidents, other traumas, and process those things over time with self-compassion and self-care. 

And it was a reminder that change can and does happen. Slowly. 

Whenever I need reminding of that in the every-day, I look at our feral rescue cat, Callum. Cal came to us after having been caught inside the fan-belt of a snowmobile as it sat in someone's field during the summer. That traumatic incident, as well as the traumatizing efforts to rescue him from it, happened to him when he was only about 8 weeks old. He came to us at about 4 months old, after having spent some time at a foster-home. He was still very skittish, sometimes hissing, mostly running away at the first sign that we wanted to touch him or go near him when we were wearing footwear of any kind (especially boots). That was in October 2014. Today, baby step by baby step, he has been learning to trust. And earlier today, for the first time, I saw him close his eyes and lean into my husband petting his head - a huge difference from when he first came to us.

It gives me hope. Hope is such a powerful thing.

My counsellor tells me that as I bring these traumas to the surface and deal with them, I may experience times when the memories come back to me between visits to her office. My job, she tells me, is to be kind to myself when that happens, to use my breathing exercises and my other self-care tools so that I can get myself through these moments, and to not try to go farther on my own.

I can get behind that. I like it that she hasn't thrown me into the deep end of the pool, but has taken it in small steps so that I am more comfortable with the process as we get deeper and deeper in. That's a positive for me. 

I'm even sort of looking forward to my next dip, in that nervous, half-panicked way, because I know she'll be there to steady me. That's a good feeling. 

Plugged in and turned off. Or on.

My daughter's iPhone 4S took a hissy fit yesterday after almost three years of faithful service. The decline happened slowly. It kept less and less of a charge over time. Finally, she had to recharge it four times a day (or keep it plugged in), and there were other difficulties that made it kind of 'high maintenance' for her. But she loved her iPhone so much that when Apple went to a more bells-and-whistles and a less reliable-and-dependable iPhone a couple of years ago, she refused to upgrade. 

"It's my baby," she said. She didn't even upgrade the operating system on it. (I envied her after I made my software upgrade - but there was no going back; the deed was done). 

So she took it in to the dealer to avail herself of the extended warranty. After two to three hours of frustrating back-and-forth, the answer came in. Water damage from humidity (last time she dropped it, it was into a snowbank and was 2 years ago, and she got it out right away and dried it off before water could enter). Water damage. One of only two things the warranty didn't cover. 

Ouch. 

But - she needed a phone - and since Steve Jobs passed away, it appears that Apple hasn't come up with anything that even remotely compares to the 4 and 4S. So-o, she switched to a different (Android-type) phone. Some things she likes better, and she knows that she will eventually like this phone as much as the other one; others, she sits and pouts and says, "I miss my baby." 

I get that. 

But I also get when it is time to say goodbye. In electronics and with people.

When the other party needs constant recharging, constant checking, constant stroking, constant reassurances that things are okay - and punishes you when put on "standby" even for a short time ... perhaps it's not all that healthy. It's plugged in all the time - but that means you're tied down. And turned off. When only ONE person is being "fed" in a relationship, it's time to seriously take stock.

Not that relationships are anything like cell phones ... are they? Okay, SOME similarities. 

It's difficult. It's hard to let go of something that - for a while - has brought you some happiness. Even if that happiness was mixed with pain. When there is a growing sense of obligation rather than appreciation, it's time to re-evaluate. When you're constantly feeling "less than" (in other words, less important than) the other person - how is that healthy? 

Image "Low Battery" provided by
David Castillo Dominici at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Perhaps it's time to recharge your OWN battery. Perhaps that caring for that other person has kept you running on empty and it's time to take some time for yourself. You can't give away what you don't have; replenish the reserves. Getting your identity and strength from another human (who has limitations just like you) drains you in ways that you may not realize. Finding out who you are and feeding that person inside (getting plugged in and turned on) will go a long way toward figuring out where that other person fits into your life. If at all. 

Unplugging the other person from your battery might seem cruel, selfish, and un-giving - but until he or she finds out how to self-charge, that draining will keep on happening (if not with you then with the next person who pays attention). Plugging into your own energy resources will feel awkward at first - it always does - but you are the only you that you have, and it's important to look after you.

It's amazing how freeing that is. It might not feel like it at first, but there is an energy build-up that slowly makes itself known - and upon which you can rely.

I know because I've lived that. I've had to remove people from my life who were sapping me of strength. Sometimes I miss those people - but I don't miss the feeling of being constantly given the message "Low Battery." 

Food for thought, at the very least.

Motherhood, Monsterhood, and Mercy

I get a little testy this time of year. Mother's Day isn't a happy day for me.

Those of you who know me well know that my upbringing was one of those things that on the surface, looked really good ... unless you lived inside the four walls of my home. Motherhood sometimes looked like washing my face and hands when I was sick, making our favorite meals on our birthdays, singing together in the car, and many other meaningful memories. 

But motherhood so easily morphed into monsterhood. And I never knew when I might push that switch that made mother into monster. Because I knew, as sure as I knew my own name, that it must be my fault. Because she told me it was while she was beating me. And then she'd show me the bruises on her hands and blame me for hurting her with my misbehaviour. It was sick and twisted and yet, I thought everyone went through this. So I never bothered questioning it. And I deluded myself into thinking I had it pretty good.

Drawing "Sketch Of Woman Crying" courtesy of
luigi diamanti at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

For quite a few years, once I actually admitted to myself that it all happened (denial can be an idyllic place sometimes) I was very angry. I firmly believed that Mother's Day was a farce, a cruel joke played on those who had monsters for mothers. And quite frankly, for years I robbed my children of the joy of honouring me as their mother because ... because I couldn't honour mine. That part of me was too hurt, too wounded. I got to the place where I WANTED to forgive her. But I couldn't. It just wasn't in me. 

I thought (because I was raised to think this) that forgiveness was sweeping it all under the rug, saying, "Oh that's all right." That it was making excuses, like what happened wasn't really all that bad. And I couldn't bring myself to believe that it wasn't "all that bad." Because it WAS. Nobody would believe me - and many people still don't - but living life in a war zone on constant air-raid status and never knowing when a physical ambush was going to happen, or when an emotional atom bomb was going to drop ... is considered a "type A stressor" - one of the chief elements in the development of  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). And yes, I do have some symptoms of that illness.

And then, 5 years ago, I got into therapy. That was the beginning. Through the course of the next several months, I learned what forgiveness was, what it wasn't, and how to do it. (Mind you, DOING it took some time and in some areas, it's still going on!) I learned that forgiveness is a process. That it is okay to say something is wrong even after you forgive the act, because forgiveness is meaningless unless the act it forgives was wrong in the first place! I learned that it is okay to not put yourself in a position to be hurt by that person in that way again ... because forgiveness does not require the person being forgiven to change or even to be sorry!! The hardest forgiveness to grant is when the person doesn't change, will never change, and calls you a liar for suggesting he or she even did something wrong. And other people believe that person because ... because they don't want to believe that he or she could do something that heinous. It would change the way they think about that person, and they aren't willing to "go there." So instead, they judge you.

Mercy, according to a popular definition, is not treating someone the nasty way they deserve to be treated, but rather, being kind to that person. 

Mercy is the end result of forgiveness. Notice I said the END result. The beginning - for humans - isn't quite so pretty. And neither is the middle. Nobody wants to talk about those parts because they're messy. There are a lot of unresolved emotions and unpleasant feelings. But they are necessary feelings. Everyone wants to hear about the end result, the kindness you are able to show to someone who has made it their life's work to screw you up, all the time believing she was "raising you right." It's hard to be in the middle of dealing with that and tell someone you are going through a "forgiveness process" and having that person look at you like you have three heads. "Just forgive her," is the unspoken attitude. "Just make the decision and do it." But - like I said - the decision is only the first step. The feelings are still there and they need to be validated, experienced (not suppressed), processed, and then let go. The whole process is long and laborious - yes, hard work.

But it is possible. And it takes time.

Last year, as Mother's Day dawned, I pretty much "shut down." I isolated: I holed up at home and didn't go out all day. It was a horrible feeling, watching others (on Facebook) lauding their mothers and knowing that I never could ... not in that way ... and I was thoroughly miserable. My kids and my husband figuratively tiptoed around and barely even dared mentioning to me that it was Mother's Day. I'd gotten to forgiveness, but ... I hadn't gotten to a place of mercy. I wasn't trying to make her pay me back anymore. But I wasn't actively being kind either.

And then ... my youngest daughter died about five months after that. Perspectives changed; a LOT of perspectives changed. Miracles happened - in relationships, mostly. And I got to do a lot of thinking about that next step: mercy. I'd been so stuck on proving that there was monsterhood ... that I didn't realize that the way back to celebrating motherhood again was through mercy. 

So this year, I'm planning a little trip to visit an old woman who has forgotten most of what she put me through, and who feels justified in all of it. And I'll take a little gift for her to remember her (now deceased) mother and her grandmother by: a little corsage of two white carnations to wear in their honour (a tradition where I grew up) to Sunday morning church on the second Sunday of May. 

And oh yes. I'm also having a corsage made for me - with a white carnation and a red one - the first to honour my grandmother and the second ... my mother.

It's a start.

It's me

It happens occasionally. 

I hear something that touches my heart, and I weep. Or I get to sing something that means a lot to me and my emotions take over my voice box and I choke up and can't make the notes come out the way I wanted. 

Once in a while that happens in public. And every so often, I can tell when someone is puzzled by it, because that individual questions me on it and makes assumptions that I must have experienced some great loss recently. It's as if the person believes that the singing is the performing part of Judy (first wrong assumption: I don't perform. Music is a part of me; I can't "not sing"), and the emotions have only to do with something that people are "supposed" to get emotional about. Like, say, grieving a death or something like that. And only a recent death. If I behave otherwise, it's instant judgment (or at the very least, bewilderment) because the attitude is that one should maintain a "stiff upper lip." I'm regarded as weird if I am affected by something beyond the accepted time frame, or if I am moved by something that means a lot to me. Like music. Or the beauty of nature. Or yes, even the death of someone who's important to me - and it doesn't have to be recent, or even someone I know personally. 

Thanks to David Castillo Dominici
who took this photo,
"Little Boy Covering His Face"
and posted it at www.freedigitalphotos.net

This happens to a lot of people; it's not just me. I remember a young girl of my acquaintance going to school a year after her older sister's sudden death (which happened under mysterious circumstances and to which there was never any closure), appearing "down" one day, and being told by a teacher that it had been long enough for her to "get over" her sister's death. 

As if you ever get over something like that. Really. 

I have a great deal of trouble with the mentality that denies and subjugates emotion as something "bad" or at least embarrassing and to be avoided. 

Here's the thing. I'm me. I'm a sensitive soul and I know it. I don't make apologies for it. In fact, I find it odd that people aren't more affected by beautiful sights or sounds, or by the misfortunes of others, because I am. I've wished in the past sometimes that I wasn't affected by things so much. However, even though sometimes I still want to not be quite as affected by the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," I've come to understand that it's my sensitivity and my empathy that make me who I am, and I don't need to apologize for it. It's my ability to have compassion and to 'weep with those who weep' - or to access the emotions attached to memories from my past - that will eventually (one day) make me a good counselor ... even if it is hard on my head sometimes. 

Emotions are part of the human experience. They were designed as a built-in early-warning system and pressure relief valve for the human spirit. They're normal and healthy. I would rather feel the things I feel, even if they are unpleasant, than to shut off those emotions, and then eventually, never be able to feel ANYTHING ... even the nice things. That is what happens when one makes a habit of clamping down on emotions too consistently. I've seen the results of that, and they are not pleasant. 

So - this is me. Bumbling with emotion sometimes, tongue-tied and thinking of a million things I could have said after the fact. Emotional and glad to be so, given the alternative. 

As the song goes, "I just want to live while I'm alive."

Peeling Onions

Over 30 years ago, my husband was to be away from home on a ministry weekend. Normally I would have been able to go, but my job as a waitress for the summer months prevented me from going. It was the first time we were separated since we'd been married a year or so previous. 

I was pretty much an emotional wreck inside, trying to hold it together. 

My supervisor - also the cook - noticed that I (usually quiet anyway) was more quiet than usual. She asked me what was wrong. I put on a light, airy tone, "Oh, my husband had to go on a trip this weekend - I'm just missing him."

She was silent for a minute, and then she seemed to snap out of her reverie. "Could you go out to the big fridge and get me that bag of onions in the bottom of it?" I went obediently... and found the biggest mesh bag of onions I'd seen in my life. There must have been ten or fifteen pounds of the things in there. I carried it to her.  "Yes, that's the one. Look, I need those onions peeled for the special tonight. Use the paring knife in the top drawer." 

"You want me to peel ... ALL ... of them?"

"Whole and Halved Onion" courtesy of bplanet at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

She was nonplussed. "Yep. Set yourself up over there and put the peelings in that can." She pointed to a large tin garbage can in the corner. "And use the bread-bowl to put the peeled onions in. I'll take it from there." 

It wasn't until I was onto my third or fourth onion, my eyes stinging and burning, unable to hold my tears back, that I realized what she did for me. 

She gave me a way to cry - to shed tears in abundance in front of the kitchen staff - and still save face. 

Nobody knew how many of those tears were from the onions - and how many were from missing my husband. 

Not even my boss. I was so grateful to her for that.

I found myself thinking about that experience today after having to deal with a highly stressful situation for me, one that involved telling someone how I felt, someone who hurt me - quite probably inadvertently - the details of which are not important. Even after all the unwrapping that has already gone on in my life, all of which has been as painful and as tear-provoking as peeling onions is - it is still hard for me to stand up for me and say how I feel; the fear of rejection and the dread of confrontation is that strong. 

Yet, just as there are many layers in an onion, there are deeper and deeper levels of recovery - and this is one. I am constantly reaching new levels of vulnerability and honesty with myself and with other people. It's difficult, and I wouldn't be able to do it at all if not empowered by my relationship with God. However, the more I honest and vulnerable I am, the more real I can be, the more convinced I am that it's the only way to stay in that place where my life intersects in a meaningful way with the lives of the people with whom God orchestrates relationship.

Most people can spot a phoney a mile away. 

Yes, peeling onions - getting and staying real - stings and causes tears to flow; it might even make people avoid being around that process because they only like the finished product. Be that as it may, getting beneath the surface, where it counts, is what matters to me. It's the only way that I've found to live with myself.

Somebody poisoned the water hole!

One of the greatest Disney-Pixar movies I've ever seen is Toy Story.  It's about friendship, loyalty, honesty, integrity, and so much more.  So many lines from that flick have come to my aid to describe various experiences that I've had.

The character Woody the Cowboy (played by Tom Hanks) has quite a few of them. Woody is an action figure with a pull string that allows him to say certain phrases.  One of those phrases is today's blog post title.  I got to thinking about that particular saying, and how it applies to some situations I've been going through lately.  

HERE is where I found this photo

Start hanging around poison situations and pretty soon the air reeks of it.  It leaves a bad taste in your mouth.  You feel dirty, used. Start hanging around poison people (everybody knows at least one) and their attitudes and speech will rub off on you. You feel "less than" - like something is wrong but you don't know exactly what.  Watch depressing or disturbing TV shows or movies on a regular basis, and eventually you'll be depressed or disturbed.  It's like I used to tell the kids when they were growing up, "GIGO - garbage in, garbage out." 

The fact of the matter is, if I don't want to turn out dirty, used, depressed, angry, if I don't want to be rolling around in the cesspool of life and get the stench of it all over me, I need to make some changes in what I read, what I watch, what I listen to, and who I hang around with.  I need to stop letting people use me, and establish (and enforce) some boundaries in my life.  I need to start believing (instead of just saying) that I can do nothing to change anyone else, to fix anyone else.  Changing people is God's job, NOT MINE.   The only person whose behaviour I must be responsible for ... is me.  Anything more will be self-defeating because I can NEVER do God's job.  Not even in myself.   The only thing I can do is trust Him and let Him fix me.  Me.  Not you, not him, not her, not 'them'.  That said, at the same time, I need to let people know where my boundaries are - and let people know when they've crossed them.  Too long I spent as a doormat, letting people scrape the muck from the barn off on me - if you catch my drift.  

Which brings me to the water hole.  The water hole is a safe place to come and drink, to be replenished, to be refreshed.  If that place is corrupted by dishonesty, betrayal, hypocrisy, and selfishness - mine or others'  - the place that was supposed to be a refuge, a haven in the storm, can become the opposite.  I've seen it happen in families, in friendships, and in church (or other social groups which are supposed to be "safe.")  The water hole is not the place to clean your dirty, manure-covered boots.  If people use it like that - the water is no longer drinkable. It's poisoned.

The only two things that can be done when the water hole is poisoned is to get rid of the poison... or dig a new water hole.  Either option is going to require a great deal of work.  But it's the only way to not get sick.  

And I'm sick of getting sick.  Aren't you?

... and I in mine

The world is turning into this ginormous village where we see nearly simultaneously what's happening on the opposite side of the globe - where fewer and fewer places are unseen, unreported.  There is so much suffering in so many places by so many people groups - it's hard to know where to start when the collection plate passes, or when the folks come around canvassing for this or that cause.  

Many people think that unless they do something spectacular or give a lot of money to alleviate hunger or thirst in a third world country, or go on a missions trip to a different continent, that they are not doing what they can.  This kind of thinking is fostered in our global village.  But sometimes in trying not to miss the forest for the trees, we miss the trees for the forest.

I'm not saying that those causes - whatever they are and however noble they are - aren't worthy.  Far from it.  But I am saying that we needn't allow others to make us feel guilty if we DON'T go, if we DON'T give to this or that foreign charity across the ocean.

A friend of mine is raising money for a cause that is near and dear to her - being a cancer survivor and seeing how people spend a lot of money to be near their loved ones through such a tough time, well, she's doing what she can.  Here's her blog post on that.  That's not in a foreign country to her - it's close to home. 

There are dozens of people in my own city who don't have a home.  There are even more - including children - RIGHT HERE - who go to bed hungry.  Who wonder where the next meal is going to come from ... and when.  Who are starting over from scratch, having lost everything to alcohol, to abuse, to debt, to unemployment.  And in this city there are organizations that help such people.  The Food Bank.  "The Upper Room" Soup Kitchen.  The Salvation Army.  Open Door Ministries.  Anderson House.  Talbot House.  Lacey House.  Grandmother's  House.  And that's just within a five-mile radius.  All we need to do is open our eyes and look at our own back yard and there are so many people who need to know someone cares. And speaking of the back yard - what about the person across the fence? next door? down the street?  

I remember singing this little song in Sunday School and the words are just as profound now as they ever were.  It's based on Matthew 5:24: "Let your light so shine among men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven."  Here are some of the lyrics:

Found this photo HERE

Jesus bids us shine, with a pure, clear light
Like a little candle burning in the night.
In this world of darkness, so we must shine:
You in your small corner .... and I in mine. 

Jesus bids us shine. Shine - for all around
Many kinds of darkness in this world are found: 
Sin, and want, and sorrow - so we must shine:
You in your small corner ... and I in mine.

And this is the essence of it.  We don't have to make a big splash, or turn everything into a big production.  We just need to find our niche - that place where we can make a difference - and go ahead and do it.  Whether it's seen by the pastor, the prime minister or the pope for that matter - matters not.  Even one candle can dispel the darkness.  Even if it's been dark for a VERY long time. 

Even if we've never dared let our light shine before.  It might flicker - but at least it will light the way for someone who needs it.

Stretching

My back went out this past Sunday night - sometime before Monday morning. It was a flare-up of a chronic problem - degenerative disc disease.  Sometimes the vertebrae go out of alignment.  The muscles react - or should I say, overreact - and clench tightly to try and keep the back from going "out" further.  The problem with that is ... it HURTS.

One thing about being in pain - you really cut out the non-essentials. And it's surprising how many things you thought were essentials ... aren't.  

But I digress. 

I knew early Monday morning, as soon as I awoke and put my feet on the floor, that I needed to go to physiotherapy; I was hobbling around and every step I took was agony.  Even sitting was way more than uncomfortable.  The pain was so bad that I called in sick and made an appointment to look after what was essential. After a visit to the doctor to get a referral to physio (as well as a prescription for some pain medication), and going through my first treatment, the pain lessened to manageable levels and I was able to get back to work the next day.  I was rather pleasantly surprised because usually my back is slow to respond to any kind of treatment, be it chiropractic treatments or physiotherapy. 

Here's the site where I got this photo.

My therapeutic regimen involves moist heat, electrical stimulation of the muscles surrounding my back, a bit of acupuncture, and some deep massage to "release" the clenched-tight muscles that have gripped my spine like a vise to keep it from slipping out of alignment.

But there is a home regimen too - some of which I can carry out at work.  It involves 20 minutes each of a couple of different exercises to stretch those lower back muscles.  

And stretch those they do.  Feeling that "pull" is pretty uncomfortable - but I put up with it for the benefits that I know will happen.  Not pain - my therapist is quick to tell me that - but a pulling feeling that is uncomfortable. Very, at times.  But the exercises are teaching my back muscles how to behave, how to let go, so the joints can slip back into place.  

It's going slower than I'd like - well, face it, I'd like it to be immediate!! But I can see a difference, day to day.  And in time, I'll not only be better, but I'll have the knowledge that I need in order to help prevent another flare-up.

In the meantime, I'm learning a lot - about how important letting go is, for one thing.  The back pain seemed sudden, but it had been building for a few weeks - a little tension here, and little clenching there, and finally my back jumped the rest of the way to pain, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.  And "not letting go" can creep up on my inner life too.  Little things I hold onto, little things I think I can handle without God's help, tiny things that niggle at me and I ignore them rather than dealing with them as they arise. 

I  need to let those go and relax my grip on them. 

They'll only end up hurting me (pardon the pun) in the end.

Off Centre

One of my favorite things to do with my school supplies when I was going to school was to play with my geometry set.  I'd trace around the protractor, the two triangles, and draw circle after circle with my compass.  

Drawing the circle was tricky on thin paper because it was so very easy to allow the central point of the compass to shift in the middle of drawing it. The result would be anything BUT the circle I intended. The ends wouldn't meet, and it would look sloppy.  It took practice to get it to stay put while the pencil went around and formed the circumference, touching exactly where it started. That central point was the anchor of the whole thing.  It was tricky to get it to work!

Spirograph art - here's the link

A similar diversion was my old Spirograph set. Yes, I had one!! I eventually lost the pins to hold the anchor bracket down to the paper, but that set of little plastic rings, cogs, pins and pens brought me more hours of "whoa-isn't-that-cool" than almost anything else in whatever free time I was allowed to have growing up.  

But the problem with the cogs and the ring was the same as with the compass. It depended on everything staying where it was supposed to stay.  I ruined countless Spirograph artworks because the cog - or the pins - slipped out of the anchoring ring.  The result - usually a dark mark bisecting the entire masterpiece - was not salvageable.  And that was in the days before erasable pens.  ;) So, I found the best way to do it successfully was to make sure it was all anchored well before starting, and to take my time while allowing the cogs to carry the pen - while I concentrated on keeping the pressure against the wheel steady.  Just as I had learned with the compass.  

Everyone needs an Anchor that won't slip away or shift.
I know Who mine is.
I wonder what - or who - is yours?

Centering

I've been reading a book I got for Christmas - "Hungry for God" by Margaret Feinberg. I started reading in fear and trembling because so many books on getting to know God are so incredibly NOT about getting to know Him but getting to know more ABOUT Him.  Knowledge I have.  What I lack is experience.  

Anyway, this book didn't turn out to be as I feared.  It talks about the mundane things of our lives and how God uses them to reveal Himself to us through them.  If we listen.  

One analogy she uses in her book - one which is not original to her of course - is the one about the clay and the potter.  But she happens to mention the part that is so easily overlooked about creating a piece of pottery.  It's the first part - the part a potter calls 'centering'.  

Source (via Google Images):
http://pottery.about.com/od/centeringonthewheel/
ss/centering_2.htm

The potter doesn't just plunk down the clay and start to make a pot or a vase right away.  The first part after smacking it down on the wheel, is holding the clay in a lump as the wheel turns beneath it, squeezing it toward the middle of the wheel, making sure it is perfectly in the inner circle of the wheel, even before the clay has an inside part. The potter keeps adding water, squeezes some more, and shifts the clay on the wheel until it seems to be standing still even though the wheel is still spinning.  This is to make the clay pliable and to prevent disaster later on from the creation being off-center.  

And yet the pot cannot hold anything yet because it doesn't have an opening.  Any water poured onto it would just slide off.  The potter wants to make sure that the clay is where it needs to be, first and foremost. He tests it by squishing it down with the heel of his hand. Then squeezing it toward the middle so that it's tall. Then down again. Then up.  The clay - if it could think - might wonder what in the world was becoming of it.  Yet all this time it is being shaped, and its goodness is being slimed all over the potter's fingers, sinking into his pores, under his nails.  The potter is inexorably connected to and involved in his creation. 

Only then, only after the clay is perfectly centered and pliable, is it ready to be "opened" - the potter squishes the lump again, the clay's outside becomes the general shape that was intended, and then the thumb starts pressing down in the very center of the lump - "opening" the clay and creating an inside that will make the piece usable. 

There are quite a few steps involved in pottery, but the one that stood out for me is the centering.  Again I stress that as the clay in this analogy, we cannot be 'opened' until we are 'centered.'  And it's all God's work including adding water (which symbolizes His divine presence being infused into us); He is the one who does it, we are only available to Him.  He works a work on the wheel of our lives (which HE set in motion) and it is HIS choice how long that takes or what shape will eventually be produced.  

It's messy. It's uncomfortable sometimes. There's a lot of pressure.  It takes a long time.  And it's necessary.  

Totally.