The Wellness Way

The Teacher Will Appear

2011-11-11T23:11:00.005-05:00

There’s something happening here. Here, inside of me. Deep within layers, underneath the skin, in the space where there is no such thing as “me” but only light that fills and spills and is.

I am traveling back, back, back to that place of knowing, of floating, of being the dew drop on the piece of grass, of being the piece of grass under the dew drop. My human shape disintegrates and I feel a rush, a gust of wind, a holy breath moving through me, lifting me up until I touch the sky.

I am the sky, the Earth, the expanse in between. I am nothing and I am everything, completely emptied yet filled to the brim. I have lost my ego-mind and can feel the eternity of this moment, the bliss of all moments, the perpetual birthing of moments within moments.

I rest. In the light within that pours without that flows in all directions, I breathe and know that I am safe.

I could stay here forever. Here, in the glow of the flickering flame, sheltered from the illusion of impermanence that has made the world go mad. It is here that I feel most well, most alive, free.

But now the light in the hallway has gone on, the toilet is being flushed, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen into my very human nostrils and I open my eyes to the dawn of another day. I feel my union with the sacred soften as I return fully to my earthly body and the stillness within scatters like confetti.

I am meant to be here. Here, on this planet, at this time, with these people. I am meant to experience this corporeal life, to learn, to grow, to heal the wounds that render me vulnerable, the soul scars that have yet to fade away. I have chosen this and I am grateful.

Yet, I struggle. Not with the choice itself, but with the balance I must achieve in order to deny no part of my being.

I want to be grounded. On this terrestrial plane, I need to be grounded. I need to feel my feet firmly planted in the soil and to trust my basic instincts of survival. I need to honour my tribe and treasure its history passed down through blood and bones and bedside prayers. I need to bite into the sweetest orange and savour its nectar as it drips down my chin, celebrating the humanness of the experience. I need to feel at home here. Here, in my human flesh, sharing the planet with other wandering souls.

But under the dark blue veil of early morning, before the sun makes itself known, as I sit by candlelight and bask in the wisdom of the ages, I often find myself wishing that the moment would not end, that the smell of freshly brewed coffee would not come.

It is not that I am unwilling to embrace my human journey, but that I am reluctant to let go of the powerful awareness of inter-connection that comes in those tranquil morning moments of peace and contemplation.

It is, I know, unnecessary to let go. The wise enlightened souls speak of mindfulness not only as a daily practice, but as an all-encompassing way of life, an acute appreciation of the present moment infused with a deeper awareness of the divine matrix from which all is born and in which all is intertwined.

But I am not a wise enlightened soul and often feel as though there is a rupture somewhere along my energetic landscape, a divide between my desire to be grounded and my longing to fly, and an inability to harmonize these two seemingly disparate aspects of my being, even though I know they are not entirely dissimilar.

Nothing in this world is wholly one thing or the other; everything exists in relation to something else. Humanity and divinity - like star-crossed lovers - cannot be kept apart for very long. They emerge from one another, transform into each other, and exist because of the other. Every human experience contains a speck of the divine, and every divine encounter is perceived as such because of this human experience.

Oftentimes, when I am in nature, I sense a joining of these two parts of myself and I become whole. I see my flawed humanness seamlessly intersect with the flawless light of consciousness that connects me to the trees, the lake, the top of the rocky mountain and I am filled with a kind of joy that is undefinable and limitless in its power.

But there are other times when, in spite of my best efforts, I become entrenched in the world of the mundane, like a spider caught in its own web. I become entangled, confused, trapped in thought and emotion, unable to unsnarl my limbs from the muddled mess I've created.

I get tired. My body aches. My resolve drains out of me drop by precious drop and my frustration builds. I hover somewhere between anger and sadness, feeling completely cut off from the Source from which I draw my strength. My peaceful morning meditations fade into the background, like a mirage I am not even sure exists.

Where is the balance here? Why - with all of the knowledge I’ve acquired and the bits of wisdom I hold in my hand - do I allow myself to get dragged down by the troubles of a society I know isn’t entirely real? How am I to avoid these moments of imagined segregation from the light within that pours without, that flows in all directions? Where is the map that leads me back home? Where is my guide in these troubling times?

“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear,” says a famous Buddhist proverb. I open my arms, open my heart, ask my teacher to find me. (Or whisper my name and I will find you.)

I am ready to be a human girl in a human world who never loses touch with the force that percolates under the surface. Ready to grow roots and wings, to kiss the ground, the sky, the expanse in between. Ready to be the curved line that both separates and connects the yin and the yang, to be the pivot around which the divine dance takes place.

Ready to learn how to seek nothing, grasp nothing, resist nothing. Ready to ask the hard questions and hear the hard answers. Ready to surrender to the Now - the wondrous Now that lasts but a moment yet extends until forever.

This student is ready. She patiently waits.

Nine Eleven

2011-09-11T22:03:00.026-04:00

Ten years ago, I was taking my first steps as an adult - living in Kingston, minutes away from the university campus and hours away from the scrutinizing eyes of my parents. Life was exciting and confusing and mysterious and good. The ground I stood on was solid – not always rock-solid, but never soft enough for me to sink past my ankles or my knees. These hard yet beautiful days of newfound freedom and self-governance would not cause me to suffocate on my own inexperience. These were days of big discoveries, small disasters, and bottles of cheap wine drunk too fast and too often.

Ten years ago, I was not unaware of suffering. I knew of war and racism and cruelty and poverty. I acted in plays that raised awareness about abuse and rape and I spoke to high school students about the dangers of bullying. I did not exist in a bubble of denial; in fact, I was intimately drawn to those who suffered the most and felt a pressing urge to try to make things better for them.

Ten years ago, I knew that the world was not a safe place, but I firmly believed that as long as I kept both feet firmly planted on the ground, life would support me, protect me, and keep me standing upright. I would be OK. At the end of the day, no matter the circumstances, we would all be OK. Although dangers lurked around some corners, most corners had no secrets, hid no hazards, and provided shelter from the storm.

Ten years ago, on this very day, I changed. Everyone changed, I think, but I cannot speak for everyone, nor do I wish to. I can only speak for myself - my 20 year-old self, walking down the steps of the administration building at Queen’s University, and coming face-to-face with Mike, my friend and housemate, who responded to my casual “Hey! How’s it going?” with words I will always remember: “Terrorists attacked New York City! The twin towers are falling!”

Ten years ago, I stood on those steps, books clutched in my arms, and heard sounds tumbling out of Mike’s mouth as though launched by a forceful inner propeller: planes, crash, dead, war. He was speaking fast and his eyes were wild and, though I was unable to make sense of all I was hearing, I knew that the world I lived in had suddenly, unexpectedly, shifted. It was an eerie sort of knowing – the kind that relies not on logic, but instead comes from an icy trickle that travels up and down the spine, a spark ignited in the psyche.

Ten years ago, I walked to class feeling strangely unsteady, as though the solid ground I had grown so accustomed to had suddenly ruptured, producing gaps big enough to swallow me whole, and the rest of the world with me. I walked fast, eager to step into the familiar classroom of English 223: Selected Women Writers, eager to take my seat, pull out my notebook, and resume life as usual. Life as usual was gone - I sensed this acutely - but I was hoping for one more hour of regular class time, one more hour of easy banter about Anne Sexton's poetry.

Ten years ago, students poured into English class with shock and fear smeared all over their faces, like lipstick marks left over from a messy party the night before. There was chattering and gasping and cries of disbelief and those students from New York ran out of the room before class even started. Our teacher arrived, self-assured and unruffled, and greeted us with a smile. As she was about to begin her lecture a fellow student stood up and said, “I don’t know if you know this, but New York City was attacked this morning.” As I watched our teacher's expression transform from one of confidence to one of absolute bewilderment, I knew she was feeling the exact same way I had felt only moments before, the exact same way we were all feeling on this warm September morning. The solid ground she stood on split before our very eyes.

Ten years ago, class was dismissed and pubs were quickly filled with anxious students, teachers, and administrators drowning their panic in pints of beer and fixing their eyes on the television screens. The images were horrific, yet we could not look away.

Ten years ago, I walked home, traumatized by the scenes on TV, heartbroken for the victims and their families, no longer feeling free or safe at all. I had a desperate urge to call the people I loved and tell them that I loved them. I felt very much like a child in need of hearing my Mom’s reassuring voice telling me that all would be OK. That night, before bed, I wrote in my journal: Today the world became a scary place.

Scary things had happened before. There had been wars and atrocious acts committed against innocent people and genocides and holocausts and terrorist attacks much worse, casualty-wise, than these attacks on New York City. But I had either not been born or not been old enough to understand these events. Not that I “understood” these attacks either, but I felt them – I felt their impact rippling through the very bedrock of humanity.

Ten years ago, a line was drawn in the sand of my existence: on one side, my childhood and teenage years (pre-9/11); on the other side, my life as an adult (post-9/11). No matter how strong the wind blows or how high the tide rises, this line will neither dissolve nor be washed away. It is weaved into the tapestry of life itself, embedded in the collective unconscious, and imprinted in the lines on the palms of my hands. The attacks on 9/11, and the events that followed, continue to permeate our days, to influence the media, to infiltrate our sense of identity, to worm their way into various ideologies, and to transform our lexicon. It is impossible to go back. It is impossible even to imagine a world without 9/11. The cracks and fissures run too deep.

Ten years ago, I felt a sadness of the sort I had not felt before. It was a sadness that rose not from my own heart alone, but from the shattered hearts of many - an ache so full of loss and despair, I had to ignore it for fear of being submerged within it. It was a sadness surrounded by lies and corruption, by a deep-seated feeling that there was much we did not yet know, that there were truths in the rubble we did not yet have the strength to see.

Ten years ago, the towers fell, the ground shifted, the line was drawn, and I grew up.

Today, newspapers around the globe are publishing pieces about 9/11 – re-hashing the events of the day, making political statements, pointing fingers in various directions, demanding answers for mistakes made, and asking the two most important questions: What have we learned? and Where do we go from here?

What have we learned? It is better, I think, to answer this question individually, as the lessons learned by one may not have been learned by another. There are still those who believe that retribution is the only way up and out of the hole 9/11 threw us in. Those who cling to anger and spend their days plotting schemes of retaliation. Those who have learned nothing but the empty satisfaction that comes from making “them” pay – the elusive “them” that has changed again and again over the years. The elusive "them" that, in fact, is much closer to the elusive "us" than some wish to acknowledge.

Anger is valid, of course. Ten years later, there is anger that still needs to be expressed, rather than concealed and permitted to fester. There are tears that still need to be shed and cries that still need to be howled into the midnight skies. There are questions that need to be asked and answers that need to be given. There is pain that needs to be suffered and grief that needs to be endured.

But there are other things too, aren’t there? Hands that need to be held, not only in New York City, but all around the world. Children that need to be hugged. Words of encouragement that need to be spoken.

Where do we go from here? As far as I can tell, there is only one reasonable answer to this question, only one path that leads away from heartache and pain towards the light of a brand new day. There is only one word strong enough, big enough, and true enough to give us the courage to dust ourselves off and regain our balance. There is only one direction in which to walk, heads held high, allied hearts beating our collective commitment to carry on in spite of the crevices in the road and our uneven gait.

Love, my friends, is the only real way out of this decade-long mess.

Ten years ago, an event took place that left us shaken and afraid. But we are still here, we are still breathing, the gaps in the ground have yet to swallow us up.

We cannot erase the day that was, unsee those innocent people jumping to their deaths, unbreak those hearts that were ripped open, or undo those betrayals inflicted by people of power, people we naively thought we could trust. But we can choose not to be a pawn in their game, not to be a puppet in their macabre spectacle. We can choose not to let fear render us stagnant, not to let rage turn our hearts black. We can choose to get up in the morning and do our very best, whatever that best may be.

We can open our eyes and be grateful for the dawn. We can reach for our partner’s hand and squeeze it, sharing an intimate moment of tenderness without even saying a word. We can smile at strangers and watch them smile back, the twinkle in their eye reminding us of the inner child that still resides within us all. We can appreciate the family and the friends that grace our lives and we can listen to them when they need to talk. We can be shoulders for each other – to carry each other’s burdens, support each other’s labors, and catch each other’s tears.

Ten years ago, the fabric of our lives unraveled into a twisted, muddled knot. We can untangle the knot with every thought we think, word we speak, and deed we do. We can refuse to buy into the reward of revenge and choose, instead, to direct our energies towards healing and growth. We can expand our consciousness in a way that allows us to embrace the entire world. We can expand our capacity for kindness in a way that allows us to give selflessly and expect nothing in return. We can teach our children about tolerance and compassion by living lives that radiate those very qualities. We can speak out against corruption and lies and be the voice of reason in a world gone awry. We can honour each other, respect our differences, and marvel at our shared human experience.

We can remember that we are all made of stardust and that we are all glowing from within.

Glow, little spirits, glow. The world needs your light now.

This Healing Work

2011-03-24T16:22:00.010-04:00

I can feel your pain as surely as if it were my own. When I place my hand on yours, it is fear I feel gnawing at your bones. Your pulse beats your story and your eyes tell a tale I am not sure I am strong enough to hear.

I see a little boy, unguarded and pure. I imagine rubber boots, fists full of rocks, dirt-encrusted fingernails, and holes in your socks. There was light in your eyes, once upon a time. You were light. I wish you could know this, hold on to this and let it carry you through the dark and scary nights. I wish you could remember.

I am on the verge of tears, but I know I need to get a grip. I am here to touch you in a way that is loving and safe, to honour your goodness and to help you move through those energetic knots that have you feeling so stuck and defeated. I am here to listen. I am here to care. I am so sorry.

Thank you for braving the blizzard and coming here today; for allowing me the privilege of playing a part in your healing journey. I am new at this, you know. I have only just begun and my heart is probably beating faster than yours is. Thank you for trusting me.

I am not a healer now, nor will I ever be. Those who claim to be healers have chosen to ignore one crucial piece of information: We can only heal ourselves. But I can be a tunnel, a conduct for healing energy to pass through me and into you. I can be the middlewoman that guides the energy, and perhaps even strengthens its curative properties, if my intentions are good and my vessel uncluttered. I am happy to be the intermediary between the heavens and your beautiful but broken spirit. I have prepared myself for this. I am ready.

I am not ready at all.

What can give can also receive. If energy can travel through me and into you, it can also travel through you and into me. And in this clear vessel that I have carefully primed for healing work, a tempest can take place.

It is taking place. As I make my way from school to home, hours later, my mind is racing with angry thoughts. I find it difficult to walk, not because of the snow on the ground but because there is a heaviness inside of me trying to pull me down. Everywhere I look, I see suffering. My throat is tight and I am overcome with feelings of frustration and annoyance. I want to stand up on the streetcar and scream “Nobody understands!”

This angry person is so far removed from the girl I was this morning, I know that something is not quite right. The realization comes as a shooting pain in my head: these strong emotions are yours, not mine. They have squeezed their way into my psyche and are wreaking havoc on my mind. They are spreading their claws and ripping through the fabric of my perfectly good day.

I teeter on the edge of panic. What do I do now?

I hear a voice - thick as smoke and smooth as honey. I have heard it before; it is the voice of the man who spends his days singing to strangers on the street. He never asks for money, never holds up a sign, but just sits there, crooning old favourites. I reach into my jacket pocket, dig out a looney, and drop it into his empty coffee cup. He says, “Thank you. God bless” and gives me a lopsided grin. I feel the irritated voices inside quiet down for a second and this reassures me a little.

I arrive home and know I need to be alone. I am in a toxic state and ready to spew venom on anybody who gets close. I give myself permission to feel the hurt - your hurt - which is now mine too. I allow the waves of sadness to lap at my feet, my knees, my waist, but I do not allow them to swallow me up. I fight against the undertow, digging my heels in the sand, clinging to the solid ground which is anything but solid.

I embrace my aloneness and wait for the waves to recede, the sadness to pass, the bitterness to lose its bite. I carve out a space for myself - a hollow haven amid the density of the human condition. I fall into it, as easily as I fall into bed, and I let go of everything about today: you and your troubled eyes, me and my naiveté, Old Man Winter’s gruff farewell, the street singer’s velvety voice.

I clean out my vessel, yet again, chipping away at the unnecessary bits. I remove particles of you, particles of me, particles of both of us that cover my insides with dust. I vow to do a better job of protecting this little heart of mine; it is the only one I’ve got. I am of no use to you, or to anybody, if I allow the weight of the world to press down on my shoulders and obstruct my energetic flow. I am of no use to you, or to anybody, if I allow anger and resentment to dictate the way. If I lose myself, I am of no use to even me.

I look up at the night sky and pray for you. I imagine a string of stars reaching down deep inside of you and uprooting your pain, your loss, your fear, and catapulting them past the moon, into the darkest black hole of the cosmos. I see the little boy that still lives inside you - he is wounded but not destroyed. I ask the stars to lead you back to that boy and his light. Back to you, back to hope. Back to health.

Okasan

2011-03-18T14:27:00.009-04:00

A week ago today, Japan was rocked by a massive earthquake – an 8.9 magnitude quake (the fourth largest recorded since 1900) that caused a devastating tsunami to obliterate entire towns and cities, leaving many people dead and many more missing.

I first heard the news on the radio, as I lay in bed fighting the urge to “snooze” for another ten minutes. My eyes popped open. I sat up straight. My heart raced. A few seconds later, I heard Yves’s voice coming from the living room: “Oh my God. You have to come see this.”

I had never seen anything like it – a seemingly neverending wave slithering its way out of the ocean and onto land, flooding fields, submerging homes, causing bridges to collapse and cars to be carried away by the sheer power of water. It looked like a scene from a science-fiction film. It was hard to believe that these images were real, that those cars that bobbed on the water the way rubber duckies bob in the tub had, only seconds earlier, been filled with people going about their daily routines.

How quickly a day can change. Imagine being on that freeway - heading to work, sipping on coffee, singing whatever song – and looking out your side window. Imagine seeing that wave breaking the boundary between earth and sea and doing the thing that water does best: flow downward. Imagine the panic.

I was glued to the TV all of Friday morning, completely awe-struck, yet again, by the forces of Nature and heartbroken for the people of Japan.

I have an affinity for these people and their country. It was my country, not that long ago. It was my home. They were my family.

Oh, Japan. I hadn’t thought about you in quite some time. But this week, you were always on my mind.

I pull out my old journals and suddenly it is 2004 and I am getting on a plane and flying towards Adventure. I am young and brave, leaving behind the familiar, fueled by the irrespressible (some might say irresponsible) need to lose myself in the unknown.

It was the inner call of the wild that made me pack my bags and say goodbye - that untamed part inside of me that feeds on change and challenge and unruly encounters and shaky ground. It was something else too – the desire to dip my toes in foreign soil, breathe in unusual scents, taste unfamiliar foods, and be the wanderer in a strange new world, the moving dot on the map.

Revisiting these old journals feels like re-discovering an old friend – a 23 year-old girl brimming with giddiness, trusting her “illogical” instincts, craving independence and self-sovereignty, wise in her choices but naïve in her reasons for choosing. It is with a mixture of nostalgia and elation that I realize I love this girl.

With this younger me by my side I plunge into the pages of my past and I remember it all. The euphoria of the first few weeks – the brightness of the Asakusa sun, the wetness in the air that made even my stick-straight hair go frizzy. I remember the Harajuku kids, expressing their inner realities, and the bright red temples, amidst the bright green trees.

I recall my first earthquake (October 7, 2004). It was small, but big enough to wake me from sleep, rattle my bones, my nerves, and the plates in my cupboard.

I relive my trek to the holy summit of Mount Fuji, my love affair with Hiroshima, my dear snow monkeys in Nagano, and the onsens of Beppu.

I think of the day the sakura bloomed, dotting the country in pink, and I am reminded of the cherry blossom’s purpose: to remind us mortals of the delicate and transient nature of life.

I remember the food and how much I loved to eat.

I remember the people – those that opened their hearts and homes to let me in. So many wonderful people, so much cross-cultural connection.

I remember Toshiko, my “Japanese Mama” as she liked to call herself. My Okasan.

She was my neighbour and she approached me one day as I rode my bike up the street. She took my hand and shook it firmly. Then she said “To…shi…ko” and pointed to herself. “Come…my…house.”

That was the beginning.

Toshiko’s English was only slightly better than my extremely poor Japanese but, somehow, we got each other.

She was 63 years old and her eyes sparkled like a child’s. She wore dresses and wide-brimmed straw hats and superstar sunglassses. She loved purses and owned over a hundred, though she told me this in confidence and made me promise never to divulge it to her husband. She had recently moved to Shin-Toride from Tokyo and desperately missed the bustle of the city. She loved drinking beer with dinner, but always made sure she had some red wine for me.

She called herself “plain” because she had never had a job outside of the home, but she was anything but plain. She was a being of remarkable goodness, who took pleasure in taking care of others, who found joy in the simplest tasks, and who never, ever complained. She was also a tea ceremony Master who had studied the craft for over 25 years. To me, she was both an artist of the highest calibre and my closest friend.

I’ll never forget the day my mom called from Canada and Toshiko answered the phone. My mom was trying to explain that she was "Vicki’s mother" and would like to talk to Vicki. All Toshiko could understand were the words "Vicki’s mother" and she kept saying, “Yes, yes…I am Bicki’s mama.” So much laughter followed that phone call.

Japan was indeed an Adventure. I go through my journals and I marvel at the things I saw and did and at the vital lessons I learned. But it is the people I remember the most - the humanness that can brigthen the dreariest day, the intimate sharing that can occur, in spite of a language barrier, over a steaming cup of tea.

Anywhere can be home. Home is not a house made of bricks or a bedroom painted pink. Home is that feeling of comfort and joy that fills us when we are in the right place, with people we love, and we feel safe.

As I sit here typing this post, the news on TV is devastating: over 6000 dead, 10 000 still missing, and Japan on the verge of a nuclear disaster. I want to cry and scream out, “Why?” and pound the floor and swear at God and get really angry and get really scared.

Instead, I think of Toshiko and her girlish giggle. I feel her – though she is a world away, I feel her presence, her goodness, her unshakeable strenth. I dig deep, deep, to the very bottom of my well, where my own unshakeable strength lives, and I combine it with hers and, together, we ignite a thread of bright, white light. I feel this thread as surely as I feel the beating of my own heart.

There is hope here, admist the rubble. There are threads of light igniting in households all over the world, sparking compassion and charity and kindness. There is a breaking down of “us” versus “them” as we feel empathy for the plight of our brothers and sisters. There is love here, among the tears, and there will be healing. I am not sure if it is our humanity, our divinity, or the perfect combination of both, that keeps us going when catastrophe strikes, but we do keep going. We strive for home. We strive for life. The sakura blooms again.

The End Of the World As I Know It

2011-03-16T20:29:00.017-04:00

A friend once told me that while she was having an impassioned conversation, a beam of light shot out through the top of her head, astonishing those around her.

I did not doubt this story for a second. This friend moves through the world the way birds fly in the sky: joyful, free, and fearless. She trusts her inner-voice and makes decisions based on how they feel in her body, not on how they may be perceived by other people. She possesses that rare kind of knowledge that is usually reserved for elderly folks who have lived remarkable lives and acquired wrinkles and wisdom along the way.

If any of my friends were to have a beam of light shoot out of the top of their head, it would be her.

I remember the night she told me this story. It was back in 2008 and we were both working at the tea shop. We had just finished our closing duties and were reluctant to go home. We talked and laughed and confessed. Our discussion touched upon the menial details of our day-to-day existence and grew to incorporate the cosmos.

I went home feeling deeply connected to this friend, to the planet, and to the entire world. Although my own spiritual journey had begun years earlier, I suddenly felt an urgent need to renew my commitment to it.

I had already started breaking old consumerist patterns and was working on simplifying my life. I was surrounding myself with people who shared similar beliefs and whose experiences and insights propelled me further on my quest. I was noticing gaps in the carefully orchestrated order of things and was aware of the Otherness that permeates the physical realm. I was reading books about transformation and ways to escape the ego’s grasp. I was traveling the path of awakening and feeling the seeds inside my heart start to sprout.

But I had never had a beam of light shoot out of the top of my head.

I had never come that close to converging with the Light. I had never experienced such a powerful and glaringly obvious connection with the realm of Spirit.

My experiences were more like whispers carried in the breeze or specks of sunlight piercing through my early-morning dreams. They were beautiful, but brief. I knew they were there and I knew they were real, but I longed for more. It was not Nirvana that I longed for, but simply some kind of confirmation that I was indeed sprouting and grasping some fragments of Truth.

I knew that I was - just by the way I felt in the world and by the synchronicities that kept seeping into my reality. I just wanted to know it more. I wanted to be one of those people who are unshakeable in their beliefs because they have experienced something extraordinary. I wanted to touch the untouchable.

So I continued on my quest, hoping that someday, somehow, soon, something would happen. I listened with rapture when people shared stories of enlightenment and I anxiously waited for my moment, my beam of light.

It did not come.

The whispers and the specks of sunlight still came. I still saw the beauty and felt a sublime presence guiding me on my path, but I did not feel as though I was growing. I was at a standstill, spiritually speaking. I wondered if I had reached my plateau.

At some point I realized that I was OK with this. Perhaps I was not meant for any great transformation or life-altering big bang. Perhaps I was meant to notice the small things. Perhaps the small things were the big things.

But there was something in me - a push I simply could not ignore. A voice that kept telling me that there was more. That I wasn’t crazy. That I needed to be brave and do the thing that scared me.

What scared me was leaving my job and returning to school, at my age, to embark on a whole new voyage.

I wondered if I was losing my mind. I wondered if it was normal to live a life of semi-contentment and if this constant “search for more” was just a way for me to avoid committing to anything, a way for me to avoid “growing up.” I wondered if I would ever feel as though I was in the right place and I wondered if I should just stop seeking, settle down, and be quiet already.

But I didn’t want to be quiet, and neither did the voice inside my heart. There was more and I was getting closer and closer to dancing with the divine.

So I applied to a school I felt a deep connection to. I got accepted-paid tuition-left my job-and never looked back. Things happened that quickly and, before I knew it, the push that had propelled me forward grew into a force, a flame, and then I was flying. Flying so high and so free and seeing my reality from a newfound angle.

I had made the right decision. I knew it in my bones, in my blood, in my flesh, in the surrender that occurs between every beat of my heart. I knew it the way birds know how to build nests, the way newborn babies know how to reach for their mother’s breast.

It is this knowing that spurs me on - through mid-terms and exams and more acupoint quizzes than I care to remember. It isthis knowing that pats me on the back as I pour over readings - so exhausted I can barely make out the words - and it is this knowing that guides my hand as I locate meridians on my own body.

When I found out that there was a mandatory weekend workshop last weekend, it is this knowing that gave me the energy to not only attend the workshop, but to show up alert and open to whatever lesson or message I was meant to hear.

I had no expectations. I was not searching for illumination or hoping to reach some great understanding. In fact, had I been given the choice to attend the workshop or not, I probably wouldn’t have. I would have stayed home, caught up on some much-needed sleep and studied for two upcoming tests.

But I was not given that choice, so there I was. In that room. With those people. Listening to that teacher - a teacher bright-eyed in her bliss.

And it happened.

Words were spoken and I felt the shift immediately, but it was subtle at first - a nearly imperceptible flutter in my chest. I looked around: Had they felt it too? No. This was me. “This” - this unnameable, untouchable flutter of recognition - was happening to me. Things started coming together really quickly - moments, memories, faces, feelings, times, places. I felt the seeds sprout, the sprouts bloom, the cosmic dots connect, line up, and encircle the entirety of my existence in one fell swoop and I scribbled on my piece of paper: Oh my God.

I lived with this flutter for the duration of the weekend, knowing I was on the brink of something extraordinary and feeling intimately cradled in the arms of the universe. The teacher spoke and I felt her voice resonating in the inlets of my heart, shifting the axis of my being in a way it had never shifted before. I do not use the word shift metaphorically. I felt a moving, a sliding, an unblocking taking place in my core. I stepped out of class, on Sunday evening, and was unsteady on my feet, as though my body was adjusting to my new internal constitution. I told my classmates: “I feel weird right now.”

After a few hours of putting aside the experience in order to study for the next day’s test, I walked home as fast as I could, burst through the door, hugged my guy in a way I hadn’t hugged him in a long time, and started to talk. Using the languages I know I did my best to explain the feelings, the realizations, the magic of the weekend. I looked into his eyes as I spoke, half expecting him to laugh it all off, to say, “That’s great Vic. What do you want for dinner?” But he didn’t laugh and he didn’t interrupt and he didn’t change the subject. He was right there, with me, goosebumps on his arms, aware that something special had taken place.

I talked and talked and talked and together we came to even more realizations, reached a place of greater awareness, fueled each others’ inner discoveries, and collapsed - two hours later - exhausted but glowing from within.

He whispered: “You know how the best things always happen near the end of something? The best scene is near the end of the movie? The best chapter, near the end of the book? The best song, near the end of the concert? Maybe we're nearing the end of the world...”

I knew what he meant. He didn’t mean the end of the world, as in massive extinction. He meant the end of the world as we know it. He meant the Apocalypse, if you will. Though the word Apocalypse has come to be understood as “the end of the world,” its original greek meaning was “lifting the veil” or “revelation.”

Maybe this lifting of the veil really is upon us. Maybe these 2012 prophecies are indeed telling us that we are on the brink of a great revelation, a new sort of existence - the next crucial step in the evolution of mankind. As someone who studies traditional healing, I have tremendous respect for our ancestors, for the pieces of information they left behind. It is foolish not to take their messages seriously; we must expand our narrow-minded idea of the world and embrace their wisdom.

It was after our sharing - after he had fallen asleep and I felt completely emptied - that the flutter in my chest began to flourish. This flutter, which had spoken to me all weekend and guided me through a series of transformative moments, wasn’t done just yet.

It grew. It became a thump against my ribcage, a pounding in my head, a warmth that spread like a star from my centre to my extremities. I laid down in my bed, breathed, and acknowledged the phenomenon taking place inside my body.

It became noisy - like a wailing wind. It went from warm to hot and filled my body with fire - when I closed my eyes, I saw red. It started buzzing, the way bees buzz in the middle of summer. The buzzing started in my head and then, like an electrical current, whizzed round and round my body, never ending nor beginning, just moving in me and through me, up and down my spine, below the surface of my skin, fast and burning and electrifying. I thought I might spontaneously combust.

The buzzing continued until six in the morning when, finally, it faded. My heart rate returned to normal. My skin cooled. I closed my eyes and the red was gone. I slept.

I woke a few hours later with more questions than answers: What does it all mean? And where do I go from here?

I am still processing the experience and figuring out how to best utilize the knowledge I acquired over the weekend. It is knowledge I am keeping close to my heart, insights I do not feel ready to share.

But what I can share - and have shared in this lengthy piece of writing - is that it is not by desperately searching for Spirit that one encounters it, but by letting go of fear, by surrendering to the voice of Truth that comes from within, by opening our hearts, honouring our own odysseys, and noticing the small things which are, in fact, incredibly big.

Longing for spontaneous transformation is futile. The spiritual journey is made rich by the very act of journeying. The cracks and crevices in the road, the things that scare us the most, the people who challenge us - these are the things that move us forward and inward, towards greater understanding. The parts of ourselves we think of as weak or broken or less-than-perfect are those parts that offer the most significant gifts, the most amazing opportunities for growth.

I have not reached Enlightenment, nor do I claim to possesses divine wisdom. But I have heard my name called - heard it loudly and clearly - from a place other than the here and now. I have scratched the surface of my own ethereal soul and, though I have not had a beam of light shoot out of the top of my head, I have felt a fire buzzing through my body.

The Mayans were on to something. The veil is indeed lifting.

Listen

2011-02-28T13:26:00.004-05:00

Cut open a conversation. Strip away the surface smile and look beneath the polite “mmhm.” Peer into the vacant eyes and see the thoughts - hundreds of them - fighting their way through the cerebral cortex, desperately wanting to be set free.

Realize that this conversation - like most conversations - is not the two-way street it is meant to be. It is not an exchange of ideas through verbal expression. Instead, it is a tug-of-words that carries on day after day, week after week, for years. It is a never-ending game of push/pull in which each party gives a little in order to take a lot.

This is not a conversation at all. Nobody is listening.

We think we are, but we are not.

We interrupt each other, finish the other person’s unfinished sentence, and continually try (mostly unconsciously) to bring the conversation back to us.

We sit next to someone we love - a dear friend we haven’t seen for weeks or months - but we are absent. They open their mouths and their words tumble out - words that we only partially hear because, as we sip our coffee and nibble on some cake, we are lost in our own circumstances and anxiously waiting for the opportunity to unleash our own discombobulated opinions, rebuttals, theories, and “truths.”

We say, “I know exactly how you feel” not because we know exactly how they feel (can we ever know exactly how someone else feels? Do we ever live someone else's life?) but because we want to share one of our own stories.

(Your Grandpa died? I know exactly how you feel. When my Grandpa died I was eight years old... and the tug-of-words continues).

We are trapped in a perpetual cycle of “waiting to talk.” Not because we are bad people, lousy friends, or poor partners, but because there is a deep need inside all of us to be heard.

I suspect it’s a need that arises in childhood, when most of us are told to “be seen and not heard,” to “be quiet in class,” to “shhhh.” We understood, early on, that our parents, our teachers, all of the adults in our world were busy. They didn’t always have time for our convoluted tales. They did the best they could, of course, but we didn’t want to be a bother, so we kept our thoughts mostly to ourselves and didn’t say the things we wanted to say.

We are saying them now though, whenever we can, to whomever will listen.

And here lies the crux of the problem - we are so consumed by the act of talking, so addicted to the sound of our own voice and the transmission of our own stories, that we have lost our ability to listen - really listen - to the stories of others.

Listening is not as simple as it looks. Real listening - the kind that has no underlying motive - takes practice and patience and resolve.

It requires a willingness to open your mind and your heart to fully receive the story that is being shared. It requires self-restraint to remain silent even though the words being spoken make you want to scream. It requires courage to stay present and grounded enough to see life through someone else’s lens, no matter how spotted or smeared that lens may be.

For the past two months, I have been actively trying to become a better listener and a more conscious friend. To be mindful when someone else is speaking, to turn off the flow of words inside my own head, and to immerse myself in the authentic sharing experience that is taking place.

The results, thus far, have been mind-boggling.

Friends whom I’ve known for years are sharing their previously unspoken hopes and deepest fears. They are divulging long-buried secrets and closeted pipe-dreams. They are opening up in a way they have never opened up before. And not because I am asking questions or digging for answers - but simply because I am there - really there - and I am willing to listen.

It is a privilege is to be invited into another person’s psyche; an honour to be entrusted with another’s personal mythology. It offers a tremendous opportunity for empathy, compassion, and growth.

After I have really listened to another person, I am always overcome by feelings of peace, joy, and profound gratitude for the genuine human-to-human connection of which I have been a part. Listening, I now know, is incredibly healing.

May we strive - all of us - to be better listeners. May we slow down, shut up, and be there. May we allow for pauses without feeling the need to jump in and clutter the silence with our own opinions. May we cherish those we love by creating a space for them that is comfortable and safe. May we come to understand that real listening is an art and an act of grace.

It is our right, as human beings, to be heard. And it is our duty, as human beings, to listen. After all, “the most precious gift we can offer anyone is our attention” (Thich Nhat Hanh).

Cut open a new conversation - one in which all parties are present, awake, and willing to relinquish their own narrative in order to embrace another’s. See the eyes - bright and alert. See the hearts - open and receptive.

See new kinds of relationships start to form, ones that run deeper than ever before. See the wounded child that lives inside every one of us start to heal. See the lessons being learned and the voices being heard. See the power of silent attentiveness at work.

Listen. Just listen. And watch your world transform.

***

This week's affirmation: I strive to be a better listener, a more mindful human being, a more conscious friend.

Metamorphosis

2011-01-26T10:36:00.006-05:00

Thirty is the lotus flower about to bloom, the cocoon about to burst, the sacred space between the in breath and the out breath.

It is the snake shedding its skin and the oyster revealing the pearl within.

It is an unfolding. A stripping away of layer upon layer of debris and delusions. An untangling of narcissistic knots, an unthreading of embroidered half-truths.

Thirty knows not everything, but something.

It knows that everything stems from a single cell. It rejects notions of disunity because it sees the link between molecules, species, communities. It places its hand gently over a heart centre and touches the warmth that lives there. It is the same warmth that lives everywhere.

Thirty trusts the natural order of life and death, day and night, yin and yang. The fear of being stagnant is completely unjustified. Stagnant does not exist. All moves in a perpetual circular motion. The beginning ends and the end begins.

The Earth turns, the body breathes itself, life happens.

Thirty is the breathtaking moment just before daybreak. The first crack creeping its way along the chrysalid.

It’s an irrepressible feeling of hope nestled deep in the belly. It runs up and down streets, feeling courageous and free. It rejoices in its own autonomy, its own choices, its own rose-tinted view of the world.

It feels anything but old.

***

This week’s affirmation: I celebrate!

The Journey Begins

2011-01-10T12:14:00.007-05:00

On November 21st, I wrote this letter.

Today, the journey begins...

Dear Institute of Traditional Medicine,

Some people know what they want to be when they grow up. Other people need to grow up in order to know what they want to be. I fall into the latter category, although when I think about my childhood, I realize that I embarked on this particular path very early on.

I see myself at eight years old, all knotty hair and skinned knees, seeking refuge in the safety of trees. I remember sitting on branches, face turned to the sky, feet dangling in the air, perfectly content in my makeshift perch. I felt as free as a bird and as strong as the tree itself. I knew - the way children always seem to know - that there was magic in the trees, the sun, the stars, the leaves. Magic and peace and healing.

Then, I grew up.

I moved away from the forest of my childhood and ventured to various cities, in various countries, endlessly searching for my place in the world and hoping to discover my purpose.

Often, in the midst of a busy city, I felt the need to return to nature. To find a tree and sit with it. To pick a flower and admire it. To jump in a river and go with its flow.

In 2005, after spending a stressful year in Japan, my health started to falter in a way it had never faltered before. I saw countless doctors who prescribed medications which, they assured me, would “make me feel better.”

But I did not merely want to feel better, I wanted to be better.

So, again, I immersed myself in nature. I walked, I breathed, I meditated, and I sought out alternative therapies such as massage, yoga, and acupuncture. Slowly but surely, I became well again.

Since then, Traditional Chinese Medicine has been a constant in my life. It has improved the health of my mind, body, and spirit. It has opened me up to the power of energy and the miracle of interconnectedness. It has encouraged me to explore various systems of healing, such as reiki and holistic nutrition, and to share my discoveries with others. It has propelled me forward, inward, and outward and has lead me to this particular moment, this particular letter.

I want to immerse myself in Traditional Chinese Medicine. I want to play a part, however small, in the healing of our world and of its people. I want to be an advocate for traditional medicine in North America. I want to be for others what some practitioners have been for me: teachers of balance, of inner-peace, of wellness.

I would be honoured to study at the Institute of Traditional Medicine. I have no doubt that it would be a positive and enriching experience for all involved. Thank you so much for your time and consideration.

In wellness and wonder,

Vicki Rivard

***

This week's affirmation: I go back to school with an open mind and an open heart and allow the lessons to nourish, inspire, and transform.

Love Is

2010-12-27T18:22:00.011-05:00

Love is...

Him.

Bringing her a blanket, a wet cloth, a glass of water.

Wrapping the blanket around her trembling body, placing the cloth so gently on her forehead, bringing the glass of water to her blood-red lips.

He is here.

A constant in the ebb and flow of life. A heart that beats her story, their story. A heart that never falters.

He is present, not only for the moment, but for the moments. All of them. The seemingly menial moments that make up a full life.

This love is fierce.

And selfless.

And true.

Her.

Escaping to a haze of smoke and live music and asking the stars her questions.

So young. So old. So ready to kiss the world, kiss its neck, and watch it melt.

She is here.

A being of extraordinary beauty, a goddess in disguise.

She is a seeker of truth and of self and of others. She needs to be heard, needs to share her secrets, her dreams, her mind-made delusions. She finds comfort in a squeeze of the hand, a lingering look, a shared glass of wine.

This love is eager.

And dizzy.

And loud.

Them.

Sitting under the eclipsing moon, mouthing a promise to each other.

Touching the Earth, breathing the sky, caressing the moment and its infinite power.

They are here.

Enveloped between the folds of passion and fear and tenderness. A living poem written on the palms of their hands, in the lifelines that make them both flawed and flawless.

This love is gentle.

And healing.

And brave.

Us.

Beautiful strangers grasping for the meanings behind the stories, vowing to wake up in the morning and make another choice, finding the courage forgive and forge ahead.

All of us, lucky mortals inhabiting this precious planet, understanding nothing and trusting the miraculous. We carry faith in our bleeding hearts and hope in our pockets.

We are here.

Floating in the cosmos on a blue water marble as delicate as a drop of rain, a testimony to the magic of this world. We protect and preserve and self sacrifice.

We enjoy snowflakes on our tongue and skin against skin. We climb mountain after mountain because the view from the top is worth every step. We say, “I love,” “I’m here,” “I care” and we really mean it.

We sit around the Christmas tree, filled with awe and gratitude, not for the gifts so perfectly wrapped, but for the people who know us, cherish us, and share the journey with us.

We cry until we’re blind and yet we still manage to find our way home. We do the best we can. We do what we can. We are beams of light.

This love is all-encompassing.

And human.

And bright.

This love. That love. Your love. Our love.

Is strong.

Is for now.

Is forever.

***

This week's affirmation: Love is all there is.

Ode To My Costa Rican Morning

2010-11-29T23:59:00.002-05:00

I sit with you.

In the hammock, toes in the sand, under the leafy tree, and the wind moves me.

I am in awe.

I close my eyes. I open them.

The blues and greens and whites of the ocean and of the sky unite on the horizon in a seamless fusion of matter. The two become one and then the one becomes me and then, suddenly, it all makes perfect sense.

The illusions of time and space dissipate until the only thing that matters is the intangible cord that connects us and nourishes us and makes us whole.

You breathe your salty air right into my pores, through my pores, and infiltrate the innermost chambers of my heart.

You swim in my veins and around my organs, dissolving barriers and creating new pathways.

You wake me up.

The sound of the surf lapping against the shore is settling and strengthening. In these waves, I find rhythm, heartbeat, breath.

I linger for hours.

Taking you in. Tasting you and cherishing you and allowing myself to be cherished in return. There is so much love here, on this deserted stretch of beach, at five o’clock in the morning.

I dread the moment of separation. I don’t ever want to leave you. But I know I have to because there is no way to contain you.

You cannot be stuffed into my suitcase and carried on-board. You cannot be bottled up and placed on the mantel as a keepsake. You cannot be worn as a dangling necklace around my neck. I have to walk away.

I walk away, in the early morning hours of another blissful day, and I promise to remember all of it, all of you, and all of me within you.

The glorious perfection of it all. The miracle of interconnectedness that exists between all things. Our divine love affair.

For some time, I do. I remember all the vivid details and I see you everywhere: in the midnight sky, in the early morning frost, in the howling wind, in every single teardrop. I am incredibly alive and full of sacred knowledge.

Then, as I had feared, I start to forget. The process is gradual - first a sight, then a sound, then a smell - until the entire feeling of you and me, of you encircling me, and of me as an integral part of you, has faded beyond recognition.

You are a dog-eared postcard now. A digital image on my laptop. A magnet on the fridge.

You are a fragment of my past and you no longer make my heart flutter.

But there are those moments - few and fleeting - when I swear I can still taste you. You sneak up unexpectedly - when I’m on the subway, at the tea store, standing at my kitchen sink - and for a split second, I am back there. With you. Within you. We are one.

I thank you.

You, my sun-drenched lover, reached down and around and rocked me to sleep, to life, and to that mystical world between the two where the subconscious mind wanders freely. You, unnameable force of nature, cradled me in the palm of your hand and showed me I was precious.

You, ethereal reminder of all that truly is, evoked within me awe and gratitude for a single speck of sand.

You, love, brought me home.

***

This week's affirmation: I recognize the flutter in my heart and I feel it fully.

Falling

2010-09-13T21:35:00.010-04:00

The air is crisper now. The days are shorter.

It is mid-September and many are mourning the end of heat, of beach, of children running free in the streets.

But summer will come again. It always does. Everything comes again, in its own time.

Now’s the time for the comforting crunch under my well-worn boots. For jeans and sweaters and scarves lovingly knitted by knobby hands. For carving a pumpkin and baking a pie. For the scent of ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon filling homes and fueling hearts. For morning walks under a cool blue sky and evening talks over steaming cups of tea, over-steeped and slightly bitter.

Fall is near. That mystical time of endings, of beginnings, of appreciation. I can hear it in the wind and I can feel it in my skin.

I fall into it, whole-heartedly and without hesitation.

I let it carry me, inspire me, remind me of the mystery inherent in all of life, the beauty intrinsically woven into every death, every last breath. I let it guide me to a place of gratitude and grace. I allow it to caress me and surprise me and move me to tears.

I say: Goodbye. Hello. Thank you. Don’t go. I love you. I miss you. I’m sorry. I forgive you. I am safe. I am strong. I am moving on.

I discard those thoughts and habits that have kept me stagnant and shriveled. Now is the time for change. For lessons to be learned, inside and outside of the classroom.

There is a change stirring within me that is both wondrous and frightening. The course of my life is being entirely altered. Thoughts that have been percolating for some time are being unleashed - fully brewed and delicious on the tip of my tongue.

I am taking that next, crucial step. It is honest. It is time.

I fall into this moment, losing my grip on the fears of yesterday and embracing the rush, the release, the unravelling, the discovery.

I wait for the reds and the oranges, rich purples and deep browns to once again transform my world into a watercolour painting of astonishing beauty.

I see myself, in the painting. I radiate.

I fall. Deeper and deeper into myself, acknowledging the less-than-perfect parts and loving them anyways. Dusk knocks at my door, always a few minutes earlier than the day before, and I welcome it with a smile, a sigh of relief. The blast of cool air is a tonic, energizing and propelling me forward.

Downward.

Inward.

I anticipate the brilliant landscape and I am filled with hope.

***

This week's affirmation: I surrender to the free fall.

Popcorn and Pyjamas

2010-08-30T08:22:00.000-04:00

Twelve years old.

It was a time of sun-filled days spent lounging around the pool, of bike rides and drumsticks and dreams about the future.

A time of posters plastered on bedroom walls and horror movies and dance parties.

A time of firsts: first kisses, first periods, first cigarettes.

A time of growth spurts and sex talks and boys with blue eyes and yellow dirt bikes making hearts flutter and skinned knees go weak.

A time of girls.

Gangly girls who thought they knew it all. Who thought they had it all. (Didn’t we?)

Some were friends I knew would last forever (they have). Others were friends I knew would eventually drift away (they did).

I see it so clearly: pyjamas and popcorn and bowl after bowl of Heavenly Hash ice cream.

Staying up until sunrise sharing the secrets that hid in the deepest crevices of our hearts and trusting that they would never be repeated. (They never were).

There were silly moments and scary moments as we giggled our way towards the unavoidable task of growing up.

Then, we grew up.

We met more girls along the way - in high school, in university. Some are now sisters. Others crossed our path for one brief moment and in that moment they made us laugh, or cry, or question. They taught us a lesson we were ready to learn.

Different girls at different times and so many popcorn-fueled confessions.

I miss those confessions. That feeling of harmony and solidarity that came from just being girls, in pyjamas, chatting the night away.

These days, I see my girlfriends once every few weeks, if I’m lucky. We try to connect over a rushed lunch date or last-minute coffee break and barely even get past “hello” before it’s time to go.

We often plan to have a nice dinner, catch a movie, talk until the bartender kindly asks us to leave. Sometimes these plans work out, but usually they don’t. They fall to the bottom of our list of things-to-do while work or family or other more pressing commitments consistently take the top slot.

And women everywhere are suffering because of this.

Women need women just as girls need girls.

We need to relax, unwind, discard the heels, the makeup, the earrings. We need to turn off the cell phone, turn off the charm, turn off the polished skills of the accomplished professional and just chill out.

Like we used to, when we were 12.

So, ladies, I am bringing it back. I am reinstating the slumber party. I am checking my calendar, choosing an evening, booking it off, and treating myself to a night of uninhibited sharing and squealing and ouija boards and pillow fights.

There can be some tweaking, of course. We can substitute root beer for red wine, M&Ms for dark chocolate, and chips for brie cheese and crackers, but the rest must stay the same: the pyjamas, the popcorn, the ice cream, the horror movies. These are the slumber party staples.

I see it so clearly: women reconnecting with their girly selves, their childhood aspirations, their genuine feelings. Women, freed from the pressures of city life, loose and giddy and unguarded.

And though the evening itself is sure to be fun, I am certain that bringing back the slumber party will have repercussions far beyond the living room.

Imagine a world in which women are regularly encouraged to take some time for themselves, to unclench those fists, peel off those tights, and talk and share and dissolve into giggles.

Imagine a world in which women are encouraged to detach themselves from their various roles of girlfriend, wife, mother, staff member, boss and relax into the realms of girl and friend.

This is a world in which women feel valued and worthy. It is a world in which women can more easily shrug off stress because they understand the importance of putting themselves first. It is a world in which women give themselves permission to throw on some pyjamas and replenish their reserves of strength and passion and power.

Yes, power. Women, united in a sisterhood of love and trust and laughing fits, are a force to be reckoned with.

Ladies, let’s make this happen. Let’s take care of ourselves, and each other. Let’s indulge in some guilt-free girl-time and remember who we once were, before we became so many things to so many people.

I am having a slumber party.

Who’s in?

***

This week's affirmation: I am grateful for the women in my life.

Reclaiming Sad

2010-08-23T08:12:00.004-04:00

I remember.

The slow and steady slide into dark, into murky.

I remember knees buckling, heart splitting, breath catching between a word and a thought.

I remember melting into a puddle of the person I once was.

I remember sadness. (And I know you do too.)

We have been sad. We have felt the foundation crack under the weight of insurmountable sorrow. Slumped forward, head in our hands, we have been broken and frightened and completely alone.

We avoid sad.

We swallow the lump, we crack a joke, we chug a beer, we smoke some pot, we watch TV, we go to sleep. We become accustomed to the tightness in our chest and the numbness in our stomach. We choose the numbness; there is safety there.

But the numbness is killing us, incinerating us from the inside out. Our bodies are breaking; our minds, detonating. We pop the pills and go to work while the emotional eruption that is continually suppressed spits toxins into our veins and threatens the integrity of our cells.

We are dying of suppressed sadness. We are drowning in diversions. We are so terrified of embracing the sad that we constantly look away. Everyday, we look away.

The result is our planet, in a state of decay.

I reclaim my planet.

I see myself swimming upstream, through the weeds and against the current. Reaching the calm waters that soothe and sustain. Feeling safe again, floating in my Mother’s womb.

I allow the barriers to disintegrate, the facade to crumble, the numbness to fade until all that remains is the crimson heart that feels and hurts and breaks open, rendering me (and you) so very vulnerable and beautifully human.

I reclaim my beauty.

There is so much beauty in sadness. Because sadness is real. It cannot be faked or shaped or dressed up. It is crude and fervent and powerful. It brings us to our knees and makes us heave and swell and sob and churn until we are raw. Until we are ready.

For the stillness.

There is an infinite source of resilience and strength that follows every sadness. It waits until we are drained and hollow before making itself known. Like the luminescence that lingers after the downpour, it waits until there is a space. A pause. A silence. Then it bathes us in colour, floods us with wonder.

It replenishes our stores of hope and faith until we can breathe again. Until the mist lifts and we can see again. Until we can take another step, dance another dance, ask another question, take another chance.

Suddenly we find ourselves standing tall, shaken and unsettled, but immersed in the moment and more sure-footed than ever before. We no longer fear the diagnosis, the circumstance, the bad news, the outcome. We no longer fear at all.

There is nothing to fear about sadness. Without real sadness, there can be no real joy.

Let us be sad for the child without food, the woman without a coat, the dog without a home. Let us be sad for the friend with a broken heart, the patient with a scary chart, the bird with a broken wing. Let us be sad for the disintegrating health of our forests, of our oceans, of our skies. Let us be sad for the poverty-stricken families, the war-torn countries, the abused and the lonely and the desperate and the lost.

Let us cry and ache and break and feel. Let the sadness strip us, rip us, and pummel us into the ground until it is time to heal.

Let us be wide open. When we are wide open, love rushes in. Love rushes out. We become a vehicle of love and compassion. We become goodness itself.

Let us not look away, run away, stay away. With eyes open, heart broken, let us stand. Let us reach out our hand.

I reclaim my sadness.

I don’t want to be cheered up or picked up or distracted. I don’t want to hear your joke, answer your question, or make up excuses. I want to see what needs to be seen and feel what needs to be felt. I want the waves to crash over me and leave me dripping wet.

Let me be sad. Let me be human and godlike and childlike. Let me be present and vulnerable and afraid. Let me weep for the world and strive for redemption. Let me find my rainbow, my strength under the sorrow. Let me help you find yours.

Let me remember that in order to rise above the misery I must first slide into the dark, murky depths of it.

I remember.

***

This week's affirmation: I reach out my hand whenever I can.

The Importance of Picking Daisies

2010-08-02T22:32:00.007-04:00

Exhaustion clings to me like a second skin and I cannot peel it off. It sticks to every inch of my being, weighing me down, demanding attention, refusing to be shed.

I am too tired to write right now. I have been tired for days. Monday has morphed into another Monday and I am yawning still.

I am too tired to think, too tired to feel much of anything except the fierce longing to sink into my bed sheets and drift into untroubled slumber.

Anxiety has slipped into my shadow and is stalking me like prey. I am spinning on the wheel of sleepless nights and inner fights and feelings of defeat. I have nothing left to give. I am bone dry.

And the question that torments me is the all-consuming why.

Why do I do this to myself?

Why do I allow worry to shape my every waking moment? Why don’t I turn off the computer, slow down the synapses, and submerge myself in bubbles? Why don’t I day-trip down a dusty road, if only for a few hours?

Why do I find it so hard to find my footing in this work-driven adult life?

I know better. I skip along the wellness trail and pick fresh daisies on the way. I preach the importance of breathing, of being, of finding balance in the customary bedlam.

And, yet, even I get caught up in the vortex. Lost in the maze with a million other losers. Because there is no victor in this game.

Just a multitude of misguided souls praying for salvation and wondering where the wonder went.

(Where did the wonder go?)

I have lost my balance. I have fallen off the tightrope. My daisies are wilting. I pick up the petals with a heart-heavy hand and pray for a good night’s sleep.

***

This week's affirmation: I breathe.

Drench My Soul In Shades of Gold

2010-07-19T23:55:00.004-04:00

I encounter them everyday, those people walking with their heads down, counting the cracks in the concrete. They avoid eye contact and they do not smile at all except for the occasional world-weary grimace that reeks of cynicism and mistrust.

They have been judged, or ridiculed, or dismissed, or betrayed. They have been the casualty in the torrid affair. The pawn in the game. The loser, the prey, the fool, the target.

They wear their pain like a thick, twisted shawl, enveloping themselves within it as their wounds fester and multiply like a relentless cancer intent on destroying its dwelling.

They have forgotten what it feels like to be open and vulnerable. They have learned to expect the heartache, the deception, the stab in the back. Their defenses are up. They are armed and dangerous.

I have lived among them, these Walking Wounded. I have been their kind.

I suspect we all have, at some point or another. We are flawed human beings and, as such, we get lost in our own delusions, become consumed by ego-driven determination and, intentionally or not, we hurt each other.

And we carry the hurt like a badge that states, “I have been hurt. I have hurt others. Stay away.”

We erect walls around ourselves, solid and durable and nearly impenetrable. We speak with spite and regard others with suspicion. We repeat the same story again and again, embellishing the details every time, clearly drawing the line between villain and victim. We refuse to forget. We especially refuse to forgive.

We falsely believe that forgiving means denying the pain that we’ve suffered and letting the offender off the hook. So we latch on to those old injuries and insults because we have been unjustly harmed and we want the perpetrator to pay.

But the perpetrator doesn’t pay. We pay. And the tighter our grip on the pain of the past, the higher the price we pay.

I remember when I first came across this profoundly simple truth. I was 18 or 19 and falling in love with Don Miguel Ruiz. In his remarkable book, The Mastery of Love, Ruiz states the following:

“You will forgive them not because they deserve to be forgiven, but because you don't want to suffer and hurt yourself every time you remember what they did to you. Forgiveness is for your own mental healing. Forgiveness is an act of self-love.” (p. 170).

Forgiveness is an act of self-love?

This concept was entirely new to me. I remember reading this passage numerous times, knowing deep inside that I was uncovering a truth of extraordinary importance.

Forgiveness is an act of self-love.

Gradually, these words weaved their way from the intellectual tunnels of my mind to the inner chambers of my heart until, all at once, I understood.

So I started, quietly and steadily, to unravel the knots within me that had been forming for years. Some knots were easier to untangle than others. Some required more willpower than I could muster and I accepted that forgiveness would come, eventually, through persistent practice.

(It did.)

I do not claim to be a master of forgiveness or to never lose myself in feelings of rage, reproach, and righteousness but, over the years, I have become quite adept at forgiving (although I do admit that forgiving others always comes more easily than forgiving myself.)

Forgiveness is a choice that must be made on a daily basis. It is a refusal to live in the past and an acceptance of the present moment and all of its subtle splendour. It is a letting go of disappointment, of sadness, of anger, of fear. It is not a justification of the hurtful act that was inflicted upon us (or that we inflicted upon others), but a conscious decision to liberate ourselves from the act's unabating, suffocating grip.

“I forgive you” is not about you at all. It is about me. “I forgive and I set myself free.”

To forgive is to know that life is too precious for grudges and grievances. To forgive is to welcome the sunrise that drenches our soul in shades of gold while it renews, revives, repairs. To forgive is to acknowledge our worth. It is to look into our own eyes and see the goodness there. It is an act of self-acceptance. Of self-respect. Of self-love.

First, forgive. Then, rejoice.

Then, forgive again.

***

This week’s affirmation: I forgive and I set myself free.

Stumbling on Saturn

2010-07-12T09:06:00.003-04:00

I was first introduced to the notion of “Saturn Return” by a dear, dear friend of mine, Nadine, who entered my life during a time of intense uncertainty and instability.

I had just started the process of re-evaluating my goals in life and was questioning every decision I had ever made. My life felt like it had been turned upside down and inside out and nothing seemed to fit anymore. Things I had once felt so sure about - my career, my relationship, my city, my friends - suddenly felt foreign to me. It was like a stranger had invaded my body and I had no idea what she wanted or where she was headed.

After a few days of working together and getting to know each other quite well (when I met Nadine I felt as though I had known her forever - it was one of those magical encounters), Nadine stated, firmly and convincingly, “Vic, it’s obvious that you’re going through Saturn Return.”

Saturn what?

Saturn Return. An astrological phenomenon, Nadine informed me, that occurs approximately every 29.5 years when the planet Saturn completes its orbit around the sun and returns to the place it occupied at the time of your birth. This return of Saturn therefore occurs between the ages of 27-30, 57-60, and 85-88, precipitating crucial decisions and bringing about major life changes.

Astrologers believe that every Saturn Return marks a very important time in a person’s life and is often the catalyst for drastic transformations. It is not uncommon for things to end during these periods: relationships, jobs, friendships, hard-held convictions.

The return of Saturn throws us into a dark and scary place full of doubt, anxiety, and (the worst emotion of all) regret. It strips off the masks we wear, reveals the lies we tell, and asks the tough questions we prefer to avoid.

This is not fun, nor is it easy.

But it is necessary.

Although Saturn Return can bring about hardship and stress, its ultimate goal is to set us free from the misguided choices we’ve made in the past. In fact, if our choices have been authentic and are in line with our innermost values and beliefs, then Saturn’s return will be barely perceived and cause only a ripple in our day-to-day lives. However, if we are heading in the wrong direction entirely (or even partially) Saturn’s return will shake the very foundation we stand on and provoke a tidal wave so forceful and frightening that the notion of “happiness” will seem like a distant, unattainable mirage.

That is the beauty of Saturn Return: it will not disturb you if you are genuinely peaceful inside, but if you are not, it will force you to discover why.

Saturn Return is a wake-up call from the universe. A nudge or a push or a shove. It is a giant mirror that exposes every aspect of our lives and demands that we look at our own reflection.

Saturn Return is a godsend, but many don’t realize this.

Faced with their innermost fears and feeling as though their lives are in shambles, many in the throes of Saturn Return will choose not to embrace this gift from the universe and, instead, will drown out the messages any way they can - alcohol, drugs, medication, sex - and stay afloat in a bubble of denial.

Although this may seem like the easier route, astrologers warn that issues that are not dealt with during the first Saturn Return will re-emerge with a vengeance during the second Saturn Return, later in life.

After learning about Saturn Return (thank you Nadine) I welcomed Saturn with an open mind and an open heart. I did the digging, the questioning, the assessing, the experimenting. I made some hard decisions. I accepted - though I did not enjoy - my sleepless nights. I gave myself permission to be terrified and unstable and dangerously honest. I wandered off the well-lit path and fumbled my way through the darkness.

I am still, it seems, fumbling my way through the darkness more than a year later. Still digging and questioning and assessing and experimenting. But I am doing so from a place that feels safe.

My worlds - outer and inner - feel safe again. I am no longer a stranger in my own body. I have reclaimed my vessel. My eyes are wide open.

Saturn Return will happen whether we want it to or not, whether we are ready for it or not, whether we believe in it or not. The only way to deal with Saturn Return is to deal with Saturn Return.

Dive into the depths of it. Dance with it, say yes to it. Trust the cosmos to guide you to your core. Open yourself up to the wisdom of the universe and rejoice in the revelations you uncover.

Saturn Return is a tremendous gift. It gives us a chance to get it right. It realigns us with our truth, with ourselves.

Thank you Saturn.

***

This week's affirmation: I embrace change.

The Quest for Perfection

2010-07-05T23:33:00.002-04:00

I started this blog four weeks ago and, though I hoped people would read it, I did not expect people to react so strongly to it. I did not expect people (friends and strangers alike) to send me words of thanks, of understanding, of encouragement, of support. I did not expect this blog to mean something to so many in such a short amount of time. I did not expect this blog to mean so much to me. And I certainly did not expect this blog to inspire one of the most fascinating women I have ever known (a cherished friend) to start sharing a blog of her own (which she had been writing in secret).

Thank you to those of you who have read, commented, and emailed. It is a wonderful (if somewhat jarring) feeling to know that the words I put “out there” rouse something “in here” (I am touching my heart) for so many of you.

However - and I write these words with nothing but affection and appreciation for all of you - I do not blog for you. I blog for myself.

I love that my words have meant something to others. It is my sincerest hope that my exploration of wellness and my wanderings along its path will motivate others to seek a more balanced way of life. It is my dream that dreamers worldwide will dream a new worldview into being.

But the main purpose of this blog is not to entertain or enlighten. The purpose is simply to share.

And I need this fact to be clear, in my own head, or else the self-imposed pressure to make this blog “good enough” will invite the fear of failure to penetrate my mind and poison my thoughts, stifling my voice and killing my creative potential.

This has happened before. (In fact, it was happening today as I wrestled with writers' block and felt like I had nothing inspiring to say).

The fear of failure (or the quest for perfection) has followed me, haunted me, taunted me, and crippled me time and time and time again.

The fear of failure is the fear of life. It stems from the deep-seated belief that I am not “good enough.” Or strong enough, smart enough, pretty enough. It is a fear that slithers its way into the heart and destroys all feelings of faith, trust, well-being. It makes the journey one of struggle and strife. The world becomes a battlefield.

The quest for perfection is, in essence, the exact same thing. One who seeks perfection is undoubtedly terrified of failure. The seeking of perfection is the denying of the divine that dwells within every one of us. It is a rejection of self-love and acceptance. It is an all-encompassing emotion of inadequacy, of incompetence. It comes from a place of unease and it infuses our days with anxiety and pain.

I do not know why or how or when my debilitating fear of failure started or when my adventure on this planet became a hopeless hunt for perfection. I am not that interested in the why or the how or the when. I am only interested in (and grateful for) my emerging awareness of the detrimental consequences of fear-based living and my newfound courage to embrace a more free-flowing way of life.

I am already perfect. So are you. So is everything.

So is this blog.

It doesn’t matter whether my posts are published on Monday mornings or evenings. It doesn’t matter whether my posts are published regularly at all. It doesn’t matter whether my writing is deemed satisfactory or not. It doesn’t matter whether my words inform or inspire or influence or not. It doesn’t matter who reads this blog and it certainly doesn’t matter who judges this blog.

All that matters is that I am here, right now, writing. And in this precious, precious moment unlike any other moment, I am not afraid of failing nor am I seeking an impossible ideal. Like a child, untouched by criticism, worry, or doubt, I make my way along the path, skipping to the beat of my own heart.

I write. I reflect. I learn. I share.

And this, I know, is “good enough.”

***

This week’s affirmation: I trust life.

Seeking Stillness

2010-06-28T08:03:00.001-04:00

My city was attacked this weekend. Savagely assaulted, besieged, and set ablaze.

Voices were silenced and causes overshadowed by a few thrill-seeking cowards in black masks who have zero understanding of, or respect for, the purpose of protest.

Riveted to my TV screen, I watched in horror as the city I love became a broken, burning bedlam.

I was furious. Outraged. I swore, I screamed, I changed my Facebook status to one of fierce condemnation,

Blood boiling, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins, I became a vehicle of bitterness and rage.

And I hated. I hated the G20 Summit. I hated the leaders and their private jets and their expensive suits and their wives. I hated them for shaking hands and smiling for the cameras and eating at the Fairmont while the city that hosted them was being destroyed. I hated the so-called anarchists who used my city as a platform to spread their vile, vicious non-message. I hated that the media frenzy was no doubt encouraging them. I hated that innocent and well-intentioned people were being unjustly arrested. I hated that poverty issues, gender issues, health issues, and green issues were being suppressed. I hated that the money that was spent on G20 security could have bought one hundred million mosquito nets in malaria-infested countries.

I hated so strongly and vehemently that the hate completely engulfed me. I merged with it, morphed into it. I became the hurricane itself, spewing venomous words and toxic thoughts into the world.

Deepak Chopra once stated, “In the midst of movement and chaos, keep stillness inside of you.”

My stillness had vanished. I had lost it, along with any semblance of perspective.

For a few brief hours I became part of the problem.

Because isn’t that how problems grow? How negativity spreads? How hate circulates? How fear propagates?

When we lose sight of who we are and allow ourselves to be overtaken by external circumstances we, quite simply, lose altogether.

I know this. And not in a superficial sense but in an innate and profound way. I know this.

And yet, with jets roaring overhead and sirens blaring in the distance, the innate and profound knowing that exists in my core dissolved almost entirely.

Almost.

At around 2am on Sunday morning, while I obsessively followed the tweets of those witnessing the brutality downtown, something happened: the hardened shield encircling my heart, obstructing all feelings but anger and hate, began to crack. I could feel the fissures snaking up, down, and around, allowing slivers of light to shine in.

I paused. Breathed. Closed my eyes. Opened myself up to the stillness of tranquility. Of safety. Of love.

I stayed in this place of inner joy and peace for a very long time, letting go of my anger, my hate, my fear, my frustration, allowing wave after wave of comfort and contentment to wash over me.

This is where power begins. In this place of genuine passion and purpose. Here, there is clarity.

Here, there is hope.

Numerous studies have been done, in recent years, to substantiate the claim that energy, in all its forms, has a deep and lasting impact on people, animals, and the planet itself.

The Global Coherence Initiative is a collaborative research project which studies the relationship between living beings and the Earth’s magnetic fields. Studies have in fact demonstrated a correlation between changes in the Earth’s magnetic fields and changes in a variety of biological functions (brainwaves, nervous system activity, heart rhythm, memory, etc.) Incredibly, researchers also hypothesize that the Earth’s fields can be directly impacted by human emotions.

The significance of this cannot be overstated: human emotions may play a key role (the key role) in the well-being of all living things and of the planet itself.

Though we cannot see it, energy spreads. It reaches far and wide. It communicates. It connects. It activates. And, as such, it can provoke change. It can transform conflict into cooperation, discord into harmony. It can balance imbalances.

This is not some airy new-age concept, but a phenomenon that many modern scientists do not deny: human energy can heal the world.

Let us remember this.

During times of crisis, of despair, of oppression. During times of fear, of distress, of injustice. During times of sorrow, of misfortune, of pain, let us remember this.

Resorting to violence and hatred, though oftentimes tempting, is never the answer.

Stillness is the answer.

And by stillness I don’t mean inaction. Action is critical. Protests are crucial. Expression is essential. But the acting, protesting, and expressing must come from a place of stillness, of knowing, of authenticity, of love.

We are more powerful than we know. The future is, quite literally, in our hands.

In our hearts.

***

Here is a tribute to the peaceful protesters who marched, sang, danced, and hoped. I celebrate you.

What the Media Ignored.

***

This week’s affirmation: Though chaos surrounds me, my heart is still.

How Did I Get Here?

2010-06-21T11:12:00.014-04:00

I had a dream. A big dream. I was the small-town girl who was going to “make it.”

I pursued the dream that way I was supposed to. I took the classes, got the degree, moved to the city, put myself “out there,” and, before I knew it, the dream started coming true.

It felt like magic. It was magic.

Years and years of holding on to a dream were finally paying off! I was on my way up! Meeting people I'd always wanted to meet! Making connections I'd always wanted to make! Rocking auditions I'd always wanted to rock! I had an agent, a union invitation, my films screened on big screens! It was happening! I was happening!

I was ecstatic.! Triumphant! Absolutely, absolutely thrilled!

Then, unexpectedly, things started to change. I started to change. I am still not sure what, exactly, brought on this change but I suspect there were a few factors at play - the books I was reading, the age I was turning, the friends I was making, the inner-work I had started doing.

After some time, I came to a startling (and devastating) realization: my dream was no longer making me happy.

I was not completely unhappy. I enjoyed the applause at the end of the show. I thrived on the accolades. I was proud when old friends from high school (even elementary school) wrote to me and said, “Congratulations! You are the only one actually achieving their childhood dream.”

All of this filled me up with a great sense of accomplishment. And not just accomplishment, but worth.

And it was all, I eventually came to understand, very, very superficial.

I was smiling on the outside, but not on the inside. The pursuit of my dream was no longer fueled by true passion and joy, but by an ego desperately thirsty for recognition and praise.

My ego was ruling my life. And all aspects of my health were suffering because of it.

So, I stopped.

(I did not quit. I chose to stop. The difference between the two is huge. Quitting is giving up - giving up our power and our pride. Choosing, on the other hand, is growing up and learning to listen to the knowing in our gut.)

I participated in a few minor projects for friends whom I admired and respected and enjoyed working with. But I stopped all the rest - the headshots, the submissions, the auditions. I dropped my agent. I did not join the union.

This was not easy. But it was easier than the other scary thing I absolutely had to do: tell people.

I worried about what they would think - they, the wonderful people who had supported my dream from the beginning. They, the ones who cheered the loudest when I landed a role. They, the ones who never, ever said, “Don’t try.” They, the ones who allowed me to believe that I would one day have my star in Hollywood.

They, my family.

I felt like I had failed them. And this is what hurt the most.

But I did tell my family. And my friends. And myself. I spoke the words I never thought I’d speak. I gave myself permission to change my mind. To change my dream. To speak the truth.

My ego did not like this. It tried to make me feel ashamed and guilty and defeated. It tried to fill my heart with doubt. It laughed when I stumbled and it roared so loudly some nights that I could not get to sleep.

But this, I knew, was exactly the kind of life I no longer wanted to live: a life controlled by my ego. So in its pitiful attempts to confuse me, my ego gave me the special gift of clarity. The more it tried to suck me back in, the more I fought against it. The more it tried to drown out my intuition, the harder I listened to the voice deep within.

And now, here I am. Living and loving a different kind of life. One that gets me excited to jump out of bed every morning. I am learning to enjoy the the process, the voyage, the moments. I no longer need the end result to be one of praise and accolades. It’s not about that anymore.

Someday, in the near or distant future, the perfect project may present itself and I may choose to embrace it and delve into the world of performance once again. But this choice, I know, will be guided by genuine excitement and enthusiasm rather than a distorted notion of success and a crippling fear of letting people down.

The past two years have taught me so much about the world and my place in the world. One of the key things I have learned is that dreams change. And that is ok.

Nothing in the world is fixed, it is all fluid. As we go through the cycles of life, we change, we grow, we expand and our dreams change, and grow, and expand with us. A childhood dream should never start to feel like a life-sentence and, when it does, it is time to take a good hard look at the reasons for this.

I have many dreams. Big dreams. I am a small-town girl and I am “making it” every single moment of every single day.

***

This week's affirmation: I live my dream.

Why Blog?

2010-06-14T10:30:00.003-04:00

I have wanted to start a blog for years. I love writing, I have ideas I want to share, and I believe in the power of words to inform, engage, inspire.

But I did not just want to blog for the sake of blogging.

I was not interested in having an online diary, accessible to everyone, where I recorded every thought, every hope, every dream, every fear, failure, frustration, every menial detail of my day-to-day existence to satisfy the growing number of insatiable voyeurs who are consumed by the need to observe, judge, and analyze other people’s lives.

I did not want to participate in the reality TV of blogging.

So, I waited.

I waited until I felt I had something to say, to show, to share. Something that spoke to me and that I felt would speak to others. Something that I was passionate about and wanted to write about, think about, wonder about, and talk about. Something I wanted to blog about.

The answer came to me one sunny Sunday, the day after I attended the I Can Do It Conference, a conference that focuses on wellness - physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.

The conference, which I attended alone, reawakened within me the deep-rooted desire to regain balance, to seek wellness, and to be a positive force on this achingly beautiful planet.

Out of the thousands of conference participants, I seemed to be the, or one of the, youngest. Most of the attendees were middle-aged women and, though I was not surprised by this, I was somewhat saddened.

Where were the twenty-somethings? The recent graduates? The ones just now crossing the threshold into adulthood? The ones who know better than their parents and grand-parents? The ones concerned with balance and wellness and fairness and peace? The ones starting careers, starting families? The ones who have the power to tackle things from a different angle, from a more conscious place? The ones who hold the key to a new kind of existence?

I know they are out there, these intelligent, insightful, young people who feel a power stirring within them and who know they can do better. These people are my friends, my colleagues, my classmates. But they are absent. They are busy.

But I am here. And I am open. And I am ready.

So here is my blog about wellness, the seeking of it and the sharing of it. It will, I hope, resonate with everyone but especially with those bright, young minds - the Generation Y-ers (“why” ers) - who need to learn from past mistakes and choose another way of life.

After all, the wellness of our world depends on the wellness of its people.

It is up to us.

***

This week’s affirmation: I seek the good in every experience and I share the good with others.

Special mention: Today is my brother Adam's birthday. Adam is one of the most genuinely caring and loving people I have ever known. Bonne fête Adam!

An Invitation

2010-06-07T10:00:00.000-04:00

Wellness is like love.

It is our innate right to be loved and it is our innate right to be well. But the fast-paced, rat-raced society in which we live makes it very difficult for both love and wellness to flourish and nourish, they way they are meant to.

Therefore, wellness (like love) is a choice. A purposeful intention. A conscious decision to follow one path instead of another, to thrive in truth rather than dwell in deception.

There are many paths to wellness, many philosophies about wellness, and many differing opinions about what matters most on the wellness quest.

But wellness (like love) needs to be felt in order to be known.

It can be talked about, written about, studied, researched, and analyzed but the only way to really understand wellness is to be well.

And the only way to really be well is to want to be well.

I want to be well.

Join me.

***

This week's affirmation: I am exactly where I should be.