My recent “Thanksgiving” post resulted in some very insightful comments and discussions, and I appreciate every one of them. As I scrolled through my Facebook feed this morning, I felt a renewed resolve to somehow be a part of a needed shift in how we honor this day. I do not wish to begrudge a holiday spent with loved ones sharing gratitude and food, but I continue to be troubled by how easy it has become for us to trade comfort for truth.
When I later looked through my Instagram feed, I was reminded of the impact this holiday has on indigenous communities. There was a universal call for not only acknowledgement, but also some type of action. Some organizations I follow suggested education by learning the history of the land where we reside and the indigenous communities that called it home before we did. As I did some of my own research on the land I know call home, along with the modern-day struggles and concerns of its indigenous inhabitants, I was reminded about how much I have yet to learn.
It was a good place to start. From here, I took into consideration another suggestion I had found on the posts I had read: to give back monetarily. Once again, I realized how much I have neglected my “home.” In the past, I have often looked beyond the state where I reside to place my donations, choosing more global causes and organizations to help offset my environmental footprint, and to help offset the effects of poverty and disaster.
Here in New Hampshire, there are several local groups and causes that seek to unite and educate. There are many ways to give back to indigenous communities and initiatives. It you are also looking for ways to give back to indigenous communities that resided upon the land before you did, please consider learning about who they were and choosing a group or cause to make a donation at this time of year (or any for that matter). It’s one way we can offset some of the harmful effects of our origin stories and ensure that we are working towards a more just and equitable future.
What does it mean to celebrate a holiday of giving thanks for a freedom acquired through colonialism and genocide? When I sit with my origin story, it does not feel comfortable.
For indigenous communities, America’s Thanksgiving is a day of mourning.
I am not indigenous to this land renamed America. The shelves of my childhood classrooms were filled with my white-washed history that lauded Christopher Columbus and the hardships endured by the pilgrims. In music class, we sang America’s patriotic songs, which proclaimed this beautiful land as rightfully ours. The mascot of my high school was “The Red Raider” until just a few months ago. Never did we speak of those who were displaced, murdered, and robbed of their land. Never did we talk about the true origin story of acquired land.
Ignorance should never be an excuse for comfort and complacecy.
My ancestral origins are spread across the European continent. Although I may not be directly responsible for the colonizing this land, it is my origin story. If I am going to take a seat at a Thanksgiving table it should not feel comfortable.
A photo of me at Cavan Burren Park in Ireland taken on the day after my waking vision. My husband sent it to our children labeled “Mom in her glory.”
We have all heard the adage, “Home is where the heart is,” but have you ever explored what coming home means to you?
I believe this adage is true, but in a very simplified form. We do find our sense of home through the heart. Home, I believe, is a feeling of deep connection. It is, in essence, what we are all seeking when we feel lost or alone.
The mysteries teach us that we are birthed into individuality to experience the self. A self that came from and will eventually return to a greater whole. At our very essence, we are all seeking this reconnection to unity, but “home” can feel different to each of us.
Let me give you and example:
I recently traveled with my husband to Ireland. It was a belated 50th birthday trip for me, so I chose most of our destinations. If you know me, you won’t be surprised to hear I filled our agenda with as many ancient sites as I could.
During the night of our first stay in Ireland, I woke to a vision of a figure standing over the bed on my husband’s side. Later in the day, I told my husband of the vision, which seemed more than a mere coincidence based upon the site we had chosen to visit later that day.
“I’m not sure it was for me,” he told me, “I don’t feel like I’ve had a past life here. I don’t feel a connection to this place.”
I’ve added a little more dialogue to his words to better illustrate this idea of home. My husband has learned, while observing me over the years, one of the most profound ways I find “home” is through visiting ancient sites. Here, I often find the energy of home. I can feel the energy of connection so deeply, sometimes, it moves me to tears. My heart pulls towards reunion. My cells come alive with memories the stretch beyond the individual self. I feel truly, and utterly, “at home.”
But this is not necessarily true for my husband.
Home to him is a more concrete and here-and-now experience. He is “at home” with his present day family. He is “at home” when he practices his craft of medicine.
I too find home in my craft of writing. Words form a labyrinth of connection that weaves through my cells when they arise from a place deeper than the self. When that soft voice bubbles through the layers of resistance, I feel the energy of home. I feel connection.
This feeling of home also comes to me when I am still in nature, and the individual self dissolves into the harmony of being a part of Earth.
So, I am wondering, what does home feel like to you? Where, or how, do you find your deepest sense of belonging and connection?
Even if you don’t want to share your feelings of home with me, maybe you will share it with yourself? I think it’s worth exploring. I think the feeling of disconnection from “home” is, at its most fundamental level, what causes our pain and suffering.
It was some time ago, but not so long that my body does not remember the feel of being woken in the dead of night to the tug of a hand that had no form.
I didn’t go there for the ghosts. In fact, I didn’t know about the residence specters until after I arrived on campus for my week’s stay. I’ll take a single room, I decided when the dormitory form came out. It’s worth the extra cost. It was a decision I would soon come to regret.
But I was an adult. A mom of two young kids in her mid thirties looking forward to some time alone amidst a community of fellow writers. I was looking forward to sleeping in my own space, undisturbed.
The first night was not so bad. The dorm was a bit rundown, with no extra frills. Still, it was better than my undergraduate residence. I had space to myself, even though I was sharing a bathroom with strangers. And I had a view with a dormered window overlooking fields once owned by rural Vermont farmers.
“At least you’re not in the faculty dorm, that one’s the worst.”
But I was told that later, after the events that occurred on the third night of my stay.
It had begun like the first two, but by then I had made friends with some of my fellow dorm mates. I was feeling more at home and relaxed. In fact, I was feeling rather elated with my decision to steal away from home for two weeks a year to study the craft of writing in a tiny town in the middle of New England. It was a dream coming true. A dream I had held inside of me since I was five years old.
So there I was on my third night of residency, ready for a good sleep in preparation for a full day immersed in this passion. I brushed my teeth and washed my face in the shared bathroom, then made my way down the hall to my room. The air around me felt a bit unsettled as I changed into my pajamas, and I found myself checking the corners like I did as a child before I turned out the lights.
Never mind, I told myself as I tugged the covers around my head (another habit carried over from childhood), you’re just not used to this space yet.
It took some time, but eventually I succumbed to sleep. A sleep deep enough to take me into the wee hours of the morning. Those hours where it was darkest before the dawn of light crested the hills beyond my window. Dark enough so that I could not see anything at all, if my eyes had been open.
But I was not so deep inside of sleep that I could not be woken. And wake I did, never to sleep again for the rest of the night, for at the back of my head I suddenly felt a violent tug.
My heart raced my eyes open to an inky blackness.
I could see nothing, but I could feel a presence. The presence of an unseen energy that had just pulled my hair.
I rubbed the back of my head, still scanning the room.
Alright, I told myself. Maybe it was just a dream. But how could a dream leave a physical mark?
I had no doubt my hair had been pulled.
I tried to will my eyes closed as I wrapped my head, once again, in blankets. Seconds passed into minutes before I realized there was no way my mind was going to allow a return to sleep. I stuck one brave arm out of the covers and turned on the light.
The next morning, after I showered and dressed, I went downstairs to meet up with my friends Stacey and Elisabeth so that we could walk to breakfast together. Elisabeth was still getting ready in her room, so Stacey and I began chatting in the hallway. Nearby, one of the housekeeping staff was fixing a broken light.
“How’d you sleep?” Stacey asked. “I’m sorry Elisabeth is taking so long,” she added. “It takes her awhile to get her affairs in order.”
“No worries,” I replied, then paused. “But something weird happened last night.”
“What, what was weird?” Elisabeth asked, appearing beside us with her backpack slung over her shoulder. She looked eager. Rather, I thought, like a child about to receive an ice cream cone.
I glanced around. The maintenance man was still tinkering with the ceiling light, but no one else was nearby.
“Well,” I paused again, “I barely slept.” I gulped some air and looked into Elisabeth’s eyes. “I could have sworn someone pulled my hair. I mean, I really felt it. It woke me up.”
Elisabeth didn’t blink, but the corners of her flickered. Stacey began to fidget, glancing from me, to Elisabeth, and back to me, as though waiting for someone to reveal the punchline of a joke.
“Oh,” a man’s voice came from behind me, and I turned to see the maintenance worker making his way down the ladder. “That must have been one of the resident ghosts. There’s one that is rather famous for pulling people’s hair.”
“You’re kidding,” Stacey said.
“I’m not,” he replied as he packed up and left. “Enjoy your stay.”
You might imagine any number of scenarios playing out for the rest of our residencies, and let me tell you there were quite a few. Soon enough we formed our own little ghost haunting unit of five women nearing middle age, but still young enough be a bit foolish. We had our share of unexplainable experiences over the course of the next two years during, and they turned out to be some of the best memories of my life. But, I never slept in a single again.
Although I can’t guarantee you’ll never experience your hair being pulled by a ghost in the middle of the night, I have accumulated some tricks and tips for a better night’s sleep over the years. Here are five of my favorites:
Zip Up Your Energy: This is an EMYoga exercise I often teach that involves placing one hand on top of the other on your lower abdomen and raising them to your lower lip like you are zipping up a zipper. Your hands can be gently pressing into your body as you zip up, or just above your body. When you get to your lower lip, flip your hands palms up and raise them as high as you can reach overhead, then exhale them around and out to the sides and back down to your lower abdomen. Repeat this exercise two more times, breathing in as your “zip up,” and exhaling as your lower your hands back down. This exercise helps to strength and protect your energy field as it “zips up” your central meridian. Give it a try and see how it feels. I find it helps ward off outside energies that may be unwelcome.
Spoon Your Feet: This is another technique I learned in my EMYoga training, although I have seen it taught in other classes too. All you need is a stainless steel spoon, preferably tablespoon size. Before you go to bed, take the spoon and rub the rounded bottom of it on the soles of your bare feet for about 30 seconds or so. Thoroughly massage the entire bottom of each of your feet in circular motions, or in figure eight patterns. This exercises helps to calm the body and reset its polarity.
Put Your Legs Up the Wall: This inversion is often used in yoga classes before or during final relaxation. Make sure you don’t have health contraindications before you try it. If you know inversions are safe for you, give it a try before bed. Maybe give yourself two minutes to scoot up to a wall and lean your legs against it (your bottom should be as close to the wall as possible). Try closing your eyes or softening your gaze with your legs raised and rested against the wall. Notice how you feel. This type of inversion is great for calming the nervous system and preparing the body for sleep.
Alternate Nostril Breathing: This is another yoga technique that works to calm and center the body and mind. It can be done with a hand, or with visualization. I find visualization is nice to use when lying in bed. Otherwise, you might try the hand technique. For visualization, close your eyes, lie on your back and imagine the air coming in through the right nostril, up towards the space between your eyes, then out the left nostril. Imagine air entering your left nostril as your breath in again, going up to the space between your eyes, and then exiting out your right nostril. Inhale right nostril. Exhale left. Inhale left. Exhale right. Repeat the pattern for about two minutes and then allow a return to your regular breathing pattern.
Take a Bath or Shower Before Bed: I started taking my showers at night during a particularly stressful period in my life, and I found it to be really beneficial in helping me feel more calm and relaxed before going to bed. A nice warm soak with a few drops of lavender oil (or another calming oil) can be especially nice (please make sure you don’t have an allergy if you are trying an oil).
I hope you enjoyed the real-life ghost story and the bedtime tips. I am starting a new Bedtime Yoga series next month via zoom on Monday evenings at 7pm EST. If you are interested in giving it a try, please visit my website for more information.
I have realized (for quite some time) that I have been at an impasse with my writing endeavors. I can see the end vision in full color and in vivid detail, but I find myself stumbling and stopping (often) in the process to get there. I’d like to feel as though each step takes me closer to this vision, but sometimes I am not even sure where to take even a tiny step.
Sometimes as writers we hold our words too close to our heart, afraid of rejection and being misunderstood. Sometimes we’re even afraid of success.
Even though our books may be born of our own imaginations and hard work, we write them to be read and heard. I have been thinking a lot about the “heard” book, or the audio book, for some time. I have ethical issues with the standard print choices for indie writers, and this includes the environmental impact. Lots of excuses hold me back from production and distribution. I want to make money for my work, but at what cost?
Which brings me circling back to why I write, and in particular why I am writing this middle grade series I’ve called Warriors of Light. In essence, I want to spark belonging in those who read or hear my written words. I want my audience to find a sense of home in this labyrinthian adventure I have created.
So, I have been thinking about ways to read my book with minimal cost investments. I’d love to hear your ideas…
The woman who cuts my hair suggested I read chapters on YouTube, and perhaps combine the audio with tranquil images. It’s something I have also thought of, so it’s got me wondering…Ideally I’d love to have moving graphics related to the chapters, and present them as “bedtime” stories for kids, teens, and adults. Really, for anyone old enough to find a home inside the words.
But, I also realize that my vision is often grander than my means. How to take those small steps and still feel like the product is good enough?
Has anyone thought about doing something similar with their writing, or have thoughts about how to offer “free” readings of their books and make them widely accessible?
The star and the labyrinth have been worldwide symbols throughout history (and most likely, prehistory), but they are not commonly combined. So why did I choose to merge the two in my metaphysical fantasy series, Warriors of Light?
To answer this, we need to explore the metaphysical origins of both. Let’s start with the star, and why I chose a hexagram.
Typically stars, when used in the realms of magic, contain five or six points. Five pointed stars are often associated with witchcraft or sorcery, and although my series is filled with “magic,” it is not the type of magic that comes from spells and wands. Instead, I wanted to explore the magic of creation. The magic that that feeds and threads through all life. And, I wanted my readers to explore their own journeys of connection. Therefore, I needed to use a six pointed star.
Otherwise known as the hexagram.
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay This image illustrates the balancing of yin and yang, or masculine and feminine energies that are explored in the series.
The hexagram star is widely known and utilized as a symbol for both secular and nonsecular purposes. I was particularly interested in the hexagram as a symbol that predates religion. I wanted to explore it in its “magical” elemental form. To examine its individual components (in particular, the elements that overlap and join into one). I wanted to break down the whole into the essence to form the whole again. Herein lies the origin of the labyrinth as a hexagram.
Image by Mauistik from Pixabay Commonly known as the “Star of David,” the hexagram has origins that thread throughout the world. I was particularly interested in the components of balance it offers.
Sound confusing?
Let me try to explain by switching for a bit to the labyrinth as a symbol. A labyrinth is often defined as a maze-like structure, but in the metaphysical world the maze becomes a pathway the individual takes to learn about the inner self. It is, in essence, and a journey that begins on the outside and leads to the inner core. One travels upon it to gain spiritual insight and clarity, as well as a sense of connection to Life.
Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay Not quite the labyrinth that is commonly used for spiritual exploration, but similar…
According to the Labyrinth Society, the labyrinth as a spiritual symbol has been around for at least 4,000 years. It has a defined structure that resembles more or less ordered pathways that lead from the outer to the inner, rather than a maze intended to confuse and disorient. The labyrinth as a maze looks more like this:
For the purposes of my series, I chose to combine the maze of confusion with the labyrinth as spiritual pathway. I wanted it to be both a journey that could trap and disorient, as well as a means to reach the central core of Life. To be more like everyone’s journey. Most of us don’t find balance and connection without a fair amount of setbacks (or traps in the case of my characters), as well as a great deal of mucking through the darkness of the shadow self.
Which brings me back to the hexagram star and the “key of balance” (that comes more into play in book two of the series, yet to be released). In the Warriors of Light there are six warriors on the cusp of adolescence, at the age of thirteen when the child self dies to make way for the adult. These six warriors must not only walk individual outer paths to get to a deeper and more mature (or wiser) understanding of themselves, they must also intersect their pathways to heal the origins of Life itself.
Therefore, I needed a symbol of balance with six starting points for each of my six warriors. I needed a star with six points (of light) that joined and overlapped. A hexagram star.
The hexagram as labyrinth as used in Warriors of Light
The hexagram as a spiritual symbol, like the labyrinth, predates organized religion. Although it seems unclear exactly where its origins lie, or for how long this symbol has been used, the hexagram has a history across the globe. And, as a magical symbol, represents harmony and balance. Two equilateral triangles overlap to form a star. One pointing above, one pointing below. In elemental terms they are often viewed as representing water and fire (and sometimes combined with earth and air). A balance of yin with yang. Masculine and feminine energies merging into one.
My six warriors are not only a mix of “males” and “females,” within each of them is a predominance of one or more elements, as well as ethnicities. And, as a group, there is a balance of yin and yang energies that don’t necessarily follow societal norms. Together, they are tasked with a mission to restore balance to the world. A balance that has been broken by the impacts of the human race. To restore this balance, they must navigate the broken pathways of the labyrinth as a hexagram and restore the light of connection. And so, therein lies a story of the hexagram as a labyrinth.
As life moves me towards the age of fifty, I find myself reflecting on how I define joy. We often ask each other, “Did you enjoy this?” and “Are you enjoying that?” without perhaps thinking about what these questions mean to us individually.
Merriam-Webster goes on to define joy in three ways. There is an outward expression of joy that arises out of “good-fortune or success,” and there is that more inward state of being that is equated to “bliss.” In the middle is “happiness.”
I have found that as I reach into the arms of life at fifty, none of these definitions of joy quite work for me. Instead, see the moments of life that open me.
Let me try to explain.
A few nights ago, I had a dream: I was sitting with a new teacher, and we were reviewing my life resume. “Well,” she said, “you didn’t finish your PhD, but you wrote this book, and then this book, and then this book…”
You might think, after reading this, that I am about to define the joy I have discovered in my life by the definition of “good-fortune or success,” but I am not.
If I did, I would count reviews and book sales and find lack. I would turn towards an outward refection of success and find how unsettling this constant climb really is.
No, joy has found me in more subtle, but meaningful ways. For me, fifty years of joy have given me moments like this:
I am seven months pregnant, dancing in the living room with my child in my belly. Just the two of us. Complete union. Joy.
I am sitting on the sofa, looking into my teenager’s eyes filled with the sorrow of heartache. It is the middle of the day, but it is also morning. It is also night. The days turn into weeks, and we are brought together, again and again to experience this part of life. Distilled moments of union, communing in raw openness. Also joy.
I am standing in the moors of England, my hand pressed against an ancient stone. The wind fights my hair and tears run with sorrow down my cheeks, but I am hardly aware of myself. Instead, I am experiencing life beyond me. Memories of lives in all their extremes move through me in waves of connection, slipping through time and space. It is happiness, and sorrow, and everything in between. The joy of openness, which is connection.
I am sitting at an old, antique desk I found years ago with my husband on Craig’s List in our hunt to build my dream. It is at the end of a small alcove, my office. The walls around me are a soft purple hung with gifts of friendship and love. I am writing words to fill the pages of my fourth book. In this moment, I don’t care about how many eyes will read them, I am filled with the harmony of the flow of life that ebbs and rushes.I am an active part of creation in a sacred space. Joy.
I am standing still in the forest with my beloved dog beside me while nature moves around us. I can hear the song of birds and the wind moving through the trees. I can feel the light that is outside of me, inside of me. I am still, but I am moving. I am the energy that is my life as a part of all life. A temporary form, constantly changing as it sheds and grows. Releases and renews. Life recycling and living, over and over again. Unity without ending: the joy of being. The light of life = delight.
Someone I care deeply about has recently died. She was a friend, a mentor, a mother figure and a kindred spirit all wrapped into one human form. Her loss was not sudden, but too soon. I am grieving in uncharted territory while reading a blog post she wrote before her passing. Her presence is alive within her words, and I watch as the light on my screen fades and dims, then brightens again, seemingly of its own accord. She is the “light behind the story.”The light that never fades, which is the pure joy of life.
I am sitting inside a home infused with love in all its forms. The walls hold the laughter of joy and the shrieks of sorrow, and everything in between. Outside, nature breathes through the windows a constant promise of renewal. I sit amidst life, writing, but also participating. I am the witness and the participant. I am a part of all that is and ever will be. I am the joy ofbeing.
It is one of those increasingly rare days here in New Hampshire when one feels like normal has returned. At least for a moment. The edge of anxiety has lifted with the smoke filled air and the apocalyptic haze has gone elsewhere. It is a summer day of yesterdays. Instead of fire, I can smell the clothes drying on the line. Above me, the blue sky has broken free, and the air quality index has registered as “good.” For now, the angry red sun has calmed.
It is a good day to breathe. A good day to be outside in the shade and marvel at the life that persists and even thrives. Here in New England we have received record breaking rains. It is a good summer for mushrooms and mosquitos, but not for sensitive lungs. Torrential rains cycle through several times a week, flooding the banks of rivers and washing away roads. Entire cities have been submerged, becoming islands to the helpless and hapless. Landslides have taken down hills that have never experienced instability.
Even though it is a “good” day to breathe and to allow the increasingly steady state of anxiety to abate, just a little, I am acutely aware that it is no longer a normal day. I can recall, maybe a mere decade ago, thinking how lucky we are, here in the Northeastern part of the continental U.S., that the effects of climate change have been subtle. And, dare I say, even gentle.
How much has changed.
I am in the midst of a summer of rain and thunder. Of smoke and haze from nearly 900 fires burning in the land north of where I live. A land that is supposed to be colder. On Monday, as the sky broke open in more angry torrents of rain, I stood beside the open window and smelled fire instead of water. The impossible has become possible. The threat, now a reality.
No longer are we in the phase of forewarning, we are living in the landscape of dystopia. A landscape of our creation. Do not try to preach to me about climate denial. I will not hear it. Wake up to your senses. Breathe in the unease around you. Feel the deadly rise of Fahrenheit and smell the smoke of a raging Earth.
As a white woman living in America who believes in equality for all, I find it difficult to celebrate the birth of a nation that was born out of colonialism. Rarely does a day go by when I do not reflect upon this, but today it feels acute. As, I believe, it should.
Let us not forget that slavery and genocide built the country we call America, and that to be a “free and independent” nation, we tried to erase the people who rightfully call this land home. Although we cannot change our shared past, we can be aware of its imperfections. We can be aware that we still have a long road to travel to repair our wrongs and ensure that every person is afforded equal rights and protections.
It was with some reluctance that we drove away from the Grand Canyon to make our way back to Sedona. We had been lucky to beat the rainstorm, which we were not prepared for, and we were still determined to take in a Sedona sunset before we flew home. As it was, we chose the perfect spot.
Sunset near Cathedral Rock, Sedona, Arizona
After getting some tacos to-go, we drove to the famous Cathedral Rock formation in Sedona. It was a site we had passed often during our travels, and we did not want to miss seeing it close-up before we left for home.
Cathedral Rock is magnificent to behold at any time of day, but offers a special magic at sunset.
The climb up Cathedral rock is considered short, but difficult, and we soon discovered why. Had we been better prepared and more rested, we may have made it to the top of the trail, but after venturing up the lower portion of the rather slippery rocks, we decided it wasn’t worth the risk of injury.
It’s a steep and rather treacherous climb to the top of Cathedral, but many people attempt it.
We were not disappointed, though. The entire natural monument is stunning, from all sides and depths.
Cathedral Rock in Sedona is considered to reside on one of the famous vortexes. It is a wonder to behold and feels both majestic and sacred.
And, it is especially magnificent at sunset when the light illuminates the red rocks and brings depth to its shadows. Faces and forms appear and one gets the sense you are in the presence of ancestral spirits lingering in the stone, watching…
Cathedral Rock and its spirits in stone
Instead of climbing to the summit, we walked around the base of Cathedral walk, following the trail of the setting sun. It was magical.
It was a long day filled with wonders that far surpassed the imagination, as well as many moments of deep gratitude for this beautiful and wondrous Earth we reside upon.
The path back to the parking lot, surrounded by wonders
The Light Behind the Story 