Simple Habit

I may have mentioned it before, but since I am on anxiety level red alert (something just feels amiss in my gut, but I fully admit it could just be pms), I am leaning pretty hard on the app Simple Habit (as well as hourly half-cups of baking soda water for indigestion) , which was recommended to me by a cheerful co-worker.
It has numerous meditations, many of them free, and I usually start my morning with a short talk and then I listen to some soothing music while I sit quietly.

I highly recommend it as a starting point for meditation and calmness. The 31 Day Fresh Start selection is perfect for beginners. Then finish with the theta wave music for ten minutes of peace. I can't wait for morning  to get back into my daily routine 😀

One Day More-Another viewing of Les Mis

Today, to celebrate our anniversary earlier this month, my husband and I went to see the traveling production of Les Miserables at the performance hall in town. The first time I saw the musical was at the local theatre and I was instantly hooked. It had everything I loved-hope, renewal, love, passion-all wrapped in one vibrant package. Soon after the musical version of the movie came out, and again I was entranced. There were personal memories accompanying that, as you can read more deeply in this post on my personal blog page, The Whisper Within. But this is just a musical after my own heart.

I love the idea that no matter where you come from, no matter your misdeeds, you can always choose a new path. As we see in the story of Fantine, things do not always work out for us here, but by moving forth in love (for her child) she did get her redemption. Jean Valjean reeks of inspiration and goodness-and even Javert-unyielding- is sympathetic. Javert is the stubborn child within us, the passive-aggressive pout when we refuse own happiness to keep another from getting what they want. I love sweet Marius and tolerate the saccharine Cozette, and Eponine is just the best ever. Eponine with her unjust upbringing who still brings beauty with her love for Marius and thwarted hopes and dreams, is so close to the heart of any among us who have suffered (and who hasn't?).

I love the idea that we are all capable and deserving of redemption. As I wrote in an earlier post, we are all just babies crawling around messing up. We are all in need of grace. We are all in need of mercy. All Javert has to do is just yield-just one small bit, just one deep breath, and let his hand fall, but like so many of us, he clings to what he believes, he cannot let it go-it is worth his own life to hold onto his beliefs and pride. And I think that is what I love so much about this musical. We can see ourselves playing out in so many of the roles and see the outcomes each path might bring. We can see which choices lead to good and which choices lead to pain. And we learn as we identify. We cry as we understand.

I love the boys of the rebellion, the passionate music, the hints and bits of childhood innocence. Even after leaving I hear the ringing, rising tones as One Day More echos in my head, stirring the tears waiting behind my tired eyes and held in by my raging headache. Thankfully, the lady to my right cried as much as I, and I witnessed her wiping the tears that had dripped down her neck away, even as I wiped them off my chest.

All in all, a perfectly passionate day.

A few of my favorite things and a great article link.

I have been swimming in blueness for a couple of days, and while the less than happy memories can bring their own dramatic pleasure ( like a nail in the gumline), eventually a return to what is good, to what is right, is necessary. So I thought I would share a few things I am currently loving.

The delicious order I received around 2:30a.m. and the fact that it was in stock with that supplier and is now shipped. Happiness.

Wal-Mart French Roast K -cups.

Anne With an E. It's not the Anne of the books or the Meghan Follows version. It is too PC to represent the times, but oh! The cinematography is luscious.

The light of our home, dimpled Alec, will be three this week. I rejoice in his youthfulness, just as I see the light at the end of the constant mess tunnel.

My calico, Spitfire. From the sweet young cat who gave birth beside me to the frail elderly feline grouch she is now,we have had many years together.

Possible wintry weather. ❤️❄️
Nothing warms the soul like gathering with one's family as the storm rages outside the walls.

These are simple delights, nothing poetic or fancy, but they are mine.

I do wish you would comment below with a few of your favorite things.

And as promised:

https://thepowerofsilence.co/stop-giving-a-damn-about-things-you-have-no-control-over-and-focus-on-yourself/

Jane Shurtz-The teacher I will never forget

Okay, upon rereading, this sounds very much like a middle school essay. I think it is because I wasn't inspired, I went with a writing prompt. Lesson learned?

Teachers are often the first people, outside of parents, with whom children have regular contact. As the other adult in a child's life, their impact should not be underestimated. A good teacher can be the shining light in a child's life, while a poor one can be the daily disappointment, if not nightmare, in a  child's life. And ironically, the students who so desperately need a teacher the most, are the ones who often struggle the most to form a good bond with a teacher.

I went through the early years of my schooling with the fuzzy, innocent view only the unawakened have. I was never a teacher's pet, frequently in trouble for talking, and sent to sit with the boys who didn't behave at the back table. I didn't really think too much about it. I had been talking, it didn't really occur to me my teacher's heart might not dance with joy to see my face. In second grade I was becoming a little more aware of power struggles and hierarchies, but was still pretty innocent. In third grade, at age eight, I was awake. I liked my teacher, I was good and fast at the work, and even though I wasn't a cool, popular girl, I had a good friend or two. Fourth grade, brought on Hell, fast and quick. This was after several moves, and I started at a very small school in a mixed 3/4th grade class. There were only four fourth grade girls and the fighting was constant and bitter. This was topped off by a teacher who wore dress skirts and kitten heels and pantyhose. She was fancy and fastidious and reserved, and I was her opposite. She did not like me, and as hard as I tried to please her, I was never the sweet, obedient child she preferred. I mumble. I have strong opinions. I TALKED out loud. I was raised with boys, a bit rough, and I often had holes in the toes of my shoes (which I totally would have forgotten if it wasn't for my big toes poking out in the class photo).  It was a bad year.

The following year, our school joined with another and our tiny building housed the 5th and 6th graders. The teachers split up core subjects and each student was assigned a homeroom. This teacher was an inspiration. I loved her. She wore jeans even though she was overweight, which seemed so cool to me. She had preppy sweaters with shirt collars underneath, and grey hair and a big smile. She hugged me and asked why I didn't hug back. She made me feel like I was someone even when I wasn't perfect. Mrs. Shurtz was the designated language arts teacher at a time when my passion was writing. She encouraged me and helped me perfect my childish pieces and encouraged us to use five dollar words. She believed in my crappy poetry. The next year, after we had moved to St. Louis and returned to Springfield in February or March, she had become a sixth grade teacher, and smiled and said she would take me in her room. I was so happy.

Now I got in trouble with Mrs. Shurtz. I still talked too much. I still gave her major attitude, which eventually led to a long tear-soaked lecture with her and the principal while the other kids got an extra recess. But she always made me feel loved. She always made a big deal out of our grades and we girls fought to be the one whose report card would read "Top Score!" on various subjects. When I was floundering in the popular group, she wisely moved me to another group of girls who were more accepting (through the wisdom of a seating chart). I felt the relief of a more forgiving social structure, and it wasn't until years later that I realized this was probably planned.

Mrs. Shurtz was the teacher I always wanted to be. While I don't have the natural warmth she exuded, I feel blessed to have had her as an influence in my life. If someone were to ask me, who inspired me to be a teacher, it would have to be Mrs. Shurtz (along with Laura in These Happy Golden Years, of course. Anyone who knows me well, knows I am not very good with names. I tend to rely to strongly on right brain cues to make associations with people. But the name, Jane Shurtz, along with She Who Must Not Be Named, will remained etched into my brain long into my life.

Self-forgiveness.~ Why knowing is half the battle

Urg. At the end of last week, I was met with an angry acquaintance and realize a carelessly thoughtless act on my part had hurt their feelings. I quickly attempted to make amends, however, they were not ready.

And then I sat there kicking myself. How could I have screwed this up? I thought I was becoming a better person. Why do I always make such stupid mistakes and end up feeling on the outside, when I want to just be friendly and make friends. Why is my logic so weird, and why do I have such blind spots?

I have been fretting about this for two days now, and finally have come to the realization that I have to practice self-forgiveness more. I can apologize, and other people may or may not forgive me. That is out of my hands. But I cannot let a mistake on my part ruin my life.  A little self-flagellation for a few hours perhaps might be in order, but not a weekend, week, or month worth of pain. We all screw up. We all have to practice forgiveness as well as ask for it.

I found a lovely little article, Learn to Forgive Yourself Even When You Have Hurt Someone Else, by Michael Davidson, and eagerly read, searching for some absolution.

I wish I could say I feel a sense of relief and can wash my hands of the matter. Unfortunately, my desire to please and belong and be thought of "as a good person" are too strong for me to easily let myself off the hook emotionally. But intellectually, I know I am okay. I am good and I have a light, and it will not be snuffed out by the winds of error.

And as a wise G.I. Joe once said, "Knowing is half the battle."

Off Days

Now that winter break is over and I am back to my day job, I feel the exhaustion all over my body. The first day back, I came home, took some pain reliever and spent the evening on the couch. Gradually I became used to the extra activity, but I felt a bit of frustration. I do not have a physical job. In fact, I think I spend too much time sitting a great part of the day.  But something about being at work, just uses a tremendous amount of energy.

I had my Saturday planned. I would do some light straightening, some laundry, nothing serious or strenuous. The weather promised to be nasty, so it was going to be a hygge day spent reading, websurfing, playing with my business stuff, and generally enjoying being alive. My husband budgeted a whole $50 because I am dying for new clothes (because all my extra-and not so extra- money is being thrown into the previously mentioned business), so I would search for deals online. Of course, I planned to get up around five and quietly awaken and go through my spiritual practices as I coffeed myself up adequately.

And then, of course. Life. At four a.m. my toddler was knocking on his door. I opened it and he said one word as he stood there naked. "Poop." I looked around expecting a mess, but he pushed past me, went into my bathroom, retrieved his potty, went to his room, pushed me out, and closed the door.

I could live with this.
It was short-lived however. I noticed my phone had come unplugged and scraped the wall as I was plugging it in. It wasn't long before he was crying and knocking on his door. I went back. He was staring at the wall in fear, crying, and saying, "Wall." The noise had scared him. This started when his pesky older brother started knocking on another wall to creep him out. Now any knocking when he is in his room scares him.

So I brought him to my already crowded bed, because sometime during the night my seven-year-old had come in. But he never went back to sleep. Eventually we stumbled downstairs to start the day. The seven-year-old awoke and followed. The seven-year-old is clingy. So my morning was not the peaceful, mind-enhancing morning I had planned. It is now 11, the toddler has just been put down for a nap, the house is messy, my phone has been snatched by a kid, and I sit here tired. And not feeling spiritual at all.

But it is Saturday, and we are making the best of it. I started a fire in the fireplace. I made homemade biscuits for breakfast (ignored that the seven-year-old said they tasted like playdough-they kind of did).  I ordered groceries. I deliberately left cocoa and chocolate chips off the list because I must lose the Christmas weight, if nothing else. And now I have a moment, however short, to type.

Some days are just off. Some days your best laid plans are knocked down. Your sleep deprivation continues one more day. The books sit unread. The patience you prayed for is wearing painfully thin.
Those are days when you just have to let go of your expectations. "Not my will, but yours," you think. You set your teeth, clean up the coffee the seven-year-old kicked on the carpet accidentally, make another cup, and try again. This time you REALLY let the aroma sink in (because who knows if you will actually get it in your body before it cools-or spills). You watch the flames dance in the fireplace, knowing, you are one with all the women before who sat in firelight gathering the pieces.

And then you can sit and marvel at the abundance around you. The walls and roof. The living creatures, human and not. The furnishings and decor and dishes and books, purchased one by one through your own labor. And maybe the day is off. And maybe the plans are shattered. But you are there, living one more unexpectedly beautiful day surrounded by plenty.

And your spirit soars anyway.

The Power of Prayer

Do you believe in prayer? Do you believe there is a power waiting and listening and wanting to help us?
When I was younger I was often told I had a strong faith. While I struggled some during the college years (which for me was late 20s to early 30s-I chose to do the mom thing first), ultimately, even in times of darkness, I held on to the belief that there was something-Someone listening.

I have watched my husband struggle with this idea of a Powerful being, a God, because he sees the pain the world, the pain children go through, and it doesn't make sense to him. Maybe I am simpler. Maybe I wrapped up in my own life, I am not sure. I hate the idea that someone is suffering. I can't handle stories of abuse or the thought of children starving, or people are being locked up and used. It is sickening. But that doesn't make me feel hopeless or disbelieving.

And I guess I am different there. I don't really want to go too deep into my own religious beliefs here, but I have been thinking of the power of prayer today.

I think about answered and unanswered prayers. The truth is, we pray and things either turn out the way we want or another way. The real question is, is there something-is there energy or access to a higher power that actually occurs when we pray? Or is the change happening within us? Are we triggering actions which lead to the events which lead to the prayer being met or not.

Are met prayers just confirming our bias? Do we just kindly overlook the unanswered prayers? As a romantic, obsessive infp (I think-let's be honest, we are all a little fluid in personality), like Garth, I truly do sometimes thank God for unanswered prayers. Can you imagine the following of devoted, idealized men I would have if every prayer and wish upon a star came true. Good Lord!

But if there are not guarantees, what is the point of prayer? In the Christian film, War Room, which was only okay as far as movies go,  this idea of writing prayers down so you can see as they are answered is interesting. I always wrote my prayers in a journal form as a teen. Eventually, several years ago, I threw most of them away, (and the crushes and pleas for whichever boy I silently loved, the pleas for help controlling my temper and being kinder to my mom, even when she was unfair, and patience for watching my little brother are now lost to the world), but the idea of asking for help is still there.

But...I have had enough prayers answered to believe in prayer. There have been areas of growth I knew I needed, but was afraid to ask for help, because my gut knew it would be painful. Until I got to the point of grief and despair as I was sitting on a floor, crying, and asking for help (you know when your grief and despair drive you to the floor, it has gotten real) . And the help came.

And considering that I do believe in the power of prayer, I find it a great curiosity to think of the things I DON'T pray for. If my gut tells me prayer works, why is it a last resort? Curiouser and curiouser.