Two Gifts... just for You!

Be transported into the delightful world of lovable swine, Pedrita, as she discovers the magic of following her dreams... perhaps you'll discover your own heart's desire along the way (4.5 minutes).

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This fresh & innovative daybook is tickling hearts, oxygenating souls, and bringing presence around the globe.

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When pigs fly...

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photo © courtesy of Bill Hughlett

Pondering... 30 in 30 - Day 2

When Pigs Fly

Pedrita gazed upward into the night sky, pondering the question: When will I ever learn to fly? Her nights were dream-filled while her days were spent in the barnyard surrounded by fellow swine. The others passed their hours trudging back and forth between feed trough and mud pit. They slogged through the days mimicking perfect barnyard behavior infused with virtually no enthusiasm.

Pedrita, however, knew she was destined for more. Instead of snarfing down her slop, she would pause and be curious about where her meal had been before. Whose leftovers was she sharing? Did the grains come from the field over there? Was her mother gluten intolerant? Is that why she's so cranky? Pedrita spent her waking hours pondering and pondering and even though the other animals made fun of her and called her whacky, she offered them kindness and gentleness rather than matching their derision.

Every night she would gaze into the heavens and imagine herself floating among the stars. She could see herself reflected in the constellations and knew she was special and shiny. She tried to tell her friends about the magic night sky, but they were more concerned about the next meal and what everyone else was doing. Ped, however, would not be dissuaded. She continued to dream her dreams and wish upon the glowing stars. She saw beauty in everything and offered compassion unceasingly, even to the piglets who laughed at her wistfulness. Nothing could deter her from reaching for the stars.

Each evening while standing under the moonlit sky, she offered compassion to the whole world - especially the parts she didn't understand. She sincerely believed we are all made of stars, and as she nurtured this belief something gradually changed within her. Her heart sprouted wings and under the winds of generous compassion, one night she defied gravity and rose to join the twinkling lights of the sky.

She quit trying to convince others to change and went about her days seeing her mates perfect as they were with all their slogging and slopping. By day, she was a simple swine reaching out to others through curiosity and kindness. Little did they know, however, that through these daily actions she nurtured the incredible lightness of being that carried her, Pedrita the pig, soaring through the starlit nights.

Inspired by Pedro's prompt: When will pigs fly? And will we fly alongside them...

kauai pigs © h3images

Prizes for you... Inspiration for me... Check it out!!!

Diamonds in the Soul - helping high-functioning, under-living people uncover & maintain personal delight & joy in life.

Multi-generational Mojo

Hey, Friends. This week I am hanging out with the amazing Jennifer Louden and a whole bunch of really fantastic writers. Before I took off for Taos, one of my rockin' new friends, Kanesha Baynard, invited me to share the tale of my recent multi-generational jog at her delightful blog, it's a full nest. Pop on over and check it out!



Diamonds in the Soul - helping high-functioning, under-living people uncover & maintain personal delight & joy in life.

Cairo

Welcome to the beginning of my Egyptian journey! I'd love to hear your thoughts and wonder if you have questions and or topics you'd like to hear more about surrounding this adventure. Please feel free to comment and let me know what's on your mind. Mine is still settling into US time while absorbing the adventures of the last weeks.

September 22, 2010

Arriving in a city after dark has always held particular intrigue - especially when approaching a city I've never before visited. Bleary-eyed from 20 hours of travel and a few time zone changes, I begin to catch my first glimpse of Cairo, the largest city on the African continent. With inhabitants of more than 6 million people and another 10 million in the surrounding areas, it is a vast sea of twinkling light as we approach in evening's dusk.

From my window seat I quickly snap a photo of the setting sun and the reality of where I am landing begins to invade my body. My senses perk up as I hear the Air France flight attendant announce in three languages (English, French and Arabic) our approach into the City of a Thousand Minarets. Not being a geography or history buff or business traveler, many might wonder what I (a lone woman) am doing flying into a Middle Eastern country on this September evening. On this final leg of my journey from Paris to Cairo, I have been gifted the luxury of no seat companion - an amazing thing in itself on a predominantly full flight. The brilliance of solitude fades briefly as I realize I have only myself to rely upon as I enter this new world, however, neither fear nor panic strike me at this moment.

Deplaning, we passengers exit our steel cocoon and are shuttled onto an airport bus that will carry us to the main international terminal. Brilliant yellow lights displaying "Cairo International Airport" move past the bus window. It is a scene I've lived in other cities (sans the Cairo sign) and feels somewhat ordinary for the time being. As we leave the bus and enter the terminal, the reality that I'm in a foreign land blasts into my awareness. Having braved sending my passport to the Egyptian Embassy in the US, my travel visa is already stamped in my passport, so I can forgo the confusion of trying to purchase one now. I fall into line behind a man I take to be British and hope I'm in the right queue. All the while, my eyes are scanning the handbills held by local drivers seeking their passengers as I navigate my way through zealous cab drivers offering me passage. "No, thank you, " I murmur while shaking my head and praying my driver will appear soon.

After moving through the passport check without incident, I edge toward the luggage carousel and await my bags. I am jostled by large men hoisting huge suitcases with little awareness of a petite woman standing in their midst. It is not unfamiliar to home. Again, I scan to see the sign for Abanoub Travel without success. Finally, my two small bags are in my possession and I realize it's time to resort to plan b for transportation. I begin to rummage through my carry-on bag for phone numbers and wish I'd paid more attention to things like international codes and calling protocol on my iPhone. The crowd has thickened as we travelers approach the final turnstile that will release us into the world outside the airport. Suddenly, like a sign from heaven my misspelled name comes into focus. It is held in the hands of a young, roundish man with thinning wavy hair, glasses that match his shape and a welcoming smile. He recognizes the look of relief on my face that I'm sure he's seen a thousand times when picking up others. We introduce ourselves and his name is quickly lost in the buzz of the electric evening air. Still, my body relaxes as my temporary guardian carries my bags and we begin to weave through the maze of human bodies toward our car.

Moments like this are so surreal to me. I've seen them in movies a million times, planned this trip for months, yet hadn't considered this actual moment of my own arrival. It is one played out in cities all over the world, nearly every minute of the day. A traveler arrives in a new city. My history is being written right now as I step into a land I've only read about in history books. I am not just arriving in Cairo, but Cairo is arriving in me. Like two lovers meeting under the cloak of darkness, our eyes have met. Will this city hold my gaze? What will be revealed in the days to come? Will she receive me or cast me off as just another casual lover? I wish I could see her in the light. I can feel the secrets she holds, but the light is unnatural and the wattage too low for visual clarity. Still, I feel her pulsing vibrancy. I hear the language shift quickly from English to Arabic and know the mystery is deepening and being revealed even in this seemingly ordinary moment.

photos © lucy

• landing in Cairo
• sign while traveling toward the Sinai desert
• Cairo airport

Cherry blossoms? Really?

While tidying up my studio this morning, I ran across this little parable/fairy tale written during a recent group supervision session. While I realize it is not quite cherry blossom time, I thought it appropriate as we begin the new year and consider what undiscovered adventures await us and where we might find freedom in letting go.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful pink cherry blossom. She was stunning in her splendor – light, extravagant, playful. She wanted to swim in the air, but nevertheless clung to the branches – hoping she could live and bloom and grow for a good long time.

Alas, the blossom spent vast amounts of energy worrying about what would come next. Would she fall? Would she soar? Would she die? All the blossoms around her were letting go and gently floating through the air. They seemed oblivious to what might lay beneath them.

“How ridiculous,” she thought. “Don’t they know you have to fight for what you want?”

“Really?” chimed in the branch upon which she clung. “All I do is sit here, come rain or shine, and beautiful, amazing things happen to me.”

“Like what?” asked the blossom.

“Like green leaves and blooms and purple sprouts and colors changing and covering me in pink light until I am so full I don’t know what to do. And just when I think I can’t hold another thing, the load begins to lighten – slowly, but surely – the weight dissolves and I grow and morph and change into something new.”

“But if I fall from this branch, I will die and turn into mush.”

“Yes, you will change forms, but you will become food and molecules. You will transform into something new and life giving.”

“But will I be as beautiful as before?”

“Who defines beauty? Beauty is in your heart, not your color or weight or size or smell. Give it a try. Let go.”

And so the blossom let go and she was filled with the greatest exhilaration of her existence. She was free in those moments as she floated to the earth. Free as a bird. She was swimming in the air and nothing else mattered in the world.

So... will you consider the possibilities and undiscovered adventures awaiting you in the coming year? Is there something you need to let go? I know I'll be pondering this over the coming days.

plum blossoms © lucy, 2007

holding tight

“We heap on the darkness, constructing a variety of false selves. We become adept at playing games, wearing masks as if life were a masquerade party.” --Sue Monk Kidd

The young woman sat before me dressed in her work clothes of tailored black pants and crisp white shirt. Her face clean of makeup. Her eyes tired from a cold—or was it more? Her long silky hair pulled away from her face in a ponytail that was a little messy, but still very ‘together.’ She held onto herself, grasping her stomach tightly, throughout our time together. Her face turning deeper shades of red as she tried to convince me that she ‘operates best under stress.’ It was almost as if I could hear her saying, “if I just hold on tight enough, all of the emotions I feel inside will not spill out and fill this room. If I can just convince you maybe I can convince myself that everything is alright and I don’t need help.” But she did not convince me.

I could see the terror on her young face. Terror and determination as she talked of breaking away from her “controlling parents.” Parents who were concerned that she wanted to work multiple jobs while going to school and playing sports and maintaining an active social life. From what was she running? If she were to slow down, I got the sense that the feelings would drown her. Did she have that same sense? Nowhere to turn. No one to trust. A ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

She hinted of betrayal. Friends she could not trust. A young love gone bad. The fighting in her house followed by the absence of family members. “They just leave,” she said with a shrug. The themes were all over the place, but still she tried to convince me that she did not need help. She could not fit in one more thing. She could only trust herself. But, here she sat betraying herself. Pushing her body. Exhausted and worn out. Driven. Holding tight. She saw herself as moving toward something. I saw it as running away. Her attempts at security were slowly eating away at her soul.

The Tale of Lucy

There once was a beautiful girl with pools of deep brown eyes. She lived in a normal house in a quiet neighborhood and some would say she led a privileged life. From the outside it looked that way, but on the inside she felt as though she were locked in a tall tower. No one could climb the tower to reach her. In fact, no one ever really tried. Only the evil gremlins communicated with her and all they said was, “Sit still. Look pretty.”

Although she was, in deed, quite pretty, she never felt that to be true. And as far as “sitting still” went….well, all she really wanted to do was play and skip and laugh and shine. The gremlins were quite envious of this playful behavior and in their resentment, they cast a spell over the beautiful girl. They used sweet sounding words tinged with bitterness that gently lulled her to sleep. But, just before she went into a deep slumber, the girl realized that she was being tricked. She knew something was terribly wrong and deep in her heart she clung to the dreams of her childlike nature.

Alas, the spell still took hold and the young girl was silent for many years during which time she became bitter and resentful just like the gremlins. She was crabby and spiteful and often pushed her companions away with her nasty demeanor. One day, a very brave friend looked at the girl and said, “You are Lucy. Lucy Van Pelt. Charlie Brown’s nemesis.” Hearing the name and making the association was like being struck over the head with a large stick (or awakened from a deep dark sleep.)

The name stuck and the young girl (who was no longer so young) realized slowly, but surely that she was not really Lucy Van Pelt in character and she still wanted to play and skip and dance to music and to have her heart touched by those she loved. She came to learn that the more she knew about herself, the more she wanted to love and care for others in return. And so, she began to play again; and she started to shine; and music followed her everywhere she went.

Birds gave her special messages and dolphins danced along her path. She was full of light. It was as if she had her own magic wand and she could use it to help others see their own light. She glistened and glowed. She transformed back into who she had always been deep inside her heart. She played. She skipped. She did the gratitude dance. And one day, she learned that her new name, Lucy, meant light. She was not only Lucy Van Pelt, she was also St. Lucy—Patron St. of the blind.

She was playful and beautiful and her pools of deep brown eyes could see clearly now. When she was scared and under the spell of the gremlins, she would pull footballs out from under unsuspecting victims, but when she was grounded and filled with love, she was St. Lucia. She was Lucy in the sky. She glittered with diamonds and pearls of wisdom. She was magically fulfilled.

Today, the girl-turned-woman loves both her “Lucy’s.” They make the completeness of who she is. The dark and light. The serious and playful. The crabby and kind. She needs them both. And so, you see, the gift of Lucy (given to her by a very brave friend) was one of the greatest gifts she ever received. For without that gift, she would not be Lucy of the light and there would be no diamonds for her to share with the world.

Today is St. Lucy’s day. Please join me in celebrating the Light!

The Girl in Yellow

Here's something a little different today.

The girl in yellow follows me in and out of the hours of my days. She catches me by surprise, and when I think of her I see light and sunshine. She emanates a glow and I see her smiling face in a bright yellow dress. She pulls me in. My heart feels light and just as suddenly I realize that her face framed by yellow is not laughing nor smiling. The color does not come from woven threads or gleaming rays of light. The yellow is not bright and sunshiny; it is, in fact, a smear.

The color is spreading and oozing down the dress she has just worn to Sunday school. The look on her face is one of horror and disbelief. At only seven years of age, she cannot understand what is happening. It feels like the time she cut open her arm on the swing set and blood spread over everything—slowly dripping onto her clothes. But this time the “blood” is not red. It does not come from an open wound. This blood is yellow and it slowly spreads across her chest and has splattered onto her arms. This blood, in fact, is mustard from a jar, broken when it slammed into her small shoulder after being hurled across the kitchen by her raging father.

She stands in shock, her face silent and frozen. While she was not the direct target of attack, she has become a casualty of war not much different than the child in a war torn country who suffers from shrapnel wounds because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Time has stopped as her mother, who instinctively ducked to avoid the incoming missile, turns to witness her beautiful young daughter covered in dripping yellow goo. Even her father stops his drunken rampage for a moment; sobered by the sight before him. She is his little princess and while he did not consider shielding her from his verbal attack, he never meant to physically hurt anyone—least of all his precious eldest child.

The girl takes in her parents’ shocked faces and immediately feels as though she is the one who has done something wrong. Shame floods over her and through her. She wants to cry and wail like a wounded animal and it appears as if that is just what she will do when suddenly a very slight movement catches the corner of her eye. It is her little brother, three years old. He has curled up into a ball and tucked himself into the corner of the kitchen.

Before her own tears start to flow, she hears the slightest whimper coming from the tiny boy. She cannot cry now. She must comfort her baby brother. She gently reaches down, takes his small hand into her own and says, “Come on, baby. Let’s go outside.”

The parents stand there motionless. They are incapable of caring for their children. They stand by as onlookers, watching as the seven-year-old moves into the role of protector and mother of both herself and her brother. Slowly and very quietly, the two children leave the room; tiptoeing as if their footsteps might give away their whereabouts even though all eyes are upon them. As they walk onto the front porch, the sunshine hits the front of the girl’s dress. There is a quick flash of brilliant yellow and then the gluttonous mess begins to turn brown and harden over the heart of the fair-haired girl.

The Woman on the Bus

Well, much as I would like to say I have another wonderful, peaceful story to share…that would not be the case with this tale—although it does start out that way. Monday afternoon I once again boarded a very full bus for my ride home. It started out delightfully as a man offered me his seat—an action almost never seen in my experience. I said, ‘thanks, I’m okay,’ but he insisted and told me that ‘chivalry was not dead.’ We laughed and conversed with a couple of other passengers until the next stop when he exited the bus. The exchange left me smiling and with a sense of hope.

The ride continued and I found myself between the window and a youngish man wearing large headphones, ensconced in his own world. As the bus came to a stop the woman in front of me needed to exit and her seat partner stood to let her out. The partner was facing me and just as I was about to nod and smile, her face darkened and she spit out, “Quit staring at me because I’m black!!” and then as she plopped into her seat she muttered rather loudly, “Bitch.”

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Thoughts raced through my head. Is she talking to me? How could she think that? What did I do? She’s black? Her color had not even registered in my thoughts. I found myself wanting to apologize and say something to her, but realized that would be for my benefit not hers. I then started to wonder about the obvious anger and hurt inside of her. How had she become so guarded? Who had done this to her? Why must people be so unkind and cruel? It felt like she was spitting hatred onto me that had been heaped onto her throughout her twenty-something years of life.

And so, while very different experiences, this one has continued to stay with me as does "The Man on the Bus." These encounters have been added to the fabric of my life. It feels somehow trite to say, but I pray specifically for this man and woman and wonder where their lives will lead them. I have been changed by my experience of them while realizing my existence may not even register for them. We never know in life when or how we touch others.

"In surrendering to the miracle of the everyday, the Warrior of the Light notices he cannot always foresee the consequences of his actions. Sometimes he acts without even knowing that he is doing so, he saves someone without even knowing he is saving them, he suffers without even knowing why he is sad." --Paulo Coelho

May we all choose to surrender to the miracle of the everyday!

photo by bill hughlett

The Man on the Bus

A very memorable experience presented itself yesterday during my bus ride home from downtown. I climbed on the 15 Local (slower than the Express I just missed) and found it to be quite full. There was an empty space toward the front next to a man in a window seat. After sitting down I noticed he did not seem to be aware of his surroundings and was slightly swaying in his seat. It was hard to determine if he was intoxicated or simply exhausted and having an impossible time staying awake.

As we rode along I realized he was tilting more and more in my direction. Normally I am very aware of personal space on the bus (both mine and other’s) but for some reason this did not feel like an intrusion. The weight of his body pressed more deeply against mine until I found myself holding onto the seat handle to keep from being pushed into the aisle. This, too, seemed okay to me. After a bit, his head came to rest on my shoulder. Other riders had started to look in our direction by this time seeming to wonder what was going on. At one point, a woman in the next row pointed out an empty seat for me in the handicap row. I’m not sure why, but it felt like I would be abandoning my seat partner if I got up to move. I was comfortable right where I was, and so we continued along, two strangers, his head gently laying on my shoulder and me feeling somewhat like a guardian angel.

As we rode along I was able to see him a bit more closely. I imagine he was in his late thirties or early forties although he could have been younger. He was well-groomed and cleanly dressed in a baseball jacket with leather sleeves, a button down shirt and nice jeans. In his lap was some type of canvas portfolio. His skin was dark and his features were reminiscent of someone from Ethiopia or possibly Eritrea although I could not know for sure. Again, I wondered about his state of near unconsciousness. He did not reek of alcohol although I thought I could detect a slight hint of something. He appeared totally incapable of keeping his eyes open or his head erect—bobbing as the bus continued its route.

Several times during the 30-minute ride I was given opportunity to move from my seat, but each time I declined. It is very difficult to explain the peace I felt as I sat next to this stranger. It felt as if for a moment in time it was my job to be with this man. I did not trust that anyone else would be kind to him if I left the seat open where I now sat. I kept thinking how he seemed to need a shoulder to lean on. Ironically, there were times in the ride when it would have been hard to tell who was leaning on whom as I pressed in to keep from falling out of my seat.

Fortunately, before we got to my stop he had shifted his weight to lean against the window side of the bus so I did not have to worry that he would fall to the floor when I left. I prayed for him as we rode side by side and wondered about his dreams and aspirations. Where had he been? Where was he going? Why was he so exhausted and/or intoxicated? Stories ran through my mind about the possibilities. While I don’t believe he ever cognitively recognized I was there with him, as I placed his fallen binder on the seat next to him, I hoped that somewhere in his soul he would be able to feel and recognize that someone had been with him as he rode obliviously through the streets of Seattle.

I will certainly remember him. It was a uniquely blessed time for me. I am not sure who ministered to whom in those moments, but I did recognize clearly that sometimes we all need a shoulder to lean on.

photo by bill hughlett

“The Tale of the Instant Coffee …

... or Confessions of a Seattleite”

Once upon a time there was a young woman who we will call Lucy. Lucy was a person who learned to drink coffee during those formidable college years when the balancing act was a challenge between happy hours and study time. Coffee became an essential tool for Lucy once she discovered it’s magical abilities to induce alertness after a few nights of minimal sleep.

Lucy’s love of coffee followed her into her career as a public accountant and she drank cup after cup of coffee throughout the day and evening without effect. Time went by and Lucy moved from career woman to stay-at-home motherhood—her love of coffee only waning during the first trimester of pregnancy when the smell of almost anything except orange soda pop was repugnant.

During this time a wonderful thing occurred. Lucy moved to the coffee capital of the world—Seattle. There she was soon introduced to a variety of coffee concoctions and ultimately landed upon her regular—the tall nonfat latte. Still, nothing could beat a fresh cup of coffee (or several) so Lucy’s coffee chugging days continued—until…

photo by bill hughlett

Aak! Bladder problems!! By this time Lucy had already made the move from regular coffee to decaf since she found that there might have been a slight addiction problem (e.g. screaming headaches when coffee was withheld). Decaf or no, Lucy continued to love her coffee and faithfully awoke to the aroma of a fresh-brewed pot each morning. Alas, the urologist said no more. Or at least no more than one cup a day if Lucy wanted to divert wearing Depends for a while longer.

Lucy discovered that it is next to impossible to brew one cup of really good coffee. Oh, she tried the coffee press. She tried drinking only one cup out of the pot, but each left her lacking. One thing Lucy found that she loved almost more than the taste was the actual warmth of the drink. So, while visiting her sister (not a Seattleite), Lucy stumbled upon her sister’s “fix” of (I dare say it)…instant coffee.

Once again, Lucy was hooked. She found that she could control the strength and, of course, the size of the “cup”, and soon the whistling teapot began to take the place of the dripping of the coffee maker. The aroma was always fresh and the steam was more satisfying than any lukewarm concoction. Now, you must realize that Lucy is only able to admit this shame to her closest friends and just to keep up appearances, she often orders in public her favorite “Seattle” drink—a decaf tall nonfat latte—extra hot, of course!

Thus, concludes the tale of the instant coffee aka the confession of a Seattleite. (Names have been changed to protect reputations.)

Hope that you never find yourself likened to a bad cup of coffee--cold and bitter!!