Posts tagged as:

Story

StoryCorp! with Sophia

Last week, my 10-year-old friend, Sophia, visited us for a fun week together in San Francisco, and a birthday finale weekend. We tromped around town to places like the Exploratorium and House of Air. We took BART to the public library where we interviewed each other for StoryCorps. We noodled around in our pajamas and tried really really really hard to get to bed on time, but if we had to fail at something, we were happy it was that.

As we did a lot of stuff, there was a a lot of coming and going. Each time I put the key in the front gate, Sophia would chirp, “Turtle and Piplup!”

Turtle n Piplup arrow

We laughed that the names sounded like a cartoon or a puppet show. Seed planted, every time we saw the names, we’d spin off into imagining aloud the story that would be Turtle and Piplup–who the characters would be, how they live, how they met, who they meet, and the adventures they get up to. All week, as we walked to the taco joint or moseyed past City Hall or wandered in the library aisles, we’d see things that looked like they’d belong in the story.

Before long, Turtle was a turtle, Piplup was a jerboa, their pet was a branchless tree, named Nubby of course, who lived in the bathroom, and in the nubbles of Nubby lived Tubs, the baby quokka. By the end of the week in our heads, Turtle and Piplup had already had a talk show, traveled to the moon on a screw they’d found in a chair they dissembled, and had the coolest how’d-you-meet story that either of us had ever witnessed. The episodes kept spinning and spooling into more.

Turtle n Piplup pic

 

Nubby and Tubs pic

 

When mom came up for the birthday finale weekend, she had planned a party at The Children’s Creativity Museum. She had her eye on the claymation studio, where you could sculpt figures and make a claymation video out of them. All partygoers on deck, each of us made a character, many brand new to the Turtle and Piplup imagination landscape. And then Sophia orchestrated them all… Here’s to a happy 11th year steeped in creativity and imagination that goes on and on and on.

 

 

Here’s a picture of Daddy behind the scenes.

Daddy pilots the rocket

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We gathered in class the week after 9/11, wondering what we were doing in Fine Arts when our city had just been bombed. What use? Our teacher implored us to recognize that art is exactly what we’ll need as we and our country begin to heal.


She was right. For 11 years, we and artists everywhere have traveled the grief that day triggered, accessed it, felt it, purged it, shared it collectively, in the art we’ve made, stories we’ve told, textures we’ve weaved. Turns out that in healing ourselves of that wound, we’ve been healing each other. Art heals. Stories mend. Creating invites what’s next.

There’s a story on that plate. If you’ve eaten the cake, hug an artist, or, better, buy him or her some creating time. If you’ve been healed by expression, thank yourself for finding your voice. If you’re still locked, invite your voice by eating more of the cake: surround yourself with art, trees, encouragers who see your beauty and the stories inside you. Listen for the muse in the voices of your people. Talk till you find your way down your story’s path.

Live. Lose. Create. Consume. Build anew. Live anew…

Make your cake. Let us eat it.

Photos by Pema Teeter, taken at SFMOMA’s cafe. Art begets art begets art.

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I read Faith Squared’s “Making Sense of Senseless Acts” this morning and felt a flame of the revolution flare up in me.

Then I read Chris Guillebeau’s “The Free Lunch Movement” and became a burning bush, all-consumed and a-crackle with the shift.

Last, I watched Tara Mohr’s new Wise Living video on Huffington Post, “7 Surprising Ways to Discover Your Calling,” because 1) I love catching everything I can of Tara Mohr’s, and 2) every story is a journey and at the beginning of every journey is a call to adventure. When you discover your life’s calling, in my observation, you begin an endless course of adventures.

Too hot to stand still

SO OFTEN, our call to adventure is the heat that makes us need to get up and change things. Stamp it out or fuel the fire, we can’t NOT react to the heat, the pressure, the too-small pants, too-cramped room, too-narrow mind that is twitching to burst open.

Tara’s wisdom is spot-on at every point. But my favorite is this: Afraid you don’t have what you need to accomplish your calling? ANSWER THE CALL. You gather what you need along the way.

Challenges and choice

That’s the point of a calling. It calls you to fulfill your purpose. It leads you on a journey full of challenges and choice. In so doing it fills your quiver with every shot you’ll need to meet the dragon.

Feel that heat inside? The revolution is at hand: Your story is calling. Will you answer it?

 

Photo credit: bstarcustomshop

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Original sin, the rewrite

I am compelled by stories. All stories – real, imagined, practical, fantastical, written, filmed, sung, lived. There is one particular genre that intrigues me most of all: ancient, before-the-dawn-of-time narratives of women. These tales weave and wind their way into every other story I know, hear, and tell. And for me, they have become my companions, muses, guides, and friends.

You may know some of these women. In fact, I’m certain you do. You may also have tried to forget them, dismiss them, and separate yourself from them. Because too often, their names summon up other stories that you’ve worked hard to escape: stories of your own.

When I read Pema’s last post, I felt that tension. She told her story – of curiosity, of desire, of shame, of silence, of separation, of hunger. And in it, she also told of the stories she had worked to escape: those of religion and even of God.

What if I were able to tell them in ways that intrigued and invited? Graced and gifted? Were relevant and real? And what if, in hearing them, you could better understand your own?

This is my quest. This is my passion. This is my love. And this is what I’ve done with Pema’s last post as inspiration and hope.

What follows is the story of Eve…as told through the story of Pema. You’ve heard and read them both before. Read them anew. Hear them anew. And watch both stories transform when they are embraced by each other’s.

Eve’s response to Pema in her recent post, “God, Sex and My Divorce from Religion”:

Disclaimer: Run now or hold your peace

No parent wants to read about their child’s first sexual encounter under their own roof. And so for that reason, I caution my dad and anyone else who feels fatherly or motherly toward me, or anyone squeamish about teenage love to click away right now…

In the beginning: shame. Your story starts there…but not on its own, not because of you; rather because of others’ perception, right? I know. I understand. Still, so many years later, you still feel the heft of your years-ago choices. You still anticipate and assume the pain others will know. The weight of your world still rests on these choices…

The fate of the world rested on mine. Or so it’s been told.

Virginal

For all who have stayed. Welcome. To the night I got naked. With a girl. In my brother’s bedroom. It’s a passion play that, like all good dramas, begins its slow turn much earlier.

She and I were best friends. On this night, we turned lovers, in a willful gesture that I learned was desire. It took over me as if I was watching myself on a movie screen. And yet, I lived each moment in the heat that spread in my heart, my gut, my skin, exploding my head. Each choice. And then the next. I was 16.

Everything in me longs to scoop you up in a great big hug and never let you go. Everything in me longs to replay these tapes…the ones that started looping just after…the ones that moved you from desire to shame.

Can you imagine if desire were good? If every emotion, experience, and even explosion was hardly something from which you were restrained; but instead were welcomed? If curiosity had been affirmed? If no fear of shame had been present? If choice had not felt clandestine, secretive, hidden?

This was not imagination for me. It was real. Perfection. Desire. A taste. And all of it was good. Oh, I know, this is not how my story’s been told. Maybe there’s another way to tell yours, as well. Maybe it’s time we preached another.

My dad was a preacher. My mom slept nearby on the living room couch. My brother was no longer. At least, not his physical form. He had died suddenly, nine months before, at 17.

Did you wonder how sermons could be preached and mothers could sleep and life could go on when your brother was gone?

I used to. My son died, suddenly. It was not an accident. And not one aspect of my life was ever the same. But it seemed like life continued around me as though nothing had happened. I never understood how that could be. Many thought my innocence ended when I left the Garden (and you, that night at 16). That was nothing compared to his death.

The end of innocence

His room was intact. I would go in there from time to time, to make his absence real. And to pierce the mute, open doorway standing at the end of the hall, that no one walked through anymore, but which shone blue from the paint on his walls.

It had a bigger bed than mine, covered by the blue and red afghan our grandma crocheted. I would sit on it and stare out the window. Run my hand over coarse yarn and stare out the door. Stare into his closet. Velcro my eyes to the song lyrics he had written on the pad still on his desk. The cartoons he had drawn. His life still in the lines.

But this night, the scratchy afghan slipped to the floor. My best friend and I, we’d been to the beach. Heat from our sunburns made the room feel like day. Street lamp light sifted the darkness telling us it was night. All of it transcended time.

A story is told even before mine where God called the darkness good.

And somehow, that story…like yours…has been lost as time has passed. Now, particular things, spaces, and scenes become indelible symbols we cannot escape. A bed. An afghan. That one night. A tree. A snake. That one bite.

Resurrection mix tape

Dawn came. Then morning sun. Then sleep.

No matter what. These three always return. Over and over again. Dawn. Sun. Sleep. And maybe a fourth: resurrection.

It was Easter Sunday. My dad woke us ten minutes into slumber, to get ready for church.

Mmmm. That morning, after I took the bite, God called to me (just like your dad) and said, “Where are you?”

Pastel floral farm skirt and my favorite greenish cropped top. What I wore that day is sealed on my memory, as is the way the sun slanted through the windows and her next to me in the pew in black pedal pushers. Somebody preached. About Jesus dying for our sins. And coming back to life. While I flashed on fresh sins I could still feel. And felt alive in them.

After I took the bite my eyes were opened – in a flash. And everything was more alive. I got dressed that day. But no matter what I covered myself with, nothing could hide all that I knew, all that I felt, all that had happened, all that was about to happen.

The people here hurt for me and my family’s loss deeply. They wrapped me in love as much as I would let them. And I knew with fearful certainty that if they knew the sins I knew, they would reject me without argument. That was the day a new piece of my spirit struggled free, while my relationship with religion ground to its end.

Many have thought the same of me; that my taking that apple marked the end of perfection with God. Many have been wrong. That one bit of delicious fruit is what changed everything, what opened up brand new worlds, and what enabled a new and intimate relationship with God. Found, not lost.

Lost

As it happened, it was my job to drive Grandma to church. That wasn’t going to change. So I went, every Sunday, for the next three years until I left for college, smiling to see the folks that raised me in this community, and dying inside to think we wouldn’t be having this conversation if they knew what I knew about me.

It has been the job of the church to tell my story a certain way. And I have died inside so many times, not because of what really happened, but because of what others’ decided happened. They talked as if they knew what I knew. They did not.

If you’ve ever been a closeted gay teen stoic at church, you know that hyper-self-awareness can widen into silence and separation. Turn into rejection and resentment. Years into the shut-down, I became allergic to all things holy. The day, a decade later, that I sat in traffic behind a Christian fish symbol bumper sticker, and raged at the intolerant audacity of a blindly religious vocal majority, I heard the silence in my car stab back at me. My outrage, the silent echo suggested, might be a bigger fish to fry than the one on the bumper.

No, not a closeted gay teen stoic at church. Just a banished shameful woman who cast the future of all humanity out of Eden and into hell. The religious vocal majority silenced me and separated me from my story. They rejected me and resented my choices. They fed me to the sharks…and blamed a snake.

A modern chance

There was no where to go in the traffic. No one to hear but myself. I’d learned enough to know that inordinate venom is usually the tip off to a personal problem buried so deep you can’t see it. It was there, gridlocked behind the Christian fish car, that I missed spirituality.

I’m not so sure that venom is always bad. But then, my relationship with snakes is different than most.

If I were a preacher, I’d be fourth in a generational line of them, starting with my great-grandfather on my dad’s side. Church, before there was a building for it, used to be held in the very house that I lived in. My dad as a boy would set out folding chairs in his living room for the congregants, which, if you’ve ever crammed into a living room and shared stories and reverence, you know is a silly name to call each other when it feels rather like family.

I missed…a feeling. That family. The reverence. The sensation of awe and peace and wonder that my dad called “the spirit.” I missed people caring and loving and coming together just to be together in a sacred hour. As much as I had grown to detest all things related to a religious tenet that would kill me if it had a modern chance, I even missed praying.

Most have been told that when I left Eden, God left me, that “spirit” departed. They have painted me as cast from God’s presence (and threatened all sinners hence with the same). Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, it was my leaving of Eden that created the context for God’s intimacy, protection, and care in ways previously unknown. It was my leaving of Eden that caused God to pursue me. I might have missed that had I stayed.

Found

And so there in my car, I cracked open and allowed myself to feel, allowed myself to wonder, and to wander through thoughts of God as God related to ME and not a religion.

This IS my story. I allowed myself to feel. I allowed myself to wonder. I allowed myself to wander. And God related to me – always, endlessly, still.

That was the beginning of what has become an increasingly spiritual journey. I remembered the reverence with which I absorbed nature on the walks to school and in the national parks we traveled with my grandparents. I remembered the joy and gratitude of stewardship that my grandma modeled. And I remembered that I had as much fascination for a fundamentalist’s diehard faith as I had vitriol for what it espoused.

I think they call this collection of attributes “humanist,” and maybe that’s what I was becoming. But what I knew in the moment was that access to spirit was no longer trapped in the church box. It was no longer separate from me and my heathen ways. Access to spirit is mine if I want it, even if religion has its party without me.

I was fully human. And I was fully loved by God. Eden did not broker such. East of Eden did not prevent such. I was never, nor have YOU ever been separate from that same God. That’s worth a party, don’t you think?

I’ll bring the apples.

The good news

It is all I can do to stop typing. Pema’s story is so rich in beauty and desire, isn’t it? So is Eve’s. But do you see? The way we tell them (our own telling and others’) is what moves them to shame. Here the good, good news: if we can so easily make this shift, we can just as easily make another.

Stories of shame can be stories of redemption. Stories of separation can be stories of intimacy. And stories silenced can be stories told – celebrated – honored – lived. Pema’s. Eve’s. Yours. Mine.

This is my passion. This is my love. This is sacred stuff.

Inspired by Eve + Pema in the pulpit May 27

Toward that end I created Inspired by Eve. It’s a guide and companion to self-trust, deep knowing, and a delicious life of desire. 36 pages. An audio version of me telling my version of Eve’s story. Provocative writing/journaling/reflective prompts. And an invitation to understand your story in brand new ways. I’d love for you to have it. Click here to learn more. Come on: reach for the apple and take a bite. That hunger is good.

Sunday Services you want to WAKE UP for!
with Ronna Detrick, Spiritual Director and creator of Inspired by Eve.
and guest, Pema Teeter, Story Charmer
May 27, 2012
10:00 am (PST)


Together we will talk about new ways of understanding and incorporating faith, beliefs, spirituality, and gorgeous, significant story.

We need congregation. We need sacred space.
 And we need conversation that is unscripted, unedited, and unboundaried.
 We need each other.


Dial: 530.881.1300 Code: 590920#


(Skype callers: Add ‘freeconferencing.5308811300′ to your contacts.
Once you’ve dialed in, locate the key pad and enter the access code. )

Smart, engaging conversation about topics that matter. Soak up community wisdom. Even worship. It’s divine.


Join us.

 

Ronna Detrick provides Spiritual Direction to both individuals and businesses and creates Sacred Congregation for you! She gets at deep truths and talks about a God and faith you’re hungry for. She has recently released Inspired by Eve ~ a companion and guide to self-trust, deep knowing, and a delicious life of desire. Go on, take a bite: learn more.

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Disclaimer: Run now or hold your peace

No parent wants to read about their child’s first sexual encounter under their own roof. And so for that reason, I caution my dad and anyone else who feels fatherly or motherly toward me, or anyone squeamish about teenage love to click away right now.

See you clickers in the next post. 4 – 3 – 2 – 1 . . .

Virginal

For all who have stayed. Welcome. To the night I got naked. With a girl. In my brother’s bedroom. It’s a passion play that, like all good dramas, begins its slow turn much earlier.

She and I were best friends. On this night, we turned lovers, in a willful gesture that I learned was desire. It took over me as if I was watching myself on a movie screen. And yet, I lived each moment in the heat that spread in my heart, my gut, my skin, exploding my head. Each choice. And then the next. I was 16.

My dad was a preacher. My mom slept nearby on the living room couch. My brother was no longer. At least, not his physical form. He had died suddenly, nine months before, at 17.

The end of innocence

His room was intact. I would go in there from time to time, to make his absence real. And to pierce the mute, open doorway standing at the end of the hall, that no one walked through anymore, but which shone blue from the paint on his walls.

It had a bigger bed than mine, covered by the blue and red afghan our grandma crocheted. I would sit on it and stare out the window. Run my hand over coarse yarn and stare out the door. Stare into his closet. Velcro my eyes to the song lyrics he had written on the pad still on his desk. The cartoons he had drawn. His life still in the lines.

But this night, the scratchy afghan slipped to the floor. My best friend and I, we’d been to the beach. Heat from our sunburns made the room feel like day. Street lamp light sifted the darkness telling us it was night. All of it transcended time.

Resurrection mix tape

Dawn came. Then morning sun. Then sleep.

It was Easter Sunday. My dad woke us ten minutes into slumber, to get ready for church.

Pastel floral farm skirt and my favorite greenish cropped top. What I wore that day is sealed on my memory, as is the way the sun slanted through the windows and her next to me in the pew in black pedal pushers. Somebody preached. About Jesus dying for our sins. And coming back to life. While I flashed on fresh sins I could still feel. And felt alive in them.

The people here hurt for me and my family’s loss deeply. They wrapped me in love as much as I would let them. And I knew with fearful certainty that if they knew the sins I knew, they would reject me without argument. That was the day a new piece of my spirit struggled free, while my relationship with religion ground to its end.

Lost

As it happened, it was my job to drive Grandma to church. That wasn’t going to change. So I went, every Sunday, for the next three years until I left for college, smiling to see the folks that raised me in this community, and dying inside to think we wouldn’t be having this conversation if they knew what I knew about me.

If you’ve ever been a closeted gay teen stoic at church, you know that hyper-self-awareness can widen into silence and separation. Turn into rejection and resentment. Years into the shut-down, I became allergic to all things holy. The day, a decade later, that I sat in traffic behind a Christian fish symbol bumper sticker, and raged at the intolerant audacity of a blindly religious vocal majority, I heard the silence in my car stab back at me. My outrage, the silent echo suggested, might be a bigger fish to fry than the one on the bumper.

A modern chance

There was no where to go in the traffic. No one to hear but myself. I’d learned enough to know that inordinate venom is usually the tip off to a personal problem buried so deep you can’t see it. It was there, gridlocked behind the Christian fish car, that I missed spirituality.

If I were a preacher, I’d be fourth in a generational line of them, starting with my great-grandfather on my dad’s side. Church, before there was a building for it, used to be held in the very house that I lived in. My dad as a boy would set out folding chairs in his living room for the congregants, which, if you’ve ever crammed into a living room and shared stories and reverence, you know is a silly name to call each other when it feels rather like family.

I missed…a feeling. That family. The reverence. The sensation of awe and peace and wonder that my dad called “the spirit.” I missed people caring and loving and coming together just to be together in a sacred hour. As much as I had grown to detest all things related to a religious tenet that would kill me if it had a modern chance, I even missed praying.

Found

And so there in my car, I cracked open and allowed myself to feel, allowed myself to wonder, and to wander through thoughts of God as God related to ME and not a religion.

That was the beginning of what has become an increasingly spiritual journey. I remembered the reverence with which I absorbed nature on the walks to school and in the national parks we traveled with my grandparents. I remembered the joy and gratitude of stewardship that my grandma modeled. And I remembered that I had as much fascination for a fundamentalist’s diehard faith as I had vitriol for what it espoused.

I think they call this collection of attributes “humanist,” and maybe that’s what I was becoming. But what I knew in the moment was that access to spirit was no longer trapped in the church box. It was no longer separate from me and my heathen ways. Access to spirit is mine if I want it, even if religion has its party without me.

Thank God.

In the Pulpit with Ronna Detrick

In addition to stripping down and exploring through memories, I’m gearing up for Sunday morning in the pulpit with Ronna Detrick, spiritual adviser and conversation sparker extraordinaire, creator of sacred community through conversations on God and women. Please join us for her inspired invocation of the divine in all of us, as we talk about new ways of understanding and incorporating faith, beliefs, spirituality, and gorgeous, significant story.

Sunday Services you want to WAKE UP for!
with Ronna Detrick, Spiritual Director and creator of Inspired by Eve.
and guest, Pema Teeter, Story Charmer
May 27, 2012
10:00 am (PST)
We need congregation. We need sacred space.
 And we need conversation that is unscripted, unedited, and unboundaried.
 We need each other.

Dial: 530.881.1300 Code: 590920#

(Skype callers: Add ‘freeconferencing.5308811300′ to your contacts.
Once you’ve dialed in, locate the key pad and enter the access code. )

Smart, engaging conversation about topics that matter. Soak up community wisdom. Even worship. It’s divine.

I hope you’ll join us.

{ 15 comments }

Write the Block

May 9, 2012

See it

It’s like a bruise, best I can describe it, purply-yellow and tender. Radiates shocks of panic to see it approached for touch. Breath hikes up into the lungs and hovers there needing convincing to come out.

Describe it

It’s long, and narrow. Imagine a length of, imagine a street dash, the length and width of a paint strip in the street, put there to keep the driving in line. And bruisy in colored lanes along its length, swollen purple, swollen tattoo blue, swollen gray to yellow.

Feel

That was yesterday’s anxiety. A bruise. Today’s is a star at the back of the neck, top of the shoulders, arms of it jutting up, cutting into the air around my head, above the shoulders.

Ride

There’s a woman next to me. She got up to stand in line for a drink and her laptop stood open. “Finding Home,” the screen read, chapter headings cascading from the title, organized, articulated, achieved. I felt home there for a moment, calmed by the order, the accomplishment. Then she came back with her drink, glass mug, foamy coffee, fingers gripping the handle and her eyes on the screen like tractor beams. I hate her for it, for the way her body leans in like a bird with each heft and sip. Down goes the mug. Up immediately with the heft and slurp, dainty, driven, wholly unnoticed, she’s so on track for coming home, while I write the purpled symptoms of the block.

There’s a guy in my line of vision wearing a wedding ring, reading student papers. I know this is what they are because I ate several lunches with him years back in this same downtown. He didn’t wear his ring then. He was in the middle of a divorce, teenage daughters in his stories as we stabbed salad in sunshine, shade, and moments unfolding that would never matter again.

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Memories

I’m writing memories for a while, in exploration. Staring out the window in the mornings, letting them fall out of lit corners and dark folds, rustling leaves, blunt sunshine of spring. Join me if you please. Write yours in the comments, or link to your blog. Explore with me.

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Pieces

It was a tiny room with historic wooden floors, a single bed, and summer ants that would eat holes in the crotches of my underwear. I pilfered food that wouldn’t be recognized as missing off the shelves of my landlord, and at work, stole quarters from the prospective-client-parking box to buy gas station egg salad sandwiches at lunch. I did this every day till I noticed I’d lost months of memory focusing solely on the next meal, and then the next.

On the phone with my dad, I reined in tears while he romanticized poverty, saying this life is a choice I made, and praising the fact that every successful writer has “eaten bark” to get by, eventually, refusing my just-in-case request to come home for a while if it was confirmed that, in fact, I was losing my mind.

Mirror, plate glass window, each one I walk by, I double-take at the reflection of my mother before realizing it’s me. This is me. Is this the way it’s going to be till the end? If the physical gene is this strong, surely the emotional one has some horsepower, too, and if that’s true, what will I, daughter of a mother who bolted when her kids were toddlers, face as womanhood takes hold? She is no longer nibbling at the edges of me. She’s inside.

Poles

I live under the roof of the most creatively suited mentor I could have imagined, help instigate a writers group dreams are made of, and make community with writers whose eventual films and plays call to mind the times spent creating those pieces in our living room readings. I fall in love with two kids and a dog. Family.

I’m writing an electric story. It’s characters are taking over and I long ago forgot the time.  When, suddenly, I stop. It stops. The flow of the thing. The words, the characters, the picture I’m describing freezes like a Polaroid in its frame, nostalgia-tinted. I scratch at its surface trying to get back in. But it’s an inanimate thing, and I am locked out. Each day I return, I jangle keys outside it, doorless, frozen in time. Inaccessible. I slink away. But visit often. Visit all of the stories often. Pace the tiny room. Fuzz my vision at a golden afternoon edging windows, floor. Angry as the light wanes. Another day stunted into snapshot. Why do *I* have to heal before I can write? and then I wonder where that thought came from? Heal what? It’s just writing. Anyone can write. Especially writers. Paw again at the Polaroid. Notice the dust between bare feet and the floor. Let go the picture and find the broom.

Slalom

How do you know when a story matters?
You know when you don’t want to tell it.
Or when it makes you feel short of breath, or feel anything at all.
You know when time disappears while you’re telling it.
And when your audience is tearing up without noticing. When they’re silenced in wait of what’s next.
You know it matters when you have to be cajoled to tell it.
When people ask to hear it again.
When listeners and readers ask questions, and read the next one.
And when it heals.

Stories matter when they’re true. True to struggle, to human nature, true to experience.

You don’t have to tell on yourself. You don’t have to share your story if it’s too scary to reveal.
But consider this next suggestion: Tell yourself. Even if you don’t let others see it, write your stories that matter.
Let yourself feel the memory: Stark joy. Shocking fate. Painful mediocrity.
Notice the feeling of it, then write into it. What hurt? What stuck? What’s hardest to say out loud?
Say it. Let it out. Then watch it shimmer.
It has a life of its own, that experience, and its own little piece of soul—yours, shimmering in it, that you’ll never get back if you don’t first let the story out.
Stories lose luster without that piece of soul. Just words without it.
So listen. Feel. Find what catches, what makes you want to hide.
And write it. You’ll find the soul. And in finding it, repair.

Memories

I’m writing memories for a while, in exploration. Staring out the window in the mornings, letting them fall out of lit corners and dark folds, rustling leaves, blunt sunshine of spring. Join me if you please. Write yours in the comments, or link to your blog. Explore with me.

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Our stories save lives, sometimes our own, often someone else’s.

World Pulse provides access for the voices of women journalists around the world. Grassroots journalists write, speak, develop community, and share stories from their villages and neighborhoods in networks around the world. They save themselves. They save each other. They grow from fear to fulfillment to self empowered to community-empowering. They are changing lives.

 

There are many videos on YouTube to choose from to get a flavor of World Pulse’s mission, reach, and successes. On their gorgeous website, you will find their ongoing journey in progress, in the shape of stories, events, community and offerings. Find your voice. Hear others. Help provide access to more. Visit WorldPulse.com. And keep on waking.

World Pulse is raising money and awareness today through a sale at one of its sponsors. Go to Eileen Fisher online today, save $25, and 10% of your purchase will go to support World Pulse.

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The 7-day Wake Up has been off the charts expansive and beautiful in its results.

Join us for the weekend? 4:00 a.m. PDT. March 20-27. Wake up with us + watch your life pop open. Cost: Zero dollars and a few dawns. Reach out —> Hi [at] StoryCharmer [dot] com

Receive the Wake Up Kit. Get on the call. Or skip the call! And wake up anyway.

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Story Charmer’s Waking Up Series is the month of March in meditation on WAKING UP. What does it mean? What growth does it spur? What wonder and challenge? GUEST POSTS and personal queries will appear here throughout the month. Read all the posts in the series here…

If you’re spurred by what you read, and you want to write a post in reply, email me (hi) at (storycharmer) dot (com).

Join the conversation. Leave a comment. Write a post.

Let’s wake up together.

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Surrender and Allow

My personal journey is one of a heart opening.  The two messages I received this week were loud and clear: surrender and allow for.  Surrender that which you think you know as you simultaneously allow for that which you have not yet known.

Brand New and Relearning

Quite simply, I have not yet experienced living in such alignment, so while it feels natural, it also feels surreal.  There are moments that I feel like a stranger in my own life—my physical body has changed, my external space has changed, my connections have changed, my work has changed, *grin* my children have even grown in all ways.  This newness is lovely, yet unfamiliar, making my “regular” daily life an adventure.  One might imagine then, that when I step out of daily life into World, I am almost like a newborn, relearning everything as I venture out.  It is a whole new world.  There is magic and beauty and depth and texture and *life*, all so wonderful and delicious to me, yet often so far away in these moments that I am re-learning the “hows” of movement.

Living Through the Senses

I tend to initially resist the unfamiliar, but I find I am curious (very new for me!), and my entire being wishes to explore.  I wish to savor each moment, relish all that is presented to me.  I honor my pace as I take the time to feel everything.  I live through my senses, and I wish to explore through my senses.  I am remembering how it feels to participate in a love affair with World, from the moment I open my eyes in the morning through the moment I close them again at night, I am fully awake.  I no longer have the need to understand, I now have this desire to experience.

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I met Joy Holland early this month, when she contacted me to contribute to her magically conjured book, Cultivating Your Voice. I thought that was gorgeous timing for what the the Wake Up series is exercising. Her observations through the 7-Day Wake Up have been continued perfect timing. You can read more from Joy on her blog, Facets of Joy.

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Speaking of magically conjured, the 7-day Wake Up has been off the charts expansive and beautiful in its results.

Join us for the weekend? 4:00 a.m. PDT. March 20-27. Wake up with us + watch your life pop open. Cost: Zero dollars and a few dawns. Reach out —> Hi [at] StoryCharmer [dot] com

Receive the Wake Up Kit. Get on the call. Or skip the call! And wake up anyway.

# #

Story Charmer’s Waking Up Series is the month of March in meditation on WAKING UP. What does it mean? What growth does it spur? What wonder and challenge? GUEST POSTS and personal queries will appear here throughout the month. Read all the posts in the series here…

If you’re spurred by what you read, and you want to write a post in reply, email me (hi) at (storycharmer) dot (com).

Join the conversation. Leave a comment. Write a post.

Let’s wake up together.

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A journey apart

Monday morning. I arrive Brazil after a couple of long, blurred days of travel. Portland—Dallas—Miami—Brasilia. Arriving, unfortunately, several days before my bag, which has decided to take a little tour of the country’s airports, alone, without me!

I’m sure I’m a bit of a curiosity, hot and sweaty, trudging this little one-horse town, in jeans, black boots, and a sleeveless top I finally purchase after it becomes clear my bag won’t be getting here any time soon. Hot. Bright. The sky, a moody squint, smearing into blackness. And pounding thunder. Shocks of lightning. Wild frenzied rain. Stray dogs wander the muddy streets. A small herd of Brahmin cows scuttle and nudge down a narrow lane. Chickens. Goats. Men on bikes, dodging the splattering potholes.

Travel can be about flowing with “what is.” Or “isn’t,” as the case may be. So Tuesday afternoon I finally find a place that takes credit cards—the money exchange place has been all out of cash for days!—and spend questionable prices on a white outfit and pair of cheap flip-flops, so I will be presentable at the Casa de Dom Ignacio tomorrow morning.

John of God is here Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, and receives all who arrive for healing, hope, spiritual growth. Sometimes, literally thousands in a day. They come in large busloads, or like me, to stay weeks or more. So far, I’ve met people who’ve been here for months, sometimes coming back again and again for the gentle love and quiet healing of this place.

Map of sorrow, hope

Wednesday, 7:30 a.m. A sea of people, all in white, flow toward the Casa, on foot, by wheelchair, on crutches. There are protocols. First, I go to a translator, who writes down my concerns in Portuguese. We are allowed to request healing for up to three things at a time. Mine have changed in the middle of the night, as I feel my heart thudding, and think, “I have plenty of time, and will bring my other issues to him later.”

I tell the translator, “Chronic insomnia, heart issues and family patterning challenges.” I do this as a prayer not only for myself, but for my lineage. Our guide, Emma, told me she once asked for the healing of depression throughout her ancestry, and saw her siblings go through significant changes . . .

We crowd into the open Assembly Room, waiting as long introductions and prayers are made in Portuguese, German, French, Spanish, English. Much is said that is not translated, but the feeling is very heartful and beautiful. A palpable energy of love that we begin to sink into as we prepare and are prepared for our encounter and deepening union with the Divine.

We come from all over the world, from all backgrounds and economies and distresses. Weary, sorrowed, hopeful, hopeless. The beautiful black man with the large growth jutting out of his neck. The little pale girl, splayed in her parent’s arms, covered everywhere with a weepy rash that keeps her whining and itching, tortured. The ashen ones, spent and exhausted. The ones in wheelchairs, or hobbling on crutches, canes. And the ones like me, whose difficulties cannot so easily be seen. We come to this one, John of God, who has healed literally millions. I am so moved. And feel a sense of deep gratitude and compassion for our collective humanity, the vulnerability of being embodied, as I look around, and wait for my group—the “first time line”—to be called.

Miracles into mainstream

Emma is with me.  She will be our guide for the two weeks. She has been part of the Casa, and in and out of Brazil, for over ten years now, and has made a film and written two books about John of God. She is considered one of the Casa “mediums” and has been chosen to bring the awareness of this healing to the western world. Recently, she brought a group of medical professionals to the Casa, and will do so again next fall, growing a community of healers who are open to attending illness “outside the traditional AMA box.”

Things are being healed here that have not been helped elsewhere. AIDS, cancers, tumors, depression. There is a room full of crutches and wheelchairs, left by those who have left Abadiania healed. There are many miracle stories.

I knew Emma twenty-plus years ago in California. A psychologist, from whom I took the Avatar program. She has organized the whole trip, and will care for us through the process. She will go through the line with us, to help translate, and listen, so we can understand our instructions.

Ready to heal

We are a curious group. Five, so far. A man from Sicily, in a wheelchair, and his attendant, a man from Mexico. They are old friends and both live in the US now. A man from Togo, who also now lives in the US. And a doctor from San Diego—a woman who has mostly done plastic surgery, including much prosthetic surgery for breast cancer survivors. She is an expert on breast cancer and has written a book about prevention. Others will join us next week.

Hundreds line up when we are called, but the line goes relatively quickly.  We approach, and I hand the translator my slip of paper, which he reads to John of God.

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Part 1 of 3. Follow along next week in the Waking Up series to read what happens next in Johanna’s journey.

Johanna Courtleigh MA, is a Licensed Professional Counselor, Certified Hypnotherapist and HypnoFertility Therapist, and Certified Oneness Awakening Trainer through the Oneness University in India. Her work seeks to help people heal from the mistruths they’ve been taught, and to awaken a core of deeper reverence, self-love, awareness, empowerment, ease and integrity—with themselves, and in their relationships with others. She is passionate about helping create a more peaceful world, and helping her clients become happier, healthier and more “in love” as a state of Being. She is available for in-person consultations in her office near Portland, Oregon, and over the phone and via Skype.

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Speaking of miracles, the 7-day Wake Up has been off the charts expansive and beautiful in its results.

You can still join us. 4:00 a.m. PDT. March 20-27. Wake up with us + watch your life pop open. Cost: Zero dollars and a few dawns. Reach out —> Hi [at] StoryCharmer [dot] com

Receive the Wake Up Kit. Get on the call. Or skip the call! And wake up anyway.

# #

Story Charmer’s Waking Up Series is the month of March in meditation on WAKING UP. What does it mean? What growth does it spur? What wonder and challenge? GUEST POSTS and personal queries will appear here throughout the month. Read all the posts in the series here…

If you’re spurred by what you read, and you want to write a post in reply, email me (hi) at (storycharmer) dot (com).

Join the conversation. Leave a comment. Write a post.

Let’s wake up together.

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