When I was born, I entered life as an air sign; a double one no less. I was an air Sun sign and an air Rising sign. Now, I never thought too much about all of this as I was growing up; although, in retrospect, I required a good amount of energy to remain anchored to earth. You see, while I was very organized and focused, I also “drifted” a lot. It was not even a steadfast drifting; rather, it was guided by the air currents, changeable in both direction and strength.

          This is only remotely interesting if one considers the relationship between an air sign and an earth sign. Earth signs to me are solidly anchored and do not spend all that much time tripping and stumbling their way through life. I cannot tell you the number of ridges on sidewalks that have caused me to stumble or the curbs I have misjudged because I was observing or daydreaming. I never quite believed that Earth had demands of her own that necessitated me staying present to the requirements for living safely.

          Which brings me to my point—the law of gravity! This attraction toward earth assures that any mass, i.e., my body, “falls,” or is drawn to, a more powerful mass, the earth.  Thus, the trips and stumbles that I experience draw me inevitably downward. Being an air sign will not protect me in any manner of speaking from my disregard of this law.

          So, why am I chattering on so much about gravity and my persistent clumsiness in the face of the earth’s willingness to embrace me when I trip? While my “air sign-ness” is not the big issue with my falling, the progression of years has created a big sensitivity about the clumsiness factor in my world. Thus, I have developed an intense awareness of discovering how I might walk through the world with peace and grace as I age.

          Generally, the average person can trip, fall, pick themselves up and see a lovely little bruise as a trophy of the experience. As one ages, these events take on greater significance and have bigger consequences. Not that long ago, for example, I was walking down a staircase at our local convention center. Carrying my paperwork in the same hand that needed to be holding the railing but wasn’t, I noted the last step was a lovely wooden one. That step was not last; I went flying, landing with a resounding thump on my right hip. Unable to walk after being helped to an upright position, I began the healing journey after being welcomed so warmly by the floor.

            Truthfully…I have been thinking a lot about the consequences of gravity’s law of attraction, which I didn’t when I was 4, or even 34. Although it has a profound effect on any body at any age, the older among us develop a fear of falling. We pray that falling is relegated to leaves, to snow or to puff pastry. The body, while a resilient and perfectly designed mechanism, does not respond well to bones and tissue connecting with concrete, cobblestones, or marble in an abrupt fashion.

          Eventually, I began to transform this fear of falling by contemplating two divergent points of view.  Shaun David Hutchenson, the author of the teen book We Are the Ants, says this—”Sometimes I think gravity may be death in disguise.”  His comment may make little sense to a 10 year old but it exerts great power on the thinking of an 80+ year old; whence comes the fear associated with falling. While I have done no research on elder death as a result of gravitational forces, even a casual investigation suggests that falls among the elderly are a significant cause of death. And, I am not yet ready for that transition.

          The other point of view comes only from a book title. While I have read the book, it is the title which has become so precious to me. Teresa of Avila wrote a book entitled Falling into Grace. The title alone convinces me! That is, while one may succumb to one of the laws of nature, one may also experience God’s grace, however it appears. Given the force of my fall, for example, I experienced a non-displaced pelvic fracture that would require only time rather than surgery to heal.  In the face of my inattention to my environment, the result only be labeled grace.

          While I do acknowledge that the pull of gravity can surely be a cause of death for many, my preference is to see the experience as one filled with grace. It has, in more ways than one, snapped me into attention. I want to be “present” in my life; obviously, I wasn’t or I would not have ignored the inner voice that reminded me of the stair railing. In addition, I am now aware and present to my body in motion and its collaboration with gravity.

          Amazingly, it often takes an event such as one I described to bring attention to the immutability of natural law; one cannot con nature. By the same token, the spiritual laws of the universe exhibit the same immutability. For example, the law of attraction works no differently in spirit or in nature. If I maintain a conviction that I am physically safe, then I manifest safety via my awareness and presence.

          Should one my readers say, “HA, you still fell and hurt yourself,” I can only respond with this thought. You are right, I did fall because I was not paying attention to the messages about the railing. Plus, this event reminded me that I was frequently not present for my own life. I must practice presence to assure that I attracted the safety my body requires. Besides all that, God’s grace was in the midst of it all–I need time for the healing and no surgery!

On my very first trip to Rome, with more bravado than sense, I made the trek from Fiumicino Airport to my pensione by train, metro, and foot.  Complicating that trip was my 27”, green, two-wheeled suitcase.  It was impossible to put it in the overhead rack on the train, difficult to maneuver into the crowded metro, and a shoulder-wrenching struggle to pull it over the cobblestone streets.  Sweaty and furious, not to mention pissed off with cobblestones, I contemplated leaving the damn suitcase in the middle of the street and simply walking off—unattached, unfettered, un-resentful.

In retrospect, it makes for a great story; nevertheless, it remains a very real memory, though one without the feelings and self-criticism attached.  Were I, or you, able to untether ourselves as easily from our stories (our metaphorical suitcases), those which create so much pain and fury and hatred through an act of self-forgiveness, we empower ourselves to live.  Live, unencumbered and open, with a kindness and a compassion towards ourselves and others.

What is Forgiveness?

The lineage of a word can create a new perspective.  Generally, as with many common words, forgiveness has swaddled itself in street meaning.  For instance, if one perceives that s/he is not the “alpha dog”, there is the survival mechanism of defensive posture.  For others, forgiveness is not survival mode, it is simply abject humiliation of the most personal sort.  Or, we consider the equally charged meaning of forgiving a loan; in effect, wiping the slate clean.

Always, forgiveness implies “wiping the slate clean” within the interpersonal context.  Whether one ceases to feel resentment, anger, or hatred towards another or oneself, there is a process through which we go to wipe the slate clean.  However we begin the surrender of our “right” to get even and move toward the emergence of a desire for the other’s welfare, we are engaged in an act of love.

What and Why are We Forgiving

Every one of us has a story of an incident that has forever changed us and for which our mouths screw up with the bitterness of remorse, regret, and self-hatred when a behavior, an action or a word shows up in our world.  Have you refused to put a pet in great pain to sleep because of your need for them?  Or, have been driving, while chattering on your mobile phone & hit someone’s car?  Then, there might be the vicious words which you used time after time with a co-worker or friend, the acrimonious divorce, the rages directed at a spouse or a child.  Perhaps, it was the time you did not help a friend with the electric bill when they had no money.  Were you too busy to visit a family member when they were dying?  What is it that has triggered such pain in your life?

These are the “whats” of forgiveness, the situations, the events.  The stories, and they are stories, can be as unique as the person suffering and as universal as the race consciousness in which we are all acculturated.  They are the stories, which, over time, have been polished and cherished until they may bear little resemblance to the event that occurred.  What has not changed is the shame and the heaviness and the regret.  In fact it has deepened.

The “whys” of forgiveness are pretty simple if you can acknowledge (1) the medical benefits of reduced stress, anger and depression and (2) the spiritual benefits of living in the present as an authentic being.  If you can agree to these two points, there is just one “why” we need to forgive ourselves.  We release a “story”, a fiction from our past, to engage with today. We own our mistakes and see them for what they are.

Processes of Possibility

Research, religious tracts, self-help books, and not to forget the neighborhood grocery store cashier, have all kinds of advice on how to go about forgiving yourself. I have read and tried quite a few of the methods, yet little seemed to “stick” in my quest to embrace me, accept me, love me. I needed to find a way as Fr. Richard Rohr says, of “letting go…to forgive ourselves for doing wrong.”  I cannot, he notes, “reject the mysterious side, the shadow side, the broken side, the unconscious side” of myself but see them for what they are.

Rohr’s advice coupled with Rev. David Bruner’s observations about the committee members frequently commandeering the streets of his mind and Debbie Ford’s shadow work, gave me my way into self-forgiveness!!

A Breath of Freedom Does Come

Over the span of several weeks, I created my personal Committee Tree, Ancestral Tree, Family Tree (I still haven’t settled on a good name!). During my process, I discovered children of the Light and children of the Shadows living inside. I named them and put them on a tree. I had Bethany the Bully and Ivy the Invisible and Ginny the Generous, etc. etc. etc.  It became freeing just to see who was living inside, who was badgering me, who was hugging me and who was watching me.

Most importantly, I resisted denying and repressing these members by delving into when they were born and why. It was but a step, then, to identify the committee member(s) who held the most power in opening up the pains, wounds and hurts in my past. From recognition, I could then move to welcome and, finally, to release.

By engaging with my many committee members, I am coming a small step closer to understanding what triggered the response in order that I embrace and release that wound.  I am coming to love these broken sides of me and give up any sense of superiority about my woundedness.  I am not certain when it will occur but I am holding out for Rohr’s “I am who I am who I am.”

 

What began as a way to connect with friends, as I attempted to describe the last week of my father’s life, evolved into a blog that functioned as an outlet for personal experiences. Because it was to be an “up-close” view of how I was showing up in life, I called it Across My Path. Frequently, it seemed, an observation led to a bigger inquiry about the quirks, meaning, or implication of my “noticing.”

For example, a couple of weeks ago I had a ministerial obligation that provided a new insight into a long-held belief that I always showed up looking a bit disheveled. While I was performing the ceremony, I was not the focal point of attention at this gathering. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to appear pulled-together, terrific, and incredible.

I spent a great amount of time working on the ceremony, and I also spent an equal amount of time on my “look.” I debated clothing—a dress or trousers with a duster—and shoes—flats or pumps. And that was just the beginning of the process because, since the event was outdoors, there was the weather, the terrain, and location which needed to be taken into account.

The day for the ceremony got closer and so did my preparations. Made the final changes on the ceremony, heaved a sigh of satisfaction and went shopping. You see, I discovered that I needed new earrings and new makeup so that everything would coalesce.

If it sounds as though I am a bit narcissistic here, let me assure you—not so!! My past had led me to believe that the presentation of me could quickly disintegrate, necessitating caution and preparation.  I could leave my home looking pretty fine, only to arrive looking like Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoon.

Such was the case for this ceremony. Unintentionally, or so I thought, I managed systematically to undo myself! Arriving at the site with ample time to spare, I sought out an uncrowded lunch spot. Waiting for my quesadilla to arrive, I visited the Restroom. Although cleanliness was at the bottom of its assets, my bladder was not listening to my assessment. So, maintaining the space between my body and all porcelain entities, I sought relief. Oh, no, the first of my undoings…fluid finding my leg instead of the bowl!! Well, it was paper towel and water time.

With minimal effort, I returned to my almost pristine appearance, I drove off to the site. With a deep breath and a big smile I left my car, whereupon the heavy wind undid my hairstyle, a lock on the gate grabbed my mesh sweater and gave it a new opening and the dust converted my blue suede shoes (yes, blue suede) into khaki work sandals. The final touch was the discovery that my lips were now colorless.

How did I feel about all of these little events? Actually, as I turned to watch the bride and groom come up the aisle, glowing with happiness and love, I felt as though I had become the perfect conduit for Spirit to perform this marriage. My exterior may have become a little rumpled but my interior was overflowing with joy and love.

As I considered my experience, I settled into a contemplation of how frequently I have placed the attention “out there” rather than “in here.” Consequently, I discerned that “noticing” meant that we allow, we observe, we embrace, we appreciate. Yes, the exterior might get a bit messy. But the interior becomes more about love and about knowing.

Had it not been for a re-read of The Four Agreements by don Miguel Ruiz, I probably would not have found myself ruminating quite so intensely on the impeccability of one’s word. All things considered—culture, training, personal proclivity—my intuitive conclusion was that the path to impeccability is strewn with potholes, rocks and dust storms. However, if one can negotiate these calamities, one arrives at a place of sweet perfection with a sense of empowerment.

I assume that most people strive to be authentic in their communication with themselves and with others. Yet, we continually discover that our version of authenticity is made up of stories, assumptions, and outright untruths. I could offer up my own life as a spectacular example, for the hard truth is that I have generally regarded Truth about myself and others with a rather flexible eye.  I suspect that one of my internal committee members is a judge that sees itself as the protector of my private/public image. I can hear it now when it steps in to assess my possible responses. It is usually some version of the following: “You know, if you tell the truth here, you are absolutely going to look ignorant, thoughtless, arrogant, or unkind—make up something that casts you in the best light possible.”

We are certain, you see, that we are direct and candid and truthful when we alter the truth ever so slightly to “protect” ourselves or others. Thus, we’ll find ourselves saying that we were late because the traffic was terrible when, in truth, we had been daydreaming over coffee. Or, perhaps we might say that, yes, we had an appointment with the doctor when we had yet to pick up the phone. Why are we being so impeccably unimpeccable??? Does it have to do with our sense of self and our sense of worthiness. Do we feel that we are not “enough?”

I reached deeper understanding of being impeccable with one’s word when I decided to re-watch the movie Arbitrage with Richard Gere. Gere’s character was a man with a lot of baggage and much skill in deception; and, we watched him unravel as an initial dishonesty led to complications and more lies. As the movie reached a pivotal point, the impact of one lie with its consequences elicited in me a rather stark assessment. While the movie showed a character’s collapse dramatically, I focused on the unadorned truth that the only power resides in authentic and true communication.

Yes, if I believe that I am enough, then there is no need to have these holes where the power of my word leaks into the universe. With any leakage, we diminish our spiritual magnificence; we restrain our freedom; and, we stunt our blossoming into richness of Self.

My gene pool has a broken link when it comes to inspired cooking, although I do try to give my meals some spark occasionally. One night, I had the ingenious idea to use carrot disks instead of carrot chunks in my soup. (I know, imaginatively, this is puny!) You see, I had a package of variegated carrots—purple, yellow, orange—and I felt disks would make my dinner a rather artistic one.

Pulling out my Mandolin and grabbing three carrots, I set the depth of the cutting edge, grabbed a purple carrot and began that rhythmic slicing action. I was pleased with the look of those disks and chose a pale yellow carrot next. Humming away as I refined my slicing action, I stopped abruptly when I felt a sting.

Absolutely copious amounts of blood were spewing from my thumb and for, one brief moment, I wondered if there was any hemophilia in my family history. I studied the wound as I attempted to staunch the blood. Wow! I thought. This looks like a major cut; it looks like I have almost sawed off the end of my thumb; this is truly a loosely attached piece of flesh; oh my!!

By nature, I am inclined toward self-medication; so, I grabbed a Viva towel sheet and some masking tape to create an absorbent bandage. The first one looked a bit pathetic and the second one was only slightly better but I did contain the bleeding. Then, I held my thumb and said “Spirit, my thumb is healed and it is perfect.”

Why do I chatter on so long about what was a foolish action? I knew that a mandolin needed to be treated with respect and I knew that it could do great damage, but I went ahead, thinking that I was somehow exempt from the Law.

As I stood there holding my throbbing thumb, I wondered just how many examples I needed before I “knew” that the Law always works…ALWAYS. It does not care whether you are ignorant, innocent or foolish—it works! By the same token, my word, released to Law, works.

But I got a “twofer” demonstration. The lump of flesh hanging onto my body by a mere thread, covered the new tissue growing beneath it and sloughed off gradually. The end result…a thumb that reflected my prayer. Healed it was and Perfect it was. Yes, I had a masterful little lesson in prayer, healing, and an awareness that my body will restore its Divine blueprint.

I stumbled over a couple of images recently on the same topic—one was “Labels are for cans, not people;” the other was of a fellow growling “I am not a label.” Then I start seeing them everywhere. Yeah, ok, I get it; I really do. You don’t want me to say, “uh huh, she’s depressed or he’s gay” because those are labels vs. conversational identifiers. Well, isn’t it ironic that I discovered that one of Dr. Holmes’s (the philosophy at the base of Science of Mind) favorite games with Dr. Hornaday was one called “Labels!”

It seems that Dr. Holmes loved to play this game. When he and his colleague went for a walk or sat on the steps of the Institute in Los Angeles, they would, as usual, observe the people around them. Suddenly, Dr. Holmes would say to Dr. Hornaday, “What’s her label?” The response could be anything from “Offended” to “I Can Sell Anything” to “Invisible.”

In Dr. Holmes’s mind, all of us tend to reflect to the world the very life we have created by our own thinking.  In other words, what attitudes of mind are we expressing so clearly that we might as well hang a sign around our neck. [The Inner Light, p 109]  That surely sent my mind leaping every which way, such that my self-label for a moment became “Ungrounded Spinning Top.”

Hornaday was perplexed by Holmes’s game and eventually asked, “Even after studying the labels you believe that man himself offers positive proof that God is?” [Ibid.] Holmes’s response was as I expected…”But, of course.”

In Hornaday’s attempted re-creation of their conversation, Holmes makes the point that the life-principle is much greater than what it creates. In reflection, we understand that the life-principle is one of harmony, creation, love, abundance, etc. and it cannot be lessened by how I choose to use that life-principle to create for myself—even if I choose to live an attitude of “I Lack Everything.”

The immensity of the life-principle is embedded in the very energy of God. We also know it when we remember that God is all that I Am but I am not all that God Is.

Working from the premise that we have access to Life’s creative process and that we have the qualities of will and choice, then we can self-express however we choose. It presumes that I don’t need anyone to hang a label on me because I have done it to myself!! Amazing, isn’t it?? I can adopt ‘Bully’ or ‘Pollyanna’ as an attitude of mind with equal ease. What becomes even more exciting is the idea that due to the possibilities of freedom to re-create, I can alter my attitude and live a new, more joyful self-expression.

Yep, time to re-cycle the old label. Today, I am going to embrace ‘Authentic’. What about you?

I delayed any thought of retirement until I was well past the midpoint of my 70’s. The very thought of retirement gave me stomach pains, not to mention the aggravation of dealing with a deep dive into “suffering” with a capital S. Yet, my shifting interests and company goals diverged and the time came for the “event” to occur.

Now, my “idea” of retirement, having watched and listened to scores of people regarding this new stage of life, did not manifest the usual.  For example, I did not begin endless travel overseas, I didn’t buy an RV so that I could do “meetups” in every state in the Union, nor did I sit in front of the TV, drinking beer and belching. I also did not “do” cruises. Rather, I began a new career where the new opportunities threatened to swamp me with even greater activity.

While my calendar got fuller and scheduling became a bit hectic, I continued to have some deep emotional issues regarding this new period of my life. Initially, I had to deal with the idea that I had used a company and an office to anchor me. My new flexibility created a free-floating anxiety where I kept hearing, “you don’t belong anywhere; you aren’t necessary anymore.” Well, after several months, I determined that I was my own anchor!!

That thought was heard in my head with far more bravado than certainty. Why? Well, the schedule was fuller but the work became less significant, less critical to the functioning of the organization. How can I be my own anchor, I thought, when all around me I am feeling minimized, invisible? Do you get the picture? I was blind to the value, the upside, the opportunities newly available to me. It was as though I would prefer pity to possibility!!

Is there ever a defining moment when one does come to understand the infinite opportunities or is it an accumulation of little events that culminate in a new sense of Life? Retirement has been a stage, for me, of accumulating tiny insights and tiny advances. There was, however, one glorious event that shifted me in a way that all of the other insights did not.

While walking the dog one morning, I continually surveyed nature in all her bounty. As I ambled, I saw it; the very thing I needed to see. Behind the fence in a small niche, almost unseen, a single purple & white iris was in full bloom. Its soul was in that blooming, totally unconcerned whether I or anyone else saw it, admired it, or gave it an award. It was simply Spirit in all of its magnificence.

Well, at that point, I was reminded of Robert Schuller’s little aphorism, “Bloom where you are planted.” Oh, Spirit, I moaned, is this where I must go in terms of this Life Stage called “retirement?” Am I to see this as an opportunity to bloom in a different way? But, do I have to do it behind a fence and in a narrow little niche? Can’t it be somewhere a bit more Center Stage?!!!!

Chuckling at the ego bravely waving its banner for attention and applause, I began to climb out of my self-imposed despondency.

As I move forward, I continue to find the word “retirement” less than optimal, but I am immensely excited to do the things that I am to do….no matter the upcoming challenges. Ooops, ‘scuse me, I see an “opportunity” ahead!!

I was reminiscing last week about the variety in my holiday celebrations after having watched several Christmas movies. Mine have been nothing like the cinematic versions; that is, snow and sleighs have not figured prominently nor have glittering receptions, parties and performances. Instead, they have been very, very human in their stress, clumsiness and moments of grace.

There was the year that I believed my good lay in international reciprocity since I lived in Hawaii. So, in one thoughtless moment, I invited six Japanese students to my apartment to experience a typical “American” Christmas dinner. Although not a willing cook, I put together a reasonable facsimile of a turkey dinner. We gathered self-consciously at the table. Very shortly, I became aware that this dinner was a “bust”! The students studied each miniscule bit of food on their forks, tasted it and quietly put the remainder back on their plates. It even appeared as though the gag reflex had joined our meal. In one last effort to put a little sparkle in the meal, I reached for the scotch. That divine message of “bring out the scotch” saved the dinner from disaster and turned it into a cross-cultural “event” of warmth, conversation and tipsiness.

There are also those holidays where traditional flies out the window and you find yourself doing something that becomes a “peak” memory. One year, eight of us, who really knew little more than each other’s names, gathered at a small cabin. We built a fire and went cross-country skiing on the nearby golf course while the food heated up. Shortly, strangers became friends as we pulled each other out of snowbanks, threw snowballs and balanced cautiously on mini-hills that we thought were mountains. Laughter, connection, and exercise. What an experience!

Of course I also had the years of the traditional and the “everyone pitch in” dinners but it has been the unusual which always come to mind. I have yet to discover the “key” to the perfect holiday combination of people, events, and locations. What I do believe, though, is that any holiday becomes perfect when we are in gratitude for whatever shows up. At that moment, grace touches us.

 

When I travel, my first action upon reaching my hotel room is to look out the window. Lots of people check out the accommodations first; not me. I have to see what part of the world is spread below and beyond my room. With way too much frequency, I look out on a parking lot or some hotel space tunnel where the heat, air conditioning or a laundry vents. The windows I cherish have a view that I find to be magical.

Usually, the windows are big and locked (great precautions have been taken to prevent a dive onto the asphalt I guess). Occasionally, they are smallish with a dreary view of another of the hotel’s walls. Infrequently, they pose a delightful challenge. I recently had a room with a dormer window. In order to see out that window, I had to negotiate a narrow area where I could pull up a chair, lean across a two-foot casement and twist my head at an odd angle. Balanced thus, I could see the shops three floors down. Loved it!

I am not certain what this need is to check out the universe the minute I walk into my hotel room.  Perhaps it is the utilitarian blandness of most hotel rooms or the frustration with discerning how the on/off switches have been disguised on the lamps that pushes me toward the windows. Perhaps it is a simple habit that I have developed.  Nevertheless, be it Berlin, Salt Lake City, Copenhagen, Tobermory, or Houston, I enter the room, put my suitcase on the bed, and walk to the windows.

After a good deal of thought, I’ve decided that it is less a habit than it is a ritual. It is a ceremonial and spiritual process for me. It acts as a means of grounding me in an unfamiliar city, it gives me a sense of place and it dispels the feelings of estrangement. So, when I look out the smallish window in my Budapest hotel and see the atrium glass over the hotel reception area, I smile, relax and embrace the newest adventure.

Although ritual has never been a pleasant word in my vocabulary, I found that it took on new meaning when I began to sort through just how present ritual was in my life. I discovered that my rituals heighten the moment for me. They also seem to connect me to that which is bigger than I am. And, they do, indeed, ground me.

Hmmmm! Now that I have come to a new awareness…. Well, I just might say that ritual has climbed the ladder of my empowerment from the bottom rung to one toward the top!!

When the dog takes you for a walk, sometimes you meander down a new street. On that day, it was a nice, well-manicured, upper-middle class street. Big houses, lush flowers, bricked driveways and pink flamingos. Really? Reaaallly? Pink Flamingos? Oh, yeah, four houses worth. At one house, they were poised shyly with one foot up standing near the bushes. At the next house, they guarded the step leading to the front door. Two others brazenly stood in the middle of the lawn. At the last house, one peeked around a downspout while the other flaunted her trim body a few feet away.

Well, I remember when pink flamingos were the favorite lawn ornament. Growing up in Central Illinois, which bears absolutely no resemblance to a subtropical climate, I saw a lot of pink flamingos. If not flamingos, then there were wheelbarrows full of flowers and a wagon wheel or two—just slightly more appropriate to the location. But, that was decades ago; surely, that fad disappeared. Hadn’t it? I thought that today’s homes were happier sporting a Buddha, a turtle, or a gnome instead of pink flamingos.

Well, thoughts about lawn decorations pushed me towards a circuitous meditation of sorts. Although I am not given to lawn decorations of any sort, they do speak to the beliefs we might have, about beauty in this case. As I observed in my mental dialog, if they believe a lawn needs to be decorated, why didn’t they swap out the pink flamingo for a gnome or a Buddha? In my mind, those homeowners needed to dump, update and change this old belief that flamingos were still popular?

Actually, the lawn decorations are no different than some of the limiting beliefs that I put out for display and keep around long past their expiration date. Fear of crossing the street by myself when I was six made good mental and physical sense; but fear of driving across the continent at 36 makes neither mental nor physical sense. An old belief based on necessity gets reconstituted into a limiting belief that holds me back.

Many of the beliefs that we honor are little different that tying up a horse (or keeping a stash of pink flamingos in our storeroom). That is, having been trained to wait when the reins are tied to a railing, the horse will then stand quietly even though you might tie it to a plastic lawn chair. We’re not all that different from the horse. We train ourselves or allow others to train us to see ourselves as a limited human being, one without the courage or the love or the power to fly free.

You know, it is time to get rid of those damn pink flamingos!!