“Stand Alone”

Prompt: 5 minutes “Stand Alone”

“Stand Alone”

Stand alone. On your own two feet. See what you can do without any others to stop you, to help you, to harm you, to interfere, to suggest other ways. What does your heart say? What is your heart saying to you? IMG_6132

Stand alone. You already do stand alone. But alone with a living God burning brightly inside your very heart chakra, comforting you, guiding you, suggesting ideas that will catapult you to the Highest Version of Yourself that you can imagine. We just don’t often take the time to listen to that part of ourselves. Yes, I believe the Holy Spirit is a part of each of us, so intertwined with every fiber of our being that we can never not be holy. If we listen.

Stand alone. I used to stand alone and mope inside about being alone. Why doesn’t anyone really understand me? I need them to understand me! I cried tears and sobbed guttural wails as I wrestled with the challenges of growing up, maturing, moving from an insecure teenager to an insecure adult, an insecure wife, mother, neighbor, church member, volunteer, over-achiever. Until it all came crashing down on me in the form of what would morph from one day of a swollen throat, fever, body aches worse than the flu, fatigue that slammed me flat to the surface of my water bed and wouldn’t let me go, into the woman I am now. Twenty-five years I’ve lived inside my body alone, alone in houses full of people who cannot understand this bizarre chronic illness. But now I stand alone – secure in Who I Am.

Sat nam.

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“Interior Vision”

Tuesday, July 22, 2014, 11:11 am

Prompt: “Interior Vision”   20 minutes

Interior Vision

         Interior vision happens when we stop the madness of the world to dwell with what’s imagesinside our very cells, our breath, behind our eyes where luscious sunsets melt their beauty, trickling rose and orange down into our very souls, at the cellular level we cannot see, cannot fathom, yet feel all the same.

Interior vision. With interior vision there are no blind spots, only more and more mirages that manifest into truths you feel with your very heart, way down deep. You think, “Aha! Truth!” But as soon as you think it, “it” dissipates into a thousand glass shards, reflecting light that bounces all over the place, like too many kids on a trampoline at one time. Truth ricochets from one side of your head to the other and you smile as you reach for it yet again, it was so profound, you almost had it, almost had it!

Damn. You lost it, but it felt so good. You felt so good for a second or two. One with theimages Divine, only lasting as long as the flutter of a soft breeze in the kelly green leaves of the mighty oak, planted solidly in the earthy ground, roots running long and deep, locked into the core of mother earth. imagesAnd so you ground yourself again, resuming the long, slow, deep breathing, inhaling love, exhaling fear; inhaling peace, exhaling fear; emptying your mind of worldly thoughts of tasks that beckon you away from connecting with this interior vision. What’s that about? Why so elusive?

Ahhh. Breathe again. More deeply. Even more deeply. Light the incense to help you find it again. Hold that crystal quartz, the malachite, the rhodocrosite maybe? Inhale the Nag Champa fragrance and close your eyes and make a path, a space for interior vision to come forth, to blossom. Inhale “sat,” exhale “nam.” “Truth is my identity.” Breathe in time with the soft instrumental yoga music in the background, a clear sapphire pool of answers as you dare to stick one toe in. Not ready? Inhale deeply, exhale even more, with a full sigh if you have it in you.  Empty out, empty out the garbage of your sticky life, your busy mind. Let the soft low beats of the tabla, the plucks of the harp, the lilting bass clarinet sing you once again into that quiet place where interior vision can emerge. Where truth rises up, a single image loaded with paragraphs of inarticulatable messages from spirit.

DSC_1108 (3)I am the smiling dolphin rising from the sea, nodding genuine loving-kindness and approval to the thirsty me on the shore. It is good. We are one. We are all One. Mere drops of the same healing ocean. There is hope. At least for this moment in my interior vision.images

My sacred place

My sacred place.

My beautiful friend, Dani, whom I met at an Elizabeth Berg writing workshop last August, has created a lovely writing nook for herself. One of these days perhaps I’ll get my own decluttered enough to post a photo, too! In the meantime, I’m enjoying writing personal things for myself and working on finishing my manuscript – hence the infrequent blogging. If you’re a writer and don’t have your spot, this post will inspire you to create one!

Thanks, Dani! Cheers!

Ginny

“A gentle heart …”

Prompt: 15 minutes: “A gentle heart….”

A Gentle Heart

A gentle heart is what I have sometimes, what I show to the world. I hide the dark part of my heart, my soul processing shameful feelings secretly, purging them of any power over me. The self-doubt, the insecurities, the grief, depression, desperation, feelings of futility, despair.

I breathe. Deeply. Remember to do as I’ve been taught — let those darker images pass, like clouds on a windy day. Breathe in love, breathe out fear. Fill myself up with so much love, so much light; breathe out any resistance, any darkness, any remnant of any fear. Cultivate a loving heart, a  compassionate heart, a gentle heart.

me at 3-4In my mind I picture a little me, about three or four years old, and I take that little girl in her handsewn powder blue light cotton nightgown onto my lap, wrap my strong, warm arms around her. “Shhh…,” I say. “It is all alright. I’ve got you now. You can relax, just be.” And I clutch that little Ginny to my breast so I can hear my own heartbeat. It slows, beats steadily, then more quietly, strong but reassured as I relax and relearn to just be.

Be, like a perfect newborn, no expectations, so no disappointments. Inherently worthy. Without. Doing. Anything.IMG_7921

So hard, sometimes, to remember I am still this perfect child of God, even with all my imperfections. I am not Jesus Christ! I don’t have to be perfect to be worthy! As a matter of fact, that is the Easter message, as I prepare my heart during this Lenten season, opening myself again and again to the abundant grace of God.

A gentle heart. Thank God God has a gentle heart for all Her children. I crawl up into the lap of God and listen to the steady beating of His gentle heart. I breathe along with the breath of God until our hearts beat as One. I close my eyes and inhale deeply the Oneness, and I fill myself up. Then I slide off my Father/Mother’s lap and prepare to go about my day with a quieter, gentler heart.

This Time

June 10, 2013
Prompt: 10 minutes: “this time”

This Time
This time I am braver. I haven’t even sent out an email yet, put it on Facebook, keeping the cancer private, more or less, for the past week. This time it feels so much more manageable — almost routine. I mean I know it’s surgery and I don’t like pain or recovery exercises, but this time I don’t have a fear of death — I truly believe it’s just a little left over from five years ago, a remnant. But we’re going to get it good this time, and hopefully I won’t have to deal with this again for a long time, if ever.

This time I’m taking it in stride. Getting my ducks in a row, practically speaking, but the emotional component either hasn’t hit me yet, or it’s really just not a big deal the second time around. I guess if the docs were more worried, maybe I would be, but …

“This book”

Prompt: 25 minutes: “this book”

This Book

This book I’ve tried to finish, publish, get out there for so very long, still sits on my cluttered desk, pulled, wrinkled, from the bag I took with me to the fall writer’s conference this past weekend with high hopes of making headway in a seemingly never-ending process, like this sentence that can’t seem to find its ending. Period. Not. There’s more. There’s always more to edit, reword, rewrite, rethink. “Is it good enough yet?”

Ahh.. the real question: “Am I good enough yet?”

There’s the pit of the peach, the core of the apple, the stabbing, tingly feeling in my heart when I dare to release this baby into the world for other eyes to see. Will they like it? Will I be embarrassed or proud as I timidly show it to my writer friends to evaluate, judge, critique?

It’s dangerous business, this putting yourself out there on the page, like lying naked on the doctor’s cold examining table, paper crinkling under you, vulnerable, chilled, a bit anxious now that you’re here. New thoughts surface, concerns begin to pop around in your head like microwave popcorn during its last 30 seconds: wondering deep down that maybe they’ll find something you never knew to think about – some strange new diagnosis with a complicated name you’ll have to learn how to pronounce, and spell, to Google it. You arrived for this routine follow-up, not thinking to fear, but now suddenly it occurs to you they might find another suspicious lump or bump or something that needs an MRI, an ultrasound, a biopsy, hopefully just minor editing and not a complete rewrite.

This book I’ve been trying to birth is a pretty book. A coffee table, a gift book. A hopeful book. A book to inspire and uplift. The need to get back to writing it, honing it, word by word, has kept me fighting these last five years. I want to see it published before I die (which could be a very long time, mind you), and so I persevere. In between doctor’s visits, the time-consuming devotion to alternative avenues of healing mixed with traditional allopathic, insurance-covered appointments, tests, labs, imaging, I occasionally pull out The Joy of Shelling and reread, edit a little, research to fill in gaps, imagine it in print.

This book reflects the world I wish I could live in all the time – the pensive, calm, centered, connected place I think we all hunger for, though we often cannot name that restless feeling, that inability to focus, to stop flitting from this to that. A world in which we can just be! For heaven’s sake, the incessant need to do this and that can drive you crazy, really. Take this vitamin, see this specialist, “You don’t have a hematologist? Well, here’s a referral.” I realize the next day that yes, in fact, I do have one – my oncologist is also a hematologist! Whew! I can avoid filling out another long medical history intake form, and maybe write a few words on my book or my blog instead. To slide back into the fluffy, cozy covers of the inner experience – writing, shelling, meditating – it’s all the same: a welcome escape from medical appointments that drain me, suck my time, my life, my writing life. Reaching for my iPhone, Words with Friends and Scramble an easy diversion from the fluorescent, windowless, sterile rooms of answer-seeking, blood draws, IV’s, plastic orange urine collecting containers, saliva-soaked cotton rolls stored in the freezer until I can find a UPS site nearby so I can send them off to some lab in the mountains whose results will offer me new data, a new treatment plan, new hope of returning to a life of normalcy, now 22 years in my past.

Or maybe I should just finish this book.

“After the Storm”

Prompt writing: 20 min: “after the storm” GO!

After the Storm

After the storm, the clouds make way for a little light to peek through. Then a little more. The deep elephant gray morphs into a lighter ashen gray, then a bluish tint that gives the moving sky that cotton candy look. The wind still gusts, bending palm fronds in unison. But you can see beyond the dunes on the horizon, and the sea has calmed. No breakers crashing their powerful see-what-I-can-do white foaminess as they slam down in mighty display.

No, today the magnificent, dreaded Hurricane Sandy is moving north, sparing us here in North Carolina, gathering intensity to smack a mighty blow to the more populated northeast. I feel their pain, their fear, knowing well the all-consuming efforts to gather water, food, flashlights and batteries. Sandbagging, boarding windows, doors, sometimes escaping inland, awaiting your own “after the storm.”

After the storm, the real work begins – picking up the littered pieces of wind-tossed fragments of foreign lives now resting in your yard. Wondering where your own things are – a lawn chair here, a bird feeder there, a soggy library book floating in a muddy puddle. Hopefully not expensive boats smashed, ruined, piled high together on a shore of debris.

And what of other, more personal, less tangible storms? The storms of intertwining lives? Isn’t it just the same?

Shell-shocked at first that it really got that ugly, that crazy. Replaying the angry words over and over in your mind as you wonder what to do next, where to begin the clean up. You thought you were prepared, hell, walked around with some niggling part of you always at the ready, to protect and defend your sensitive heart at a moment’s notice.

Yet sometimes we just can’t anticipate the big ones. They’re temperamental, with a mind of their own sometimes, those life-altering storms. You’re not looking for them – no weather report warning you days in advance. No extra milk and bread and toilet paper security. No, just when you think there’s no need to have the candles and a lighter handy, a storm can just come out of nowhere really.

But there it is – all black and red and spewing hatred like fire from a dragon’s mouth, and you cower, closing down once again, raising the drawbridge to keep the “enemy” out, protecting your heart, or what’s left of it, from further wounds.

Sometimes you might lash out right back, not gonna take this shit anymore, escalating the war of words and painful barbs, as “love” takes some deformed shape you don’t recognize at all and you just keep adding insult to injury, determined not to get backed into a corner. You might throw your shoe, hoping to scare the storm away, force it back, those slippery droplets of venom leaking through anyway, flooding the space between the two of you, until you are both ankle-deep and one of you decides to end the madness.

After the storm? Well, what can you do, really, but pick up the broken pieces and weep.

“Snag It”

Another 10 minute prompt writing, without lifting the pen for 10 minutes straight:

“Snag It”

Snag it. Snag that fish swimming so quickly through the salty ocean waves. Tempt him with your bait of shrimp, “cut bait” of other unfortunate fish in bits, pulled from your freezer for just this day.

Snag it. Snag it, reel it in, growing heavier with each crank of the reel. Feel the jerky movement through the steady waves, pulling back to snag it. To test it. Is it just a wave? The ocean’s wave action? Or is it really a fish? A good catch, or just a little sucker? Or one that knowingly nibbles the bait off your hook and goes on swimming his merry little way on down the beach?

I love the feel of the nibble. The patient waiting, the lazy day spent absorbing the endless sounds of the churning surf. But really I don’t want to clean a fish, or even cook it up. Let’s go out to Captain Pete’s for a seafood dinner after we go in from this glorious day of fishing and shelling and swimming, showering off the sticky, salty day.

Snag it. Snag the beauty of the day. Snag the peaceful ions, absorbing them into the very fiber of your being. But let’s throw back any fish we snag. Better yet, let them eat bait. Let them eat all the bait while we wait, and wait, and breathe in the peace of God.