Fathers and Forgiveness

Recently, I heard Ira Glass, who publishes This American Life on National Public Radio, speak at an auditorium in Fort Collins, Colorado. He talked about why the stories he tells are so compelling and move millions of people. In the Q-and-A portion at the end, a woman suggested a story on estranged parents. She estimated that half of the people in the room were currently or had been estranged from at least one parent and wanted to talk about why that was and how it could be remedied, if at all.

Her take was that she wanted to tell her dad what he had done to hurt her so much. Ira wasn't sure about the story, whether it would have enough of an element of surprise to make the cut. As Lacy spoke about her experience, I started to cry. It touched a soft spot, as I had just reconciled with my dad after nine years of silence.

My dad divorced my mom when I was 30 years old and my sister was 17. His inability to have a relationship with me after that, or so I interpreted his behavior, had huge ramifications on my own marriage and my ideas about men in general. I tried to create a new and different relationship with my dad, but it seemed I couldn't connect no matter what I tried. I gave up. He gave up. We stopped speaking.

My sister, who is one of my best friends, continued to have a relationship with my dad throughout the years, mostly through sheer force of will. Over time, she built a friendship not only with him, but with his second wife and my now four-year-old baby brother. I stayed in the loop that way, but was somehow comfortable with the idea that I would never see my dad again.

As my sister earned her Master's degree in psychology, she started to see things in my dad that neither she nor I had seen before. Good things. Great things, even: open-mindedness, kindness, vulnerability. He went through his own trials, including suffering with polymyalgia and losing his job. I could relate--I had dealt with my own health issues and had lost my job four years earlier. I listened to everything she had to say about him with rapt attention.

Last year, my husband left our 20-year partnership. Through several transformational events, including months of weekly psychotherapy, regular yoga practice, bicycling like mad, and meditation, I was born anew. In the difficult process of extracting my life from my husband's--physically, emotionally, intellectually, financially, and spiritually--I learned a beautiful, quiet kind of acceptance of my life and everything in it. I sold my house, moved to an apartment, and began a new career by enrolling in a non-denominational ministry program.

I went from control freak to live-and-let-live, from CPA and business consultant to energy healer. I started dating and was amazed by the big, big world out there. I even befriended my ex-husband. Life was flexible. Life was good. It was time to talk to my dad again.

One sunny Sunday morning this October, I called and asked if it was OK to go up to my dad's house in the mountains to see him and his family that day. On the drive up, I felt completely centered and at peace. I wasn't tied to any particular outcome and was content knowing that I was taking this step toward reconciliation.

Happily, the reunion was a success. I felt welcomed, loved, and loving. No one had any need to talk about blame or hurt or fault. We were all just so glad to see one another, and there were hugs all around. Champagne toasts, lots of catching up, and dinner followed. I gave my baby brother a goodnight hug. On the way home, I stopped at the top of the pass, in the complete darkness, to wonder at the sheer brilliance of millions of stars. I couldn't have been any happier at that moment.

So I wonder, how did holding on to that hurt and blame for all those years serve my highest and best good? How did my dad's fear of conflict serve him? Does it take tragedy in our own lives to learn compassion for others? Does the forgiveness process have to take years of our lives, or is there a spark that we can somehow use to light the flame in others' hearts that allows them to let go and love those who love them?

On Top of the World

I summited a fourteener yesterday on the ten-year anniversary of 9/11. Because my hiking mates were ahead of me most of the time, it turned into a beautiful walking meditation. Though it will likely take me days or weeks to integrate everything I learned into my physical and energetic bodies, I can say for certain that the experience changed my life forever.

It felt as if I were in another world, one between the earth and astral planes. I am incredibly privileged to be able, in so many senses of the word, to fully take it all in.

To Have or Not to Have, That Is the Question

The last couple of months have brought with them so much fun and so many valuable gifts that I think I'll call July and August two of my best friends. While I've been listening to music, admiring beautiful art, and breaking bread with friends, I've also been learning and growing so fast it makes my head spin. One of the interesting teachings I've received is this: to coexist with the duality of being able to have something and not being able to have it brings with it peace and harmony.

Havingness is the ability to receive the full beauty and grace of something--fame, wealth, friendship, love, or anything else. For example, a person might be wealthy in financial terms but constantly feel that she is going to lose it all and one day have to beg for money on the streets. She is not in a place where she can have her wealth. Another person can be relatively poor in financial terms but feel wealthy because all of his basic needs are met and he enjoys what few possessions he does have tremendously (think Gandhi).

Someone who can't take a compliment is a perfect example of a person who is unable to have. Perhaps you can relate? Have you ever denied it when someone told you that she admired your taste in clothes? Have you countered that compliment by immediately complimenting the other person's taste, whether or not you believed what you were saying? To fully have everything good that life brings you seems like it would be easy, but it can be surprisingly difficult. Being able to have can take many karmic lifetimes of practice.

And THEN, once you FINALLY learn to have, you have to learn how not to have. What? This sounds crazy. But if you are equally comfortable not having that thing--fame, money, love--in your life, you make space for it to come into your life in all of its glory. Think about that woman who has oodles of money but spends her whole life thinking about how someday she might not have that money. She hasn't learned to have, and she hasn't learned not to have.

Where are you on your journey?

Happy Solstice! or What a Year Will Bring

Cut to me staring at my computer screen in utter disbelief, exactly one year ago. It was around midnight on the longest day of the year, and the world as I knew it came to an end. My assumptions about love and trust were called into question. My identity, as it had exactly four years earlier when I lost my job, was blown apart.

Slowly, or some might say quickly, I rebuilt. Boy, was I ready for it, too. It was about time I concentrated on fixing me instead of everyone and everything else. I learned a lot in therapy.

Lesson #1: slow down.

Lesson #2: slow is fast.

Lesson #3: the need to fix others masks the need to look inward.

These lessons were what my friend Emily calls two-by-four moments (you know, because you feel like you got hit in the head with a two-inch-by-four-inch piece of wood, which, if you don't know, is also six feet long--let's just say big). And they just kept coming.

I worked hard. I took a close look at parts of me that I would have preferred to leave in the dark. I learned how to let myself feel and not judge those feelings. I learned how to show loving kindness to myself, because if you don't do it for yourself, it's tough to ask it of those around you. Today, I'm just happy that life can be this good. And simple. I love simple.

A supporting sister and best friend are my rocks, and they call me out on my crap when I'm slipping back into the old ways. New friends that I feel like I've known forever keep popping up. I get a big, dopey grin on my face when I think about my kind, loving, patient, fun, funny boyfriend.

I lost 57 pounds. I wish them well on their journey, because I'm not going to go looking for them. I started cooking again--a piece of the old me that I happily reintegrated. A new career called to me, and I'm doing the difficult but fulfilling training to become the best me I can be in that role.

I have a lot of adventures. A community of folks showed up to teach me how to speak the new language of acceptance and peace. The universe takes care of me. I'm in love with the world.

This is bliss.

Ready for a celebration

Already celebrating with my sister

My boyfriend's dog, Lulu, demonstrating my philosophy of life: it's all good; let's just take 'er easy on the couch

Rites of Passage

Funerals are beautiful ceremonies that help us remember the simplicity and complexity of a person. We have a chance to formally grieve. We think about how that person's time here made a difference.

This rite of passage makes us reflect on our own lives as well. What good or great things have we accomplished? Whose lives have we affected, and how? If we had it to do over, what would we change? Could we make those changes starting tomorrow? It's a powerful, emotional, and thoughtful process.

Rarely, though, are there celebrations of a person's accomplishments while the person is still around. My family rocks birthdays, and I'm glad for it. But mostly, none of us gets the chance to tell a room full of people how important that boss or friend or parent is to us.

So I was pleasantly surprised when I attended the retirement party of a good friend's husband this past weekend. There was a huge table full of photos, quotes, letters, and memorabilia that described all of the aspects of Michael: athlete, coach, teacher, principal, son, father, husband, friend, brother, uncle, boss, colleague, and more.

It was as if we were reviewing and appreciating his oeuvre at an art show. We drank, we ate, we talked, we laughed. I met people who are important in my friend's life that I would never have met otherwise. It was fun and rewarding.

Then there were the words of appreciation. At the designated time, we all gathered outside to hear what folks had to say about Michael, his work, and his life. Not knowing Michael well, I wasn't sure what to expect. Obviously the guy was well respected, because there were hundreds of people at this shindig.

A picture emerged of a man with high standards, who didn't take himself seriously and could be located by his laugh, who loved kids and the work he did with them, and who was a fantastic leader. Standing in the sun with beer in hand, I couldn't stop smiling. This was the man my friend had loved for decades. I understood him, and her, and their life, so much better. It was amazing.

My favorite toast was given by a woman who was obviously uncomfortable speaking in front of a group, but she ponied up. She said something like, "I knew you at one of the hardest times in your life, and you proved to be a man of courage and ethics. You were worth putting my career on the line for." Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice wavered a bit, but she kept going. "So I'll give you the Scottish toast: Here's to us. Who's like us? Damn few, and they're all dead." Funny, and poignant.

What really got me was the first thing he said, before all the speechifying commenced. "I want to thank Linda. I couldn't have done any of this without her." Then he talked about how his work wouldn't have been possible without the competent, capable people he'd worked with over the years. This was a man I wanted to know. I was honored to have the opportunity to learn about him at this point in his life rather than at his funeral.

Rites of passage--retirements, commitment ceremonies, graduations, and finally, funerals--should always be a time for admiration, appreciation, and publicly acknowledged gratitude. Let's make them all big lovefests. Watch how it changes the energy of the person, everyone he knows, his community, and the world.

I Am a Yogini

When I started practicing yoga seven months ago, I never dreamed it would be instrumental in my transformation from caterpillar to butterfly. I was simply in search of something--anything--that would help me cope with the changes in my life. The stress had to have an outlet.

A teacher in a recent yoga practice explained that when caterpillars cocoon, they don't just grow wings. Some cells change chemically. Embryonic cells that were present from the egg stage start to divide. The caterpillar reforms into a brand new being.

"Basically, they turn into goo," she said, translating for anyone who might be getting lost in the talk of cellular transformation. "And we do that in yoga practice over time," she explained. I couldn't agree more.

With the guidance of many patient and loving teachers, I have broken down old thoughts about my mental and physical barriers. I've learned how to connect my breath to my movement. I've reached places inside my mind and body I never even knew were there.

The physical benefits are astounding. My muscles are more toned and I am stronger than I have been in my entire life. I am flexible, as evidenced by my ability to twist my body like a pretzel. I can balance my entire body weight on one leg while lifting the other leg straight behind me and my arms straight in front of me.

But even more important than the physical benefits are the emotional and mental benefits. Yoga calms me. It reminds me to look inward. It makes me remember that my thoughts show up physically somewhere in my body, whether that's in a sore neck or an upset stomach.

At the beginning of almost every practice, the teacher reminds me to set an intention for the time I'm about to spend. This habit of setting intentions crosses over into all areas of my life, with the result that I get exactly what I intend most of the time. The teacher instructs the students to breathe in all good things that the universe has waiting for us and to breathe out healing, light, and love for ourselves and the world.

Language I've learned in my journey with yoga:

Hatha: union of the sun and the moon--a joining of mind and body that results in strength and vitality

Om Namah Shivaya: there is no literal translation, but I've interpreted this as, "I honor the divine in myself, in you, and in all beings."

Namaste: a greeting that means, "I acknowledge the divine and innate goodness in you"

Om: a chant that reminds us that everything we do should be for the betterment of the universe

The incorporation of the language of yoga into my everyday world is an outward manifestation of the inner change--the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly. Physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual adjustments are all a part of my journey. It is something akin to the deconstruction and reconstruction the caterpillar undergoes. I see what the teacher was trying to help us acknowledge. I am a yogini.



Photo credit: Ambro at freedigitalphotos.net

Easy Does It: Incremental Change in Nonprofit Organizations

Over the last 20 years, I've been involved with dozens of nonprofit organizations as an employee, a board member, a volunteer, a services vendor, a contractor, and a consultant. I've worked with the tiniest ones that are run solely by volunteers, like the National Center for Community Collaboration. I've worked with large ones that have thousands of volunteer and paid staff members, such as the University of Denver. As part of my community outreach and marketing efforts, I've conducted informational interviews with more than 75 board members, development directors, executive directors, and operations directors in the Denver area.

My frustration has often been the snail's pace at which things happen in nonprofits, especially as compared to the lightning speed at which small-business owners move. When I see that transformational change is possible, I want to go, go, go make it happen! The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that ensure the nonprofit achieves its mission are all there: money, expertise, passion, and time. It's just that someone, or a few folks, need to sit down and, in one marathon all-nighter, fit those yellow, white, and green bits together to reveal the tranquil landscape pictured on the outside of the puzzle box.

But I've realized that it is almost always only incremental change that's possible in nonprofit organizations. Once-a-month board meetings, executive directors with impossibly complex job descriptions who work for below-market wages, an economy that has squeezed Americans' ability to give, and many other factors conspire to limit the way we can fit the puzzle pieces together.

Instead of funders, staff, volunteers, and the community sitting down at the table together to work on the puzzle together, one person at a time meanders by the puzzle table and tries to make a piece fit here or there. Sometimes, on a coffee break, a couple of folks chat over the puzzle while they sip their steaming beverages and quickly find five pieces that fit together. Once in a while, someone who thinks she knows better will remove a piece that's already been fitted correctly in order to see if there is another piece that works better there.

Eventually, though, we start to see larger and larger pieces of the whole: a lake in the background comes together, a fox materalizes at the lower right-hand corner, a sunny mountainside pops out, just needing a couple of pieces to make it complete. These microcosms of the larger landscape represent corporate sponsorships falling into place, or finally getting that policies and procedures manual completed, or identifying the organization's core competencies.

As the picture becomes clearer, and we see that it is indeed possible to re-create that photo from the front of the puzzle box, we get more and more excited. People stop by the puzzle table more often, and in larger groups, and for longer periods of time. It becomes more and more obvious where the remaining pieces fit. Finally, the puzzle is complete!

We stare in wonder and pride at the hungry folks who have received nutritious meals, the students who graduate from high school, the refugees who now have housing. We remember back to the monstrous pile of 1,500 pieces of cardboard and paper we looked at when we first dumped them out of the box. We feel proud of the contribution each of us made, though it took a long time and we faced many moments of despair along the way. And we think, "Easy does it. Slow and steady. Never give up."

The Power of the Flirt

I have become a master flirt. The ingredients: being in the moment, being willing to take risks, and laughing along with the universe. When I think "flirt," I think: be interested in other people, make their day, and have fun.

People, I'm here to tell you that it is possible to flirt with anyone, anytime. Prime example: Sunday's trip to Whole Foods. I went to get some delicious bits for a Valentine's Day feast. Consequently, I was in an even happier mood than usual.

While walking through fruits and vegetables, I tried to catch a few people's eye. No go. I hit the seafood department and focused intently on the shrimp, thinking that this shopping trip might turn out to be an unusually non-flirty night at WF. Just out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I glanced over and saw that the guy at the seafood counter was looking at me. This is "flirt radar." If you want to play, you have to notice people noticing you.

I noticed dark brown eyes, a slim build, and a boy-next-door look, all in a split second. This is another skill of the flirt: taking in a lot of detail in a very short amount of time. He gazed at me and flashed a brilliant smile. Be still my beating heart. I am a sucker for a million-dollar smile. I smiled back and took the positive energy of that interaction with me through my slow wandering up and down the aisles in search of treats. Four guys met my gaze with the "Hey, what's up?" look, sometimes more than once. This is what flirts do: look, look longer, smile.

When I made it to the checkout counter, I could tell the cashier was not in a good place. This is unusual for WF employees. Normally, they let their freak flags fly and are into the groove of the moment. So I took her in: her hair, her makeup, her clothes, her nametag. I asked, "Do you have any special plans for Valentine's Day?"

"No. It's just any other day for me," she said, looking down and away. A heartbeat passed. I looked at her openly, empathetically, expectantly. "But I might take my daughter to the movies," she said. "She loves Justin Bieber movies, and there's a new one out."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" I said, smiling broadly. "That's a great Valentine's Day gift."

"And she loves strawberries," the woman said, "so I'm going to get her some before I go home tonight."

"She'll love it!" I exclaimed. By then, the transaction was done, and I looked at her--again, really looked at her--and said, "You and your daughter will have a great day." She handed me my receipt with a shy look of satisfaction. I noticed that she had tiny red hearts painted on her nails. "Oh, and look at your nails. How cute!"

She laughed a little and said, "You know, I just love to wear red. It's my favorite color. So Valentine's Day lets me do that." She held out her hand for me to examine the intricate pink, red, and white nail work she'd had done. Just another day, huh?

That's the power of the flirt.

Upsy Daisy

Some people are lucky to ever get a flash of knowing, where they can see how interconnected we all are: us to each other on a face-to-face level, us to each other on a super-conscious level, and us to a higher power. Lately, everything is coalescing for me, and I get the sense of knowing more and more continuously. It happens so much that I vibrate at a higher level. I live in that world of connectedness almost all the time now.

I love it here. It's stunningly beautiful. It's warm and bright and happy. It's better than sitting on a rock in the silent desert in the heat of the day. It's better than hearing the birds fly over your tent early in the morning. It's better than floating in a cool pool on a hot day. It's better than seeing a wild animal in its natural habitat before it sees you.

Why is this world of connectedness better than any of those things? Because I can see and feel and hear them any time I want to. Not just remember them, but actually experience them. If you'd told me that a year ago, I'd have told you that you were coo coo for cocoa puffs. Well, I wouldn't have told you to your face, but I'd have thought it for sure.

And now, well, I'm a believer. The more I open my mind to the world and all of its possibilities, the bigger my heart gets. The more my heart expands, the more my soul grows. They keep chasing each other, laughing and tumbling through fields of daisies, like children who never contemplate day's end, or if they do, it's only to give a moment's thought to how much fun they'll have tomorrow. And if I think regretfully of the past, one of them tells a joke that involves chicken feathers. Or asks me what shape I think souls take. Or sends me to kirtan to chant and bliss out.

So here's that shakes out in a workaday world:

I laugh a lot.
I do more of the more meaningful work.
More than ever before, I see all sides of things.
I attract like-minded people into my life.
I learn things at the speed of light.
I forgive easily.

Here's it shakes out in life:

I breathe. Deeply.
I sing my heart out in the car.
I get high on protein, yoga, and endorphins.
I listen to hip-hop music super loud and turn the bass up to get the full effect.
I really feel for the guy who fell off his bar stool at the local divey bar.
I do cookies in unplowed parking lots.
I flirt and watch what happens.

I'm Just along for the Ride, Friend

I went on a roller-coaster ride with my 15-year-old mentee, Consuelo, this past summer--the first time in more than twenty years. Consuelo, a veteran rider, summed up the whole experience while waiting in the long, hellishly hot line: "It's like I want to go, but I don't."

"Why do you go, then?" I asked her, thinking we were maybe going to have to wind our way back through hundreds of people to get out of line. "Well, it's really exciting to think about it," she said, "but you have to close your eyes the whole time and then afterwards sometimes you feel like you're going to throw up."

This pretty well encapsulated my thoughts about dating as I wrote my first online profile. I was thrilled and terrified. Putting some version of myself online for hundreds, thousands, or hundreds of thousands of folks to see--it takes a certain amount of moxie. But, never having come up short in that category, I stepped off the wooden platform and into the tiny little cart, strapped myself in, grabbed the lap bar, and held on tight.

In one week, I've corresponded in some way or other with dozens of guys. I've read hundreds of profiles and confirmed what a single gal--who moved from Philly to "Menver"--told me: that a whole lot of guys really like their dogs, their bikes, and their snowboards. Some of these profiles are funny, some are spiritual, but most of them are simple, everyday stuff. These guys are just looking for a connection to another human being.

As a result of this process, I realized two things. First, it's hard to get a feel for someone when they sound like just like everyone else. This is the bad thing about online dating. But it has inspired me to get out my marketing copywriting brain and sell myself while still being myself. It seems to be working fairly well so far: one in-person date and three phone dates with a future date planned. One guy even told me I had a really good publicist.

Second, I don't have to close my eyes and hang on. These are just people, like me. Each one has his own quirks, and yet I find so much in common with almost all of them. As one remarkable gentleman said to me today, "The more we remove those barriers to being one, the more we remember that we were always one." Amen, brother.

I'm going along for the ride. I might hang onto the lap bar once in a while when I go around a wicked curve, but I'm also going to be one of those people who puts her hands in the air and yells with delight all the way down every hill.