Posts Tagged ‘Joy’

Request for an omission shows the need for inclusion

February 11, 2010

I am an angel.

I am dark.

Dark as mother earth.

I am an angel.

I am a black angel.

Feel my spark.

I performed my original song, “Black Angel,” at Colored Pencils Art and Culture, One-Year Anniversary Celebration at City Hall this past month.

Colored Pencils is, in the words of founder and Portland artist Nim Xuto, “…a group of newcomers, poets, artists and like-minded people of all colors who gather together once a month to sing, read poetry, and perform in our native languages.”

I am golden.

I am goddess.

I am dark.

I am divine.

Singing my own words, my own truth, for an audience is an exhilarating, humbling and nerve-wracking experience. My dormant familiar inner dialogue never fails to resuscitate immediately before I begin: “Did you practice enough? No. Relax, it’s the words, Sharon.” Nevertheless, gladly taking the stage I smile, inhale, invoking supporting spirits. Strumming and singing my heart, the universe cradles me, the audience smiles back at me. They are listening to my words.

I am regal.

I am rebel.

I am dark.

I am divine.

A man approached me afterward. Shaking my hand, he tells me how much he enjoyed my song. He remains standing before me. I feel my being expand in the warmth of his admiration and I remember the little girl in Jamaica shyly confessing that my song made her cry happy tears. Present again, I await this man’s continued, sure to be complimentary, commentary.

“… But you need to take out the ‘black.’”

Eloquence, articulacy and pride escape me, rapidly deflating me. Discombobulated, a tad perturbed, I am ready to jettison my halo, pluck my wings and climb into conveniently materialized cloven hooves. Miraculously, recovering vocabulary and sense, I am able to exclaim: “I am black.” Momentarily relieved as I glimpse my white angel friend (a.k.a. potential ally) in my, thankfully, re-expanding scope of view, I am quickly forced to refocus while contemplating whether angels can, indeed, fly backward.

Nobody ever talks about angels like me.

I can move mountains.

I have birthed seas.

Transmigrated, I right my halo and fluff my wings.

“You need to take out the ‘black,’” the man repeats in a soft, but menacing tone, akin to that of a concerned but seething parent.

Reconnected, mercifully, with my inner seraph, I patiently explain that I sing of black angels to counter the accepted norm, or mythology, that angels are only white. I shared my belief that we humans are angels, too, and we appear in every color. Sadly, I did not assuage his fears. He stomped off repeating his warning that I needed to take the “black” out.

Where angels are concerned, black angels are not often considered, nor depicted. If they are, they are dismissed as white angels gone astray; the fallen, the naughty anomaly, or quite simply a sullied one covered in soot.

In this life I know there is a lesson in every surprise, every disappointment – every happening. I am grateful for this truth, even as I ponder the pedagogy. The “art of gratitude,” unlike “the art of the guitar,” which I have a tendency to wing, I do practice, regularly. So, thank you white angel in men’s clothing, for liking my song and requesting that I eradicate the “black.”

In these our multicultural times we humans/angels habitually find ourselves mired in the black and white divide of good versus evil. I sing “Black Angel” as antidote to the poison of that gap, or as a tool to use, if one wishes, to assist in navigating your own way out of the quagmire.

Thank you also for teaching me that I need to dare to keep singing “Black Angel.” Try to remember, you, too, are an angel. You, too, are divine, and, as you did concede, angels do come in all colors. You are free to choose your own hue, however I reiterate:

I am golden.

I am goodness.

I am dark.

I am a black angel.

I am.

I am.

I am divine.

This column originally appeared in the January 2010, edition of The Southwest Community Connection newspaper

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Where I am from

January 22, 2010

I am from singing and dancing and sunshine and healing

I am from sorrow and sadness and survival and shame
I am from whippings and welts and wounds and weeping
I am from broken promises and pride and palpable pain
I am from struggle and survival and assimilation and success
I am from singing and dancing and sunshine and healing

I am from unresolved grief and joy and untruths and blind rage
I am from maligned myths and mutilated memories and hunger and hurt
I am from detachment and deception and disappointment and dreams
I am from learned malaproprism and miseducation and petrified hearts
I am from singing and dancing and sunshine and healing

I am from imposed schizophrenia and divinity denied
I am from beatings and bashings and banishment and betrayal
I am from coughed up colonialism and regurgitated rhetoric
I am from misappropriated majesty and ingested iniquity
I am from singing and dancing and sunshine and healing

I am from laughter and distrust and religious oppression
I am from the fable of good versus evil and heaven and hell
I am from serpents and mermaids and magic and melanin
I am from stolen stories and language and lineage and lore
I am from singing and dancing and sunshine and healing

I am from fear and forgotten and humanity hindered
I am from rehabilitated human relics reassembled all wrong
I am from beauty and darkness and inviolate inner strength
I am from currency corruption and conquest and con
I am from singing and dancing and sunshine and healing

I am from ancestors restless and whispering wisdom
I am from ancestors uprising and possessing and guiding
I am from singing and dancing and sunshine and healing
I am from love

Little one’s jaw-dropping question reveals similarities, friendship

November 19, 2009

Different. According to Webster’s New World Dictionary, the word “different” means: not alike, dissimilar, not the same, distinct, unlike most others, unusual, various. All perfectly benign definitions, wouldn’t you say? I mean a daisy is indeed not the same as a daffodil, and it is definitely distinct from a dahlia.

Who among us would be perturbed should one of our offspring, or a child in our charge, question out loud as to why a daisy is so much shorter than a daffodil? Few, I suspect. Why then do we adults have a tendency to become conversationally impotent, embarrassed and even angry when similar enquiry is made about dissimilar characteristics in human beings?

Strolling along Waikiki Beach with my sons Moses and Malik (who at that time were ages 3 and 1, respectively), a little person with a parrot on his shoulder walked toward us. I immediately began to panic – and it was not because of the parrot. I silently prayed that Moses would not notice the little man, (the parrot would have, of course, been fine, but dear Lord, not the man) and surreptitiously quickened my pace.

Alas, ’twas not to be. Sharp-eyed and precocious Moses clocked the man and promptly bellowed: “Mummy, why is that man so short?” As I struggled for composure and tried to convince myself that nobody else had heard his “whisper,” he barreled on: “Does he talk?”

Had the sands, at that moment, parted and Mother Earth swallowed me whole, leaving my children waifs and strays in unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory, I would have thanked her profusely. Unfortunately, salvation via terra was not to be mine. The atmosphere inhaled, the tide froze in ebb, and a million eyeballs assaulted me, boing-ing maniacally in my peripheral vision. There was nowhere to run to, if I could have managed movement. Trapped and struck dumb, peering down I met Moses’ expectant “curiosity colored in innocence” expression. My mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, I ineffectively sucked at the air. Finally, mercifully, the incognito wise woman within me responded: “I don’t know Moses, why don’t you ask him?” All at once a gentle breeze blew, the tide flowed, and eyeballs retreated to sockets. Or maybe, it was simply that, delivered from fear, I was breathing again.

Moses spoke to the little man, discovering that he did indeed talk, even though he remained short, and for the rest of our holiday they were beach buddies on first-name terms. The man (I must confess, I have forgotten his name, but not the lesson learned) thanked me for seeing the human in him, and ultimately giving my child permission to do the same.

Somewhere along the line in our civilization we have learned that “different” when applied to human beings – whether it be difference in skin color, physical ability, attributes, sexual orientation, gender or stature – can be something not nice, something abnormal, something less than, something not to be discussed (or acknowledged for that matter) in polite conversation, and certainly not with the children.

But different is a fact of life. Different is, as the sky is, as the wind is, simple, natural, nature’s gift, and oh so necessary. Variety, as that trite (but true) expression states, is the spice of life.

A dahlia is different from a daisy. I am different from you, as you are different from Moses, as he is different from that little man in Hawaii. It is nothing to be ashamed of – no need for shrouding in secrecy and silence. Ultimately, you and I, and he, and we, are all, magnificently human.

So, let us each commit to honoring our differences, but celebrating our sameness, our oneness in humanity. And the next time a child in your life lustily expresses their curiosity about a fellow human being, don’t shush, or shame (or wish for the ground to eat you). Dare to dialogue out loud and proud. You will learn something potent and, who knows, you might make a new friend.

This article originally appeared in the November, 2009, edition of The Southwest Community Connection Newspaper.

Bringing out our inner children, for better or for worse

October 11, 2009

A friend’s son was killed last month in Washington, D.C.

Reading his obituary, navigating the list of his accomplishments, awards and successes, the line that resonated most with me was: “He was a rambunctious toddler, known to run down the street in just a diaper.” It made me smile. I chuckled as I pictured a spirited, independent bundle of life, tearing down the road with mortified adults trundling after him.

The other morning, I dropped my son, Malik, off at the bus stop. A young girl, somebody’s daughter, sat on the sidewalk smoking, surreptitiously, a cigarette.

I enquired rhetorically of my son: “Is that little girl smoking?” I had seen quite clearly the curly, acrid, plume of fume.

“Yep. Bye, mom. Love you.” He dashed from the car, secretly hoping his mother wouldn’t say anything but knowing in his heart I would.

Bidding him farewell I drove forward stopping beside the “little puffing princess,” and enquired: “What grade are you in?”

She lifted her head, turned toward me, hesitated, then, finally lifting her eyes, she replied: “Seventh.”

“Why are you smoking?” I questioned. “It will kill you.”

“I know,” she resolutely replied.

“You need to stop.” I told her.

As I maneuvered my car to return home, something about our brief interaction yanked at my heart. There was a sadness, resignation and futility dancing devilishly in her demeanor and I found myself needing this child to know I cared about her; that my comments, or as she might see it, interference, were not merely to chastise her, but stemmed from love.

Traveling back now, I wound down my window. Malik, seeing this, lowered his head, smirking. “Oh, no, not again, mum!” I imagined him saying. A classmate standing next to him watched me, curiosity spreading across her face.

I pulled up next to the young girl telling her: “I say this because I care.” She stared at me incredulously.

“Smoking is so dangerous for you,” I admonished. “It will kill you.

“You need to stop,” I implored. She replied flatly: “I know.”

Driving away I wondered whether her insipid response referred to the fact that she knew she needed to stop, or that smoking would kill her.

The girl sitting on the sidewalk was obviously a physically mature teenager, but I plainly “saw” a little girl. I saw her inner child locked away in a dungeon. The dungeon that childhood has become in our competitive world, (and being driven ever more so by our crumbling economy), in which children must prematurely shed their childish proclivities so as to be able to compete, to attain worth, acceptance, and recognized success. I saw a little girl begging to be set free, to be seen, listened to, but who instead, in defiance, took up the fine art of smoking – a well-documented death-inducing device, a taker of lungs, liberty and life. All in an attempt to defy the restraints of this, our modern-day, hurry-and-grow-up living, and wrest back some control.

And it made me think of my friend’s son, Salim, running unrestrained down the street. And I remembered that I once knew a fearless girl whom, decades ago, overjoyed with the spirit of Christmas, opened everyone’s presents, then danced in celebration outside in the freezing wee hours, dressed in rubber boots and a nightie, with only the moon and stars for company. And I laughed out loud.

I have always believed we must hang onto our inner child, (those little girls and boys that live within us), for when we do we are more apt to let life lead us everywhere. It is with this inner child – our organic form, the “rough in the diamond” that we all inherently are – where we breathe our deepest, run our fastest and shine our brightest.

So, little puffing princess, (you know who you are), I see you. I see your inner child and I dare you to snuff out your cigarette and reclaim her. What does she love to do? Bring her back to life, liberation and love. I hope to see you there. I’ll be the one dancing in the dark in rubber boots.

This article originally appeared in the October, 2009 edition of The Southwest Community Connection Newspaper.

What did you love to do as a child? What would you dare to do today, whatever your age, if your inner child were let loose?

Love sometimes means letting go

September 11, 2009

I love to watch my sons play soccer. It’s exhilarating observing their finesse on the field as they charge around like wild mustang in focused abandon. Their skillful control of their feet and the ball conjures images of graceful gazelles darting through the African savannah.

On a recent Saturday morning, I was watching my son Moses’ Westside Metro team, called “Revolution,” play. It was a sensational game of fast, intelligent soccer, the boys passing and juggling the ball, dancing, almost, in harmony. Then, Moses went down, hard, and so did my heart – dropped right out of me, taking my breath with it.

I stood frozen in fear as Moses lay writhing on the turf in obvious pain.

The black panther, or mother lion, in me bared teeth and prepared to pounce, wanting desperately to retrieve him, carry him off to the safety of shelter and lick his wounds all better. But, the all-too-human Sharon in me, sensitive to the feelings of a 13-year-old classic soccer-playing youth, squelched the big cat’s roar and stayed put.

I willed steel pins through the soles of my feet pinioning me. I didn’t trust myself to not shape shift and spring free without them. And then I silently begged for divine intervention.

I implored God, Goddess, Universe, any deity who would listen: “Let him be OK. Let him not be badly injured. Please. Please. PLEASE?” I pleaded, chanting in mantra. No response. Moses remained wincing and squirming on the ground.

Fighting desperately to stay put on the sidelines, I dug my conjured steel pins deeper into Mother Earth. Eventually, surrendering, I resigned myself to making bargains with the almighty white, bearded, smiting dude, when Moses rose unsteadily to his feet. My breath returned exultant. But Moses could barely walk. Each belabored step he took trod footprints into my heart.

A soccer field is large but, as I watched Moses limping across the land, a tiny, solitary urchin, it appeared the size of North America. It became increasingly excruciating to watch him shuffle lamely by, pulsing with pride, pain and disappointment. His ambulatory impediment goaded me, daring me to intervene.

Delirious with anxiety, I witnessed a chasm open between my injured offspring and his fellow teammates, and before my eyes, he metamorphosized. It was no longer Moses out there alone in the center of a continent-sized soccer field, it was me. Me, solitary, rejected, ostracized, betrayed, abandoned, an outsider, exposed and vulnerable, all alone in the U. S. of A.

Visually schizophrenic now – one minute it was Moses on the soccer field, the next it was me in America – I couldn’t take it anymore. I was going in to save him. Sod his teenage pride, he’d get over it. He needed me.

Suddenly, an “angel” in chartreuse-colored cleats swooped in, putting his arm around Moses’ shoulder, lifting him off his injured leg, supporting him in his walk off the field. My breath took its leave again. As I struggled to keep my composure, another “angel” swept in supporting Moses from the other side. My heart swelled to bursting. A liberating howl of joy, gratitude, and relief, percolated and boiled over in torrents of tears within me. I exhaled: “Hallelujah!”

Moses’ world was not my world. Moses was part of the team. His teammates cared for him. He was accepted.

Emotionally recalibrated, sensitive again to teenage emotion, I bit down hard on my lower lip. This to prevent creating a noisy, runny-nosed scene that most definitely would have resulted in my being carted off in a straightjacket, thereby terminally embarrassing my son – a crime for which I would never be pardoned. I didn’t try to hide, however, the healing salty tears that trickled from my eyes as I sheepishly confessed to another soccer-mom how the players’ show of unaffected, spontaneous, active love had deeply touched me.

Call me naïve, call me gullible, call me cliché, but I am telling you, standing on the sidelines of a soccer field at the aptly named Powerlines Park, I saw love incarnate.

Sharon Martini is an English “mummy.” She lives in the Bridlemile neighborhood with her two sons and several pets. A local singer and actress, she also writes and illustrates little picture books.

This article originally appeared in the September 2009, edition of The Southwest Community Connection Newspaper.

It’s scary, but true! I think that growth, maturity and liberty is achieved when we can recognize when it is time to, and then, let go.

Neighbor’s exclaimation reveals the heirlooms that bind us to our past

September 11, 2009

Aaaarrghhhh!!!

That was the sound of delighted recognition, involuntarily escaping the throat of my neighbor’s cousin, upon spying a strainer in a cupboard.

It was Independence Day. Invited to dinner at a neighbor’s house, we ladies were in the kitchen and the boys were outside practicing legalized pyromania, under the supervision of a responsible adult, of course.

Boisterous chatter and laughter filled the air, mingling melodically with the distant staccato crackle of sparklers and Pop-its. Suddenly, my neighbor ducked beneath the counter to retrieve a utensil, but her access was impeded by uncooperative cabinet mechanism. Her cousin bent down to assist and then, screamed.

My vivid imagination shifted, immediately, into overdrive – unlike my legs or body, which, I will confess, did not even deign to feign activity. Picturing a cache of rodent droppings, or a rodent(s) deep in rigor mortis, I was quite content to be on my side of the counter and was congratulating myself on my good fortune, when comprehensible conversation resumed.

“I have that strainer, but mine is bigger! It’s got to be 60 years old!” Exclaimed my neighbor’s cousin.

“You do? This was my grandmother’s!” Responded my neighbor.

“It might even be 70 years old.” Said her cousin.

“I bet it came from a set.” Declared my neighbor.

Passing the strainer tenderly between themselves, my neighbor and her cousin (whose grandmothers were sisters) bantered excitedly back and forth, delving into their memories, reminiscing. I marveled at how a simple strainer had so effortlessly opened a pathway to their pasts, their present and their familial connections. It was as if magical memory tentacles poured forth from this strainer and bound them, no, hugged them, together.

Their excitement was palpable. I sat utterly enchanted, smiling, my heart filling, honored to be a sentimental observer, allowed to bask in their joy, when out of nowhere an ill-mannered curmudgeon clonked me out of my heart and into my head.

Abruptly, I was no longer in my neighbor’s kitchen. I was inside my own head, and thinking. Thinking how I didn’t have kitchen accoutrements with memory tentacles that had been passed down my family tree, to me. How I had no fancy wedding crockery, not even a chipped mug, with sentimental, scream-inducing value, for my poor, evidently deprived, sons to inherit.

I don’t recall purchasing a ticket, but I had boarded the “Woe Is Me” train, which was hurtling down a track that I was laying. About to sign the papers promoting me from “track layer” to driver of said train, the Universe mercifully intervened, bonking me on my noggin, bringing me back to “Life.” As I “regained consciousness,” I heard my guardian angel, (or was it my inner child?) admonishing: “You don’t even believe in fancy china, Silly Billy!”

Puttering alone around my house the next day, I caught a glimpse of my late father’s red guitar. Halted mid-putter, a silent scream ricocheted and resonated within me. Instantly, I remembered how my siblings and I had loved to sit at my dad’s feet, luxuriating in the sound of his strumming and singing; how my dad had insisted I take the guitar from his house when I had, once again, rushed back to England to visit him in the hospital. (How I couldn’t do it because it would have meant admitting he was going to die.) I recalled how, when I finally received the guitar, (my dad died a year later, peacefully at home), I taught myself to play, beginning triumphantly with the D, G and A7 chords. I chuckled when I thought about how when I play this red guitar, my sons will sometimes, unconsciously, sing along with me. (Don’t tell them I told.)

And I realized that I did, too, have my own scream-inducing family heirloom. Only my “Aaaarrghhhh!!!” is more of an, “Huuummmm!” and definitely in the key of D.

Sharon Martini is an English “mummy.” She lives in the Bridlemile neighborhood with her two sons, several pets. A local singer and actress, she also writes and illustrates little picture books.

This article originally appeared in the July 2009, edition of The Southwest Community Connection Newspaper.

Are there family heirlooms in your life that make you squeal?

Home is…

July 5, 2009

A raccoon once moved herself and her three cubs into my house. She marched right in the backdoor and straight upstairs to my sons’ bedroom.

Thankfully, mama raccoon – spooked by a surprised, but euphoric, Moses and Malik, who hadn’t yet cultivated their poker faces and were salivating audibly in bug-eyed glee – apparently forgot she had scythes for fingernails and fled, dragging her dazed babies behind her.

Creatures of all kinds feel at home in my house. Some of them, arriving uninvited, stay just a while. Some are pets/family members. Others, contraband, smuggled in by my nature-loving boys, pop up in unexpected places having absconded their cages – “unbeknownst” to my little darlings, of course – to live large in quiet, warm crevices in my humble abode, sometimes for 10 free-wheeling days! Snakes in the master bathroom, anyone?

I, however, for many reasons, have never quite felt at home here, in that settled, rooted, connected-to-the-soil way. There’s a general disquiet that has haunted me intermittently. Don’t get me wrong, I love my house and I’ve spent a lot of creative currency making it into a home for my family – there is definitely no denying “Sharon Martini Lives Here!”

Returning recently to Portland from a triumphant trip abroad, my restlessness returned, magnified. I felt like an out-of-place boulder, a recalcitrant beaver, no longer building dams, becoming the dam, blocking a rushing river, being battered by its current that simply needed to flow, wanting to move into the stream but unable to.

Then, I had an epiphany. “Dance!” Not social dancing but, specifically, take a dance class. This revelation astonished me. I consider myself a freestyle dancer – a “play the music and let me groove my way” type of dancer.

Whenever I perform in musicals, it’s the dancing piece that perturbs me, for I feel bound and restricted by the confines of the choreography, even though as a child I danced ballet and tap for almost 10 years.

Still, something within me “knew” I needed the structure of instruction, predetermined steps, a path, a yellow brick road to follow. Somehow I “knew” African dance was the class. I have never taken African dance; it hasn’t interested me before, yet here I was, 19 years into an admittedly unsettled life in Southwest Portland, with my soul now crying out for African dance. What to do?

I searched the Internet. Not only did I find an African dance class, it was happening that evening at Multnomah Arts Center. The Multnomah Arts Center – where over the years I have taken my sons to architecture, messy art, jewelry-making, tap, piano, guitar and clay classes – which, in my “mummy” world has been a place for my children or, my children and me, not me alone.

Before the class I began to panic, feeling silly and self-conscious, doubting that I “knew” what I knew. African dance class, what was I thinking? I wondered who would be in the class, would I be able to follow the steps, would I be expected to be able to follow the steps, would I embarrass myself (I could always would hide at the back), who would the teacher be? Ignoring this mind chatter, I went to the class, albeit tentatively.

Quieting some of my apprehension, this African Dance class, replete with live drumming, was being taught by an African man from Ghana – Nii Ardey. It was a small class, so there was no hiding in the back. But it didn’t matter because once the drums began to beat I was stomping, stepping, swooping and twirling. I was air. I was energy. I was love. I was gratitude. I was home, moving in rhythm and at one with, what I believe is, the primordial heartbeat of the universe.

When the drumming ceased, I stood still, grounded, sweat flowing from my pores, proof to me that the dam I had been had broken, and I re-remembered that “home” doesn’t require a plane ticket, nor bricks and mortar. Home isn’t place or position, country or creed. Home is peace, music, movement; it’s connection, delight, detachment. Home is freedom, letting go. Home is art.

Like Dorothy clicking her heels in The Wizard of Oz, I can go home whenever I want, for home lives in me and I live in she, but, if I ever need help finding my way, I shall hotfoot it down to Multnomah Arts Center for an African Dance class, or whatever art form I need at that time to transport me.

“Home” is where the art is. Dance, beading, painting, weaving, drama, piano, it’s all there at Multnomah Arts Center. There’s “transportation” with your name on it there, I’m sure.

Sharon Martini is an English “mummy.” She lives in the Bridlemile neighborhood with her two sons, several pets. A local singer and actress, she also writes and illustrates little picture books.


This article originally appeared in the July 2009 edition of The Southwest Community Connection Newspaper.

Where is “home” for you?

Sing A Song Of Healing

March 11, 2009

Since the beginning of time humans have communicated through music and song. Song has been healer, uniter, redeemer, sage, connector and liberator. Remember how freeing it is to sing, out loud, even off-key, to a favorite, or just plain annoying melody that won’t let you go? Take a moment to feel how it feels. Do you feel open, expanded, light as air – liberated? I know I do.

In our modern technology addled world, research has caught up with the natives, the primitive people, and proven the power of music and song. Children (and we are all children at heart) learn effortlessly when lessons are camouflaged in music and lyrics. It is my belief that we must hang on to our inner child, for when we do we are more apt to let life lead us everywhere, and to sing out loud and proud, even off-key!

Musical pitches have different healing frequencies which affect areas in which there is dis-ease, or disharmony, returning them to harmony, wholeness. The true meaning of the word “heal” is to make whole. It is our right and need, as humans, to live in harmony, be whole, first with ourselves and then, with everyone else.

I offer my song “What Color Are You?” as a tool for us all in our walk toward wholeness and healing for the world. (I wrote this song – among other reasons – as an accompaniment to my children’s picture book “Max and Me.”)

Sing it loud! Sing it proud! Please do sing it, even off-key!

Let Go To Listen To Receive

September 21, 2008

A couple of Sundays ago I was wandering the aisles of New Seasons Market when I began to go down an aisle that was partially blocked by a shopping cart. I started to back up to go around when I spied the magazines. Remembering I wanted to browse there I continued down the impeded walkway, excusing myself as I wriggled past the obstructing trolley and its “owner.” Arriving at the magazines I obliviously “parked” my cart and perused the racks.

Just then another woman came over to the magazines. She was telling a clerk how she had been searching all over for a magazine called Ultimate Northwest Magazine. Overhearing this conversation, and being the helpful sort that I am, I told her that that particular magazine was delivered free with The Oregonian. Well, to cut a long story short, it turned out that she lived in Beaverton where that publication was not a freebie – such is life. She found her magazine (all $5.00 of it) and went happily on her way. 

During this interaction, the “owner” of the trolley that had blocked my path down the aisle, arrived on her way through. I hurriedly tried to maneuver my cart out of her way saying “I’ll get out of your way.” This lady, Roberta, was her name, promptly said “You could never be in anyone’s way.” Surprised that she should say that, (this woman obviously has no idea what is happening in my life currently, I thought) I looked at her questioningly and asked “Why not?” She replied “You are beautiful inside and out.” Her reply discombobulated me. Initially, I was flattered, and embarrassed, (I’ve never been good at receiving a compliment,) but then I became a little peeved as I wondered why everything always came down to looks. If you’re good looking, you can’t possibly have problems or negative issues affecting you. Beautiful folk have it all don’t they? … My inner “woe is me” whine was off and running. Still, in all this “mental creativity” I did manage to maintain my manners and thanked Roberta anyway. She had meant well.

As I turned to go. I was kissed, literally smothered, from head to toe with goose-bumps and in this sudden body-tingling effervescence, I was compelled to tell Roberta, and share with her my belief that goose bumps is the Universe’s, or Spirit’s, affirmation of truth. Then, when I came to, I focused on her face and wondered what she must thinking of me. To my surprise, she nodded, smiling at me, eyes and all (she didn’t think I was crazy,) and stated “Obviously you are not being told this enough by others.”

I did not know this woman, nor, as far as I could tell, did this woman know me, and she certainly didn’t know what was going on in my life (I could tell you stories), but she had just hit the nail on the head and it smarted. She had hit a nerve. It was my truth, and it was painful to hear out loud from a stranger. It felt shameful (as if it were somehow my fault) and it shocked the listening (which I confess had already been on shaky ground), right out of me. In my now full on defensive state, I translated what she had said to “You don’t think you’re enough.” I even heard it with the curl of a lip and the flaring of a nostril.

“Hearing” this set me off, and my knee-jerk response to this “conjured comment” was to proclaim “I know I am enough. I tell myself all…” Suddenly, something cut me off, silenced me – Spirit gently laid a finger on my lips – and whispered, “Listen.”

The funny thing is, I swear I heard this whisper in my heart. I held myself frozen, straining to hear it again with my ears. Nothing. Eventually, breathing again, I let go. I let myself relax. I actually felt myself open up and in doing so I heard the words Roberta had in fact spoken to me.

Listening now, truly able to hear, I allowed the truth of her comments, in particular, the final “box me into deafness” statement, to settle on me, sink into me and finally sate me. I then replied honestly, without shame, guilt judgement or inhibition, “You’re right. I don’t.” 

In that moment I realized that Roberta had carried to me a gift from the Universe, from Spirit, and I wholly experienced its power, magnitude and magic. I understood too, how I in my defensive, temporarily deafened, closed off state, couldn’t have accepted it. How I had needed to let go, release and open to receive it.

I thanked Roberta profusely for bestowing that gift on me. She in turn thanked me for being able to receive it. I am being reminded repeatedly, that we absolutely do receive when we give.

The Universe, Spirit, knows what we need at all times and is forever gifting us. We need to have the courage to open to accept these gifts and unwrap them in our own truth.

I am so grateful that I was able, that Sunday afternoon, to let go to listen to receive.

I am gonna dance my little heart out today!

June 10, 2008

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring

I know nothing about next week

I don’t know what tomorrow will look like

But I know

That the sun has risen high in the sky today

And I know

Cos I feel it

The wind is blowing softly my way

And I know

That right now birds are singing in my garden

So I am gonna dance my little heart out today

Yes I am gonna dance my little heart out today