"The heart is abloom
Shoots up through the stony ground…”

-U2 “Beautiful Day”

When truth comes, when light returns, when insight moves from head to heart, and becomes embodied, healing begins.

Your resistance isn’t working. It only causes more pain.

Melt into your pain, sink into it, like rain into soil, explore it, breathe into it.

Hear it.

It started as a whisper so many years ago, but you did not listen. Are you ready now to hear? Now that it is screaming. It is crying, begging for you to heed, to change, to let go.

When what was stony within you begins to crack open, and a bud pushes through, longing to bloom, you know you are on your path to healing. 

You lament… “If this pain went away, THEN I could do what I came here to do. THEN I could do what I need to do. I have work to do. I could get this pain out of the way, and get back on my path…”

What if the pain IS the way, for now? What if this pain IS the path, for now? What if it IS your work, what you need to do, what you came here to do, for now? 

How might that change your approach? The way you experience it? The way you ‘handle’ this pain?

It’s time for a new approach. One that involves love, and surrender. One that listens and obeys. One that chooses according to truth and does not lie. An approach that moves through with curiosity and respect, instead of stony resistance. 

Is it time for the bloom to push through the stony ground? It is for me.

May you experience relief from your pain by surrendering to it, investigating it, and melting into it.


With love and understanding,

I have hated carnations ever since I was old enough to realize they are the ‘poor man’s rose.’

Sure, I liked them in high school, when Valentine’s week brought carnation deliveries to homeroom,  with notes attached from friends, secret admirers and whatnot, raising money for the marching band or whatever. Not that I ever got them, but I sure lusted hard after them.

But then I grew up, and since that time, I have considered them cheap, simple, trite. Once, way back when, for some holiday like Valentine’s or my birthday or something, my then-husband had a bouquet delivered to my office. I got the call from the receptionist… that call we all love to get… “You have a delivery at the front desk…”  I eagerly raced to the front, trying to keep my gait a brisk walk, as to not to seem too eager…

I saw it there… a big mixed bouquet of flowers. Most of them carnations. My heart sank. Carnations? A bouquet of carnations? Really?  I put them on my desk, and endured an afternoon of lackadaisical comments from co-workers like “Oh… you got flowers. Umm, nice…”

I know, I know. It’s the thought that counts, beggars can’t be choosers, yada yada. 

I just didn’t like them. Not for what they looked like, as much as what I thought they represented. “he cares... but not enough” Another story I made up, of course. Applying more meaning behind an event that is necessary or even helpful. (One of my many talents.)

Yesterday, I went to the chiropractor and when I was checking out, the assistant reached behind the desk and pulled out three carnations and gave them to me as a mother’s day gift. I brought them home, clipped the long stems and put them in a tiny vase on my desk. And now, they are blooming and vibrant and looking at me with love… “See, aren’t we beautiful?”  

And as I gaze upon them, I realize now how intricately designed they are. Their petals are smooth and velvety, not much different-feeling than the petals of a rose. They are strong and hearty and brightly colored and oh, I may have pegged them all wrong, for all these years. Yes, carnations, you are beautiful. 

I’m reminded of the root meaning of the word ‘respect’. RE (again.) SPECT (to look.)  After a while, our stories and stereotypes and limiting beliefs become stifling. Boring. Stale and crusty. And then, we have the choice to RESPECT whatever it is we’d been holding ourselves back from. It could be love. A career dream. Deeper intimacy with an old relationship. A carnation. When we look again, we might be lucky enough to see differently. With new respect and new appreciation. Isn’t that the coolest?

I’m not saying I want a bouquet of carnations delivered or anything… I still prefer roses. (Tiger lilies, tulips, daisies,  orchids, even sunflowers will suffice.)

But I look at it this way: Yesterday my desk had no flowers on it. Today it does. And those three carnations are just lovely. That counts for something.

What are you holding back from, viewing with old eyes and old beliefs? How might you show respect? 

How might you look again?

This is why I believe in miracles: because I AM one.

When Megan Monique asked me if I’d like to be interviewed to talk about Miracle-Readiness, I jumped at the chance. Who doesn’t love a good conversation about such a captivating topic? What I didn’t know is that I’d be sharing a story that not everyone knows about me, one of those stories that when you tell it (and it’s being video recorded…) you think “Ooh. Did I really just do that?”

But it just sorta tumbled out. And now, I’ll tell you.

When I was thirteen, I nearly succeeded at killing myself. For all intents and purposes, it should have worked. I had enough pills to do it. A colorful combo of 80+ pills, including sedatives, pain relievers and whatever else I could secretly pilfer. I’d been collecting them for weeks. A couple here, a couple there… so no one would notice them missing.  Then why was it when I was taking them all, and dropped one particular pill, I picked it up, saw it was dusty and threw it back down?

Why was it when I got home after taking all the pills (not having died on the bus, like I’d planned) crabby with a splitting headache, wanting more than anything to lay down in my room and die, my mother made me lay on the couch in the living room so I could let her know when the carpet cleaners arrived? I argued so hard with her. She didn’t relent. So on the couch I threw myself. I was unconscious by the time the carpet cleaners arrived.

Why was it, as I hung to life with the help of machines, as the doctors gave a bleak prognosis of complete recovery to my parents, that within a day or so I was fully recovered, with no liver, heart or brain damage, unlike they had predicted?

The doctor later told us how lucky I was. That I shouldn't be alive. That even one more little orange pill would have killed me.

And if I had gone to my room and fallen unconscious, instead of on the couch, no one would have noticed for hours and I would have died.

Because I was meant to live.

Because I am a miracle.

It didn’t take me long to realize this. I knew then that no matter how painful life could get, there was always hope for tomorrow. That things changed. That there was a God looking out for me. That I was not allowed to squander my life away, wishing I was dead.

Miracles come in all shapes and sizes. As I share in the interview, sometimes a miracle is as subtle as acceptance. A simple shift in consciousness. Forgiveness. Letting go. Surrender. Healing. A ladybug landing on your hand, just as you were sinking into despair. A job interview just in time. A phone call. A smile from a stranger at the perfect moment.

But sometimes, they are huge. Where you ‘shoulda’ died, but you didn’t.

And I have never, for one moment since, forgotten my big miracle. Or that my life itself is nothing short of miraculous.

PS. You can check out my full length interview with Megan Monique below... 

This is not a self-criticism email. This is not a cleverly crafted flogging whip with which to beat myself up. I’m coming clean.

This is a letter of apology, to you, my body.

It’s becoming clearer and clearer to me that I have failed you, in countless ways.

I have despised you at times, when all you wanted to do was love me, carry me, and care for me in a a million of miraculous ways.

I have ignored your desires and needs.  Sometimes for hours, (like ‘Hey Lisa, I have to pee… can we get up and pee?’ or  ‘I’m soooo thirsty. No, not for diet coke… can we have some water instead this time?’) Sometimes for years…  (‘Can we dance more? Can we play more? Can we move more? Can we NOT do that again, please? That sucked.’)

I have neglected pain to be the ‘tough girl’ when you were crying out in discomfort, only to be dismissed, ignored and shut down. The pain had to reach excruciating levels to finally get my attention.

I have put things into you that didn’t belong and were not good for us. Perhaps providing us with temporary escape or pleasure, but in the long run, causing damage to you. Disrespecting you.

I have said and thought the most hateful, abusive words to you, because you did not ‘meet up’ to some standard that society convinced me was what was desirable, all the while missing the perfections and gifts and love you presented to me year after year, as is.

Body, I apologize. And it has literally taken me 40 years to get to this point, this deep repentance and true desire to finally do things differently.  I wish it wasn’t pain that got me here. But hey, it got me here. And here is where I need to be. 

Body, you have my attention. You have my love. I’m sorry for the ways I’ve failed you. I promise to make it up to you.

You deserve love, you’re pretty amazing, and beautiful, too. 

Please be patient with me, as I cultivate this new level of self-love and attention and care. I’m ready now, but new habits are challenging to make, undoing a lifetime of habits is also challenging, but I am supported and have all the tools and resources I need to finally make you a priority. And I finally have the determination. I’m not aiming for perfect. Just better. 

I love you.

Please forgive me.

There is a very famous book that has a reputation of being a sort of “sacred text” when it comes to esoteric and metaphysical spirituality, called “Seat of the Soul” by Gary Zukav.

Over the years, I’ve tried to read this book at least five times. 

I have bought it and then resold it to the local used bookstore just as many times.

I have wanted so badly to dive into its pages. So many people I know have loved this book. Oprah loves this book. Spiritual people love this book. I’m spiritual people. Why don’t I love this book?  

Although I haven’t verbalized this, or even conceptualized it, til now, it was as if I was asking, without words, “What’s wrong with me, that I don’t love this book?”

The first couple times, I thought “maybe I’m just not ready for the information.” I promised myself I’d return to it, in perfect time. Like later… when I was deeper. More holy. Smarter. Wiser.

I’d try again a couple years later, pushing through the same first couple chapters like I was preparing for some test. A spirituality test. “Are You Spiritual Enough?” Again, I’d hit the wall: “I’m just not digging this book.” It’s certainly not the book. It must be me.

Do you ever find yourself doing certain things, reading certain books, participating in certain activities because you think that’s what “blank” people are supposed to do… spiritual people… good people… smart people… worthy people… holy people… sexy people… whatever…

• Chanting at kirtan because that’s what ecstatic spiritual people do?
• Sitting in church because that’s what good Christians do?
• Sitting in the dark trying to meditate because that’s what good Buddhists do?
• Allowing someone you’re not attracted to in the least to make advances on you, because that’s what flirty people do?

I’ve done all of the above, at some point in my life, and sometimes, truth be told, I’m going through the motions, not because I was hungry for it. But because that’s what I thought I “should” do. I was trying to fit into a “notion” of who I thought I should be, instead of just being who I really, truly was.

I saw Gary Zukav interviewed by Oprah a couple weeks ago. I LOVED what he had to say. Everything that came out of his mouth resonated with me. I’m buying the book again, I told myself. I think I’m ready now.

I bought it. I snuggled down to read it. It bored me to tears.

And then I made a realization. It’s not the information that doesn’t resonate. It’s the delivery. I thought of my favorite authors, Marianne Williamson, Mark Nepo, Oriah, Dawna Markova, and I thought about how much I love their poetic, loving, lyrical way of delivering spiritual messages. 

I like spiritual writing that reads like poetry.

Zukav’s writing style is much more pragmatic, matter-of-fact, almost scientific.

It doesn’t sing to me like Rumi. It doesn’t embrace me like Nepo.  And I don’t have to read it.

Truth of the matter is, I look to books to do more than inform me. I want to be seduced. I wanted to be made love to by words. I want to savor delicious phrases, sometimes reading them over and over because the way they are organized is scrumptious and satisfying and lush and gorgeous.

Maybe someday I will pick up Seat of the Soul and devour it. Maybe I won’t. 

I’m not going to judge myself anymore about it. I’m not going to deem myself more or less spiritual, intelligent or anything, just because a guy who’s appeared on Oprah over thirty times doesn’t have a writing style that grabs me.

He’s okay, I’m okay.

And it’s all okay. I’m letting myself off the hook. 

Can you let yourself off the hook today, with some ‘should’ that just ain’t clicking for ya? Come on, I dare you. It feels pretty good.

 

When my daughter was a little girl, she worried a lot. 

Tornadoes, death, the afterlife, war, stepping in dog poo, spider bites. You name it. I did the best I could to comfort her, to alleviate her worries, talk about odds and protection and precautions.

As she got older, and I’d run out of comforting things to say, and she understood playful sarcasm, I would tease in a sing-songy, June Cleaver voice “There, there, don’t be afraid. Nothing bad EVER happens.” 

It was a joke, sort of. A prayer, sort of. 

It was a way of admitting to one another that life is scary. Shit happens. People die. People can get hurt. People can hurt you.

Living is dangerous business. What else could I do but joke and laugh that “nothing bad ever happens”?

I’ve been a mom for 17 years now. And I realize now, from the moment I found out I was pregnant, in 1994, there is a special brand of fear that accompanies parenting that never goes away. 

It simply changes form.

When I was pregnant, I was afraid of something going wrong with the pregnancy. I was afraid of birth defects, of ripping, of losing her, of other unspeakable fears. 

When she was born, I was afraid of not feeding her enough, or too much, of diaper rash, of SIDS, of her being snatched, of her choking on spit-up, allergic reactions, colic, of her death.

As she grew, I was afraid of babysitters not being kind to her, of day care horrors and kidnapping and hospital emergencies. Then she went to school, and I was afraid of bullies, of playground injuries, lurking child molesters… and then there was high school and the fears transformed yet again… drugs, pregnancy, broken hearts, car accidents… it never ends.

Am I alone?

I think this shadowy , dark part of mothering (this also applies to simply ‘living’) rarely gets discussed.

We don’t really speak of the terror that accompanies parenting. The heaviness that exists in accepting that anything awful, at any time, can happen, no matter how much we try to avoid or prevent it.

The possibility of loss… always there. The possibility of pain, of danger, never leaves.

We simply distract ourselves with the stuff of life, the day to day, the optimal experiences, the plans, the activities. But it’s there, this terror, looming and quiet, ever-present.

We want to protect our babies, we want to protect ourselves, from pain, from loss, from suffering.

But we must go on living, imagining we have limitless tomorrows. As if nothing bad ever happens and we have all the time in the world. We inhale, we exhale, we pray, we hope. We live.

What other choice do we have?


What are your thoughts?

How do you deal with the looming, shadowy terror of everyday life? Where do you find balance between dark and light? Living and hiding? Trusting and fearing? Do tell.