A Return to Childhood Part II

The new Boulder Garden

Saturday night I fell asleep planning more work in the gardens. This morning, instead of being on a creative roll, Murphy has jumped on my back. Some days just suck! I just want to sit and cry, but I’m even too down for tears.

Rain falls and Pele kitty cackles at the downy woodpeckers at the suet feeders outside. I push through getting the last of the editing done for the week. The work numbs my mind, so I don’t have to succumb to my sad feelings.

Four hours later, in responding to an email from Gail about her mother hugging her from beyond and the love she felt triggers something within me.

Hmmmm ... all about the love. Tears are falling. On one hand, I know I'm loved ... but I don't FEEL the love! That's what I'm missing. Maybe that's what I'm looking for in trying to go back to childhood. And there's part of me that feels I'll never be loved again ... if I ever truly was ... and that no guy (husband or boyfriend) ever truly loved me -- oh, there's the love of friends and distant love of family, but I don't have the immediate, physical, hug-feel of love. But then I keep telling myself I don't have time for love, the last thing I need is for someone to want me to love him -- I have too much me stuff with my art I'm trying to do.

I truly believe we need to allow ourselves time to grieve. Not just for those who’ve passed on, but for every loss or betrayal we’ve ever encountered. Allowing ourselves to feel is to heal emotionally. Perhaps, this too, is why I am making this journey into the past and part of my living wholeheartedly.

This is going to take more contemplation, for sure. But first, the journey of returning to my childhood family properties continues …

June 4, Gail and I took a break after our morning beach walk deciding what to do about breakfast. We got in the car and headed south on Route 1-A passing through Seabrook Beach, then into Salisbury Beach, Mass. I drove around the loop of the old amusement park and we pointed to where the Flying Horses carousel, the old wooden rollercoaster, and the Ferris wheel used to be. 

We stopped for photos of today’s cheap-looking carousel – nothing like the huge Flying Horses of our childhood.

We recalled playing skee-ball in the arcades. (Skee-ball was my favorite and it was fun to win prizes.) Gail talked about having her first piece of square pizza. Joe’s Playland and both Tripoli and Christy’s are still there. Other buildings are also there, but nothing was really the same. There were no crowds of people walking around with kids eating cotton candy; no chatter, no sounds and bells of arcades and amusement rides. The area almost feels like a ghost town, just barely hanging on to life.

Not seeing any breakfast-type place, we headed to Salisbury Square and found some dive of a little restaurant. The people were very nice, but the place itself was awful and neither of us ate much – and to use the bathroom? Gross, beyond gross!

My uncle's old house around 1990 and little garage to the right

We headed down Route 1 to Rings Island along the Merrimac River and across from Newburyport. My uncle was the harbor master for 38 years and there’s a plaque dedicated to his memory by the pier. His house, a two-story narrow New Englander was once a barrel factory before he bought it. Now it is multi-million-dollar structure, two houses in similar shape connected by a two-story foyer (I would guess). What was once a little garage is now a huge, two-story building of its own.

What my uncle's old property looks like today

It’s hard to find words. The beach where we learned to swim when we were little filled in with beach grasses long ago. The boat ramp is gone. We walked out on the pier chatting about how we used to jump from this spot or that at high tide. The ramp going down to the boat slip dock is now multiple docks extending out into the river and we went out to the very end. The river is still beautiful and peaceful, and we couldn’t have asked for a prettier day.

I don’t know what I was expecting to feel – I only know I didn’t feel it. There was just a sadness of times changed, although the beauty of the river is amazing. It was time to move on with the next stop being the land where my mum and siblings spent their early childhood – Black Rocks, Salisbury Beach Reservation. My mum and aunt, mum’s twin, talked of their childhood home a lot before they passed. I try to get down once a year around their birthday to visit and to feel them.

The river views are soothing to the soul

There’s something in my soul searching – for some kind of connection to family, to heritage, for roots. Maybe it is all about love; love of parents for children. Is it because I can’t feel the love any longer and I’m trying to get it back? Whatever it is, I know this archeological dig into my past will eventually bring relief and better understanding. 

A Return to Childhood Part I

My sister-by-different-parents-best-friend, Gail’s father recently passed away and with his leaving came the realization that every adult I knew as a kid is now gone. What a strange feeling. We are truly the adults now and into our crone years. I’m not even sure how to describe it; definitely a door closed on the past, but there’s also an emptiness.

I’ve been thinking about childhood and wanting to go back to rediscover things I’d forgotten as a part of learning to let go and live wholeheartedly. With Gail’s dad’s passing, this felt like a great opportunity to explore, discover, and really say goodbye to the past.

And who better to share this experience with but Gail! We talked it over and rented an Airbnb at Hampton Beach. We only live about a couple hours apart, but we seldom see each other these days. We looked forward to spending time together, telling old stories, and visiting our old homes. It’s one thing to discuss the past, but to actually visit the old homesteads would add another dimension to the adventure.

We met on an early June afternoon. The day was sunny, but the wind made it a little chilly. We settled into our cute little apartment and after lunch in Seabrook, we returned to Hampton Beach for a little souvenir shopping and ocean watching. Later we changed into our night clothes, relaxed on the two couches planning the next day’s trip, and talking about life.

The next morning, we were up in time for the sunrise. I trudged quietly behind Gail, feet sinking into the soft sand, my head bent watching for trip hazards. We followed the narrow path up a tall sand dune, a dark orange glowing over the tops of the waving dune grasses. The path opened into a sandy hollow at a crossroad between the taller tops of the dunes with other paths, one from another road and two towards the beach.

The sun, now a glorious brilliant yellow surrounded by shades of orange streaks with blue-gray sky higher above greeted us. The huge round ball sat on the horizon above the Isles of Shoals. We stood mesmerized, then took photos.

I pulled my eyes away from the sun. It was nearing low tide creating a huge, wide expanse of beach which stretched lengthwise towards Boar’s Head to the left and the jetty to the right. The entire horizon on either side of the sun was topped with orange, darker along the horizon itself and lighter above looking to the north and in softer shades to the south.

Do we take the straight across path which would take us toward the main part of Hampton Beach or the right path towards the jetty? Me, I chose rocks over the more developed, commercial areas, and we made our way down a steep incline between the dunes. The wind was still blowing, but not quite as bad as the day before. Still, we had to keep pulling hair away from our eyes. Wow, I forgot how much I loved walking the beach at sunrise!

The jetty looked so far away and I’m not good at walking these days. I wasn’t sure I could make it. We chose to walk the high tide mark. I took my time and picked up rocks to make a rock garden back home. Little plovers ran along the beach in front of us and the seagulls looked huge compared to the small birds.

Sometimes we’d make comments to each other, but mostly we walked in silence, each lost in our own musings. And all the while, the waves crashed onto the shore and rolled up the sand in a soothing, rhythmic, deep whhoooshh.

My wanderings slowed as I not only stuffed my pockets with interesting rocks, but I let myself get caught up in patterns in the sand made by the outgoing tide. I took way too many photos, but I can’t help it. It didn’t take much to catch my attention. I finally made it to the jetty and was rewarded by finding three sand dollars.

With my pockets heavy, it was even harder walking in the soft sand back up over the sand dune on the return. We rested up a bit and chatted about the next part of our trip down memory lane – a visit to Salisbury Beach Reservation, Salisbury, Mass., where my mum spent the early years of her life on the banks of the Merrimack River.

What memories and emotions will stir? Stay tuned.

Taking Time for Mental Breaks

Saturday and Sunday, March 30 and 31, 2019

Learning to live wholeheartedly teaches me something almost every day. It’s a vigilance to remain true to my heart and soul in daily living and to not get caught up in all the drama and hype. Sometimes the little lessons are things I already knew but either forgot or just let it go. Other times it’s putting things in a different context (or words) to help me understand better. They’re all golden nuggets in my quest for wholehearted living.

The Creativity Muse had me in her strong grip Friday morning. I finished editing the poem I’d written the night before and blogged, but she still had a hold on me. I so wanted to keep going and let that creative fire just burn, but Fridays and Saturdays are my busy newspaper work days. I had to dampen the flames and buckle down so I could meet deadline.

Yesterday’s morning writing had me coming up with another Dear Divine Presence Letter (DPL). These are little revelations/lessons I learn and like to share. Sometimes the message has to rattle my brain numerous times before the light bulb flashes on and I get it. For instance, I know how important it is to take breaks, but then I’ll still sit for hours to try to push to get the job done. Again a message came about the need to get up and move.

571. Dear Divine Presence, Thank-you for reminding me the importance of taking breaks. When I try to get all my work done in one sitting, I get overstressed, ornery, and make mistakes. I need to get away from the table, move around, and do something constructive or creative – even if it’s just to play with the kitties or water the plants. Just five or ten minutes can be refreshing, clear my head, and help me feel better. Light and Love, Sasha.

I often talk about treasure hunts and how I strive to find beauty every day no matter where I am. I’ll post photos and share ideas and tips. Someone took my idea of a treasure hunt as a daily quest and to make a game out of it. I decided to make this to DPL. (As you can see, I’ve been writing these for over a year.)

572. Dear Divine Presence, Thank-you for showing me to look at each day as a treasure hunt. The treasure doesn’t have to be a big chunk of gold, but something simple. It can be a tiny nugget like being intrigued by a leaf on the ground or noticing a pretty flower. It can be realizing something good or learning something about life. It can be something inspiring someone says, or we read. What if we saw the good and beautiful around us as treasures? How many treasures can I find today? I’m on the hunt! Light and Love, Sasha.

No, I'm not going to chase you up the tree!

I found time in the afternoon to sneak in a little fresh air. Neighbor-kitty, Leo joined me. He loves it when I’m outside with him. He posed for photos, then took off down the walkway looking behind to see if I was giving chase. Around the corner of the house he went and up a tree. I managed to get a couple photos. He makes me laugh. And I found gold in the antics of a cat!

The chickens from across the street came over and Leo went into stalk mode. They weren’t intimidated by him at all, and when the big rooster flapped his wings at the orange boy, Leo hid behind a tree and continued his watch. He came with me when I went back in the house.

This morning, I’m amazed at how much snow melts overnight. Most of the ice bridges across the brook are gone and the ones left are looking unstable. The water gushes under them and splashes against anything in its path. In between my music, I can hear the roaring as the water slams against rocks, eats at the ice, and catches in swirls in side pools along the banks and tree roots.

Out front, the snow has receded farther. More of the shrubs are revealed and ground cover near the walkway are clear of snow but filled with old leaves, sand, and pine needles. The azaleas in front of the house are still flattened with show. The bugleweed and hens and chickens are showing color, and a couple of wild viola, which hadn’t totally died back, are waking up. My mind is already making a list of things to do to create even more beauty out here.

Part of me is eager to get out and start raking, but it’s not quite time, yet. It’s just the end of March and there’s always the possibility for April snowstorms. Plus, gardening takes me away from my art which can be a huge dilemma. I have to find time to write and paint or I get ornery and depressed. But I love being out in the flower garden, too, so I have to find a balance between inside work and outside work.

What's under is almost as interesting as what's on top

I couldn’t wait for afternoon. After standing on the front porch in my bare feet, I put on sneakers and go out for a few photos. I stop to pull a few invasive horsetail weeds along the walkway. I take photos of a few leaves stuck in a section of plowed up dirty snow from the driveway. They’re like little pieces of art hanging on a wall. 

I look for signs of life on the lilacs. They were originally right in front of the house and I moved them. They’re not in a good spot, although I know it can take lilacs three years or so to recover from serious pruning or moving.

I pull a couple more horsetails while heading out back. The breeze coming off the brook makes it a little chillier. There’s still too much ice between the bottom of the steps and the brook. I can’t safely get down there, yet … maybe this afternoon or tomorrow.  

I climb the steps to the deck and wander its length taking photos. I can’t help it. It’s mesmerizing and the roar is hypnotizing. If it was warmer, I’d get out a chair and do my writing out there.

Ah, my little piece of paradise filled with treasures. I have a gold mine!

Love Is

I asked for help in understanding God-Love. I needed to find my own definition; to differentiate what I normally think of love from the all-encompassing God-Love.

It was a challenging internal debate. When I first think of love, it’s more like a love of, and there are various degrees and levels to how much love is felt. I think of lover/spouse (which I don’t have, ha-ha), children, other family members, friends, and general things I love. But that also means there are people and things I don’t love. So, the moment I put “me,” or rather the ego, into love, it targets or leaves out certain people or things.

And I am also reminded of the time I was practicing projecting love to all around me and the next thing I knew, I had someone else’s husband calling me. That wasn’t the kind of vibe I intended to be projecting and made me fear of ever doing it again.

So, how can I understand this God-Love? This morning answers came.

There is a difference between love of someone or something and the Love that comes from God/The Divine/The Universe (and when I think of this latter type of Love, I see it all capitalized, whereas as “love of” is lower cased.

“Love of” is a human condition filled with emotions, opinions, and beliefs. It’s sometimes dictated by society, the church, family – it’s what we’ve been taught love is supposed to be. And I can’t understand or get why and how I “have to” love people who aren’t nice (to put it mildly). I don’t want to love those who choose mean lives. (I can feel sorry for them, but I don’t want to love them.)

God-Love is impersonal and encompasses all that is. It doesn’t take sides. It doesn’t target one thing or person over another. God-Love has no personal thoughts. God-Love just IS!

So, what does this mean to me right now? I’ll have to let it percolate and make it part of my practice of peace and light. Now I can say Peace, Light, and Love and feel at as Universal and Divine.

569. Dear Divine Presence, Thank-you for showing me the difference between the human condition of love and God-Love. I AM now willing to embrace God-Love, that all-encompassing Love that is not swayed by personal beliefs, desires, or emotions. Love and Success, Sasha. 

Another Lesson in Changing What I Think

Living wholeheartedly means paying attention when stress builds up and making adjustments. Sometimes this issue has to knock on the door a few times to get my attention.

For a while I’ve been going on about interruptions to my morning routine. I keep telling myself to go with the flow, but I feel it’s taking longer and longer to get the routine done. I feel the morning passes too fast and I feel guilty for not sitting down to write sooner.

But there’s also been a niggling in my mind. What does it matter if I stick to a strict routine? It’s not like I have to go anywhere. I work from home and outside of the weekly deadline for the newspaper, there are no time constraints, and deviating from my routine doesn’t mean I still won’t do regular morning duties.

Dr. Wayne Dyer always says to change how you think, and once more the lesson comes home. A simple word change can make a big difference – or change what the word means to me.

Routine, for example, doesn’t necessarily mean following steps 1, 2, 3 in exact order, which was what I’ve been trying to do. Then, if I did something else between two and three, I’d feel bad because it would take longer to sit down with my coffee.

Maybe I could think of routine as simply “doing what I do in the morning in however long it takes.” Who said if I get up at 4:50 a.m., I need to be sitting at the table writing by 6:30? Why did I think morning routine was only certain steps? The only person I have to answer to is myself.

It’s important to note stressors and find ways to bring peace to your wellbeing. A simple change in how you think can make a big difference. Sometimes it’s changing one word; finding a word that has more meaning for you.

568. Dear Divine Presence, Thank you for showing me I need to change my thinking about the interruptions in my morning routine. Instead of seeing interruptions, just go with the flow of the moment. I do so during the day … after my morning routine ... why should I think the morning has to be a strict routine? Perhaps it’s time to give up the concept of a morning routine and just do what I do. I’ll still do those normal routine steps, but I now accept that I may do other things, too. And that’s OK.

Being Can Help with Depression

"Summer River" pastel on BF Rives print paper

567. Dear Divine Presence, Thank you for reminding me how doing a little bit of art work, by being creative can change my whole demeanor when I’m feeling down in the dumps. Thank you for showing up even if I forget to ask for help. Love and Success, Sasha.

Art and Seeing God/The Divine in New Light

My biggest, latest revelation came from a section in “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield, when he said to "Make your work an offering to God." The spirits are around us all the time and want to help. He even said things like, "Do you think the muse was whispering in Beethoven's ear?" 

It wasn’t a light bulb that flickered on, but an entire floodlight lit up my mind! I know I receive thoughts and messages from some higher beingness. Doesn't this fall into some of what I say when I write poetry? How my hand just moves when I pick up the pastel? And if the muses and spirits are working with/through us, why AREN'T we offering our work to The Divine?

In my mind, I'm toying with saying God or Divine. There was a long time when I couldn’t even think God and not feel the pressures of the man-controlled Christian church – I’m getting better because I no longer feel God as that manmade construct but as a total loving oneness encompassing the universe.

When I was doing my gratitude prayers the other night and running through the list of (only some) the spirits and angels and more, I thought: Is that why "they" came up with a one God? Because there are too many spirits, gods and goddesses, angels, muses, or whomever in the universe? How do we pray to them all, and if we leave some out, is that a blasphemy? Are we praying to the right one at the right time? How can we give homage to them all? By saying, “God” or “Spirit” or “The Divine” or “Universe” or “Beloved” or whatever, holds meaning in the moment. Or do we take a line from Shakespeare, “A rose by any other name …”

One message has been coming up for years and has been said in various ways. Maybe the most famous was in the movie “Field of Dreams” with Kevin Costner, “Build it and they will come.” Many writers and artists have their own version, but it’s simply just sitting at our desks or standing at the easels and doing our work, following our hearts, and letting ourselves fall onto the page or canvas.

Sometimes, something special happens when we enter that space; when we open our minds to our work/art; when we set everything else aside for the moment and forget to be analytical. Something seemingly outside ourselves slips in and melds with us to fall out onto the page or canvas. It can feel like it comes from outside us, but it’s also inside us. Some call it Muse, some say it’s Divine Presence or God. (And there are some who even know a name for that presence. I’m not one of them, ha-ha, and that’s OK.)

I’ve written often about the Muse; how and when she comes, and if I don’t pay immediate attention, she’ll go away until another day. But, after all these years, and even though I pray, it never occurred to me to ask for help the minute I sit down to work or stand at the easel. I’m usually just grateful if/when she arrives. (I usually feel it as a she.)

So now, besides offering my work to God, I am more consciously invoking helpers when I work. And, as my favorite poet, David Whyte, said, “If you pay attention to the world, the world will pay attention to you.” If we pay attention to receiving help and guidance from the universe, doesn’t it stand to reason we’ll receive it? “Ask, and you shall receive?” (Just remember what we receive might not be exactly what we ask for.)

Today’s thoughts coming through included: It's interesting that when we move away from what the church/man says about God, the more present He or spirits actually seem to be. When we get away from feeling we have to fall on our knees and beg for mercy, the more help we get from the universe just by simply asking or "showing up to do our work." The more we learn to work WITH the Divine, the more it works with us. 

Perhaps it wasn't that God made man in His image, but man made God in the image of himself. A way to control ... And anyway, if God made man in His image, how did it come to be that some men were better than others? From what I always understood, "in his image" never said anything about color or race or gender.

But back to: Do my work as an offering to God. How powerful is that! Whether it's writing, poetry, or painting ... so, if I'm thinking of doing the work as an offering, will that not also call in the muses, angels, spirits, or whomever wants to help in these endeavors? After all, it is all related.

I look around at my pictures on the wall and when I think "offerings to God," tears fill my eyes. It makes my pictures even more beautiful. And when God finds them new homes, a piece of Him will go with the pictures blessing the new homes. It makes me love my work even more! And my books and poetry ... offerings to God. And I am filled with such LOVE.