Author: Jean

I recently had a Facebook status that read; “Great mom moment. Tuesday afternoon, Mason, who is 16, comes home from school and says with a big smile, “Mom, hey you know you are my BFFL.” I said, “Isn’t that best friend for life?”. He smiled again and said, “Yup.” Made my year.

I received heaps of likes and lots of nice comments on that status. I suggested that maybe I should expand it to a blog post, so here I am.

I was poised to write a testimonial about the exchange, and wax lyrical about this great moment in momdom, blah, blah, blah…..and then it occurred to me that I needed some follow up and clarification first, so I went back to the source, Mason, my 16 year old son.

I asked him, “Remember when you came home and told me that I am your BFFL?”
He said, “Yeah…”
I said, “Did you mean it?”
Then his reply. First it sank my ship a bit, but as I considered it, I loved it, I loved it so much!
He said, “Mom, I was kind of joking you know. I would rather hang out with my friends, but I like that when I come home from school that you are here. You make good food, and you make home, homey.”

I love this, because, as I thought about it, it is really a good thing that I am not Mason’s, or any of my kid’s BFFL. The relationship between a parent and child should not be the same as the relationship between a child and their peer circle. As his mother I am responsible for nurturing him, providing him a safe haven, giving him support, I also provide structure, guidance, and discipline. I have to hold some specific boundaries as a mother that can’t get tangled up in trying to be a friend.

Mason has ADD and so he has struggled for years to stay focused and get tasks done in school. This is coupled with his high intelligence and occasional attitude of superiority.A typical scenario at home with Mason goes something like this; “Why do you have three zeros in English class?”, his usual responses are; ” I don’t know.”, “The assignment was boring and stupid.” or “I lost it.”.

Sometimes these exchanges escalate to raised voices and often include Mason saying, “I hate you!”, and then stomping off and slamming a door. Dealing with his ADD and his tendency to be anxious, and, at different points in his childhood, sometimes quite explosive and hurting/hurtful has been challenging on every level.

I have not always dealt with these issues, in heated moments, the way I would like to. I have lost my cool, I have yelled, I have cried, I have thrown my hands up in despair, I have felt like giving up, but I never have. I have never given up. I love Mason, and his sisters without fail. I tell my kids I love them every day, on the good days, the bad days, the ugly days.

I have gotten help. It does take a village, and sometimes mom (me) is not the best person for the job. Mason currently has an academic coach, a psychologist, a math tutor, a kung fu teacher, plus his school staff, who hear from me on a very regular basis. I have no desire to try to be “super” mom, singlehandedly running this whole show. No, kids need support from diverse sources and each kid is unique. I think the key is to see them, to pay close attention to who they are, and then also see the ways to help them in their becoming.

My role is mom, and I am dedicated, consistent, relentless in my love and care. I am not, however, interested in dictating to them “who” they should be. I am here to love them no matter who they choose to become. Stephen and I have not force fed anything to our kids about their unique identities. We encourage them to try different things, we support them in those explorations, whether it is music, sports, art, science, anything. We want them to seek out their passions and find things that light them up and bring them a sense of joy in self. I want them to know they have a right to be exactly who they feel called to be, and that family is a given, a rock, a sure thing. I am also here to show them what is right and wrong, to set limits and teach lessons about responsibility and accountability, which means I am not, can’t be, a friend, in the strict sense of the word.

We mothers are so much more than friends to our children. We are called to a most sacred vocation. We are the guardians of precious innocents, charged with their safety and shelter. We are trusted guides, a light always on, reliable, steadfast, fierce protectors, boundary holders, torch bearers, nurturers and disciplinarians, most of all keepers of love in the family. We are also human and we won’t do it perfectly, not even close, but it is the love that counts. It is the love that lasts. Not all who give birth will be true mothers, and there are many who will be mothers in their own right, creating bonds beyond blood, in a call to service and a larger kinship.

I am grateful that my son, at 16 years of age, feels he can kid around with me, tell me the honest truth when asked, most of all, I am so glad to be his mom and make his home homey. I am thankful for this family, we are here for each other, we love each other, no matter what may come.

I am not his BFFL, best friend for life. I am his mom for life, that is all I hoped to be.

 Running is part of my physical, mental,and emotional health regimen. I have certain activities and practices that make up my self realized mind, body, soul, life prescription for healing, feeling, awakening, and evolving. These are the things that keep me on the path of being alive in life, instead of living a half life, a numb life, a forgotten life, a caged life. Running cracks me open and sets me free.

There are mornings when I NEED to run, but depression and anxiety do their damnedest to upset my flow. They tell me to just leave it, no use, curl up in a ball and hide, go back to bed, give up, stagnate, fester.

I had a morning like that today. I could feel in my bones the deep calling for my movement medicine, but it seemed lost, unavailable, I resisted its call, depression and deflation had a grip.

My husband got a read on me and insisted. “GO for YOUR RUN!”
I pouted around it, felt the pull of that other voice, “Why bother?”
I put my running shoes on, laced up, plodding out the door.
I committed to a short run. The long run was more than I could consider today.
Sometimes it is like that. Start with one step. It is something. Just to start, to change the momentum
begins in the lacing of shoes, the plodding out the door, the shift begins with the intention, the shaking off
of that lying voice that says, “Why bother?”.

I ran the short run.

In the short run I persisted, I met struggle. The first five minutes, step, struggle, breathe, step, struggle, breathe, repeat.

In the short run I let feeling have its time and space. I met it in the moment. I acknowledged what I felt
and knew I could be with it, all of it.

My running partners showed up each in turn; fatigue, frustration, fear, doubt, anger, hopefulness, courage, lightness, strength, fortitude, joy, freedom. The slow pass of one to the other, all of them needing that run. All of them needing that movement of energy, to be awake, felt, seen.

In the short run I drank in the air, danced with the earth, met the day, heard the birds, felt the wind, connected to flow, returned to nature, that true nature living in me. My true nature where nothing needs to be hidden, fixed, exiled or denied.

In the short run I shook myself awake. Now with the fog cleared,the long run looks amazing.

   the pivotal center
   axis of expansion
      gathering in
  hold strong and stay
  deeply connected
  bonded to the place
  struck hard deep note
          stillness
  integrated clarity awakens
    quietly in the space
        of inaction
  stretching out its arms
        to eternity
   witnessing, watching
   the blast of creation
   birthing galaxies
   celestial dancers
   tumbling and twirling
   heavens and planets
   black holes and stars
   light and darkness
   birth and death
   you and me
   all the creatures
   sky, land and sea
   spun out from
   the exhale of God
   like wishes blown
   from the center
     of a heart
 beating and breathing
  going out and out
  returning to center
     God inhales
  beginning again
   
 

Stream of consciousness, inspired by starfish.

This is a painting I did resulting from a class I enrolled in online called “Visual Quest”, led by an amazing shamanic teacher named Pixie Lighthorse.

I am in no way trained, or naturally skilled, in the realm of painting. I am, however, a creative being (as we all are), who is willing to explore foreign terrain , and to dig into new ground. I am curious, and I am a seeker. Those two things have resulted in a meandering kind of life. I look around, see what shows up, or what I seem drawn toward, and I kick it around . I start scraping the surface of things, see what is revealed and how it touches me. Some things stick, others are brief visitors, while some come and go in cycles and seasons.

I have become most intensely interested with all things spiritual, mystical, and miraculous. Magic. Not that hocus-pocus, sleight of hand kind though. Magic, as in experiences or phenomenon beyond normal understanding, the seemingly unexplainable.

I used to be a staunch skeptic in some respects. Anything approaching being spiritual, or connected to divinity, in any way, shape, or form felt alien and unreasonable. Miracles, or mystical occurrences were not even a consideration in my view of reality.

In my quest for healing I landed on a yogic path. The yoga I practice is deeply spiritual in nature, a way of living and being. My skeptical, jaded, wounded self has gone through intense periods of doubt, questioning and resistance, but once I encountered this path it became clear, it had my name on it, like it or not. Maybe that doesn’t seem like magic, or a miracle, but from the vantage point of this moment, from where I am sitting, I know that it is.

Since embarking on this yoga journey, I have become more and more open. I have discovered buried pieces of myself. I trust my intuition, I follow it with deep faithfulness. I am expanding, evolving, and often, when I least expect it, more miracles and magic arrive. Sometimes my skeptic gets her nose into something and puts her two disbelieving cents in, and I thank her for her service. She keeps me grounded and level. An essential part of a spiritually based seeking of truth is to question everything. It is useful to be in harmony with both the mystical and the pragmatic.

I have directly experienced what I call miracles and magic many times now, this painting being one example.

I signed up for this shamanic painting course from that place of playful curiosity, and also from a desire to explore painting as a creative expression; through my hands, in shape and color, to source my soul and let it spill onto the canvas, without concern for technique or attachment to ideas of what constitutes “good” art.

The course began with some introductory work on shamanism, background on animal guides and how to connect to them, as well as some guided journey work, think led visualization to meet these guides and receive their messages. If your skeptical side is already tapping her toe and rolling her eyes…yeah I know, been there, felt that. For the sake of my story, just go with a bit of suspension of disbelief here. Thanks.  At any rate, I had already done a few shamanic courses and found them to be very grounding actually, as well as deeply moving and transformational. You never know how powerfully something will impact and change you unless you give it an open minded try.

When the painting instruction began though, I started bumping up against the edge of my comfort zone. I have some old stories about my ability, or lack thereof, as an artist. I took a breath and followed the preliminary steps, and as they were presented with such kindness and grace, I was able to loosen around the fear and commit to my creative process.

Then came the part where Pixie explained, how after putting preliminary layers of color down through intuition and feeling, I would pause to observe the canvas and my animal guides would somehow begin to appear to me. These guides would just magically step forward, active participants, co-creating my painting with me. Now these are not the particular words she used, but my interpretation, how I heard it. My inner skeptic practically guffawed in cynical hysteria at this. I thought, “Sure, all these arty artists will have veritable safaris of beautifully rendered animal totems blossoming exquisitely from their brushes, but no way that could possibly happen to me!”

I forged ahead nonetheless, curiosity is my stronger inclination, thank goodness! I applied paint and set it aside for awhile. Then fumbling for faith, I returned to it a day later to give it a look. My skeptic was on alert, and in her defense, she was there to protect my fragile ego from a potentially injurious disappointment, and a deepening of the gash of insecurity I have been carrying around about art. I took out the canvas and looked at it once, twice, rotated it to each side, scrutinizing it hopefully, and then I saw an outline of a bird head, nothing fancy, but definitively a shape, a form, emerging from those swirls of color! I roughly painted it in, and then a whale shape was there, clear as day, all I had to do was follow the outline with my brush. I became totally taken, delighted, awestruck. Over the next couple of days, I painted and looked, and I saw more and more, a dolphin, a heart, a coyote. I was left joyfully astounded by the whole experience. I truly feel these images came forth from source, from a larger intelligence, one that is both within me and yet beyond me. Mystical and magical, but in my direct experience also concrete, very real.

I call this, my first shamanic painting, “Proof of Magic”. It figures as an important piece of evidence, among many, that continue to anchor me on my path, my quest for truth, my seeking by the light of faith, guiding me through doubt and fear. I have come so far and transformed so much, by way of and by witnessing  each miracle, whether small or profound, by my willingness to consider, and my capacity to expand my ideas of what is real and possible. Anything can happen. I learn this again and again.

Maybe you believe this is proof of magic, or maybe not. My intention is not to convince of you of anything, or to force my evidence upon you, but to invite you to look at the canvases that are in front of you, the events and experiences that find you, the colors and shapes of your life. Maybe if you look at them at a new angle, with curiosity and a spark of faith, you will see magic and mystery at work. Who knows what you will discover, if you get your brave on and take a chance, try something new or revisit the familiar. Why not delve into the unknown wilderness of what calls your name? Get curious, be a seeker, you are guaranteed to discover great wonders in you.

If you are interested in the fabulous and deeply sacred work of Pixie Lighthorse you can find her at www.pixiecampbell.com. I highly recommend.

life is slippery
any grip or firm footing
is a momentary phantom

all is waves and shifting
turbulence and cadence
expanding, contracting

i once thought it all
was so slow
i tapped in impatience
my foot
restless drumming
a march forward
i pushed into it
thirsty for the next thing

then yesterday i
was at a touch pool
with a little boy
squealing with laughter
we reached for the fish
it was slippery
soft and elusive beneath our fingers

when i looked up
that boy was almost a man
reaching into the water
elusive still
the fish sliding under his fingers
the same joyful smile

life is slippery
like socks on our wood floor
with the songs we love
on so loud
windows rattle
and we are
jumping and twirling
slip sliding away

my girls have new moves now
i try them on
but i am pretty old school
they smile anyway
less like girls
their moves and smiles
hints of women
the same joyful dance

life is slippery
i sometimes get panicked
trying to find a grip or firm footing
but it is how it must be
and as it flows
if i let go
i find it all so beautiful

one thing i know about light
it returns
even as darkness falls
it is giving way to light
they need each other
embraced and entwined
the chemistry between them
the art of light and shadow
a lovers play of transformation
painting grace across walls
mountains and seas
beautiful intelligence
in each of us
delighting through days
dreams of the night
what comes and what goes
and yet never ending
light is as love is
and so we must be
not broken or lost
dreaming now
light is on the way

My heart is troubled today. My heart is broken today. I feel such grief and despair for this world. I mourn the loss of innocents, children have been killed, massacred with malice. The brutality of it has shaken me right off my foundation. In any moment this day, I suddenly find I am in tears. I am in suffering, and I can’t imagine the suffering of those for whom my heart breaks today. I am here feeling it, touching into it, being with it. Those mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, communities and a country that must be collapsing under the weight of such grief don’t know how intensely I pray for them today. I wish I could let them know. I care about them. I send them love.

I felt this way two years ago as well, when the tragedy at Sandy Hook happened. I grieved, I prayed, I asked God “Why?”. I searched for a way to come to peace. Most everyone around me was in that space with me. I felt like my family and friends, my communities were there with me. We shared our thoughts and feelings, we gave support to those immediately impacted by such a devastating loss. We gave it the time and attention it deserved. We hoped it would not happen again.

This current tragedy is striking me differently. 135 children have been killed in their school in Peshawar, Pakistan by the Taliban. I am still reeling in shock, and yet, it seems the better part of those in my communities have moved on. I wonder if that is true. Maybe people are tongue tied or so at a loss that there are no words. I wonder, because when Sandy Hook happened there was an outpouring that continued for many weeks, months, a sustained process. As it should have been.

Today I had to click over to “World News” to find the story about these 135 slaughtered children. It would seem that even as they are still being buried we have moved on to more important things. Maybe that is it. These children are from a distant country, a place far removed, a different culture, religion, a different color, and so not as close to our hearts or our lives. We may not ever know their names and faces. We don’t know where to send our flowers or postcards. One thing I know is awareness, prayer and directed energy can have a profound impact, but that requires being engaged and in intention.

I don’t perceive a lot of awareness, engagement or intention.

My Facebook feed barely registered this as a blip, a fleeting point of focus. Is Facebook a reliable source of measuring people’s concern? Maybe not, but when Robin Williams died my feed was lit up for weeks, endless posts and quotes, clips and heartfelt sadness. I felt that too. I felt his loss with great heaviness in my heart.

My heart is sailing on troubled water again, but this time I don’t feel like there are many ships journeying with me, at least not ships from my fleet. I will be okay if I am sailing here alone. I felt it was worth it for me to step forward and say that I am still heartbroken over here. I am not ready to move on or passed this. I need to be with this for awhile.

I hope my continued prayers and sympathies are carried on the waves, and land where they are needed. I hope that healing happens. I wish for peace in myself, in each of us, and for this world. I know that even when it seems dark the light lives on.

Thanks for listening. I love you.

sweet child
not mine
but how i love you
as i love my own breath
my own innocent body
the children i have cradled
the ones who i named
i don’t know your name
but i placed you in one instant
in a box of light
i hold you still
upon this page
you won’t know that eyes
receive you here
and at least one heart
hopes for you
and the millions
the millions of tiny miracles
a world befitting your beauty
if i could
i would place it
in a box of light
and gather this family
to open it
together

The beauty of children is universal. No matter where I travel, across countries and cultures, children are pure light, pure joy. The world we live in is often harsh, cruel and violent, and children are all too often at its mercy. Today 130 children were killed in a terrorist act in Pakistan. My heart is utterly broken. We are one family. All the children are our children. No child anywhere on this planet should die in such a way. I feel powerless in the face of it. What can I do?

 What I can do is be a force of love in my life. I can not change the world, but I can add to the energies of compassion and kindness. I can refuse hate. I can meditate, pray, dance, sing, paint, write, all in the name of love and hope, for a better me, making way for my own children and all those around me, knowing that each small act ripples out to make a better world.

Interesting that as I sit with this today I am reading “Stand Still Like the Hummingbird” by Henry Miller and he says, ” We are all advocates of a better world, and we are all the devil’s disciples. We want to change the other fellow, not ourselves; we want our children to be better than us, but do nothing to make ourselves more worthy of our children.”

Let’s make ourselves more worthy of these beautiful children. Love is the way.

there are too many threads
pulling on me
many roads and small paths
and the wilderness as well
i fear choosing wrongly
thinking somehow i might miss
myself
i might miss my own life
i want to set my bow down
and lie on the bottom of my chariot
escaping this action
again i am reminded
that will not do
i must rise and reach out
step onto the path
any of these that call to me will suffice
there can be no mistake

hold something
like a flower on a garland
take one and all the rest
are coming
pick another one the same
choose the one that fits the fragrance
of your instinct
your signature
you will hold the universe
in your hand