“Just think of it as a temporary necessity,” the physical therapist told me as she wrote out the prescription for my front-wheeled walker. She was responding to my protest of disbelief at being provided with the accoutrements of an ailing, old lady. “That doesn’t fit my conception of myself!” But I could live with the idea of “a temporary necessity.”
Really, isn’t anything we don’t like in life a temporary necessity when we experience it? The temporary can also be a godsend. When my son, Grant, went through immunotherapy for melanoma two years ago, I stumbled across the beauty and perfection of the temporary. Doctors referred to his last-resort treatment as “going through living hell,” and they weren’t wrong. On the list of 20-30 side effects, chemical burns and blood blisters in the nose and mouth were among the more palatable ones. We also grappled with the hidden, insidious ones like depression, anxiety and hallucinations. Only by the process of going through them were we able, eventually, to identify and deal with them. When he was in despair one morning, I had him take an internet survey on depression. I had previously answered the questions the way I thought he would, and our answers matched closely. An inspired idea flowed through me from universal mind: “You know what, Grant? These are side effects of your treatment. While it may seem right now like things will always be this way, this is temporary. It will not last.” He grabbed on to the idea, allowing it to comfort him and lift his spirits. I’ve heard him tell others since that something distressing is only temporary.
“Temporary,” we get. But, “necessity?” Something needed. Hmmmmm. Why would I “need” a walker? Well, the most obvious externally discernable answer is for the painful limp due to my osteoarthritic left hip. “You’re going to need it after your hip replacement surgery, so we may as well just get it now.” It did make walking easier…along with the vicodin! But my image! My self-image does not include me with a walker. I’ve always been vital, healthy…..and…..impatient with slow, old people, whether walking or driving. “Get out of my waayyy!” Oh. Necessity. The necessity of my soul is for the expansion of empathy, love, compassion. The necessity of my soul is to be balanced, both a good giver and a good receiver, able to let in the love and support offered by others.
I’m learning, as I age, that I generate a different response from people. “Do – you – know – how – to – use – a – computer?” a hospital tech asked me, very – slowly. Instead of “Yes,” I thought of replying rapidly, inviting him to discuss with me the pros and cons of local ISPs. People respond to me differently when they see me limp across shopping center parking lots. They open doors, provide carts, offer help, are loving, patient and kind. Role models. And I have the opportunity to practice being a grateful receiver instead of the giver, a more comfortable, familiar role. Being a receiver can trigger feelings of being helpless, powerless, out of control.
A neighbor told me her independently-living, 93-year-old friend asked her, “Why are people always yelling at me?” They think you can’t hear. Why are they speaking so slowly? They think you don’t comprehend. My dear friend, Verna, an internationally-known, well-respected healer who led workshops from Dubai to Australia, howled with indignation when a long hospital stay didn’t allow her to color her hair and she was treated like an incompetent old person.
Who knew a limp and a walker could be such great spiritual teachers? One behavior I’ve altered radically is the way I interact with the truly elderly (over 80) as opposed to the newly elderly (over 60, like me!). At church recently, during greeting time, I crossed the aisle to greet a hunched-over, immobile, truly elderly woman clinging to her walker. I took her hand. I looked her in the eye. I saw her light. I let her see mine. I said, “Good Morning,” greeting her beyond the level of appearance in the place the Sufi poet Rumi referred to by saying, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there.” Beyond the world of appearance and duality (right/wrong), there is a field (the unified field of oneness). I met her there. I truly saw her. “Temporary necessities,” simply put, can be great tools of transformation.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
Homies and the 'Hood
The 'Hood ~ Entrance to the Glenwood community where Terranda's new home is located in the bosque near the Rio Grande Nature Center.
The Crib in the 'Hood ~ Terranda's new home in the bosque.
The 'Hood ~ Sandia Mountains and bosque viewed from street adjacent to Terranda's new home
Homies ~ Canadian Geese
The 'Hood ~ Bosque neighborhood, across the street from Terranda's new home
Homies ~ Salinas Pueblo Indians
The 'Hood ~ Quarai ~ ruins of Spanish church
Homies ~ Salinas Pueblo Indians
The 'Hood ~ Abo Ruins at sunset
Homies ~ Salinas Pueblo Indians
The 'Hood ~ Community Kiva in Plaza at Gran Quarai
Monday, January 30, 2012
Ancient Cities
Abó, Quarai, Gran Quivira – even the names of these ancient pueblo cities evoke a sense of the mysterious unknown. On Saturday, I had the opportunity to visit them with the Unity Explorers on a day-long church outing. The three communities are about sixty miles southeast of Albuquerque on the other side of the Sandia and Manzano Mountains at an elevation of 6400’ (Albuquerque is 5000’ above sea level). Red sandstone walls rise up from scrub brush in the middle of nowhere at Quarai. Part of the Salinas Pueblo Missions National Monument, which preserves the remnants of three ancient Indian villages, these pueblos were major trade centers for centuries prior to the arrival of Spanish explorers 400 years ago. Gran Quivira was established as a national monument in 1909, making it one of the oldest sites in the National Park System.
In the distant past, New Mexico was beneath the ocean. Signs of habitatation extend back 10,000 – 12,000 years, making California’s history seem paltry by comparison. Salt taken from nearby dry salt lakes, named las salinas by the Spanish (sal is salt), was an important commodity traded between the people living in these communities and the Pueblo Indians to the west along the Rio Grande, for cotton and pottery, and the nomadic Plains Indians to the east, for bison meat and hides, crucial for their survival. In 1583, an explorer reported this area had “eleven pueblos with a great many people, over 40,000.” Until recently, I thought Pueblo Indians were a tribe rather than a group of tribes named after their style housing. Now I know “Pueblo” includes the Sandia Pueblo, Isleta Pueblo, Acoma Pueblo, Santa Ana Pueblo and many others with their own individual cultural traditions and languages.
What intrigues me about the Salinas Pueblo people is how we currently find ourselves in the same situation they did when their circumstances forced them to change or perish. The French have a saying, “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.”* “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” I’m also reminded those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it. It is ironic to me to see how the people of the Salinas Pueblo Missions were faced then with the same choices we face today. There’s only one. When we look beneath the surface, we discover how we are the same.
Gran Quivira’s 800-year history is layered and complex. The people lived on the edge of survival, far from other pueblos and in a town with no permanent water source nearby. They learned to adapt to their environment by hollowing out shallow basins in the ground to catch the runoff of sporadic rains to supplement their wells and roof-fed cisterns. They had a flexible diet that included seasonal wild foods such as piñon nuts, yucca, prickly pears, jackrabbits, deer, pronghorns and bison. Salt from the nearby lakes preserved game meat. They cultivated drought-resistant varieties of corn, beans and squash using dryland farming techniques. Historical documents indicate that drought was one of the leading factors in the abandonment of the pueblo in 1672. When the rains stopped falling in the 1660s, the water-poor pueblo was in mortal danger. Famine quickly followed the drought. A mass grave, for 480 people who starved to death in a single winter, was found. The Franciscans transferred tons of grain, beans and livestock from other missions in armed convoys, but bad roads, Apache raiders and sheer distance made it impossible to feed the Salinas missions. Crops failed year after year. In 1670 the people fled to Abó. Theirs was the first pueblo to move. Within seven years, all three communities were abandoned for the still-flowing waters of the Rio Grande south and west of the mountains. In 1669, Friar Juan Bernal wrote, “For three years no crop has been harvested. In the past year, a great many Indians perished of hunger, lying dead along the roads, in the ravines and in their huts.”
So, why did some of these resilient people, who were able to adapt to so many changes, not change soon enough, not move soon enough, to survive? Some did. Their descendents, now living in the Isleta Pueblo, still speak their Tiwa language. Famine from three years of no harvested crops, and they still did not move to neighboring pueblos? These were people who preserved their cultural heritage by establishing hidden kivas, or ceremonial rooms, in their pueblos when the friars changed church policy and vigorously suppressed native religious practices. People who rebuilt their pueblo of concentric circles surrounding the grand kiva with a square-room pueblo atop earlier construction, who adopted cremation over earlier flexed-position burial practices, who evolved from living in partially-underground pit houses, to jacals of woven wicker walls plastered with mud, to above-ground stone pueblos. Their challenges were not so different from ours today. The “Living” section of yesterday’s Albuquerque Journal featured changing climate zone maps showing new cultivation zones for plants due to higher temperatures. The cover story of Discover magazine (December 2011) is “Water Wars: The Coming Battle Over Earth’s Most Precious Resource.”
Change is uncomfortable. Releasing the familiar and known is difficult. Venturing forth into the unknown is challenging, both individually and collectively. Letting go of what no longer works, to discover what does, requires courage. Both historically and currently that proves to be so. That is what we are facing now. Will we survive, thrive, or not? Who will? Will you? The third year of the famine is here.
*Alphonse Karr, Les Guêpes 1849
In the distant past, New Mexico was beneath the ocean. Signs of habitatation extend back 10,000 – 12,000 years, making California’s history seem paltry by comparison. Salt taken from nearby dry salt lakes, named las salinas by the Spanish (sal is salt), was an important commodity traded between the people living in these communities and the Pueblo Indians to the west along the Rio Grande, for cotton and pottery, and the nomadic Plains Indians to the east, for bison meat and hides, crucial for their survival. In 1583, an explorer reported this area had “eleven pueblos with a great many people, over 40,000.” Until recently, I thought Pueblo Indians were a tribe rather than a group of tribes named after their style housing. Now I know “Pueblo” includes the Sandia Pueblo, Isleta Pueblo, Acoma Pueblo, Santa Ana Pueblo and many others with their own individual cultural traditions and languages.
What intrigues me about the Salinas Pueblo people is how we currently find ourselves in the same situation they did when their circumstances forced them to change or perish. The French have a saying, “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.”* “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” I’m also reminded those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it. It is ironic to me to see how the people of the Salinas Pueblo Missions were faced then with the same choices we face today. There’s only one. When we look beneath the surface, we discover how we are the same.
Gran Quivira’s 800-year history is layered and complex. The people lived on the edge of survival, far from other pueblos and in a town with no permanent water source nearby. They learned to adapt to their environment by hollowing out shallow basins in the ground to catch the runoff of sporadic rains to supplement their wells and roof-fed cisterns. They had a flexible diet that included seasonal wild foods such as piñon nuts, yucca, prickly pears, jackrabbits, deer, pronghorns and bison. Salt from the nearby lakes preserved game meat. They cultivated drought-resistant varieties of corn, beans and squash using dryland farming techniques. Historical documents indicate that drought was one of the leading factors in the abandonment of the pueblo in 1672. When the rains stopped falling in the 1660s, the water-poor pueblo was in mortal danger. Famine quickly followed the drought. A mass grave, for 480 people who starved to death in a single winter, was found. The Franciscans transferred tons of grain, beans and livestock from other missions in armed convoys, but bad roads, Apache raiders and sheer distance made it impossible to feed the Salinas missions. Crops failed year after year. In 1670 the people fled to Abó. Theirs was the first pueblo to move. Within seven years, all three communities were abandoned for the still-flowing waters of the Rio Grande south and west of the mountains. In 1669, Friar Juan Bernal wrote, “For three years no crop has been harvested. In the past year, a great many Indians perished of hunger, lying dead along the roads, in the ravines and in their huts.”
So, why did some of these resilient people, who were able to adapt to so many changes, not change soon enough, not move soon enough, to survive? Some did. Their descendents, now living in the Isleta Pueblo, still speak their Tiwa language. Famine from three years of no harvested crops, and they still did not move to neighboring pueblos? These were people who preserved their cultural heritage by establishing hidden kivas, or ceremonial rooms, in their pueblos when the friars changed church policy and vigorously suppressed native religious practices. People who rebuilt their pueblo of concentric circles surrounding the grand kiva with a square-room pueblo atop earlier construction, who adopted cremation over earlier flexed-position burial practices, who evolved from living in partially-underground pit houses, to jacals of woven wicker walls plastered with mud, to above-ground stone pueblos. Their challenges were not so different from ours today. The “Living” section of yesterday’s Albuquerque Journal featured changing climate zone maps showing new cultivation zones for plants due to higher temperatures. The cover story of Discover magazine (December 2011) is “Water Wars: The Coming Battle Over Earth’s Most Precious Resource.”
Change is uncomfortable. Releasing the familiar and known is difficult. Venturing forth into the unknown is challenging, both individually and collectively. Letting go of what no longer works, to discover what does, requires courage. Both historically and currently that proves to be so. That is what we are facing now. Will we survive, thrive, or not? Who will? Will you? The third year of the famine is here.
*Alphonse Karr, Les Guêpes 1849
Monday, January 23, 2012
Gentle Spirit
For someone who doesn’t particularly like shopping, I’ve certainly been doing a lot of it. Shopping for a new auto mechanic. Shopping for a new church. Shopping for a new primary care physician. Shopping for a new place to live, then shopping for furniture and household goods. I’m pleased with the process and the results. A new neighbor I met today said to me, as I was schlepping household goods into my bosque home, “You are lucky. This in the best place in town.” I have to agree.
Every time I go to church, I feel that way about my new church home too. After visiting six different metaphysical churches, three denominations, I landed at the first one I attended. It was the most warmly welcoming. It is diverse, all-inclusive, non-denominational, active, committed to a global vision and growing. A husband and wife, Rev. Ross and Rev. Jude, share the ministerial duties. She’s from New Jersey. And you can tell. Bright and funny. Loud. Even though there are two services full of people, she personally called me the week before Christmas to see if I would like to join a group for dinner at a member’s home. She had heard me express how much I appreciated, as a newcomer, having a place to go Thanksgiving Day when the church served 150 people dinner. Her kindness made such a difference, and I made some wonderful friends. Applied spirituality. Daily practice living principles of truth. That’s what I’m up to, and it’s nice to be with others who are too.
Yesterday’s talk, shared with humor, gave practical suggestions about how to practice being love in the world, exactly what I wrote about last week. Jude gave the talk while Ross played the guitar and sang. Those present were deeply impacted. Many were emotionally moved. A simple song capturing the essence of the practice serves as a reminder:
Gentle Spirit flow through me,
Gentle Spirit grow through me,
Gentle Spirit show through me,
Gentle Spirit, no me.
Three situations described the practical application. First, imagining yourself in the 12-item grocery store line behind someone with 19 items, experiencing the natural tendency, not only to count the person’s items, but also to have judgmental thoughts accompanied with an attitude. Each situation presented the opportunity to choose love, to remember, hum or sing the “Gentle Spirit” song quietly to oneself while getting out of the way (“no me”) so only Spirit remains. Second, imagining yourself with your partner, who, while greeting you with “Hi, Honey,” is doing the one thing that irritates you most, that they agreed never to do again, that even the therapist thought was not a good idea. This time the “Gentle Spirit” song might need to be sung through clenched teeth, as Ross so aptly demonstrated. Finally, while getting ready for bed, seeing in the mirror the person who disappointed you most. And it’s time to sing the song to yourself. This is when the Kleenex came out. Jude explained how vulnerable we are when we decide to show up in the world with an open heart committed to the eighteen-inch journey of enlightenment, that from the head to the heart. And we had the chance to experience it. And I really wanted to share this with you.
Every time I go to church, I feel that way about my new church home too. After visiting six different metaphysical churches, three denominations, I landed at the first one I attended. It was the most warmly welcoming. It is diverse, all-inclusive, non-denominational, active, committed to a global vision and growing. A husband and wife, Rev. Ross and Rev. Jude, share the ministerial duties. She’s from New Jersey. And you can tell. Bright and funny. Loud. Even though there are two services full of people, she personally called me the week before Christmas to see if I would like to join a group for dinner at a member’s home. She had heard me express how much I appreciated, as a newcomer, having a place to go Thanksgiving Day when the church served 150 people dinner. Her kindness made such a difference, and I made some wonderful friends. Applied spirituality. Daily practice living principles of truth. That’s what I’m up to, and it’s nice to be with others who are too.
Yesterday’s talk, shared with humor, gave practical suggestions about how to practice being love in the world, exactly what I wrote about last week. Jude gave the talk while Ross played the guitar and sang. Those present were deeply impacted. Many were emotionally moved. A simple song capturing the essence of the practice serves as a reminder:
Gentle Spirit flow through me,
Gentle Spirit grow through me,
Gentle Spirit show through me,
Gentle Spirit, no me.
Three situations described the practical application. First, imagining yourself in the 12-item grocery store line behind someone with 19 items, experiencing the natural tendency, not only to count the person’s items, but also to have judgmental thoughts accompanied with an attitude. Each situation presented the opportunity to choose love, to remember, hum or sing the “Gentle Spirit” song quietly to oneself while getting out of the way (“no me”) so only Spirit remains. Second, imagining yourself with your partner, who, while greeting you with “Hi, Honey,” is doing the one thing that irritates you most, that they agreed never to do again, that even the therapist thought was not a good idea. This time the “Gentle Spirit” song might need to be sung through clenched teeth, as Ross so aptly demonstrated. Finally, while getting ready for bed, seeing in the mirror the person who disappointed you most. And it’s time to sing the song to yourself. This is when the Kleenex came out. Jude explained how vulnerable we are when we decide to show up in the world with an open heart committed to the eighteen-inch journey of enlightenment, that from the head to the heart. And we had the chance to experience it. And I really wanted to share this with you.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Following in Bucky’s Footsteps – The Love Doctor is IN
American Home has been my home-away-from-home this week. I’ve been checking out the queen sleeper sofas there. My curved, eleven-foot-long-twenty-year-old-custom-made sofa went to sofa heaven in Santa Barbara. It is not relocating to Albuquerque, New Mexico. My needs have changed. I need something smaller for my new, one-bedroom, old adobe home. I need a sleeper sofa for versatile living so friends, family and I can Motel 6 on it. I need a sofa firm enough and high enough my aging contemporaries (okay, and I) can easily get up from it. Fortunately, I am hooked up with metaphysical friends, a reference librarian and an interior designer, who can point the way. Like Lucy in Peanuts, the librarian is IN. The designer is IN.
On my last visit to Santa Barbara, I test slept a queen sleeper sofa with an air mattress in the designer’s stunning hacienda next to a fountain courtyard beneath wood-beam ceilings. Heaven. Those five days were closest to the experience of sleeping on my own beloved Tempurpedic. The designer agreed to look up product information for me. The reference librarian has a perfectionist friend with a black belt in shopping who purchased an award-winning sleeper sofa. She would call her. Pointed in the direction of Flexsteel products, I set forth.
January is the perfect month, the librarian informs me, to be shopping for furniture, appliances and white goods. Great. Because I need a washer/dryer too. Sales. Sales. Sales. But prices? I discovered entering a furniture store can be like shopping in an exotic souk or bazaar where everything is negotiable and there are no price tags. I found a sofa I really liked. How much was it? Well, that’s a question with an interesting answer. The sofa was at least four different prices (yes, the same sofa), depending on the day, time, source or person quoting it. It was 15%-20%-30%-40% off in person, online, or in the print ad I picked up in the store. The print ad featured an additional $100-off coupon according to the couple test-sitting sofas next to me. When I asked if the sofa I liked was available as a sleeper, the answer was, yes, for a $400-$700-$1,000 upgrade fee. Change of fabric was also available as an “upgrade.” I began to feel like I was playing the car-buying-shell-game where sale discounts could be clawed back through add-on fees.
American Home did not carry Flexsteel products, but Hilife Furniture a block away did. That was my next stop. There I met Thomas, and, after a remarkable encounter, learned about my “real” appointment for the day. Thomas did not have Flexsteel products on the floor, but he gave me great advice: “Don’t buy anything unless you can do the Goldilocks test on it.” He talked me into looking at another line of sofa beds he did have. He mentioned that his mother had aches and pains and needed a new bed but was too stubborn to consider one. Acknowledging he was Hispanic and a “macho male,” (I bonded with him right then and there!) he told me he’d been unable to convince her to consider a new bed. He even said she didn’t have to buy it from him. He was just concerned about her health. We sat down in a furniture grouping to talk. Knowing family values are really important to most Hispanics, I suggested he say to his mother something like, “It breaks my heart that you are suffering and in pain because you won’t open your mind to the possibility of getting a new bed. You don’t have to buy it from me. I am really just concerned about your physical wellbeing.” Thomas stood up, walked over to me, extended his hand, shook mine and said, “Thank you. I am going to create that conversation with her today.” I was stunned. I didn’t really absorb the impact of our interaction until later.
Contemplating our conversation, I was reminded of Ken Keyes Jr., Buckminster Fuller and Gandhi. In The Hundredth Monkey, Keyes describes monkeys in Japan, living on islands, subsisting on sweet potatoes. One monkey began washing her sweet potato to remove sand before eating it. Soon others were emulating her. Before long, all the monkeys on all the islands were doing the same. The “hundredth monkey” is the tipping point at which behavior changes in the whole. Buckminster Fuller called it “critical mass,” the point at which enough people practice something that everything shifts, the field of consciousness changes, and there is a new paradigm, or way, of doing things. Moment by moment, each day, in each interaction with another human being, I can choose to be the change I want to see in the world, contributing to the critical mass that shifts the consciousness of the planet. The peace doctor is IN. The love doctor is IN – we have the power within us to be our authentic selves with each person we meet. Our smallest daily actions contribute to the creation of critical mass. I don’t have to limit living from my higher self to the Hilife Furniture store. And I don’t have to charge 5 cents when the love doctor is IN.
On my last visit to Santa Barbara, I test slept a queen sleeper sofa with an air mattress in the designer’s stunning hacienda next to a fountain courtyard beneath wood-beam ceilings. Heaven. Those five days were closest to the experience of sleeping on my own beloved Tempurpedic. The designer agreed to look up product information for me. The reference librarian has a perfectionist friend with a black belt in shopping who purchased an award-winning sleeper sofa. She would call her. Pointed in the direction of Flexsteel products, I set forth.
January is the perfect month, the librarian informs me, to be shopping for furniture, appliances and white goods. Great. Because I need a washer/dryer too. Sales. Sales. Sales. But prices? I discovered entering a furniture store can be like shopping in an exotic souk or bazaar where everything is negotiable and there are no price tags. I found a sofa I really liked. How much was it? Well, that’s a question with an interesting answer. The sofa was at least four different prices (yes, the same sofa), depending on the day, time, source or person quoting it. It was 15%-20%-30%-40% off in person, online, or in the print ad I picked up in the store. The print ad featured an additional $100-off coupon according to the couple test-sitting sofas next to me. When I asked if the sofa I liked was available as a sleeper, the answer was, yes, for a $400-$700-$1,000 upgrade fee. Change of fabric was also available as an “upgrade.” I began to feel like I was playing the car-buying-shell-game where sale discounts could be clawed back through add-on fees.
American Home did not carry Flexsteel products, but Hilife Furniture a block away did. That was my next stop. There I met Thomas, and, after a remarkable encounter, learned about my “real” appointment for the day. Thomas did not have Flexsteel products on the floor, but he gave me great advice: “Don’t buy anything unless you can do the Goldilocks test on it.” He talked me into looking at another line of sofa beds he did have. He mentioned that his mother had aches and pains and needed a new bed but was too stubborn to consider one. Acknowledging he was Hispanic and a “macho male,” (I bonded with him right then and there!) he told me he’d been unable to convince her to consider a new bed. He even said she didn’t have to buy it from him. He was just concerned about her health. We sat down in a furniture grouping to talk. Knowing family values are really important to most Hispanics, I suggested he say to his mother something like, “It breaks my heart that you are suffering and in pain because you won’t open your mind to the possibility of getting a new bed. You don’t have to buy it from me. I am really just concerned about your physical wellbeing.” Thomas stood up, walked over to me, extended his hand, shook mine and said, “Thank you. I am going to create that conversation with her today.” I was stunned. I didn’t really absorb the impact of our interaction until later.
Contemplating our conversation, I was reminded of Ken Keyes Jr., Buckminster Fuller and Gandhi. In The Hundredth Monkey, Keyes describes monkeys in Japan, living on islands, subsisting on sweet potatoes. One monkey began washing her sweet potato to remove sand before eating it. Soon others were emulating her. Before long, all the monkeys on all the islands were doing the same. The “hundredth monkey” is the tipping point at which behavior changes in the whole. Buckminster Fuller called it “critical mass,” the point at which enough people practice something that everything shifts, the field of consciousness changes, and there is a new paradigm, or way, of doing things. Moment by moment, each day, in each interaction with another human being, I can choose to be the change I want to see in the world, contributing to the critical mass that shifts the consciousness of the planet. The peace doctor is IN. The love doctor is IN – we have the power within us to be our authentic selves with each person we meet. Our smallest daily actions contribute to the creation of critical mass. I don’t have to limit living from my higher self to the Hilife Furniture store. And I don’t have to charge 5 cents when the love doctor is IN.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Movin’ On Up….to the Bosque
The Universe is conspiring to get me moving again – literally and figuratively, mentally, emotionally and physically, spiritually. Today, I left the orthopedic appointment with a patient education brochure that has the phrase “Returning to Movement” (sometimes the Universe is so subtle!) printed on the front, along with the words hip and replacement. The doctor and I looked at the x-rays together, saw the cartilage between bones is gone, then shared the examination room with the word inevitable. During the next few months, a combination of techniques will be used to ameliorate the condition. He said if it were he or his family member, that’s what he would do.
What a week. It’s been emotional and centered on movement. The same day I received a notice to move in thirty days, I received an email letting me know a rarely-available, single-story, one-bedroom, one-bath, old adobe is for rent in the bosque near the Rio Grande Nature Center. Additionally, a single-story, two-bedroom condo would be coming on the market nearby. It has a long-term, fixed-rate, private-party loan requiring no approval for assumption. With less than 20% down, it would “break even,” or rent for more than the monthly payment - virtually unheard of in California, especially in Santa Barbara. When I stepped in the front door, I knew it would work for me without even seeing the whole house. I felt a sense of expansiveness at the possibility of living in the bosque neighborhood I love, surrounded by nature, near the river. I felt a sense of elation about finally having my own space after a year sharing it and soaked in the aesthetics: high ceilings, skylights, brick floors, kiva fireplace, walled courtyard off the dining area, inside laundry, backyard garden, garage and east-facing master bedroom to greet the rising sun. For more than twenty years, in my last three homes, I’ve had and loved east-facing bedrooms. It’s so great to awake with the coming of light – in every way!
There were just a few minor complications. The owner would sell only if she could remain in the same neighborhood. Her move into the old adobe rental and my close of escrow all had to happen in ten days, by January 15th. The devil’s in the details…inspections? Homeowner association documents? Roof repair estimate? It had never occurred to me I might purchase an investment property I could live in before finding a house, but I opened my mind to the possibility. It was exciting. In discussing the homeowners’ association, it became clear I wasn’t Dorothy, and it wasn’t Kansas anymore. Requesting standard documents to review (for California), I learned there was no association budget. “No budget?” I repeated, mouth dropping and remaining open. No homeowner association minutes for the past year. No minutes? “No, we haven’t met for the past year. We meant to, but everyone just got busy.” Oh. A reviewed reserve analysis was not even on the radar screen. “I think you may have a hard time practicing real estate in New Mexico – things are really different here.” Movement. Movement from the old to the new. Adapt to your surroundings. Let go of your business practices of 33 years. Let go?
Here it seems appropriate to quote my blog post of two weeks ago (“The Invitation of a White Christmas”): "Looking ahead this week to a Burning Bowl Ceremony at the Unity Church, I am considering what I will write down, burn up and release from my life. Previous selections have included 'the past,' or, (eeek!) 'the known.' Caveat lector, be careful what you ask for!! There can be unintended consequences…." One of the things I released in the burning bowl was that which no longer serves me. Yep. That would be about right. California business practices of 33 years do not serve me in New Mexico. Caveat lector applies also to me!
The property manager for the old adobe really liked us. His name is Bravo! (I added the punctuation when I entered him in my cell phone. It matches the gold earring in his left ear. And I’m cheering myself for creating a new home in the bosque). When it became apparent to the condo owner and me that a 10-day escrow was too much too fast and she decided not to move ahead, I submitted an application on the old adobe. Bravo just called to say it’s been accepted. I’ll have a place of my own next weekend. Just no furniture. It’s still in storage in Ventura, CA. Bravo said, when I asked, he would work with the two of us and include a provision in the year’s lease that the condo seller could be a substitute tenant, with owner and manager approval. This is a critical benefit since she will only sell, should she change her mind, if she can stay in the same neighborhood, and this is the first rental in the area in five years. They rent quickly. Bravo’s call, saying he wanted to work with me, came while I was on the phone with a Ventura friend who has been praying for my “right and perfect place to live.” Moving to the bosque is the right thing. I know it. My soul connection with the Rio Grande and surrounding forest will nourish me as I live there.
Blurbs from the Burque
Sign on the roped-off wine section of Trader Joe's yesterday: Whoa Partner! State law prohibits the sale of alcohol before 12 p.m. on Sundays. So you'll have to wait until HIGH NOON to visit our "saloon."
What a week. It’s been emotional and centered on movement. The same day I received a notice to move in thirty days, I received an email letting me know a rarely-available, single-story, one-bedroom, one-bath, old adobe is for rent in the bosque near the Rio Grande Nature Center. Additionally, a single-story, two-bedroom condo would be coming on the market nearby. It has a long-term, fixed-rate, private-party loan requiring no approval for assumption. With less than 20% down, it would “break even,” or rent for more than the monthly payment - virtually unheard of in California, especially in Santa Barbara. When I stepped in the front door, I knew it would work for me without even seeing the whole house. I felt a sense of expansiveness at the possibility of living in the bosque neighborhood I love, surrounded by nature, near the river. I felt a sense of elation about finally having my own space after a year sharing it and soaked in the aesthetics: high ceilings, skylights, brick floors, kiva fireplace, walled courtyard off the dining area, inside laundry, backyard garden, garage and east-facing master bedroom to greet the rising sun. For more than twenty years, in my last three homes, I’ve had and loved east-facing bedrooms. It’s so great to awake with the coming of light – in every way!
There were just a few minor complications. The owner would sell only if she could remain in the same neighborhood. Her move into the old adobe rental and my close of escrow all had to happen in ten days, by January 15th. The devil’s in the details…inspections? Homeowner association documents? Roof repair estimate? It had never occurred to me I might purchase an investment property I could live in before finding a house, but I opened my mind to the possibility. It was exciting. In discussing the homeowners’ association, it became clear I wasn’t Dorothy, and it wasn’t Kansas anymore. Requesting standard documents to review (for California), I learned there was no association budget. “No budget?” I repeated, mouth dropping and remaining open. No homeowner association minutes for the past year. No minutes? “No, we haven’t met for the past year. We meant to, but everyone just got busy.” Oh. A reviewed reserve analysis was not even on the radar screen. “I think you may have a hard time practicing real estate in New Mexico – things are really different here.” Movement. Movement from the old to the new. Adapt to your surroundings. Let go of your business practices of 33 years. Let go?
Here it seems appropriate to quote my blog post of two weeks ago (“The Invitation of a White Christmas”): "Looking ahead this week to a Burning Bowl Ceremony at the Unity Church, I am considering what I will write down, burn up and release from my life. Previous selections have included 'the past,' or, (eeek!) 'the known.' Caveat lector, be careful what you ask for!! There can be unintended consequences…." One of the things I released in the burning bowl was that which no longer serves me. Yep. That would be about right. California business practices of 33 years do not serve me in New Mexico. Caveat lector applies also to me!
The property manager for the old adobe really liked us. His name is Bravo! (I added the punctuation when I entered him in my cell phone. It matches the gold earring in his left ear. And I’m cheering myself for creating a new home in the bosque). When it became apparent to the condo owner and me that a 10-day escrow was too much too fast and she decided not to move ahead, I submitted an application on the old adobe. Bravo just called to say it’s been accepted. I’ll have a place of my own next weekend. Just no furniture. It’s still in storage in Ventura, CA. Bravo said, when I asked, he would work with the two of us and include a provision in the year’s lease that the condo seller could be a substitute tenant, with owner and manager approval. This is a critical benefit since she will only sell, should she change her mind, if she can stay in the same neighborhood, and this is the first rental in the area in five years. They rent quickly. Bravo’s call, saying he wanted to work with me, came while I was on the phone with a Ventura friend who has been praying for my “right and perfect place to live.” Moving to the bosque is the right thing. I know it. My soul connection with the Rio Grande and surrounding forest will nourish me as I live there.
Blurbs from the Burque
Sign on the roped-off wine section of Trader Joe's yesterday: Whoa Partner! State law prohibits the sale of alcohol before 12 p.m. on Sundays. So you'll have to wait until HIGH NOON to visit our "saloon."
Monday, January 2, 2012
Hip Hip Hooray!
“Keep it real,” Spirit meditation-messaged me about writing this week’s blog post. The topic had already become clear – my left hip, not my left foot, but my left hip, so it doesn’t look like a movie will soon follow. Cupping my hand to my left ear, I can hear the groans of disappointment now.
You can read on, dear reader, because I’m not going to complain about limping for a year, the pain, the technical, medical details. The focus of this post is how Spirit supports us, provides for us, and lives by the dictum, “Before you ask, I shall answer.” Did I want to write about this? No. But I am because I know I’m supposed to. I suspect Spirit has some larger purpose in mind – like allowing you and me to watch the perfection with which everything unfolds in real time. I’ve already had a chance to start doing that. I believe it will continue.
Louise Hay, author of You Can Heal Your Life, the most dog-earred, taped-together paperback on my bookshelf, has something to say about the hip in the table of mental equivalents in the back of her book. She conveniently provides a list of old thought patterns, or “mental equivalents,” that brought the condition in question out of the ethers into physical form. She then reveals “new thought patterns” or more supportive beliefs that assist in creating the desired condition. Readers can look up their ailments, alphabetically, from “acne” to “vitiligo,” to see what she has to say and if/how it might apply to them. I have found it very accurate. Of the hip, she states, the hip “carries the body in perfect balance” and is a “major thrust in moving forward.” She further comments that hip problems are related to “fear of going forward in major decisions. Nothing to move forward to.” The New Thought Pattern that supports healing is “Hip Hip Hooray – there is joy in every day. I am in perfect balance. I move forward in life with ease and joy at every age.” Well, that applies. There may have been some unacknowledged fear about moving from California to New Mexico this year to no friends, no family, no home, no job – only what I create. As for being out of balance, that seems to apply as well since the focus for the past two years was my son’s health not work or other areas. I like the idea of “moving forward in life with ease and joy at every age.” I can align with that, claim that, affirm that, create that. That could be an area of supportive new thought for me, especially when I recall a phone conversation this week with my sister-in-law, Shawn, in which we laughed together about the “indignities of old age” we are experiencing, and I wondered aloud which “body part would rot and fall off next.” She’s facing her second cataract surgery, I’ve had two. I’m denying the potential of a hip replacement. . . you get the picture. . . No more medical technicalities. The focus of this post is how Spirit supports us and provides for us before we even ask. Everything we need is already present.
Moving to New Mexico required I change my healthcare plan and find a new physician. Last week, I detailed how Spirit introduced me to the perfect health insurance professional at Jiffy Lube. Synchronicities like that continue.
Obtaining physician recommendations and researching their qualifications online led to appointment phone calls and the discovery that the most desirable, qualified candidates had “closed practices” and were not accepting new patients. I was prompted to check with a neighbor, a very bright University of New Mexico history professor, who holds Presbyterian Hospital and her provider in high regard. When I called for an appointment, I discovered another “closed practice.” The neighbor just happened to have an appointment that week before traveling east for the holidays. She had a track record of getting two friends into the closed practice through the back door. She did the same for me. Since making an appointment for a “closed practice” was outside the protocol of the call center, I decided to go in person. Fortunately, I chose the right wrong day to go in. It was snowing. It was twenty degrees. It was six days before Christmas. The receptionist said there was an available appointment in twenty-five minutes if I could wait. I did. The Nurse Practitioner was focused, compassionate, efficient, and she referred me to “the best orthopedist.” She sent me upstairs for hip x-rays. The large waiting room was empty – my wait was less than five minutes. I was the first, and only, person in the medical records line and authorized transfer of my California files.
On Sunday, a church friend asked about my hip. Our conversation revealed that she was a New Mexico native and long-term resident with similar friends, many of whom had hip replacements. She knew those who were happy with outstanding results through “the best orthopedist,” the one I see in a week. What a comfort it was to hear that.
When I received a follow-up letter from the Nurse Practitioner, it stated the x-rays showed “moderate to severe arthritis” in the hip. When I mentioned the results to my housemate, she said, “My father was a doctor. He specialized in arthritis and wrote a book about it. Let me get it for you.” I’ve been here five months and never knew her father was a doctor. “Before you ask, I shall answer.” More to be revealed.
You can read on, dear reader, because I’m not going to complain about limping for a year, the pain, the technical, medical details. The focus of this post is how Spirit supports us, provides for us, and lives by the dictum, “Before you ask, I shall answer.” Did I want to write about this? No. But I am because I know I’m supposed to. I suspect Spirit has some larger purpose in mind – like allowing you and me to watch the perfection with which everything unfolds in real time. I’ve already had a chance to start doing that. I believe it will continue.
Louise Hay, author of You Can Heal Your Life, the most dog-earred, taped-together paperback on my bookshelf, has something to say about the hip in the table of mental equivalents in the back of her book. She conveniently provides a list of old thought patterns, or “mental equivalents,” that brought the condition in question out of the ethers into physical form. She then reveals “new thought patterns” or more supportive beliefs that assist in creating the desired condition. Readers can look up their ailments, alphabetically, from “acne” to “vitiligo,” to see what she has to say and if/how it might apply to them. I have found it very accurate. Of the hip, she states, the hip “carries the body in perfect balance” and is a “major thrust in moving forward.” She further comments that hip problems are related to “fear of going forward in major decisions. Nothing to move forward to.” The New Thought Pattern that supports healing is “Hip Hip Hooray – there is joy in every day. I am in perfect balance. I move forward in life with ease and joy at every age.” Well, that applies. There may have been some unacknowledged fear about moving from California to New Mexico this year to no friends, no family, no home, no job – only what I create. As for being out of balance, that seems to apply as well since the focus for the past two years was my son’s health not work or other areas. I like the idea of “moving forward in life with ease and joy at every age.” I can align with that, claim that, affirm that, create that. That could be an area of supportive new thought for me, especially when I recall a phone conversation this week with my sister-in-law, Shawn, in which we laughed together about the “indignities of old age” we are experiencing, and I wondered aloud which “body part would rot and fall off next.” She’s facing her second cataract surgery, I’ve had two. I’m denying the potential of a hip replacement. . . you get the picture. . . No more medical technicalities. The focus of this post is how Spirit supports us and provides for us before we even ask. Everything we need is already present.
Moving to New Mexico required I change my healthcare plan and find a new physician. Last week, I detailed how Spirit introduced me to the perfect health insurance professional at Jiffy Lube. Synchronicities like that continue.
Obtaining physician recommendations and researching their qualifications online led to appointment phone calls and the discovery that the most desirable, qualified candidates had “closed practices” and were not accepting new patients. I was prompted to check with a neighbor, a very bright University of New Mexico history professor, who holds Presbyterian Hospital and her provider in high regard. When I called for an appointment, I discovered another “closed practice.” The neighbor just happened to have an appointment that week before traveling east for the holidays. She had a track record of getting two friends into the closed practice through the back door. She did the same for me. Since making an appointment for a “closed practice” was outside the protocol of the call center, I decided to go in person. Fortunately, I chose the right wrong day to go in. It was snowing. It was twenty degrees. It was six days before Christmas. The receptionist said there was an available appointment in twenty-five minutes if I could wait. I did. The Nurse Practitioner was focused, compassionate, efficient, and she referred me to “the best orthopedist.” She sent me upstairs for hip x-rays. The large waiting room was empty – my wait was less than five minutes. I was the first, and only, person in the medical records line and authorized transfer of my California files.
On Sunday, a church friend asked about my hip. Our conversation revealed that she was a New Mexico native and long-term resident with similar friends, many of whom had hip replacements. She knew those who were happy with outstanding results through “the best orthopedist,” the one I see in a week. What a comfort it was to hear that.
When I received a follow-up letter from the Nurse Practitioner, it stated the x-rays showed “moderate to severe arthritis” in the hip. When I mentioned the results to my housemate, she said, “My father was a doctor. He specialized in arthritis and wrote a book about it. Let me get it for you.” I’ve been here five months and never knew her father was a doctor. “Before you ask, I shall answer.” More to be revealed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)