Flo

A recent journal writing prompt, “What I let myself yearn for”  lead me in several directions.  What I wondered is “do I really let myself “yearn”?  How would I define it? A longing in my heart?  Any sort of longing, so it could include even clothes I see in catalogs? “Yearn” sounds like something that creates an ache because of its absence, maybe an ache so deep it’s unrecognized as being there at all.

Last week in a class, I told my adoption search story.  It wasn’t a time where everyone was sharing, but I offered to talk of it.  It became personal and not really classroom –focused.  What I mean is, I didn’t try to talk about it and tie it to the information we had just been presented on searching for adoptive parents.  I just sort of laid my story out there, with some of the time-line I’d experienced.  I told how it’s not a “search and reunion story”. It’s just the search.

My birth father lives in St. Paul, Minnesota.  Since 2000, when I turned 40 and did life-cycle-change things like participate in a triathlon, I’ve been trying to contact him.  In my head, I’ve always, honestly always, known I was adopted by my father, Don Barner.  Following his death in 1998 and my brother’s soon after, I was propelled in so many directions due to my emotional upheaval.  One of those was this “search”.  The thing is, after all this time, my birth father doesn’t reply.  I have decided my next step is family members.

Last week in  class it became very clear to me why the serach weighs heavy on me (1) the sense of rejection that is perpetuated because he has never responded (2) the feeling I carry that I’m the “dirty little family secret” (3) the disconnected feelings of attachment that I carry because of the adoption.  It’s engraved in my small child self – the one who at 3 years of age went excitedly to court when she became a ”Barner”.  There  are so many times I wonder “why” about my feelings about things and honestly, I don’t want to ‘wonder why’ any more.  Instead of analyzing I’d just rather do something – analyzing makes me feel stuck; paralyzed and in the “freeze” part of freeze•fight•flight.

“Buck it up – figure it out – take some action – make a decision”.  Can’t say that’s my higher self talking there, but some very determined part of me.

The plan – write a letter to the family:

“Hello, my name is Flo Holt…”

!

Flo

I know I am constantly invited to meditate.  I know that the structure of the room where I meditate intentionally prohibits my meditation practice and that part of me resists changing it.  What do I want?  I really want someone to help me get thru the stuff and create an inviting space.  My spouse and I have both had to hire people to help us with periodic filing issues.   It has helped clear paperwork but it hasn’t help me get a system for organization down.  There is a book out, something related to a year of organizing with week by week tasks.  I like the sound of it – the week by week part. 

Reality – there are many things on my plate and deciding what to prioritize becomes a bit of a job so I act like an ostrich, head in the sand and maybe butt in the air, letting other things take priority.  Hiring someone to clean the house weekly has freed up so much time for me.  Not that I spent hours cleaning, but I did spend hours trying to clean•do office paperwork•make food and all the other stuff that I do.  That was a start – how do I get to the next step? 

I miss meditating; the rush of ideas that land in that space that never truly empties.  That’s a funny part of meditation for me – the way there is never really nothing but there is less interference, less noise of all the busy intrusive thoughts that run races in my head.  So when I sat, facing the bookcase and wall, there were moments I actually settled, noticed my body, felt myself seated and breathing.  At other times the rush of getting in the room, the self-inflicted pressure to do it vs. invitation to do it, created resistance and unwillingness to sit.  I felt like a rebellious teen, drug to do something I didn’t want to do.  Really it’s a gift that I keep pushing away.

Namaste’

Flo

People tell Frank Warren their secrets.  All Frank does is ask for them.  Frank has been collecting secrets for the past four years and to date, has collected more than 200,000.

On April 26, I wrote of going to hear Frank, the author of four PostSecret books. Listening to him speak about PostSecret and meeting him afterward showed me how big his heart is.  It showed me how genuinely serious he is about collecting secrets and “protecting” them.  You might think the word “protecting” doesn’t apply, after all he has published four books and posts 20 postcards on his PostSecret.com website weekly ( 20 of approx. 1,000). By protecting, I mean he doesn’t allow himself to be in situations where the secrets or the process can be ridiculed, for instance he choose not to be interviewed on the David Letterman show, for that very reason.

Think about your secrets.  It can be a difficult thing to do, particularly if you consider yourself to be honest, forthright, honest, direct, and again, honest.  We all carry stories with us, memories of humiliation from grade school, embarrassing moments, and then our more serious and even debilitating secrets.  By simply sending him a postcard, Frank gives everyone an opportunity to voice those secrets, create momentum that moves a person in the direction of healing.

The presentation ended with the lights dimmed and Frank giving audience members the opportunity to share their secrets.  I sat there thinking “there is no way anyone would do that” and was I wrong.  Often heartbreaking and sometimes hysterically humorous, the audience members bravely shared their secrets with us.  While getting my books signed, I tried to thank Frank for all he has done.  My guess is, he hears this all the time.  I think I’ll tell him in a postcard.

Namaste’

Frank Warren, the creator of the PostSecret series of books and the postsecret.com website, is speaking tonight in Fort Collins.

I read the first book when it came out in 2005. Entitled ”PostSecret“, Warren begins his introduction “In November 2004, I printed 3,000 postcards inviting people to share a secret with me: something that was true, something they had never told anyone.”  He left the postcards in art galleries and library books, and the preaddressed postcards started arriving in his mailbox.

The books are full of secrets.  The response has been and continues to be overwhelming.  Checkout the website and I’ll be back after the presentation to tell more.

Flo

Homer basset didn’t have surgery last week.  Considered to be “non-surgical” due to the other spinal issues he has, we brought him home and with medication, there has been limited improvement.

It’s surprising to me how much life changes in just a few days – we carry Homer up and down the stairs and watch him totter across the back yard, doing his “business” with the other dogs.  His positive demeanor has returned and he is pain-free. At times, it feels we’re living with an infant, which is different for us and all the while  Homer continues to be his warm, loving and happy self.  For this I am grateful.  We are enjoying his presence, his companionship and have to laugh at his ability to be so very joyful as his physical limitations increase.  This is a quality I’d like to possess.

He is a good friend and we are happy he is here.

Namaste’

On a weekly basis Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate prints “American Life in Poetry“.  This week’s poem is by Trish Dugger and here it is below:

Spare Parts

We barge out of the womb
with two of them: eyes, ears,

arms, hands, legs, feet.
Only one heart.  Not a good

plan.  God should know we
need at least a dozen,

a baker’s dozen of hearts.
They break like Easter eggs

hidden in the grass,
stepped on and smashed.

My own heart is patched,
bandaged, taped, barely

the same shape it once was
when it beat fast for you.

Enjoy.

I recently had the pleasure of meeting with local Art Therapist/Yoga Instructor Andrea Atherton-Nollet and four other creative souls for a few hours of treasure mapping.

Andrea presented insights from Lynn Siprelle  who discusses the art of treasure mapping and her treasure mapping process.  She writes of its role in her life in creating visual pictures of things she wanted and how after 15 years, it all has come true.

Although we were a small group, we intently focused on the task at Andrea’s art table.  Tearing magazines, drawing with pastels, and cutting with scissors, we searched for pictures of the Eiffel Tower, discussed the recent talk we heard by Caroline Myss and created our 2008 Treasure Maps.

I hung mine up immediately in my office when I got home.  Never one to declare myself an artist, the circular shape is unusual for me, with the outside representing my outer self and the inner part representing my quiet, secret inner self.  Parts of it continue to roll around my head.  Each day I see it inviting me to move, step, even jump in the direction where the pictures and words beckon. I’m sometimes slow to approach things. Maybe that will change this year.

Namaste’

[If you're interested in pursuing this creative method for manifesting, many suggestions are available online.]

It seems on most days, I can easily create a list of all I’ve done, accomplished and achieved.   And typically, if I need to do that, my planner does it for me. Weekends, I prefer no listing on my Treo, and I resort to pieces of paper, Post-its, stuck on the end of the granite bar.  In reality, I’d like to get through my weekend without a list, without my brain saying “snow tires*pedicure*Target*Sunflower Market-> you really didn’t do much today” as if I need to measure*validate*prove how I spend my weekend time.  Today I created the “list”, hoping I’d have a little focus and not spend the entire day watching movies.  I did about 1/2 the list and many little things that didn’t make it on the list – rakes and shovels from the summer to and in the shed, tires to the barn, and my favorite, feed apples to the neighbor’s horses and miniature donkey.  This donkey is a funny creature, coming to the fence to ensure receiving apples she can’t eat in one bite.  She takes a bite, chews, then takes another bite.  Polite-like.  Meanwhile, the two not-so-polite horses come over to steal her apple.  This little miniature donkey is white with brown spots and the first time the white horse came to steal her apple, she turned around and kicked at his face, both back legs high in the air.  She’d show him. Unfortunately, the height of her back legs, full extension, is lower than his head and she lost her apple.  I ran back home, cut up another apple into pieces her size, hurdled the fence and hand fed them to her, while I was nudged on the backside by her sorrel pen-mate (I don’t really know if she’s “sorrel” or not, but I do know that’s a word indicating a horse color and I think it’s brown!). 

This is what really mattered in my day.  Not the laundry, the conference registration, the vacuuming or the research on HP portable printers – what really mattered, was the fresh air and feeling those little donkey lips (are they called “lips” on a donkey?) touching my palm as she nuzzled around for bits of apple.

Morning tea – the sun eeks its way up and I see the side of the barn brightening with its rays. (I will not declare or analyze what day it is).  The sun is now hitting the neighbor’s pear tree, whose leaves have turned a golden rust color.  I love fall and all its colors, the way this season leads us to winter.  I also feel a sense of unease as I watch the summer flower blossoms bend over, freeze and shrivel when the frosts begin.  Last year, unable to watch, I pulled several summer planters inside for the winter – the house looked like a poorly kept arboretum.

Makena creeps around the deck, checking in around the door, ensuring I’ll let her in if she is too cold and she wanders away again.  I watered the planters on the deck this morning. Their leaves are no longer upright and green and I try desperately to breathe life back into them again.  I want to see the deep purple petunia blossoms, the pink and striped geraniums, the purple fountain grasses that waves in the very slightest of breezes. 

The sun sneaks around this morning, rays landing on only a section of the tree leaves and of lawn as it comes through the clouds.  It disappears and it looks like we got lots of rain last night.

The rain smells like it cleans the earth – waters the flowers and the vegetable garden, that is giving an overabundance of vegetables at the moment.  In my mind, I see myself walking the neighborhood this weekend, trying to pawn off, blatantly hand out the vegetables to strangers so they don’t go to waste.  I could set up a card table and cardboard sign at the end of the driveway, like an old fashioned lemonade stand.  I’m a sucker for lemonade stands – giving my money away for a watered-down version of something that tastes faintly of lemon and sugar, mostly of just water.  I support the concepts of children earning and managing money; of having something to drink when I walked the gardens of Fort Collins earlier this summer.  It’s a throw-back to the 60s and 70s and reminds me of old Kool-aid commercials.  I was the kid who mailed in kool-aid packages for my free backpack and canteen!