With Love, Mom

Sometimes there are so many stories to share, all which are connected, like an implosion of images and feelings that it renders me speechless for awhile. And then I get to feeling over-full, to the point where I just have to start writing and let something loose.

So, today I'm writing about my mom--a more gentle, beautiful, strong and compassionate soul you'll never find. It was truly an honor to have her as my mother--she saw the beauty of this earth and the people on it and treasured that. For me, she was my idea of a true teacher--I don't remember any lectures or preaching from her. I just remember her living her truth and providing me with an example of living a gracious life.

I remember the one spanking that I got, if you could even call it that. Usually my brother and I were fighting, and we got sent to separate rooms to cool off.

But this time, my cousin and I were jumping on the big bed upstairs at Grandpa and Grandma's. Mom came up and spanked both me and my cousin Pat. It didn't physically hurt, but my feelings were "damaged" and I remember bawling my eyes out while Pat just laughed at her efforts with him. How she kept a straight face, I don't know.

One of the stories in our family is about Mom threatening to leave me in the ditch when I was being naughty in the car. I'd heard the story so many times that what I now think of as memories of that moment might be imaginations on my part. Anyway, true to her word, I got plopped off in the ditch while she drove a ways down the road. It worked--I bawled my eyes out again.

The ditch method and the slight spanking didn't work quite as effectively with my little brother. He was a bit more stronger willed--ha! I remember her being at her wit's end with trying to get him to stop breaking all the eggs in the chicken coop and feeding them to his dog, Charlie (Charlie had a nice, shiny coat). Spankings didn't phase him, so, as a last resort she broke some eggs over his head. I remember him "bawling his eyes out" on the front steps, egg yoke dripping down his face. But, I don't think that worked either.

Mom and Dad had eight kids, but neither of them played "the favorite" game. We were never compared to our sister or brothers--told to be more like one or the other. Mom was trained as a teacher and had taught a couple of years right before and for a year right after she was married. Both of my parents looked beyond the grades on the report card in the sense that I never felt they perceived anyone of us as being unintelligent. Our individual strengths were noted by them, but not bragged about to their peers.

And honestly, I could read, write and spell proficiently, but I had a hard time completing my thoughts and sentences while speaking--not so much at home, but around strangers and at school. Other family members had a wonderful ability to tell stories and were outgoing socially, while others were more quiet but were highly creative and inventive. Mom might call us by our list of siblings' names until she found the right one, but she was aware of the individual she was talking to.

And she loved her daughters- and sons-in-law, too. On the long drive home from Minneapolis the morning she died, my husband said that he felt like he'd lost his greatest advocate with me.

A couple years into my own marriage, Mom and I were driving down to Ludlow, SD to spend the day with my sister and her family. During the drive, I was complaining to her how terrible my husband was being with me--waa, waa, waa! Wise woman that she was, she let me vent, and then said, "Pen, you can say what you want to say about Kel, and that's okay, but I want you to know that nothing you say will change my opinion of him. You've got a good man." You see, her greatest fear for her two daughters was that they might end up with guys who abused them physically--and when we married the ones we did, she was greatly relieved.

Anyway, chagrined though I was in that moment, it was the most powerful gift she ever gave me. And, for the record, I've got a really good man.


"Pearl said, 'Dean married an angel.'" That's what a dear friend and neighbor of ours told us that Dad's mom said to her about our mother.

Mom died unexpectedly early on a Monday morning due to heart failure connected to a gall bladder attack. In retrospect, she'd spent the prior year getting ready to depart this earth--she was visiting old friends and reveling even more in the beauty of the earth and the moments she had left with loved ones. Everything was brighter, more significant.

Intuitively, I'd known she was leaving--I wrote a letter to her the week just before that was driven by the sense that I wanted her to know everything was going to be okay--that while it involved pain, there would be healing, too. I think I knew it was going to be good-bye, but I didn't really want to go there either.

Dad told me she'd chosen to stay home from going out to coffee at the Gateway that Sunday night in order to watch a TV movie entitled, "The Wedding Dress," starring Neil Patrick Harris--a favorite of ours from the "Doogie Howser" TV series. Kel and I were watching the same movie at the same time--a thought that has brought Mom closer and that's made me smile.

She had an attack in bed that night that was so bad that Dad took her the mile into town to the hospital. They gave her something to put her to sleep and told Dad it would be all right for him to go home and get some sleep. She told him she loved him when he went in to tell her goodnight--and his greatest regret, he told me later, was that he didn't say it back to her then. He woke up in the wee hours of the morning and got dressed to go back in to see her, but when he stepped outside of their home he saw a blue star arc upward from town across the sky, and he knew in that moment that she was gone.

You see, he found out something I learned years before when my boyfriend was killed in a motorcycle accident--don't walk away without telling those you love that you do love them (regardless of whether you're fighting with them or not in that particular moment). It might be the only chance you have. And regardless of what's happening on the surface of things, love is always there, through it all.

I stayed home with Dad the first couple of weeks after Mom had passed. He had to learn to wash clothes and to cook at the age of 72--and he did really well in the laundry department, but I don't think he had much of an appetite and that makes it hard to cook for oneself. He had grown a field full of corn and potatoes that summer, so he was delivering bags of potatoes to little towns all over the area--I got to go along.

He finally said to me, "Pen, Kelly needs you--you should go home to him now." So I loaded up my car and had one of the most heart-rending good-byes with my dad I'd ever felt. As I drove away out of town, I remember taking a deep breath and telling myself, "We're all going to be okay..."

On the way to Bowman the afternoon of the day Mom had died, Kel and I were turning off the interstate at Belfield, when I noticed a hitchhiker on the overpass. I just pulled over to offer him a ride--something I have never done before. He was headed west and we were headed south so he didn't take me up on my offer, but it was a portent of what lay ahead for me in the near future.

As I was making my return trip to Minneapolis, shortly after leaving Dad, I had the thought that if I saw a hitchhiker in Belfield, I was going to offer him a ride. Sure enough, there he was. I pulled over and he got in--he was going only as far as Dickinson--about 17 miles. He'd been trying to catch a ride south to look for work, but had had no success.

I asked where he was from and he named the town next to where I grew up. I told him my name was Penny and that my mom had died. That I was just returning to my home in the cities--at which point he said, "I know." I hadn't looked that closely at him prior, so that made me do a double-take. But he'd recognized me the moment I'd pulled over. Here was the guy who I had dated a couple of times prior to Kelly.

The last time I'd been home visiting my mom and dad in August (Mom died October 29, 2001), I'd told Mom I'd love to have the chance to see him again to say thanks, because he had treated me like a princess at a time when I didn't feel worthy of it. He was so sweet and considerate of me--what a gift! He was one of those reminders in my life to not pay attention to local gossip about people--people are worth getting to know, one-to-one, clean, bare slate.

Well--sitting beside me in my own car was my blessed opportunity. Thank you, my beloved friend, for changing your direction of travel in order to give me that miraculous moment. There was no way you could have possibly known my heart-felt desire. No one knew--except my mom. I felt as though it was her way of affirming, "Yes, Pen, you're all going to be okay..."

The Road I Took

There has always been a part of me within that has been the observer watching how I played the parts on the outside.

Until this past Sunday's excursion to church, I always thought that some part of me was longing to be a part of a group that gathered together like that--one that had regular get-togethers. This journey has been a really lonely one in some ways--I never really seemed to be able to mold myself to fit any kind of group for much length of time. There's been a bit of a rebel in me who just had to do it her own, sometimes messy, way.

I like sharing and hearing other's stories about life's journeys, but I dislike gossip--to be in the midst of it, much worse, participating in it, sucks me dry energetically. I realized it was too easy to fall into when my husband and I were having a simple conversation where one of us inquired of the other about that person's family member. It was simply the question, "How is so-and-so doing?"

But I realized that question caused my protective defenses to come raging to the front--and I knew the same thing happened when my husband was asked the same type of question by me about one of his loved ones, regardless of what anyone did or didn't do. I also recognized for the first time that no one outside of that person, family member or not, could answer that question--and that what I was doing in that moment of trying to answer it was simply engaging in GOSSIP.

Once I realized what was going on, I explained what I became aware of to my husband and asked him to start talking only about ourselves with ourselves, instead of about other people. I realized that if I wasn't one of the two people in the relationship being discussed then I didn't need to be talking and my opinion didn't matter.

After a lifetime of playing "the meddler", it wasn't easy to let go at first, but once I'd practiced the idea, there was a tremendous release in realizing I wasn't intended to fix other people's lives. To honor them where they were in the present moment--to see the gift they were bringing me by playing that part at that time--was a great deal more satisfying and a whole lot less work and anxiety.

Sometimes someone may be playing out a choice that I am absolutely repulsed by, but because they had the courage to play that part out for me, they helped me by eliminating one choice of my own out of a potential of many. I got to voyeuristically see it without having to experience it. Or maybe I liked the consequences--then it would probably be a choice I'd try myself.

Speaking of not fitting into groups--I really tried the college thing, but I could only go so far with it, and then it was just too much. I got good grades, but it was too rigid for me. I was born the seventh child in a family of eight, and I idolized my parents and brothers and sister to the point that I parroted all of their beliefs as my own. As a result, I was a really good student--teachers generally liked me because I regurgitated with ease everything they taught me--but I had no idea who Penny was or what she believed.

It took me moving away from my family and home and into a city, something that was not easy for me to do--but I found myself, in amongst all those strangers. I had no past reputation to live up to, no expectations, no familiar roles to fall into--a book with blank pages waiting to be written on.

I still tried to fulfill the college degree, but every time I'd end up sick, physically, and emotionally, a wreck. Trying to conform and mold myself into what other's believed valuable and the "right" path just plain hurt, and it suffocated me even thinking about trying to do it all over again. I couldn't restrict and limit myself to that degree again.

I tried afterwards to just settle for a regular job--but I remember clearly asking myself on the floor of that packaging plant, "Is this who I am? Is this all that life is about?" I felt something curl up inside myself and die for a time. I remember after being on the job for a couple years, watching myself and my co-workers go through the routine of our days, robots simply going through the motions, settling for "insurance and financial security" doing a job that was taking us nowhere--like a hamster on a wheel. Thankfully, the the plant closed and moved to Mexico. And so much for security.

I tried more jobs later on, after years of staying home, trying to get pregnant--at least, that was my justification. But, I'd get tired of companies merging into corporations only to treat their employees as expendable, replaceable slaves. The safety bulletins would be posted all over, but the truth was, it was simply in order to comply with OSHA to keep from being fined. The rebel in me was still at the forefront, so I quit trying to be the person I thought everyone expected me to be--and I started looking at what I wanted to do and who I wanted to be in this life that was my own.

It's not been easy staying at home, not working in a manner in which you're rewarded with a steady paycheck. I used to cringe whenever anyone asked me, "So what do you do?" At first I'd just get red and mumble, "I'm home, and no, we don't have kids..." Later I'd just get defensive, and red, and try to joke, "Not a damn thing!"

Then, just lately, I realized I didn't need to justify it. I simply chose it "just because."

Now, I'm not trying to play out victimhood here--I, in fact, take full responsibility for my journey. In looking back, I see all of it simply as me finding my own way in this life. Sometimes I had to challenge the status quo of "getting a career, a man, children." Was that truly what life was about for me?

Something deep inside, all along, has been reminding me not to settle, and she's also been telling me to quit all the self-judgment and self-condemnation for not being like everyone else. And to replace those old task masters with self-compassion and honor and humor--quit taking myself so seriously.

You know, when I was at my lowest-feeling points, I used to look at my old classmates, family members and friends who I thought were "successful" and wonder how they did it. I envied them, and my jealous ego would kick in and I'd tell myself, hoping it was true, "They may look happy on the outside, but blah, blah, blah..." The old adage was true for me--I liked having company in my misery. I felt crappy about myself, thus the rest of the world was crappy, too. I could actually feel myself guiltily taking on that "I'm superior" attitude while I ripped the one I envied apart.

It was just a couple months ago on a drive with my husband, during which we were reminiscing about old classmates and friends (he'd just had a thirty year reunion) that I recognized and made that admission about myself. I realized that, in truth, I was really proud of all of my classmates and friends, many who have successful careers--and with that I wished them happy lives and fulfilling relationships, too. My green monster is gone finally--she dissipated with the simple acknowledgement that she was there in the first place, running my show.

So--I still don't have a job or a career or a degree or kids (and I'm finally liking that, and no longer just okay about it), but I still have this amazingly unique life--this gift of getting the chance to discover and be simply ME!

My observer is still present inside, but she feels a bit more in the forefront than she did in the past--I invited her here. And I am enjoying having her direct and participate in my roles on the stage of humanity--a stage that is truly a GIFT.

Removal of My Chip on the Shoulder

I just decided to see if I could finally do it--walk into a church service, my protective barriers down and my judgmental self adjourned.

I knew that my experiences in such places in the past were created out of my own perceptions and guardedness--and it was a guardedness on my part that felt as though it went way beyond this singular lifetime.

Granted, I remember a friend in the fourth grade who was concerned that I was "going to hell" because I'd never been baptized. Her concern caused me to search my own heart and mind to determine if I wanted to worship a god who made such conditions. I came to the conclusion that God had already baptized me using the rain from heaven. I later read that Holy water used to be the water priests washed their feet in--and I decided my rainwater was the better deal. Grin.

My sister and I used to attend various church services from time to time after my boyfriend's death. A priest and a minister in our little part of the state both gave sermons that I enjoyed. And then one day I got a phone call from one of the ladies in an "outreach" effort, and even though being the shy person that I was at the time, I had no qualms in firmly telling her, "NO! I am not interested!" I remember the silence on the other end of the line. No one was ever going to convert me--ha!

As I shared earlier, I went to Freeman Education seminars and took part in some activities with other groups of people. I recall one particular incident where a fellow juryman asked me to ask his own question of a defendant in a trial--putting words in my mouth. This was in setting up a common law court--and the man feeding me words saw himself as an older, and more experienced, devout Christian, who was magnanimously trying to teach me the ropes. Bless him for that moment, because it stuck with me.

I did not like asking a judgmental question--it especially did not resonate with me--of another person. I nicely (heaven forbid, I shake things up a bit and make a scene) asked it then--but, afterwards, I was so ashamed of myself for not speaking my heart instead, that I made the choice from then on that that was not going to happen again.

I also discovered I didn't like the mentality of groups of people--they seemed to not think for themselves or from their hearts. So that is why I never joined a Bible study group--I had too many previous experiences listening to what others said various scriptures meant. Too many of them had an ego-driven agenda on either side of an argument.

I determined to read the Bible on my own--and to let the meanings reveal themselves to me personally.

I was born into a family with a very diverse background of Christian faiths. My grandmother (Dad's side) was Presbyterian and my grandfather was Catholic. They chose to allow their children free choice in each one's faith. My mother's dad left Finland partly because the religious structure was so rigid there at the time.

I have Mormon, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Assembly of God, and Non-denominational family members. And then there was our bunch--ha! I kind of relished our "heathen" image.

The truth is, I don't think one of us didn't believe in God, or that there was something greater than our human life. My mom's favorite reminder was, "Never judge another until you've walked a mile in his moccasins." We knew the story of Jesus and I used to try to stay awake until midnight, as a child, in hopes of seeing the Star of Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. We had a Bible and we had a children's book of Bible stories, which I remember looking at often.

I remember going to the movie theater in town to see the story of Jesus. I was really quite young at the time--it's a vague memory but with high impact. Due to the crucifixion scene being so sad and bloody and dark, I said to Mom afterwards (because of what she'd told me about movies previously that were troubling to me), "That didn't really happen, did it? It was just pretend?"

But this time Mom said, "Yes, that did happen."

I was repulsed by that image--to this day, I still shudder at anything that gory. In the early nineties, my husband and I went to a Good Friday service at an Evangelical church just kitty-corner from where we lived in the cities. They gave us all nails to hammer into the cross to remind us of what we did to Jesus--it was revolting and awful--I was already dealing with so much personal guilt and shame. That was like the last straw. I never returned. I was really ticked off at that. I thought church was supposed to be a place of peace, of safety, of comfort. I determined to stick to my walks in the pastures and around the lakes.

*I'm adding in this anecdote in February 2013: 
On my way home from the grocery store, I noticed the sign outside a church on my route. It read:

"God made the first valentine--out of two boards and 3 nails."????

Seriously...humorously...it sounds like an extremely horrifyingly-gory valentine. No thanks!

On my ten-and-a-half hour drive to go home to be with Dad the last 3 1/2 weeks of his life, I had the very strong feeling that Jesus need not have suffered such a horrible death. I believe his death was interpreted as a sacrificial necessity because the cultures at that time practiced sacrifice, and because the powers that were wanted to retain control of the masses. I didn't see the loving Father/God that I loved expecting that from any child of His. And I wasn't expecting my dad to suffer a long, miserable and pain-filled transition from life to death either. And I tried to share that idea with Dad, though I knew it was ultimately his choice as to how it happened--and I was ready to honor him in that.

My dad's transition was a huge life-changing moment for me. One that I will write about later. Let's just say that it's the reason I'm writing all of this now.

So, I had a HUGE chip on my shoulder regarding organized religion. And I worked long and hard to put myself in the proverbial moccasins of those who attend church. I've recognized for a long time that I had to be willing to shift my perspective, though my "little human" ego liked her little podium and her self-righteous indignation and victimhood. I'd been living the drama for so long, I was comfortable in it. It was my default setting.

So, yesterday's journey to church was monumental. Yes, it was still a busy, business-like place and yes, the doctrine and tradition was still there. And churches today are struggling for membership--and I felt that, too. And I felt the deep apology for "being human--a worthless sinner." But beneath ALL of that, I most strongly felt what I'd been seeking all my life, too--every single person there was desiring to be a kind and good and worthy person, just like me.

Everyone has his/her own way of finding the answers that satisfy. Some do it by going to church once a week--and it works for them. Who am I to deny anyone that which brings them personal peace and enlightenment and joy? And some are finding it in religious institutions. I still like my pastures, personally, but I also love connecting and socializing with people, too. I certainly don't want to limit myself to one type of individual who is just like me--I stagnate in that environment. And for me, it's all about growth, love unconditional, compassion, joy and honor.

I finally sat in that pew, breathing easily, enjoying the music and the sermon and people--my guard down, my heart open. And finally--there it was--I felt sincere gratitude for all those church-going individuals who've touched my life--they got me here to this incredible moment.

Conspiracies and Fear

At the age of nineteen, my dad toured the U.S. in a Hudson convertible and met people of all walks of life. He grew up during the Great Depression, saw the government slaughter thousands of cows when people in the world were starving—and spent the rest of his life looking for solutions to counteract the greed he saw running the planet. He loved people, kids and animals. And he loved the earth, and he chose to practice farming in a manner that returned to the soil the goodness that he harvested from it.

A dear friend of his who shared his vision of a greater, more compassionate world once said to Dad, "If I have two nickels in my pocket and someone in the world is lacking, then I have one nickel too many."

Dad took the expression to heart—and made a practice of giving away both of his nickels. We’d buy him gifts for holidays, and he’d pass them along to someone who "needed it more than he did." Needless to say, it wasn’t easy for our mom (a partner in raising eight kids), but she understood his intention and his passion, and she often told me that she learned long ago that it was useless to try and change him, or anyone else, but oneself.

As a result of my dad’s journeys, my siblings and I grew up on world bank and government conspiracies, UFOs and aliens (only made sense to me that God would create more than one type of human life form), stories of the Illuminati and the Tri-lateral Commission—to name a few. Dad would take off and be gone for days on end—I remember him calling to check in with Mom only once—her motto was, "No news is good news." And he had some chilling encounters with some very challenging individuals.

It was then only natural that I would delve into the things Dad talked about in order to, at first, simply make my own contribution to making this a better world. In the early nineties, there was a group in the Minneapolis/St.Paul area called Freeman’s Education, and this was a gathering place for people who were interested in the other side of stories not seen in mainstream media sources.

Dad had always told me to not believe everything that was printed in the newspapers or reported on TV, because all those sources were owned by pretty much the same group of individuals. And often people’s quotes were taken out of context or censored in order to fit the owner’s agenda.

In short, there really is no such thing as "unbiased" reporting by any human, whether intentional or otherwise. How we perceive our personal experiences is always going to influence how we perceive, and talk about, anything from that point on.

I had seen a film (this was shortly after the Jacob Wetterling kidnapping, which happened in a small town in Minnesota in the early 90s) on how some high-ranking officials were "allegedly" using kidnapped children for sexual abuse and snuff films. Now, to be honest, I had no way of knowing whether this film was true or not—I believed it to be so at the time. And it troubled me so greatly then that my taxes were being used in this manner, that I opted out of the tax system for a period of a few years.

That’s a whole other unpleasant period in my life, but one in which I walked away determined to be at peace within myself and to have my own answers to my own questions and to not rely on someone outside of me to tell me what is true or not.

I also came to the realization through this walk, that two people could take the same scripture like, "Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and render unto God that which is God’s"--and interpret it to mean exactly two polar opposites as to whether or not to pay taxes. I had no way of knowing which was right—they both made sense.

Also, I met people who were so frightened of the conspirators they were fighting against that they had a gleam in their eyes that was just as frightening as those who were "their enemy." It was disconcerting.

After going over here, and then over there, and every which direction someone outside of me told me to go, I finally arrived at the conclusion that all the answers for me would be found WITHIN MYSELF.

This, of course, is the time I picked up the Bible and read it all for myself, and I found scriptures that appeared to say to trust what you know within, instead of anyone outside—and I’ve held that to my heart and used it ever since.

I finally found the peace I was searching for all these years—and it lies here within me.

Yes, the world has quite a bit of chaos going on, but I believe that if I’m running around telling everyone to be afraid of conspiracies, other races, other religions, other sexualities, the devil, or food, water and fuel shortages—then I’m only contributing to the creation of more chaos and rioting, killing and greed—the very thing my own dad had set out to keep from happening.

I choose instead to remind each person that I touch of the power of LOVE--that he/she holds the goodness of God within himself/herself and to remember that. And when life gets scary and overwhelming, remember to go within to that SAFE and SACRED SPACE and just be still, BREATHE DEEPLY, until one’s own sense of peace has a chance to take over the reins of life.

Jesus’s reminder to "love your enemies" kept me searching within myself for a means to genuinely do that, and not just say the flowery words--while, secretly wanting to kill off my perceived enemy, instead.

May peace be with you…the GOODNESS of GOD is...

The Blessing of My Dark Side

One of the greatest challenges for me in this journey has been to embrace my shadow side—the human part who felt so separated from God that she did some evil things out of fear for her own survival, things she wished she could have a "do-over" with, in order to set things right. But what does one do with "a wrong?"

Judas, the betrayer, hung himself. Most of the evil villains in books and stories ended up being killed off—that was the "happily ever-after" ending. But I didn’t want that ending.

I wanted an ending where the bad guy/girl had a change of heart—a one-eighty—where she used her past experiences to shed compassion and encouragement and hope for those touched by her life. I wanted an ending where gratitude took the place of forgiveness, and in that process, atrocious wrongs were undone—where it was a truly happy ending for all.

The story of Saul turned "Paul" intrigued me. I wondered what happened in that Christed moment on the road that had him shift from being a persecutor and murderer of Christians to being a Christian himself. Didn’t he feel guilty over his past? How was he able to let that guilt go?

I’ve seen so many "born again" Christians (including myself at one time) who said they accepted God’s forgiveness of their transgressions, but we were still hauling that old guilt and shame baggage around on our shoulders.

But God seemed to help me with that one, too. When I had a shameful secret emerge to the surface, that inner knowingness kept encouraging me, "Penny, bring that which is hidden into the Light. Share your secret and your story with others. Be honest about what you’re thinking and feeling. You don’t need to blame anyone else or name names. This is your shame, your responsibility, your life. When you feel ashamed of something you’re doing, put Me there. You know you really can’t hide anything from me—why waste the energy on the game of deception?"

I always imagined God as being like my dad—his was a safe lap to cry on. He was always there to pick me up when I took a tumble, and he’d hold my hand for a bit until I got steady on my feet once again. Then he’d cheer me on when I took off running again. In truth, I actually got this from both of my parents—Mom’s embrace, too, was heavenly and wise.

The thing is, I am grateful for those who have played the dark roles for me. Without them, I would not have known what I was made of—how strong I am, how loving I am, how compassionate, how thankful…I needed the dark experiences in order to literally "see" the light in me.

I have an even greater appreciation of the Light because of the Dark playing its part, all out of love for me. I like to draw with pencil a bit, so I love the contrasts between black and white and all the shades in-between. Without them, there is no picture.

I had another personal mantra/reminder:
"Apologize not, for your own or for another's life; for it's OUT of LOVE that we ALL come, and it's UNTO LOVE that we ALL return."

And now that I've come this far, I know how painful it is to intentionally hurt another or myself--it's that "whatever goes out from me, comes back to me" thing. And now that I know that, I choose to release my dark actors from the roles I scripted them. I set them free and I wish them joy in being.

If my life had been all hunky-dory and painless and shameless, I’d never have had any incentive to search for God, to look to be more, to challenge the status quo of "this is how life is…," to grow and to consciously seek to think higher thoughts…

I guess, in short, all of this is just my way of saying to each of those Prodigal Children (Envy, Greed, Vanity, Sloth, Liar, Hypocrite, Gossip—to name a few) inside of me, "Thank you, Babe. Great performance. I love you."

When in Pain, Just Breathe...

Pain—probably the greatest motivator in my life. I tried to avoid it, stuff it away for later, bear it with dignity like a martyr, cover it with anger, apply bandages of all shapes and colors, medicate it, manage it, took it to a doctor occasionally.

Pain comes in all kinds of packages—physical, emotional, mental, spiritual—and I felt them all. It’s easy to look back now and appreciate the journey it took me on, but back in the day, it was no joyride. I used to think it was God’s way of punishing me for being such a bad human being—I have to admit, I’m getting a good laugh at myself now for that one.

It was a few moments after hearing Gary Zukov, author of "Seat of the Soul," make the comment on an Oprah show about humans having a tendency to try to avoid pain, that I accidentally slammed my thumb in a kitchen drawer. Sure enough, my first instinctive act was to grab my thumb with my other hand in an attempt to postpone the pain I knew was coming.

After taking a DEEP BREATH down into my diaphragm, which lies beneath our lower ribcage, I made a conscious choice to take my hand away in order to allow the pain, and also allow myself to immerse in it, explore it, follow it to its source and center. The pain that I was so afraid of, in this little experiment, lasted only seconds, and then it was gone.

It was simply a matter of breathing myself through it.

In short, I discovered that breathing while diving into the pain was the quickest way to release myself from the extended suffering of pain. And pain simply became a tool to help me direct my attention to some aspect of my life that was balancing naturally--that was all.

I had an ache in my lower back that was hard to pinpoint, so I lay myself down on our rug in the yoga position called "corpse" (on my back, hands and feet parted enough to feel comfortable) and I started taking deep breaths: inhale through the nose (deep into my diaphragm beneath the lower rib cage) to the count of 8, hold for 4, exhale to the count of 8. The focus on the breath centered me in the present moment, got me to note my heart beating, and I then focused on the area of pain in my back and followed it to its center.

The next thing I knew, memories came to mind of when I was a sophomore in high school and the bank forced us into a sale of our farm equipment. I lost my home, my pastures (my version of church) and my dogs and cats (my best friends)—and I’d never allowed myself to feel the grief at losing them. I’d handled it by getting angry—and, at the time, I wasn’t aware of how angry I was. There I was crying over something that had happened nearly twenty years earlier.

As the tears flowed over the loss of my pets, the pain in my lower back went away, too.

Once I began to embrace pain instead of running from it, it became a gift in my own healing process and I realized that accepting pain didn’t mean I had to endure it in misery for long periods of time.

If I was experiencing pain, there was a purpose for it, and it wasn’t a punishment for something I did wrong. Setting a broken bone is painful, so it stands to reason that healing a broken heart would involve some pain, too.

Just a matter of breathing through it…Just take a deep-down into the bottom of your ribcage  breath…Just breathe…