Previously published 2 years ago.

My dad died two four years ago today.

I miss him every most every day. I achingly, desperately, want to hug him again. What I would give for one moment with him! To lay my head on his chest, hear him call out  (I can’t write the actual sound he made, somewhere between hello and a happy bellow) when I came over to visit, to see him with Lilly again (especially the time he let her paint his toenails).

Oh this happy weird ache. Happy because I love thinking about him and weird because it’s so terribly tangible as if I could, if I just concentrated hard enough, get him back.

But this is not a post about loss, this is a post about courage or how my mom overcame (overcomes) her fear.

My Dad fell in love with the back of my mom’s neck

Which was the first thing he saw at the party where they met. My  mom was a true beauty. Heck, at almost 75 she still is – Molly Gordon calls her the “Barbie for the over 70 set.” Which is not to say  my mom isn’t smart – she is. But smart was not encouraged in her family – her Dad would not let her skip two grades when her teacher recommended it– or in women growing up in southern Indiana in the 40′s.

Beauty, on the other hand, was. Her beauty and aliveness so captured my dad’s heart he pursued her for two years even though she was, gulp, married to her first husband and he had been married three times (twice to the same woman, so is that kinda of 1 1/2 times?).

Fast forward 45 years

Dad died just a month short of my parent’s 45th wedding anniversary. During their life together, my dad treated my mom like a beautiful queen – it’s a cliche, but he did. He made the money. He made the big decisions. He even pumped the gas.

Dad was born in 1919 – a very different generation. He adored my mom and in his mind that meant sheltering her. The biggest fight I ever had with him was when my mom wanted to go to work – she hadn’t worked since they were married – and he said no, “I want you available when I want to be with you, not off working in some store.”

Did I mention Dad was born in 1919?

Our family’s big fear

My mom is 16 years younger than my Dad. He was 43 when I was born, unusual in the 60′s. Somehow, my dad’s age became a background story of fear. He would die and sooner than we wanted him to.  He was the youngest of his large family and one by one, his brothers died of heart disease.

As my parent’s aged, they became connected at the hip, and my sister and I began to fear my mom would never survive his passing.But health scare after health scare, he survived.

And then he didn’t.

And my mom was very, very alone.

A few months later, her best friend died very suddenly, the friend my sister and I always thought she would pal around with when dad was gone.

And a few months after that, I was suddenly going through an unexpected divorce and good for nothing much more than crying and sitting on the couch.

What did my mom do?

My mom who had never pumped gas before,  my mom who had never banked on-line before, my mom who had never sold or bought a house before, nor negotiated with people who you hire to fix things, who hadn’t traveled alone in 40 years, who had few friends because they had moved 4000 miles to live near me and Lilly, and then Dad got sick and she had nursed him, blossomed.

Oh there were plenty of nights of crying and plenty of days in which she could barely get out of bed and she got depressed and medication helped, and still, she took her fear of being alone, of being overly dependent on us kids, of being taken advantage, of not having a reason to live, she took those fears by the hand and used them to make a inspiring, full, new life. Specifically she:

• Connected – she let help in like never before. My dad was a big believer in going it alone. He loved to help others but didn’t like to be beholden. My mom joined a grief support group two weeks after dad died. Then a church. She plugged right into her neighborhood even though most of her friends there were my age.
• Put one foot in front of the other – no big plans. Do the next thing. And then the next.
• Gave herself lots of pats on the back -  she’s proud of herself and she takes compliments when other people tell her how courageous she is. Leave her a pat on the back in the comment section and I’ll pass it on.
• Lots of going to bed early to bed and watching old movies — comfort without guilt, even shadow comforts when need be. Healthy distractions more often, just getting in the car and doing little errands to be in motion.
• Did a fair amount of bootstrap pulling – this needs to be done so go do it. There is comfort in getting things done and not letting the grieving own you.
• Talked to my dad – out loud. Many times a day. When she needs some courage. When she’s proud of herself. Probably when I bug her.
• Threw the occasional pity party – another word for pity is compassion. We can stay stuck in grief and fear so much longer when we refuse to admit that this sucks.
• Created systems to help her feel safe – she figured out how much money she could safely spend per month, she checks with me before big decisions, she stuck with her support group, she got a little therapy, she has good money advice, she relies on my sweetheart and my sister’s sweetheart for guy input.

I’m sure there are many more things my mom has been doing that I don’t know about. She has become fiercely independent in her new life. And while she is often very afraid, she isn’t stopping. She is HUGELY BRAVE and a big inspiration to me.

I’ll be thinking of my dad all day today, remembering all the sweetness, all the love, all the truth-telling (one of my favorite things about my dad – called it like it was), all the growing up in the country stories, all the self-made man stories, and all the love he had for me and my mom.

Go now, love somebody.

Wiry Fankle One

Book tongues: for book eaters everywhere.

What I’ve been eating:

Les Miserables (this edition actually says on the cover “now a magnificent theater musical”- yuck), then took a break to eat

The Monk Upstairs (how could I have missed that Tim Farrington published another soul gem? Tim, I thought you liked me?) and in between been reading

CrazyBusy by Edward Hallowell (recommended by Jen Hofman who is teaching a workshop March 25th at the Comfort Cafe called The Comfort of Clutter – I’m loving putting together surprises and extra for my Cafe)

And I started writing a story about a Cafe in Portland that’s magic. It feels so lively to be playing with fiction again.

Wiry Fankle Two

Systems. I’m working on them.

Mostly for my business. And I hate it.

I feel so constricted by the very idea of systems.

But the truth is…

my lack of systems constricts me.

For example, not having a system to promote my April retreats means people don’t hear about them and they don’t get to benefit by attending what is going to be meltingly-wonderful life changingly helpful.

That is constricting.

So I’m thinking of systems as banks on a river. You need banks or you just have a big flood that trickles into nothing.

Otherwise known as a bog. A fetid swamp. A bug infested boondoogle.

I’m taking this free tele-class which will may me feel confused and sleepy but that’s simply a sign I’m making progress.

Progress is slow and my impatient self does not like slow.

Oh well.

Wiry Fankle Three

My slippers.

I am so in love with these slippers, I keep wearing them out of the house because I forget they are on my feet.

When I buy something this perfect (and from a cool company like Zappos; the slippers come almost before I order them- soon I will just think of the shoe I need and they will appear on my porch) I realize (yet again) how little I need to be happy and how comforting good design is.

That’s it for the Wednesday Fankle.

Hope to see you at Kripalu or over at the Comfort Cafe or… for tea!

Start a diet.

2

Try to be everything to everybody at all times.

3

Glue glitter on everything. Keep getting little pieces in your eye, especially while driving in holiday traffic.

4

Visit a mall. Then a big box store. Then go back to the mall for something you forgot. Be sure and grab something to eat in the food court and eat really fast while sitting under florescent lighting listening to Christmas carols.  Don’t drink any water all day while you shop.

5

Handcraft hundreds of intricate holiday cards that involve more glitter and long handwritten notes. Send to everyone you have ever met. Go to the post office during the busiest time and stand in line for hours to buy cute holiday stamps.

6

Compete with your neighbors to see who can put up the most elaborate holiday decorations. Make multiple trips to the hardware store for replacement bulbs.

7

Eat massive amounts of holidays confections. Be sure and eat the most sugary ones with coffee before breakfast several days in a row and then (because you started a diet), don’t eat anything until dinner.  Be amazed at your mood swings and memory loss.

8

Fret frequently about what you are going to give _______ and _______ . When you decide, spend more than you can afford.

9

Stay up late many nights doing any or all of the above.

10

Say yes to every party, recital, play, Nutcracker, caroling, gift exchange, latke-frying, sleigh-slooshing invite. Or pout because you didn’t get any.

11

Keep trying to run your business /do your work, write your book, exercise, keep your relationships healthy, be politically active, find the true meaning of the holidays, and oh yeah, stay on that diet.

Wait… I have to extract my tongue from my cheek…

I really only have one thing to say about the holidays: This year, choose what you want to do – not what any article says nor what you did last year nor what your grandmother did in 1889 and certainly not what you think you should do.  Find your beautiful and imperfect way.

I know, you probably already do but I thought I’d state the obvious. I’m good at that.

(Oh and if I gave you an anxiety attack with this list, you might want to check out the Mood Changers and Comfort Wishes or one of my calming and comforting books, still on sale.)

So last week my focus was to lovingly:

Notice my pattern of wanting to do everything yesterday (aka speediness) and let myself stop and feel the creative urges behind that speediness.

I did this. All of about once.

And I still learned that speediness is how I overcome fear- full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes darling — and that somewhere somehow, my pattern of full speed ahead morphed into a way that fear invades me.

When I hurry for the wrong reasons (usually associated with what I should have done already or what I should have done instead) especially with my work, I become afraid and the panic slows me down which reinforces the story I’m not doing enough fast enough– and can actually make that story true as it is hard to create when you are afraid.

(Although utterly possible, if you are very kind and conscious and have a sense of humor.)

I’m stating to see how making a plan each week of how much I can actually do versus how much I think I should be doing might just possibly maybe be a good idea.

What kind of planning do you all use? (Oh but that word planning makes my little artiste self all pouty and rebel feeling.) (I’ll just let her pout for a moment.)

This week: Appreciative Pattern Noticing

I like what we are doing with all this noticing- it works! - and this week I am ready to focus on what’s good about one of my patterns because it feels like too much attention on what isn’t so great might start to feel cruel… and this is a self-cruelty free zone.  Self-cruelty.

So this week let’s put our attention on the Pattern We are Doing that We Like

What’s working for you that you want to testify too? Throw lilies at and hemp socks (so comfy and yet firm; I like a firm sock, go figure) and otherwise hallelujah all about.

And perhaps, if you want to and if it naturally happens, do more of. The good pattern. The thing you do that you like. Small, natural, easy, weird: it’s all good.

I’ll go first.

This week I will lovingly notice when I am being exuberant and I’ll enjoy that about myself and if I have the thought, “I should do something with this energy, like use it or share it or make it last,” I will just breath.

What wonderful pattern, proclivity, leaning, tendency and general penchant of yours would you like to pat on the back this week?

I fully endorse any noticing that hoists your freak flag high!

Want to join me? Name your pattern in the comment section. You can name the same pattern from last week, if you played last week. Or you may want to tweak yours a tad.

I could barely form a thought, let alone write a blog post.

I felt little down. And I felt guilty and weird about feeling let down. But then in the afternoon, coaching a writing client, we were talking about how fighting yourself never works and I thought, “That’s what I’ve been doing all day. Fighting myself for being let down and exhausted.”

So I stopped and noticed I was let down, exhausted and wanting to hide from the world. And I didn’t, as the amazing Havi says, let that impress me. I gave myself some time to cry and snuggle and just notice. And then I read Naomi who always makes me feel hopeful. Then I went to the library and got some good novels to read when I finish Kathleen Norris’s great book. And hugged Bob and the dogs a lot. And Karen sent me this blog post which also helped.

Then in my writer’s group last night, Margaret said, “I couldn’t settle today. I kept feeling something should happen.” That made me feel less alone. Which is always good.

Then she went on to say that she wished the U.S. did things like her native U.K., “There’s a moving van waiting at the back door of 10 Downing Street to take the old guy out as the new guy’s moving in at the front.”

We have to wait 74 more days give or take a day I might have lost while napping.

I have an idea: let’s not wait. As Lisa said on Twitter “Can you take this breathless moment of shared hope and exhale it into our tomorrows?”

Let’s start exhaling now.

Let’s exhale our shared hope in small and vital ways and start preparing the way for the new year. Let’s work on our courage and resilience and vision so we’re ready to be part of the change. Let’s clear out the old within ourselves, our habits, our beliefs so we can have the energy and courage to help.

Because watching history being made on Tuesday, I kept thinking, “I want to be that great, too.”  Which may sound flamingly ego-mad crazy but isn’t that what great leadership and authentic hope can do, inspire us toward our own greatness?

Let’s begin to ask my favorite question from Viktor Frankl, “What purpose can I make of my life today?” Let’s ask it everyday. Not to find the answer but to allow the question to guide us. (You know I love questions!)

Are you yearning to express your greatness?

If so, what one thing might you love and accept about yourself in this moment so your greatness can shine?

I’d be honored to hear.

And finally, that story I promised you

in what now seems like a different century about the power of moving your body.

Last year I led a weekend retreat centered around rest and inner listening and it included a fair amount of movement with the totally embodied and inspiring Camille Maurine. The participants had come hoping to recapture a spark of joy, a sense of themselves free from “shoulds” and to-do lists. The movement exercises turned out to be the most challenging part of the retreat for a number of the women—and the most life-changing.

In the first exercise, I asked the group to ask their bodies (not their minds) to show them what their everyday life felt like. The circle exploded into hopping, running, grabbing, marching, and slumping. Then we came to a pause, breathed, and noticed how this felt.

Next I asked the group, “What does your sacred pause look like?” It looked like this: graceful swaying, arms opening and extending, breath slowing and deepening. The contrast was startling. But as we continued the exercise with different questions and expressions, I saw one group member, Kit, bolt from the room and several other women who were barely moving.

At a break, I found Kit on a bench overlooking the city. “How are you?” I asked. “Scared,” she said. “It feels like there is this roar inside of me. I want to let it out, but I’m afraid what might happen if I do.” We talked about giving herself permission, being kind to herself, taking it at her own pace—the most important advice when befriending the body’s wisdom.

Walking back to my cabin later, I marveled at how convincingly real our fear can feel, how seemingly impenetrable in its accumulation. Not just a box but a fortress. I asked Camille, “What are we so afraid of?”

Consciousness is a great mystery,” Camille said. “That we can be aware of our own existence is a marvel, but consciousness is also a mixed blessing. Awareness of being alive brings awareness of death, and the more aware we are, the more we feel. Movement brings us smack into contact with that wonder and awe—through sensation, through the breath—and that can be a scary awakening.”

The retreat unfolded beautifully: movement, journaling, and silent time outdoors slowly worked miracles, peeling away our layers of fear, rushing, and self-judgment. I noticed how much younger we all looked, and how much more laughter filled the center. We were discovering how thrilling it is when we reclaim our juice for living, our very life force, when we open our arms to ourselves and abandon our somatic ruts.

After dinner on the second day, Elizabeth told me this story:

When you asked us to move the first morning, I froze. I didn’t want to look stupid or stand out. But then I had an experience that changed everything. I took a walk after our class, and the young girl who lives here joined me. We stopped to watch a horse being shod, and she brought me a handful of flowers and said, ‘I am so lucky to live here!’ As she said this, her body dipped into a squat and popped up again—spontaneous movement! I thought, ‘This child didn’t wonder how to express herself or whether it was acceptable. She just moved.’

Later, in Camille’s class, when she asked us not to move until the impulse came from within, I thought of that girl. I sat frozen for five minutes, determined not to move until my body was ready, reliving every awkward moment of my teenage years, all the times I had learned to physically shut down. When the impulse finally came, it was so exhilarating. My body was breathing me. It was like my mind was a bystander, and as I watched, it was my body telling me stories. As it finished one, I’d get quiet and still, and then another story would pour out. It was breathtaking.”

To the power of love, change, hope, courage and moving our bodies!