Syliloquies

Hidden Gift of the "Little" Loss

2011-12-22T18:02:00.000-08:00

The final game of Tom’s football season, at a time in his life when he needed football more than ever. It was the only game I had the privilege of attending between chemo rounds.

I was grateful beyond words to be there, regardless of being physically weak and having vision that has gotten a little bit blurry as a result of cancer treatments.

For the sport of football, the score ended incredibly high, something like 49 to 54. Both teams played their heart out. The Timpview Quarterback, Britain, ended up running the ball into the end-zone for a touchdown at least five times, before the night was through (three of which were recalled, instilling gasps, moans and yells from the crowd). It was clear that this young man was exhausted. Yet the whole offensive line were not going to give in, regardless of the challenges of the night. This was the final game.

At the end of one of the last plays of the game, Britain was sacked and the ball turned over. You could feel the cringe of every mother in the stands as this young man began again to hobble off the field; having pushed far beyond his edges, wholeheartedly, for quite some time.

About half way off the field I watched, with tears welling in my eyes, as two of the offensive line players spontaneously came up behind him and lifted him the rest of the way off the field. This gesture of comradery and compassion touched me so deeply. I know first-hand how feeling like you are spent, having reached the limit of what you think you can take feels. I was living it that night, and the image of these two players, recognizing his plight and assisting him was so inspiring to me in that moment.  

Going into this diagnosis last summer, I was already at a low ebb, grieving the passing of my dear friend, and co-worker Rex. I assumed my decreased energy was part of the natural grieving process, and wasn’t paying attention to other signs that something may be off. So at a time when most gear up to muster a “fight”, I had none. It was all already spent.   Yet throughout this experience I have felt myself sustained by the faith, prayers and healing energy of others on my behalf, not unlike the struggles on the football field that evening this past fall.  

So many spontaneous acts of kindness, support and strength: Loved ones watching over me, Hats sown and knitted for my head, food left at my door, kind words of encouragement on these posts and FB page, and love expressed in more ways than I would have ever expected.  

At times my mind has dropped into worry at how much loss I will be asked to bear. What side-effects may end up permanent, how long I will have to be with my son; how much sacrifice will be required of me?

All these normal questions were stirring in my mind recently as I fell into a bit of a brooding sleep; and there in my dream I found myself visiting with my old friend Rex. Holding me tight in his usual way, he reminded me of something I already knew that woke me straight out of my sleep. He said: “Syl, whatever is lost in form is always gained in essence”. His demeanor was encouraging, like he could read all the layers of my worry, and answered strait into my heart. I know this concept of balance between “form and essence” to be true from what I teach others through yoga, but I had never thought of it, as he was telling me.

When I think of something lost in “form”, I think of the completeness of death. But in this context he was telling me not to worry about what feel like losses strewn along the way. That each “little loss” is expanding my spirit. He was sharing with me his vantage point. Each disappointment, disability, or limitation that comes as part of the mortal experience evolves the soul (Essence-Self) beyond where it would otherwise be. The essential perspectives that result from each incremental "loss" are one of the main purposes of what we are doing here.

What we call death is only the culmination of all that our lives have caused us to become. A shedding of all the resistance of mortality, and in laying down our frame the spirit experiences an expansion that surpasses comprehension. Yet all the little losses along the way expand that potential as well--whether it’s normal aging, injury, loss of loved ones, or circumstance. 

It’s our nature to grieve these “little” losses (compared to the big final letting go each of us will do); to focus on them from only one side. Based on my experience in my dream, I think we would rejoice if we could see what each one was doing for the essence of who we are; and how sensitive, responsive and magnified our essence (or spirit) becomes as a result.  

After the final football game, driving home with Tom, I shared with him how inspiring that moment was, as Britain was helped off the field...Tom replied: “Mom, that was ME on his right”.

  I can’t express the gratitude that filled my heart that this would be my son’s “knee-jerk" reaction. That he would see it, and act, just because that’s the kind of person he is. That it would be his nature to help someone make up for a little loss...If I learn nothing else from my life, the fact that I get to spend my time as this young man’s mom is better than any other experience or success I could ever be blessed with.  

Though I don’t feel it every moment and still find ways to focus on the “little” loss compared to the blessing of each day, I echo the sentiments Tom posted on his FaceBook page on Thanksgiving Morning, (also echoed in the quiet dream-time visit with my dear Rex):  

“Be thankful for all your trials, obstacles, and yes even your discouragements. It's easy to be thankful for the happy moments and experiences. It's those hard times, hard moments that make you the person you are. So be thankful for those even though at times it may be difficult. Happy Thanksgiving everybody. --Tom”

So as this year wains to it’s close, I want to thank you all for the ways you have been sustaining Tom and I. Treatments are working, and we feel your support. Our faith for our future is strengthened in your prayers & kindness on our behalf. They are playing such important role amidst this lovely, greater balance that truly supports us all!

Noel & Namaste

Living the Lessons We Learn Next

2011-11-10T07:02:00.000-08:00

I got a text message in the early days of my journey with what our culture calls: “aggressive breast cancer”. It was someone in a very small group that I had shared the diagnosis with. He was texting to see how I was handling it. All I could say in response was:

“I’m just living the lesson I will learn next”.

There is nothing more to say. I already understand many of the deeper reasons that have brought me to this experience; they are all are very specific to me, and the path of learning that I have chose in this life to evolve my soul.

As I face my final round of chemo tomorrow on 11-11-11, I have to muse a bit. The irony of Armistice Day, a day celebrating the battle’s end, a “cease fire”, is not lost on me. For me now, it is a symbol of the end of the first phase in a difficult, three-tiered treatment that will reach full completion in early 2012.  

The experience of working at the brink of life, and the conversation between what I want and what God wants for me is really advanced work. The times when there is nothing to do but stay present, without trying to explain it, to justify it, to blame it, but just to “live in the lesson” is a huge challenge.

At first I just wanted to bow out of the whole experience and say to God: “Father, thy will be done.”, but God wasn’t going for that. Turning this experience back to God, like a hot potato, wasn’t going to teach me anything. In truth, over the course of the first nine weeks of treatment, this way of thinking put me MORE out of alignment, until my ego could admit that in this conversation God was nudging me to choose. God’s will for me was to magnify my own agency, and choose for myself, and to ask it out loud of Him.

I am able, through dancing on the brink of life, to gain a clear sense of what I really want and to tell God so. Once I chose, the treatments, though no less intense, became miraculously more manageable, and my body began responding differently. I could feel a sense of contentment within my own physical sorrow (we call cancer). Once I chose, I could feel God’s contentment in me as well.

I had to roll my eyes a bit at the "Zen" of it all, when God also let me know that in reality He still holds all the cards, and will have the final say; yet it has been a vital and important part of my path to exercise the agency of my heart, and my will in this intense experience...To work in tandem with my Source and have a say, in God's say for me is a worthy experience. As I play with this delicate balance, I have realized at a depth not prior, that together we make a lovely team.

As human beings, we often resist having to actually “Live” the lessons in life, because they can get really, really, really tough. It’s our nature to try to either skip over it all or get mired in them as a way of ennobling our ego, because it feels like otherwise, we are unjustifiably out of synch with the status quo of health and balance, be it a physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual "cancers" we may be dealing with.

  For me, I have found that this experience, at it’s core, seems to be, yet again, a re-alignment. It is placing everything in order. It is revealing the truth of who every person around me really is at their essence, it is holding me in a place of attention and receptivity, it is protecting me from things I cannot understand in this moment, that I may otherwise be experiencing if I was not dealing with this. It is refining me.

During this process, I have considered often, the popular attitude of seeking a life of “grace and ease” with the intention of immunity to the greater edges of what we think we can handle. The popular suggestion that we don’t really need to experience the tougher side of things, in truth, limits our ability to fully understand and realize our potential and what it can teach us. One of my favorite poems, by David Whyte, sums it up beautifully:

The Well of Grief

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief

turning down to its black water
to the place that we can not breathe

will never know
the source from which we drink
the secret water cold and clear

nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else

David Whyte, Where Many Rivers Meet
Copyright © 1990 by David Whyte. All Rights Reserved
Many Rivers Press (www.davidwhtye.com)

Though the coins of my grief have been many and there have been moments I have wished it would all just stop, even for just a while, I know this lesson in which I find myself is, at the very least, a great and deep opportunity...and that, I can say for sure.

For now, I am still just living the lesson I learn next.

Thank you for your prayers, kind words and tender gestures on mine and Tom’s behalf, be it spiritually or physically, each one is known to us; and they are teaching all of us on this path so much more than we may have the capacity to know right now.

Something I Want Him to Know for Sure

2011-10-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

I met my son, Tom, five years before his actual birth.

I was cleaning my apartment, and as I walked through my bedroom, I was enlightened to the presence of a delightful, happy, young spirit that I could clearly feel to next me. I knew him to be my future son and could feel him letting me know how excited he was to be my boy and that he was ready and waiting to come to me. I had many years and lessons to learn before I would feel ready to be a mom on my end.

The encounter eventually faded completely from my mind, until eight years later when I was watching my three year old boy playing in front of me. He looked up and I smiled at him, and the experience from my small apartment so long ago came back to mind in an instant. I marveled at what an exact match this little brilliant, fun, happy, boy was to the little spirit I had felt many years before.

It has been a pleasure to play the role of mother to such a valiant soul. I love each moment and cherish my relationship with him above all else.

Tom wanted to join me in the doctor’s office this past summer, as we began to map out an invasive breast cancer diagnosis (with no family history or understandable cause). An unexpected turn that had set us both back off our heels, to say the least.

It was on the way home, both of us in deep contemplation at the enormity of our situation, that I held his hand and let him know that there is no way to know how this will all pan out; but something I do want him to know for sure is that I love him and that life (as fleeting as it can be) doesn’t end with death, regardless of any outcome concerning me.

I explained to Tom that if it is not my time, then everything we do will work, and the right treatments will fall into place for a full recovery, on what would be a very intense journey for him to witness as my son and for me to experience as his mom.

I also told him that if it is my time, then nothing we do will work, and in nearly the same breath, I explained to Tom that I have no fear of death.

We held hands tight as I told him that, if my passing were to be the outcome, I would simply move from my body and wrap my spirit around his for the rest of his days. I would be there no matter what, no matter where.

My heart burst with sorrow as I explained to my boy, that the only sadness I do feel at the idea of passing from my body, is that he may not be able to feel me, or be able to trust that I was still caring for him in more ways than he could ever know.

I experienced a depth of sadness I had never felt at the chance that he may not recognize that when something great happens during his day, that it was because I had a hand in it on his behalf. Or that when life gets tough, it was because I went to God and asked for just the right experience to make my son a better man; that there may be times in Tom’s life that he may not be able to feel me cheering him on and comforting him when in need of it.

In this moment of speaking one of my most cherished truths to my son, I gained an understanding of God, I had never fully known for myself.

So many traditions teach us to praise and acknowledge the universal hand of God in all things, even at the times that push us to our brink. And in this conversation, on one of the most tender days of my life, I told my son, that my love for him is how I know beyond a shadow of doubt, that God feels the same.

It’s not about giving credit to God so I can get to Heaven some day later on, or feel good about myself now, it’s about love. It’s always just about love, one Godly moment at a time, when Heaven spontaneously reveals itself, so pure and simple, to the heart.

In the months since being diagnosed, I have been at the brink many times (as I will continue to be for a while yet). This conversation in trying to teach Tom, (where I was being taught myself), to help him understand one of the most important things he will ever know, continues to be an important reflecting point on my own journey.

Much of the road still lies before us, but what I know so far is that regardless of when I pass from this life, I have to trust that if I could feel my son before he came, then he will certainly be able to feel me after I go, whenever that time may be, at whatever the stage in Tom's life...and in this I feel true peace.

From the day he was born, Tom has been a motivating strength in my life in so many ways. Being his mom continues to teach me many of life’s most important lessons, and as always, I love him for it.

In the course of treatments so far, and to the astonishment of my many doctors, the tumor has dissipated down to near nothing and prognosis is looking good. It gives us strength to continue trusting that we are on the right path. I know this initial outcome is a result of much of the prayer, faith, fasting and support of so many of you, and Tom and I want to thank you. As it stands now, we have reason to expect nothing less than full recovery by early 2012.

It has been important for me to pay attention to the fact that this journey has not been an easy, quick fix. No miraculous snap of my yogi fingers and “poof” it’s gone, no immunity from life experience that pulls me up by the roots, just because I’ve tried to do my best to create optimal health in body, mind and spirit. Only a deep and increased capacity to fully experience it all first-hand, and for that I am grateful on many levels.

As the path of necessary treatment regimens have scrolled their way out before me, the message that has shown up is: that for now I am to labor at the “brink” of things. For now this is where I am, and this is where I will understand love in ways not possible otherwise.

Tom and I know we are not on our own in this experience. We thank you, thank you, for every kindness, and we continue to lean on them with gratitude that surpasses words.

Here I Raise My Ebenezer

2011-08-06T12:18:00.000-07:00

Lately in the evenings, as I have the strength to do so, I make my way quietly into Bodhi Yoga, after all the yogis have gone for the day, and the CottonTree offices are all closed.

With the doors open, the most lovely cross breeze caresses my brow. In this sacred space, with my left hand, I roll my mallet around my crystal bowl. The Heart chakra tone expands up my arm and into my left breast, where there is a mass in the shape of a tear. It has spread to a small duct just below my sternum next to the left border of my heart and into the lymph nodes of my left armpit.

There are so many things I love about being in my physical body. One of my favorite, is honoring my natural rhythms. Learning yoga has brought me into an intimate appreciation for these rhythms at the cellular level... Such an unexpected and precious gift in my life.

As I begin my first rounds of necessary treatment, my heart, (both grateful and sorrowed), is in a place of surrender to the enormity of ways and methods required to restore my health. I marvel at the chaotic effects that paradoxically serve to help me eventually recover, while for a time, reeking havoc on my beloved body and her cherished rhythms.

Seated with my bowl, in my sacred space, the chant I begin calling is: “Om Shreim”, a mantra for bringing chaos into harmony. The tones of the bowl soon fill the room, spilling over onto the empty streets below.

Between the deep sound of my voice, and the resonant tone of the bowl, I can feel the molecules of my body vibrating into a better place, if only momentarily.  

As my meditation continues, I am pleasantly surprised to feel my chanting evolve from traditional Sanskrit, into one of my favorite old English hymns. I hear my voice begin to slowly sing, long, resonant tones of “Come Though Fount of Every Blessing”.

I knew before I heard the words, that my body had hand-picked this song to call in the grace from all your prayers and positive energy, to more fully implant into the tissues of my body.

The lyrics of Robert Robinson (1735-1790), a fellow searcher for spiritual truths, begins with the words:

Come, thou Fount of every blessing,
tune my heart to sing thy grace;
streams of mercy, never ceasing,
call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it,
mount of thy redeeming love.”

I clearly feel the mass over my heart taking in the prayers of so many of you, who have fixed your love and prayers upon this place in my body. With my exhale, I breathe out gratitude, sending back to each of you individually, my deep humility and appreciation.

Each expression of gratitude on my part makes room for blessings beyond measure to work within me. The gratitude I feel for all the love you're sending me is also a universal acknowledgement that, whether we like to think so or not, all of us here are intimately connected, taking turns feeding one another. Personally, I have felt angelic help directing your individual prayers through me so specifically...There are no words to describe it.

As I begin to softly roll my voice through the second verse, the message I was meant to glean on this particular evening becomes clear, with the words:

Here I raise mine Ebenezer;
hither by thy help I'm come;
and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.

When you hear the word “Ebenezer”, most of us think of Scrooge. The disgruntled old man, created by Charles Dickens in his beloved classic “A Christmas Carol”. What most don’t realize is that Dickens choose this name, because it would tell the whole story of a man's change of heart in one word, start to finish.

Dickens knew the word Ebenezer comes from the bible story of Samuel; a man who helped a whole culture change their ways. In this story, everyone in the village would let go of all the stories they had been telling themselves, release their destructive habits and forsake their collective ego. Through their shedding, they were able to start fresh, healed and alive again, with a new consciousness on all levels, that freed them from past failings.

In this bible story, Samuel erected a large stone at the place where this collective change of heart occurred and called the stone: "Ebenezer", the Hebrew word for "Stone of Help". He publicly dedicated it as a monument to God's help, faithfulness, and unending commitment to lighten our care, as we learn to become willing to let go.

As the people in the village got on with their lives, the stone stood there, visible to all who passed that way, as a reminder of their surrender of the old way of thinking and acting, the mercy of God's grace in allowing them to change and renewal of their essential truths and higher way of living.

The Ebenezer stone was a physical reminder of a fresh beginning, a reversal of course for God's village, and the Universal love that allows all of us to choose anew in each moment.

Today, the chip we get in AA programs, or journals we keep, or rocks we carry in our pocket are all simply modern day Ebenezers.

So in chanting these lines, I feel this Tears-shaped tumor lift slightly with my breath, and I know instantly that this mass over my heart is my own personal “Ebenezer”; a very profound gratitude rock within my breast.

The invasive condition I am presently experiencing does not come from outside of me, it is not an invasion into me of anything foreign, these are the cells of my beloved body, currently wandering on paths that stray from my normal rhythms. I choose to hold them in my care without judgement, as best as I can, even as they stray from their dharmic, and healthy way being.

This Ebenezer within my breast is teaching me so many things, but most of all it is deepening my capacity for gratitude, surrender and trust in this journey; and the course God chooses through me to take.

As I sang the last verse accompanied by the tones of my miraculous crystal bowl (that has a story all it’s own), I felt tears streaming from my face down to breast. I could feel all my cells, but particularly those who are straying, respond to my words as I sing:

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for thy courts above.

The measure of these words feels like such an important acknowledgement, a gentle nod to my cells, that for a season in my life have become prone to wander, yet teaching me lessons on a level I could learn in no other way.

Thank You for All Your Prayers... “Lord I Feel it”

Namaste

Syl

Tell it to the Hand

2011-07-13T01:03:00.000-07:00

This week I was given a story. A story in the form of what the docs call "diagnosis".

For now, I choose to refer to it as:

"Invasive *&@^#%*!".

As I have begun the journey of meeting with the spectrum of docs and helping my son Tom, as he works through what it feels like for him. I have told a handful of close, enlightened friends (who know how to stream light and love without the ego of doubt, fear & drama interfering), as well as a few members of my family. In doing so, I find I have already gained a plethora of new perspectives.

I could feel right off the bat, my need for sacred sanctuary, where God and I together can heal me in ways we both agree on. I need to be able to be in this sacred space every moment possible. I have all the tools I need already within me to clear and collect the lessons related to what this truly is all about. In order for this to happen I really heard the words when my doc, who is a dear friend said: "You have "Invasive *&@^#%*!", and I want you to know that we are going to get through this together".

I accept that I get to walk a storyline for a while, but I cannot validate the cultural charge to all the language connected to the name of this condition I am currently experiencing.

I heard my body, almost immediately, tell me to soften my surroundings; to create a sacred buffer for my holy place of sanctuary with God, and Tom of course.

Actually, my sister Jeanie heard my body calling first, and followed her intuition that led her to the hospital where I was for tests late last week. A day or so later, while waiting for the final word, she showed up, with laptop in hand, to hang out at my house for a few days, just so I could know that she already knew too, and would be there with me when the docs said it out loud.

Since I was born, Jeanie (who is 10 years older than me), was the sibling that would grab me and snuggle me into her bed with her on a Saturday morning. Her face lit up whenever I saw her, during our growing up years. In a large family, where I was fairly invisible, I knew she esteemed herself my mamma!

I was cool with playing the roll of babydoll to my 12 year old sister. In fact, this past week, I overheard her telling one of the nurses that she just had to come down, she used to change my diapers, and just couldn't miss being there with me.

Even into our adult years, she has taken Tom under her wing, taught him how to ski, cooked him dinners, and cozied up with him on her couch when he was little, just as she did with me. These days, each time I call her, she answers her phone with an ecstatic: "HI SWEETIE!"

So I was clear, as text messages, phone calls and email started to roll in, that Jeanie would be my buffer. Not to keep out love, support or concern; but to allow me to create the quiet space for myself where I could really feel the love coming to me, and use it in my healing, without having to tell my story over and over to my dear family, which would bring in more of the highly charged words describing what I am experiencing and what to expect from it all.

When my tests were complete, and Jeanie and I could feel where It was heading, I called my Bishop (clergy), and asked him to administer to me a blessing of healing. I loved that the oil he used to anoint my head was consecrated in the Garden of Gethsemane, at the foot of the Mount of Olives; an inspired act of forethought on a recent trip to Jerusalem. He told me that my body had been prepared and strengthened in preparation for this experience (I love a good bishop who has watched me on my yogic path with appreciation, rather than suspicion)...and then he blessed my son, a strong young man now, who was already feeling the weight of it all.

In my community, my church family is called a "Ward". In a ward, (like most church communities) everybody eventually knows everything, and rolls out the bandwagon, like pioneers crossing the plains with hands of helpfulness.

One of the truest friends I have ever had is Kathy, she is in my church family. Kathy has shown up on my door with wheatgrass juice in a champagne flute, first thing in the morning. She has called Tom over to help her tinker on her motorcycle, and always helps me find the biggest bang for our buck for Tom on the Fourth of July. Most times Kathy and I are together, we end up in wild laughter over a mixture of something we have observed that is both oblivious, obvious and ridiculous.

So today in my peeled-open and vulnerable place, she agreed wholeheartedly to be my buffer with my ward family. If anyone at church wants to come squeeze my arm, wink or smile at me, or even high five, feel free, I'd love it! But if anyone wants to come up and tell me about the latest miracle cure, or multi-level marketing company that will surely save my life, or is curious to know the details about what our culture calls: "Invasive *&@^#%*!", or asks me how I am feeling, I will simply say, with love in my heart: "I don't know, you'll have to ask Kathy."

And then there is my life's work and my beloved, enlightened yogis, who come and go from my Thai Office and The Bodhi Yoga Center, (which with all your ongoing support, I lovingly created for us), as well as our valued Online Community of 3500 (or so) long-distance yogis who are like minded, goodhearted souls.

Today, amidst the phone, and text, and facebook posts (I removed until I was ready to put this out there on my own terms). In my gut-check day, I met with Frank, for our weekly Thai Partner Yoga Session. I was grateful for the chance to work on him, and apreciated his willingness to let me be "the giver" for a couple of hours and feel the healing energy, for him, move through me, on such a day. Doing this kind of work for a living blesses me in so many ways as I share with others.

Mid-session, I was doing light acupressure on his hand, and felt Rex's presence enter into the room. Frank's hand that I was holding, felt like Rex's hand, so clearly in its shape, temperature and texture, that I know so well from working on him . In fact I found I had to open my eyes and look. The two hands, I felt at the same time indistinguishable, yet both there together. I felt Rex saying to me: "I am gonna lend you my hand, all the way, my dear." I could also feel Frank's desire to do so too, which he almost immediately verbalized.

So later this evening, when I got home, I called and started to ask him to be my buffer with my beloved yogis, and before I got the sentence out, I heard a resounding "YES! I'll do it. I'll do it." Years ago, Frank was in my Bishopric at church, we have known each other for a longtime, really long in the existential sense. We met up again recently, and I have watched in admiration as this 60 year young man enrolled in the Bodhi Yoga Teacher Certification course and took off on the Yogic path like greased lightening. It was all I could do to get out of his way as he began teaching classes to youth in our local Juvenile Detention Center...delightful.

Frank will be my Yoga family buffer, to update and field concerns and wishes to and from me for members of my local yoga family at frankballard@gmail.com

To my long distance yoga family in 18 countries and nearly all 50 states in the US, I would ask that you just follow this blog for information on how I am ,"bodhi", mind and spirit and continue to support Bodhi Yoga in ways that feel right for you! I may even share a few lessons as we go along, through the online yoga center about to launch. Feel free to post comments that support my intention for full circle healing.

The word buffer that I am using in this post is in no way to keep the love and support out. The three lovely buffers here called Jeanie, Kathy and Frank, (as well as the many teachers at Bodhi Yoga), will be the ones that can talk with you all about what our culture calls: "Invasive *&@^#%*!". To me the name doesn't matter to anyone but me and my docs. Dwelling on the name, and all it presumably means, has nothing to do with the healing, and I need your support with very pure, healing energy, faith and prayers sent my way.

In a note to the Bodhi Yoga Teachers I wrote last night these words: "I plan to continue with Trainings, Yoga Classes, Jamie will handle Bodhi Yoga's private Thai Partner Yoga work. I want everyone at yoga to know that they are free to come share love, hugs, light and strong Prana. I just don't want to repeat updates or stories back and fourth, as that expands energy of what our culture calls: "Invasive *&@^#%*!"

The condition has already told me what it is...It is what we call INVASIVE. So I am trying to hear that right off the bat and negate overload. I am just doing my best to honor the request that my body has already cashed in on.

For me at this point it is to create a parameter of just three people, who fully support my intention, that I have to tell the story to in any way shape or form. They'll pass on anything related back and fourth as necessary to you my "families". This will allow me to, first protect my son from having to hear, read, focus and worry on an endless stream of conversations that describe Invasive *&@^#%*! and second, focus my energy on healing full time, and creating a reality where it is already in place for myself, my son and my families.

Of all the highly charged words related to "Invasive *&@^#%*!", the one I chose to honor is the word: "Invasive". My body has put my life on the line, to help me in no uncertain terms put an end to being invaded upon in any way. No more allowing my ideas, work, energy and image to be invasively profited from without conscience by others. No more quietly accepting condescension combined with vindictiveness. No more saying yes, or that's okay, when I mean no. It is time to set the invasive areas, associations, and expectations free, to be themselves somewhere other than manifesting through the tissues of my body.

I have no doubt, that right now, I am pure and simple, just living the lesson I will learn next. I give no energy to the past, as I set it free, and I worry not for the future, as right now, in this moment, all is incredibly well within my soul.

I send my love and blessing to all of my families and thank you so sincerely for every kindness, prayer-filled and faithful thought.

I remind you that what I know so far is, that the play-by-play, dramatic details, we tend to get sucked into dwelling on in situations like this, though gossip and drama, only serve to expand the energy of disharmony, but the bigger picture, and higher purposes are more vast, and love encompassed than any of us can fully comprehend.

Words cannot express my love for each of you. You have an immeasurable meaning and place in my life. I love you dearly, and will continue to lean on and be supported by the loving breezes you are sending my way. I can feel your glow, and Tom and I thank you for it.

Namaste

Syl

Your Faces in the Hillside

2011-06-27T22:10:00.000-07:00

This evening as I walked my dog along the hillside above my home, it occurred to me that I was on the path you used to ride your horse on as a young man. Walking past your old neighbors, who's names I've long forgot, I thought of you astride, as you looked over the valley where you would eventually make your life. I thought of the man you had become that wore so many faces, many that I was lucky enough to see.

The dedicated husband and father, your most important role. I had watched the care you took over your family and neighbors. The ways you served and were fed there.

The diplomat therapist and analytical thinker, who would calmly navigate the emotional minefield of relationships; always reading up on the newest techniques for creating harmony (but once you opened the book, you would usually end up napping in your chair).

The healer, who’s broad shoulders were often moist at the end of the day from the endless care you showed the heavyhearted. Few knew that there were many times you went to your knees in prayer in your office, when you felt your client needed help beyond your own ability.

The chuckler who would occasionally choke and cough on your own deep laughter.

The loyal friend, be it fisherman, or listening ear. You could be counted on.

So many others, too many faces to count: The rockstar/musician, leading-man actor, goofball, baseball player, Mr. fix-it, the fierce defender.

I would have to say that the thing you were the very best at was navigating your faces, because behind them all, you were always in some internal conversation with yourself. You protected the boundaries of your many faces so intensely; and from my perspective, deep down you remained a quiet warrior of unspoken battles your whole life.

Climbing the hill this evening with my dog, I could feel the soft beat of my feet in deep contemplation of all your complexity. Somehow, I always knew you as the young man on his horse on the hillside over-looking this valley. I saw him in you no matter what face you seemed to captain at any given moment.

When I walked into the church at your funeral and saw the picture of you, I couldn’t help but to say out loud through my smile: “There You Are!”

I rejoiced in the face I had known our whole friendship, yet never seen with my eyes. I recognized you immediately, from the light in your smile, when you talked about your music, your Wednesday afternoon fishing, your kids weddings, or simply when you walked toward me to say good morning, arms outstretched; and I would ask you: "What's that face for?" with a smile of my own. I knew this look. I had seen it so many times.

And tonight, on such a lovely evening, I find it impossible to commemorate the pain of your passing a year ago today. Tonight I choose to commemorate the moment all your faces melt into one. That young, vital man astride his horse overlooking this valley, and the moment of your rebirth into a JOY that surpasses all mortal understanding, just one frail year ago.

In the most meaningful aspect of our friendship, I learned to follow your example of letting people grow beyond the sum total of who they are in any moment.

And now, this evening, in accepting all of who you were, I take even greater appreciation in who you've become as you shed the limitations of this life. I don't hold you in the moment of your passing, I hold you in your best moments. A variety of perspectives, that together resemble more eternally, a glimpse of the reality of you now; as I feel your spirit palpably nudge me off my couch into an unplanned evening walk along paths you strode yourself.

On my return down the hill, by the time I rounded the corner toward home, the words of the poet David Whyte were rolling across my tongue. We shared an appreciation for his work, and this poem always made me think of you; you as the carver, and you as one of the most profound men I will ever know, who was willing to give yourself “to the blows of the Carver’s hand”, over and over again.  ..Tonight, I dedicate these words to you, Rex, so beloved, by so many, for so many different reasons:

THE FACES AT BRAGA

In monastery darkness 
by the light of one flashlight 
the old shrine room waits in silence

While above the door 
we see the terrible figure, 
fierce eyes demanding, "Will you step through?"

And the old monk leads us, 
bent back nudging blackness
 prayer beads in the hand that beckons.

We light the butter lamps 
and bow, eyes blinking in the 
pungent smoke, look up without a word,

see faces in meditation, 
a hundred faces carved above, 
eye lines wrinkled in the hand held light.

Such love in solid wood! 
Taken from the hillsides and carved in silence 
they have the vibrant stillness of those who made them.

Engulfed by the past 
they have been neglected, but through
 smoke and darkness they are like the flowers

we have seen growing 
through the dust of eroded slopes, 
then slowly opening faces turned toward the mountain.

Carved in devotion
 their eyes have softened through age 
and their mouths curve through delight of the carver's hand.

If only our own faces
 would allow the invisible carver's hand
 to bring the deep grain of love to the surface.

If only we knew 
as the carver knew, how the flaws
 in the wood led his searching chisel to the very core,

we would smile, too
 and not need faces immobilized 
by fear and the weight of things undone.

When we fight with our failing
 we ignore the entrance to the shrine itself
 and wrestle with the guardian, fierce figure on the side of good.

And as we fight 
our eyes are hooded with grief 
and our mouths are dry with pain.

If only we could give ourselves 
to the blows of the carver's hands, 
the lines in our faces would be the trace lines of rivers

feeding the sea
 where voices meet, praising the features 
of the mountain and the cloud and the sky.

Our faces would fall away 
until we, growing younger toward death 
every day, would gather all our flaws in celebration

to merge with them perfectly,
 impossibly, wedded to our essence,
 full of silence from the carver's hands.

David Whyte, Where Many Rivers Meet
Copyright © 1990 by David Whyte. All Rights Reserved
Many Rivers Press (www.davidwhtye.com)

Inside His Ancient Heart

2011-06-03T00:37:00.000-07:00

A year ago today you walked toward me for a mid-day hug in our office for the last time. I remember it well, because it was so unusual. At the time I was quietly startled as it seemed to me that the cells of your body felt so frenetic. If I had to describe it, I would say it felt like you wanted to crawl under the surface of my skin and hide, very uncharacteristic. In thinking back on this squeeze, I wondered if somewhere deep down, your spirit knew of the great journey on which you were about to embark.

They always say that the first year following the loss of a loved one is the hardest. And as we near that monumental marker, the shifts people keep telling me about are occurring here and there.

The doctors downstairs from our office have felt it’s time to bring a new therapist into your space. We have all sat in your office, at one time or another during the past twelve months, flooded with feelings of deep gratitude that it has remained just as you left it, that Thursday evening, a year ago today.

I was in there one evening a few weeks back, dusting the counters and vacuuming your baseboards. I noticed a change in the air, and I wondered to myself how long it would remain your lovely space. I could tell you were so close. In retrospect, it felt as though you were comforting me ahead of time, so when I learned of the change, my heart could bear it better.

So many people have told me that once we pass the year mark, I probably won’t feel you as close. I’ve wondered for myself if this will be the case.

I certainly have been in a very contemplative place, thinking over the last year...All the things you were facing prior to your sudden illness. The incredible experience, over such a short period, of watching you come to terms with it all firsthand. And the experience of witnessing you accomplish your passing through the veil with greater integrity than I knew anyone could.

I love you so deeply for the way you chose to pass. Like your life, it was a template for strength, trust and courage.

As I was cleaning some of your things, I shook out one of your throws and read with a chuckle the “ Fisherman’s Creed”:

“I pray that I may live to fish
Until my dying day
And when it comes to my last cast
I then most humbly pray
When in the Lord’s great landing net
And peacefully asleep
That in his mercy, I be judged
Big enough to keep”

I felt a smile grow across my face as I folded this lovely part of your mortality up.

I went home and decided to ride my bike up the canyon, with the thought of you fanning across my mind. New waves of grieving and gratitude washed over me, as I pedaled along the green shades of the Provo River, thinking of you in your hip-waders, fly fishing. The smells of the canyon are so sweet and lift my spirit like the sweet support I have experienced from you through the veil so often.

On my way biking up to my favorite willow tree, I notice someone had graffitied on a small building off the side of the path: “Life has no limits if you are not afraid to get in it”.

It reminded me of your approach to helping so many as a therapist. There were many days that I would walk into your office (when I had finished with my own client), and see that you had some saying like this written on your whiteboard, for the client you just finished a session with. Seeing this phrase on my ride gave me needed a boost of encouragement to accomplish my 14 mile journey.

Sweet tender mercies, such as this, have peppered my days and weeks since your passing. Yet still I was wading through the questions of: Will I not feel you so close anymore? What does “time” have to do with anything? From my experience, the veil dissolves when we transcend time and let ourselves experience the present, that’s when I feel you the most; those quiet times when you catch me off guard. Yet I felt myself asking fisherman Rex: Do you have somewhere else to go? Someplace to be? --When the veil that supposably separates us, is really is just the thin sheath of my own mortal view?

These questions continued flowing through the past few weeks, until one day recently, when I just couldn’t make it through my day. I bowed out of all my commitments and spent a quiet day to myself. I biked slowly up the canyon, sat under the willow for a bit, and made my way back home along the banks of the river. Once back home again, I prepared a simple dinner and began cleaning my kitchen in preparation for bed.

I felt impressed to light the candles in each room for the evening. As I cleaned the kitchen, I turned on the T.V. to find the re-run of a show where a popular singer was performing a rendition of Billy Joel’s “Lullaby”. I have always loved that song, and it was the perfect ambiance for my waining day.   I remembered that this song was included in the last CD you sang on with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, so I popped my iPod on the dock and let it serenade my hands as they moved my cloth back and fourth across my counter tops.

It was not until the third time through, that my mind was enlightened to your presence, so I stopped my cleaning and (at your nudging) listened to the words.

Your spirit so compassionately again embraced me, in the same familiar and supportive way it has since your passing. I love that it was your voice singing a cappella, as one of the men in the choir that you loved so much. I love that you spoke to me from your fisherman’s heart, on a day my mind had been flooded with images of you as I biked along the water’s edge:

“Good night my angel time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you've been asking me
I think you know what I've been trying to say

I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Where ever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away

Good night my angel now it's time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an emerald bay

And like a boat out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark and deep
Inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me

Goodnight my angel now it's time to dream
And dream how wonderful your life will be
Someday your child may cry and if you sing this lullaby
Then in your heart there will always be a part of me

Someday we'll all be gone
But lullabies go on and on
They never die that's how you and I will be”

So so sincerely, sweet sweet Rex, I thank you again, my kind, beloved fisherman friend.

The Love of Letting "Grow"

2011-04-25T20:47:00.000-07:00

There’s a picture on one of my mantles of me and Tom, long ago. I use to hold his hand in mine when he was small, and as I caressed his fingers, I would tell him how one day he would grow to be much taller than me and my hand would eventually fit in his.

I could see his incomprehension at such a thing, as he gave me a glance of amazement followed by a snuggle in the rocker we shared.

Several Summers ago, I bought Tom his first bike with gear shifts. Since he was tiny, I would ride my bike up Provo Canyon pulling my boy in the bike buggy or trailing to his side, as he pedaled on his little bike. I was feeling the sentiment of those early days as we took off together, one sunny afternoon on his new bike.

I recall thinking that there must be something wrong with my gears as I watched him gradually leave me in his dust. I pedaled harder and still had trouble reaching him. For a moment I worried that I may have some un-diagnosed disease, because no matter how hard I pedaled I couldn’t keep up with my boy.

It soon dawned on me that this was not a disease on my end, but young manhood on Tom’s. I surrendered my pride, as it occurred to me my that my boy was really going to eventually grow up; and someday soon, my hand would indeed fit in his. Even though I had told him this many times, I had never truly realized that I would at some point actually have to let him go.

As supreme (and beyond my own dictates), as the act of giving birth to him was, so too equally, would be letting him grow up and eventually move on, into his own way in the world.

We recently walked over to a neighbor’s for breakfast. Tom headed first, with me trailing behind with my favorite ghee and honey to add to our morning Æbleskiver feast. In the footsteps in the springtime snow-covered sidewalk, I was reminded again as I looked at his large footprint, on the left, next to mine. Only 13 years old, and he is showing every sign of being a big guy, with broad shoulders and a big barrel chest; and even better, a generous and happy disposition, especially with his younger cousins.

The whole concept of letting go has been harder this year, since experiencing Rex’s passing. In this age of DVRs and instant replay it seemed so cruel that we couldn’t just back up and say or do one thing more before he moved on.

An hour after he passed I drove from the hospital. While waiting at a stoplight, I noticed an unusual feathery, tingling sensation up and down the outside of my left leg. If felt similar to what I did for him many times with Thai Yoga. I remember thinking that I must be in shock; but wondered if this sensation, that was new to me, might be him communicating to me. I made a mental note of it, and continued to the Yoga Center at CottonTree. Soon, several of the Doctors and staff from downstairs where Rex and I shared an office, gathered to console each other.

Over the days, weeks, and months following, this subtle, feathery, tingling still comes and goes. I am clear (from experience) that it’s a confirmation when he’s close by. Letting me know he is still here for me, and yet I have to let the 56 year old man I knew so well go.

In letting him go, we appreciate all the things he was so great at. At the same time, we set him free from all the things that weren’t working, or he didn’t get the chance to do or say. Letting him go is my thank you to him. In letting him go, rather than holding him at where he was, I let him grow young again. Another kind of Supreme Love.

For myself, I know when we cross the veil, if we are ready, we shed a lot of the limitations of mortality. In the months and weeks since his passing, I have shared many experiences of how Rex’s energy has been magnified in my life. I think if I were overly attached and focusing on all the sadness at my own loss, and fixated on where he was when he passed, I couldn’t be so open to how he reaches me now.

During this time (that most people call “loss”), I know he has not wanted me to hold him in the place he was in mortality before he passed. I have had to let him go, to let him grow young, beyond the veil; and in turn, continue his kindnesses to me and many others in new ways from a new perspective.

In order to let him go, I have to try my best to just be grateful for the fact that we got to share a small corner of mortality with each other. In doing so, I have found that the sting of loss heals only to the extent of my own gratitude. I am profoundly humbled that when it comes to Rex, or any loved-one we have experienced loss with, that: “There is really no such thing as good-bye, when LOVE is present.” -- a message that came to me recently, I believe to be from him.

It’s a message that for now, I can live with.

Reciprocity

2011-03-30T22:53:00.000-07:00

I woke the other morning to my son coming in to say our morning prayers together and read a few passages from scripture to start our day.

As Tom plopped into the chair in the corner of my bedroom, I sat up in bed after a night of deep, restful sleep. I folded the covers back and was startled to find a large feather, nearly the size of my palm, laying directly next to me in bed.

It was unusual to me because it’s vane was perfectly fanned, and the shaft was lined straight up and down, longwise in the bed, in such a way that it took my breath momentarily, as I realized what it was.

I helped my son prepare for his day and got him on the bus for school. I returned to make my bed and instead sat down as I twirled this feather in my fingers, contemplating its random appearance. It was too big to have come out of my comforter, and my logic mind filed through several other explanations (most if them implausible).

I pulled open a book I keep close to my bed called: “Animals Speak-A Comprehensive Dictionary of Animal, Bird & Reptile Symbolism”. I looked under feathers and read all sorts of nice, yet insignificant meanings; none of which spoke to me.

I thought of a time I was walking into work one spring morning, and found Rex with a hose pouring a light trickle of water onto the lawn. I joked with him from afar, that we had landscapers for that, but as I approached, I looked down to find surrounding his feet a brood of baby ducklings, lapping up the water, with their mom and pop waddling close by.

Taking this memory as a possible cue, I looked up the meaning of ducks (thinking it was a duck feather that showed up so mysteriously in my bed). The book said something about ducks being a symbol for emotional support....“Okay Rex,” I called to my ceiling. “Thanks for the support!” The definition didn’t feel right either though, so I laughed at myself and got ready to face the day.

That afternoon I went to a massage I had scheduled with a friend who’s worked on me for years.

Since she was little, the veil has been thin for her, and I knew her to be very intuitive; yet I said nothing about my experience that morning. In fact I said, intentionally, that I just wanted to sleep, and wasn’t really up for visiting.

As she quietly began her work on my upper back and shoulders, I heard her sigh several times, and she finally said out loud: “Hang on a minute Syl, I need to go look something up in my ‘Animals Speak’ book!”

I asked her what was up? She told me she had felt Rex’s presence close and that he kept showing her something, but she didn’t want me to think she was a nut, so she was going to look up the meaning first.

I said: “Oh come on. I won’t think you are nuts, just tell me now?”

And with a long sigh she said: “He keeps showing me a Goose and telling me to tell you GOOSE! Is that crazy or what?!”

I told her that she was not crazy, she was right on. Of course a goose feather, that made sense as I have a down comforter; only the feather was much too big to seep through the fabric and it was shades of brown. The feathers in my comforter are little white down feathers, yet here was my answer.

We both laughed and cried a little bit, as I shared my experience from that morning and validated the one she was having right then.

She grabbed the book and read the symbolic meaning of a Goose showing up in dreams or mysteriously in life; and the message that is there for the soul to learn from the experience.

The author, Ted Andrews in the book said: “Geese fly in a V-formation, each one taking turns as the geese behind ride the draft on long journeys, that way the whole group can fly much further than any one alone.”

I thought of how I met Rex first as my therapist and then years later ended up as a caregiver to him as a friend and colleague. Our relationship was symbiotic like that in the way we both had a chance to support one another. I knew at the time, it was a rare kind of relationship.

The description in the book went on, as she read:

“The goose never leaves one of its own kind behind. Should a goose become injured during its migration, another goose will leave the migrating flock to stay with its fallen companion. The goose will stay with the injured member of the flock until it has recovered or until its final breath.”

These sentences made me think of Rex’s goodness. It seemed throughout his life, he was the goose that would leave the migrating flock, and sit with the one who was injured throughout recovery. He did this for me when we met first.

Later on, I was right through the wall watching a steady stream of souls come and go every day. I knew from my own time with him, how he ministered to the broken hearted and heavy laden. I understood full well how important the work was that he was doing on the other side of the wall in my office, and felt that same respect from him to me.

One time when we were talking, he randomly dropped to one knee and waving his hands up and down, said: “I am not worthy!” We both chuckled as I made him stand up and said back jokingly: “You are NOT allowed to worship me...GURU Rex, or in two seconds we would both end up on the floor bowing to each other and it would just look weird!”

A year or so later, when I was asked to attend to him in the hospital, it took not a moments thought before I agreed.

At one point, just a week before his passing, he asked me:

“Syl how can I ever repay you for this?”

My voice broke into tears as I replied to him:

“Rex you have ministered to me in so many ways!”

I told him that there were so many people who would want to be in that hospital room helping. Being there to assist in anyway I could, felt like a sacred role to me. I explained that I was there representing the energy of everyone who loved him so. I shared with him that each one of them would wish to help if they could, and I was just grateful that what I was doing was helpful to him in any way.”

Today I turned back again to the pages in the book and was reminded of the line: “As the Geese constantly shift in formation, it reminds us that as any one individual accomplishes his or her quest, it makes it easier for the others, and in this, we facilitate the journey for each other.”

So in my experience of waking up to a Goose feather that lay perfect at my side, I know for a fact that my experience is a message that belongs to anyone Rex attended to throughout his life. It is such a fitting reminder that he sits with us still as long as is necessary, until our wings have the energy to take flight on their own again.

I am sure each person he cared for has experienced some small tender mercy since his passing, whether we are able to explain it away or not.

In a broader sense, we are each supported in ways we may or may not recognize. Experiences like these teach me to trust that the support beyond our view is much closer than we know.

I love you for your life dear Rex, and since your passing, I marvel still at your ability to catch my heart off guard and blow it open.

Thank You

The Roots That Wind Deep

2011-02-10T14:34:00.000-08:00

I was visiting with a friend who showed me the left-overs of a plant basket she was given. She admitted that through her busy life, she had watched the plants wilt away until they were all gone, but one. She thought she would salvage the basket and soil come next spring, and then decided to set it outside the living area of the house in the garage and left it there, knowing it would die.

She admitted she felt bad, but gave up on this last remaining remnant of what had once been a flourishing basket. I understood where she was coming from; as life gets busy and we have to try to move on as best we can when we know in our head that it’s time to let go. Yet it still didn’t sit well with me. I don’t like to let go, I never have...but I LOVE to surrender.

At 3:00am this past December 24th, I felt a presence I knew to be Rex. I was gently woken from a deep sleep by his smell, of all things. I was fuzzy and disoriented when I thought to myself: “I smell Rex’s aftershave”. He always kept his shaving kit in his car, the same as I do with my make-up bag. Busy people with busy lives just do what we gotta’ do. So when He would come in to work in the morning, It was always apparent he had just splashed it on.

I thought to myself how comforting, and then felt the energy of my room take on a sacred feeling. It was clear he was very close, or I was very open, I am not sure which was the case, but it was unmistakable. I could feel him bringing comfort to my soul in a way he was so good at. I will forever marvel at how solid and softly tactile his energy still feels to me. I drifted in and out of sleep, feeling his warmth, faintly smelling the scent of him, for several more hours; each time keenly aware of his spirit gently holding me. One of the most cherished experiences of my life.

The next morning there was an email from a mutual friend of both Rex and I, with a subject line that said: “Awakened at 3am This Morning”. I opened the email and read:

“Syl,

 A very nice crystal singing bowl was purchased very early this morning....It is a gift to you from Rex. It has very special purposes, some of which I understand...The story of how all this happened will be included with the gift.

 It is a Heart Chakra Crystal Singing Bowl. I'm sure it will be the perfect tone for it's purpose.

Have a Meaningful Christmas Syl.

Frank” 

When Frank delivered this gift, he told me that at 3:00am on 12/24 his computer randomly came out of hibernation and woke him. As he tried to go back to sleep, he felt Rex prompting him to get online and order a Crystal Singing Bowl for me, which he did. Later that day (Christmas Eve Day) he got a call from the seller saying she was sold out. At this point there were no more Heart Chakra Bowls available anywhere in the US or UK.

Frank, being frank, explained that there had to be, and told her of his experience in the wee hours of that morning, and a little about the work Rex and I did together. She sighed and said: “So you are telling me I need to sell you my own personal bowl aren’t you?" He said: “Yes!”. She explained that her bowl had an incredibly pure and healing sound, she considered it sacred glass, and after hearing the story, she could feel for herself that Rex wanted me to have it.

I have loved this gift. As I began to use it as part of my personal meditation, it has lent the most lovely deep ring as a background to my chanting. It took only one roll of my mallet around the outer edges to realize, that the tone of this particular bowl shares a perfect harmony with my voice as I “Om”. It's ring is so deep and soothing...a lovely counterpart to my interpretation of ancient melodies, intended to bridge the gap between Heaven and Earth.

The sound of this bowl is so pure and clear as it fills the room of the yoga center and brings healing to my heart in ways beyond measure. Until today, I have been keeping my chanting and bowl ringing private, but this morning, being dear Rex’s birthday, I felt it was time to share this sacred glass with the group. I thought back to the many times Rex and I sat together in front of a group of yogis as co-teachers; me teaching of the body and he teaching of the mind.

Today as the class sat at the end of our practice, and as I chanted with the deep ring of this lovely glass, I thought of Rex’s name: Rex, Latin for King, with the middle name: Croft, meaning The Consoler. How fitting that his life should encircle his name in such an endearing way and how wonderful that he joins us still in the low, deep ring of the crystal as my hand softly winds the mallet, circling the edges of the bowl.

My thoughts also turned to my friend and her plant. When she went to pull it out recently to throw the plant away and use the soil for potting something else, she was startled to find that the roots ran deep, encircling the soil, holding it close. It was impossible for her to let go, so she surrendered to the connections that just don’t end.

I take her experience to heart. The message in these roots that wind, deep and supportive, are still alive today though the way Rex reaches us; as well as the roots of healing that run through so many of the lives he touched during his mortal life...  and on the Birthday of Rex Croft Kocherhans, I express my gratitude for the connections with him that continue circling back through my own life...and to Rex I share my sincere appreciation for yours, my beloved friend, a life well lived: Happy Birthday, Rexie and Thank You!

Awen: A letter to dear Rex

2011-01-14T19:04:00.000-08:00

“Awen”, the breath of inspiration. A welsh word describing the breath that awakens the creative flame of the universe. Also called the mark of the shaft of light, derived from the three main rays of the sun at dawn.

I have felt inspired to leave three roses at your grave since you passed. The deer that frequent down from the mountain, on which you made your home, keep eating the buds off of them throughout the winter. I don’t mind, I’m sure you don’t either. The idea of them milling around your headstone is lovely in so many ways.   

Three roses. I don’t know why, it just feels right. Maybe, one for your home, family life and the garden you tended there, maybe one for all the loved ones at CottonTree and maybe one for the work we did together...and then I read of Awen; the three shafts of light at sunrise, the breath of inspiration, and the resurrective quality of a new day.

Such Sacred inspiration, today was no exception. Started out ordinary as they all do, with a sacred strand that is seemly tying them all together since last summer. I don’t know how many days I have left to walk this earth. I believe I will be able to raise Tom, and from there who knows. Either way, you have taught me the precious nature of each moment like no one else, both with your life and the way you communicate through me across the veil. I never could have dreamed myself into a space like this; yet there is also bereavement, and I am alright with that too, you are worth it, as we each are.

A couple of weeks ago I was watering your plants, as I have since your passing. Your English Ivy has grown quite a bit. I knew it was time to trim it back, as I had seen you do so many times in passing between our offices. My heart couldn’t stand to part with these leaves that were here when you were too in body, not so long ago. The thought of trimming them back, felt like letting more of you go than I could bear, yet your plant was here, needing pruning to stay healthy.

I did it as you would have me do, but couldn’t bring myself to put them in the garbage. So I got an empty flower vase from our cupboard and filled it with water and took them into my office, with the intention that once the roots grow, I will plant them in soil to keep a bit of you close by, as I do the work we used to share.

So today I finished teaching class and went into my Thai office to prepare for my client, who was running late. In these few quiet moments, I took comfort in your ivy clippings in the vase, and decided to read for a bit from an Elizabeth Barrette Browning book of poetry. You told me to study her life and poetry, when you came to me in a dream not too long ago. Of course people keep giving me her sonnets. I just smile and say thank you, three copies now, all from you.

I turned to her last sonnet, number 44, never read it. I chose it because it is my age, and here I found you speaking to me again:

“Dear, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that kinship ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!---take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.”

Bless you Rex, I thank the Lord for you. Today you made my everyday-sacred, more sacred still.

Facing the Music

2010-12-24T09:13:00.000-08:00

The word for word lyrics of life aren’t always as important as the overall feel of the song, but every so often there’s a specific message that comes up in a line or two.

I don’t know how to read music, but I do understand tone, and how messages through music encompass a communication that can surpass both language and understanding. The mystery of music reaches beyond time and space in a way that fills and opens me simultaneously.

In Europe, during the 12th century, there was a mystic named “Hildegard Von Bingen” (1098-1179). She was given (the tenth child in her family) as a tithe to the catholic church. As time passed, she grew to become a well respected, yet visionary Nun, who drew from ancient wisdom, that views the entire cosmos as a perfectly harmonized music. She taught that every being, every entity, and every movement produces a sound that is inaudible to most, yet in harmonic relation to all other sounds.

We are all communicating with everyone and everything around us always; creating a great field of resonance, some of it audible and some inaudible.

My colleague Rex Kocherhans and I shared both an audible and inaudible harmony in the work we did together. Very often we would show up to work dressed in the same color, share the same thought at the same time, or hand each other the exact thing we were looking for, but hadn’t verbalized yet. Rex had a way of being able to “tune-in” with friends, coworkers and clients alike. In my own opinion, his experience as gifted musician played a part in the refinement of his craft as a good listener, not just to the words you were saying, but more so, the place you were coming from as you said it.

Amidst our work in tandem with each other, Rex and I would occasionally sit and talk, sometimes just in passing, and other times our conversation would reach into the depths of the soul. One conversation that occurred just two months before his passing was seemingly ordinary. He came into my office and leaned against my door frame, in a way that always made me smile to myself. He was bringing me a small gift of the latest Mormon Tabernacle Choir CD. He told me that, long ago, it had been one of our conversations that started him thinking seriously about trying out to sing in the “MoTab” in the first place.

Trial is a great word for it, we spoke often during this time of his trepidation and personal drive, as Rex went through rigorous tryouts and music theory testing, voice lessons and countless hours of musical study, and was eventually accepted. I always thought he was the loveliest low tenor-high baritone I knew, so I wasn’t surprised when I turned to my doorway one morning to see him stomping toward me with a broad smile, arms outstretched and saying: “I made it!”

This past spring, as he handed me the CD, I couldn’t help laughing as I told him that I was just planning to download it the night before, but something stopped me. I had recently been given a new car that has the most incredible sound system, yet I was playing one CD repeatedly and was ready for a change.

Without missing a beat, he said: “You know, your voice has always reminded me of Stevie Nicks.” We both chuckled as I admitted to him that the CD I had been playing was Fleetwood Mac. He told me that he thought my voice and Stevie Nicks share a similar timbre that’s familiar to him.

This simple conversation took on a much deeper meaning to me months later, on the first day I drove to work, to the office I shared with my dear, kind, beloved Rex; my first time back since he passed.

I got into my car and hit the disc button to listen to the MoTab CD that he had given me, on which he sang as a member of the choir. The CD was titled “Heaven’s Song”. I needed something to soothe my heart that was still in raw trauma from his mortal loss.

I was frustrated when the song that started was Stevie Nicks voice. My hand reached over to correct my apparent error when I paused, and with a sigh of reservation let it play. The first two lines stung a bit for me with the words:

“Wait a minute baby, stay with me a while. Said you’d give me light, but you never told me about the fire”.

Driving to work, I tuned into the lyrics and I heard this song (that I had been listening to since the 1970s) for the first time. I burst into tears with the words:

“Sara, your the poet in my heart. Never change, never stop”.

I had just gained my composure until the last words faded in my ears, and my tears overflowed again with the ending lyrics: “Baby, well there was a heartbeat, but it never really died...never really died, if you’d just swallow all your pride.”

Having arrived at CottonTree, I sat in my car waiting to walk in. I could feel he knew how hard it was for me to walk back into our office alone, peeled open, fresh from such a sacred time of attending to him for days in the hospital. He was encouraging me with the same love I knew from him always. As I entered the small upstairs annex, our office space had such a sacred feel to it, that remains to this day. Throughout the morning, several of his clients and the doctors and staff from downstairs would quietly file in and take a moment just to sit in his space.

I went home early that afternoon, sat down on my couch and pulled up the lyrics to the Fleetwood Mac song “Sara” on my laptop. The overall feel to the song expresses something like this: You may think its gone, but there is still more to come.

As I read through the lyrics from beginning to end, one line jumped out from all the others to prick my consciousness, as she sang the words:   

“...and the Starling flew for days.”   

I felt my heart gently beat inside me. I sensed that something in this line was directing me to dig deeper. I could feel an almost tactile sensation of Rex gently nudging me to follow my heart and learn more about the word Starling. I googled it without understanding why it engaged me so. I knew it was a bird, so I was expecting to get my woo-woo-yoga-mama deeper meaning of some ancient imagery behind the starling bird...

My eyes scrolled down looking for something related to bird imagery, when one line on the google search struck a deep chord in me that reverberated through all my cells. I placed my cursor over a link that said: “The Starling Principle-New Views on Tissue-Fluid Balance and Edema Formation” and clicked it.

I felt Rex close, as if he was resting his chin on my shoulder, as I read a medical explanation of one of the primary factors that contributed to his physical body expiring. I was stunned. No starling bird...The Starling Principle.  

The medical article on the “Starling Principle of the Heart” that I had clicked on described what we were witnessing in the last two weeks of his life as his health deteriorated. The information filled in big questions that had distressed me at the time, when we were all trying to understand what was happening with him.

Rex, through this Fleetwood Mac song, that related to a conversation between us from over a month before he had ever been sick, was helping me understand things more clearly related to his passing. I thought to myself how much I loved that he was communicating to me through music. How perfect...still the quintessential musician, still listening for just the right ways to help.   As I read, I felt his joy, something to the tune of:   

“I knew Syl would search it out and get it!”   

My body was flooded with his smile, and I immediately recalled vividly, a quiet time when I was rubbing his swollen feet and legs in his hospital room. I looked up to see him kindly smiling at me, then he laid his head back, his fingers clasped behind it and with eyes closed he said appreciatively: “Everybody needs a Syl”. I could swear he was saying it to me again in this moment.

Over the next little while, I reviewed those days in the hospital in my mind and reflected on the words in the line Stevie Nicks had written:

“Hold on, the Night is coming...and the Starling flew for days”.   

Heart to heart I spoke to his spirit: Sweet, sweet Rex, I was there with you during your final weeks, as the “Starling” flew for days and days in your body. My heart is so full and broken together, grateful for this message, and your trust in me to “get it”.  

Rex was always so gifted at explaining things. He knew how to attune to where you were when he was with you, as a therapist, coworker or friend.

During those early days in this healing process, my analytical mind had been circling over and over, what I could have, or should have done. He knew I needed to relax a bit, and he was gently guiding me into that space. Once I could get past the questioning, then Rex could begin to bridge our relationship from where it had been when we were working in body together, to where it is now evolving, as he shows me how easily he is still able to reach the contemplative aspect of my soul.

He knew that it was important for me to understand that he is all right, he knows what happened, and is okay with it. Rex told me just days before he passed that he had no fear of death. If I really trust him, it’s important that I learn that the experience with him is not over just because he isn’t here with us in body.

It has taken me a while to be willing to share this very sacred story. I really just want to hold it in my own heart, yet over the past few weeks, I have felt a nudging that I needed to write it out, that it may be of small comfort to others who are missing him at this tender time of year.

 Many years on Christmas Eve Morning, I would meet with Rex at our office. After he finished with a client or two, we would spend several hours together as I gave him a leisurely Thai Partner Yoga Session. It will forever be one of my favorite memories with him. It was such an honor to care for the caregiver to so many, and such a beautiful way to feel the Holiness of the season, as the Christmas Eve hours drew close. So on this particular morning, I could think of no better way to spend my time than honoring his life in some small way here.

Noel & Namaste Dear, Kind, Good Rex.

Source, Separation & Forest Through the Trees

2010-12-01T00:21:00.000-08:00

I will try to say this in as soft a way as I am able, in the hope that it will be taken gently.

Suffering is related more to perspective than circumstance. I may not always have the power to change my circumstances, yet my ability to change my perspective is always within my power. I am learning this for myself, again. My friend Rex is still teaching me. 

Recently, when in a window of grief’s brief grasp, in my desperation, I asked him to teach me, and this is what I heard from him almost immediately: “My dear Syl, in order for you to understand, you often have to stand further back. Whether or not you will be able to really see the big picture, depends on your vantage point.”

I took a moment to let this thought sink in, as I felt him close, and then I asked him to take me further back, in hopes that I might see the forest through the trees. He did, and it helped.
 
I recalled a time that I scoffed at him in mortality, when years ago, he told me he really felt we had planned to meet up here before we were born. At the time I was more cynical than I am these days. I justified my suffering by subscribing to life as the proverbial crap shoot. He leaned in and nudged my shoulder with his, as we sat on his green leather couch together, and then he let out a gruff chuckle for us both, because I wasn’t laughing.

Back in the present, I asked my friend again to take me further back, and again he did. I saw a bigger picture than I ever had before, specific to my experience with him. It is not important to repeat out loud, but it deepened my compassion, and helped me feel that this whole experience was within the bounds of my own agency. I really had agreed to it ahead of time.   

I glimpsed the power within all of us in this circle called life, and gained a more full understanding of the only reality that binds us together beyond here...it's truly love, isn't it. Not the kind of love that comes from co-dependency, or the ego’s desire for self-serving acceptance that's reflected through an "other", but the kind of love that allows for a wide path of experience, and loves us enough to set us free.

In his poem "The Homecoming", Wendlle Barry speaks to this kind of love with his words:

"We roam the distances of our faith, safe beyond the bounds of what we know...Oh love, Open, Show Me My Country, Take Me Home".

Love asks nothing less of us, regarding those we care for so deeply to be allowed their experience, even if it means that they turn toward the light and pass through the veil.

I then heard something more from Rex, something I really love him for. He spoke to me at a deeply spiritual level with such softness, the kind of soft whisper he used to share with me when I least expected it, with the warmth of his words just behind my ear, he said: “The key is in the mark, in the heart of His hand”.

He impressed into my heart, in fairly simple terms, that my experience of grief is not because Rex has left me separated from him since he passed. Grief happens when I allow myself to feel separate from my Source (God, Heavenly Parents, Christ, Buddha, Universal Consciousness, whatever you need to call it that creates the least resistance in you):

When I think that I miss my friend Rex (or anyone that goes away for that matter), what I am really missing is the feeling of connection I had when we were together, and that has not changed, because real love never dies. The connections that are most important are still in place, it is why I feel him so near most of the time.

He again impressed into my heart, the reality that we had this connection of love and mutual respect before we came, we met up here and experienced it together in mortality, and we share it still now. In truth this applies to all of those people that shared love with him while he was in the physical space of his earthly life.

He said he was doing for me, nothing more than I had done for him after he was born. He is ministering to me. This message spontaneously pricked a pre-mortal memory in me, of "looking out" for him for nearly 13 years before I dropped into this earthly experience. I felt a dove-like feathery buzz, as every cell of my body witnessed to me that this was true. We worked here together in mortality for also nearly 13 years.

I found, just as he said, the further back I stood the broader my perspective and the greater my love. I found in that moment, that my grief eased into gratitude and my suffering lifted.

He told me gently that from the perspective of his space now, he has incredibly easy access to me, but from my perspective, in my moment of grief, it doesn’t feel like I have easy access to him.

When we dance the veil with those we love, we have to align ourselves to where they are, and then the gap evaporates, and illusion gives way to eternal realities.

The ego that is so connected to our physical body can make it tough to align, so our loved ones who have crossed over can get through to us more clearly at times when our ego is caught off guard.

Sometimes it is our suffering that has brought us to the point of surrender (which is, after all, the only point of suffering in the first place), and our heart is blown open. Suffering is the steam of the ego evaporating from the body, until we have the perspective to shed it more through our choice.

Soul to soul, he explained to me that death is nothing more than releasing ourselves from all resistance and becoming more completely aligned with all that our life has helped us to become in relation to our Source, and that our only regret beyond the veil is the love we resisted (giving or receiving).

I know from my experiences in my work, that resistance is just another word for the ego fighting for it’s perspective. Hell only happens to the degree that a person can’t shed the ego (their resistance) whether in life, at the moment of death, or beyond the veil. What we call death is simply the culmination of all that our physical lives have caused us to become.

If we have separated ourselves from who we really are, then the ego that passes with us through the veil can (depending on our personal circumstance), become something like a spiritual prison without the body. We feel imprisoned because the ego can’t lay the body down, only the higher will of the body can shed the ego. Christ taught this when he said: "I have overcome the world" (meaning all the physical, mental, emotional, spiritual addictions related to the ego).

The ego that leads us to believe we are a source unto ourselves, opens the door for adversarial energies to distract, disrupt and disconnect us from our higher paths. Learning to take up the ego and lay it down again is one of the main purposes of having a physical experience.

Paradoxically, our ability to love also expands exponentially when we shed the physical perspective of the body through the experience we label as "death". The event that we mistakenly relate to the final separation is really a re-UNION. Uniting more fully with the perspective of our Source, and all that our connections of love have caused us to be in our life are amplified beyond anything we can now grasp once we cross the veil.

Living a spiritually focused life helps our spirit to use the metaphor for this life, called OUR BODY, to understand at the soul level how to lay our ego down. The body helps reveal in us our inherent capacities for learning and perspective. Through this learning we can glimps our pure Self skimming the surface and realize our potential is beyond what we may have thought. Anyone who has experienced the aging process, or emotional or physical adversities, or any other experience from this vast life, where they have had to let go of everything knows this firsthand.

In each and every moment, regardless of where we may sit, our Source is eternally focused upon us, with a crystal clear perspective, and will never cease to draw us closer to it. Through our choices we gain new perspectives that increases our agency to chose again in an ever expanding circle that will eventually gather all truth to it's center. Each time we swing around the wheel of experience, we learn, as best we can, to not resist the essence of who we are:

We are part of the Source we seek. The most primary way we learn this in life is through our love and connection to others. This was Rex’s work as a masterful therapist, to help people reconnect with the Source of their true Self. He knows how to help people do this, and from my perspective, he is still doing just that. I am living proof ... and so is he!

Breath of the Woman at the Well

2010-10-22T12:24:00.000-07:00

There is a story in the bible of a woman who comes to Jacob's well every day. She is a water-bearer, and carries her heavy load back to others. Day after day she makes this back breaking, yet very necessary journey.

One day when she arrives around six o'clock, there is a Jew, Jesus, waiting for her, a woman of Samaria. Two souls from two different worlds, meeting at a well she admits herself, is "deep".

He asks her for water, and she questions his lack of prejudice toward her. Jesus tells her: If you really knew who I am, you would ask ME for living water, rather than me asking you, and once you drank it you would never thirst again.

Jesus had peaked her curiosity and she felt a new kind of thirst, like never before. She recognized, for the first time, that she was tired of carrying the heavy load on her shoulders back from the well every day. The idea of not only having her thirst quenched for good, but her daily load removed from her frame was intoxicating as Christ told her: "But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into eternal life" (John 4:14)

In my own work often when I am faced with some burden that feels beyond my own strength as a healer, I readily use the imagery of this woman's story with my breath, on behalf of my client.

With Rex's recent hospital stay this past June, I found myself relying on it yet again. I had arrived one evening to find him struggling to breathe following the monumental journey from the bathroom to his bed. By the time we got him into bed, I could feel and see the distress and discomfort in his countenance.

Many years before, when I was in pain myself, I stopped by his office. Rex took a moment for me out of his busy day, as I wept at pain from rheumatoid arthritis in the ankle of one leg and the knee of my other leg. I explained to him, through tears of distress, that no matter what leg I step forward with, my pain was mind-numbing. My burden was heavy. I was frustrated, anxious and overwhelmed.

He pulled a chair up to face me in my seat, reached down and lifted my ankle, holding it to rest on his thigh and placed his other hand on the knee of my opposite leg. We just sat facing each other, heads bowed, for several minutes and breathed together. Rex let out a gentle sigh. He asked me to look him in the eyes, and said: "Syl, I am gonna hold some of your pain for the day, just know I am here and have some of your load with me, and that I love you." At that moment I felt my burden lift a bit, we embraced, and I went on with my day.

In his hospital room, this past summer, I sat gently holding the back of his head, where he now struggled for breath, and said to him: "Rex, I want you to breathe with me, just follow my inhale and exhale". Not one drop of the significance of this moment was lost on me.

I explained to the others in the room (because of the intimacy of the situation), that in my work, when I feel like the healing I can offer my partner falls short of their need, that I visualize my breath with the woman at the well, from the bible.

I told Rex that on my inhale I was drinking in the living water, that comes from the Savior. It is infinite, so it fills me up and spills over through us both as we exhale together. I could feel immediately that he "got" what I was saying. I was aware of his sweet diligence at mirroring his breath to mine. Several moments of breathing with him, (as I cradled his head in one hand, with my other hand gently resting on his heart), the energy of the room shifted into a calmer space; his labored breathing eased. So sacred, stillness beyond my own comprehension by the time I left him settling into sleep.

Nearly 10 days later, I stepped off the elevator to find his kids crying in the hall. I asked what was going on. Rex was in his final mortal distress. I asked permission to stay, and felt my back against the wall as I lowered myself to a squat and placed my hands in "Namaste" at my forehead, and dropped into the "woman at the well" breath. I sent all the faith and strength my heart could muster, as I worked the life-force of "Living Water" in my breath, my eyes closed, sending it through Rex with every exhale. Within a half hour he had passed. So sacred, such stillness...

It took me several days to realize that as he was crossing the veil, I was yet again sharing with him this very spiritual space, as his breath transformed from mortal oxygen into eternal light.

Recently, one evening following his funeral, I found myself looking at the printed program. The top of the back of the program had a scripture reference with the caption: "We love him because he loved us first - John 4:19". Puzzled I turned to John 4:19 in my bible and found the reference on the program to be a misprint. John 4:19 is actually a verse from the story of the Woman at the Well, where she said to Christ: "Sir I perceive that thou art a prophet". A moment of recognition.

I felt a familiar warmth wash over my body, and simply considered the synchronicity of the moment a Thank You, a sweet message of acknowledgment through the veil, from my beloved friend. One of many...

(Coincidentally, Rex just happens to be an Aquarius...the Astrological symbol of the water-bearer ;)

Clarity and Love

2010-10-03T18:17:00.001-07:00

As the weeks pass since my beloved colleague Rex Kocherhans crossed over, I have experienced a plethora of incredibly intimate and sacred insights into what we would call The Other Side.

The most pronounced?

That the way we choose to live our lives directly affects how we evolve when we pass through the veil.

One of the things I love the most about my dear Rex, is that I don’t have to question what he is doing in some far off obscure place, because I feel him so clearly here now. I am reverenced at the glimpse into the reality of how clearly his work continues on both sides of the veil.

I have had people close to me die before (including my mother). I have, at times in the past, had a sense that they were close. It felt very quiet, like my mind was enlightened to the fact that they were there.

With Rex it has been different...Maybe it is the way we worked in tandem with each other in mortality, or our temperaments that were so similar, or simply the unexplainable ways we always seemed to be synched up with each other on a spiritual level. Whatever the reasons, since almost the moment of his passing, I have felt him with me, in a shockingly tangible way.

What I know for sure is this: In his mortal lifetime, Rex was GOOD, he did his best to be loyal, and strong, he had a profound ability to help others at the soul level, he valued emotional honesty, and he was ALWAYS in some quiet conversation with himself.

I was glad to be perched right next to him. We kept tabs on each other throughout the day, and I got to know his rhythms, and he mine. We took turns as one another’s wingman, and on occasion flew interference for each other.

One day he had finished with a client, and as we maneuvered around each other past the bathroom, he looked me in the eyes, and I knew in an instant it had been intense for him. Rex loved his clients, all of them, but he was certainly human, and as with any work, sometimes we all wonder if we are doing the good we hope to.

So at a glance, I wrapped my arms around him and spoke into his ear a few famous lines I recite to my son Tom, when I know he’s had a rough day:

“How do I love thee, Let me count the ways.”

... But instead of continuing with a poem I have never heard (thought it was Shakespeare), I instead just count really fast, in a distinctively British voice:

“One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, NINE...and on.”

We both chuckled and he said quietly in my ear: “Thanks Syl”, before letting go, I could feel his mood had lifted.

In the future, this little interchange would become a running joke to the point that, when he would give me a squeeze, all I would have to do would be to count from one to twenty really fast, he would be quick to catch my meaning, and we would both chuckle and go on with our day.

So I recently experienced Rex in a dream. He wanted to thank me for the way I loved him during his life, and said he always adored me for my strength, and that he would remain close and continue to support me throughout my life. Lastly, as I felt his familiar warmth and goodness, he told me to study the poet Elizabeth Barrette Browning: “Study her life and her poety, Syl”. He said.

The next evening I googled her and was delighted to the point of laughter when the first poem that came up revealed the line:

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

by the last line of the poem I was in tears as I read:

“--- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee even better after death.”

Of course, true to himself Rex was coming through clearly. Every bit as clearly as in mortality. This is only one of many instances where we have been dancing through the veil, in a similar way that we used to jostle around one another in our little upstairs office.

The very things I loved and admired about him before his passing, continue now beyond what we all seem to take for granted, as our only reality.

In truth the so-called “spirit realm” is right here surrounding us. We only need to be capable of attuning to one another...whatever side of the veil we happen to be on in the moment.

Bless you my friend, you are still giving us all so many reasons to Love you. Thank You!

(by the way, I think it is safe to say that Rex has certainly crossed paths with EBB. Interestingly, Elisabeth Browning and Rex's funerals were held on the same day, July 1st.)

"Everybody Needs a Rock"

2010-08-21T21:43:00.000-07:00

"Everybody Needs a ROCK", the name of a children's book that one of my yoga students gave to me recently, begins like this:

"Everybody
needs
a Rock.

I'm sorry for kids
who don't have
a rock
for a friend.

I'm sorry for kids
who only have
TRICYCLES
BICYCLES
HORSES...

That's why
I'm giving them
my own
TEN RULES

for finding
a
rock...

Not
just
any rock.
I mean
a
special
rock
that you find
yourself
and keep
as long as
you can--
maybe
forever..."

I have shared my life over the past 12 years with just such a rock. I met him first, when the birth of my son required a complete sacrifice of my numbed out psyche; in order to raise my new boy in a safe, nurturing way. It was my first experience, with the power of the mama bear inside me, that would require a profound "shedding" in order to stand as my son's mother--awake and fully present...a living woman, for the first time.

The journey, that is as instinctual as a mama bear awakening in spring from a long hibernation, brought me to a place where I first stumbled onto my rock. Let's call him...Rex Kocherhans. A lovely rock, solid, steady, yet shockingly soulful, warm too--like he's been basking in the light for a very long time...this is a rock that looks back at you! My response to our initial meeting was: "there you are!" (it was like meeting my twin for the first time).

We spent three years together, my rock and I, helping my mama bear eyes come out of the cave, adjust to the light, and find the deep soothing timbre of my true voice...he was such a good rock... Eventually though, a nudging had stirred deep inside both him and me, that told us it was time to set my rock down on this path, yet we always knew we would cross it again, in a different light and season.

Several years later I found myself placed right next to my rock again. It was a such a good fit, this rock in the palm of my hand, as he welcomed me over the threshold of his cave, into a whole other kind of light. One that shined out from us together, as he would help people (the ways he helped me), find healing of the mind; the gentle tap of his marker on the white board, through my wall. I loved the sound of his muffled voice helping them awaken to their truth as we did our work side by side...

On my side of the wall, in a new kind of cave, I shared with my rock, I would help some of those same people, to awaken their body more fully to it's measure... He helped the mind and spirit/I helped the body and soul...Between the two of us, we made a great rock. I loved it so very much!

Most mornings my rock would stomp toward me, with such a great rocky grin from ear to ear, and envelope me in his husky bear squeeze. This rock was so very grounding, and each time he did this, he made every cell of my body smile from ear to ear right back at him...

So my sweet baby boy had opened my eyes, and set me on the path where I stumbled upon this lovely rock, who helped me adjust to the light...And now, even though my rock has recently crossed over onto a whole other kind of path, where I can't quite see him the same as before, I am humbled, in such a sacred way, by just how grounding his presence with me still is; just as husky, just as soft, just as warm and kind, just as loving, staring back at me with new eyes of his own this time... And as I reflect on my lovely rock, I love how clear it has become that my sweet baby boy, and my big husky rock, both had a plan for me on the path before this one, and that they just may have planned this out together a very, very, long time ago.

So tonight, I thank the Savior who gets this whole thing, in ways we can't always see on our path, but is kind enough to place all sorts of rocks on our way. Thank you again, my still so solid, Eternally lovely, BELOVED ROCK.

Grand Cross-roads

2010-06-22T18:45:00.000-07:00

My heart is peeled open this week.

I've learned a lifetime's worth of lessons: staying present in my ability to love, and to remain open and completely vulnerable from moment to moment. Without vulnerability, the opportunity for seeing doors that open you to other worlds are mute. Yet I was still ill-prepared for how violently the heart can be blown open...never ceasing to leave me breathless.

I chose to look where I wanted to avoid, to feel beyond my own self-preservation, to surrender the past to present, and to love a sacred love without contract. Kind of scary for a guarded heart, waiting in silence for her time to fly.

God stood behind me and literally breathed me Faith without regard to outcome. Showed me how He does it, I felt my body fill with light and the Heavens shake for my good and His Glory...still open...still peeled for a worthy cause.

The above artwork is a Victor Skrebneski photograph of Vanessa Redgrave.
-Copyright Victor Skrebneski

Sweet Sacrifice

2009-08-19T20:41:00.000-07:00

As Tom turned 12, took his first plane ride alone, and began middle-school, I was left at home to realize the bittersweet, humbling JOY of raising a son. How precious each moment.

The following poem came to me one night recently, as I was stirring when I should have been sleeping in my empty home.

Sweet Sacrifice

No one ever told me
I would never sleep the
same again...

As my belly grew
in both circumference
and discomfort

and the naivety of a
sweet sleep again
on my flat belly.

I never knew
no one said
that the vacancy left
in my flat tummy
would not give way
to sleep the same

as the mantle of that dream
who slept himself
in the cradle
beside my bed
had stirred my awakened heart

and the eye of my love blown
open with his sweet breath.

A Layer of GRACE

2009-02-25T17:15:00.000-08:00

I have been enjoying a resurgence of life into my personal yoga practice this year. Early on I decided I would begin dedicating 1-3 hours daily, six days per week with the intention of letting my yoga evolve.

I started with just what I felt like doing. On my mat I allow my body to gain more strength naturally over time, without setting any goals and expectations. It has felt so good to surrender to the moment, without respect to context (like teaching what I am doing or reach some sort of physical attainment).

This past weekend, I found myself hungry for my vinyasa (yoga flow) practice, but I had spent all day Saturday away from Tom, giving a workshop, and knew I couldn't bear to leave him for one more moment. I asked him if he wanted to come to the Bodhi Yoga Center with me, he said: "can I bring my remote control car???".

For Tom the sacred space of the WMY practice room is ideal for doing doughnuts with his car, yelling out loud to hear his echo at random times and throwing racket balls (that we use in class for foot acupressure) against the wall.

I picked a corner of the room and began to bliss out through my vinyasa. As I felt my breath emanate a warm energy throughout my body, I found myself musing at how I wasn't necessarily tuning Tom out, but deeply tuning in to him. The joy it is to have him in toe for so much of my life.

As I watched him, through my practice, build a wall with yoga blocks and ram his electric car into it, I felt a flood of gratitude.

In the past months I have noticed him maturing, with feelings bittersweet, as he starts to get a glimpse of becoming a young man.

I have watched his desire to act "grown up", the budding interest in things like what kind of boxer shorts and manly smelling body spray he uses.

But on this serene Sunday afternoon it was one of the more occasional drops back into the playful little boy I had by my side for so long.

In my practice I felt such an appreciation for not only each stage, but especially those times we allow ourselves to just stay "in-between places" with out having to "be" one thing or the other...where it becomes much more natural to be less critical or self aware...for me this precious space of allowing feels like a layer of grace.

When I had completed my practice, (and laughed with him as we took photos with the camera from my mobile phone), I said: "O.k. bud, lets head home". He said: "Hang on mom, I am doing Stonehenge."

They say in the Aurthurian Legend, the wizard Merlin directed the movement of Stonehenge from a mountain in Ireland to it's current location in England...As St. Patrick's Day draws close, maybe Tom felt moved by his ancestral Irish roots to build it out of yoga blocks before we left.

Yes Tom Carson, There is a Santa Claus!!!

2008-12-07T21:31:00.001-08:00

Tom and I were flying home from a great Thanksgiving at my Sister & Brother-in-law's in Denver. The airport was fairly quiet, as we arrived early for departure. With a bit of a wait, I mused as Santa Claus came and sat (with his wife, undoubtedly Mrs. Santa) in the row just in front of us.

It was delightful to see the faces on the people arriving at our gate. As their gaze scanned the horizon, Tom and I could see a grin appear on their faces as they de-boarded the plane and noticed who was sitting at the gate. In particular the children who looked at him with a measure of Joy and disbelief together.

I chuckled as this kind Santa Claus was prepared with candy from his travel tote for each child that approached with parents in hand, for a hug, a smile and HO, HO, HO.

Tom, who has just started saying "oh brother, mom" when I ask if he still believes in Santa, got to watch the reaction of kids and adults alike.

We both felt the reality of the Christmas Spirit that Santa stands for. It was undeniable as we saw the abundance of Spirit in each traveler who passed him on their journey.

At one point I turned to Tom and asked: "so are you really too old to believe in Santa?"...He just rolled his eyes, but watching the good-will beam across Tom's face as he looked on was priceless!

When we got settled back in at home, I found that he had taken this picture with my phone.

Contrast

2008-10-31T23:14:00.000-07:00

I took my son trick or treating this evening. As he is getting older, 6th grade now, I agreed to hang back a bit.

A little over a year ago, his best friend, Zach moved away. I was also very close with Zach's mom. Halloween is one time when they are missed the most, because our tradition was to visit in her culdesack while Zach's Dad, Jeffery, escorted the all the kids on their trick or treat beat.

Last year Tom chose not to go, it just wouldn't be the same without Zach. This year he was geared up to participate in the festivities solo. He had it all mapped out in his head. I would sit tight at strategic locations close by while he went into three adjacent neighborhoods close to home, excited to be on his own.

Northgate is part of our church community called a "Ward", Vintage is a further branch of that and Stonegate another. Stonegate is a gated community where some of his classmates live, as well as his football coach, a great guy, who Tom has come to admire very much.

So as we finished the rounds, with just Stonegate left, it was clear he had been ok, but still missing Zach. I parked my car at the entrance of the gated community, and watched as Tom cruised on his long-board in full Halloween regalia.

I try to put feelings I have aside about gated communities. But I often find myself in contemplation on how so many of us (myself included) spend a huge amount of effort, resources and energy into creating a sense of immunity. Trying to stay neutral, I admittedly have still found myself observing a rare breed behind many a gate, be it at the Zoo or "gated communities" such as this.

These feelings tend to prick my consciousness into self-reflection as I often pass by Stonegate in my everyday comings and goings, with neighbors and friends. As I cruise by, I reflect on where in my own life I am investing too much energy into creating immunity from others, or just holding back my responsibility to fully participate with the experiences of life, unfiltered by rose (or in this case, limestone) covered glasses.

Separateness is such an illusion, and it has lead to more suffering in the name of God and immunity, than any other aspect of Human Consciousness.

Heavy thinking for Halloween, I know, but spurred by Tom's return to the car. When he rode up to the car, I asked: "So was it as great as you hoped, did you get to say hi to coach, and see some of your classmates from school?"

Tom said: "No, coach wasn't home, and most of the houses I knocked at asked if I lived in Stonegate and when I said no, they told me to go."

I asked in disbelief: "Grown-ups said that?"

He said: "Yes. Most of them, but there was a really nice lady too, who gave me candy and asked my last name."

Even though Tom wasn't put off at all, (he has a really beautiful "live and let live" spirit about him). My heart sank so low, as he told me of grown men, who have been blessed with incredible monetary means, turning away an 11 year old boy over a fifty cent piece of candy.

Tom never saw my eyes fill with tears on our drive back home. The experience stirred up such deep emotion in me. So many sad feelings: Not just that 85% of the homes he went to behind those gates didn't give him candy (who cares), but sad that my son had to see the afrontedness of people, with so much potential, yet such unfortunate behavior.

I guess, what made me feel so sad was tonight my son had to learn, that there are grown ups in the world, who have gated themselves into immunity from kindness and the celebration of a child's heart.

On our drive home I explained that if we let ourselves get angry or hurt over something like that, then we are passing judgment on them, we are creating our own immunity, and gating ourselves up, in a way that's not seen by the eye, but is really harmful for us.

Tom said: "I know mom".

He knew I needed those words more than he did.

Such a valuable experience, such a valuable lesson.

Guilty Pleasure

2008-10-07T23:45:00.000-07:00

A random guilty pleasure: Rubbing my six-pack belly while singing "Did I Fill the World with Love" from the 1969 movie Good-bye Mr. Chips.

I've often told my son Tom: If I could hope for you to become anything in your life, as you grow into Manhood, it would be to BE GENEROUS. Be generous with your time with others, share of your monetary means, notice where you can do the most good, live from the strength in your heart. Do whatever you need to do to be healthy, wealthy and wise, so you are blessed with the capacity to do so. Where ever I am in your life, near or far, my soul will sing with you!

Fill the World With Love:

In the morning of my life I shall look to the sunrise.
At a moment in my life when the world is new.
And the blessing I shall ask is that God will grant me,
To be brave and strong and true,
And to fill the world with love my whole life through.

In the noontime of my life I shall look to the sunshine,
At a moment in my life when the sky is blue.
And the blessing I shall ask shall remain unchanging.
To be brave and strong and true,
And to fill the world with love my whole life through

In the evening of my life I shall look to the sunset,
At a moment in my life when the night is due.
And the question I shall ask only I can answer.
Was I brave and strong and true?
Did I fill the world with love my whole life through?

Did I fill the world with love
Did I fill the world with love
Did I fill the world with love my whole life through

A couple of summers ago Tom and I were patronizing our favorite shaved ice booth. As we tapped our straws and slurped our mango/tiger's blood mix, Tom said: "I am going to manifest One-Million dollars into my savings account by next summer." As my mind quickly filed through all the uses a nine-year old would have for that kind of money, I surrendered myself to the moment and just asked: "Tom, why would you want a million dollars?"

With out looking up from his shaved ice Tom said: "So when we come back next year, I can give that girl (who prepared our shaved ice) a Thousand-Dollar tip!"

It was a pure moment...I told Tom how much I loved that this was the reason he wanted that kind of money. And he slurped out the words: "Well, it's really great shaved ice!"

I'm a lotus

2008-10-07T21:15:00.000-07:00

A Lotus grows out of mud and sludge to become something extra-ordinary. This blog is dedicated to inspiring you to do so.

To find the effortless satisfaction that comes from claiming your own personal Dharma (full-filled life purpose), and inspiring others to do the same!

This poem was written at one of my earliest moments of awakening, with the kind, warm, whisper of a dear friend, (thank you, my beloved Rex), echoing in my ear:

I’m a Lotus:

Those who take
Stealing petals of my blossom

Awakening beauty
To bury in weeds and mud

Lost in the annihilation of my soul
Ignorant of peace

He breathes life into my heart
Casting off the money changers
Softest warmth of his whisper

In my ear saying:

“You are the Temple”

Syl Carson, SYLILOQUIES A BOOK OF POETRY