Archive for December, 2009

Trust or Bust

Surprise endings are great if I am reading an intriguing mystery novel or watching a suspenseful movie.  In real life, I would prefer that my surprises occur within the context of any possible circumstances of my story and not in the actual outcome itself.

True magic lies within the unfolding of a story.  It is only a clear and unwavering intention toward a desired outcome that is provided by you.  As long as your focus remains exclusively on the ‘happy ending’ that you envision, you can relax and enjoy the process that gets you there.

For those of us who may cling to an admiration toward perfectionism, the ability to ‘let go’ of our perceived control over the details in our story may be the most difficult aspect of ourselves that we have to overcome.  We are intellectual beings who are quite capable of comprehending the concept of a magical process.  We understand that one must relinquish control over every minor circumstance in our daily lives if we are to allow the Divine flow to lead us to our goals.  It is only in the practical application that we may often find ourselves lacking.

Do not despair.  As a recovering detail-oriented perfectionist myself, I understand the reluctance  to let go of all of the perceived formulas for success that you have learned.  With so many experts providing us with their theories on the formula for success, it becomes harder to remember what it feels like to TRUST that the real ’secret formula’ already resides within you.  This Divine plan is yours alone.  It contains all of the cleverly arranged circumstances and surprise developments necessary to bring about any outcome that you desire.  All that is required is that you trust your Knowing Self to deliver it.

Divine plans unfold like magic when you learn to get out of the way.  If I ever needed a practical example to illustrate the simplicity of trusting in the process, I am grateful to have been provided one on Christmas Day.

Our family gatherings include a mixed lot of relatives who are capable of displaying any given attribute among the full range of personality disorders, hidden agendas, heightened emotions or inappropriate chatter at a moment’s notice.  We helped to write the book on dysfunctional families.

With the potential for awkward and uncomfortable occasions always on the horizon, I have spent many holiday gatherings of the past attempting to diffuse or prevent offensive episodes.   I would constantly monitor every ongoing conversation that I could and distract any guilty parties by inventing totally unnecessary tasks to occupy their attention.  What a pain.

The only alternatives to these stressful occasions were to quit hosting holiday dinners at our house and let someone else do it (which never really worked since I would end up in the same role again, only in one of my sister’s homes) or stop celebrating holidays with relatives altogether (which did not work for us, either, as it removed the whole ‘holiday spirit’ aspect from the season itself).

Here is how ‘witch works best’ now:  I have to let go of all of the ways that I ‘think’ I will be able to keep Mother Bean out of Durwood’s kitchen, distract my own mother from making condescending remarks, entertain the little ones before they irritate Grandpa, and all the other five million tactics that control-freak Jillian would stress over in the past.  My only work now is to take some time before everyone arrives to focus solely on the desired outcome.  I envision the ‘happy ending’ in which every single one of us enjoy the day together, and I trust in the process that will deliver it.

This year I am happy to report that it worked like a charm.

Although I know better than to try take responsibility for every little irritating circumstance, old habits still persist.  I let myself get a little edgy after breakfast on Christmas morning.  This was due in part to the fact that Mother Bean and her high-maintenance dog had been here for over twenty-four hours already.  It became obvious to me that my resiliency had thinned.  I felt that some solitary time might help me to re-focus on my intention for an enjoyable day, so I excused myself to run a phantom errand before noon.  I figured that I would have more than enough time before the majority of our other guests arrived to sneak out for an extra pack of cigarettes that I did not need.  That was when Divine’s magic plan kicked in.

Unforeseen circumstances along my route to the nearest convenience store kept me away from the house much longer that any normal errand should have.  (Surprise!)  By the time I had returned, our driveway was full of cars.  Guests mingled on the crowded front porch and seemed to be spilling down the front steps on to the walkway.  There were clinking sounds as wine bottles touched glass rims, while much laughter and lively conversation filled the air surrounding our house.  It occurred to me how odd it was that everyone was still outside, until I noticed that the front door was wide open and a hazy cloud of smoke was emanating from inside the house.

“Merry Christmas, Jill!” someone shouted from within the crowd.  I felt a bewildered and pleasant smile spread across my face. Several jovial faces turned in my direction and all wine glasses raised in unison.  I was enjoying this day already.

Nothing brings a family together like a front porch toast and a roaring oven fire that sets off every single smoke detector in the house.

I could not have planned that one if I tried.

Evergreen

There is no way to avoid the obvious season that is upon us at this time of year.  Who would want to?  One certainly does not need to be a witch to feel the magic in the air.

I might be inclined to cite all of the modern Christmas customs that originated with ancient pagan tradition.  Most obvious would be the correlation between the Winter Solstice celebration in which we honor the eventual return of the summer Sun, and the Christian celebration that honors the birth of the Son.  I might go on to point out several more similarities that exist between paganism and the countless other religions and cultural traditions that surround this wonderful time of the year, as well.  The truth is that I will not do it here.

First of all, I would end up boring myself (and most likely you).  Besides, there are plenty of reliable resources regarding the pagan history of this holiday season (several volumes of reference material in the Bean library alone) and unlimited access to numerous interpretations and approaches to pagan traditions all over the Internet if one wishes to study the issue in depth.  Secondly, merely relaying all of the information that I have gathered over the years regarding the beautiful practice of pagan ways is not the reason that I maintain this site.

I am here with you simply to share the pieces of my unfolding story in the hope that you may continue to write your own.  It is my intention to offer you a place to visit for words that may fuel inspiration and creativity as we venture forth to obtain vibrational alignment with all of our dreams.  Your approach to your craft is as individual as you are and I honor your beautiful journey.

Regardless of your practices and customs, ’tis the season of renewal and hope.  May you find a quiet moment to take a deep breath and savor the fresh scent of pine needles in the air.  Your exquisite power within is everlasting, just as the living evergreen retains its vibrant color throughout every season of the year.  ‘Tis the triumph of life itself.

Blessings to you, always.

Practice Makes Perfect

What if we could change our perspective toward the reason why we practice anything?  What if, in theory, you were already adept at performing a specific skill and the only factor preventing you from achieving complete proficiency was nothing more than your own lack of comfort?  Would not the real reason to practice something be so that you can become comfortable with the idea that you already know how to do it?  You could practice something in order to perfect it, but what sustainable level of achievement is possible without first believing in your ability to succeed?

I feel as if I may have been ‘composing’ this post for forty-nine years.  I know that I have been working on getting it down to some form of readable text for at least the past several days.  My views regarding the process of achieving success have changed so profoundly in the past few years that I am experiencing quite a bit of difficulty in expressing my thoughts on the matter.  At first I thought that it might be writer’s block, except that there is no absence of an idea.  I am just bewildered every time I sit down and try to convey it.  It is in this regard that I have a great respect for gifted teachers who communicate their thoughts so expertly on a daily basis.

Many of us have been conditioned to think that hard work, struggling, and ‘paying your dues’ are the only way to achievement.  I get that.  Although this method has been proven throughout history in the testimony and example of countless individuals, I always felt as if it did not sound like much fun.  I was told over a million times that you cannot go through life picking daisies and expect everything to work out.  Silly Jilly.  Dreams are for kids.

After you have heard something repeatedly over the course of your life, you eventually start to believe that it is true.  Therein lies the obstacle that many grown-up dream seekers face.

How does one go about recapturing the belief in your power to achieve whatever you desire?  You need only to remember what you once knew.  If you do nothing else, remember what it feels like to be a kid with a fresh sense of invincibility that fueled a belief that you could do anything you wanted.

We all arrive on the planet with a sense of  endless possibilities before us.  You might remember what that feels like if you just relax and allow yourself the opportunity to recall the unwavering belief you came equipped with.  You only need to recall one moment (most likely from your childhood) when you believed in what you could achieve before too many well-intentioned people wrecked your ability to access its full potential.  Your innate power to manifest your desires never leaves you.  It remains ready until you make a decision to feel your way back to it.

I could offer you a detailed instruction manual that describes the process of working your way back to sovereignty, though I believe that the one you are writing for yourself would be more convincing.  Besides, mine is messy and complicated.  Even though your story may be complex as well, I promise that your journey (in the form of an instruction manual) will be as individual and as beautiful as you are.  Great masters in the particular area of dream-seeking that you pursue can instruct you by offering compliments and helpful insights regarding your work along the way, but only you can provide the belief in your birthright to create the beauty of your success.

Do you enter contests because you think you might have a chance to win, or do you enter them to practice being comfortable with what it feels like to know that you will?  Do you practice the saxophone because you think that you might have a chance to sit first chair, or do you practice to be comfortable with what it feels like to know that you can?

Until you remember who you are, you might want to practice getting comfortable with the idea.  It is my experience that ‘practice’ can make a perfect believer in you.

It Wasn’t Me

Even the most proficient witch cannot prevent the awkward social situation that arises when the young child she is responsible for ‘toots’ in public.  Ignorance is futile.  Reminding the little one to say “excuse me” (or saying it for them) while sharing a sheepish grin among the adjacent bystanders is the best option.  Instances that involve the natural occurrence of bodily functions are the greatest equalizer.  They can level any implied social hierarchy by reminding even the most rigid and pompous individual that everyone farts. (Sorry, Evie. I do not particularly care for the vulgar term, either, but it seemed the most appropriate choice when used in this context.)

The extent to which a child demonstrates politeness towards others depends largely on the personal standards of their parents and caregivers.  If you are not embarrassed to burp out loud or ‘break wind’ in the company of others, without at least offering an “excuse me” after the fact, your kids are sure to follow suit.  This is the reason why kids might often receive conflicting messages from mom and dad until one parent becomes sternly committed to the matter. (Mom usually wins this one, even if she knows that the “excuse me” habit may only be recalled when in her presence.  Boys, and sometimes even their sisters, are known to engage in competitions that showcase the amazing capabilities of  their bodily functions, but at least they wait until Mom has left the room.  Most of the time.)

Of course, cultural differences and social customs are relevant to what is considered ‘mannerly’ behavior, as well.  I was born and raised in the northern United States where it was Yankee custom to address all adults as “Mr.” and “Mrs.” (or “Miss” if unmarried) followed by their last name.  When Durwood and I moved to a southern state, I was horrified to be addressed as “Miss Jillian” instead of “Mrs. Bean.”

Even mentioning the first name of one of my parent’s friends would have drawn a stern look from my mother.  If I were anywhere within my mother’s immediate striking range, the ‘look’ would most likely have been impressed upon me further with a sharp smack on the head.  Using the first name of any adult (who was not an aunt or uncle) was considered highly disrespectful.  I still refer to my mother’s best friend as “Mrs. Kelly” out of some weird fear that I still hold in speaking the name “Betty” out loud.  My mother may be eighty-two years old, but still quite adept at physical correction should she ever feel the need to slap me in the back of the head.

After living in the southern region of the United States for several years, I no longer cringe when I hear my kids’ friends refer to me as “Miss Jillian.”  It would seem that ingrained teachings by which my concept of respectfulness was defined do persist.  I still find myself insisting that my own kids refer to our adult friends as “Mr. and Mrs. Last Name.”  When these adult friends are products of a proper southern upbringing, they override my introduction by welcoming my kids to address them as “Mr. and Miss First Name,” whereby the young Beans will then look to me as if seeking a nod of permission to do so (wondering, perhaps, if Grandma might be around to smack them in the head when they do).

One very impressive southern mannerism that never fails to amaze me is that the majority of children who were born and raised here reply with an automatic “yes, sir/yes, ma’am” and “no, sir/no, ma’am” whenever spoken to by an adult.  Where I grew up, you only responded as such if you were in military school.  In addition to repeating the traditional Yankee practice of “Mr. and Mrs. Last Name, ” I pretty much stuck to the basic “please, thank-you, and excuse me” phrases with the young Beans.  This would explain why all three of them now sound like Rainman when in the company of their southern-bred friends.

Last evening, Mr. Bean and I attended Natalie’s high school band concert.  We brought our niece Caroline with us.  Under normal circumstances, I would not condone bringing a two-year-old to a performance in which extended periods of silent attention from the audience is preferred.  Since Caroline’s mother is a professional musician, I am confident in her proper audience training.  Constant exposure since birth, combined with her mother’s insistence on what is expected, has provided Cara with a level of courtesy that often exceeds that of the behavior I have witnessed by some adults during a live performance.  Unless, of course, she has consumed a fair amount of beanie-weenie for dinner.

At first, Cara tried to contain her gaseous outbursts much like any adult might attempt to do when surrounded by an auditorium full of people.  Durwood told me later that he could feel Cara raise her tiny bottom and lean to one side in an effort to squeeze her little cheeks together while sitting on his lap.  Much to her dismay, Cara’s efforts became fruitless as eventually the beanie-weenie effects acquired the upper hand.  Apparently, her initial rumbles were quiet enough that Durwood reports having experienced an uncontrollable need to smile, simply because he thought her antics were quite “cute.”  When soon after it had become obvious to him that her low-key toots were accompanied by a most unpleasant odor, his amusement was replaced by a sudden panic.  He wondered if anyone else was smelling the same thing he was and worried that they might think that it was him.

By this time the rancid odor had wafted in my direction.  Naturally, my first instinct was to shoot Durwood an accusing glance, who in turn widened his eyes and tilted his head toward little Cara.  I was appalled that Durwood would even consider blaming our niece for his rude behavior.  Upon further consideration, it did seem a bit out of character for him.  My assumptions were confirmed when the real culprit, who had become weary of adhering to her mother’s courtesy standards, leaned over and held her arms out to me while at the same time ripping a highly audible wind-breaker of epic proportion.  Based on the number of turned heads around us, I would estimate that it had traveled at least three rows deep.

Uncle D beamed proudly (probably thankful, too, that everyone knew it wasn’t him) while all I could do was offer condolences to the smiling faces all around us.

“Ready to go sit in the lobby for awhile?” I asked Cara.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she replied.

Making A List, Checking It Twice

My friend Gabrielle is a recovering list-maker.  During the height of her addiction, she maintained as many as six lists at a time.  There was a project list, another for long term goals, a monthly calendar, weekly and daily planners, as well as an assortment of legal pads, notebooks and sticky pads that she attended to on a regular basis.

Although list-making can serve as a valuable organizational tool, Gabrielle felt that her behavior regarding writing to-do lists escalated to what she refers to as an unhealthy obsession.  After some soul-searching and subsequent personal revelations on the matter, Gabrielle purged most of the categories that she believed were causing more harm to her stress level than they were providing any assistance to her actual level of productivity.

“I’m down to one small notepad,” Elle reports with a smile. “I went cold-turkey with all the legal pads and planners,” she continues. “At the end of the day, I tear off the top sheet and throw it away.  Any remaining items that I didn’t have time to complete for the day no longer define my sense of accomplishment.”

Any habit that infringes on your freedom to experience the joy of living your life ‘in the moment’ requires serious self-reflection in order to recognize it.  Once you have successfully identified an unwanted behavior, it is favorable to establish a healthier practice that can replace it.  After all, as physical beings we are often creatures of habit.

Like Elle, I used to box myself in with elaborate lists of things that I wanted to accomplish.  The only purpose that most of these lists provided me was a sense of disappointment.  I compiled them without any deep sense of belief that I would ever be able to achieve everything that I had listed.  There is a profound difference between wanting to believe in the things you will accomplish and actually knowing that you will.

These days, I regularly attend to one list for myself that really matters.  I maintain it solely as a checklist to be reviewed on occasions when I am feeling depressed, hopeless, or painfully aware that I am not experiencing an ounce of appreciation in the present.  It is nothing more than a short list of personal inventory comprised of items that are proceeded by the question, “when was the last time that I….?”

My personal items include: …took a long walk, got some sleep, spent time talking to a positive friend, read a good book, prayed, played with my art supplies, hugged my kids, laughed out loud…?  If it has been awhile since I have done at least one of the things on my list, I may have identified a reason for my undesirable mindset.

A personal checklist that includes items you know will elevate the state of your well-being may be the only to-do list that you will ever need.

What’s on your list?

Keep Your Eyes On The Tree

One of the few times that my brain gets a break from my conscious thoughts is when I am sleeping.  I am content with that.

I have discovered that there are some techniques that will allow me to reach a needed meditative state when I am not sound asleep.  These include hypnosis and guided imagery sessions that are facilitated by a professional.  Should you harbor a great amount of resistance to beneficial relaxation of the mind, I find that working with a professional can be most effective in being able to achieve a ‘wakeful’ and lucid dream-like experience.  Margarita-induced states do not really qualify.

I have attempted many forms of self-guided meditation.  I am my own worst enemy when it comes to quieting the mind.  Several reliable sources inform me that ‘patience’ is essential in the meditative process.  Patience is just one thing that I never felt I needed.

When our kids were much younger, we attended Unity church services on a regular basis.  Mr. Bean and I felt that their teachings were in tune with our own spiritual expansion.  The congregation provided the fellowship that we desired for ourselves, as well as for our children, during this particular stage of religious exploration that we were in at the time.  We loved being a part of Unity and will always appreciate the comfort, fellowship, and insights that we experienced while we were there.

A portion of Unity’s regular Sunday service included a ten to fifteen minute guided meditation session among the entire congregation.  I was the one member in church who would be unable to resist periodically opening one eye to quickly peer around my immediate vicinity.  I would sneak brief one-eyed glances toward Durwood, who was sitting next to me, because I was terrified that he would start snoring.  As any parent of young children can attest, an opportunity to close your eyes (particularly in the form of an encouraging invitation) increases the likelihood of  falling into an instant state of deep slumber.  I had a lot of difficulty in letting myself relax long enough to be able to fully experience the session.  Every Sunday I failed to allow myself the benefit of being in the beautiful moment that was offered.

Now when I recognize my need for a complete mind-release, I enlist the services of  a qualified professional.  My niece Dauphina reminds me that yoga instructors can be quite effective in assisting individuals to achieve the necessary mind relaxation a physical being requires.  I prefer the one-on-one method for myself.  Otherwise, I’m the uptight member in yoga class who cannot keep from continually opening one eye.

In between visits with a trusted professional, I have learned to embrace the nature of my constantly revolving thoughts.  In a recent post, I had mentioned my technique for isolating a particular thought that elicits a pleasing emotion.   Given enough time, one thought has the ability to attract others of its kind.  The few seconds required in order to capture and hold any desirable thought become easier to pin down the more that you practice.

The following is an exercise that may not only assist in the training of your mental-focusing capacity, it will provide (on your first attempt) the confirmation that you possess the power to do it.  This delightful revelation is so often necessary for those of us who may feel that we do not require any patience.

You will need a tree with a trunk width of at least eight inches, and a handful of small pebbles.  Stand at least eight feet away from the tree and find a spot at eye level on the trunk to focus on.  Stare at it.  The tree is a living thing which is pulsating with energetic vibrations, so imagine the waves of vibrations flowing between your physical self and your spot on the tree.  Do not take your eyes off your chosen spot while you begin pitching the pebbles one by one (like you would throw darts) toward the target.  As you focus on your intention to connect, dismiss any initial failures to hit your target on the first few throws, knowing that you have an entire handful of pebbles at your disposal.  With each subsequent throw, practice the feeling of certainty that you are going to connect with the tree.  I promise that unless you are already a professional baseball pitcher, dart champion, or sharp shooter, you will be amazed at how many times you smack those pebbles right onto your spot.

Jeez, Jillian, why didn’t you just say that this is nothing more than a homemade game of primitive target practice?  It is.  Unlike a game of darts, you are not in a crowded bar room, you have not consumed a substantial amount of beer, and you are not competing against any other being but yourself.  In this particular exercise, you have the benefit of solitary training to focus the mind.  With stated intention, you are honing your innate brain power to isolate one thought that can spark the positive emotion required to create.

You might consider these mystical implications the next time that you are in the backyard shooting coke cans with a BB gun.

What’s In A Witch’s Closet?

My moods are often so reflective of the current moon phase that it was not surprising that I found myself uncluttering a spare room closet today.  I will enter a place of storage within our home with a clear purpose of procuring one item in particular, and end up discovering several items that are no longer serving their purpose.  If the moon were not in its current waning phase, I may not have become so hell-bent on discarding unwanted incidentals.  Otherwise, I would have located the gift wrap that I had originally set out to find without becoming so totally distracted by all the other things that were perfectly fine right where they were.  Instead, I plucked things from their hiding places within the closet and started a formidable discard pile.  I thank the waning moon for all the black garbage bags gathered from the Bean home over the years. They have since found a place to serve elsewhere.

We have moved so many times in the past decade that there are still several boxes stored in and around our home that remain unpacked.  The majority of these boxes are filled with mementos, mostly keepsakes and souvenirs that we have acquired over time but were not yet ready to part with.  I spent so much time and energy organizing, securely packing, and labeling these boxes that it was easier throughout every move to just keep them sealed and ready to transport to the next house.

Now that we have been in our current home for over four years, the number of these boxes has decreased significantly, as each was given proper re-evaluation when time allowed.  Among the few boxes that remain are those that belong to each of the kids (who can decide the fate of their respective contents) along with a few boxes of my own.

The box that I came across this morning is one that I had packed at least a dozen years ago when Mr. Bean and I moved from our first home.  I had not forgotten about it, but knew that since it contained several possessions from my childhood years, there had never been any reason for me to open it and re-evaluate its contents.  Until this morning.

Before my younger sister Evie came along to ruin my baby status, I had enjoyed ten glorious years of privileged attention.  During those years, I had received an assortment of jewelry cases as gifts on many occasions.  I have kept a few for sentimental reasons, among them a small rectangular white box painted with small flowers on the top and sides.  As I poked through the contents of the long unopened storage container this morning, I was drawn to this one in particular.  I snapped open its tarnished brass latch and was delighted to be greeted by the little pop-up ballerina when I opened the lid.  I wound the turn-key on the back, pleased to hear that the components of the music box were still intact.  I smiled as it played the familiar tune “Fly Me to the Moon.”  (And that’s not even the best part of my morning!)

Among the various trinkets that were scattered within the faded blue lining of the jewelry box was the soft pink beaded rosary that had been given to me by my godmother for my First Communion.  For those of us who may be counting, that would be at least forty years ago.

As the energetic vibrations surrounding our physical existence may expand and travel in a pattern similar to the grand sphere that we reside upon, I would say that my spiritual experience has come full circle.  Let me attempt to sum this up without writing a chapter book:

Any individual who was raised in the traditional mainstream practice of Catholicism never really ‘leaves’ the church officially.  Some of us sort of ‘duck out’ over time when we begin to question the decision made by our ancestors to delegate the task of influencing the Universe to a select few individuals who are elevated to positions of authority.  Some of us may even pretend that we still attend mass for awhile, particularly when in the company of our older relatives.  Eventually the guilt wears off enough (or maturity sets in) and we refrain from that charade, as well.  Certainly there are a few of us who do not broadcast to our elders that we have found comfort in another denomination, since we may wish to avoid the week-long crying and shouting festivities that may ensue among them.  And finally, although I would never advocate having to hide articles in your own home from visiting relatives, there are yet a few of us who find it a lot less trouble to slip the Goddess necklace under our shirt when we are outside of our home visiting older relatives.

That being said, I was fortunate to have had a grandmother who retained her pagan ways, although she did so “in secret” for fear of being judged.  The few insights that she was able to pass me under the table, so to speak, may have been the catalyst to my initiation into a local coven over fifteen years ago.  Being baptized and confirmed in the Catholic church, along with the fact that I attended Catholic schools for twelve years, had assisted in providing me with a natural comfort level and familiarity with the aspects of ritual practice.

Although I retain my sisterhood among my coven, I have found my spiritual expansion most gratifying (as well as practical) when practiced among my fellow Beans and in solitude.

And now here is my rosary, an artifact saturated with an old energy that would most likely have highlighted my faults and limitations.  To reconnect with this tool provides an opportunity to cleanse and transmute its properties to reflect the new energy of that which I have become.  In last night’s post, I wrote of the inherent power in the sound of a prayer.  How timely to have discovered a personal vehicle to communicate with the Divine.

Perhaps I will sing a new Hail Mary in french!

Musical Prayers

Does a witch pray?  Why, yes, I most certainly do!  Among the numerous avenues available to those of us who desire to strengthen our ethereal connection, the beautiful resonance that a spoken prayer offers can be quite powerful.

Human beings (including witches) have used the sacred sounds of music, prayers, chants, and incantations throughout history as a way of communicating with the Divine.  Whether or not you believe in a higher power is a highly personal matter, but to honor Spirit in any form serves to align your physical being with the grandness of the Universe that you are a part of.  There is inherent power in the human voice.  Vocal vibrations are capable of producing sacred sounds that can balance our body and mind, while connecting our spiritual consciousness to the infinite realm where all things are possible.  In other words, when you pray out loud you activate your power to co-create.

How often have you been casually listening to a song on the radio, or have had the opportunity to hear a live performance, when you suddenly feel overcome with emotion?  It may not be the words that you are hearing, but the resonance of the specific vibrations being offered that instantly spark an emotional connection to Spirit.

Durwood does not speak the french language, but often listens to Edith Piaf when he cooks. (I know.  He likes to cook.  He is actually quite good at it, too.  Yes, I am one lucky witch.)  He may not understand a word that Edith is singing, but obviously she offers the appropriate pitch in her voice that connects with my beloved husband’s creative spirit.  Every meal that he has prepared with the assistance of Edith Piaf tastes, well, almost as if it were truly “inspired.”  I love when Durwood invites Edith to join him in the kitchen.

Our son James, a musician himself, felt drawn to the delightful “Le Festin” performed by Camille in the Disney Pixar film “Ratatouille.”  It seemed that he listened to it so frequently before he left for school last summer, that the beautiful melody grew on all members of the Bean family.  There is a sublime quality in Camille’s voice that provides an ethereal connection to creative Spirit.  Plus, every time I hear it now, I want to cry because I miss James.  (Sorry, son.  It’s what I do.)  Again, the words of the song are all in the french language.  What is it with these Bean men and their french women?

The entire Universe pulsates with energetic vibrations.  Our own voice is capable of producing individual sound waves, also referred to as pitch.  When these specific waves are sent out to the Universe with sacred intention, we can create a harmonic effect throughout the elegant vibrational network of the celestial realms.

The repetitive nature of a prayer, a chant, a mantra, and even a song can provide a most appealing avenue to commune with the Divine.  I may even start writing my spells in french.

Neither A Borrower Nor A Lender Be

Does anyone ever return a borrowed book?  Chances are that the only time most people fulfill an obligation to return a book is when they have borrowed it from the library; and even then, accountability is often viewed in a rather casual manner.  Unless you are a college student who cannot afford the escalating overdue fines, the majority of the population does not live in fear of due dates imposed by their local library.

Most of us are familiar with the phenomenon that occurs when books are shared between friends and acquaintances.  The traditional definition of the word “borrow” seldom applies to these exchanges.  Any time that I have allowed someone to “borrow” a book, I have resigned myself to the possibility that I may never see it again.  On the rare occasions that I have actually had someone return a book to me, it is always, without exception, from a friend who is a devout follower of the same book religion that I practice.

I am always willing to share a good read, particularly since I have abandoned the unrealistic notion that I will read a novel a second time.  If I already know how the story turns out, what is the point?  The only reason to keep a book that I will never read again is to add it to a shelf full of other books I have read, while still clinging to the illusion that my collection serves to impress others (and myself) with the number of books that I have read.  In any case, I have become more relaxed when offering to pass along a good book that I am certain I will never want to look through again.

On the other hand, I have plenty of other books that I would have some difficulty parting with.  These include books that are of sentimental value, classics that I do intend to read more than once, or several others that I continue to use for reference.  My books are important to me.  I grant requests to lend them if the borrower meets one of two requirements: either they are a trusted friend who understands that I reserve the right to conduct an annoying and relentless campaign to have the book returned to me when they are finished using it, or they agree to hand over their first-born child after signing their name to a contract written in their own blood.  This second requirement is no longer necessary since I have learned that it is much easier to just say “no.”

Perhaps it is old age, but I no longer feel compelled to justify my reasons for declining to share certain personal possessions that I simply choose not to.  Books are one thing.  I think that we all have personal items, tangible and otherwise, that we assign varying levels of value to.  These values may very well be as individual as we are.

My cousin Candace once reminded me that “you don’t have to respond to every single request and inquiry that is made of you.”  Candace is wise.  We are also not required to make excuses when we choose not to respond to certain requests, either.  Although I value the energy that generosity cultivates within my spirit, I do not feel the love in being expected to share certain things with others that I have not offered to give.

Writing the above statement has stirred faint murmurs within that whisper judgmental words that I have heard over time, like “greedy” and “selfish.”  If I am still sorting out these concepts as an adult, I can realize the challenge that parents and care-givers face when guiding young minds in the virtue of generosity, while emphasizing the value in preservation of self.  When we force our children to share everything that they have with their siblings and playmates, we are essentially removing their innate ability to experience the joy in giving.

When Kat was young, we participated in a playgroup that was sponsored through our local church.  The group met once a week.  Since the church was not equipped to meet the needs of the large group of mothers and children, we decided to take turns hosting the meetings in our own homes.  Like most of my experience in volunteer organizations, it ended up being the same four moms who would offer their homes to a group of at least a dozen other moms,  including at least twice as many kids.  If you can imagine  over twenty children under the age of five years descending upon one household, you can grasp the toy-sharing issues that inevitably ensued.

Being the church group that we were, the concept of sharing was encouraged.  Little tempers often flared and less assertive hosts stood by to watch their possessions used, strewn about, or worse, become ‘accidentally’ broken.  I am describing a scenario that seems more chaotic than it actually was, but my most vivid recollection is that of those ‘crushed’ expressions on little faces that were told that they had to share their prized possessions with others.  Maybe they did not want to have someone else scribble in their favorite coloring book, undress their doll, or take down the duplo tower they spent time building.

When it was our turn to host the playgroup, I spent the day before letting Kat decide what she wanted to share with her guests.  I let her know that it was okay to choose toys that she preferred not to share.  We put those items away in her brother’s room (a stack of books among them….where does she get that from?) and decided that it was acceptable to inform her guests that the baby’s room was off-limits.  When our guests arrived the next day, parents and kids were respectful of our decision to keep Jim’s room private.  There were some who appeared more than happy to enforce the new rule with others among us who exhibited nosy tendencies or assumed their own air of privilege.  Private rooms that contained items that children chose not to share became the standard practice after that.

Kat was thrilled to share her toys, her room, and her home because she had the power to decide what she offered to others.  She discovered that her magna-doodle was broken once everyone had left, and I remember how easily she accepted it as a consequence of the choice that she had made in deciding to share it.  It was a four-year-old “shit happens” shoulder shrug, just a minor glitch compared to the joy she experienced in sharing the parts of her world that she wanted to.

I can see when Caroline is becoming overwhelmed with her little brother.  As babies tend to do,  Anson gets close enough to start grabbing everything within Cara’s current space of the playroom.   I tell Cara to choose what she is willing to share with him, and I let her know that it is perfectly acceptable to put anything else out of his reach.  Anson is seven months old, so it makes absolutely no difference to him whether he is biting and drooling all over Ariel or Cinderella’s head.  It is Caroline who beams with joy as she watches Anson “borrow” the doll that SHE decided to offer him.

Of course, there remains that one friend you may know who helps themselves to everything in your home, bullying their way through your DVD collection, your make-up basket, or perhaps even your books (gasp!).  Whether you have offered these things or not is of no consequence to them, since they would welcome you to help yourself to any of their things that you don’t want.

You could resort to hiding the items that you are not ready to loan, but what a pain that is.  This is when it is okay to just say “no.”  Whether they think that you are being stingy, or not, is none of your business.  Then again, there’s always the option of offering them a contract signed with their own blood…