Living Happiness ...

Rest and Movement

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 10:43:00 +0000

You are the music while the music lasts.
~T.S. Eliot

It's a Tuesday morning and the sky is gray and cloudy. The sun looks like it might come out to play, but I hope it doesn't. I would be very happy if it stayed in today as I am wont to do. I have gathered myself and my tea and cozied up in my corner room. The door is closed, the candles will be lit, and the winds of inspiration will play over me like an aeolean lyre. This is what I am hoping.

I sat at these very windows the other day and watched the trees being whipped around in manic fashion. There was no delicacy in the playing the wind was doing that day: I heard, instead, a full-blown orchestra – trumpets blasting, tympani rolling, and the frenetic strains of viola.

When I was young I played the flute. For many years, actually. I began at the age of nine and played regularly and competitively until my early twenties. The how and the why of my not continuing this passion are of and for another time, but play I did, in regiments, concerts, symphonies and orchestras.

Music has rests. Did you know that? For any given instrument in an orchestra, there are times during the flow of the composition where rests are demanded. Instrument is down. Counting is begun. We listen to the work of the players around us and await our turn to chime in again, to contribute our part to the overall harmony and melody of the piece. Rarely, if ever, do all instruments play all of a composition from start to finish. This isn't where the music lies.

Even melody itself has rests, its own built-in syncopations that rely on the breaking up of beats instead of one monotonous cadence. Some notes get more attention than others, some get less, and there are mini-breaks between the two, as well: short, audible pauses that yield the rhythm and melody that make our tune something catchy, breezy, melancholic, or gloriously beautiful.

So, if this is true in music, might it not also be true in our own lives? We frequently insist on picking up our instrument every day and playing at full volume until the cows come home (or until we do … whichever happens first). But why do we believe that the music will stop simply because we have?

What if, instead, we did stop … for a day or two … and listened to the music of the life around us. What are its movements? Its leitmotifs? Its themes?

And what if we paid attention to the other players in the symphony that is our own?

One of my favorite sounds in the world is the sound of an orchestra tuning up: the hum of the violin, the pipe of the flute, the drone of the cello, and the sigh of the french horn. I feel in my bones that something exciting is about to happen, that beauty awaits. I know I am about to be transported.

Why not let the symphony of my own life do the same?

Why not let yours?

Peace be with you today.

Living

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 11:58:00 +0000

Since my last post five months ago, I've made many attempts to sit down, put fingers to keys, and draw out for you again the world as I know it – especially now that I'm an old married lady – but I've had little success.

In the last days and weeks, though, quite a few of you have come banging on my proverbial door again and demanded to know when I'm going to come out and play. It's happened enough times now, in fact, that I can no longer pretend to not hear you and must, instead, uncover my hands from my ears and answer the door. But please know one thing: I may not have been playing with you, but I have been playing. Just … differently. :)

I am a believer that there are times to think and times to do: there is a time and a season to everything. And for the past five or however many months, I have been content to just do, to live my life as it is rather than sit and think (and write) about it.

In these months, I have begun learning Greek, taken on extra online classes, started making new friends, and finally gotten back into the gym. I have read new books, tried out new recipes, and visited new places. I have been living.

I think it is easy for those of us in the blog world to forget to do this. We spend hours preparing our blog pages, finding our images, writing our posts, responding to readers, Twittering, Facebooking, Digging and Stumbling … but what about all the hours we lose when we could be having a coffee with a friend, going on a date with our partner, discovering a new favorite haunt, reading a new favorite book, or finally taking the dance classes we've always wanted or learning Italian?

In the five months that I've "been away," I've had a birthday:

hosted my first "married" Thanksgiving:

discovered an ancient temple:

and danced in the streets for Carnivale.

I have been living my life … and experiencing much joy in the process.

So what about you?
What have you been doing lately?
How have you been actually living?
I would love to know.

Om shanti. Namaste.
It's very good to see you again.

A New Meaning for Balance

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 05:37:00 +0000

flickr photo by nicole =

In the past few months, I have been up to many things. Some big and some small. But … mostly big. I've moved into a new home. I've flown off from Greece to the States and then flown back again. And, most recently, I've married the love of my life.

Two weeks ago, G and I affirmed our commitment to one another in a small, intimate ceremony at our town hall. We thought it would be sterile, devoid of meaning, merely a step on our way to "The Big Wedding" we still hope to have next year. But the day surprised us in the forms of beauty and joy and laughter. It shocked us both. In a good way.

Having lived together for two years, we have been slow to realize the change that has taken place, however. The day of our wedding, G had to head off that evening to teach. The next morning, we woke up as usual and followed our little morning routines. We have practiced calling each other "husband" and "wife," and more often than not found ourselves in a fit of the giggles. We love each other but it's not sinking in. Maybe when we have the big wedding, we think?

Then two days ago I was sitting at my dining table with my friend and upstairs neighbor, Tonia. We were practicing my Greek. As we went through what I had learned in my Greek lessons that morning, Tonia began to teach me about the history behind the words. This is something I love because I love words. It doesn't matter its origin, I have always been enthralled by how a word came to be and all of the baggage it carries with it when it reaches us.

We were practicing dialogue:

"Eisai pandremeni?" Tonia asked. (Are you married?)

"Nai, eimai pandremeni," I answered. "O G__ einai o syzygos mou." (Yes, I am married. G is my husband.)

Tonia said to me, "Look. See this word, syzygos. It is made up of two words joined together: Syn and Zygos. Syn means together," and I nodded my head because I knew this. It is where we get words like synthesis, synergy, syncretic (all Greek, too, by the way). "And Zygos is … like the scales," and she illustrated with the sign of Libra. "This is syzygos. It is balance."

The new world I had stepped into then opened up to me. Syn. Zygos. Together. In balance.

When Tonia left, I looked up the word again online. I discovered that zygos can also mean "yoke," as in two oxen who are yoked together to plow a field. To yoke something means to join two things together under a shared burden. I remembered the church sermons from when I was a child: Do not be unequally yoked, we were admonished. But … I don't like this imagery. It is that of slavery. No, I like the first that Tonia shared with me.

Zygos equals the balance of two scales. G and I are joined together, in balance, and to balance. Without the other, there is no balance. In Greek, both male and female are syzygos.

When G came home that evening from another night of teaching, I shared with him what I had learned and, as I did, I could see his eyes opening too. As with me, everything became clear for him in that moment.

Since then, we have not fallen into any more fits of giggles at the mention of the word "husband" or "wife" … probably because we aren't using them. We refer to each other as "syzygos." This is what we are.

Your comments on this post are welcome. Please feel free to share your thoughts.

Note on a Late Summer Morning

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 05:26:00 +0000

Dear beautiful friends:

It is early morning here in Crete, and I am warming myself with a hot cup of vanilla coffee and listening to the tinkling of sheep bells outside and the rooster crowing across the street. It is quiet except for these sounds and the occasional yip of a neighborhood dog, and I am relishing the cool morning air and the green canopy of the fig tree leaves over our porch.

I am writing to you today just to let you know that all is well. A dear fellow blogger, whose blog I love very much, chose to check in on me this morning. And I knew that the post I'd been meaning to write to let all of you know the same was long overdue.

Good news: I am fine. I am beyond fine, actually, and feel very blessed, but the words for this feeling have simply been hard to come by. So much has happened in the course of these four summer months, that I am at a loss on where to begin. Where do I begin telling you about this? Oh, and what about that? Oh yes, and that, too?! I have been allowing myself time to settle in a bit more to my life here at home before I've let my pen take off on all of the tangents it will want to take and, hopefully, that you will want to read.

But let me say this: I have missed you, too. Not in a hungry, needy kind of way. But in the way that good friends miss sitting down for the daily chat they're used to. You're my morning companions. There are many cups of coffee we share, and have shared, since I began this blog in April. So I ask that you hold on just a little bit longer. I am desperately ready for a big catch-up with you. It will be so great to see you again. It will be soon.

For now, I can only tell you that I'm back to the still point again. The unmoored feeling of the summer is gone. I feel centered and steady and strong. And unbelievably happy.

So much love to all of you. Please feel free to email me and share with me your news. My email is given on my Contact page.

Peace today.
Namaste.

flickr photo by laineybugger

Measuring Up

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 03:21:00 +0000

As some of you already know, one of my goals during this summer interlude of mine has been to shed a few pounds (or a few kilos, to those of you in the metric world), for I had settled into a somewhat fluffy body in my last few months in Crete, an obvious by-product of a suddenly-more-sedentary lifestyle and an apparent silent acquiescence to what people call The Love Pounds. And despite my knowledge of this extra fluff and desire to do something about it, my efforts were less than stellar … especially after my own fiancé said things like: But if you lose weight, you might not be so cuddly. Thank you (?), honey?

Anyway, suffice it to say that even though my primary mission this summer has been getting legal paperwork in order for our wedding, my one very practical side mission has been to lose 6 kilos and find my less fluffy self. To friends, I have even actually cheekily dubbed my quest the Become a Bronze Goddess Summer Beauty Program. And here, at the almost-end of summer, I can honestly tell you that my bronze-ness is somewhat more akin to brass, and I am not so much goddess as a possible Lady (erm … Goddess?)-in-Waiting.

In these past three months, I have tried to make it a priority to visit the gym several times each week. And since every workout includes cardio, and since I get bored with cardio unless I've got something to occupy my mind, this means I have read a lot, I mean A LOT, of magazines this summer, two of which were the topic of an earlier summer post.

So you should not be surprised that, three days ago, I was on the elliptical trainer reading Oprah's magazine O. And, surprise surprise, I came across an article that made me go hmmm. It was about this topic: Maybe we shouldn't be worried about how we look but instead focus on how we see.

Now, this is probably something all of you already know, because I have lately come to realize that my readers (you) all seem to be a lot smarter than I am. You could say that sometimes I'm a bit slow on the uptake. Actually, you probably have said it. To each other. But don't tell me. I don't want to know. I would rather be your clueless, blogger friend on this point.

Anyway, I felt like this article may as well have been writ large in the sky, so profound was this concept to me. Not worry about how I look? Not obsess over every calorie, every gram of carbohydrate? Not take my measurements religiously, as if the lasagna I guiltily ate for supper would suddenly appear on my form four hours later? What? How could anyone speak such heresy? But it hit me in the face like a splash of cold water: "CHANIA GIRL, CHANGE THE WAY YOU SEE!"

flickr photo by mcoop13

I have a confession to make: For most of my adult life, I have stood before mirrors and never been quite content with what stared back at me. I look at my face first and wish I didn't have a weak chin when I'm not smiling. Then I look at my boobs and wish they'd show up already. I look at my waist and realize that I definitely inherited a pear-shape but didn't inherit the tiny waist that goes with it. I work my way down and bemoan the expanse of my hips and the fact that I am long-torsoed. I assess my @ss (pun intended) and find it falls short of smooth and perky and may perhaps be an "After" picture for what sitting bare-bummed in gravel can do to you. I glance at my thighs and wish the tops of them were skinnier. And on and on and on. (I do, however, actually like my feet.)

Suffice it to say that, even when at my thinnest and (as pictures would indicate) not overweight AT ALL, I have still managed to look in the mirror and find myself consistently lacking. I have held up a big, old standard of something to my body and, despite all its best efforts, pronounced it to be utterly disappointing and without grace. I have done this for years. I have looked at my body (through very faulty lenses, obviously) but I have not seen it.

When I realized this three days ago (on the elliptical trainer no less) I wanted to sit down and bawl right there. But I didn't, because I didn't want to be That Weird Girl At The Gym. I thought, "Oh, my. Why have I been doing this to you, Body, for so long? Oh, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. What can we do to make things right?"

And, don't you know it, she answered back! "Tell me what you love about me," she said, "because I love you, and I need to hear it. "

flickr photo by gracelizabeth

It broke my heart, but I knew she was right. At the end of the day, what is most important is much less how I look and far more How I See.

I have liked to congratulate myself on the fact that my "seeing" has definitely improved over the years. I'm much better now about being kind and generous in several facets of my life, more forgiving and loving to myself and others. But I see that I haven't yet extended this courtesy to my Body, who's about as close to me as anybody (hahaha -- anybody, get it?) can get. My mind knows, "Beauty is as beauty does," but this knowledge hasn't made it the very crucial 10 inches down from my head to my heart. Far too often, I have measured my self-worth in inches and centimeters rather than in the life and love in my life, the beauty of relationship, the wonder of my very own creative successes.

So, thanks to Oprah and her article in O and to my Body for piping up, I'm going to start making some changes. And the first thing I'm going to do is begin telling my Body what I love about her. And then I'm going to look at the demands I place on her in order to discover what makes her feel happy, alive, vibrant, and strong … and then start doing them! Call me crazy (okay, maybe you already do) but I have a hunch this will make the rest of me happy, too.

I think I'll start with my feet … .

What about you?

Are there any areas in your life in which you still struggle with your "sight"?

Do you yourself cater more to how you look than how you see?

Can you relate to this post in any way?

How do you measure your self-worth?

Your honesty and candor are welcome.

Namaste and peace to all of you,

Opening photo credit ~ flickr photo by mcoop13

The Healing Power of the Sea

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 12:06:00 +0000

Myrtle Beach, SC

This is a picture of the place where I grew up. And this is where I have come back to to spend my final few weeks in the States.

Two or three afternoons each week, I'm able to make it over here. I ride with the windows down and the sunroof open, flip flops on my feet and a pair of shorts over my swimsuit. I love the wild wind in my hair and the wispy white clouds on the horizon!

I arrive and I feel the sand warm in my toes, smell the tangy sea-salty air laced with suntan lotion, hear the gulls crying overhead, and watch the waves come rolling in. And as the waves come rolling in, all of that internal sediment I've mentioned earlier this summer just settles right on down. My breathing calms with the ebb and flow of the tide, my skin tingles with the salt and sun on my skin, and I take deep breaths of an air so rich it's almost like food. It is food, food for my soul. This is my Mass and the beach is my Church. This is where I hope to go today.

Nature is a powerful being for many people and often connects us to ourselves ... and to a sense of Something (or Someone) beyond ourselves.

Do you ever go to Nature for healing?
What is your favorite Natural place to be?
What do you find there?
What is your "church"?

Any and all of your thoughts are welcomed on this Sunday.

Om shanti.
Namaste.

Myrtle Beach, SC

Letter to a Friend, or Where Have I Been All Summer

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 04:15:00 +0000

flickr photo by jespis

Dear friend:

It has been a long time since I've talked to you. I mean really talked to you. And your silences over the last few weeks have shown me that you, too, have noticed and missed our time together. I don't blame you. I can't blame you. I would feel the same way were I in your shoes. But I hope we can mend things.

It has been a long, hard summer for me. Do you know this? Maybe you do. Maybe you don't. Maybe you've reached the point where you think, "Sure I understand, CG, but it's not all about you all of the time, now is it?" Well … you'd be right about that, too.

Anyways, since it's been so long since we had a good catch-up, I would like to tell you about my summer. It's not that I haven’t wanted to share it with you in the first place, it's just been very hard to do so.

As you know, I came back here to the States for a three-month stay. Did you know that this is the first time in three years I'd been back? Did you also know this wasn't really a trip I wanted to take? Yes, it's true. If I'd had my druthers, I would have been in Crete this summer, making my new home a home and spending glorious time with my beautiful fiancé. But I am not there, and I did not have my druthers. Why? you might ask. Well, the truth is I had to come back in order to be married legally in Greece. And there were no shortcuts to my time here -- three months it must be with no ifs, ands, or buts. It has sucked.

Don't get me wrong. There are definite perks to being back. For starters, I can walk into any shop and speak to anyone at any time, and whoever it is understands what I'm saying. This saves me so much time, and it's so nice to make a joke and have someone understand my humor. I was beginning to think I just wasn't funny any more! :)

It's also been nice to see people I long haven't seen, to know that they're just down the street or a car-ride away. When an ocean's been between you, this can't be appreciated enough. And I've enjoyed having coffees, seeing movies, and going to cookouts on a warm summer evenings with friends.

But maybe you didn't know that it's also been hard for me to discover that people don't really care all that much about my stories, that very few of them really want to see my pictures, and that a lot of my friends are even less enthusiastic to share about themselves. Conversation eventually falters. I cast about for things to say. We say our "see you laters" and I know it's probably the last time we'll see each other for a very long time.

It has been a lonely summer for me. Does this surprise you? It has surprised me, too. I have often tried to find things to do to while away the hours, but when I only have one online course to teach and no one is hiring (even in the service sector) because of a sluggish economy, this is a task that has been hard to do. Because you are compassionate, you can probably imagine then that this makes my homesickness for G all the more poignant. He is my best friend, and he is now two plane rides, an ocean, and a sea away.

I can see you're wondering, though, "But if this is true, then why I haven't seen more of you? Shouldn't this have given you more time for me?"

You are right, of course. Yes, it should have. But I just haven't known how to be with you. For, you see, for me to have my relationship with you, I feel that I need to have something to give to you. And this summer, I have felt that I've had very little to give. I have needed you, wanted your company, but I have had no token to offer you in exchange for your kindness. And in recognizing this, I have sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously pushed you away.

You have not done anything wrong. You are beautiful as always. But I have needed this time for myself, to replenish my stores, to deal with a sea of sediment that has been stirred up by my return here and is still in the process of settling. I have wanted to share this with you just as much as you have probably wanted to hear it, but I have not been able to articulate most of it, even to myself. Had you been able to physically come over, you would have seen our evening to be one of lopsided conversation. I would have been bad company. You would have gone home early, fed up with having to carry the entire discussion. Would you really have wanted this?

flickr photo by ashley rose,

I have learned much about myself this summer--some of it good, some of it not-so-good. I have had days where I have been full of boundless energy and my usual dose of optimism, but I have had just as many (if not more) days where it has been a struggle for me to get out of bed, where my day has been a battle between what my body wants to do (positively nothing) and my mind urges me to do (tasks, errands, anything to keep a routine and stay on track). You could probably accurately say I've been depressed. And probably, in the goodness of your heart, you may wonder why I didn't come to you with this. And I understand this, too.

I didn't come to you because I knew what you were going to say. Or … at least I thought I knew what you were going to say. You have been so wise, so caring, so present for so long. I have heeded your words and read your thoughts so often that I felt I knew your answers without even having to ask my question. This wasn't fair to you, I know. No one wants someone else to put words in their mouth for them or deprive them of their chance to have a say. You're right. And for that, I'm sorry. I've probably done us both a disservice by remaining mum, but I honestly thought it was for the best. That and I just haven't had the gumption to do otherwise. I do apologize to you for keeping you out of the loop and for perhaps depriving you of your own chance to give (something you love to do!) and, therefore, be the blessing you want (and love) to be.

I don't know where we go from here because I still don't know how much I have to give you, or even that I can give at all. I am slowly regaining ground, the sediment of my internal sea is finally settling, and I am beginning to feel like my old self again. But it may be a while before I feel strong. Can you understand this and be patient?

I did want you to know I've missed you. And I wanted you to know why I've been so "absent." It is not because of anything you've done, and if you can think of a way that we can begin reconnecting again, I would open to hearing it. I look forward to what you have to say.

With lots of love,

flickr photo of dog at seaside by Ingrid0804

When Walking Becomes Flying

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 03:39:00 +0000

flickr photo by nature_photonutt

A few weeks ago, I began a series of posts that shared with you the story of how I began my journey away from a typical, suburban life in the States to a very non-typical, non-suburban life in Greece. The last post on June 14th left you (and found me) on a plane bound for Germany after having left my corporate job and life behind. The sky was the limit. Possibilities were endless. But what would happen?

Even though many of you know how the story has "ended" (I am indeed living in Crete and am engaged to the most wonderful man in the world), there are still a few steps left in the telling of this tale that I want to share with you.

As you have already read, piece after piece fell into place for me after my stay at the monastery. But as you will see now, such ease of movement is not always the only mark of taking steps in the right direction. Most of the time, we also meet with opposition. We are challenged. Our faith is tested. Will we move forward? Do we have the faith to? Our responses to these tests will determine the answer; they will be the difference between our walking … and flying.

Here, now, is how my story continued to unfold, much of which is taken from my actual journal entries at the time. This is how Greece and I began to choose each other and how I went from walking in faith to soaring on its wings … but not without a few tumbles from the tree.

July 8, 2006 ~ Crete
It’s 11:00 p.m. here on Saturday night in Hania, and I've just gotten back from a day-long 13-kilometer hike through the longest gorge in Europe. It’s cool out, the stars are bright and the moon is almost full. I’m in my green pajamas, freshly showered after the long day’s trek. I sit on my patio and hear the sounds of Grecian rap down on the waterfront, people laughing and yelling, and far-off dogs barking.

This week has been intense. 12-hour days have been the norm as I’ve begun the course that will end with my TEFL certification. We begin at 10:00 a.m. and, even though classes end around 1:15, the day really ends around 9:00 p.m. Those intervening hours are full of observation, lesson planning, and (yes!) teaching already.

I have been very content here these past days in Hania, despite my overwhelming fatigue with the mad pace of the first few days. It is hard to put into words the way something can feel right in every way, but I know this is exactly where I’m meant to be.

July 18, 2006 ~ Crete
It’s Tuesday evening. I am ready for bed but my heart aches with the beauty of my being here and the painful realization that my departure from here is less than two weeks away. I do not want to leave.

Words can’t even begin to describe the way I’m feeling right now. The memories running through my mind – the Hania coastline at night from the back of a motorcycle with the wind through my hair, coffee on a terrace overlooking the entire harbour on a Friday night with a cute boy with an Aussie accent, dancing the night away in a local club … .

How can I capture the feel of this evening? The crash of waves on the shore, the night sounds of insects, and the faint clink of dinners being had on balconies above and beside. Smells of pasta and garlic.

My heart aches with this beauty, with the fact that I don’t want to leave, with the fact that I want to savor every moment, with the mourning of all the moments that are already past. Life is so amazing, and I am a part of it. This, this I do not want to forget. I am. I AM.

August 5, 2006
I am on my flight from Athens to London, and I am sad. I want to be in Hania. My heart is breaking!

I wish I had assurances. Assurances of what is next for me. Assurances that everything will be okay. But that is not how life works. And that is not how I’ve been living my life for the last nine months.

Will my next steps be led with my head or my heart? For once, I want to say, “With my heart.” I want to continue to risk and be willing to say, “This is what I want. This is what I know to be true.” To do any less would cheat myself.

Labor Day Weekend 2006 ~ North Carolina
It is another quiet evening. This time there is no balcony, no patio, no sound of waves crashing on the shore or far-off dogs barking. Only the faint creaks of my upstairs neighbor walking across our wooden floors and the CD of Greek songs that was made for me a week before I left Hania.

I thought I would sit down tonight and write my story of the past year. It has been an amazing one. One that I could aptly begin, “Once upon a time there was a girl ... .” But I think it will be saved for another night.

Rather, on the anniversary of my awakening – for that’s what it was really - I went from being a somnambulator to actually living my life – on this anniversary I have to stop and pause and in gratefulness acknowledge the goodness that this year has been, the goodness that this coming year will be.

I don’t know what my future holds, even what the next few weeks will hold, except that I want to return to Greece – or get as close to it as I can – but I’ve learned to trust this path I’m on and the spirit (God, Being, Mystery . . . whatever you want to call it) that leads me on it. And I can say that I am excited to see what comes next. And I am confident that it is far better than even I’ve imagined.

Sometimes we have to risk everything to discover that we’ve risked nothing. Because … what is it to walk once you’ve discovered that you can fly?

September 19, 2006 ~ Crete
Dear God:

It’s me. I sit outside on my patio in Hania and am feeling really overwhelmed. I have only been here a few days. I have the daunting task ahead of me of looking for a job among 114 schools here and, as G would tell it, I must do this this week. I feel inadequate for the job and scared.

I don’t know what you have in my future. You asked me weeks ago what I wanted and I half-formulated a thought … . I think I still want that, but my emotions are not so trustworthy right now. I hardly know which end is up. But you know what I want. And you know what I need. What I am asking for today is your comfort, your shoulder to cry on and lean on, your strength. Give me strength today. Give me grace. Help me to allow you to unfold my life, even as I am an active participant in that unfolding.

“Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe.” (Psalm 61:2b-3)

“My soul finds rest in God alone.” (Psalm 62:1a)

September 27, 2006
Today I did not rally. Today I did not pound the pavement. Today I was not remotely productive. Instead, I arose, ate breakfast, decided that the day still looked like a bit too much for me and went back to bed. When I got up again, I decided that clean unmentionables are a must, even in a country that is iffy on air-conditioning, demands that you not flush your toilet paper, and is covered in dust everywhere you go. So, I spent 45 minutes hand-washing these unmentionables and had the epiphany that this is about the same amount of time it would take these two loads to go through my Maytag.

Lay by the pool. Ate. Lay by the pool again. Napped. Checked email. Then decided to be productive and found myself in BFE on some god-forsaken street looking for a private school that at this point I didn't even give one flying fig about. So I answered the call of the gyro instead and savored every greasy, french-fry laden, tzatziki-dripping bite. And now I am headed home to listen to my new Greek neighbor yell on the phone to her boyfriend all night.

I say, at least today, anyway, 'Fuck it. I'm over this.'

I think I'm going to go have some ice cream ... .

September 28, 2006
I wish I knew where this journey was going to take me. Or even what the next few weeks hold. But, then again, maybe I don't. What kind of romance is it when you know every move of your lover beforehand? No. I'd rather be surprised, I guess.

Somehow Hania and I have chosen each other. Is this vocation? Is this calling? On an elemental level, I answer, 'Yes.'

But I say to my lover (Hania, not G), 'Speak louder, sweetie. Let me hear you choose me. You know you already have my heart. Now promise me yours.'

That job is just around the corner … .

flickr photo of Agia Marina, Crete, by knock(ed) out ..and back

October 2006
I sit on the balcony of my sea-view apartment and watch the waves as they thunder in. There is nothing silent or soothing about what they are doing. They are thundering and rolling and roiling and crashing, the sand from the sea floor churning its way to the top of the mighty crests and coloring the mighty swells a deep orange. The wind howls unrelentingly and the sky throws down great sheets of rain. I feel like I am watching myself. This match between my inner turmoil and such outer turmoil is comforting. It soothes me. I cannot bring myself to go inside.

I have been here for one month. Thirty days ago today I landed back on Cretan soil, having completed my TEFL course and returned to the States to sell my car and most of my possessions. I now have only three suitcases of belongings to my name. I have come back in order to have no regrets, to truly knock on every door of opportunity before surrendering to the inevitability of a teaching career in Asia. I gave myself thirty days: find a teaching job in Greece, or go to Taiwan. The deadline is today, and I have not found one.

I have knocked on every door, called every school, walked miles in the heat and dust, and no one has hired me. My heart is in pieces. I don't want to go to Taiwan.

November 2006 ~ Almyros, Greece
It is my 31st birthday and I am sitting in a small café in a small Greek town a few hours north of Athens. I have been teaching for three weeks and am seated next to one of my new colleagues, Maria, who has arranged a small party for me to my complete and utter surprise. With us are her daughter, and her best friend (my new Greek tutor) with her two daughters. They have brought gifts and a cake, even though they don't know me. I open the gift bags to find a candle, a scarf, a thong, and a new sweater because the cold weather has already begun and my own sweaters have not yet reached me from the States. We laugh over coffee and cake, and they try to teach me Greek words. Lucky for me, they all speak English, too.

I am here because of the grace of other people. A job came through two days after my thirty-day deadline … a phone call from a school in northern Greece looking to replace a teacher. But my program director offered it to another student, and I was hurt, outraged: how could she do this to me?! This student had become a friend of mine, though, and her heart was in the Middle East. Knowing she didn't want to remain in Greece, she gave the job to me. We learned of the position on a Wednesday. By Monday I was teaching.

I have just come home now to a message from G. He is still in Crete but he wishes me a very happy birthday. I look at my little pile of gifts and the card that everyone has signed. And I think back to one year ago and the day I left the corporation behind. It would be easy to think that that's the day I took my first steps away from a life that had become too small for me. But really I know that the first steps I took were earlier than that. They were the steps of me walking to breakfast at a Trappist monastery in the wee hours of the morning. They were the steps that changed my life.

If you have any comments about this post, please feel free to share them. I have shared this story with you in the hopes that it might encourage you and give you hope. The world and its possibilities are boundless. You are too.

All peace to all of you.
Namaste,

Full of Grace

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 22:07:00 +0000

flickr photo by Karen from Michigan

When I was a young girl, I grew up hearing a slew of words that are seldom found in our lexicon today -- salvation, redemption, atonement, ...-- because I grew up in a very religious home where the sun around which our daily lives revolved was the church we were a part of.

Over the years, I have changed my orbit quite a bit and moved away from this earlier world view. I am now more open and inclusive in my views of God, myself and the Universe. But my amazement at the mystery of these will never go away. If anything, I'm even more amazed!

Despite the fact that I rarely think in theological terms anymore, some of the words from that earlier lexicon still linger in the language by which I see and experience my world. And two of those words have come to my mind again and again over the past week. They are grace and mercy, and they go hand in hand.

What are grace and mercy, though? We use these terms all the time in daily little expressions: Mercy me. Lord, have mercy! Will you grace us with your presence? He handled that with such grace and dignity. But what do they mean when we use them together?

I was lucky a few years ago to have someone explain this to me: To receive grace is to receive a gift that you have done nothing to deserve. To receive mercy is to not receive the punishment that you definitely do deserve.

To speak more plainly, grace is the gift under the Christmas tree even though you've been nothing but naughty, the bonus in your salary even though you really came in too late in the year to qualify, the credit you get for work on a project you barely (if even) showed up for.

And mercy, mercy is the prosecutor deciding not to press charges, the alleviated sentence at a trial, the stay of execution the night a prisoner is to be hung.

Both of these, grace and mercy, are supreme gifts. They are also humbling. And when you receive them, if the eyes of your heart are open in any way, you thank your lucky stars for them.

This is how I felt this past week when I had my life held up in high relief before my eyes like a topographical map: my highs and lows etched out in supreme clarity, my steps along the journey marked out in little red dots from one place to another. Some of what I saw I was proud of, but other things I saw gave me pause: bad turns, missteps, people hurt, friendships lost, loyalties betrayed. It was not pretty, and I felt sick to my stomach at some of what I saw, mortified, ashamed, and sorrowful above all.

At work in the middle of all this, however, were two little things called grace and mercy. The Universe had felt it fitting to give me this glimpse, painful though it was (a bit like Scrooge and his Christmas ghosts), and say to me, "All is not lost, CG. Let's make some changes." This was grace.

And then came mercy. As I turned to the people in my life whom I'd hurt and began to ask forgiveness, I saw over and over again love and acceptance. "Of course", "No worries", "Water under the bridge", "It's alright", "You're human. Everyone makes mistakes." "None of us is perfect." These are the words I have heard repeatedly over the last days, and my shame and sorrow have been transformed into humility and joy.

flickr photo by morrrgan

The amazing thing about grace and mercy is that, when they are extended to you, it is that much easier to extend them to yourself. I have been able to say, "CG, I forgive you. Let's get on now with the business of living. Onward and upward."

I've discovered that they're not gifts you can hold onto and closet away, either. Once you've received them, you've got to hand them back out again and see the light on someone else's face as they realize they are loved and forgiven. At least, this is how I've felt.

So I share this post with you today as just one more way of shining some hope and light into your world, to remind those of you who might need it that all is not lost no matter how badly we might think we've screwed things up.

What about you?
Can you think of any times in your own life when you have received or seen grace and mercy in action?
What do you remember about these moments?
Are there times when you yourself have given these gifts?

Please feel welcome to share your stories here. I look forward to what you have to say.

Namaste and peace be with you,

Portrait of An Artist

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 00:01:00 +0000

I am very lucky to have a dear friend who is also a talented and emerging artist. Since the spring we met four years ago, I have never known her not to be creating art in some form … whether it be something as simple as homemade bread or a knitted scarf or something more complex: her paintings.

Gina Pruette has a remarkable gift for seeing the beauty in the material objects that fill our lives everyday. Often we are oblivious to the ways they touch us, shape us, mold us, what they might say about us, but Gina is not oblivious to their power and uses them as the focal points of her paintings. As she reveals in her Artist Statement,

"Innumerable stories dust the surfaces of these objects we create, use, and discard through daily life. My goal as an artist is to capture these stories and to reveal their power and beauty to others."

Since Gina began her Block Series last year -- a series of still life oil paintings dedicated to the study of objects that her daughter used in play -- I have been swept in by her rendering of these objects (blocks, balls, teacups) and prompted to think more deeply about the fundamental themes of who we are and how we play and how play (and the objects of play) shape our identity from infancy onward. As Gina says so eloquently,

"We navigate early childhood as empty vessels, looking for ways to fill ourselves with essential information about our world and the codes that govern our civilization. Ultimately, blocks, balls, and other playtime toys shape our understanding of what it means to be human."

Needless to say, I have been wanting to introduce Gina to you for some time now, because whether we are writers, photographers, musicians, or dancers, we are all artists and can learn much from one another.

I asked her a few months ago if she would agree to an interview, and she delightfully agreed. So, without further ado, here are the details of that lovely chat, with some glimpses of a few of the lovely still lifes she has completed, and of which more can be found at her site: www.ginapruette.com. Please feel free to comment and ask any questions you have of Gina, as well.

You have a rich background in art that includes formal training in studio art and art history, and you have also been employed by and volunteered for various arts-related non-profits over the years. How did your decision to pursue painting on a more active level come about?

I think that, like other vocations, the creative life tends to find you rather than the other way around. I have been painting for as long as I can remember and I grew up in a family of artists and art lovers, so the question I wrestled with over the years wasn’t really if but when to pursue it as a career. Shortly after Stella was born I knew I was ready.

As a relatively new mom, how do you find (or create) the time to paint?

I prioritize painting over other interests. There’s enough time for everything in life if we strip away the non-essential clutter of existence and throw ourselves into the things that really give our lives meaning. I paint whenever I can. I paint when Stella’s at preschool, during grandparent visits, nap time, evenings, weekends when my husband is entertaining her. I often research and plan new projects during snack time. Stella and I have even started sketching together!

What has inspired you the most in watching Stella's play?

Her enjoyment of process over outcomes. Stella loves to stack blocks, shovel sand, pick flowers … but she has little interest in standing back to admire her new tower or hole or bouquet. The act of engaging with her world is more important than any prize or achievement. What a beautiful way to live!

What has been most gratifying for you, especially as your work has garnered more attention and come to the awareness of so many more people around you?

One of my friends in college was an accomplished poet, and she described to me how she saw the world in words. She would walk down the street and hear “grass” and “pavement” before she ever really registered those things visually. My language is color. I walk down the street and sense greens, blues, neutrals, etc. before anything else. I think people each have their own language they use to understand the world and communicate with others. So, the most gratifying experience for me as an artist is the knowledge that I have been able to convey my ideas to others through my medium.

What are your future goals as an artist? What are some of the other areas you would like to explore?

Scale is the new frontier for my art. I work in restricted studio space at present and producing larger scale pieces has some practical issues. However, I’m working through different options for opening the door to scale and hope to have some oversized pieces ready for exhibition this summer. My goals are to continue to increase exposure for my work and to impact as many people as possible.

When you not being a wife, mom, daughter, friend or artist, who are you? Tired! Seriously, I can’t imagine my life without wearing one of those hats at any given time.

What makes you laugh? Very dry humor and the absurd. Between my husband and daughter I have no shortage of laughter throughout the day!

When do you feel cherished? I love when my family and friends share their art with me.

If you were to choose 5 physical artifacts that represent who you are, what would you choose? (These can be jewelry, photos, a book, clothing, food products, found objects,…anything physical.)

Raw umber
Grass-stained jeans
Sand dollar
The Wrath of Khan
Champagne

If you could give your 20-year old self some advice, what would it be? What would you tell her? Study less, sketch more.

If you enjoyed this interview today, you can learn more about Gina and see more of her paintings at www.ginapruette.com or in her new book Portraits of Play . You are also welcome to leave Gina a comment here, where she will respond over the next few days.

Namaste and peace to all of you,

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 03:56:00 +0000

flickr photo by sunmoonstars2008

It should come as no surprise to most of you that in addition to my penchant for Vegas weddings and dancing at the drop of a hat, I am also a sippy, soppy, drippy, droppy, romantic comedy mush. Yes, I confess: My name is Chania Girl, and I like chick flicks.

One of my favorite indulgences is a little movie called The Mirror Has Two Faces starring one of my favorite divas, Barbra Streisand. And while it definitely took a beating from the critics when it appeared, I still get a kick out of it.

The movie is basically an ugly duckling story: "unattractive" grown woman blossoms under love's eye and then comes into her own as a beauty who both loves herself and is loved by others. We see the leading character, Rose, rise from self-loathing to self-acceptance. And we come to understand that the two faces in her mirror are the face that she sees (ugly, plain, unlovable) and the face that is reflected back to her by the people in her life. Convinced at a young age of her plainness by the people around her, she has lived into it, accepting it, never once questioning that she too could be (is, was) a beauty. And it is only through the intervention of her mother that she is finally able to see herself anew through her own eyes … as someone beautiful.

This movie came to my mind recently as I've dealt with various personal events in my life. I often struggle myself with Rose's ugly duckling syndrome. I look into the mirror of my soul and I wonder: What is true here? Am I really seeing myself? Or am I seeing what I have been told to see? And, of course, it is easier for me to believe the bad than the good.

One of the fears in my life is the fear of self-delusion. I try very hard to be both honest with others and, most importantly, with myself. Because if honesty does not begin with me, then where does it begin?

And this means that I frequently fret and worry: Am I really who I think I am? Or am I deceiving myself? What is the truth here? How can I know it? Whom do I believe?!

These are not questions that I have found satisfactory answers to. For while there is a part of me that believes who I am resides deep within me, I question how objective this sense of self can really be when we hear tales of murderers with Messiah complexes who believed they were killing in God's name. Surely these murderers believed that they were holy instruments, and yet the carnage they leave in their wake suggests anything but.

What can we say then? It seems the external circumstances of our own lives and the response of the people around us are of importance, too, revealing the truth of our beliefs. The litmus test, if you will.

So what does that mean for me? For you? For me, it means that I am still in a quandary about which face in the mirror is mine. Do I believe the face *I* see? Or the face others see?

And that is why I ask of you today:

How can we know who we are?

How can we trust our sense of self to not be a delusion?

When do we know that we are harboring false beliefs or nurturing true ones?

What do you see in the mirror?

What, or whom, are your mirrors?

Any and all insight you have is much anticipated, appreciated, and welcomed.

Namaste and peace to all of you today,

Celebrating Your Awe-summm-ness ...

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 12:43:00 +0000

I have been very lucky recently to have been presented with two little blogging awards:

The Awe-summm Award was presented to me by August Street, and the Kreative Blogger Award came to me from Evolving Scenes. If you have not made the acquaintance of these two blogs and the women behind them, I encourage you to check them out. There are wonderful things to be had by doing so.

The great thing about these awards is that they ask you to pay things forward. If you've been highlighted as a recipient, it is asked of you to do likewise and highlight other Awe-summm or Kreativ bloggers you know and let the spotlight rest on them for a little while. And I am very pleased to be able to do just that.

7 Kreativ/Awesumm Bloggers That You Might Just Love + 2 (Because I Like to Bend Rules a Bit)

Amanda Linehan at Look Far
Caroline at Whimsical Whispers
Julie at Random Meanderings
Kirwin at Graceful Creative
Paisley at Paisley Thoughts
Positively Present at Hope Springs Internal
RML at Being More Through Having Les s
Sami at Life, Laughs, and Lemmings
Tabitha at I Choose Bliss

I hope that all of you will pop by to see what these lovely ladies are doing, as well as pay a visit to August Street and Evolving Scenes, the gals responsible for my post today.

The guidelines of these awards are as follows:

Thank the person who nominated you for this award.
Copy the logo and place it on your blog. (Go ahead, choose one!)
Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
Nominate 7 Kreativ/Awe-summm Bloggers.
Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
Leave a comment on each of the 7 blogs letting them know they have been nominated.
Post 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting/7 things that make you Awe-summm (or in my case, perhaps a little weird).

So, to wrap up this little piece here are some random odd facts about Chania Girl for your amusement. It's okay if you don't feel inspired. :)

7 Things That Make Me Awe-summm or Perhaps (Marginally) Kreativ:

My first words were "moon" and "light," which I would say when pointing to the stars in the desert sky.
I like to spell things backward in my head, usually when I am nervous or under pressure. Seod enoyna esle od siht?
My first kiss was on the lawn in front of the church parsonage, and I cut him with my braces. I was so stressed about kissing him afterward that I broke up with him a month later from the "pressure."
I clap when food arrives, or when it is yummy. I am usually not aware that I'm doing it until someone points it out.
I sang "Santa Baby" to my entire high school at the Christmas Concert my senior year. I even had a red boa. ROWR.
I have read and translated Beowulf in Anglo-Saxon.
I have seen ghosts.

I hope this has been an enjoyable read for you. Remember to check out these other wonderful blogs today.

Happy Wednesday!

Go Ahead, Live a Lot

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:30:00 +0000

flickr photo by: Planet Pixel

I don't know if it's a theme or what but after my reading of Glamour (or was it Redbook?) in the gym yesterday, I came across almost the same article in Redbook (or was it Glamour?) today. I know, I know … stop reading fashion magazines. Well, I can't help myself. Okay, maybe I can help myself, but there they are, and they definitely make my minutes on the elliptical trainer go a lot faster … and they keep me on there, too. I don't fool with the timer on the machine as much as I just hop on and figure, "By the time I get to the end of this magazine, I'll have been on here at least 30 minutes, maybe 45 or so." I feel lucky if the magazine has good enough articles that I actually read and am on there for an hour.

Anywho, none of this is neither here nor there, because I'm sure you don't care about my make-time-pass cardio routine, and what I'm really trying to get to (very s l o w l y) is the article that was duplicated. Okay ... maybe not duplicated word for word, but the topic was the same:

being a little naughty (no, not that way), you know, breaking out of our rules-driven lives to do things a little less rules-driven, perhaps something even a little bit *gasp* bad. Dare we speak it?!

What tickled me, though, were reading some of these "naughty" things people were doing. I mean, come on, if the height of your naughtiness is not using a beverage coaster on a hot summer day with your iced mint tea, then I am a total and complete hellion by comparison. But I knew this already anyway …

flickr photo by g.originals

I like to break rules. Seriously. I do. It's a strange glitch in my character which is otherwise very smitten with rules and order. In fact one of my little quirks is "lining things up," in no way that I can really explain to people, but I happen to know it when it happens. Yet despite this affinity for all things linear there's a funny little offshoot of my personality that says, "Screw order."

And it is this offshoot of my personality that lovingly decorates the perfect Christmas tree -- filling it with 500+ twinkle lights, working the ornaments from the top down and from the inside out, spacing everything just so -- only to turn around and top off this work of art with a $7 gold tinsel star from K-Mart that flashes so many multicolor lights it might as well be a No-Tell motel on Sunset Strip.

This personality quirk lets me eat healthy, organic, preservative-free, hormone-free food religiously only to abandon my principles entirely when confronted with a meal of Lexington BBQ, hush puppies, crinkle fries, slaw, and a styrofoam cup of Cheerwine® to wash it all down with.

It's behind my voracious appetite for romantic suspense, mass-market paperback thrillers despite my avowed book snobbery (I have a love-hate relationship with the New York Times Best-Seller lists).

And it's the rationale behind why I would totally forsake any church wedding I could dream up (and believe me, I have) to just fly to Vegas and have the cheesiest, tackiest wedding ever with as many Elvises as possible singing Love Me Tender. (I have tried, with no success, by the way, to convince G of the merits of this plan, but he is not to be taken in. I think he doesn't realize how romantic a half-dozen singing Elvises can be.)

Anyways, why do I go into all of this today? Mainly to argue against this notion that breaking the ties that bind us is something "bad" or "naughty." There is nothing bad or naughty in being true to yourself, in giving yourself permission and freedom to do the things you love, to embrace the contradictions of your nature. (Within bounds, of course. You shouldn't be harming other people. Not that you would ... .)

I've heard that this phenomenon, this ability to accept and live with contradictions, is a bit more common in the East because unlike many Western ideologies, a lot of Eastern philosophies are non-linear in their application and scope. Perhaps this is so. I don't know.

What I do know is that I like this side of myself that likes to break out, the side of myself that says, "Lose the map. We're just going for a drive. Let's see where we end up." Maybe I wouldn't want to live this way every day, but this part of me is a welcome respite and relief from my daily grind. She keeps me from getting bored (and getting boring). She makes me laugh, and I like her.

So I ask you today:

What are some of the "contradictions" in your personality?

What parts of you "don't add up" but still make you the whole, beautiful person you are?

I'm looking forward to reading your answers.

Lots of joy and freedom to you today,

You're Beautiful

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 23:41:00 +0000

flickr photo by: anjpanj

I spent my time at the gym today reading fashion magazines to make the minutes on the treadmill pass by a little faster. In addition to the usual doses of how to improve my skin, boost my sex life, close my pores, lose pounds in minutes, and reorganize the clutter of my life, I was pleased to note that there were at least two or three articles about slowing down, stopping and focusing on the "haves" in our lives, instead of what we "have not." This is such a change from what these magazines were spouting 10 years ago that I was pleased to see it. But I couldn't help but close the magazine and think, "Why can't most of the magazine be about inner beauty instead of outer beauty?" Well … I guess because then it wouldn't be a fashion/beauty magazine!

Pick one up, and you're asking for it: the down and dirty on how your life doesn't measure up, replete with "deals" for the budget-conscious that still leave me wondering, "Where the heck do these people shop?" But that's not the point; the point is this:

I am writing today to tell you, my lovely readers, that you're beautiful. I have no idea what most of your outsides look like. For most of you, I've only seen a head shot (at best) of who you are. I don't know your height, your weight, how much you can bench press, or what your waist measurement is, but I do know the words of your hearts that I read everyday -- in your blogs, in your comments -- and they are beautiful.

Each one of you has your own gift that you share with the world: maybe it's your imagination, maybe it's your passion, maybe it's your spirituality … or your humor … your optimism … your ability to take great pictures … or your ability to tell a great tale. These make you beautiful - especially because you are sharing this with the world. You're sharing it with me!

Most of us go through life comparing ourselves to others and to various standards of beauty -- all outside ourselves. As a result, most of us feel that we never measure up. In fact, this reminds me of one of my favorite demotivational posters:
I occasionally wonder this very thing about my own life, "Is this me? Am I someone's cautionary tale?" Well ... if I am, I've still done some good, I guess. Perhaps not in the way I had hoped but …

I just wanted to take the time today to honor all of you who are defining beauty from within. To me, all of you are beautiful. You have filled my world with richness, warmth and joy simply by your presence and encouragement every day. What beauty!

To all of you who have encouraged me and supported me--some of you from the very beginning, most of you in the last few weeks of this major transition (and mild depression) in my life--I thank you.

You're beautiful!

Peace be with all of you,

What is beauty to you?

Under Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 14:14:00 +0000

Dear readers,

When I began this blog two months ago, it was my intention to just share my life as it is lived ... which meant to me that despite the happy title of my blog, my posts would run the gamut of the emotions and experiences we feel in life, not denying the one for the other but accepting all of them for what they are. This is how I've learned to live my happiest life over the years: not by allowing only the "good" emotions to show through but also being with and experiencing the "bad" ones, as well ... and learning how to not put labels of "good" and "bad" on these emotions.

So I am writing today to tell you that I am sad ... and have been for about three weeks now. I have tried to think positive, to keep order and routine in my world, to take quiet, veg-out days, and to do social things, too. I have struggled with all of them.

It is difficult for me to articulate to you this sadness and the source(s) of it, but perhaps it's not that important that I do. Maybe the confessing of it and acknowledging of it is enough. We all go through these times in our lives. I happen to be going through one of them, now.

If you have noticed a tone of sadness in my blog posts or an infrequency in the number of times I actually do post, this is why. I love writing. But lately I have wanted less to write than to just live. To be. Maybe you can understand why.

I am not writing today to put an end to my blog. No, I am writing simply to be honest with you who have been such faithful readers and supporters of me.

I take great comfort lately in the words from the third chapter of Ecclesiastes: "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven." I know that this too shall pass ... in its time.

What about each of you?
Can you embrace your "negative" emotions, too?
How have you learned to deal with the not-so-bright and shining seasons of your lives?
What words comfort you in your sadness?

Peace to all of you,

photo credit: flickr photo by eyeofeinstein

The Next Steps in the Journey ...

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 23:09:00 +0000

flickr photo by MMGoode

Last week I began to share with you the story of how, once upon a time, I came to change my life and change it so drastically. How does one up and leave a comfy life in the States for a not-so-comfy life in an unknown country? How does one decide to leave that which is sure to go toward that which is unsure?

My leap of faith began (as you now know) not as a sudden decision or some big show of daring and bravado, but as a morning's walk in darkness. And it was on the heels of those footsteps in the dark that others began: baby steps to be sure, but solid and sure, that would just as slowly and surely lead me down the path to my new life.

The thoughts that had come to me in those morning hours at the Abbey had not struck me as incredibly profound at the time. I had gone to the Abbey, like most people, hoping that God would put up a big sign in the sky that said, "Hey, Chania Girl, this is what you are supposed to do with your life: Fill In Gap Here." So this revelation--that I just had to trust the path I was on--was comforting but didn't hold my imagination the way seeing my destiny written in fireworks in the sky might have.

That Monday morning at the end of my retreat, I got into my car and slowly rolled along the drive back out to the highway. I headed back to my "normal" life without dreading it the way I had four days before.

Here's how the path continued to reveal itself to me, as I tried out my legs on this new ground ...

November 2005
I have turned in my resignation from the corporation where I work, and today is my last day. For the last month I have walked around on cloud nine, unable to keep the smile off my face at the prospect of my leaving.

People keep coming by my desk asking me what my next plans are. I tell them, "I don't have any," and I don't. The still, small voice in my heart is a bit louder now, and it has told me not to line anything up but to rest and see what the Universe has in store for me.

I make my final calls and turn in my last reports; the last faxes are sent out, and my desk is cleaned. I walk out feeling like Atlas with the weight of the world removed. I hop into my car, and I am free.

Four days later, I turn 30. I feel more alive than I ever have, more certain that my life is now full of possibilities. I am more excited than I am nervous. More anxious to see what comes next than fearful that something won't. I wine and dine with friends. I visit an art exhibition featuring amazing women at the local contemporary art gallery. I read books and listen to Joni Mitchell and John Denver. I feel at home in my own skin.

flickr photo by petrischa

December 2005
It is almost Christmas, the season of Advent in my church. Everyone is waiting with baited breath for the arrival of something big, and I am too. I am beginning to be nervous and jittery. I know I have done the right thing but … something needs to happen already. Money is a concern, so I take on a part-time job at the mall helping in seasonal sales. It isn't bad, but it isn't great. My still, small voice tells me to believe, but I am struggling.

I call my priest, Linda. I tell her what is going on. She says, "Well, this is what Advent's all about, sweetie. The season of preparation, the season of darkness before light." I am not sure I am comforted.

Christmas 2005
It is Christmas. Advent is over and the Christ-child has arrived. Everyone's hopes have been fulfilled. People are happy and rejoice.

I rejoice, too. I have received a call from my church offering me a part-time job on a six-month contract starting in the new year. It is enough money to pay the bills and gives me flexible hours that still allow me plenty of time to focus on the matter of me and my vocation. I accept immediately and give thanks that this gift has arrived. Merry Christmas to me!

April 2006
I now have only two months left on my contract at the church and find myself still exploring options. I want to do something I love. I want to do something with purpose and meaning. But what is it? WHAT IS IT? I do career assessments, I chart my creative successes, I Myers-Briggs myself to death, and nothing is leaping out at me. I wander the shelves of my mind, searching for the job that has my name on it. Then I walk further back into my mental storage closet and begin taking stock, and it's there I see something on the back shelf that's been sitting there for a while. I take it out, brush it off, and read the writing on the jar. I discover that it's still interesting. I discover that it still intrigues me. And I realize that, at this point in my life, it may actually finally be do-able: I want to teach. I want to travel. I am finally going to do both.

June 2006
It is a June morning and I am on a plane to Germany, where I will spend a week before I alight in Crete . The sound of U2's Pride fills my ears, and my heart soars as the plane leaves the ground. I cry sweet tears of joy. I am going to Greece! I am going to train to be a TEFL teacher! Then I can go anywhere in the world, which is exactly what I intend to do.

What about you?

Do you have any dreams on the back shelf of your mind?

Have you taken them out and brushed them off lately and really looked at them?

What are some baby steps you've taken when testing the path of faith?

All of your comments are welcome.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Footsteps in the Dark

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 11:14:00 +0000

photo credit: jayRaz

Many people have asked me over the years how I made the decision to move to Greece. And as I answer their questions and they discover that I neither knew no one in Greece--nor was I Greek myself when I chose to do so--I am also usually asked the next question: "God, how were you brave enough to do that?!"

The funny thing about moves like this is that, at the time that you choose to make them, the decision seems like the most natural one in the world. And even though you know you are making a leap of faith, you've usually been practicing with baby leaps for a good while. This is what was true for me anyway.

My act of faith sky-diving, as one friend called it, didn't start ostentatiously with all kinds of bells and fireworks. In fact, it started much more quietly. In the darkness. And with a step so mundane, you would never have guessed it would have set me on the path to a new destiny.

Let me tell you how it all began ... .

Mepkin Abbey Entrance
photo credit: madefordenim.com

Labor Day Weekend 2005
It was 5:00 in the morning and graveyard quiet. The night animals had gone to bed, and the morning birds had not yet woken. I stepped out of my cottage into darkness, onto an unfamiliar path and, flashlight at my shoulder, took my first nervous steps.

I was scared. Not because I was scared of the dark so much as I was scared to death of snakes. Yet here I was in the heart of the South Carolina Low Country, at the tail end of summer, marching outdoors at the hour of morning where cold-blooded snakes like to warm themselves on the still-warm concrete.

As I slowly walked through the blackness (because it was black, truly black, not a single natural or man-made light around for miles), I prayed to dear God to please not let me see a snake. In fact, it was less prayer than it was mantra: Please don't let me see a snake, please don't let me see a snake, please don't let me see a snake, I repeated as I walked with great trepidation down this Low Country path to a warmly lit dining hall and the breakfast that awaited me at the end.

This weekend was part of a promise made to myself at the beginning of the year to go somewhere where I could hear the still, small voice in my soul that wasn't to be heard amidst the thunder, the fire, or the earthquakes that marked my life at the time. My promise had brought me here … to Mepkin Abbey, South Carolina--a Trappist monastery--for a weekend of silent retreat.

But now as I walked through the inky, pre-dawn blackness to the refectory and breakfast, I still wasn't altogether over the jittery nerves that had plagued me since I'd arrived here just a few hours earlier.

From the moment my car had pulled into the graveled drive, I had been gripped by an incomprehensible, soul-quaking fear. A fear so strong that before I'd even made it more than a quarter of a mile into the Abbey's gates, I had seriously considered turning the car around and just driving back the same way I'd come--which was 6 hours away!

This feeling of soul fear, along with my anxiety about the snakes, was still with me now as I made my way along the path toward breakfast.

Later that morning, I sat in my cottage bedroom looking out of the window, trying to listen to whatever I could hear amidst all this silence and not sure I was really hearing anything. But then my thoughts turned to my morning walk, and I had my epiphany.

I saw myself walking the darkened path earlier that morning, everything totally dark except for the small amount of light my flashlight had given off. I had been unnerved by the short range of its beam, wishing that it could have illuminated just a few more feet in front of me so as to ensure that there were no snakes, but it hadn't, and I'd had to go foot by foot down that path, a bit at a time, before I'd finally made it to the refectory.

When this memory came to me, I realized that this image was my life. Mired in a job I hated, confused about what to do next, feeling the call of purpose in my life, and desperately trying to discern my vocation -- literally my "calling" from the Latin vocare -- my world seemed very black indeed.

But as I sat in my chair at the window, amazed by this realization, clarity finally came to me in a voice or a whisper or a knowing, "Trust the light (of wisdom and Scripture). Trust the path you're on. Trust the community of people all around you, and they will lead you where you're going. Your vocation will be waiting for you at the end."

I knew then that I was being asked to have faith, to believe that even if I could only see a few feet in front of me at a time, I could be confident that what I wanted most earnestly would eventually be found.

We don't always see that many leaps of faith actually begin as very small steps of faith. Most "great acts" that we see others perform are not the work of a moment, but the work of a thousand (unseen) moments.

Have you had any experiences like this in your own life?

What are some of your "unseen" moments?

Can you share about one of the times in your life when you've been asked to have faith?

How have you come to discern the call of purpose/destiny?

I welcome these or any other comments or thoughts you wish to share.

Namaste.
Peace be with you.

The Traveler: A Contemporary Folk Tale

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 01:09:00 +0000

Dear readers: I would like to ask for your kind indulgence today to allow me to present the following story en lieu of my more traditional posts. This is a tale that came to me recently during one of my morning walks. My fiance upon hearing it said, "You have to write this." And write it I have. I hope you will enjoy this contemporary folk tale, written from the recent experiences of my own life. May it touch you in some way. Happy Friday.

Once upon a time there was a traveler, a pilgrim in a strange land. She had journeyed there from afar and spent many amazing days and amazing nights discovering a new and unusual country full of treasures and heartaches. It was hard work for her, discovering this new land, and it came to pass that one day it was requested of her that she return to the city of her youth for a few months until such time as she was ready to truly enter into the life of this strange new country. And so she began a journey. A journey to a place that she had left several years before, curious as to what she would find there.

She walked and walked through the rocky terrain, the olive trees and the sandy limestone paths. Then the olive trees became fewer and the sandy paths became darker. Hills became less steep and mountains became more green. The birds overhead chirped a song that she knew, and the blinding sun (so usually strong during these months) became more gentle and allied itself with its friends, the rain clouds, and rain began to fall. As the trees became taller and the flowers became more numerous, the traveler knew that she was nearing her city, the place of her youth, and she began to make inquiries about a place to stay for the night. She knew that it would not do to be caught out in the cold with no shelter and, more importantly, no company.

The first fellow traveler she met along the way greeted her and said, "Hello, my friend. So you are going into the city, too? That is where I live. I have a home of riches and it has room for you. Come. You must stay with me. It will be an honor to me and my family."

The traveler was warmed by this request and relieved that her task had been so effortless. Seeing that she was still quite a ways out from the city, she rejoiced and was pleased that she could now travel on her way, enjoying the approach into the land of her youth with only the concerns of the visitor who wants to fill her eyes with the sights and sounds of those things at once both unknown yet familiar to her. She heartily agreed to this invitation and she and her fellow traveler parted ways, agreeing to meet at the entrance to the city in three days time.

The three days passed quickly, the traveler's steps quickening now as she anticipated her arrival and the warm reception she would receive in the home of this friend. But as she made her final approach into the city a series of bad omens began to give her pause. First she saw a blackbird. Then she saw a lame horse. And finally a pool of stagnant water. All of these were unsettling to her, and by the time she had reached the city's gate, she had decided that she would not stay with her fellow traveler.

As they'd arranged, her fellow traveler met her at the gate to the city, but she found his entire demeanor towards her to be changed. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you mean to insinuate you were going to stay in my home? Be gone with you. There's no room in my house for the likes of you." And he quickly strode away.

The traveler was stunned and heartbroken. For although she had planned to obey the signs and refuse his invitation, this rebuke hurt her deeply and filled her with doubts. Not only that, but now she entered the city with no refuge, no place of rest to lay her head and lay down the burden of her travels.

Fortunately, it was early morning when the traveler finally stepped through the gate and entered the outer edge of the city, the sun just blooming over the horizon and promising to be as bright and gentle as it had been for so many days during the last part of her journey. So the traveler began to make inquiries in the town for a place to lay her head before nightfall.

The first place she visited was a nearby temple. The joyful faces of the worshippers seemed promising and a young supplicant, hearing her query, said, "Why, yes! I think I do have a place for you. My mother is in need of a companion and would welcome whatever companionship you could give during your days with us. Let me speak with her, and we will meet at the well in the middle of the city at noon."

Again the traveler was pleased and relieved to have found such help so soon. So she agreed to their arrangement and took her leave to roam through the city's streets until such time as their meeting.

She strode into shops, ambled through the market stalls, watched the blacksmiths working their metals, and the merchants selling their wares. She basked in the sights and sounds of people and their livelihoods, seeing in this return things she had never seen before. So much life was in this city!

At the appointed time, the traveler made her way through the city streets to the well brimming over at its center. It lay in a lovely square presided over by beautiful trees. Flowers lined the walks. What a beautiful place to wait. And wait she did.

As the seconds gave way to minutes and the minutes gave way to hours, the traveler knew that the supplicant was not coming. But just as she had resolved to leave, he arrived, panting and out of breath. "You cannot stay with us. My mother is traveling herself to foreign lands. Good luck to you." And he was gone in the blink of an eye.

The traveler's worries were now very great, for the sun had already reached its zenith several hours before and was now making its descent towards its slumbering bed. She knew that it would not be long before she herself would need to do the same, and as yet she had no place to rest for the night.

So she began to pass again through the city streets, inquiring as to where someone may have a room. One of the citizens hearing her inquiries said to her, "Check the house near the edge of town. I hear that there is a place there where you may stay. It is not the most comfortable or hospitable of places, but it may suit your needs for a time." And the traveler set off in the direction that this citizen pointed out to her.

When she arrived at the place, she discovered an old woman in the front garden washing a basket full of clothes. Her back was bent over her washboard, her hands reddened from the scrubbing, and she looked up as the traveler entered her yard. "What do you want," she barked, not kindly but not unkindly either.

"I am a traveler. I come from a strange land. But I used to live in this city and am looking for a room for the night."

The old woman left her washing and came to stand before her. The traveler saw that the hair she had pulled back was sprinkled with grey and her eyes rheumy with the early stages of blindness. Harsh lines creased her face, and her voice (unused to conversation) cracked when she talked. Looking her over warily, the old woman finally said, "This place is only for females," and turned back to her washing.

Shocked, the traveler opened her mouth in surprise, "But … I am a female," she stated.

"Whatever you say, Mister, but this place is only for females and you don't look like a female to me."

The traveler puzzled, looked down at her garb, at the robe around her waist and the sandals on her feet, the rings on her fingers and the bracelets on her wrists.

"I do make exceptions, though," continued the old woman. "If you aren't a female, there are certain guidelines you can follow that'll make it alright for you to stay here. If you're still interested, that is."

And, with hardly a pause in her washing, the old woman reached into her bosom and pulled out a sheet of paper which she handed to the traveler. However, as the traveler puzzled over the rules and searched her mind for an explanation, she soon became distracted by someone else entering the yard.

This visitor, garbed in similar attire to that of the traveler, nodded at her in greeting as she went by. But then the traveler noticed a curious thing: before reaching the old woman, this visitor reached into her robe and pulled out a mirror. Placing it in front of her face, mirror side out, the visitor then approached the old woman. "Excuse me, ma'am. Might I stay here for the night?"

"Only if you're a female," the old woman retorted.

"But I am."

And the old woman, pausing in her wash, looked up and into the mirror, and smiled. "Ah, yes. I recognize you. You've stayed here before. You may go in." And she resumed her washing.

Now more baffled than ever, the traveler watched a steady stream of guests begin to arrive, each of whom repeated this ritual, each of whom was greeted by a warm welcome from the old woman who, recognizing herself in the glass, proclaimed each visitor suitable for entry.

But this did not sit well with the traveler: neither the list of guidelines which denied her femininity nor the trickery of the mirror which would result in her own inability to see what might lie in front of her. And so, with sinking heart, she bade the old woman farewell and exited through the garden gate.

The day was now drawing to a close. The sun had sunk low in the sky and the evening birds had begun their songs in the trees. In the distance, the traveler could hear crickets chirping, and she knew that she must soon find a place to stay or be left out in the cold.

With anxious and heavy heart, she began to trod the city's paths once again, pausing in darkened shop windows looking for the assistance of shop keepers who had already long gone home.

Finally, just as the traveler began to despair, she was greeted by a young man approaching her. "Excuse me, miss. Are you looking for a place for the night?"

"Why yes, yes I am. But I have found no one who will take me in, and the night is coming and I am not prepared to make my bed alone, under the stars."

"Do not worry," he said. "I know a place that may take you in," and he proceeded to give her explicit directions on how to find it. Nodding gratefully, with tears welling up in her eyes, she bade the young man, "Thank you," and set off on her way for, hopefully, the last time.

She wound through the city streets again, his carefully drawn map in front of her, and in just a few short minutes found herself before the door of a cheery-looking establishment. Flower boxes garnished the windows and lights twinkled from within. A cat mewed at her feet and curled itself around her legs, and bells tinkled as the traveler rang the bell. She could smell a stew simmering and the scent of fresh bread beneath, and her stomach growled in hungry anticipation.

Soon the door opened and a small, round woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were tired but kind, and her mouth was creased with the faintest lines of one who laughed often and much. "How can I help you?" she asked. And the traveler proceeded to tell her, "Please, madam. I am a traveler and have been a stranger in a strange land. Now I have returned to the land of my youth and need a place to stay for the night … perhaps for many nights. Everyone I have spoken to has turned me away. Might you be able to help me?"

And the woman, hearing the traveler's story was touched by compassion. She could see the weariness in the traveler's eyes, hear the worry in her voice, and understand the burdens she carried in with her. Knowing these things, she answered the traveler, "By all means, you may stay here. My house is your house. Stay for as long as you need." And she opened the door wide and greeted the traveler warmly with a holy kiss. "Please come in." And the traveler did.

That night as the traveler lay beneath the warm blankets, her belly full from stew and bread, she gazed through the window at the stars and thought about her journey. She thought about the man who had invited her and rebuked her, the supplicant who had assured her and failed her, and the blind woman who couldn't even recognize her. But then she thought of the woman in whose house she now lived, and she was grateful. She knew that all of her steps had led her to this door and that these steps had been ordained even before the start of her journey. And she knew that whither she went from here, this place would always welcome her in.

I Can See Clearly Now

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 13:52:00 +0000

My Lunch With An Egghead. It was Like a Bad Train-Wreck. When the Past Comes Up and Smacks You in the Ass. These were all titles I had thought of for this blog post today because this is what happened to me last week. I had lunch with an egghead. It was like a bad train wreck. I felt like my past had come up and smacked me on the ass.

Positively Present wrote a wonderful post recently where she described her own confrontation with a painful, not-so-happy past. In complete honesty, she shared her panicked feelings, the rush of blood to her face, the sweaty palms, the utter anxiety of the event. And then she proceeded to tell us how she navigated her way through it and managed to find joy and acceptance in who she is now.

Well, this was another one of the moments of synchronicity where I read the post (the first post I'd read since being back) and thought, "What the heck?! Was PP at lunch with me last week?" And I even told her so.

Last week, I indeed had lunch with my past. Well, with an ex-boyfriend actually. Who looked remarkably like an egghead. And it was a traumatic thing. Frightening. Soul-jarring. And also a bit revolting, I have to say.

I found myself sitting in a booth across from what my future could have been if I'd continued on the path I was on 6 years ago, and that glimpse into a Future That Wasn't scared the bejeezus out of me. I found myself taking deep breaths between my gulps of Diet Coke and thinking, "OMG! What a narrow miss!"

Have you seen those old Hollywood movies where the main character is given the chance to see his life if he'd made (or hadn't made) this or that choice? It's a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol come to mind. I used to watch them and think, "If only that could really happen. Wouldn't it be great?"

Well … Fate, the Universe, God decided that, yes, it would be great and gave me that chance last week. They allowed me to glimpse myself down The Road of What Could Have Been from the safe and comfy vantage point of Where I Actually Am. And it was eye-opening.

It is rare in life that we are given this opportunity. I don't think it is all that common to be allowed to see The Road Not Taken. Most of the time we simply trust that when we are finally moving in alignment with ourselves and our purpose and, as some would say, the Divine's plan for our life, that this is sufficient reward. We can often look upon our present life (even with its sorrows) and appreciate the joy that permeates it because we have chosen to live in harmony rather than in dissonance with the world around us. We have come far enough to know that this present life is far better than we could have dreamed … and is, thankfully, many blessed steps away from where we once were. This is reassurance enough.

This is how I have felt, too. Periodically I have stepped back over the years, paused at a certain point along my mountain trail, and taken stock of how far I've come. I remember earlier parts of the path, difficult ledges I had to climb, parts of the trail where the path seemed to disappear entirely, and I can see the lessons learned. I can see how, even when I didn't think I was moving, I was still somehow climbing - up, uP, UP! These are things that I reflect on in these moments of pause. They renew me and encourage me to keep climbing.

But last week, I felt like I was truly given the chance to do more than appreciate the circumstances that had led me to this place. I was allowed to see a tiny bit of where a life of not making these choices might have led me. And in that glimpse, I was still wandering around the bottom of the mountain, searching for a way up, trying one path and getting discouraged and dropping back down again. Fearful of the mountain. Fearful of myself.

As I sat across from this ex-boyfriend, these thoughts were not going through my head yet. Mostly I was still in the state of "There but for the grace of God go I." But when I got home and had the time to reflect on my very strong emotional reaction to this encounter, these are the thoughts that came to me.

I find myself a strange mixture of relieved, elated, and sorrowful. Relieved that I did choose to do things differently. Elated that I (with God's help and the community of people around me) have begun climbing the mountain and have come so far. Sorrowful that my ex-boyfriend is still struggling to begin his climb.

It would be easy for me to be judgmental. And, to be honest, I do have to fight a bit not to be. I don't have a lot of patience with people who continue to choose the wrong paths despite all of the signposts all around them that spell out what the good paths are. But that's a side road we're not going to take today. What I realize is that the best thing I can do is to be there to support and encourage this individual when he decides to get serious about climbing the mountain. I did not get this far by myself. I got here because I had helpers and fellow climbers all along the way who gave me guidance, advice, tips, and love.

My glimpse down What Might Have Been Lane was not just a technique of the gods to bolster my pride and hubris. No, I believe its purpose was altogether different: to teach me that rather than stand in my elevated spot, looking down on and casting stones, perhaps it was time I, too, helped someone begin climbing the mountain.

What about you? What mountains have you climbed, or are you climbing, in your own life? How far have you come? Is there someone in your life who has been instrumental in your climb? Have you been instrumental in someone else's?

Your comments are welcome.

Warmest wishes today,

Putting Humpty Together Again: Mending the Cracked Pot

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 13:57:00 +0000

I was sitting recently, talking to a friend about the brokenness that we can experience in our lives. All of us experience this at one time or another and feel broken ourselves--flawed, messed up, perhaps even irredeemably so. We're bruised, scarred and knotted, and we wonder: Can any good come of this?

Evelyn Lim at Attraction Mind Map wrote a lovely post recently that addressed this issue: she shared with her readers the Indian folktale "The Tale of the Water Bearer's Pots," sometimes known as "The Cracked Pot." In this story, we are reminded that beauty can come of our flaws, that our imperfections do not have to mean that all is lost. The story of the broken vessel seems to say: Don't lose heart. Even your flaws and chips and cracks can be used toward good.

I have taken comfort in this promise myself, glad that even in my not-so-wholeness there's a chance that even my chips and flaws might somehow allow for love and beauty to bloom anyway.

But after talking with my friend, I began to wonder if there is more to the story, if perhaps we may sometimes stop too soon in our acceptance of it. The reason I say so is this question that began to gnaw at me: At what point is a flawed vessel no longer serving its purpose?

When does the chip on the glass become the shattered shard that cuts the one who tries to drink from it? When is the vessel so full of holes that it no longer can hold water? When do our flaws become liabilities? Our chips become our undoing? When are we no longer serving our purpose?

My friend and I puzzled over this together because both of us had encountered our own cracked pots recently, people so frequently broken and not so put back together that our interactions with them had become dangerous--cutting us, pricking us, shattering and wounding us. We had reached a point when we said of these interactions, "The fool here is me … for continuing to pick up this vessel." And we had stepped back and said, "No more."

The cracked pot no longer held water. We put it back on the shelf, out of reach, far from prying hands, far from any hands at all. But then … what purpose does it, can it, serve?

I began to wonder what bearing this had on me. When are my flaws admissible character traits, and when are they liabilities? Isn't it in my best interest to eliminate as many of them as I can?

Growing up in a strict religious household, the response to these questions was most often Jesus' admonishment to "Be perfect as I am perfect." Wow. No pressure there. Be perfect? Nooo problem.

But as I got older, I came to understand that perfect as it was used in that scripture did not mean perfect the way I was taught to conceive of it: without fault or flaw. Instead perfect meant whole, complete. Ah. That made more sense. But how does one accomplish this wholeness? And what does it mean to be more complete?

Maybe it means taking all of the pieces of my life that have been chipped away and fragmented over the years and allowing them to be arranged again to reflect my truest nature which, at the end of the day, is really the divine nature at the heart of me. Maybe it means being a bit like Humpty Dumpty, but instead of remaining shattered, I am "put back together again." This is a process of re-membering.

To "remember who we are" is, in a very real sense, to engage in the process of letting ourselves (and others) put the pieces of us back together again. When we remember who we are, we remember our essence, our purpose. We ask ourselves the question, "Who am I?" and in answering the question, we come to understand what the shape of this vessel, the shape of us, is meant to be.

It's important to note that the process of re-membering is not a solitary one. We do not re-member ourselves in isolation but in the context of community. There is a point at which we have done all we can do to re-form ourselves, to file away our rough edges so that we do not shatter or wound those around us, and it is then we can allow ourselves to be shaped and formed by the loving hand of others, those who can see our inner beauty and help us achieve our purpose.

What are the cracks in your life?
How can you be "put back together again"?

I welcome your comments on this or any other aspects of this post that strike you.

It's great to be back.
Peace be with you.

I Like to Move It, Move It

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Fri, 15 May 2009 04:16:00 +0000

flickr photo by: ifotog, Queen of Manhattan Street

Announcement: Due to recent, frazzling events, today's Greek post will be pre-empted by another slightly less Greek, slightly more silly one. Bear with your blogging host -- she is living on caffeine and cheetos amidst cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.

Last night at 11:00 I finally finished eighteen hours of online coursework for the online courses I teach. With the internet being disconnected on Saturday and a trip out of the country beginning on Tuesday, it was necessary that all my work for the next two weeks be alternately corrected/marked/written/assigned/uploaded. After hours and hours of this Cut-and-Paste Hell, I was done, finished, complete! I couldn't believe it! I had to check the To-Do list several times just to make sure--didn't want any surprises to pop back out at me--but, no, I was done. Let the happy dance begin! And begin it did.

Do you dance? I don't mean the official stuff like tango and cha-cha and lambada. I mean, do you DANCE? Shake your booty? Drop it like it's hot? Get down with your bad self?

Well, I do. Which meant that last night, as I tried to compose a few long-overdue emails, typing was a bit difficult. But I danced anyway. How could I not? I would even have gotten G in on the action had he been here. But he wasn't, and I didn't let it hold me back. I popped in a CD and off I went. The Greek neighbors just peered in, nodded their heads, and 'knew' -- "It's that little American girl again."

Dancing happens a lot at our house. Not only do I like to dance to the music but I am engaged to Mr. Smooth Moves himself (well, he doesn't call himself that) but he likes to move it, move it too … so we both move it, move it together a lot. We don't have to have a reason. We move it while we're cooking, while we're cleaning, or on occasions like last night when we're just glad something went right. We feel free. We laugh. A good time is had by all.

There have been studies over the years about the benefits of dance. I've tried to look them up for you, but I got bored and found I couldn't bop around quite so much when I was doing that, so there aren't any links here. (Boo. Hiss.) But suffice it to say, they all confirm what we already know: Dancing's in our nature.

We all start getting rhythm about the time we're old enough to walk, swaying to the music we hear our parents playing or (sometimes) just swaying to whatever tune is in our little heads (I still do this). We pick up pots and pans and bang on drums (pretty rhythmically it seems if my nieces and nephews are anything to go by) and we spin and twirl if the notion takes us.

It's not surprising that these studies also confirm what we know to be true: Dancing makes us feel good. Think about it: have you ever seen a dancer with a frown on his face? I never saw Fred Astaire moping when he cut a rug.

So what about you? Maybe you think:

"I don't have rhythm."
"I don't want everyone watching me."
"I see no purpose in dancing."

Well, this is what I have to say:

First, who cares?! Get out there and do it anyway. I don't have rhythm either … okay, well maybe I do a little bit (5 years of being a marching band nerd does mean that I can hear the downbeat and get in step with it). But that's not what's important. It's about letting loose really. So go on and do it.

Second, forget about everyone watching you. Hard to do I know. I used to be the queen of "I Can't Dance; There Aren't Enough People Out There" land. The mere thought of putting myself onto an empty dance floor kept me glued to my bar stool, clinging to my daiquiri glass like it was the last life preserver on a sinking ship. Hell no was I going out on that dance floor. But then someone said to me one day, "You know, most people are more worried about what other people are thinking of them than they are paying attention to what you're doing." This person was right and over time I've learned to not care so much. However, if you're still a bit shy, no worries. If you can't rock out in public, there's still no reason why you can't do so in the privacy of your own home. Crank the tunes, open a bottle of wine, and off you go.

Just remember: Doing this is good, clean fun and nothing to feel silly about the next morning. The ancients used to do this all the time. It was their form of worship. As Nietzsche said, "I would only believe in a God who knew how to dance." But if you are still a bit worried, I've included this clip just for you. It might make you feel better.

Third, since when does everything have to have a purpose? Sometimes the best reason for something is simply, "Because it brings me joy." So there now. Off with you. Shake what your mama gave you.

As a Japanese proverb says: We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.

Do you dance? Break it down? Bust a move?
I'd love to hear any of your own dancing stories you'd like to share.

Happy Friday.
Rock on,

The Floor is Yours ...

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Thu, 14 May 2009 05:01:00 +0000

By learning you will teach;
by teaching you will understand.
~Latin Proverb

A few days ago I wrote about writing with your heart instead of your head, and it seemed to resonate with several of you. I appreciated all of the lovely words and encouragement that came my way to assure me that this was the best thing to do and that you, for one, were enjoying my blog. Your words did a great deal to boost my spirits.

Over the past few days I have had my hands full trying to teach full-time, pack up a house, and prepare for a flight to the States on Thursday next week (one week from today). The last thing I have been able to do is sit down and write … from my head, from my heart, from anywhere.

I feel frazzled, anxious, and unsettled. Trying my darnedest to keep things in perspective, be in the moment, and not fret about a future that hasn't happened yet. Easier said than done.

As a teacher, I have learned that learning is a dialogue between me and my students. Inasmuch as I instruct them, they instruct me. I do not have all the answers. Neither do they. But together we share more knowledge than when we are alone.

This is true in our everyday lives too. We all have something we can teach each other. We can all be each other's students.

So today, I would like to offer you the opportunity to speak to me from your hearts. I would like to learn from you.

If you could give me any advice right now, what advice would you give me?

What IS the best piece of advice you have ever received?

I look forward to hearing from all of you.

Remembering Who I Am

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Tue, 12 May 2009 04:12:00 +0000

When I was a little girl, my mother used to say to me, "Remember who you are." Usually this advice was given when I was doing something new for the first time or stepping out with friends she didn't really know. It became very frequent advice when I became a teenager, and it was my mom's way of saying, "Don't forget your values. Don’t forget the things we've taught you." It was a gentle reminder to a be good girl.

It also became something of a family joke. I heard it so often that I couldn't help but laugh and tease, "Oh, no! Mom, who am I?" Hahaha. But I think this is the best piece of advice I've ever received.

I was reminded last night that, for a few days anyway, I have done some forgetting of who I am. A still, small voice that I know to be my heart said, "Why are you writing from your head? Why aren't you writing from me?" And that was all it took to sadden me and humble me because, when I write from my heart, the magic flows through … without effort, without my help, with only her words.

Positively Present wrote a lovely post a few days ago which encouraged readers to go back and look at their first post. What did it say? How did we feel about it? Was what we said still true? I balked at doing this because my blog is so new. But last night, after hearing Voice, I did what was asked and read my first post, Harmony, and then a few more. I loved them.

When I began writing just a month ago, I was writing more consciously for myself than I was for an audience, and the voice that is in those posts rings far truer to me than some of my more recent posts. Not to belittle these recent lovelies but while they begin with an idea in my heart, my head quickly steps in and takes over--a bit like the know-it-all who interrupts someone to wax eloquent on all he knows, drowning out the voice of the other speaker. I do not want this to be me.

So today I am asking my Voice an apology and going back to my roots (thank you, Caroline). I am remembering who I am. I am writing for me.

How do you remember who you are?
What is the best piece of advice you have ever received?

Peace be with you today,

The Beginning of Happiness

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Mon, 11 May 2009 11:52:00 +0000

When I was in graduate school I wrote a 'brilliant' master's thesis on the knights of the Round Table. My premise was masking and unmasking in the world of Camelot and all of the confusions of identity that ensued and contributed to the fall of the fellowship. It was smart, it was insightful, and it also glaringly overlooked one very obvious problem: the knights wore armor!

Actually, my thesis didn't overlook this fact as much as it overlooked one very clear drawback of the armor: the knights had no way to know whom the other was unless they lifted their mask/helmet, which of course they would not do while actually fighting. From head to foot the knight was covered in metal. So any recognition of a fellow knight depended solely on the outward trappings of his suit and steed: banners, shields, standards, etc. Give the "bad" guy the standard and bearing of the "good" guy, and no one would be any the wiser.

Well … believe it or not, I am not going to write about masking and unmasking today. We've seen it a lot lately in the blogging community and it's been treated far better than I could hope to on this pre-coffee Monday morning. Instead, I thought I'd take a different route and write about something else: the obvious.

There is a lot of talk today about the key elements of happiness and many wonderful things are happening in the blogging world regarding meditation, gratitude journals, positive thinking, mindfulness. But, for all of these, when it comes down to it, making me happy (if anyone can be made to be happy) is quite simple:

Feed me.
Let me sleep.
Leave me alone.

I realize that other people may have variations on this theme, but when all of the above are happening in my life, I am a pretty agreeable person. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, I can even dance in the rain. But when one (or all of these things) is missing, watch out! Enter Queen Grumpy. I can be unpleasant, very unpleasant indeed.

Not to belittle mindfulness or gratitude or positivity. I just think sometimes that happiness is more elemental and very, very simple.

Yet this can also be the reason why happiness is very difficult for many in this world to achieve. Two-thirds of the world is starving, living below the poverty line, and have no idea where their next meal is coming from. How then can they expect (be expected) to know happiness?

This is what I realize when I am grumpy from having not eaten enough on a given day or when I go for a few days without proper sleep. How lucky am I that these are only sources of momentary discomfort?! What if this were the state in which I lived? Could I still then say, "Despite these things, I am happy"? I don't know that I could.

There is a lot to be said for these basic sources of happiness and what they contribute to our overall moods and outlook on life. If you don't believe me, think of the last altercation you had with someone and ask yourself, "Had both parties had enough sleep? Eaten recently? Had some down time?" If the answer was "No" to any of those questions, you know that these basic things can have a powerful impact on our thoughts, emotions, and our overall sense of well-being.

We often speak of the "pursuit of happiness" and the right of every individual to it. But how often do we think of this pursuit in terms of giving every individual the basic tools whereby she can achieve it?

Before there is freedom of thought, speech, press, religion there are basic human needs waiting to be met. And for most of the world, these needs are the greatest challenge … far beyond any concern for happiness, gratitude or mindfulness.

I have realized that for me the secret to The Secret is this: The best thing for me is not about envisioning the best thing for me, but envisioning and intending the best thing for you: my brother, my sister, my neighbour. When I want and work to attract good things to you, your riches will pour over on me.

I can begin by helping to meet your basic needs: food, shelter, meaningful work, clothing. The rest will follow.

What about you?
What are the basics in your own life that contribute to your happiness?
What have you realized about your happiness? The happiness of others?

Om shanti.
Namaste.

p.s. Janice Hunter shared an excellent article on this topic recently from a fellow blogger, Randi @ Foreign Quang. You can find it here: Hunger and Hope.

The Hostess With the Mostest?

noreply@blogger.com (chaniagirl) — Sat, 09 May 2009 05:43:00 +0000

"Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt itself." ~Charles Dickens

It has been an amazing week for me as a new blogger. And it began with no fanfare at all -- a lazy post promising things to come and the gentle hope of another good week of learning. But Tuesday saw me sharing the journey with Janice Hunter, a real treat for me and a treat for her readers, as well. New guests started knocking on the door, and I found that I didn't have time to click the stats key quite so much. And then things gained even more momentum: Barbara Swafford at Blogging Without a Blog shocked the pajama-bottoms off me with her good morning surprise -- I was featured blogger of the week! I think I still have the tell-tale coat-hanger wrinkles around my mouth from all the smiling I did that day.

With all of this lovely new publicity (plus a dandy little thing called Twitter), I've had a lot of new faces popping by to say "Hi" and have a slice of the metaphorical coffee cake. And you have such kind things to say about my "home." So many kind words, so much encouragement, in fact that I feel I should proclaim now, "But no, I'm not the best housekeeper. Don't open that closet!"

You've all seen the movies where frazzled hostess frenzyingly cleans before guests arrive by stashing anything and everything under beds, in drawers, in the closets, behind the sofa cushions. I am that frazzled hostess, sure that at any moment one of you is going to lift up the proverbial pillow and say, "Hey, wait. Don't I see some crumbs here?"

It is true. I am a happy person, but before anyone decides to put me in a ~~padded room~~ box (see Nadia's recent post Pull off the Labels), you must know that I'm not always this happy. And, in fact, looks can occasionally be deceiving … like the spic-and-span house with the closet door straining against the weight of unseen objects behind it.

Life here is good, but good because it has a bit of the not-so-good mixed in with it. Over the weeks and months ahead, you will be treated to stories of my time here in Greece, stories that are not always happy, stories of experiences that have actually been quite painful for me. But I will share them because it is my belief that it is this totality of human experience that makes our lives beautiful. To my mind happiness without any sorrow is at best an illusion.

I have a shadow side, too. While I choose to focus on and give energy to my "light" side, I cannot ignore my "shadow" either. Nor do I want to. I see this acceptance as balance, as in harmony with my spirit as Yin and Yang are with each other.

So for my own piece of mind as hostess, please allow me to open up the closet a bit for you and dust off a few cushions:

I can be very grumpy, especially in the mornings.
I anger easily.
I like to get my own way (sometimes a bit too much).
I can be extremely judgmental and critical (usually when I am extremely stressed).
I don't like to share my things or my time half as much as I would desire to.
I am positively frightened about my upcoming trip back to the States.

These are things I'm working on and have been for quite some time. And I have learned that these "crumbs" and "closet" items do not make my house unlivable as much as they are as expected as actual crumbs and clutter in a "lived-in" house. It would be nice if they weren't around at all. But their presence doesn't mean that my house, my life, isn't (can't be) any less beautiful … or any less suitable for you to come popping by. And I hope you will, again and again and again. I make a mean cheesecake, after all … .

What about you? Do you have a "shadow" side?
Are there any crumbs in your house?

To all of you who have welcomed me into the community this week: Thank you!