Gayle McCain

Story - The Healer and the Life Molecule

2012-01-26T19:22:00.000-08:00

It is the Healer's Calling to see the Patient Whole - until the patient can see himself Whole

The little girl was darling, and Kaylar fell in love with her sad eyes. The poor little one didn’t laugh out loud, she didn’t run. And when she cried, she had learned to just let the tears roll down her face. Her body didn’t work right. Katia was lucky enough to have been born to parents who had the time to care for her. But without some sort of intervention, her life was likely to be a short one.

The multitude of tiny little fingers that moved things around inside her body did not
work. That meant that she wasn’t getting the nutrition her young body needed. Her lungs could not move the mucus out of her body. And she was slowly wasting away.

Katia was brilliant, but very tiny. The NanoScientists had found a protein that was either a missing building block at position 508, or it was broken at that place. And they did not have the technology to fix it.

Kaylar’s reputation as a non-traditional Healer Medic had preceded him, which was why they were sitting in his office. He listened to everything the little girl’s parents had to say. He had not dealt with this type of disease before but he knew that there are things in this universe that changed, but cannot be explained by physical means.

Katia had played quietly on the floor while the adults talked. But when the Healer began to talk directly to her, she left her toys and climbed up into his lap. And he Knew. He Knew that the Unseen Energy would show him what needed doing. And he trusted this Energy. For when he did as it bade him, things changed, people healed, and the world was better for it.

Kaylar had been gifted a unique ability to see the building blocks of a person’s Life Molecule. Healthy building blocks sparkled, gave off light and for lack of a better word – breathed. But damaged areas neither sparkled nor gave off light. In fact sometimes they seemed as lifeless as a bird dead three weeks.

His mind’s eye showed him what was damaged, or when something was in the wrong place. He did not usually have to know exactly what the damage was, or what disease it caused, he just had to See it, and trust that he would be shown what to repair. In addition he could also See the emotional damage that had either led to the disease, or resulted from it. Again, it was not important for his work that he Know what damage was – just that he repaired it.

As he cuddled the little girl, the Healer told her how once he had treated an old soldier for emotional trauma, which had resulted in disease of both the heart and the stomach. The man had been unable to get to the root of his trouble with the Listening Healers prior to Kaylar’s intervention. But afterward, he was able to finally work through his issues with a Listener. And both his heart and his stomach healed. It wasn’t magic, but it was something that couldn't be touched with hands, many people were afraid of it.

But this little girl trusted him. She liked the tall gentle Healer. He was soothing to her fragile body. She didn’t know what he was going to do, but she could tell that he wasn’t going to poke and prick her. Or even give her more nasty medicine. And so when he leaned back in his chair, she snuggled in, and dropped off to sleep in his lap.

By the time Katia had trustingly drifted off he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. He also knew that he did not need hours and hours to accomplish this. The timing was appropriate. He suggested that her parents relax for a while, but that he would prefer that they were quiet while he worked. Smiling he closed his eyes. Her parents, puzzled looks on their faces, leaned back in their chairs, holding hands watching this non-traditional Healer.

Kaylar allowed the Unseen Energy to flow into his body, filling every nook and cranny. When he had quieted himself, he idly noticed that he could not tell that Katia was leaning against his chest. It seemed to the Healer that they had melted together. This actually made it easier for him to see that which he needed, for he knew his own body, which meant that he only had to look for the differences. He asked the Energy what was the root cause of her malfunctioning body, and was shown a portion of her Life Molecule, just as the Nano Scientists had said. He could see that one small part was dark and broken. And that this was pulling on the rest of the molecule, causing it to twist and bend improperly.

Carefully using the Energy that was flowing through him, in his mind’s eye he removed that single piece, and one on either side of it – for good measure. Then he reached up into the energy soup that floated above the Life Molecule and extracted the proper pieces to put back. Once he had reattached them, he Reached to allow Energy to flow through him from the Sacred Ground into this delightful little girl.

All on its own, her Life Molecule began to twist and turn into its proper position, sending beams of light out in all directions, as it should have all along. He smiled as his mind’s eye saw sparkles, and he imagined Katia dancing across his office.

In her sleep, she sighed and took a deep breath for the first time since coming to see him. The Healer looked down at the little angel in his lap, realizing that she was very deeply asleep, but breathing normally. He quietly told her parents what he had seen and done. And what they might expect as her body started working properly for the first time. He made notes of the foods that he wanted her to eat, as well as several other things he thought would make her transition easier.

Tenderly, he transferred the tiny girl to her father’s arms, and told them to call if they had any concerns, but that he wanted to see her in a seven-day. As they left he turned away to write his report.

The tiny girl that bounded into his office insisting on a hug bore little resemblance to the fragile angel he’d held in his arms. She had color in her cheeks, had filled out and had no longer had such a sad look on her face.

Her parents told the Healer Medic that after one very long coughing episode, her lungs had begun to work properly. And she had coughed on and off for three days, as her body rid itself of the mucus it had previously been unable to expel. And her digestive tract finished its transition to health before her lungs. And her body began to absorb the nutrients that it had been deprived of by her disease, which sped up her healing even more.

In short, Katia’s body had finally been allowed to heal itself. And while her parents would need to take care to provide nutrient rich foods as her body played catch up, she was out of danger. And barring any unforeseen difficulties, she would live to see her grandchildren grown.

Gayle McCain

Previous Story: The Healer June 25, 2009 http://gaylemccain.blogspot.com/2009/06/healer.html

Does it work like this? I'd like to think so... We know that the body does have an innate ability to heal itself - if we can SEE it whole long enough. What if... it can repair genetic damage? That said... the Healer, the Patient, and the patient's loved ones must trust in that innate ability. It takes a whole lot of Faith.

Story - No Equipment Necessary

2011-11-01T16:47:00.001-07:00

“Did you see that?” he said as he returned to his colleagues. “She disappeared around the corner. I mean, she disappeared, instantly. Went poof,” his fingers flicked outwards in an unrestrained gesture. “I thought, I was…” his voice trailed off.

“I wondered how soon it’d happen,” said the thin man to his colleagues. “It doesn’t matter, we know who she is. She dropped this,” his long fingers held a business card.

“Is that why we had to meet here?” asked the raven haired woman. At his nod, she continued, “How did you know?”

“It’s a gift. I feel when someone has shifted, but this is the first time I’ve known ahead of time,” he said, as he looked down at the card. “I don’t understand it yet. But I will.” Nodding, he looked at the man in the sunglasses and continued. “Now go find her, Frank. And when you do, give me a shout, will you? I need to have a chat with her.” Turning away as Frank vanished; he smiled at the dark haired woman at his side and said, “Let’s order another cup of coffee, we need to talk.”

Katie had just wanted to see what Harrods was like. She’d heard so much about the upscale London store that she had looked on the Internet, found a photo of the outside, and passport in her purse, literally popped over to see for herself. What she hadn’t known was that these three would be leaving a meeting across the street. Her appearance might not have been noticed by anyone at all, except that she had been knocked over by the man in the sunglasses just after she had popped onto the sidewalk. She had been as startled as he and dropped her purse which splattered its contents. And then she had run.

Not sure why he had chased her, Katie slipped home, trying to figure out why she was concerned. She usually made decisions about trusting someone immediately; she didn’t know how she felt about this mysterious man, though as she sorted through her memories, she realized she did trust his companions. He looked like a nice man behind the glasses, but she was having trouble separating fact from the fiction of Hollywood. That was the trouble with watching spy movies late at night.

Nonetheless, she made preparations to run. This man might work for one of the alphabet soup divisions of the PTB, Powers That Be. And if they found out she could slip instantly between here and there, they would try to contain her. Someone with her skills, if trained, could slip into places they couldn’t, and places she shouldn’t. Katie had no desire to be enlisted in that kind of intrigue and espionage. She was sure that they would not believe that slipping took incredibly high energy, and that sneakiness or theft lowered that energy, making it impossible to slip. So she made preparations to run, buying a disposable phone and a gift card that could be used without tracking her whereabouts.

She had just paid for her purchases when the man in the sunglasses started across the store towards her. Katie grabbed her bag and slipped. Her actions started a game of chase that lasted far too long. Whoever he was, he was never more than ten minutes behind her each time she slipped. The one time she ran down a back alley to catch a passing bus in Chicago he didn’t find her for nearly two hours. Somehow he was orienting on her when she slipped. It was only a five hour drive home, so even though it was midnight and she was exhausted, she rented a car, and drove the distance, music blaring to keep herself awake.

Her drive gave her time to think about it had all started. She realized that slipping between the spaces all day long had reinforced her skill at seeing where she wanted to go. She was glad that she’d taken the baby steps of getting past the most of the vertigo of her initial couple of shifts. That first time she ever slipped had been a doozy.

Katie had been painting a landscape that day, idly dragging her brush through the swirling paint. It was in the margins between two colors right before they mixed that she had always found her inspiration, imagining she could slide along those furrows and slip between this world and the next. Not knowing what would happen when she did. She only knew that when she followed the edges and used the swirling colors something happened within her that allowed for her most creative moments.

And on that particular summer morning, already warm with the promise of stifling heat later in the day, she thought about how that would feel as she sat stirring the pure white paint on her palate. Katie, caught in meditative silence, had allowed her mind to dip down into the furrows left in the paint by her brush.

Something in the paint and the silence shifted within her, as if a switch were flipped and abruptly she found herself in the desert, dizzy and nauseated. The burning of her bare feet dragged her out of the belief that this was merely a dream.

A quick glance around showed that her only hope of relief lay in the sliver of shade offered by a large rock to her left. Placing her feet as carefully as possible, she ran between the sharp rocks of the desert floor to that blessed relief. Though cooler than the sun-blasted desert floor, her feet were burned by the time she reached it.

Leaning against the rock, fighting against nausea and rising terror, Katie really looked at her surroundings, trying to keep out of the pounding sunshine. It looked to be mid-afternoon by the shadows, and she had absolutely no idea where she was, except deep desert. Rocks and sand. As far as she could see there was no life anywhere around. As her vertigo faded she noticed the surprising silence. No whirring of insect wings, no scratching sound as millions of tiny living things ate, crawled, and lived their lives among the leaves. There were no leaves, either. This was a land of beige and brown, yet even in it’s desolation she could see the beauty. Squinting against the glare, she worked to push aside the creeping concern of how she had gotten there, and whether there was a way to get back home.

Crouching in the slowly growing shade, she began to idly doodle in a small pile of sand while she contemplated. It was inconceivable that she had ended up abruptly in the desert, and yet that fact was inescapable. Mouth parched, she could feel her body temperature begin to rise, as dehydration set in. Resigned to dying, she knew that in this deep desert death would be swift, for she didn’t have enough protection from the arid landscape.

As she made peace with her end, allowing her mind to drift, eyes lazily watching her fingers leave furrows in the sand, she began to dream of someplace cool and damp. She let her mind go, slipping along the margins between the swirls in the sand. Dreaming of someplace cool, someplace where the water was overwhelming and powerful. Someplace like Niagara Falls.

Abruptly she found herself standing on one of the overlooks, a stiff breeze blowing mist over her parched body, only dimly aware of the vertigo that had accompanied the shift. It had taken a moment for her to grasp the reality of her new vision, thinking that perhaps she was having the delirium that comes with dehydration. She had stood there convinced that death was moments away until a small child had run by, splashing her from one of the many puddles along the walkway. The child’s mother rushed to apologize and rein in her wayward youngster, as the nauseated Katie realized somehow that she had indeed changed locations again.

Her bare feet left damp footprints as she walked across the street to the nearest bench. In spite of the chill, she sat and rested her still dizzy head on the back of the bench, wondering what mechanism, magic or whatever had shifted her from place to place. Closing her eyes a few moments, enjoying the humidity and cool, she allowed her thoughts to drift idly over the extraordinary things that had just occurred. Her vertigo had faded completely by the time she realized that each shift had happened when she had allowed her mind to slide into the margins of the swirling paint and the furrows in the sand. The space between, perhaps even a space of silence, while her body had imagined how it would feel to be in a different place.

Chilled, but armed with an idea, she set out to shift again. She was ready to go home. It took her nearly twenty minutes to still her mind enough to allow the shift to happen again. Arriving in her own living room, she stumbled to the couch, sure that if it weren’t for the vertigo and being soaked to the skin, she’d have thought it was all an illusion. But the proof was leaving a damp spot on her couch…

In the weeks that follow first shifts, Katie had spent a great deal of time considering how much this opened up her world. She could go anywhere, and do anything. Limited only by her imagination. Because she didn’t want it to be at the mercy of a random thought she had spent time learning how to jump, staying close to home because she knew the territory. With each successful jump the vertigo became less of a problem.

When she’d first begun slipping through the space between places it had seemed like such a lark, jumping between two points. It had to be line of sight at first, gradually increasing the distance, and finally practicing with photos to give her a reference point. Until the day she popped into the wrong place, at the wrong time and her appearance from thin air in front of these individuals had a galvanizing effect.

Katie wondered why the man in the sunglasses had pursued her relentlessly. It felt like she’d been on the run for aeons, even though it had been less than a full day since she had first appeared in front of Harrods. The one good thing that had come out of it was the vertigo that had been gradually weakening had stopped altogether.

She wondered why the man in the sunglasses had tracked her across three continents. Time and time again, he’d found her. It finally dawned on her that in spite of turning her mobile off and getting rid of her credit cards with their imbedded chips, he still had some way of tracking her. And that was when she realized that he was orienting on the slipping itself, which made escaping by ordinary car a practical solution.

By the time her house was in sight in the early morning light Katie was angry. She knew that sooner or later he would catch her, and she wanted to be on familiar ground when that happened. After a fast shower, she got dressed again, and finally laid down to sleep, hoping that a resolution would come to her while she slept.

When she woke, she knew what she had to do. She had to find out why this man was chasing her. That meant that she had to go back in time to before they first fell over each other. Holding a clear image of her watch reading one hour before she had arrived in London, she slipped. No one had seen her as she emerged from the alley near Harrods that she had originally run into.

Her tea had just arrived at the sidewalk café when the man who chased her sat down at the table next to her. Momentarily he was joined by the thin man and a woman in a hat. Listening to their conversation was a challenge due to the noise of the café. Katie spent more of her time watching the interplay between these old friends. Laughter punctuated their conversation. When the thin man jumped to his feet, “She’s on her way. Over there,” he pointed across the street.

Katie saw herself get knocked over by the man in the sunglasses. She felt an echo of the fear that she had felt when he grabbed her arm. Her younger self took off running and was chased around the corner, as the thin man bent to pick up a piece of paper. The startled look on his face made Katie chuckle, for she knew what he had found, as he looked around suspiciously.

She chuckled again at the frustrated look on their faces as the other man came back. A hurried conference between them sent him off again. And the remaining two sat back down at their table and discussed what was written on the card. When she’d heard enough, she paid her tab and walked back to the alley, where she slipped back home to her own time. She didn’t know if it made any difference, but all of the movies she’d seen said it was a bad thing to meet oneself coming and going. So she was careful to arrive back a minute after she’d left.

She neatened up the house, knowing that sooner or later they’d get around to visiting her, and stretched out to take another nap. The doorbell startled her up out of a sound sleep, and in her sleepy state she nearly slipped again. But she didn’t want to run anymore. So, courageously she answered the door.

The thin man standing outside was very tired. He had a gentle look about him, though his face wore a look of grim determination. He took in her suspicious look and burst out, “Damn it. It’s not going to happen the way I wanted it to. My name is Gabriel. Please don’t run,” he added, reaching out a hand, pulling back just before touching her arm. “I just want to talk to you. I want to meet the woman who could slip space so easily that even a Finder can’t keep up.” Chuckling, he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Yeah, you ran Frank all over the place, he’s worn out. Look, could we talk for a bit?”

She drew a deep breath, held it a moment and stood back for him to enter. She asked if he would like a cup of tea. When he made a face, she laughed and changed that to coffee.

While the pot brewed, they chatted over the merits of milk versus cream, sweet or not. Cups in hand, they sat on the couch, and she sat quietly waiting for him to explain his visit, and why he had sent Frank to chase her.

Gabriel pulled Katie’s card out of his pocket, laid it on the couch between them, and asked what it meant. She laughingly told him she was a counselor who helped people unearth the incredible soul under the wreckage of their lives. But it had seemed like a great motto when she’d written it two years ago.

Unravel the Mystery of Who YOU Are.
Traveling Intuitively through Time
No Equipment Necessary

Katie Simon 1-800-555-1441

He agreed that it was a great motto and began to laugh. “I’ve just spent the last couple of decades writing bi-location stories. I hit my head recently and after years of writing about it, abruptly I can do the traveling I’ve written about so often. Really do it. Just like you can. Plus, I can feel when somebody else jumps. I don’t quite understand it, but it’s like they pull on the fabric of the universe or something,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “But you... I knew you were going to shift before you arrived in front of Harrods. How? What is different about you?”

“Are you sure? Are you sure I wasn’t already there?” she asked. At his confused look, she continued. “I arrived before your friends. I was sitting near you when you had your meeting.” She could see he still didn’t understand. “You’re the writer, figure it out. I’ll wait,” falling silent, she could see the gears turning as he picked up her business card and really looked at the ramifications of her revelation.

“Fed Ex would make a fortune on this you know. They’d have to come up with a catchy slogan.” And Gabriel began to laugh.

Your package
Arrives at its destination
Before it leaves.

Guaranteed.

Gayle McCain

(Written Summer 2009 - IDK why I didn't post it then.)

A Soul Level Love Story

2011-06-12T08:53:00.000-07:00

I've taken a few facts - and written a fantasy. Could it be a true fantasy? I don't know. I'd like to believe it can be.

She was beautiful, charming, and witty, eyes dancing with excitement as she came from her gate, and fell in love with my best friend on sight. And he fell for her at that same moment. I could tell for I have loved him for a thousand years. What none of us realized was that she was a woman dancing between worlds. One in which she was gloriously in love and living with her twin flame, her soul’s truest mate. In the other she was plunged into the depths of hell, because he wasn’t in it.

And her heart knew that he SHOULD be in her life, sleeping next to her, holding hands, hearts beating together, blending so seamlessly that she could not tell where she ended and he began.

What none of us understood was that it was not the distance or the time between visits that caused the fights, it was that she was a woman who fell in love with a man in one universe and had her feet planted deeply in a different reality. Her attempt to be a bridge between the two began to tear her apart. Each universe had its benefits. And she wanted the best of both worlds. But that isn’t the way things work – at least not in the beginning.

As human beings we can only live in one universe at a time. Choose one, and you get it with all the limitations and limitless horizons of it, heartbreak and joy. Choose another and you get its glory or hell. We choose our ‘future’ by choosing as wisely as possible what we want in our lives.

She wanted her social life of her old city, disdaining his sleepy town so far away. She wanted him there on her familiar stomping ground, and was unaware that she was asking him to give up everything he knew, including his family to be with her. For him to move to her city he would have to sacrifice the research career he was passionate about, and return to his hated former career – simply because it made money and her town was expensive. It never occurred to her that it was possible to find a compromise that would give them both what they needed.

And so for a while she commuted between their homes. One with bright lights and vivacious people, the other where she got to be with her beloved living a quiet life. And when they were together – it worked. In fact it was glorious to watch. And when she was in one place and he another – they both suffered from what can only be described as ‘failure to thrive’. What neither of them understood was how painful each successive parting would become. Or how much their lives depended upon being with each other.

After one particularly big fight he moped around for months-brokenhearted, never getting out of his pajamas. I don’t think he shaved more than once every couple of weeks. And the house reeked of cigarettes and scotch. And from her infrequent communications she got out of bed only because her son needed her to do so, surfacing only when the sophisticates needed a fourth for bridge, or the socialites needed a pair of hands for a school fundraiser.

They wanted to be together, but couldn’t seem to make it work in either town. She wouldn’t do was needed for him to move to her home, and she wouldn’t move to his. And adding to their difficulties was sharing custody of her son with her ex-husband. Communications had broken down between the two parents – and the little boy became a pawn. Neither of them could figure out how to handle joint custody, making sure that he got to see both of his parents, in a way that he wouldn’t feel like a ping pong ball.

But finally, one day, the three of adults and one small boy sat down together to discuss how it could be accomplished. In the beginning it was a tense meeting, but they remembered what was at stake. Love. Love between parents and their child. And between husband and wife. It wasn’t perfect, but an agreement was reached, openly, honestly, with integrity in the best interests of that little boy.

And everyone who had ever been embroiled in their struggles, did their best to make this restructuring work. Because such soul level love should be supported whenever it happens.

On the brink of divorce, they had finally come to a compromise, chosen a different city, sold almost everything and started over.

The money they raised allowed them to live until his research began to bring in money and she developed a client base. They spent time really being married, as they explored the new city, furnishing their small home with things and memories of this glorious time together. Making friends, and establishing themselves in the community.

And in a new town my friends began to live, really live, as a family. Did they live happily ever after? Yes. Though there were a great many cabinet doors slammed as they did.

And I got to watch it all. For which I am grateful.

Growl

2010-11-08T18:57:00.001-08:00

I have a nice story - Home from Alaska, written months ago, and published here on this blog. I don't check this blog all that often. But today I found Chinese. Curious I translated 4-5 of those comments. Innocent quotes of some wisdom.

And then...

grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

"Go see this p.o.r.n" "come get our girls" "want to get..." and on and on and on... Growl.

Snarl.

This is nasty.

I have seen a red light district UP close and personal. My friend and I accidentally ended up there while visiting a new city overseas. ICK. Just ICK.

The sex was all behind doors, but the solicitation was not. What poured out of the building was pain and sadness.

I was 2 feet from a beautiful young woman who was so full of heroin that she was unconscious, where she was completely incapable of defending herself against any of the animals that were prowling around that district, completely.

I watched her dealer mixing the shit on the sidewalk next to her, needles laying on the sidewalk.

I watched as the cops drove the other way.

And men solicited the women on the street. I was approached, but pointed to the man I was with and shook my head. (Apparently I was already 'taken' and they don't poach on another 'man's property.') God I'm glad I wasn't there with another woman. We'd have been in real trouble.

It was awful. There was an entire industry in one of the most affluent neighborhoods of that very modern city... and it was so soiled... ick.

And so for me to be checking over my old stories --- light romantic stories - and find that shit. grrrrrr.

I will be more careful to check the comments on my blog from now on - so spammers beware. Because I don't f...ing like what you did.

Story - Home from Alaska

2010-02-05T20:12:00.000-08:00

Home from Alaska
by Gayle McCain

The day that Kari called to wish me happy birthday, and chat, surprisingly I was somewhere that my mobile phone got signal. I had just gotten off the ferry for some site seeing along the coast of Alaska when my oldest friend called. I’d been in the Alaskan boonies for so long that I usually forgot to put my phone on the charger, but my phone was fully charged and Kari was chatty.

She droned on and on about her new boyfriend, until I finally tuned her out. What jerked my attention back to her I never was really sure, but when I asked her to repeat that, she said “I ran into Chad the other day. Apparently his divorce was final last Christmas.” Not hearing any reply to this news Kari was annoyed. “Are you listening to me? Apparently his ex fell ‘in love’ with a lawyer, or was it his bank account?” sarcasm dripping from her lips. “Anyway she left Chad & got married right away. I heard her marriage is not going well. Anyway he’s well shut of her. Are you still listening?”

“Yes Kari, I’m listening,” I answered. “I just never thought it’d happen. How does he doing, how’s he look?”

“Well, he looks good. Like he’s never been happier. He asked about you. Said he was going to miss spending your birthday together. Dia, what did he mean?”

“His birthday is the day after mine, and we’ve shared a cake, a cup of coffee, or a Kailua every year for the last six or seven, depending on how things were going,” it was all the explanation that Kari was going to get, as unshed tears clogged my throat. I had put so many emotions on the back burner when I’d left home that I didn’t even realize that I’d put the fun there too. Up here I’d forgotten that I even had a birthday, and all the fun that we’d had over the years came flooding back.

“Are you OK?” Hearing what I hadn’t said, worry filling her voice. Mumbling that I was fine, and how was her new job going, I managed to fend her off. Distracted, Kari began talking about how wonderful her life was, while I had a chance to think about Chad.

He and I had been good friends, both of us married, when I’d fallen in love with him. Because he was married, I never told him how I felt, for a number of reasons, including the fact that I liked his wife.

My marriage on the other hand had been rocky from the start and my husband and I had been negotiating the property settlement when he was in an accident while on a business trip and died. His family never knew what hit them. But they assumed that since they were so immersed in their grief that I must be too, and so had descended on me and my home like a hoard of, well, relatives. I was never left alone, there was no place for me to retreat to. And I couldn’t get away from their grief. Whatever happened to the idea that grieving in private anyway? My in-laws were into sack cloth and ashes, prone to sobbing in line at the grocery store, telling the tale of their long lost son to any one foolish enough to stand still.

But since he’d died just before I filed divorce papers I was officially his widow. Entitled, or was it accompanied by, all of the hoopla and parade that goes on.

Chad had tried to be supportive, but I had found it increasingly difficult to be around him without telling him how I felt. He was still married, and I just couldn’t bring myself to be “the other woman”. I had remained silent. And so had he.

Finally one day I couldn’t stand it any longer. I told my in-laws to go home. I tried being polite, then firm, then stern, and finally I was downright rude. Nothing worked. I even thought about bringing in my bullyboys from the local welding shop to bodily pick up their stuff and throw them out. Instead I simply packed my bag and left. I know it was cowardly, but I’d had it. Maybe without me there to play off of, they’d go home. So I dropped my house keys and a big check on Kari’s desk, had her drive me to the airport and bought a ticket to the one place in the US that they would never go: Alaska. Alaska was the land of mosquitoes, snow that never ended, and endless night. Also things cost more in the far north. That by definition meant that my in-laws would never, ever come here.

So a year ago I had left the lower 48 and come to Alaska. The snow did end, just about the time the mosquitoes came out. I’d survived both with locally manufactured clothing and lots of calamine. I’d also survived the loneliness. That I conquered by writing. I’d sold more than two dozen short stories in the first four months. And was well on my way through my second novel. The first was still shopping publishers, but I’d conquered.

Kari had called me a while after she took me to the airport to say that the relatives had left in a huff about a week after I did. They had taken odd things from the house when they left. Photos, plants, and a couple of wedding presents. They’d also taken all of his clothes, as apparently his little brother was the same size and really liked the suits that my almost-ex-husband had worn. But they’d finally gone, lock stock and barrel, leaving behind a huge mess and mountains of garbage. Kari had called in a cleaning service, contracted with a lawn service, and had kept an eye on my home ever since. She knew that eventually I would be coming home, just not when.

But we didn’t talk often, and usually when we did it was because I had finally remembered to charge my cell phone.

Then Kari called to wish me happy birthday. I knew it was time to go home. Home! The home that I had fled after living with the grief of all of the people around me. I hadn’t felt that grief, because I hadn’t been that fond of the deceased and had come to terms with it. But the others had wallowed in sorrow and tears. But that sunny day in middle June, I knew, knew that I could go home. Wondering if I could skip the site seeing and catch the ferry back to my hotel. I had planned on taking the last ferry of the day, but if I could make this one, I could probably get a flight out tonight.

Home.

So I began to run, purse banging against my hip as I ran down the village street. I could hear the whistle blow. My ride was leaving. I didn’t know if I could make it. Jumping over a sleeping dog, I raced down the dock, leaping packages, dodging people, only to skid to a stop. The ferry was 200 feet away already. No chance to catch them and it was a known fact that the pilot never, ever turned around for anyone. Fuel was too expensive.

Wanting to leave the island today, I looked around. A fisherman in a longboat was just making ready to dock, shouting across the closing distance I asked if he’d help me try to catch the ferry. He didn’t know if he was fast enough, but he’d try. If we hurried we might catch the ferry before it left the cove and put on full steam.

He never came to a full stop, never even touched the dock, as I jumped into his boat, nearly capsizing it. We were off, getting every bit of power from his small engine. Handing me a paddle, he tied the tiller and taking the other paddle, dug into the water. Pulling for the ferry, closing the distance.

I may never know what caused the pilot to hold off getting underway. I’d like to think he saw us and waited. We made it to the ferry a full two minutes after the place where the pilot always put on full speed. I dug into my purse and dropped $20 into the fisherman’s shirt pocket, before jumping onto the ladder of the ferry. I felt like Indiana Jones. I, a woman who two years before hadn’t been able to run thirty feet without panting and feeling like she’d have a heart attack, I had just run a half a mile, paddled for fifteen minutes and still had the energy to jump onto a moving ferry. I didn’t know that this type of miracle ever happened.

I had just jumped when the cranky pilot put his vessel under full steam, and we pulled away from the fisherman, threatening to swamp his tiny boat. He managed to keep from a dunking, and waved happily as he headed back toward the dock.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, allowing my heart rate to slow back to normal except…

I was going home.

Arriving at my long term hotel where the desk clerk is also the town travel agent and postmistress, I laid $20 on the desk.

“There’s $20 more if you can get me to St. Louis before noon tomorrow. It’s my friend’s birthday and I don’t want him to spend it alone. “

Ten minutes later, the desk clerk came up saying “Tommy will fly you to Anchorage if you can leave in fifteen minutes. He has a run up there anyway, but he’s on a tight schedule. I found you a flight to Seattle where you’ll change airlines. It looks like I’m able to book you to arrive in St. Louis about 11:30 tonight, give or take a few minutes, but you’ve gotta be ON Tommy’s plane in 15, oops 12 minutes.”

I had been throwing stuff into my suitcase, disregarding its cleanliness. The only thing that I took any care with were my laptop and camera gear. I left everything liquid, put my toothbrush and a spare pack of undies in my purse and dragged my luggage down the stairs. Hugging the desk clerk and handing her the promised $20, I ran for the airport, which in this small town was all of 4 minutes away, by foot. As it was Tommy was ready to be underway. When he grabbed my suitcase, he wanted to know if I was carrying rocks or something. Nope, just dirty clothes & manuscripts.

And we raced off down the runway.

Home, I was going home. Tommy banked the plane for one last circle around the village where I had spent the last year escaping from my in-laws. Straightening out he made straight for Anchorage. Our flight was uneventful although he hurried because there wasn’t much time between landing and when my next leg took off. My luggage came off the plane in record time, and I was off and running for the check in desk. It wouldn’t do to miss this plane to Seattle.

The clerk was surprised to see me because she had been about to tell the stewardess that everyone was on board. She checked my luggage and I was whisked into a seat as they closed the doors behind me, strapping in for the flight to Seattle even as the plane taxied to the end of the runway. As the flight settled in and the stewards came around, she offered me a drink. I didn’t need one – I was high enough already. I could go home.

It would be a near thing for me to make my connecting flight in Seattle, and my luggage might not make it. The clerk had told me that I was lucky they had just begun a non-stop from Seattle to St. Louis that arrived late. But with just enough change over time in Seattle to make it possible. I might just arrive home today. My birthday.

I prayed that the wind was with us speeding us on our way. Arriving in Seattle twenty minutes early, I had time to get my luggage moved between planes. And time to try to get hold of someone to pick me up at the airport.

I made fifteen calls, and nobody was home. Even Kari didn’t answer her phone. Her cheery voice greeted me as the machine picked up the phone. They called my flight as my phone went dead. Knowing that Kari would probably order me a limo, that is IF she actually came home to listen to her messages. I was the last person on board the outbound plane.

Kicking back I took out my laptop and attempted to write my latest project. The stewardess offered me dinner, brown stuff or yellow stuff. I passed, had a couple of Virgin Mary’s and three packs of pretzels. My time in the boonies had taught me to go without eating every time I turned around. Besides anything that looked as unappetizing as the stuff they were serving - deserved to be skipped. Shortly before touchdown, I gave my hair and teeth a quick brushing. Grabbing my messenger’s bag with its laptop and camera. I waited to deplane.

I was home – I knew what I was going to do with my life. I was going to see if Chad was interested in going out on a date. A real date.

Tan, lean, brown hair now shoulder length; I was in a tank dress that showed my rangy figure to advantage, strong and assured. When I had left this fair city, I had had short hair, was plump and beaten down. And running away from my in-laws.

Looking around for a limo driver holding a sign with my name on it, I walked right past him. I had changed a lot in the last twelve months, so had he, and he missed seeing me as I got off the plane. Figuring out that the limo driver would be along shortly, I went to get my luggage.

I was tugging my overweight suitcase off of the carousel when a man’s hand reached for it to help me. “Let me get that.” I looked up at his smiling blue eyes and froze; not letting go of the suitcase that threatened to topple down on top of me.

“You always were independent, but let me help you.” Prying my fingers loose, Chad took the handle of my piece of luggage and pulled it to safety.

“Do you have any more?” at my negative nod he continued, “No, well then let’s get out of this crowd.”

Surprised to see him, I stood frozen, and he pulled me out of the way of a businessman trying to get to his two-suiter, arm around my shoulder to guide me out of the crush of people. I was an independent woman. I had battled ice and snow, pickpockets, muggers, overly sympathetic in-laws and yet this man’s matter-of-factness undid me.

“I missed you.” He said quietly, clearly audible in spite of the noise in the terminal. A wayward tear leaked out of my eye. Reaching up to brush it away, he was still holding my cheek when he bent down to softly kiss me. Straightening up he wondered if he was overstepping the bounds of our friendship.

I let out a sigh and flung my arms around him, and leaning in for a kiss. A deep passionate kiss with all the longing that I’d held at bay for years.

“I’m so glad to be home,” I said when I could breathe.

“Come on, let’s go, my kids are with my ex this weekend,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Happy Birthday.”

Gayle

P.S. [I wrote this about 4 years ago - as I was trying to see if I could write Romance Novels and enjoy the writing. I can. I do. But I like Fantasy better.]

Storytelling – Even If You Think You Can’t.

2010-01-26T06:54:00.000-08:00

She was impatient, as only a 3 year old can be. Her father was working late, and I was doing the dishes. But she wanted her story. NOW. And she had been patient all evening. It had been a nightly routine to read to her since before she could talk. With soapy hands, I couldn’t hold the book and she refused to hold the book herself. Knowing that if I didn’t do something soon, we’d soon have a full blown temper tantrum on our hands, and she’d be too wound up to sleep.

Thinking quickly, I asked if it would be alright if I told her a story. “It will be fun; you can make up whatever pictures you want to go with the story.” The suspicious look on her face told me that she didn’t altogether trust this new idea. Finally she nodded, and then looked at me expectantly.

Oh dear, what had I gotten myself into? I was not a story teller. I was not creative. I could not improvise a story on the spur of the moment. So finally I decided to tell a story I knew inside and out, Cinderella. So did she, having watched the movie over and over, in the way that preschoolers do.

I started out tentatively, and any place where my story differed from the movie, she corrected me. And by the time that we were at the Ball, we were both fully into the story. Incensed at the behavior of the wicked stepsisters, she declared that they should not be allowed to be in the story at all.

Typically of a three-year-old, my daughter didn’t want to hear about Cinderella dancing with the Prince. “It’s boring.” But she was very interested in the mice, the pumpkin and the magic. She knew the magic turned into a coach and horses but still didn’t understand why they couldn’t stay that way.

And when Cinderella finally made her way down the stairs in her ragged clothes to meet the handsome prince, she cheered, knowing that a happy ending was just around the corner.

Gayle McCain, Author

Story - Travel Light...

2010-01-03T22:12:00.000-08:00

She could feel a pulling in her chest as her eyes followed the laser light along it's path. It was made visible by the smoke rolling out from behind the backdrops. Something in her longed to fly along that line of light and come out anywhere but at the noise filled auditorium, sitting next to the date from hell.

He had asked her if she liked music. When she'd said "yes" he'd hung up before she said she loved the symphony and Celtic music, and that she could take both Jazz and Country in small quantities.

So he had picked her up, looked at her little black dress strangely, shrugged and drove downtown to the amphitheater. She should have taken a taxi home immediately when she saw more leather and chains in the lobby than she'd ever seen before.

But she was on a date. So, finding a set of green earplugs in her purse, she stuck it out, purse clutched in her hand to keep it from being stepped on by the enthusiastic fans all around her. It was supposed to be fun.

But the longer she followed the lights with her eyes the more she began to think that she was stoned from the weed being smoked all around her, she swore she was being pulled out of her chair by her chest. Distracting herself from the noise of the hard rock concert, she allowed herself to relax and let the mysterious tug take her. She couldn't figure out how she'd ended up backstage. But the odd pulling in her chest was gone.

Convinced that she was totally stoned, she stumbled into a stagehand standing behind the backdrop. He herded her out the back door quickly, mumbling something about 'came from nowhere'. The silence outside was such a relief. Purse already in hand, she decided not to go back. He wasn't worth it.

It took her an entire week before she figured out what had happened. And even then she had trouble believing it. Somehow she had ridden the laser light to its end. A little bit of searching turned up the term Temporal Bi-Location, pen size Laser Pointers, and not much else. So she began to experiment.

Trial and error proved to be a bit dangerous as she couldn't remember what she'd tried and not tried. But keeping exact records in a small spiral notebook gave her enough information to be able to determine that while any of the visible wavelengths worked, when she really focused on the feeling in her chest she could get the most distance out of the red Laser pointer.

Day after day she practiced, gaining distance until she could ride the laser light one hundred miles, even though it's label stated that it could only be seen for ten miles.

But no matter how often she practiced she couldn't seem to go further than a hundred miles, and at that she usually ended up stumbling when she landed. Sometimes dropping as much as 4-5 feet. Some of this was due to terrain differences but she finally realized that it was mostly due to the curvature of the earth.

She began experimenting. Could she interrupt the flight in the middle? Once she could do that, she tried going straight up for a few feet and then changing directions by re-aiming the pointer while falling. She learned to travel great distances by this stairstep method. She was exposed to the weather every time she was stepping down and re-aiming the pointer. So she learned to check the weather, check the elevation and always have zippers on her pockets.

She knew that when she sped along a beam of light, she was not visible. She figured it was because she was moving too fast. Not having the equipment she couldn't test whether she was traveling at the speed of light or not. But her travel felt instantaneous, unless she was in a course correction.

She learned to cross the mountains, and oceans, jungles and deserts. She had 3 old fashioned compasses on lanyards, four pocket sized laser pointers. So with her passport, a pocketful of currency, and courage she learned to
Travel Light...

Gayle

Author's note - I don't know whether it works this way or not - But I'm hopeful. I just bought my own laser pointer thingy.
; )

What will we do?

2009-12-17T10:05:00.001-08:00

I had a long discussion about the Petroleum industry last night with a friend. He reminded me that they are projecting that we'll be out of oil reserves in less than 80 years.

He vehemently pointed out that it's time to prevent the horrible consequences of not being proactive in switching our reliance upon oil… Deprivation, war, starvation, no electricity, no heat, the collapse of Western ‘Civilization’ as we know it. All of the things that we've come to rely on will be gone or made unavailable because transportation is impossible.

I don’t know whether he is right or not about those consequences, but I started thinking – what would be affected in my very own living room by the lack of petroleum oil?

• No plastic for the TV remotes – therefore no remote.
• No TV either – because most of it is either plastic, glass or some sort of metal
• No Xmas Stockings – they’re polyester, no paint for my fireplace screen – a lot of it’s petroleum based,
• No artificial greenery on my mantle,
• No Plastic pot for my ivy. I bought that when I could no longer lift the ceramic one up onto its rightful place on the mantle.
• The clothing on my ceramic angel.
• The DVD cases. For that matter – the DVD’s.
• Candles – they’re made from paraffin –
• CD’s --- OMG Will my CD collection will become sooooooo valuable people might kill for it?
• My DVD player, cable box, the TV stand – all obsolete and totally unavailable once there is no more plastic to create them.
• My Christmas tree – because I have an artificial tree…
• Xmas lights – the coating on the copper wires is plastic.
• Most of my ornaments have some element of plastic in them.
• The fabric on my rocker and my Lazy-Boy recliner are made of some sort of polyester.

• The ribbons on my tree…
• Scotch tape – OMG will I have to live w/o scotch tape?
• The artificial flowers I have here and there.
• The plastic bag I have in my wicker basket trash cans.
• All of the clocks in the house except for the old wooden wind up that doesn’t keep accurate time.
• The rugs.
• The drapes.
• The throw blankets.
• The table cloth on my dining room table.
• Coasters.
• The wax on my varnished furniture.
• The mineral oil that I put on antique furniture.
• The pegs on my guitar. The capo and tuner for it, the strap, and the handle on the guitar case.
• My son’s trumpet case.
• I think my Dad’s old clarinet is wooden (I don’t really know because I don’t play – yet) But the case is definitely plastic.
• My cell phone, the wall phone (yes I’m a dinosaur – w/ a land line.)
• The keys on my spinet piano – plus all of the ‘elbows’ inside that make it possible to have a waist high piano instead of one six feet tall.
• The boxes that my Christmas cards came in.
• The stuffed animal in the chair in the corner.
• The stuffing inside the chair in the corner.
• There’s probably a petroleum element in the glue that makes post-it-notes possible (I don’t know – it’s a secret formula).
• There is plastic in my window frames – so the glass will fall out.
• The window screens.
• The rug runner next to my front door.
• My Chap Stick. Heck most of the contents of my purse (except the money).
• The batteries and memory chips for my digital camera.
• The Lampshades. The switches that turn the lamps on and off and the wires up the center. Light switches, power plugs, heck – even the wires in the walls of the house have plastic on the outside.
• My glasses.
• Most of my lingerie, my socks and my sweater (I’m wearing cotton blouse & skirt so I wouldn’t be sitting here starkers. But I'll be sitting here freezing my butt off because my windows have plastic in their frames, wishing I could read the book in my hand, but unable because I can't see it and it's dark.)
• And last – but definitely not least --- my computer.

All of these things will not be possible – once the oil runs out. None of it. Not a single thing. We’ll have to find alternatives. And frankly not everything has an alternative.

Bees are dying at an unprecedented rate – or being taken over by those African Bees that don’t make honey or honeycomb. So we can’t plan on using beeswax to replace the lubricants that will no longer be possible.

What medicines would no longer be available? No plastic bottles/caps for my ibuprofen. Could I even get it? No fuel for the trucks.

And how would the world change if trucks couldn’t get fuel to deliver food – like veggies? Seafood would only be available to those who live on the coast. Beef only for those who live inland. Chicken – ok they say that nearly everything ‘tastes like chicken’, so it would be available everywhere, even if it were actually pheasant, snake, turkey or something else entirely…

It's Time. Time to do what all those 'Green Earth' fanatics have been trying to teach me for years and years. Eighty years isn't very long. Those intervening years will slip by quicker than any of us thinks possible.

It’s time to look for alternatives. It’s time for us to be prudent. Save, reuse, and reduce. Combine trips to the store. Carpool. Take mass transit. Get a more efficient car. Plant our own gardens. Stop using plastic bottled soda/water. If it doesn’t come in recyclable material – do without it.

Walk when possible. I suppose this means I’m going to have to do more business with my local merchants. They’re kind of expensive. But maybe if I have to carry the groceries by hand (or in my Li’l Red Wagon) I’ll only buy what I’m actually going to eat, and will waste less.

I ask you to think about what we have that our children will not have when they are fully grown.

I ask you to think about the mess in our landfills that we are leaving for our grandchildren to deal with.

I was really angry at my mother for not caring about my Grandmother’s china, so I could inherit it…How angry are my grandchildren going to be at me for blissfully drinking bottled water? For not caring whether the bottles were recycled? For running out to the store at midnight just for milk, when we could have eaten eggs for breakfast instead of cereal?
What is the price that they will pay for my ‘convenience?’

And do I have the right to ask that of them? I don't think so.

I Shall Be Still

2009-12-11T19:04:00.000-08:00

The weather turned cold, affecting everything in my life. I probably need to get outside - into the watery winter day, and walk down the path that is hidden under the snow in the photo. Truthfully it's not that cold, but the chill discourages me for some reason.

I don't know how it happened this year but October came and went. November too. And I never noticed. We're nearly half way through December, my holiday preparations are done without me even being aware of how much I accomplished. And now the only thing I have left to do is make about 1,000,000 Molasses Krinkle cookies...

If the dog can convince me to step outside the house on that path we both might shiver, but in the end we'll be happy that we went. But instead I sit here quietly, dreaming up story plotlines - without writing them down, talking on the phone for hours with friends, petting the dog, and generally being content with what is going on in my life.

So even though I'm a writer with books to write, and queries to send... I find that I just want to curl up under a blanket, with a cup of hot cocoa, and read a good book.

I believe that I shall give myself some freedom to just relax for a week or two, and when I've given myself permission to just BE long enough - the urge to DO will return.

But until then,

I shall BE still.

Gayle

Honor the Dream

2009-11-23T11:26:00.000-08:00

A young twitter friend asked for help today. She says she is working on her dream of becoming a writer. Spending a great deal of time writing articles for money, writing for a monthly contest, and writing fan fiction. She is not writing in the book of her dreams. She is not writing for fun.

And my heart aches for her.

My heart aches whenever I see anyone set aside a something joyful so that they can earn a living. My heart cries out "NO. Don't do it. You'll spend years aching, wishing, wanting. And sometime later in life you will discover that you no longer remember what it was that created such joy."

Years and years ago I stuffed my dreams into a closet. I had to do that in order to stay in my marriage, a marriage that ended anyway. I have only recently been able to excavate what my dreams really are. So in spite of sounding a bit like a "I want World Peace" speech from a Miss America Pageant - here they are:

- Change the commandment of "Honor Thy Father & Mother" to "Honor Everybody." My dream is that people treat each other with respect, all the time.

- No child is ever brought into this world who isn't wanted. Even if that means that they choose not to have the child. I'd prefer that young women respect themselves enough that they take precautions. And I know that there are families who want children. So as a culture let's make it easy to adopt. Let's figure out what the issue is and fix it so the process is easy. All children deserve to be wanted.

- If you discover you can't care for a child in a healthy manner - either get training or, in loving sacrifice, give your child to someone who can. No judgment. Just an honest assessment of your ability and willingness to meet the needs of a growing soul.

- I'd really like to see us teach young people how to never sell themselves short. Selling yourself short is unfortunately easy, and you end up spending years & years unhappy, not really understanding that you did it to yourself. So if we could figure out how to teach our children, or allow someone else to teach them, how to reach for the stars, what a change that would be - for everyone.

- Turn yourself into your own ideal partner. Let go of your emotional baggage, from childhood, young adulthood, and any apparent 'failures' along the way. Learn how to be loving, respectful, kind, generous, patient, full of laughter, intelligent, wise, impulsive. Whatever characteristics that you desire and want in your partner. And from what I'm seeing around me - your ideal partner manifests in the outer world. But even if he or she doesn't, you have released the baggage that keeps you from being awesome.

-Accept that there is magic in the world and live with the uncertainty of when and how it manifests
OR
-accept that there is a process to that magic - learn how the process works, and accept that you will know how and when the 'tricks' will happen. And in the process become a magician/scientist/alchemist.

(Personally I like the magic, and yet I hate the uncertainty of the magic. So I am having to decide whether I want to become the Alchemist or learn to live with the uncertainty.)

These are not the expected answers that others ask about when they say "what are your hopes and dreams?" They want to know what kind of fancy car I want, or where I want to travel. They want to know what stuff I want.

The stuff isn't all that important to me. Oh don't get me wrong, I love sleeping indoors in my heated room on a cold December night. I prefer to be able to buy gas for my car, and eat several times a day. I love the antiques that my grandparents gave me, and the paintings I created during my earnestly artistic phase.

But that is just stuff. It doesn't ease the ache that I feel all around me. It doesn't really increase the Joy in the world either.

I have seen children bring joy to their parents, even those who were really broke. I have also seen children neglected to the point where they had to scream and hit in order to get their mom's attention. I prefer the former. And if no child ever has to suffer the neglect and abuse that I've seen that will be all right with me.

And so after years of ignoring my dreams, of stuffing them into a closet, I am taking steps toward them. The task ahead of me is grand, and frankly a little overwhelming. I'm not quite sure where to start. So once more - baby steps. I begin by changing myself - respecting everybody. By showing the children around me love and caring. And praying that someday everyone will be honored, regardless of age, size or current earning capacity.

It is my hope that after talking with my young friend this afternoon that she is taking some time to write what brings her joy. Because it is the joy that will, in the long run, make her life worth living.

And so I ask you, Dear Reader, what is it that YOU dream of?

Story - Stuck as a Bean Counter

2009-09-11T06:42:00.000-07:00

A new story for your reading - does it work this way? I don't know, but there are sure a lot of people who say - rewrite the story - and come unstuck. Plus it was FUN to write.

SHE was not lost! She was never lost. She knew exactly where she was. She was stuck. Stuck as a Bean Counter. Stuck in not allowing. Not allowing money to come into her life. Stuck, keeping joy from manifesting in her life. Stuck not moving forward in her career. Stuck not allowing love into her heart.

She was stuck.

Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. And it had started eons ago. God only knowing how much living she had done - stuck.

Stuck in the act of being birthed into the life he had always dreamed of. With no money for a midwife - and unwanted to boot - his family had broken the ribs of his fragile body in order to save the life of the mother. Allowed him to die, having never lived and never accomplished the things that would save thousands upon thousands of lives. His desire to live had been so strong that he had struggled to breathe with broken ribs, lungs damaged beyond repair, until finally sometime late in the night he had given up and let go of the fragile body.

What was keeping her stuck was the idea that they had trained her to be something she was not. Trained her to count beans, when she was at heart a planet mover, a world saver. Trained her to be small, bound her up in rules and strictures that kept her from breathing.

And yet through it all, her will to live was so strong that she had continued to breathe, living shallowly. Though each inhalation was a struggle, she had kept taking breath after breath. Hoping that someday she would break through whatever it was that she needed and that someday what should have been her birthright – air – would come easily.

And finally the burden became so difficult that one day she said “Enough. ENOUGH. I DON’T WANT TO PLAY THIS GAME ANY MORE. I’m going to change the game.” And so she did.

She re-wrote the birth story.

This time his mother was laboring to birth a new fragile life into the desert that was the family’s love for each other. His father had so valued both the life of the mother and the fragile life waiting to be born that he had called for a midwife. She arrived not long after to find the nearly born baby stuck, coming feet first - ready to hit the ground running. Not understanding the ways being human, he was expecting to come full into life – ready to move about and be productive.

Gently and tenderly, this woman had talked to both mother and babe, with voice, energy and hands. And she had persuaded him to pull back his foot so that he could spend a few more uncomfortable minutes being turned. Patiently the woman had turned the babe inside the mother until clenching his fists in impatience he was finally in position to be born. Three contractions and he was out, telling the world of his arrival. Finally relaxing his fists he allowed himself to be soothed.

This child, loved, nurtured and wanted, grew eagerly into a strong young man, creating a new irrigation system, bringing water to the fertile but dry desert. Staving off the drought that held the land in its grip for a decade, he found a way to bring water up from the depths of the earth to water their crops when the rivers ran dry.

In his lifetime he became the patriarch a loving family who found creative solutions to whatever was standing in their way. He built a legacy of Joy and Prosperity that they shared with all, for the betterment of not only their own tribe but all tribes.

With the prosperity that came, he provided midwives for all, so that fewer children would have to be sacrificed to save the life of the mother. And because there was some thread that had known that he had been unwanted, he created a system where unwanted children could easily be matched with parents who would love and nurture the child, no matter the age.

And so the woman, having dreamed a different story, began to breathe. She could feel her ribs moving, muscles relaxing that she had not even known were tense. Letting go of angst and sadness that had kept her from building the life she truly wanted.

She became the planet mover – the world saver - which she had been born to be, never counting another bean in her life, and never missing it. She and her partner founded a dynasty of brilliant inventors and world movers who found creative, loving solutions to problems that had plagued mankind for eons.

Living a long life together, they lived the kind of life that had only been spoken of in myth, larger than life. She was free to generously give her time and energy, caring for those who could not care for themselves.

What's a Tweet betwist Friends

2009-07-09T09:53:00.000-07:00

On March 30th, 2009, I finally caved. My friend Bridgeblder had been nagging me for nearly six months to join Twitter, so that I could make some connections. Get out of the cave that I had crawled into after my divorce. She enticed me with a "writers' chat". And I, grumbling all the way, finally joined.

The original Sunday afternoon writer's chat was so overwhelming - that I almost didn't go back. But under her browbeating, I timidly started following random people that I saw along the way in her tweets. I figured if she liked them, I probably would. And for the most part I did.

There have been some followers who have come and gone. Some I never notice, because they are either silent or what they write doesn't interest me. But some of them have become close friends, in a really strange way. I never expected the in-depth metaphysical and philosophical discussions that have occurred. The emotional support and depth of friendship that I feel towards my favorite people. Here we are, technically strangers, and yet I'm closer to a couple of these people than I am to my own family (except my brother). And that might not be right because he and I talk about every 2 months, not daily.

Some of these friends have watched me crawl out of a Dark Night, cheering me on and sometimes even taking my hand by the love and comfort of their words. And I have done the same for them. None of us knowing the depths of the gratitude felt for the support, or the changes wrought in our Tweethearts and friends. But we have been hear for each other. Occasionally pushing them into the 'pool' of awakening - in a form of tough love. But more often, catching them gently as they fall, giving them a soft place to land. It's what we do for our loved ones. We give each other ¸.•*' '* Sparticle Hugs *´`*•.¸ [Sparticles are Sparkley Particles]

I was lucky enough this week to be in the right place at the right time to catch one of my friends in free fall. Stopping that downward tumble was as natural as breathing for me. This is someone that I love. Why wouldn't I? This is the same person who has asked me some of the most soul piercing questions of my life. And who has challenged me to step up to the plate. Who knows how far reaching our actions and our friendship will be? I don't. But it will be interesting to see the changes unfold.

I met these incredible new friends because my old friend badgered me to join a writers' chat. Thank you dear BridgeBldr.

Gayle

Story - Welcome Home

2009-07-08T17:47:00.000-07:00

This story was 1st published in Booksie.com 1-16-2009 - 17 people read it. No one commented. This fiction is written to help me understand the possibilities of ascension. Does it work like this? I don't know. But it feels right. I have left the story essentially unchanged though my life has changed since this was written.

It was frightening for me at first, because so many could not see me. Yet I was still there. I was not dead - there was no body. But I was gone from their sight. As if by magic. I moved among them, touching and trying to comfort them. Yet all they did was brush me away, as if I were merely the touch of a fly.

There were a few who knew that I was there. Small children, and the very aged, but I still had a body. And the man that I loved got lost in grief for a time. But I kept leaving papers on his desk. And soon he began to read them.

I could not write, but I could move books from one place to another. I could pick up pieces of paper.

‘Read this’ I’d whisper in his ear. ‘I am here. Do not grieve for me. Live your life, Love, and you will see me soon.’ His heart healed. And he let go of his grief, long before anyone expected him to do so. So he must have felt me loving him.

He began to devour the writings that I left for him. He began to devour the things that I had sent to him over the years, which he had kept in folders on his computer. He called my friends and asked for their help. For somehow he knew that if he could only understand one critical thing, that he could achieve all of his dreams.

But what was that critical thing? Did his heart long to be famous if love was not part of the picture? What use was a big house, if he was the only one in it?

He began taking longer and longer treks into the wilderness, wilder and wilder he explored. Searching for a guide to teach him.

Until one day, he went to the Forest of the Ancient Ones, searching for answers. Arriving shortly after dawn, he simply sat. Leaning against the rough bark, he rested quietly, allowing his mind to become still. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed partway, and his heart calmed. Peace stole over him that day.

He melted into the tree, feeling the life blood of the earth rising toward the treetops of the Ancient One, and his eyes widened. For finally, he could see me, sitting next to him, cross legged, leaning against the same tree, smiling my quiet smile.

“What do the trees say to you?” asking him the question that he had asked me so many years ago.

“That they are glad that I have finally come. They say that you are really here, but that usually I just cannot see you,” voice barely above a whisper, he smiled for the first time in months. Then his smile disappeared as he spoke again. “But what use is it for me to know if you are here, if I cannot touch you.”

“Are you sure? Take my hand.” And I reached out to touch his knee. For the first time in months he felt my hand, warm and tender. Not thinking it was merely a trickle to be brushed away.

Fingers entwined in mine, he looked at our hands in wonder. “But you’re gone? How can you be here? I must be dreaming.”

“No, I have always been here, waiting for you to stop lowering your energy in grief. I have always been here, loving you. Now you must trust. Trust that you are ready for the shift that is occurring within you.”

He leaned back against the trunk of the old tree once more, and I told him the story of ascension. How one day I was playing with the energy in a crowded room, and I just disappeared. Right in front of people.

It had not been dramatic, except that they looked around, and then dismissed my disappearance, as though I had merely stood up and left the room. Their minds had not been ready to accept the reality of what they saw, so they simply forgot it.

But I had still walked around. I had still moved from place to place. I found that moving by thought was easier than driving. I learned to fly again. At first it was awkward, like swimming through mud. But eventually I got the hang of it. And then I remembered him. And went in search of this delightful man, only to find him immersed in grief. For to him, I had evaporated, leaving a hole in his life.

We talked the afternoon away, leaning against those old trees, holding hands, the other visitors of the park ignoring us completely, as though we were invisible. It was almost dark when he finally stood.

“I must go now. I’m supposed to be with the kids tonight,” regret filled his voice. “Will I see you again?”

“Take my hand; I have something to show you.” And we walked off into the forest. Finally reaching a clearing, surrounded by a half dozen of the Ancient Ones, we stopped. Puzzlement filled his face as we began to glow.

“Children, come here,” the words were spoken at barely a whisper, and yet they carried out into the Forest, on a wave. The Forest fell quiet and one by one our children stepped out between the trees. “They have always been here, because they did not forget. Somehow they were allowed to remember that they belong here. How they lived in both worlds, I do not know, because I couldn't do it. Perhaps it was as like a game of role playing. But they are here. Now. They live with me. All of our children. Both yours and mine. And other children come and go. It is comfortable, and we are used to each other now. Though at first it was awkward, because your children did not wish to be disloyal to their mother. But we adjusted, and they have helped me to understand how to come and go between the energies, of high and low. In that way they could visit you, and then return here to recharge and renew. Though I can't seem to do it yet.”

“Many of our friends are here too. Not all, but the ones that we loved best are here. And I am glad that you have finally joined us.”

He was concerned about getting out of the park before they locked the gates, still caught up in the idea of the lower energy. His children laughed, and told him that there were no gates here, and that his car would be all right. And that he should come and see our home. . Surprised that they should say our home, he was nearly overwhelmed when we arrived at a comfortably snug home. The boys climbed to their shared loft, my daughter was preparing supper. Pausing a moment in her movements my daughter hugged me, and then went to stand in front of him. ‘Welcome home,’ was all she said.

Shaking his head, he sat at the simple table, while I got him a drink of the clearest, coolest water he had ever had. Clean and tidy, our home was not large, but it was cared for with love.

After supper, my daughter hugged us both again, patted each boy on the head, and went to the door. “I’ve work to do tonight. Is there anybody you especially want me to love, mother?”

“Why don’t you check on your father? In fact you might want to take him to a movie. I think he’s kind of lonely.”

“It’s getting harder to manifest a body. I’d rather he brought his energy up,” she complained. “Will he ever ‘get it’?”

“You know that no one is kept out, except those who will not love. So sooner or later, your father will get it, though he may have to die to do it,” was the answer heard through my sigh. “If he can learn it from you, then he need not go through that pain. Good luck, you’ll need it.” Nodding, she waved as she went into the dark and closed the door.

“Am I dead?” asked the man at my side.

“No,” was my reply. “You are finally vibrating high enough to shift to a new dimension. Here, we live our lives, creating that which we want, no more, no less. We live peacefully, because there is no need to take things from someone else, when we can make whatever we want.”

“I don’t understand.” His face reflected disbelief.

“We have no crime, no war, because they are caused by fear, hatred, and wanting. Those are lower vibrations, and whenever someone falls to these levels, they cannot maintain their place here, so they simply shift back to the old. But after living here for a very short while, most people are changed forever and no longer wish to live in the lower vibrations. So they work hard to elevate their energy through allowing love back into their lives. This allows them to shift back to this level.

“You are here now, and may stay, if you wish. Or you may return to the lower vibrations, and this will seem like a pleasant dream. But sooner or later you will reach for this dream again. You may stay if you wish; you may stay in our home, with me if you wish.”

“Is this real? Are you real?” was his question.

“I am as real, and as passionate, as I was in my old life. I am more loving that I was then, there. And I am still not easy. Remember that I have told you, I will never be easy. You will have to put effort into loving me. For without that, we will not be a vibrational match, and we will simply drift apart. Easily, naturally. The choice is yours.” And I sat quietly, looking into his eyes, waiting for him to decide.

His breath became ragged, for a moment as the implications sank in, and he said “I want a purple balloon.”

A moment later, from the loft a voice was heard – “hey, I’m trying to read… Do you mind?” And a lavender latex teardrop floated down to land on the floor next to his feet.

“Oh my god, this is real. And you knew all along. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I tried, but I couldn’t find words that you could understand and believe. All I could do was love you. And I couldn’t wait for you to come with me. I tried, but it just didn’t work. So I came first.” Tiredly, I smiled. Reaching out my hand, I continued. “I promise I will answer every question that I can. But let it wait till tomorrow. For now let’s just go to bed, for I have been waiting for you.” He stood, the twinkle in his eye said he knew exactly what I meant.

Story - Building with a Song

2009-07-01T19:04:00.000-07:00

She had work to do, and no office to do it in. They had outgrown their old place. The tiny house where she and her husband had raised their family. It had been home for her children, and accustomed to it, they no longer remembered the larger house that had been part of their early childhood. But now they were nearly grown, off doing their own things, leaving her alone for much of the day.

But Gia knew that she needed a bigger place to do her work. All her life she had drawn people to her who needed healing of some sort or the other. And now she felt the call to help the walking wounded more effectively. So she had begun opening her home and her heart to the friends of her children, and the people who wandered into her life like a stray pup. Often so emotionally battered by life that they snapped at everyone, even the hand that fed them.

Gia had never thought of herself as a gentle woman, yet in her heart, she tenderly took these lost souls in and through patience and hard work, brought them out of whatever private hell they had been in. She would have laughed at anyone who said that she was really a softie, but she had a secret place in her heart for anyone who tried, failed, and picked themselves up to go again. Her children knew a bit of this secret, but they did not understand the depth of her fire, for they had not been through the hell that she had growing up.

Hands that should have been tender had been brutal. Words that should have been spoken in love were used as whips on the young Gia. Chores that should have been easily accomplished were made infinitely more difficult by their unceasing demand.

And yet, in spite of hiding her wounded heart behind walls and hardness, she had these tender spots. She found enough courage within her to change how she talked to her children. Not playing head games with them, she learned to ask for the behavior that she wanted. Though in order to do that she had to figure out what she wanted. It was an interesting journey for the wounded Gia, peeling one layer of pain away to reveal a sweeter, stronger woman, just as one would peel an onion.

She knew that part of her healing was to help heal others who had been wounded just as she had, with words, with fists, and with cruelty. And so she stood there, looking out over her land, having the time, the space, and the willpower. Missing only one thing, the money. And no money meant no materials.

She had been clearing the land the hard way, the old fashioned way. With an ax. Pulling up the scrub, using it to create fences and foot paths through the woods, fill in the low spots, and cover over the muddy ones.

But finally all that preparation was done. She stood in the midst of the clearing, ax in hand and realized that there was nothing left for her to cut. The trees around the area had ribbons around their middle. These ribbons marked the edge of the yard that would surround her new home and office. They would shade her home in the hot summer sun of Arkansas. They gave protection from the winter winds too. But it was the fierce heat that she was most worried about. In the winter you could wrap up in a blanket or put on another sweater, but in the summer it was hard to take off enough clothes to keep cool. Trees helped that tremendously, which was why Gia didn’t want to cut any more of the tall sentinels down. Besides they made her feel safe. Protected, watched over. And she had never had family and friends who did that for her.

But there she stood, ax in hand, uncertain what came next.

Sitting carefully on the ground, she crossed her legs and just enjoyed the peace. Once the building began, there would be no peace in the clearing. And so she enjoyed the silence. A silenced filled with the stirring of mice and voles, fluttering of butterflies wings, twittering of the yellow and blue songbirds, as well as the harsh cawing from the neighborhood crow. The silence was anything but.

As she listened to the cheeps, and whirring, the knocking and the clicking, she began to hear a pattern, a song really. And hearing it, she began to hum along. It began tentatively at first. Just a quiet humming. The song of the Forest seemed to quiet momentarily, as if listening to her song, and then it began again, quietly at first. In her heart she heard the melody of the greenwood and allowed her voice to grow, adding a harmony, tentatively at first. Gradually, the sound grew, echoing through the forest. Eerie, haunting, and soulful, her song echoed the Forest, and the Forest echoed through Gia. Each note sliding up and down the scale, harmonizing, shifting, swooping and diving. The song drove on. Harmony interweaving with melody, until she was not sure which was which.

Eyes closed Gia sang from the heart, pausing only to breathe, listening to the excitement growing within the Forest. It had been many years since anyone had sung with it. Enjoying the playfulness of it. Stretching here, singing close harmony there. The only dissonance came as a pickup drove down the gravel road nearby. Radio blasting, momentarily silencing the Forest. Only to have the shifting melody start up again as the dust settled. The song returning stronger than before.

Eyes still closed, Gia found her self lying down in the center of the small meadow, feeling that her body was alive, perhaps for the first time. As though she were larger than her skin. Weaving melody and harmony, into Forest and home. Bringing each separate sound into the melody much the way a builder would bring each separate board into creating a building. A home.

Totally focused on the swelling symphony, she didn’t hear the quiet rustlings around her. Didn’t feel the wind dance, ebb and flow, enveloping her lifting her, Didn’t feel the earth move as the clearing reshaped itself.

So totally focused on Listening and Singing, she didn’t see what was happening around her. Didn’t notice until the melody wound down to its end, gently slipped into silence as the last note faded away.

Eyes still shut; Gia felt vibrant and alive, wishing it could go on and on. Knowing that soon enough she had to return to everyday living, she allowed herself the luxury of a short nap in the dappled sunlight.

Finally the sound of a dog barking in the distance drew her back to her body. Sighing, knowing that she still had to figure out how to build her home, she struggled to a sitting position rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Confused by what confronted her, she thought she was still dreaming. For before her was the home and office that she had envisioned. Built already. How could that be? She knew she must still be dreaming. For there was no way that these structures in front of her could be real. But the details were so vivid, so real.

She’d never been able to get anyone to understand exactly what she wanted. Her hands had been unable to draw what her heart had wanted. Her words a poor substitute for the vision she had carried all these years. And yet it was standing before her. She’d even managed to dream the guest cottages that she’d seen one time in a movie, so that the people who came to get her help wouldn’t always be underfoot. There was even thick, lush grass in the yard. And the dirt under her fingers was different from the poor sandy soil that had been there before. It was rich and black, and the plants growing in it were strong and healthy. Everything she had ever wanted, down to and including, the flower garden underneath the front windows.

She knew she must be dreaming. None-the-less she stood and went to investigate. The house of her dream didn’t include furniture. Nor did it include window screens. Amused at the missing detail, she started to laugh. Gia began to run through the house looking at everything, touching each new thing, still unable to believe that she wasn’t dreaming. She wondered why the wood of the window sills looked as if they had grown up from the ground. The kitchen had just the kind of faucet she had seen at the hardware store and wished for, knowing it would never happen because of its expense. In her dream it had happened.

Gia joyously spent the rest of the day wandering through this new home and office.

When Nathanial had come home, supper wasn’t even started, much less ready and Gia wasn’t in her usual places. Worried about her, he decided to go the only place he could think of – the clearing. She had been working herself near to death to clear the land. And he was concerned for she had never stayed so long.

She heard him call through the woods, as he hiked up the path toward the clearing. Positive that she was still asleep, that when he stepped into view, Gia greeted him as if she were a mere girl again, skipping across the yard. Puzzled by the wonder on his face, she peered up at him. As tears ran down his face and he pulled her into his arms, Gia realized that she was not dreaming.

Story - The Healer

2009-06-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

I had a dream that ended badly. And thus the dream came to be rewritten.

I present to you ---- The Healer

The Healer Medic stood over the dying man, tired and frustrated. It had already been a long day by the time Anlar’s wife, Keeri, had pushed her husband through the doorway and said “You’re the Healer. Now heal him.”

She had expected the Medic to wave his hands and make it all better, as if by magic. She had not understood that the patient must be willing to do what is necessary. Kaylar’s skills required that the patient let go of the old way of doing things, the old way of thinking. It required a great deal of trust. Trust in the process, trust that things could be better, and trust in the unseen Energy.

But Anlar was a stubborn man and not very trusting. Suspicious of this new-fangled healing, he wanted something he could put his hands on. Wanted something he could see. Unfortunately his condition had not responded to the traditional methods of healing, and he had only come to Kaylar as a last ditch effort to save his life.

If Kaylar had been wise, he would have told them to go home and prepare for death. But at heart Kaylar was a kind, gentle man, who understood that sometimes fear of death can accomplish miracles. He could see the love that Keeri had for her life-mate, and the fear that she would lose him. As Keeri took her husband’s hand, the Medic wondered if the patient was finally willing to accept any healing. Huddled together for comfort, they looked at Kaylar with varying degrees of trust and hope.

The Medic had spent a great deal of time listening to one complaint after another from the ill man. Kaylar’s explanation of the process went unnoticed. As did his statement that Anlar would need to change his way of looking at the world. That the patient must begin to look for what was right with the world, one thing at a time, leaving behind complaints and negative habits.

The Healer knew that neither one of them had understood what had been said. They were grasping at straws, but in the end the couple had agreed to see the Listener, the next day. Kaylar could only affirm that the patient would accept and absorb enough Energy to make it through the night.

And thus he had begun preparing for the healing session, clearing his mind and bringing his focus back to the Energy.

It had started out as it always did, simply. Anlar laying under the clinic lights, covered with layers of blankets, shivering as his body began shutting down. His wife sitting nearby, wringing her hands, tears falling to her lap.

Kaylar stood beside the patient, feet spread, and Reached. Reached within himself opening the door to the Energy of Healing. As the Energy flooded up through him, it filled every nook and cranny, until it expanded out to encompass the entire room. Only then did it begin to flow into the patient, being instantly absorbed. Kaylar knew that this was not HIS Energy, but that it came from the Sacred Ground upon which the clinic had been built.

His hands began to move of their own volition, following the paths of light and dark that surrounded the patient. Pushing light into the darkness. The darkness was anything that was not supportive of love and life. The Healer unaware that it was long past sunset continued to allow the Energy to flow through his body. Using him as a conduit, filling but not consuming him.

The moon had risen at dusk, and by the time Kaylar felt that he was done, moonlight filled the room brightly through the roof window. The Healer backed away from his sleeping patient, finally allowing his hands to fall.

Still buzzing with Energy, he spoke quietly to Keeri. “I am done. You may have waited too long to bring him to me. But I have done what I can. All we can do now is wait and see whether he will allow the healing.”

Kaylar nodded toward the sleeping Anlar and added one last thing. “He must let go of his anger. Or he will die of it, and there is nothing that I can do. The Listeners have the skills to help with that, if your husband will see them. He agreed to speak with them, but the choice to speak from the heart is his. Always. But now if he is to recover he must sleep. I will return in the morning.” Silence descended as Kaylar left the room, broken only by the sound of labored breathing.

Keeri slid under the covers next to her husband, and taking his hand again she settled down to sleep. The two had been so long in each other’s company that her breathing had slid easily into rhythm with his as she drifted off. Soft, gentle, harmonious, comfortable. Unnoticed by the sleeping couple the moon slid across the sky.

Kaylar had returned to the clinic as the sun crept softly over the horizon. Standing in the doorway he relieved to note that Anlar’s breathing was no longer labored, and his color was much better. Crossing the room Kaylar Reached for the Energy and checked Anlar’s condition. Though the patient was still weak, there was no sign of the disease which had nearly taken this man’s life. And Kaylar breathed a deep sigh of relief for he knew that the patient would recover.

Anlar snapped awake at the sound, seeking the smiling eyes of the Healer. Remembering his promise Anlar said, “I will seek a Listener, for I have much to talk about. Much to release in honesty. It is time.”

Gayle McCain

Originally posted on Twitwall 05/11/09

I Didn't Push Her into the Pool

2009-06-22T15:01:00.000-07:00

I know I am the Wise Woman. I know how to just BE. And even as I remember that I'm more than connected, in ways that English fails, at the moment I am frustrated. Right now I just want to push an old friend in the pool. I want the shock of that to get her out of her attitude of "pity poor me - life is soooo stressful."

She is caught up in her victimhood, and unwilling to do more than give lip service to understanding her own responsibility for where she is. She is the one who several years ago spent hours every day on her knees gardening, and then in spite of their aching protest, embarked with her family on a 100 mile hike across the Sierras. Hobbling across the mountains, slowing down everyone. But she has never accepted responsibility for the damage, and expects everyone in her family to accommodate her frailties.

She just spent the better part of the afternoon here, complaining about the latest crisis. And I have had enough.

I am responsible for myself and my own mental health. As much as this woman has meant to me in the past, I find myself reluctant to spend time with her. And so I think that this is the last time that we will spend more than a few minutes on the driveway talking. Or I shall go to her home, where if it is too much, I can make some excuse and leave. But this afternoon, once entrenched upon my couch, she wouldn't leave. And I am too polite to say, "Oh gee, look at the time."

I have gradually let go of people who seem to like being stuck in their own victimhood. I am not responsible for saving them. I can only offer the gentle listening and wisdom that I have always offered. But I'm choosing to do that now with people who are going to use my comfort and wisdom to shift their point of view, changing, growing, and moving out of their pain. Otherwise my time and energy are going into a black hole.

And I must say, I wanted to push this woman into the pool. Force her to see the folly of staying in the 'pity poor me' role. I wanted to. But I didn't. I was strong.

However, the next time she says "Let's get together." I'm going to say no. I may make some polite talk about being too busy, but the answer will still be "No." It must be, for I am not advanced enough to let her rant and rave without wanting to use tough love on her.

And perhaps, this is merely one of the stages of being a Wise Woman, knowing when to walk away.

Gayle

2009-06-19T04:09:00.000-07:00

Imagine with me if you will for a moment.

On the card table there is a puzzle. One which you’ve been working on for a while. Almost complete, missing one little section, right there. This puzzle is different from the one at the left in that not all the pieces are of uniform size and shape, so you have to actually put a piece in place to see if it matches the picture around it. This means that this hole might be a single piece or it might be 3-4.

On the floor around me are millions of puzzle pieces that didn’t fit.

And on the coffee table next to me is a box that only contains 50K pieces. But I’ve no algorithm for sorting them. So I have to pick the darn things up one by one and try each piece. Which apparently I’m going to continue to do. Even though I don’t know what this widget will do. Or what it is.

What are these puzzle pieces? They vary. One piece is the shadows that I learned how to paint, another is the concept that what actually defined the mountains was not the paint ON the canvas, but the gaps in the color that created shadows, nooks and crannies. In other words what I left out.

It’s the silence between the notes within the music as it ebbs and flows, washing over me in symphony and birdsong. No wonder I don’t like much rock and roll – not enough silence between the notes. There are calculus formulas as well as some mechanical engineering things thrown in there from a college boyfriend. And some electronic circuitry handed to me by my ex husband (that I never even knew I’d seen before).

The pieces of this puzzle include the science classes that have lain dormant in my brain for millennia, and the physics that I’m absorbing now. I don’t have to be able to do the math to recognize a piece that fits, just have those puzzle pieces in my head. Plus there are the aerobics classes that really taught me how to follow someone else’s lead. And the understanding I gained about DNA from my early science classes.

Another puzzle piece was the ebbing flowing swirling energy of Chi that I have always seen, but finally got a name for when I studied Wu Ji Chi Gong, sliding between the layers of the swirl. And the belly dancing that allowed me to follow the twists and turns of movement. Then there were the Reiki circles, and the ghost busting, the Tae Kwon Do and the meditations with people at a distance.

Add the classes that were only taught one time as a unit, on psychic gifts, that I happened to see a flyer for. And the dancing in my living room that taught me to follow the energy stream. To ride the waves and chance the rapids of the energetic flow.

All of those pieces are in the almost completed puzzle on the table. Plus there are children’s games, and story pieces and a whole mish-mash of other things. And I see there are a lot of those buttons that go missing in the dryer are there too (go figure). There are a couple of keys, and somewhere on this intricate picture, I’ve left my glasses – which I can no longer find. (Note to self – Call Dr. Make an appt. for next week.)

And somehow I’m down to the last few pieces, trying not to be in a rush as I sort through what’s left to sort through. Though my patience is wearing thin.

Why have I spent my life assembling this puzzle? I don’t know. But what makes this the most interesting thing of all, is because once the last piece(s) are in place the puzzle widget comes ‘alive’. Really alive. A Marvelous Toy (Peter Paul & Mary).

I don’t know exactly what it does. I haven’t been methodically looking at the whole puzzle. I’ve been looking at the colors and the patterns of each piece as I pick it up to see where it fits into the pattern.

Will it do 0-60 in 5.2? Maybe it really is a better mousetrap, Or it might just be like one of those clown guns that instead of a bullet shoots out a sign that says “Congratulations. Next.”

And how do I know that the puzzle piece lies in the stuff I’m learning now, because the widget is vibrating in anticipation; it’s really getting excited. Which I cannot explain, but nonetheless is true.

Why is this important? Heck if I know. But I’ve spent billions of years finding the answer.

Do I have any illusion that I’m the only one with a puzzle like this? No, I don’t. I know that I’m not. Everybody has at least a little bit of their own construction. Each one unique, each one beautiful. And each one will come alive when the last piece is in place.

And as I glance around, I can see that some of these other people have really simple puzzles – like the 4 piece toddler ones. Some are uniform in pattern, or puzzle piece size. Some do not hold my interest.

But some are wildly fascinating. And those are the owns that are vibrating excitedly like mine. Imagine a race horse just before the gates are opened.

I don’t know which piece of information will complete the widget. I don't know if this widget will allow me to move to any somewhere, or somewhen, in history. Or it merely qualifies me to sit back and say, "Nice picture full of shiny things." And I’m willing to consider that this widget is merely a single piece of a larger puzzle. Creating an even grander … something… And maybe that is what I mean by “Next.”

So I will become a better writer, because that helps me define what it is that I am looking for. I will continue to pour information IN through Google, articles sent to me by friends, meditation, and dreaming. And perhaps, some other soul is holding my puzzle piece ready to throw it on the floor at their feet.

And as I glance back over this email, I noticed what was missing from my description, but which is the glue that binds the whole thing together. The love. The compassion I’ve shown for others, the hugs and kisses. Cuddling, comforting, gentle and kind. And the tough love with someone who simply will not get off the fence. The love to say “no more” and the love to say ‘yes.’

So what the heck is this widget? I believe that it is me. Gayle. Not uniform in any way, shape or form. Not flat, but vibrant, exciting and beautiful. And I think that when I find the last piece(s) I’m going to really come alive.

Gayle

Overachiever or Just Really Bored?

2009-06-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

My Psych major daughter and I were talking yesterday about some very interesting things that I’m doing right now, and what she said completely blew me away.

She said I was the smartest woman she knew. Why should that surprise me? Because I have not adjusted to the fact that she’s past the phase where parents get ‘stupid.’

When the children were little, they both thought I was brilliant. But as they become teenagers I, as their primary caregiver, became just too stupid to be believed any more. Because I had my kids so far apart, my daughter finally slipped out of that phase just as my son hit it this spring. Sigh.

I’ve had to bite my tongue for so long with my daughter that I forgot that I even had a tongue. I forgot that while I only got a bachelors degree (in general studies at that), I made extremely good grades in any class that interested me, the first college degree for any woman in my family, out to 2nd cousins. I forgot that I had a vocabulary that most PhD’s envy, along with the ability to explain things to small children as well as my friends who didn’t graduate from high school.

I forgot that I have raised two highly gifted children, constantly on the prowl for something that would keep them entertained, and enriched at the same time. That I was always just one step ahead of my kids, keeping them out of mischief and boredom. Raising children well takes extraordinary time and talent and I’ve forgotten that in the hubbub of daily living. There’s no time left (or perhaps I should say energy) at the end of a day to study higher math.

My kids and I often poured over my college anatomy texts to explain things like why cold and flu season starts right after Halloween. Or going to their father’s physics book, that I had never opened before, so we could talk about parabolas and why a snow saucer is that shape. We didn’t get into the calculus books until my daughter was in high school taking statistics. She was really mad that they wouldn’t let her use calculus to take the test.

One of the things that has contributed to not feeling brilliant anymore for every non-housewife that I met, approximately 80% of them had a conversation with me that went something like this:

“What do you do, Gayle?”
“I’m a housewife. I am spending my time raising my kids.”
“Oh,” he said, as his eyes glazed over and he hurried away to talk to someone more interesting, like the CPA.

What should I have said? “I am the housewife, who is spending 18 hours a day, chasing two brilliant children, teaching them college vocabulary before they can read. I am the woman who successfully, as president of our Homes Association, led the fight to keep out a big box store from our backyards. Speaking in front of county commissioners, television cameras and the public, and making it look easy. I am the woman who organized and ran classroom parties for both my children’s classes. Parties that these kids and the other volunteers are still talking about ten years later. The information I gathered about giving a children’s party for an organization is a ½ done eBook. I got bored.

Should I have said to these people who dismissed my ‘career’ as a housewife “I am a woman who built a warm and loving home, furnished on a shoe string from estate and garage sales. That my home was as nice or nicer than that of those of you who make twice what my (now ex-) husband makes. That I decorated it with things made lovingly with care, and quality, used these things for a while and gave them away, because it was time for new things. I am a woman who made sure my kids were fed, and cared for. And a surprising amount of time – your kids too, because you were too busy to care for your own children.” My home was only minimally messy. The yard was mowed, trees trimmed, gardens full of wild flowers and perennials, the dandelions dug out of the one acre yard by hand because I didn’t want to use chemicals on the land, that would flow into the nearby artesian spring. The only water for ½ a mile around that is still running in the dead of winter for the wildlife that the animals drink from. That I figured out what cleaners I could use that wouldn’t impact their water quality because our septic tank drained into the land from which the spring came.

I should have said “I am the woman who made those cookies you so gleefully snarfed up after the Xmas cookie party. I only made 90 dozen cookies this year. It was a slow year.” I am the woman who for her daughters 3 week classroom lesson in economics spent less than 30 dollars and (with her helping) made 9,000 deep fried Swedish Rosettes. A product that not only made a profit but made what was described as a staggering profit of about $500 which was donated to the school library, liquidating our entire stock, every single day for 15 days in a row. A school record that still stands. (While entertaining her younger brother with stories, word games, and building blocks.)

I am the woman who designed and built the main flowerbed for the school, organized the planting of 550 tulip and daffodil bulbs (one for every student-planted by the students themselves). Flowering bulbs that are still gracing the school 10 years later. I am the woman who learned how to use a database software package in an effort to combine the various different types of information previously kept in people’s heads for the school. The database structure is still being utilized today, 5 years after I handed it over to another mother. Clean simple elegant.

I am the woman who was always ready at a phone call to sit with a heartbroken friend, nurse ungrateful in-laws for weeks after surgery, cope with a mother with dementia, run a successful wrapping paper sale for the PTA sale three years in a row, attend most of the PTA meetings, listening and offering constructive suggestions. Teaching these chattering women how to keep a meeting running smoothly and moving forward, in spite of never being the president. And this does not include the things that I've forgotten that are really too minor to mention, but which make life infinitely easier for the people involved.

I am the overachiever who everybody misses when she’s gone. But whom makes everybody uncomfortable when she’s there, because she does so much, has her fingers on the pulse of the organization. Who knows where the bodies are buried, and who to go to for information.

I am the woman who, on top of everything else, insisted on going to choir every week and church on Sundays because I had to have an outlet that was just for me. Where I could learn something new (music) and receive spiritual sustenance too.

I didn’t get to be that overachiever by being stupid. I did it because I was easily bored. And to keep from being bored, I had to stay busy.

And even though I know better, I have felt unintelligent because I didn't have an alphabet after my name, and a career making more money than I knew how to spend. I've felt stupid for a long time. Made more so because last October, I suddenly couldn't add or subtract without using my fingers. I had to go get flash cards to relearn this simple skill. And I managed to hide this from everybody except one friend. And it only came out because I couldn't keep score when we played gin. And yet now I'm looking at simple matrix logic problems and saying to myself "when is he going to get to something new?"

I KNOW that I couldn’t have done all of those things if I’d been just an ordinary woman, it still surprised me when my daughter recognizes that not only am I an extraordinary mother, but that

I am

the smartest woman she knows.

I am !

Gayle

The Value of Comments

2009-06-06T06:37:00.000-07:00

You came here because someone recommended my writing. It might have even been... me. And you will diligently read through what I have to say. Thank you.

But many of you have websites or blogs of your own, and are wondering how on earth to drive traffic to them, because you have something to say. Here's how:

When you read somebody's blog that you like - leave a comment and leave your contact info. (And yes this seems just a smidge like leaving your 'phone number' on a bathroom wall. Get over it.)

If a reader likes what you said in your comment will copy/paste your contact info into their browser, following you back to your site. And voila, you have a hit, and everybody wins.

What about those readers that are just readers, have no website and have no need to drive traffic anywhere? Please leave a comment anyway. Why?

Because it takes courage to put yourself and your writing out onto the superhighway of the WWW. Because writers are often concerned about whether they're making any sense, your comments help them refine their message. And this is true whether they're writing about string theory or writer's block, the benefits of organic produce or organic underwear. Because if we care enough to publish it in a blog, we are a writer.

I also know that sometimes you don't feel like you can add any wisdom to what has already been said. The appropriate comment in that place is:

"Thanks. I liked it."

And so I invite you to comment. Leave your URL so that we can follow you back to your 'house' and read what you have to say.

Gayle McCain
gaylemccain.blogspot.com
faithfultoyourjourney.blogspot.com
gaylemccain.com (coming soon)

Sexy Writing is Hot

2009-06-02T19:07:00.000-07:00

A friend was stumped. Blocked by mental writer’s cramp. Which started me thinking about how I unblock the creativity within myself. Sometimes it’s been quite a challenge. Being the ‘take charge’ kind of woman that I am, I went into problem solving mode. And we had an IM session that went something like this:

Rae –I’m stuck.

Me – Write me 50 words about, um… Baskets, a sexy man, and a spider. This is an exercise in ‘fun’.

Rae – Um. Okay. Why a sexy man?

Me – I learned a lot by doing ‘suggestive' writing using only the words that are PG-Rated. Try it. Make it sexy. Make it hot. It will get the creative ‘juices’ flowing.

Rae – Baskets, a sexy man, and a spider. Okay. I’ll try it. Do I have a word count limit, or not?

Me – No, no upper limit. But the minimum is 50 words.

Rae laughed - You’ll be soorrry you didn’t put an upper word limit on this.

Me – I’m going to give you a time limit. One hour. I want to see it on your blog. Write fast. Write Clean and give me a good ending. Now go.

And within minutes she was off and running. What was created by this challenge was tremendously funny, sexy, and very creative. And it was fun, she later told me.

Why did it work? Because creativity is creativity is creativity. Regardless of the form it takes. Because it was completely different from her normal writing, it broke through her mental inertia.

Creation is sexy: whether we’re talking art, stories, great sex, or making babies. So when I’m blocked in one area of my life I shift my attention to another area. I belly dance, get out my guitar and sing, or bang on the piano (my skill is so-so but I’m passionate about it). And sometimes I write something completely out of my normal genre.

Is there any other reason that it worked? I suggested she make it sexy. Most of us are a little timid when it comes to sexy writing. Sexy anything for that matter. Sex excites us, intimidates us, and often embarrasses us. It is actually more of a challenge to find ways to creatively write something suggestive than it is to write something explicitly X-Rated. And this effort makes you a better writer.

Writing, whether it is suggestive or explicit gets you past mental and emotional blocks. But the merely suggestive, PG-Rated writing made me a much better writer.

If you want to take the challenge - here are the parameters: pick 3 random nouns, set a short time limit, set a minimum word count, and write. Write something that makes your heart beat a little faster, and your eyes twinkle. Something sexy. Something hot.

And have FUN !

Gayle

Story - Seamore and the Hot Air Balloon

2009-05-31T11:37:00.000-07:00

Days passed, friendships grew as Jack and Seamore spent time exploring the beach. They told each other stories while digging in the sand. One afternoon they were watching the seagulls dipping and soaring over the school of fish swimming through the shallows, when the sea monster sighed.

Jack wanted to know why, and pretty soon Seamore was telling the young boy all about his dream of flying. He was so sad because he was earth bound. He wanted to see what everything looked like from above. His eyes alight, he went on to imagine how it would feel to look down on his home, and the beach that the two young ones shared. Jackie knew exactly what the sea monster was talking about. Because he felt like that himself.

One day after supper the two younglings were playing in the shallows, when a hot air balloon landed on the beach. Brightly colored, it was a magical sight. Jack said it sounded like a dragon when it's flame roared to life, keeping the balloon aloft, while allowing the basket to settle gently on the sand.

The two gingerly approached the contraption, as the balloonist hailed them. He said he wanted to tie off to a rock, and just float above the beach, hoping to attract riders. If the younglings would tie his balloon to the ground, he'd give them a short ride, up into the air.

Rarely have two children moved faster. And before anyone could say a tongue twister like Seamore Sits in the Shifting Sand the two younglings had tied off the rope and were eagerly climbing into the waiting basket.

Deafened by the roar of the dragon flames, they briefly cowered in the bottom of the basket. But as the balloon rose gently off of the sand, Jack peered timidly over the sides of the basket. Jack was surprised by how high they were already. The surprise on his face, followed almost instantly by a big grin, gave Seamore the courage to look around.

He had never imagined that he'd be so high. Excitement made him shout and dance a little dance, which made the basket sway. His eyes got really big as he grabbed the sides of the wicker. The balloonist patted him on the shoulder and told him he was safe, and gradually Seamore relaxed.

For the next several minutes the younglings looked down at the shining sea, sparkling in the late evening light. The water was changing from bright blue to a deeper shade as the sun crept toward the horizon, and the balloon began to sink toward the beach.

Jack was startled when the flames roared to life again, sending the brightly colored envelop shooting upward once again. But he grinned when he spotted his house, and his mother standing outside on the lawn. Shouting and waving, the children laughed as she waved back. In moments the neighbors where drawn to the beach where they were tethered.

The balloon sank gently back to earth and the waiting crowd of people eager for a ride. The younglings climbed from the basket, eyes shining. They stayed and talked with those waiting for their turn. Telling and retelling their exciting adventure in the sky, until finally their mothers called them home for bed.

Gayle

For the 'beginning' of the story - see May 24, 2009

She's just a Sofa

2009-05-24T06:56:00.000-07:00

Hello. My name is Gayle McCain. I am merely a piece of furniture."

As a mother of two, I have often gotten the feeling that my children wanted to introduce me to their friends as the 'Sofa.' Plush, comfortable, and always there. I don't need to be fed, or attended to, just use me and then leave the room.

I was surprised how much it hurt the first time this happened. As my children have grown from toddler to teenage years it has become more and more frequent. And it has taken a great deal of deep breathing and some tongue biting to not speak up about the injustice.

Gradually, I have come to the conclusion that my children are learning to live their own lives, and that this is a good thing. But along with this comes the knowledge that they are not going to want me around, inserting myself into their conversation each time they have a friend around.

With some of my daughter's friends, if I come into the room the conversation stops instantly. This lets me know that I must leave as quickly as possible, without commenting if at all possible. But she also has friends who address me as if I do exist, laugh and joke with me. These are my favorites. Because they let me be a part of my daughter's life still.

Over time my children have expanded their abilities to handle situations, and conversations. And as that has happened, I have learned that I don't have to be there for every exchange. So I have pulled back out of the conversations.

I'm waiting for the day when one of my children will say "This is my mother. Let’s have a soda with her. Maybe she’ll tell us a story. She’s not a Couch anymore.”

Gayle

Story - There once was a Sea Monster

2009-05-24T06:35:00.000-07:00

My daughter was 6, when I told this story for the first time. She's 19 now.

"There once was a sea monster. A not terribly big one at that. And a writer tried to tell this story about it, and couldn't."

"Why not, Mommy?" asked the little girl.

"Because she kept getting distracted, little one," Sara answered, peering into her daughter's eyes through the wispy blond hair. "The writer, had a little girl, just like you. And her little girl kept the mommy so busy that she never seemed to find time to write. Until one day, one very special day, the mommy discovered that she could turn on the tape recorder when she was telling a story."

"OK Mommy, I have a tape recorder, so what is the story today?" pleaded the little girl. "May I please have a story?"

"Are you sure you're not too tired? It's almost bedtime," said her mother, knowing what the answer would be.

"I'm not too tired."

"OK, settle down. Let me tell you the story of Seamore. Now, Seamore is a monster. A sea monster. He is blue and green with shiny sparkles. He is a different kind of a sea monster, because he has hands and a pocket," said her mother smiling at the image. The little girl smiled and slid down under her covers secure in the knowledge that her mother did indeed have a story for her.

"Let me tell you a little about Seamore. He keeps his treasures in his pocket. Shiny sea shells, pearls from the oysters that grew in the ocean, and ruby from a jewelry chest that had fallen over board many years ago. It was old, but it was bright and shiny. He loved all of his treasures. He probably also had some string and maybe a small stick of two in his pocket. Just like human children, sea monsters keep many different things in their pockets."

One day Seamore was swimming along the beach, looking for treasure when he spotted something shiny in the shallows. He was watching it so closely in the shifting waves, he didn't notice that he wasn't alone on the beach. Until his hand touched the treasure just as another hand did the same.

Shocked, Seamore looked up into the wide eyes of a human. Not a full grown human, a half size one, which he knew usually meant a child. The eyes of this child looked the way he felt. But Seamore didn't want to scare anybody, so he gently pulled his hand back and smiled. The boy smiled back. And thus began the friendship between the two.

Jack was eight, and his pockets were bulging with empty sea shells and shiny rocks. He had long since learned not to put in frogs or living starfish because they wriggled and tickled. But he liked to keep buttons, and S-hooks and strong string in there. Because he never knew when he might need something.

The monster didn't look scary. But one never knew. But Jack looked down at the treasure in the water, back at Seamore and bent to pick up the shiny thing. It was a bottle cap. With a timid smile, he put out his hand to give it to the monster, since he already had one. Surprised, Seamore took the treasure gently and his grin got even bigger.

In just a few moments, the two had emptied their pockets and were admiring each other's gatherings. Jack's eyes got very big when he saw the red jewel, and Seamore really wanted Jack's S-hook and buttons. And so they traded. Each quite sure that they'd gotten the better part of the deal.

It was late, time to go home. But the two of them, agreed to meet the next day. And they met day after day, enjoying each other, becoming fast friends, in spite of their differences. The beach rang with laughter, and splashing.

Tune in for the further adventures of Seamore and Jack.

Gayle

I am the Goddess

2009-05-20T14:29:00.000-07:00

Most of my life, I have been looking outside myself for validation. Occasionally I would briefly know that I am Enough. I am the Goddess. Just the way I am. But often that passed far too soon. And for the most part – I’ve not been that wise for long periods - until recently.

I have always been able to help others at the drop of the hat. I can summon up the Goddess for anybody else. That’s always been easy, but to call her strength for myself - ah I’m only just now remembering how.

I have done enough of my inner work to have the courage to ‘go there’ on a regular basis. Meaning I face my fears, make the changes I need to make, let go of what I need to let go of. Doing it in spite of my fears. And I must say that each time I go there – it gets easier.

I am for the most part, gentler with myself than I’ve ever been before. Oh I still cycle from wise to wounded. But I am spending far more time in the wise phase. And instead of living in a state of woundedness, I merely dip my toes in it for a few minutes, before turning my attention somewhere else.

This is what is allowing me to become the woman I really want to be. And thus invite the kind of people that I really want in my life. Thoughtful, caring, funny, energetic, calm, with less drama more intellect, and perhaps most important of all accepting creativity – no matter what form it is taking.

And they’re all writers of one form or another. Go figure.

I have become a friend to more people than I ever expected, all because I have come to accept that I am Enough. I am The Goddess.

I still give generously from the heart and spend a great deal of time Listening to, learning and teaching others. And these are noble endeavors.

But I’ve learned that sometimes I need to shut out the outside world, in order to remind myself that as the Goddess ~

~ I am not the moth fluttering around the flame, I am the flame.

Somewhere, Some When

2009-05-18T11:29:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, some when,
I held the beating heart of an enemy in my hand. And had mine cut from me in the next when. I had other when’s – where life had no hope, so I walked to my end into two seas: one of grass, another of water. I have ridden wild oceans, wild horses, and wild men.

I have felt my feet pound over hill and valley of deep forest, moccasins wet with morning dew, some when.

I loved that when.

This when, I fed the wild doe who tiredly suckled twins in the dry season. And counted a dozen on my drive home.

And in this when I have been bigger than the Universe, and smaller than an atom. I accepted the role of Protector of my tiny corner of Forest and water, only just laying that burden down, sad that this time was done.

I have stood deeply rooted, Listening to the Forest. And become the mountain, even as I soared with the hawks.

I have loved the sequoias of California, felt alive in the hills of Ohio. I’ve felt the sharp prod of the stones of Texas, and been kept awake by the magma flowing beneath me of Oregon, headed toward Yellowstone. I have lived on the limestone seas of the central plains, and the shifting sands of Florida. But I am Home in the land where the thunder sounds like bowling, and Rip Van Winkle is alive.

I have been comforted by my union with the land upon which I rest my feet. But in all of these times of when –whether here and now, or past and gone, I have felt the connection

Of
Being
Greater
Than
I
Was
Taught.

What I learned about Dating from Tweeting

2009-05-16T16:36:00.000-07:00

What I learned about dating from twittering.

1. It should be fun. You should end the evening in a better mood than you started.

2. If it is a struggle to find things to talk about – politely say thank you for ‘dinner’, get in your car, and go home. And don’t accept another date, because it’s not going to go anywhere. And would you really like it if it did?

3. You should be able to talk about anything, from woodpeckers to Cheerios, to the Cat in the Hat. If you can’t, then finish your salad and go home, and stop following them around.

4. Thinking back on the time you spent together should make your heart feel light and joyful. If it brings up pain, run.

5. It’s a whole lot more fun if the conversation is easy, and in a style that you enjoy. Intellectual, punny, philosophically explorative. Whatever YOUR style looks like. If you like horses and cattle – talk about them. If you like petunias and pushcarts – yep talk about that, too. If politics is your bag and they hate politics – say goodnight.

6. It should make you stretch. If you need to do a quick Google search on the meaning of string theory, fine. That’s a good thing. You just stretched.

7. Humor is almost always appreciated., though sometimes a quiet gentle mood is nice too. It can’t be 100% fun and games.

8. Sometimes the timing of the conversation is a little off. It just means one or both of you are a bit too eager to share what you have to say. Slow down a little, and let the conversation get caught up.

9. It’s ok to ask somebody to explain what they mean.

10. If you find yourself talking late into the night, knowing that it’s long past your normal bedtime, but you’re having so much fun, you don’t care, then this is a very good thing.

But most of all:

The conversation should FEEL good and YOU should FEEL good – at the time, and later. Because if it is anything less, then it’s going to be really hard to keep the conversation after the euphoria wears off.

If you’re lucky, it’ll take 30 years for the euphoria to wear off.

Summer vacation

2008-07-15T13:24:00.000-07:00

Every year for the last 10 years I've taken the children and we've traveled 2000 miles round trip on a vacation. Just the kids and I. This year - what did I do on my summer vacation?

Nothing - because we didn't go. I hung around the house, wandered all over town, went out to eat, went shopping, took classes, worked some, helped friends move, helped clients move, and figured out that I've done many things that bring me joy. Some of these things I've done alone, some with my children, and some with friends - old and new.

I've also spent some time preparing to say goodbye. My dearest friend is moving to North Dakota for 2 years. My daughter leaving for college. And I... I am saying goodbye to the garden, the neighbors, the house that I've lived in for the last 12 years and a way of life that I've lived for more than 1/2 of my life.

I shall be moving before September arrives, probably before my daughter leaves for college. And though it's been a long time coming - and I thought I'd grieved it all already - I am finding that I haven't. This separation has been so long coming that it's a shock to finally have it upon me. And I'm having trouble grasping it all.

Letting go - and moving into my future. Not a sad time, nonetheless there's just a bit of wistfulness.

I will work at remembering change is a good thing...

Gayle

She's off again

2008-06-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

My now graduated daughter is off with her choir, touring and ending the tour at her cousin's city, back east. She'll leave the tour there and will spend a week reconnecting with that side of our family.

But darn it, I miss her. Her cheery wave as she goes from here to there. Stopping to chat for a couple of minutes as she leaves the house for work. Rushing in to change clothes before she runs out again for a date, or movie with her friends.

If this is hard, how much harder will it be in the fall when she leaves for college? Arg - full blown empty nest syndrome. How will I handle it? I don't know, but somehow I'll make it. Somehow I'll build a life without that daily contact. I know she'll move forward into her future, eyes shining, with her car keys in one hand, and laptop in the other. Off and running.

So today I'm a bit melancholy, but it shall pass. And I'll be full of enthusiasm once again. I will simply busy myself doing something (oooo I know - I'll clean... ok - just pulling your leg. I'll watch a movie. Something funny, and perhaps clean tomorrow.)

Gayle

Learn from my mistakes

2008-05-24T21:41:00.001-07:00

A while back, I met a man who was helping me with something for my business. He made a scary process less frightening. And I wrote him a cheery thank you note. When he wrote back he was melancholy and said that he'd save my note for those long lonely days when nothing was going right.

Wow. So we've been writing back and forth, until finally one day he asked me what made me so happy. I was honest with him. I'm reexamining my life, and keeping only what works. Changing things that don't. And fixing things I think of as mistakes.

He thanked me for my honesty.

To which I replied - If someone can't learn from my mistakes, what good were they?

So I ask you to consider, what do you do when faced with someone else who has made a mistake? Do you scream and yell at them, or do you stand back, and try to see what they could have done better - maybe changing your own behavior and beliefs in the process?

Oh, and by the way, don't ever try to change the other guy, it doesn't work.

May you have a great transition - whatever it may be. Change is a good thing!

in Joy

Gayle

If it brings Joy...

2008-05-18T23:36:00.000-07:00

And speaking of higher ideals...

I want to be a writer, but I don't write. What's that all about?

I love writing novels, they bring me joy. And I've fallen back on my old script:

"if it brings Joy - it must be decedent and that's just not allowed. So stop writing."

Somehow in the last 2 months, I've forgotten that life's about Joy. And about feeling good, and knowing that I can live a life full of Joy. That I can play with my imagination. And that I have friends around me who will play with me.

So today, even though it's not New Year's Eve, I resolve to spend time working on my Joy. That it's ok to be in Joy. It's ok to enjoy being in Joy. And somehow I shall figure out how to bring this Joy into the transition that's hitting right now.

Businesswoman AND writer.

So "Come on Transition", we're going ahead - full steam - open throttle - let's live it to the limit.

in JOY.

Gayle McCain
www.faithfultoyourjourney.blogspot.com
www.packingitright.com (My business)

Questions to really think about

2008-05-13T20:30:00.000-07:00

Today I discovered that I don't know the 1st thing about laying out a brochure. I had fantasized that I knew how to advertise my new packing business, but what I found out as I talked to my friend is: I don't.

Advertising is a very different form of writing. AND to properly advertise I need to be really, really clear on what it is that I can do for my client. And what I cannot. And that was profound to think about.

My friend had me thinking about all sorts of things that I had not thought about. Like how to handle a situation if something goes wrong. Or the movers drop a box, and stuff breaks.

or

What if I get a dishonest client? That's a tough one for me - because I trust nearly everybody. And how will I hold to my higher ideals if I have to watch over my shoulder in the fear that I might be ripped off. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of higher ideals?

And so, I shall go to bed tonight, pondering these questions. Hoping for an answer as I dream.

May you find all the answers that you're looking for tonight.

in Joy
Gayle

Wisdom learned from a high school senior.

2008-05-07T04:37:00.000-07:00

"Mom, you know kids don't develop a sense of ethics until 10th grade or so,” I heard my 18 year old say on our way to dinner. The conversation had once again drifted toward the serious.

“Oh really? I remember you having a pretty good sense of honor in middle school."

"I did, but it wasn't my set of ethical rules. It was yours. And it was nice that what I learned from you was reinforced by my teachers, my friend's parents and Boy Meets World. The same set of rules from everywhere. It made it pretty easy to follow, until I learned the ‘why’s of things.”

“The Why-s? What are you talking about?” I asked my daughter. The streetlight flashed by as we drove to the nearby restaurant district in the dinner rush traffic.

"WHY some things are 'forbidden'. Why we do what we do. Why we don’t this or that. And until you're about 15 or 16 you don't have a strong sense of yourselves. That's why they break the 'rules'. That's when they get in trouble," she finished thoughtfully. “I didn’t really know right and wrong until I was about 15 or 16. And I think it’s harder for them now.”

“Why do you think it’s so hard for a 12-14 year old?”

“Well, the culture has changed,” said my soon-to-be psychology major. Shaking her head she continued, “they don’t have good role models on the TV anymore. You know, like Boy Meets World. I really liked that show. . I wish… Well, they don't make shows like that anymore. Now-a-days kids have Bart Simpson as a role model,” she sighed. “And he does a lot of things that aren’t really ethical. In the end he usually does the right thing, but not till right at the end. And that’s not a really good way to live your life.”

And my only thought was, “Where did this thoughtful, wonderful person come from?”

enjoy being in Joy
Gayle

I done good.

2008-05-05T07:44:00.000-07:00

Drunk, common sense, peer pressure,

"Mom, you know, some guys don't develop any common sense until they’re older, in college,” said my 18 year old daughter as I drove her home from her college visit. “Sometimes not until they’re well into their 20’s, actually.”

"What do you mean?”

“Well, I just came from two days of being hit on by a guy who seemed nice, but he’s only 17 and he spent spring break from his high school drunk on a beach in the Caribbean. Ick,” she shuddered. “He seemed pretty interesting, until he started telling me how proud he was of being drunk and all. Why would he want to be that out of control?”

Not having an answer, I wisely remained silent, smiling to myself in the dark as I drove her home from the airport. Knowing that somehow I had given her the courage to stand up to the peer pressure of college.

I done good.

Do everything from integrity

2008-05-02T12:43:00.000-07:00

Hi - I've been away from my computer for 2 weeks. And haven't had an easy time getting on a computer. so I haven't blogged. Here's something I wrote while I was away. Enjoy.

What can you learn from my journey? You have to do everything from integrity.

What does that mean, I can hear you ask? Well, it means I can't snitch tomatoes through the fence. Even though they taste better than the ones that are handed to me over the fence. If I want tomatoes, then I need to call my neighbor and ask.

It means choosing to be as honorable as possible.

And as I re-read this I'm sounding terribly pompous and overbearing. I need to stop it. Sorry.

Sometimes I've yelled at the kids, or myself even, for things that seem like mistakes, and I've made choices based on being angry. Every time I do that – I’ve messed up my life. So I'm working really, really hard at making my decisions from love.

OK you guys - calm down, I'm not going to have you all stand around and sing Kum Ba Ya. We're talking about the kind of love that is love-for-mankind love.

So if my son has been really disrespectful, I work at not punishing him simply because I'm angry.

I am trying really hard to remember to step back, breathe, and decide what is the most loving thing that I can do, while still not accepting his disrespect. Is there any way I can stand back and look at myself with humor, and see if I can laugh at the situation or my behavior.

Of course all of this could be a bunch of hooey, and as Master of the Universe I could simply wave my magic wand and make it all turn out perfectly. OH wait - maybe I already did that, and this is what I needed/wanted to learn. A perfect example of what not to do when faced with disrespect. Yell and scream. So how do I change it?

Laughter, breathing. Figuring out why I'm so angry. Am I angry because I'm actually hungry, and fearful that my lovely dinner will be ruined, and no one will come down to eat as a family? Am I angry because it punches my buttons? Which ones and what do I do to disengage those buttons.

and once again, as I read this I'm sounding horribly pompous. Sorry

Enjoy being in Joy.

Gayle

A Cat in my Lap

2008-04-17T14:11:00.000-07:00

Transitions - I've a number of them coming up in my life.

My latest is house/pet sitting. I have a dear friend who needed surgery, but hates to leave her dog and cat at the vets. So I come and live here at her house while she's away. Whether on vacation or like now - unavoidably away.

My children are old enough to live without me for a couple of days. And they still have their dad anyway. So they sleep at his house, instead of mine, and it all works out. When I'm here, it's nice, because it's a little vacation for everyone. A change of pace.

This is helpful in easing them into the idea that they won't have mom available all of the time. And I get the chance to have a delightful purring individual sit n my lap. Soothing and comforting as I face the changes that I'm going through.

It had been a very, very long time since I have had a cat in my lap. I've really missed it. Maybe I'll get a cat of my own.

ouch - maybe not. I'd forgotten about the kneading of the claws. ouch.

How does this relate to transtions? Heck if I know - but it seems to. Maybe we all need comforting from time to time. Especially when our life is changing all around us.

May you enjoy being in Joy

Gayle

I wanted a nap today

2008-04-15T11:59:00.000-07:00

Transition - shifting from one thing to another.

Today I had an abrupt shift. Imagining that I was on the beach, I was quietly meditating on what I wanted my new life to look and feel like, peaceful and calm, when the phone rang. I had forgotten that school let out early today for my 12 year old.

Darn it. Thrust from peace into chaos. Not just the disruption of having been late to pick him up, but he brought a friend home. So when I thought I'd have quiet time to really look/feel what my life could be like, now I have tweens running around, shouting, wrestling, and basically being energetic.

I must remember to breathe deep and let go my attachment to peace and calm today. For I am determined to learn to be flexible.

I will take them out into the early spring weather, so that their exuberance is expended outside.

But let me just say 'I wanted a nap today.'

gayle

Sophisticated Beautiful Woman or Pig Tailed Waif

2008-04-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

Prom took place last night for my high school senior. She went with a male friend. No attachment, not a date, as such. Just a good time. They danced, they laughed, they enjoyed their friendship.

Last night, when she left here, she was a sophisticated beautiful woman. And I felt both delight at her beauty and a pang of loss of my little girl growing up.

I was just shutting my computer down at 1:00am this morning when I heard a key in the lock. In walked these shining young adults, laughing and joking. Confused, I sent them a sleepy smile. My darling daughter reminded me of the After Prom party - which is our high school's way of keeping kids off the streets after The Party. She and her date had come here to change clothes for the after prom party.

Mere moments later, they left - in T-shirts, jeans & tennis shoes. Looking very young. A transition

Today, I am enjoying watching a movie - while I read and my daughter studies, once again a high school student.

Sometimes I need a reminder that transitions can go both ways.

I am in Joy,

Gayle

Remember to Dream

2008-04-02T05:50:00.000-07:00

Today --remember to dream. Really dream.

Because that's what this is all about - us dreaming we can become something more, and then doing it.

We don't have to know very much -- only the WHAT and the WHY. All the rest will take care of itself - if we listen when intuition tells us to take action.

Yes - that's right -- we don't have to know HOW, or WHERE, or WHEN, or WHO will help us. We just have to focus on the WHAT we want and WHY we want it and everything else will line up. I promise.

See soapbox - stepping off now.

So go ahead and dream today - you'll like it.

in Joy
Gayle McCain

Dream !

It's the only way you'll ever get what you want,
so while you're at it you might as well

Dream BIG and in Technicolor!

What if it was safe?

2008-03-29T18:22:00.000-07:00

Please accept my apologies - up front - this is long. But my heart is in it. And sometimes my heart takes over and my hands just write. And write.

Today I was reminded that people come into our lives to help us heal our own hearts. So dear one, if you are reading this - you are here for a reason. If you are new to this blog - if you go back a couple of blogs -- it will help you understand. Or just keep reading - your choice.

Terry, You've asked me to tell you what your “what if...” should be. My friend, you will eventually need to write YOUR “what if...” I will give you an example, but then your homework is your homework, which in truth is more like "heartwork". But the work is yours to do, and you will gain much more by doing it yourself. Because if I write it - it's mine.

Actually - now that I've written it - though I tried to keep you in mind - this one is mine, from my heart. I gift it to you, that you may understand and go forth to “what if...” in your life. (Added after the rest of the blog was written.)

I'll help you get started, with an example and you can take it from there. If your spouse is someone you can trust - and not all of us can truly trust our spouses - so IF you trust her with your heart - then show her the related blogs - she'll be able to help you. I'm going to write some “what if...” Then I will read these words out loud to myself - I get more benefit - because my subconscious actually 'hears' the words then.

You can go to the closet and hide with a flashlight if you're embarrassed--because some of this is personal stuff - and we don't always want to share it with our family. Yes, we love them, but sometimes it is NOT safe to share our hearts with them.

If this is you, my heart goes out to you, because at the moment that's where I am. And that is how I've become so wise in the Way Of The "What If…" through pain of not having a spouse who would honor my heart, the pain of releasing it, and moving through it all.

LEST YOU PANIC - "WHAT IF..." DOES NOT HAVE TO BE PAINFUL - IT CAN BE JOYFUL - IN FACT IT SHOULD BE JOYFUL. But at first it might not be.

Sorry for "shouting", but that is so important that it needed to be said - firmly - strongly, and so that you couldn’t possibly miss it. Did you miss it? Do I need to say it again? … Ah, I thought not. I knew that you'd get it. Because you are here, and if you weren't ready - you'd be reading something else, on somebody else’s blog.

So...

What if I had words come to me, easily? Wonderful words, creative, well thought out words? Out of the blue? How would that feel? How would it feel to be able to hear my inner voice and write down what it says? Would that be cool or what?

How would it feel to be able to write what was in my heart, to reach deep within me, knowing that I am strong enough to be able put my feelings down on paper? Would it be scary, yes probably? But it would also be a relief. To finally be able to tell someone, even if it's only myself, what's been hiding there all these years.

If I could safely write what's in my heart, how could my life change? Would it be any different, would I see my life differently? Would I feel different?

Do I want to be able to share my heart? Can I? Is it safe? What if it were safe? To share my... heart? Oh god… my very soul? Breathe. What if I could do that without coming unglued? Because sometimes I'm scared half to death. What if I didn't die when I shared some of this?

What if I could trust my spouse to catch me gently when I fall? To offer comfort when I think I'm failing. To hold me and help me be strong again? How would it feel to be comforted like that? How wonderful would it be to be able to write down these feelings? How would it feel to someday be able to share these words with someone I love?

Would it be safe? Could it be? What if it were? What if I could... maybe even...WE could- make it safe?

What if, after all these years, I could finally write the way that I've always wanted to? And know that even though I've kept this buried deeply, kept this part of myself secret, that I AM still loved, still respected, still honored.

How would it feel to be able to share the love I'm keeping hidden in my heart? And when I feel safe enough, how would it feel to be able to bring out the things that make my heart ... ache?

Sometimes ache so much that I cannot tell whether it is pain or joy that I'm feeling. Oh god, breathe. Sometimes I wonder how I can keep on breathing, sometimes it aches so much? But how much of a relief would it be to know that through all of this - that I am still loved, just the way I am. Not a little bit taller, or a little bit thinner. ME.

Just the way I am. Right now!

Somebody's cherished delightful love?

WOW !

More What if...

2008-03-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

Today's Transition - More from the Wise Woman of What if...

Way back when... I earned my living as a secretary. So when my church needed a little assistance in that area - as a volunteer - I stepped forward. How hard could it be? Not hard at all it turns out. I could do it with my eyes closed. Most of the time I am entertaining myself by taking care of my own business - answering emails, watching inspiring movies, writing my blogs. But I'm here, in case somebody calls or walks in off the street, so that our secretary can go be a Mom one day a week.

Usually the church is empty when I arrive at 10:00. Today however there were several women having a meeting. By 11:00 they were done and going home. But this one woman, stayed to chat. We talked about the 'complaint free' program that a minister started. That led to this woman, talking about how she didn't like her body.

OK, now I'm not a patient woman when it comes to complaining (grrrrr). And I really, really don't like people who play victim. (Perhaps because these are lessons I need to learn? That'd be a resounding YES!)

Anyway, after listening to her complain for a while, I stopped her - suggesting that she begin the WHAT IF.... HOW WOULD IT FEEL? program. The one I talked about on 3-19-08 of this blog. Suggested? No actually, I think I brow beat her. But she agreed to give it a shot, because she had nothing to lose.

I said it gently, I said it with love, I said it persistently. Her original complaint was about her weight, but the truth of the matter is that this lovely woman isn't having an issue with excess weight, but dealing with the negativity of the people in her life. People she has drawn into her life, probably by her own negativity. She's been eating to combat the stress of dealing with that negativity.

As our talk evolved, I suggested that she focus on something along the lines of:

What if when I'm around so-and-so I find him to be a pleasant person? What if our time together makes me feel good? What if anything negative that is said simply rolls off of me, leaving me unaffected, because I am full of love? What if I am able to fill myself with so much love that I can radiate it outward, affecting the moods of everyone around me? How would it feel to be a light of the world?

What if it was easy? How would it feel?

This delightful woman agreed to work on her What if's and let me know whether it helped her with her transition from stressed by the negativity of the people around her to peace and calm.

If you, as a reader, choose - you too can try the "What If... program" - it's fast, it's easy, and it's uplifting. Let me know whether it affects your life and how.

What if ... how would it feel?

Enjoy being in Joy throughout your transitions,

Gayle McCain

Did the roses change, or did I?

2008-03-24T17:29:00.000-07:00

What is today's transition? From gloomy to ecstatic. I spent the day with a friend. I have been focusing on being productive. And I'd forgotten that this life is not about the destination - it's about the Journey.

OK I journeyed (is that a word?). I stopped to smell the roses on my desk. I bought them 4 days ago, because they were pretty, but after an initial sniff or two, I hadn't bothered. But today, after my friend left, I smelled the roses. Soft sweet smell. Interestingly until today, I couldn't smell them when I sat at my desk, and now I can.

My question is - did the roses change, or did I? By giving myself permission to relax did I become more aware of the world around me. The dog beneath my feet, the music playing in the background, the smell of the chicken on the grill?

Have I been so caught up in the productivity of my waking hours, that I've forgotten to take pleasure in the simple things?

Ahhh, that'd be a YES.

So I shall make a 3x5 card and tack it up over my desk, to remind me to enjoy the little things that make life worth bothering with. The touch of a friend's hand, the laughter of a child, the smell of spring. For these are things that add depth to my days.

These are the things that I would like to remember. These are the things that bring me joy.

May you be in Joy,

Gayle McCain

P.S. And I return to my work with a lighter heart.

Will 80 be the new 50?

2008-03-23T14:38:00.000-07:00

In the last 1 ½ years I have shifted my body shape and size - releasing 4 dress sizes I want you to note that I did not lose 30 pounds. Why would I ever want to find those pounds again? I released them. And I don't want them back, thank you !

Now I'm shaped like Marilyn Monroe, when she did Some Like it Hot. And I like that, because she was hot. OK so I'm not 30. But who cares. 50 is the new 30 (or so I've heard). Hey - it's my story - I can tell it any way I want.

It is a very different thing to look in the mirror and like what I see. It has taken me a long time and the support of some fabulous friends, both men and women, to come to value myself. I have chosen to let go of the old script that said that because I was not shaped like Twiggy, that I was ugly.

The payoff for this transition? I get to feel better. Both physically, with lots more energy and bounce, and emotionally, with lots more energy and bounce. Hmmmm maybe they're tied together.

How have I accomplished this transition? I think the biggest thing I've done for my physical transition - is finally declare a truce with my weight. And that's taken the pressure off. TaDa - beautiful body.

Not by starving myself, not by watching every bite that goes into my mouth, but by honoring my need for few preservatives, few fried foods, lots of fruit and veggies. Honoring my body by moving every day. Sometimes a lot, sometimes not so much. But moving. Dancing, walking, hiking, aerobics, you name it.

Will it always be a beautiful body? Yes. It may go south, but so long as I remember that it is the home of a beautiful soul, it will be a beautiful body. Wrinkled and saggy perhaps, but beautiful.

Hey, do you think that 80 will ever be the new 50?

Mom to the rescue

2008-03-20T19:43:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I got a phone call from my daughter saying her car wouldn't start, and would I come get her. I arrived just about the time that her Dad called her back. His suggestion - jump start the car.

Well, OK, it worked. A part of me was absolutely certain that it wouldn't, and if I'm honest that part kind of wished he was wrong too. Because he would look like a hero. Again.

A small part of me was feeling insecure, because the good things he does for the kids get noticed, and if I do anything it slides under the radar, thus my insecurity.

That was - until my daughter climbed into her running car and said,

"Thank you, MOMMY."

I haven't been 'Mommy' in a decade. What I had done, by just being a concerned mother, was ride to the rescue of the damsel in distress in the suburban mom's version of the white horse - my minivan.

It was nice to be called 'mommy' again. Nice to know that even though she's nearly an adult, she still wants and needs me, and that I'm able to be there when that happens.

May you have people that remind you that you are needed too.

Gayle McCain

What if...

2008-03-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

When I have a dark night of the soul - I get lost and cannot see a future for myself. I don't know where I'm going, or what I'm doing, and my heart aches for the despair there.

I spent years trying affirmations. They didn't work all that well. Finally, about a year ago I found something that helped me to 1) feel better, and 2) imagine a better life - and by imagining it I can now bring it about.

It is my 'what if'.

' What if' has helped me get around my old belief that I'm not worthy, that I'm not enough (as in thin enough, smart enough, work hard enough... just simply - not enough).

It works because it simply asks - "what if ... -how would that feel?" Now that I can feel how wonderful my life could be - I can make it happen.

And so I put to you - today's 'what if...'

What if I loved going to work? What if when I got there (wherever there is) I got to play - because my work is play? And fulfilling and rewarding and wonderful? How would that feel? How would I feel if I could do and be who I am, not who others think I am? But me - the real me. How would that feel?

What if I woke up each morning, delighted to be alive? Because I spend my time doing things I love AND with people I love? How cool would that be? What if it were easy? How would it feel?

What if the shift from one lifestyle (the current one) to the one that I love were easy? It would be a relief. It would be wonderful. I would feel wonderful.

What if I had love and support from the people around me? Support in a way that I understand? And what if it were easy for me to give support and love back to them? How would I feel?

How would it feel to be happy? Really, how would my body actually feel - my heart, my head, my shoulders, my stomach. How would it feel to be happy?

How wonderful would it be if I knew - without any doubt that I am worth being happy? And what if - it is easy to be happy? How would my life change?

What if I get to grow, and learn, and teach, and love, and nurture others, and I get to do it by just being myself? Just because I'm alive, just because I exist - as me, not me pretending to be somebody else. ME. Oh man, that'd be soooo cool. What if I get to do what I'm best at, and I love it! How would it feel?

How would it feel if I got to do what I want? It'd be so awesome. And what if the people around me want to do some of the same things, because we actually have stuff in common? OH GOD! Would I be surprised!

What if I get to love and be loved? What if I get to explore love in all its specialness?

And what if I get to do that while earning a terrific living doing what makes me feel good (and what if I learn to see that this is my gift to the world)?

OH GOD, Yes I would feel happy. I would love getting out of bed, I would love my life all day long. I would love going to bed at night, with someone I love.

So what if this were all true?

WOW !!!

Gayle McCain

Ten Minutes to Rage

2008-03-18T05:28:00.000-07:00

1st allow me to apologize for the length of this post - but I simply couldn't make it any shorter.

Three years ago, my mother died. I have almost forgiven her. Not for dying, but for living so long - for bringing up an ugly part of myself that I never wanted to see - never knew existed.

My mother had been living in a nursing home for the last two years of her life, in advancing stages of dementia. It should be spelled- Demon-sia because the woman that was my mother was lost, replaced by someone living inside her skin who was as quick with a poisonous word as a cobra. The pain that her venom brought was agonizing but did not bring a swift end.

Lest you think that I am caught in victim mode still, ponder this. My mother had always been critical. I had never measured up, but on the particular Sunday that I'm going to tell you about, she took it to a whole new level. I wish to tell you both in an effort to exorcise my demons and to offer advice, should you find yourself in the same place, for I was forever changed by what came up.

The nursing home called to say that my mother was 'terribly restless,' and would I 'mind coming to get her to give her a break.' What I didn't know was that she had been ugly to the entire staff, and that they were exhausted from her tyranny. So I, being the dutiful daughter, sucked it up and -with my 14 year old daughter in tow- went to get my mother. Dressed and ready, she was out the door like a shot when I unlocked the security door. Practically running to the car to get away from 'these cruel insensitive people'.

For the next 10 minutes I was battered with words. Hurtful, spiteful, angry words. They washed over me, drowning me in a sea of pain that they inflicted. The only thought that was going through my mind was that I wanted, no - I needed, to be permanently free of this venom.

I found myself doing 80 on a rural road with a 40 mph speed limit, completely unconscious that I had pushed the accelerator down. So full of rage at this woman for inflicting such agony, that when I spotted a very large, very old tree at the top of the next rise I made a conscious decision.

I was going hit that tree, head on. I might die, or be terribly maimed, but at that moment I didn't care. AT ALL. It would be worth it to shut this poisonous woman up forever. I might go to jail for vehicular homicide.

At that moment, I didn't care. I knew she would either die on impact, or she would die of complications of having every bone in her very frail body broken. Either way I won, she would be dead and I would be free. I didn't see any down sides.

That was until I checked my rear view mirror, and say my beautiful, sweet daughter sitting there. She was innocent, and I had no right risk ending her life. At that point that I deliberately took my foot off of the accelerator. And allowed the car to slow to a stop.

Ten minutes - that's all it took - to bring up a rage that nearly took three lives. I tell you this, that you may have the chance to understand how quickly a lifetime of criticism can come to a head and erupt in rage.

There were things I could have, should have, done to short circuit my growing anger/pain so that the rage didn't erupt. Here are just a few:

1) Recognize the pain that I was in. But I had denied my pain for so many years that I didn't even see it, until it was nearly too late.

2) Back away from it - stop the car - in a driveway, at a church, even slowing to a stop and putting it on the shoulder if necessary, and simply gotten out of the car - away from her. But I had been a dutiful daughter so long, it never even occurred to me.

3) Tell whoever was in my mother's skin that this behavior was unacceptable. (It probably would have come out as "Shut the #$%$^# up." ) But I could have told her to stop. Stop. STOP!!! RIGHT NOW !!!!!

4) Turned the car around and taken her back to the nursing home - immediately. Telling her that if she can't be at least respectful to me - that I would not take her out - that I would leave her there to die, alone.

5) I could have turned the radio up so far that it would have been impossible to hear her.

I saw these alternative choices only in retrospect. Only when I had finally acknowledged the agony had pervaded my entire life was I able to begin healing it.

Rage - while it appears sudden - rarely is actually sudden. It is merely the eruption of long standing anger and pain. So, if you ever find yourself filling with rage:

Stop what you're doing and walk away. Literally.

Because when rage takes over, and you are capable of anything.

And sometimes that anything is very ugly.

A Moving Transition

2008-03-15T20:26:00.001-07:00

Transitions

They come in all shapes and sizes. I have found myself assisting person after person with their transitions. Currently I am earning a very good living running my company - Packing it Right. We pack families prior to moving. Tomorrow afternoon I will be going to the home of a young couple, and packing away about half of their belongings. They want to put the house on the market, and so much of their stuff must go into storage. They don't have any idea of where to begin, or how to sort it.

What to put away? What to keep? I will be asking them questions like: Can they live without the blender for at least 2 months? How about the TV in the bedroom - that makes the room look crowded and messy? Because this couple will be working along side of me, as I help them through this transition, I am teaching them life skills. What is absolutely necessary, and what isn't.

What I have found is that although we can live without some of our 'stuff' for a while, we miss a lot of it. And if we were to give it away, sooner or later we would go back out and just get more 'stuff'. And in some ways the 'stuff' is what makes our living space into a home. It's the little figurine that we got from Niagara Falls, the picture of Great Aunt Grace, and the pretty coffee cup on the desk that holds pens. These are the things that make our place OURS.

Even though the real estate agents say 'make the house as neutral as possible,' having some of these things around makes a home lived in.

And if you can live in it, then so can a buyer.

In Joy

Gayle McCain

www.gaylemccain.blogspot.com
www.faithfultoyourjourney.com

The Explorer Returns

2008-03-09T14:50:00.000-07:00

She's 18, and I have to let go. But sometimes I don't wanna.

Her trip to L.A. was wonderful, the school's a hit, but it's more than 1000 miles away. Across the prairie, the mountains and the burning sands of the desert. I imagine myself squinting into the distance hand shading my eyes from the burning sun as I watch her walk away.

My little girl knows where she wants to go, and what she wants to do. Clearly she doesn't want to stay a little girl anymore. There is a part of me that is excited that she's getting to explore the 'world out there'. But a part of me just wants her to be 4 again, with perky eyes, a ready smile, and a preference for blowing bubbles. I miss being able to satisfy her curiosity. I miss being the center of her world.

When the sadness of her impending departure overwhelms me, I try to focus on something else, anything else. I remember what it felt like to be an explorer myself. As I recall my own college experience, I can feel my heart beating stronger, my eyes shining and the excitement of having a whole world devoted to satisfying my curiosity. Those are heady memories, and I do not wish to rob this modern day Marco Polo of her chance to make her own heady memories.

So although a part of me wants to keep her here at home with me, intellectually I know that she needs to grow up. That it would be a shock if suddenly she were 4 again, permanently. Because that would mean that I would forever be stuck as a parent. It would mean that I wouldn't be able to grow into other roles, like empty nester, or grandparent. (Not that I'm ready for either one quite yet.) I am trying to remember that this new stage of her independence gives me the opportunity to start thinking about these other roles. Trying them on for size if you will.

It is not up to my children to keep my days filled, or to make me happy. Although being an empty nester is still some ways off, I'm starting to deal with it now. Because I know if I wait until the last minute the sadness will overwhelm me.

And so, even as my 12-year-old comes trooping in from playing with his friends, asking for a cookie and a hug, I have begun to ask myself:

"What do I want to be when my children grow up?"

I sent my oldest child into the Wilderness

2008-03-06T18:00:00.000-08:00

At 6:40 am this morning, I sent my 18-year-old daughter on an airplane all by herself for a college visit. An airplane bound for L.A.

Yes - "The L.A." The one in California. We live in a relatively quiet suburb in the middle of the country. Where things are calm, soccer moms are everywhere and the sound of gunfire is non-existent.

But today I sent my oldest child into the Wilderness, armed with an airplane ticket, some cash and a $200 credit limit credit card.

Oh, and she's also taking along her natural common sense, her wits and her intelligence. L.A. doesn't stand a chance.

My daughter has been 100% in charge of her search for a college, scholarship funding, the application process and everything. The truth of it is, because it's her future, she's paying much closer attention to the information presented than she would be if I were the one doing the research.

And although we do talk about the things that I have learned over my lifetime, truthfully, my parenting is almost done for her. So now I get to stand back, just offering an occasional opinion (and often breathing deeply as she steps toward adulthood.)

I am not one of those parents who hover over their teenage children: checking next semester's schedules, making sure that homework is done, and dictating goal setting. I did these things when my children were little, but they grew out of that, and so did I.

I have worked hard to empower my children to make their own decisions. Some were good, some bad. (And yes, there are still fights with my 12-year-old son over why his homework isn't done and he just spent the day watching cartoons.) Both of them have learned about consequences and how to make informed decisions. And I am very, very proud of them.

By accepting that this is about THEM and THEIR LIVES, not ME and MINE, I have given them the power to move in to the future with strength.

Here's looking at the future !

Gayle McCain

What's an Ice-Cream between Siblings?

2008-03-04T06:29:00.001-08:00

It is nearly the middle of the week, a time when normally I have a full schedule. Except for one bright jewel of free time. My daughter, a delightful senior in high school, almost always picks up my 6th grade son from school on Tuesdays.

They spend one-on-one time with each other getting a smoothie, or ice cream, or something. She started it last year when she got a car, and has been pretty faithful about setting aside this time for her little brother.

There is a surprising about of 'fallout' from this time together:

My children have finally found common ground. Perhaps they are pitted against us parents or school. But they are finally truly bonding as siblings.

I feel oddly left out. Perhaps not so odd, they usually come in the door laughing, and I, being a relatively social creature, like to be included in anything that generates the laughter of delight. But alas, this is not to be, for their laughter is something shared between the two of them, and as their mother I must simply stand aside and enjoy them enjoying each other.

Perhaps there is also an air of wistfulness in it for me too, because my daughter will be leaving for college in August. Once she does that, the dynamics of their relationship will shift again. And I know that we all will miss her bright wit and ready smile.

Thus today, I will have a few minutes of peace and quiet. Knowing that my children are bonding, and knowing that that is a good thing, even if I'm not included in this occasion.

in Joy
g

Lessons learned from The Stone Bench

2008-03-02T15:09:00.000-08:00

Today I walked in the normally peaceful woods near my home. It was full of families, some chattering, some walking swiftly. None were the regulars that frequent these woods.

The weather was wonderful, windy and a bit wild. And it inspired me to sit quietly for a while on a stone bench. I had expected the stone to suck the warmth right out of me, but it did not, and so I was able to stay still longer than normal. For a few moments there were no travelers on the paths nearby, and the birds came out to play and sing. The first song of the season, the beauty of their flight, and the joy that they expressed soothed my busy soul.

However, after several minutes the lull was past and the families came trooping past. I made a quiet observation. The children that were happily skipping along had parents who were paying attention to them. There was laughter between the generations, smiling, and touching as the children ran out along the paths and then came back to get a hug. These families were full of Joy. And these children were happy.

There was another kind of child however. These were either fearful of the tamed wilderness, or they were boisterous, completely ignoring the beauty of their surroundings. They might have been in a school lunchroom for all of the pleasure they got from being outside. And their parents were busy talking to other adults, discussing business of one kind or another, completely ignoring their children. As I looked at these children, they did not look happy, not even content.

As these dozen or so families passed by my stone bench, the happy families spoke to me, and the others did not, even when greeted. How sad to be so caught up in the busy-ness of life that there is no time for pleasantries.

I hope that when I go next into an activity, I will remember these diverse families and strive to include my children, for I would rather that they had a happy life. Me too.