ENTERING THE FLOW

CHAPTER 6.

            I have my computer next to the spray of white with lavender centered orchids my Soul-Daughter, Catherine, gave me for Mother’s Day. I spent Mother’s Day with my grandson, Tiger, having a delightful time with my friend in L.A. and her grandson. The four of us went to see the musical Billy Elliot at the Pantageous Theater in Hollywood.

I tell you this to let you know in advance, that there are many blessings accompanying the bitter transitions going on in my life. I am telling you about Saturday and Sunday before I tell you about Friday. Friday I couldn’t stop crying due to the auction of my house the day before. I was in shock.

I was staying at Audrey’s house in Goleta. She is a 94-year-old woman who can’t remember anything but she is “presence” itself. When I tell her what a kind, sweet woman she is, she beams and tells me I am nice too. In that moment we love each other completely.

After dressing Audrey and getting her breakfast, I headed for Henry’s Beach in Santa Barbara. It was cloudy and grey like me. During my walk I said a mantra. I have been saying this mantra since Ram Dass gave me the book, “The Way of a Pilgrim”, in 1970. The book is about a Russian peasant who lost everything. One day he was sitting in a church and he heard the priest say that we should at all times pray without ceasing. He wondered how it was possible. When you have lunch or talk to a friend you forget about praying immediately.

The Pilgrim wandered around asking every holy person he met how this was possible, until he met someone who knew and who taught him a prayer that changed his life.

The Pilgrim was given the direction of saying the prayer 3000 times a day to begin with, then 5000 times, then all day and all night. Eventually the prayer went from his mind into his heart, and it beat there without stopping.

It mentioned in the book that one should not say it without someone to instruct you. I once went to a Greek Orthodox Church where the priest warned me that people had gone insane saying that prayer.  So, I only say it in emergencies.  It is like medicine to my Life – the highest form of medicine. It is Spiritual medicine that takes the negative thoughts of the mind and burns them to a crisp. It also gives protection and seems to open the path to all that I need.

For instance; once I was driving on the Santa Monica freeway saying this prayer, when a large, white, van came up the on-ramp at Centinela, lost control and skidded across four lanes of traffic and hit the cement divider wall right in front of me. I was not wearing a seat belt, and I was going sixty-five miles an hour when my car slammed into the back of the van, hurtling towards me. I never stopped saying the prayer. My mind was clear. I felt an invisible force like a metal wire go up from the top of my head, through my spine, and down into the ground. I never felt one moment of fear, and I never moved in my seat. I didn’t hit the steering wheel, I didn’t go through the windshield, I didn’t move. The car was smashed up to my leg but it didn’t touch me.

What I have gathered from this, thinking about it over the years, is that there is a place, a dimension, in which the laws are different than here on earth. They are Spiritual Laws, not physical. And, what seems like miracles here are not miracles there. There the laws are not “cause and effect” but, “Only that which is good, kind, liberating can happen here.” From a human perspective the ways in which to stay in that zone are hard because it doesn’t require effort. It requires a lack of effort, as in Letting Go of effort.

Friday, walking at Henry’s Beach I said the prayer in tune with my breath and my steps for two hours. I said it in the car and while I made Audrey’s lunch. I said the prayer while driving down the road to the library later that day – and then the miracles started happening. Not miracles, exactly. Not like the Red Sea opening, but I was in the zone, in the flow.

I went to the Falkner Gallery where there was an exhibit of the paintings of the homeless and physically and mentally disabled.  I told the woman at the table watching over things, that if I were going to buy a painting it would be the one with the child holding a bird.

“Oh,” she said, “I wish you would buy it. She would be so thrilled.” She showed me the other paintings the disabled girl had painted. She told me the girl had eyes that couldn’t look straight ahead but looked off in both directions to the side. She couldn’t see straight ahead, and yet she had made these lovely paintings.

I said, “I would buy one but I am almost homeless myself.”

“Oh no,” she said with concern and came around the table and gave me a hug. “Well darling, you get yourself down today to the Salvation Army. They will give you a bed. I have lived there myself and they provide you with a bed until you get yourself on your feet.” She told me right then and there where to find the Salvation Army.

She was so sincere and concerned I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had a three-bedroom house back in Ojai. Even though it had been auctioned the day before I could still sleep there.

A man standing close by heard the woman talking about her homelessness. He came up and said he had been to another homeless shelter. It was called Desperanza or something like that. He said he had a drug problem and so did his girlfriend. When they got pregnant he realized he needed to get “hisself “well so he could take care of his child. He took out his phone and showed me the picture of his son. A picture of a beautiful boy smiling radiantly, popped up on his screen.  “Desperanza,” he continued, “fed me and took care of me. I needed to have a hip replaced and they gave me extra pillows, mattresses, and someone fed me with a spoon until I could walk. I got on my feet and now have a little apartment with my son in Hidden Valley, right here in Santa Barbara.

“You walk with faith, girl. The Lord will surely give you everything you need.” And, He couldn’t help but adding, “never forget to ask for what you need and want. Let people know. A closed mouth never gets fed.”

When I left the gallery, five homeless or ex-homeless people were waving and telling me, “You walk with faith. We’re a small community, we’ll see you around.” And, “Don’t forget, a closed mouth never gets fed.”

While I was in the gallery I had gotten a call from one of my best friends. She said she knew I needed a new car and to look no further. She was giving me her used Mercedes station wagon. My mouth dropped open. I began to cry with gratitude sitting on a dirty wall outside the library. How could I ever doubt again that my needs would be met? Within an hour I had news of where you go if you are without shelter, and a new, to me, Mercedes.

I continued saying the prayer when I got home to Ojai. At 11:00 a.m. on Wednesday, a week after the house was taken over by the bank, a very nice woman came to the door and told us we had three weeks to get out. She said it so sweetly. The words and her demeanor didn’t match. How could someone so nice say such a thing?

I realized after she left that I had gone into shock again. I called another friend who lived in Joshua Tree to talk about it, and how every place I called in Santa Barbara wanted to check my credit or make sure I had a job. I’m 65! I don’t have a steady job. Katherine in Joshua Tree had the perfect solution, however. She had a daughter with an apartment in Santa Barbara, near the beach, and she would let me have it. The owners never checked her credit and if I were her friend they would love me to move in. Her daughter wanted to move out as soon as possible. Three weeks would be no problem.

This apartment is within walking distance of my son’s new apartment where I can take care of my grandson all summer long. It is a two-minute walk to the sunsets at the beach, and my painting classes near the train station. It is perfect!

I will be packing with all my heart for a few weeks so I may miss an installment or two of my blog. Know that I am well, all is unfolding in perfect order, and I hold you in my heart.

LETTING GO OF THE CABIN

 CHAPTER 5.

 As I write this I am numb. Tomorrow is the auction of our house. Nothing we could do would make the banks change their minds this time. I have not seen any more people in our front yard. If anyone knows of a small apartment or a good-sized room, I need a new home.

Wyn and I arrived at the cabin Sunday, April 29^th. It was a long drive and we listened to a book on tape. We went straight to the resort to find the man who bought the cabin. He and his father (the owners of the Kennedy Meadows Resort) came over and we showed them where the key was hidden on a nail, what the combinations were to pad locks, where we stored the shutters, where to turn on the water, how to light the pilots to the stove, refrigerator and the water heater. In no time the cabin was humming with life after it’s long winter.

I was pleased to notice that my emotions weren’t driving me crazy. I was almost glad I was not going to be the owner of this cabin any more; the roof needed fixing, everything needed painting inside and out, the ceiling was sagging, the faucets all needed washers, the toilet needed replacing. Matt Bloom, the new owner, a forty-year old prince of a man, said – “no problem.”

“Also,” Matt said, “just take the things you want. I will send a crew over from the resort to clean and take anything away I don’t want.”

The next morning we began going through the cabinets and closets. There were ancient belongings owned by my mother. She had lived here all summer when she was alive. She was a legend up here in the woods. Everyone loved her.

We sorted through the kitchen things and moved into the trunks. The only thing that made me cry was coming across Mom’s old slippers. I had not been able to throw them out after she died. How do you throw out your mother’s old slippers? Those items had brought her comfort every day for many years.

“Are you going to bronze them?” Wyn asked.

Good point.

Well, what do I do with her slippers? I can’t throw them in the trash. Burying them doesn’t seem right. Burning them, unhealthy. I thought about them throughout the day, then, I remembered my mom’s expression. “I’m as happy as a mouse in a warm slipper.” I will put Mom’s slippers up in the attic where the mice will use the fabric in their nests! Mom had always used old t-shirts or towels as rags until they couldn’t be used any more. Finding another use for her slippers would have pleased her.

I will not tell you about looking at the river for the last time, or locking up the cabin and putting the key on the nail. Or walking down the drive way to the car and looking back at the cabin for the last time. When feelings welled up in me that would flatten me I denied them. I did not want to drive eight hours with swollen eyes.

After signing the papers at the Title Company in Sonora that signed the cabin over to Matt, I can only say I got lost. I drove down one country road after another, ending up in my hometown of Modesto. I finally found 99 Hwy and got stuck in a traffic jam for two hours. I didn’t care. I wasn’t even there.

In my blessing book, I remembered to write about Matt telling me that anytime I wanted to come to Kennedy Meadows he would find me a place to stay. I imagine myself in years to come roaming the Sierra painting sunsets and mountains on large canvases. I will need to go shopping for the right hat.

TOPANGA BLUE FLAG DARé

 Chapter 4.

            As I write this piece, there are people in my front yard taking pictures of my house, hanging their cameras over my fence and snapping pictures of my back yard. They have heard the house is up for auction tomorrow, though, in reality, my lawyer has gotten it moved to May10th. We found out this morning. My bladder infection will not go away. My body is screaming in the only way it knows how. Thank God I have my tribe, and thank God I went to Daré on Sunday and got a healing.

What is Daré you might ask? It is a gathering of healers and those in need of a healing, based on an African model used in Zimbabwe. Those who attend in Topanga are in alignment with the need in America for community, and that community is healing. We gather once a month and everyone is welcome.

As soon as I saw the email announcing that there were openings for healing at Sunday’s Daré I called Danelia Wild and put my name on the list. I was in Santa Barbara for two days and I could feel my tentacles of attachment that held me close to a husband and a life for twelve years, shriveling and dying. They were like the roots of a tree without water, reaching out. I wondered if the tree panicked in the same way I did.

I was told by Danelia to come early so I could talk with Deena. Deena Metzger and I have known each other for twenty-nine years. She is my mentor. I came to her for my first writing class in September of 1983; up Topanga Canyon, turning on Callon until it twisted and turned into a dirt road rutted with holes that could sink a car if you weren’t careful, and at the very end of this road was the rambling abode, – surrounded by climbing roses, wisteria, and Eucalyptus trees – of a very wise woman.

I parked my car and walked through the patio, opened the door and sat. I knew Deena would come when she was ready and eventually she did. It is a blessing beyond measure to have a wise woman on your side, and in no time she asked the essential question I had not been able to get to. That question was, “What is your soul asking you to do that you can’t do in this marriage?” And, she added, “I have always wondered when you were going to wake up and give your life your all. You were given many gifts, not the least of which is the ability to bring to light family patterns that have been passed down for generations. When are you going to dedicate yourself to your gifts instead of to a man? The world needs you. You don’t have any time to loose.” In a flash I was connected to my purpose.

Ten years before, while teaching at the Ojai School of Massage, I had awakened to the fact that I was reading bodies. Having been a Massage Therapist for thirty years, and having given well over thirty thousand massages, I had put together a system that explained what kind of mind and experiences had created the tensions, posture, ailments and pain in their bodies.

My book, Bodies Unbound, attracted the attention of a Pastor of a Baptist church in Brooklyn, New York. His Assistant asked me to come to their church and sent me a ticket. I was nervous. My prejudice of New Yorkers, especially Baptists’, was not what I would call “open” to new ideas from California. I was a wreck.

When I arrived I realized that I had come to an all black church in the slums of Brooklyn. When I met their pastor I asked him why he had sent for me. He said, “It was what you wrote about in your book about the way people knew things about themselves that they didn’t know before they worked with you. You see, when we were slaves we left our bodies. We are still living outside of our bodies, I’ve asked you here to find out where we went and to help us get back.” So much for my prejudice!

I worked with these people six times over the next year coming to an understanding of some of the patterns that slavery had caused that were still being passed down for generations. This was the purpose Deena was talking about. I have a web site for my Ancestor Work: Google “Ancestor Work”. I am the first choice.

While Deena talked to the four or five people who came for healing, the community gathered. Perhaps fifty or sixty people, with potluck food and various instruments had parked, walked up the impossible hill, and were waiting in the patio for Daré to begin.

Daré begins in a room that you couldn’t believe could hold sixty people. A bell is rung and the meditation begins. Every form of meditation is practiced there. Hindu priests and Buddhists, as well as indigenous healers, medicine men, shamans and Christian mystics all gather together in community for the purpose of healing and sharing their gifts.

After the meditation I spoke, as well as the other people who had come for healings. I told the group that my husband and I had been married twelve years ago and that we were separating. During our marriage everything I owned had been lost, and my house was up for auction April 30^th.  I needed to grieve the loss of this life, to make room for the unknown that was calling me.

Speaking, I felt the millions of people experiencing what I was going through. I am very aware that I am merely a representative of a large segment of our population that is being dispersed, suffering homelessness, getting divorced, being betrayed, heartsick and living in poverty. The people on the streets, the animals who have lost their homes – all of us are grieving together.  In this community we ask that this issue be healed, not just for the individual in the circle, but the larger community as well.

After we finished meditating and speaking, we carried large drums, baskets of rattles, tambourines, shakers and sticks outside on the brick patio. Chairs are set up in a large circle. Several people gave me hugs, their condolences and their love. One man, André, who is a Hindu priest from Zimbabwe, told me that he had the experience that I am going through. During the initiation of grief he realized the hundred ways in which he had betrayed his Soul in his relationship. “When you let go of this man who could not give you what you needed, and connect to the purpose and calling of your Soul it will be a great moment,” he said. “It is what you came here to do.”

With his kind words and wise eyes, he conveyed a deep message, and I was suddenly aware of how my inner Self was calling me home. It opened me, not to the grief of loosing my marriage and house, but to a deeper grief – the grief of not being connected to my Soul. I was suddenly aware of all the ways I had betrayed myself looking for love, distraction and security from men, security through money and possessions, and acceptance through fitting in and buying into the lies of a society that knew nothing about Soul. As this awareness washed over me the pain of my heart and every cell of my being screamed and cried out for deliverance. It felt freeing to finally be grieving for the right thing.

As the drums began beating, the rattles rattled, and the voices of the community called in Spirit, tears streamed down my face, my face contorted in agony and eventually someone saw and came to me. They held me in their arms and set me down in a chair. Deena came, bringing water for my face, putting her hands on my heart and head, Stephen pulled out the grief from my belly, Danelia sang to me and held me. So many were there, touching me, holding me, singing to me, playing their instruments, the didgeridoo, rattles, placing their hands on my body, blowing my nose, telling me over and over to get it all out. There was such a din, no one could hear the screams I made, I was totally private in the middle of community to scream and cry. I felt as if I were in a birthing chair, birthing myself.

Daré was similar to the gypsy camp of Carmen, Ram Dass’ Father’s land where we all danced as hippy’s, but now, at Daré, without drugs, addiction or seduction, wanting nothing but connection to my Self, I was brought to my knees before the Soul I had been running from my whole life. Why? Because until that moment I didn’t know that “I” was the goal, the gold ring, the priceless gift. But that day, on that new moon in Scorpio I knew, and I was ready to do whatever it took to hold on to it.

When I was ready, when the last expression of grief was complete, the drums stopped, the rattles quieted, and all was still except for the birds, and the wind in the trees. I was done and Deena said, “You are reborn.”

One of my dearest friends of thirty-two years was there, and she took me out of the circle and on to the land. She said, “It was amazing, it was as if you were screaming out the pain of the world.”

The day continued with eating, counsel, sharing dreams and ended at 9:30 P.M. I don’t know how I drove home to Ojai. I have been in a deep, empty place since then, trying to become familiar with these new feelings. I feel that I have been pushed out into a larger world. I guess that is what being born is. I am no longer in a womb; I am out, but not quite ready to stand. I am gathering strength and learning the language of BEING.

I want to thank all of you who are with me on this journey. Your love sustains me. The healing gathering I have been a part of for 13 years is open to anyone who wants to be in a healing community. If you are interested, please find it by goggling – Topanga Blue Flag Daré.

May all beings be happy. May all beings have enough to eat and a safe place to sleep.

FALLING APART

Chapter 3.

            Talking to my friend, Erna, I said, “I’m writing a blog about how an older woman starts over and puts herself back together.”

“That’s great,” she said, “but first you have to fall apart.”

Hummm.

She, of course, is right, and I am on schedule.

It has been a wild week. Carmen has been off singing her arias for someone other than me. I know she is somewhere fanning herself waiting to see if I survive the auction of my house next week, the ending of a twelve year old marriage, and the sale of my cabin. I can’t talk about any of these things. Friends call to console and ask what they can do, and there is nothing. Just read and send me your blessings.

I asked that it be noted in an addendum of our contract that Matt would give me two weeks a year to stay in my cabin until he owned it outright. I am carrying papers for fifteen years. Matt said to the realtor, “Only one week, but not necessarily in her cabin. It might be a week at one of my resort cabins.”

My heart sank. Those cabins are crammed together with loud, cowboys, drunken bikers, swearing hunters, horses and dogs and hundreds of children running around. It is not the serenity of my cabin, tucked a mile away from the resort, down a pine needle cushioned dirt road, by the mountain stream that sings night and day and fills your dreams with primeval mystery. The sound of the stream makes the air shimmer, the trees come alive and the mountains more majestic. I have done yoga on cliffs there since I was eighteen. Nothing keeps the mind more focused than a thousand foot drop. And I have done Qigong in the forests bringing into my heart and bones the strength of those mountains, the clarity of that sky, the wisdom of trees and the certainty of the earth. I have known those woods as a child knows things; every rock and turn in the path. Every toe-hold up the glacier rocks, the limb of each pine that could pull me up a steep place.

And I like to think that those places know me; those mountains, rocks, and trees. I like to think that they have been waiting to welcome me back to them each year. That they are glad I returned, to feel my steps, my joy at being there, my admiration, my delight that they have survived another winter for me to stand there doing my yoga and giving me their strength to face another year in the city.

Matt doesn’t know what he is taking from me. My husband doesn’t understand what his inability to make money consistently has taken from me. After being with Wyn for 12 years I have no money, no house, no cabin. He told me he will live in his van after the auction next week. By selling the cabin I won’t have to join him.

My friends have asked me, “Why, after you lost all your money married to Wyn, didn’t you get a job and pay for everything yourself? It should have been obvious that Wyn was incapable of being responsible for such a big life.” I have wondered that myself carrying the question with me like a Zen Koan.

It was only last week-end that I had a glimpse into why. Someone suggested I read a book called Attached. It is a description of the three different ways that adults attach in relationships. It was obvious that Wyn had an “avoidant” attachment style while I had an “anxious” attachment style. I know, I know, this is pop psychology, but it was as if the authors, from the examples given, had been reading my journal.

What does it mean to have an avoidant attachment style? It means that when there is intimacy or a request from your partner that a need be met, it brings up fear and a feeling of being smothered, and the avoidant runs. What does it mean to have an anxious attachment style? It means that without intimacy from your partner you get anxious. You want reassurance from your partner that all is well. When your partner leaves or doesn’t come home on time, you are anxious. Your focus is on the relationship. When your needs for intimacy, closeness and security are not met by your partner you revert to being the child, and over time, become a shadow of yourself. Out of frustration you complain, which pushes the avoidant further away, which brings out more feelings of hopelessness and more childish behavior. The book warns; if you are an anxious attacher and you are attracted to an avoidant, run as though your very life depends on it. It does.

The book gave one example after another of strong, capable women becoming tiny, groveling, hysterical wrecks when they become attached to an avoidant partner. And why do they stay? Because the withdrawals’ are so painful.

I should have left Wyn the first time he left me. During our first months of courtship, up at the cabin, after a night of mad, passionate love making, he got up, and without a word, went off for five hours. In those five hours I wondered what I had done wrong. I couldn’t imagine why he had left. In time I became angry. He left over and over when I was sick, after there was deep intimacy, or I needed him. He left to go to a seminar when I had bronchitis and couldn’t get out of bed, and he left to meditate for ten days when we couldn’t pay the mortgage on the house. We never caught up and now the house is up for auction.

Since I have detached from my “soon to be ex-husband” my abilities to think of solutions like an adult have been inspiring even to me. I have gotten a job taking care of an older woman whose children don’t want her to sleep in the house alone, (it is only temporary and I need another one) sold the cabin, and found various other ways to bring in some income. It is like I am coming out of a dream. But the pain of it is awful.

What do I do with the pain? I feel it.            I use the feelings as though I were in a Vipassana meditation retreat. The feelings crush my lungs, burn my body to bits, stab my heart and crumble my bones. They wash over me like a set of strong waves trying to drown me. I awake in the middle of the night as afraid as if I were being held at gunpoint by rapists and I feel the feelings as though they were sensations. I try not to think. Thinking, doubting and worrying make them worse. As much as I can I remind myself that this will pass. I only have to get through this deep dark night.

I called Matt back and said I would not ask for assurance that I get to use the cabin but I wanted a higher interest rate to carry the loan. He said fine. When we hung up I screamed out tension. I was surprised at how easily the scream came out, and how loud it was. It came from deep inside like bats flying out of a cave.

That night I began to shake. I was close to hysteria. I wrote to my Inner Invisible Guide I call Glen. “I’m falling apart, Glen. I feel hysterical. How can I loose so many things at once?”

Glen wrote back, “Stop it! You are going to find yourself. You are going to love living alone once you get over torturing yourself. It is not the woman it is the child who is afraid. The Woman is excited about this adventure. Let the child know that you, the strong, confident, outrageously together woman is here. Do not abandon that child or let her run the show. That’s what makes the child hysterical, thinking no one is here but her, like when she was left alone as a child to fend for herself. Though you have a well-developed adult, she is not yet a habit, and when these feelings arise they block her wisdom. This divorce and all these changes will force you to become more connected with the adult who can accomplish what she sets out to do. Focus on what you want not on what you are loosing.”

I went to my painting class the next day and painted a wild angel to watch over me. May she watch over us all and inspire freedom to fly.

May all Beings be happy. May all Beings be liberated. May all Beings have enough to eat and a safe place to sleep.

CHAPTER 2.

            Saturday night at 11:30 P.M. I realized I couldn’t wait another minute to get help for my raging bladder infection. I got dressed, got into Aretha; my ancient charcoal colored Mercedes, and drove to the Ojai Community Hospital. I cried all the way there. Not only because of the pain, but because I was taking care of myself. I had been trying to wait until Monday to get proper medication for this problem to avoid the expense of the emergency room. Now that I’m sixty-five, I remembered in my distress, I have Medicare. No thanks to anyone but myself surviving all this time, I finally have insurance.

That day a friend named Deborah called. We discussed getting what we wanted and how to get it. Deborah writes out what it is that she wants and expects to get it. I knew this once, but I hadn’t been asking or expecting. I had been trying to survive what was coming at me. Instead of my focus being on what I wanted to create, I had been focusing on what I didn’t want that I had, trying to heal the past, complaining like a harpy to all who would listen. Carmen would never have done that. But I had another alter ego besides Carmen – Cindy Lou. Cindy Lou was the girlfriend in love with the young man whom Carmen seduced and stole. Cindy Lou sang like an angel about lost love and tragedy and faithfulness to her misery. Oh my God, that’s been me too.

What did I want? Saturday night I wanted to be out of pain and there I was in the middle of the night finding a solution.

In the emergency room, under a warm blanket waiting for the doctor I remembered being twenty-six years old. At that time, like now, I was also getting divorced. At that time, however, I couldn’t stop using drugs and drinking alcohol. In 1970, hung over, walking on the beach in Maine in January I thought, “I want to walk into that ocean and just keep walking.” I took off my shoes and walked to the water’s edge. When I touched the water my heart sank. I knew there was nothing I had inside me to get me into that cold water. I stood there between two forces, one wanting to end my life, the other, knowing I couldn’t, but not knowing how to go on. I had lost everything important to me; my son, my marriage to his father, my house – everything. In that place I asked the ocean, “If I will ever be proud to be me, if I will ever be useful, if I will ever be happy, give me a sign. Give me a whole sand dollar as a sign.”

The next wave came, surrounded my feet and left a whole sand dollar in front of my blue toes. The ocean had spoken.

I was at this juncture again. Losing a husband, losing my house – was it a pattern I couldn’t break? Perhaps I still had the problems in relationships with men, but I had worked hard on myself these past forty years. I had my two dogs, the cat, my health, my book, my one-woman show, a loving relationship with my son, and I had been without drugs or a drink for thirty-one years. I had at least ten friends I could call and ask for almost anything. No, though I was getting divorced again, I had not lost everything.

At home, medication doing its work on my poor bladder I thought, what else is it that you want?”  I wanted Aretha Mercedes to stop leaking. Two mechanics had told me to get rid of her and find a dependable car. I loved Aretha. I loved the way the old leather seats creaked as we lumbered down the road in style. I wanted to fix where she leaked, just like me. I needed to fix where I leaked that kept me from attending to my finances. I also leaked clarity and was able to ignore the flaws in my relationship that could have told me this was never going to work. By eating too much sugar I could pretend my life was “sweet” and ignore my authentic needs and wants. Both Aretha and me needed a tune up.

Before I had asked for a sand dollar from the ocean to let me know that the universe was approving my direction in life. What did I need as a sign now? I needed to restore my ancient Mercedes, and I needed to sell my cabin in the woods. The cabin was the last piece of property left from my inheritance that hadn’t been lost during my marriage. It could only be used five months of the year. I only used it two months or less. I needed a year round solution to my life situation.

Monday morning I went to my Spiritual meeting at 6 A.M. and sat next to Don. I told him my engine was leaking oil. He said he would look at it. After the meeting he opened the hood, I turned her on and Aretha purred. He said, “I think she’ll be fine if I tighten up all the bolts. I don’t believe there is anything wrong with your car.”

At noon on Monday I got a call from Matt, the man who owned Kennedy Meadows, the resort a mile away from my cabin. He would buy it, what did I want for it?

My heart pounded as I made the deal that included my ability to use the cabin when he or his family wasn’t. Just like that I had my signs.

I have painted the picture of me at the beach as a young woman 42 years ago. I want to tell her not to worry. Not to be afraid. She is a woman who talks to the Ocean and the Ocean talks back. She now can make decisions, and though she is afraid, she is not beaten down by fear. She has faced oceans and audiences and gotten their approval. She has grown into a woman who can trust herself. And there is Carmen, her alter ego, alive and tamed into a usable force. Ask for what you want. Focus on that.

I have had so many wonderful replies to my first blog. Thank you all. It has been picked up by an on line magazine called Passionate Living. Anything is possible.

CHAPTER ONE

           Today, while talking on the phone with my friend, Karol, in San Francisco, a man drove up, got out of the car, and posted an auction date for my house on the door. It was the first physical evidence that this nightmare was actually happening. Before it was in the ethers, in my mind, through phone calls. Here with the notice taped to my door, I could not pretend it was not happening.

Karol processed me, coaching me to breathe, that everything was the same as it had been before. I had not lost my talent, my abundant nature, my book, my one-woman show; nothing that was really me had changed.

I was grateful this hadn’t happened two days ago, because two days ago, I had met my SOUL. I have been asking for her name. She hasn’t told me. For now I will call her Carmen. Carmen is the wild part of me that feels no pity for me feeling sorry for myself, or for weak men. She plays castanets and dances on the tops of tables with a rose between her teeth. She does everything to stay free. She insists on living a big life no matter what the cost.

I met Carmen through the Operetta Carmen Jones when I was in the fourth grade. She was too big for me in the fourth grade. She remained my companion and guide in all matters of love and romance creating reckless chaos in her wake. Now I believe I am awake and disciplined enough to handle her energy.

Her energy re-entered me like a wild song. In an instant I went from crying about the loss of my soon to be ex-husband, to the feeling of freedom and joy at the new life awaiting me. I thought this part of me was dead, but she was only off stage awaiting her cue. She was waiting for the line, “I can never heal my childhood wounds and I will not waste one more minute trying. What kind of life would fill me with joy?” And Voilå. Carmen.

I suffered from a Universal wound. I found a man who didn’t want to be in relationship with me, gave him all my money, the deed to my house and everything else to try to convince him I was a good deal. It was what had happened in my childhood. My parents never wanted a child. They told me so repeatedly. I kept trying to make them want me with more and more accomplishments, stuffing my true self deeper and deeper into a hole to try to make them want me. When I was older I punished them for not wanting me with greater acts of rebellion. I almost ruined my life trying to punish them.

And Carmen, what does she want? She wants to have a fun, fulfilling life. She loves to help people unravel the mystery of themselves. Carmen likes to be on stage making people feel more than they ever knew they could, to open their hearts, to make them grieve that which is blocking their freedom. Carmen loves entertainment, money, beauty, animals, good food, travel, sex, nature!

And that, my friend, is where I am going. I am off in search of my calling. Let me take you with me, day by day, learning how an old woman can reclaim her life and create a life of abundance. I am beginning again, not as a young girl, but an elder. I am 65 and I dare to risk all for a life beyond my wildest dreams. Come with me.