In a recent morning devotional I read a line that hit me between the eyes. It said: Be free in your spirit always…do not waste your time attaching yourself to hurt and pain.

Having been raised in a fear based household which no doubt accounts for my hypochondria and other phobias, I am more frequently attaching myself to the negative rather than to the positive. Even though I know full well that negative thinking causes depression and worse still, all manner of disease, breaking the habit of worry is easier said than done.

But still, I was struck by the word attach…something that denotes clinging and holding onto rather than simple letting go of that which is simply not serving me.

So on a recent road trip with my husband for a much needed get-a-way, I made a secret pact with myself not to bring up one negative thought or on-going family situation that might contribute to my neurosis. Traveling south for an eleven hour journey and out of cell phone contact it would be possible to work this experiment. We would be disconnected from family, work, and pending issues that tend to distract us from life’s joys. I would attempt to be focused on fun and celebration, both easy to achieve being away from the mundane and heading into the adventure of the unknown.

Although my mind occasionally slipped into thoughts of doom and gloom I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to get this “free” time back again nor would I get this very day and place back again.  I could attach to my fears as they crept into my head or not. Reminding myself that fear is nothing more than FALSE EVIDENCE APPEARING REAL I would cancel the thought for the time being and give my spirit a chance to be free.

Breaking habits of attachment is particularly hard for women who have spent so much of their life being involved with others. Time can be better spent enjoying the moment or the process of what we are doing instead of attaching to the hope for destination or peace which, in the end, is almost always unattainable.

We’re coming up to that dreadful time of year again…not that I don’t like spring or summer but warm seasons mean less layers and more exposure…the kind that a maturing body like mine would just as soon do without. But living on Cape Cod and going to the beach almost every day means donning a bathing suit. For once I was going to get a jump start on my appearance. I hired a personal trainer and joined a gym.

We got right into tackling my lower back, and sagging upper arms, as well as a general overhaul. Within a month I had actually lost several inches in various parts of my aging body. But there remained, in my middle, an ugly kangaroo pouch that I could no longer suck in. Short of liposuction, I was doomed, not to mention embarrassed. I couldn’t drape shawls and wear layers to the beach. One last option remained– Redbook Magazine’s Tummy Makeover. It consisted of 6 exercises to be done three times a week for 12 weeks and voila, I would lose two tummy inches at the very least. I was faithful to this regimen–honest I was– but there appeared to be no visible change when I gazed at my profile in our full-length mirror.

Desperate now because of a pending business trip to Costa Rica, I dove into the Land’s End catalog, certain to find something to flatter my maturing figure. Sure enough, there were numerous designs… the various descriptions insisted that their suits flatter any figure, boost confidence, and can actually make anyone look at least a size smaller. I settled on three choices…all that promised tummy control and other tricks designed to disguise figure flaws. Indeed, there was hope, even for me.

When the Fed Ex package arrived on my doorstep some two days later, I was actually eager to try on my purchases and have this arduous yearly task behind me. I chose to don the Swim Dress first because it appeared to be the most forgiving. Soon I was hugging and puffing as I tugged on the Spandex andattempted to tuck my rolls and boobs into place. One quick glance in the mirror told me this suit would be going back. I resembled my grandmother at a Coney Island beach back in 1930. Hardly the image I wanted to put forward.

Not to worry. I had two other styles to try. The black and white Swimmini, (as it was called), whose wide band of shirring was supposed to flatter my middle only made my tummy protrude all the more.

With my last chance suit waiting in the box I prayed that the Slender Tulip would somehow be just right. It had a draped overlay that was supposed to minimize the hips. But alas, there was so much extra fabric hanging over the top of my thighs it appeared I WAS actually camouflaging something.

“There’s always the maternity store,” a friend suggested. “I’ve been reduced to going there for pull-on slacks and shorts when I’ve gained a few extra pounds.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I snapped, and yet with only a few days left before my departure, I had no choice. After all, my husband had recently joked as he patiently endured my tummy saga that perhaps I was having a hysterical pregnancy. So off I headed to the Mall–a place I rarely visit– and skulked into Pea in the Pod hoping no one would find me there.

“I’m trying to find a bathing suit for my pregnant daughter-in-law,” I lied to the clerk. “We’re going on a cruise and she lives in Alaska. No way she can find one there.”

“They’re in the back of the store,” she answered, eyeing me in a way that I knew she knew. Mother-in-laws don’t buy bathing suits for daughter-in-laws but it just felt better to make some sort of explanation as I trotted to the rack and began sifting through the possibilities. It occurred to me that shame is an awful thing. Why can’t I just be bold and bawdy like the old lady that wrote When I Am Old I Will Wear Purple and be done with it? But no, I had pride, and besides I was still carrying the guilt my mother laid on me for my body which she deemed, less than perfect.

As it turned out, the swimwear was hideous but the clerk did point out some tennis dresses made with Spandex and nylon that might just work. “I wear them myself on hot summer days,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “You’d be surprised how many women come in here because they just want to be confortable.”

Oh God, she really does know!!!! I grabbed an Adidas outfit that looked like it was for normal people, slapped my credit card on the counter, and counted the seconds until the sale was complete. Mission accomplished, I said to myself as I raced for the door holding tight to a bag that contained something I am determined to wear for years to come.

Last weekend I had the pleasure of conducting a workshop at Wellesley College.  I had applied to both Wellesley and Smith Colleges some forty five years ago, but alas, was not accepted to either. Thus getting in the “back door” as it were, and  being able to share what I know to some thirty five women was my pleasure.

There were three mother and daughter couples in attendance as well as an entire book club. We met in a very Zen like room under the Chapel and had break out sessions and meditation time in smaller rooms, each dedicated to one or another of the world’s religions.

The morning session was dedicated to getting to know ourselves again—that is answering the question:  Who am I beyond the roles that I play?

Dividing up into groups of eight for lunch each table was responsible for answering one of the following question:

What is outlived in my life? What is unlived?

Which emotional conflicts have given me the most strength?

How has my own fortitude given me unique characteristics I hadn’t recognized before?

How can I nurture my spirit and redefine the meaning of high maintenance?

What needs to be healed in my physical, emotional and psychic being?

With a plethora of answer coming forth we tackled the question: How to launch our second journeys.

The day culminated with a closing circle standing around a magnificent labyrinth which allowed each of us to release that which was outlived and receive intentions for our future.

I look forward to more workshops on other campuses to keep the unfinished women crusade alive.

For information as to how to have a workshop on your campus contact: cathy@joanandersononline.com

This letter came from a past retreater. She said:

“I now live on a barrier island in Florida where, in the past, I could connect to nature as you taught us. My husband has now retired and I no longer find the joy in the sea.  Any suggestions? How do I reconnect?”

After pondering her question this was my answer.

Just as we have to change up our exercise and dietary regimens, so we have to change up our routes to meditation. I suspect “the husband” being in your space has altered your freedom to seek whenever you please. I suggest a weekend alone every once in awhile…away from the home front or at least declaring the first day of each month to be just yours. During that day have an adventure…do something that is out of the ordinary…with art, music, working with your hands, visiting sacred places, sitting in a chapel, and of course walking on a beach you’ve never walked on before…then taking pictures of found newness…like soaring birds or unusual vegetation. One moment will lead to another and awaken within you something that is longing to be brought forward.

A friend of mine just emailed me from The Camino, a 500 mile stretch of road that goes from France to Spain. It is considered one of the great pilgrimages in the world and her various messages telling of her adventures have been entrancing. Today she writes:

I am wearing the turtle necklace that you gave me, feeling gratitude and appreciation for this journey because honestly, I feel like a turtle with all my worldly belongings on my back. I pack and repack my things each morning throwing away all unnecessary things without a second thought as each ounce counts, especially at the end of the day.

What a message! How important it is to lighten our load, not to carry around stuff that we don’t need to be holding on to. For me that would be worries, unfounded fears, and lingering grudges to name a few.

In Iona, when the women set out on various treks I encourage them to fill their back pack with rocks, each of which represent “baggage” that is no longer useful. They are to carry their “burdens” until they decide it is time to release them. Seeing women, standing on a shore, tossing such feelings into the water is always a triumphant scene.

What unnecessary things should you consider getting rid of?

In going through old papers and saved momentoes from my kids, I became nostalgic. In the pile of paper on my lap were greeting cards complete with tender notes, faxes sent from afar when they were each travelling the world, airmail envelopes with actual letters inside, and in the past few years emails that were so dear I copied them and tucked them away as well. These pieces of mail had made the SAVE pile because they possessed sentiments that were rarely said and as such, cherished gems.

But alas, as their individual lives have become chaotic and their families, work, and vocations keep them more than busy, the above mentioned communications have dwindled as have my connection to them.  I recall my Mom walking out to her mailbox each day in hopes of finding the written word in one of the envelopes amidst all the junk mail and bills. “People don’t write letters like they used to,” she would say. “I love getting notes from the children. You can read their thoughts over and over again.” Now years later, I find myself as wistful as my mother. It seems letters were replaced by phone calls which have now been replaced by emails and even those are few and far between.

The next best thing to hearing from one of my sons is catching his runner’s blog. It’s not how I imagined to communicate, but I’m grateful for his heartfelt point of view which is more complete than a text. Ah, modern technology.

I have been back from Costa Rica for less than two weeks now. It seems like three months! Although I met some remarkable women and we worked through our Second Journey issues the hot temperatures (100 degrees to be exact) of the Equator took its toll along with a vegetarian diet literally devoid of protein. Add to that an arduous flight to Miami and then Costa Rica and then a 4 hour van ride to our destination I began to have my doubts as to whether this particular adventure was worth it. Have I grown too old for such travels or have I lost my sense of adventure altogether? Whatever, it has taken some time to recover.

I keep thinking of a friend who hated to fly. She would travel from the east coast to her parent’s home on the west coast every summer by train. She insisted that by the time she arrived she was on west coast time, and what’s more, she had left one life behind with transition time in between to get ready for another. Another friend recently crossed the ocean on the Queen Mary, Cunard’s pride and joy, and found the same pleasure—leaving all that life entails at home to take 6 days to become accustomed to a new time and place.

I think modern day’s race against time has done terrible damage to our very nervous systems. We all seem to be going too fast for anyone’s good. Perhaps my recovery is slow because my body is telling me to enter normal on my own terms.

I shall make time for tea each afternoon, meander along the beach instead of my usual power walk, and clear my calendar of unnecessary appointments. The blank space is allowing me to breathe.

Everyday on my walk I have three special moments…when I come to a long bridge that leads out to the sea, when I am presented with a set of stairs beckoning me to walk on, and when I arrive at a clearly marked sandy path that urges me to follow the footprints of whomever was there before me. Bridges and paths offer me such hope…they beckon me forward when perhaps on any given day I feel stuck; they urge me to stay on the path or cross over to the other side where life is still unknown but could be exciting; they give me hope that by venturing forward I will find answers and more importantly see the myriad choices the traveller has if only she sets out. As John O’Donohue says: “The pilgrim travels differently knowing that on every walk there will be a change of mind and heart so that the outside becomes a metaphor for our unknown inner landscapes.”

Have a good walk in nature today and see how many “bridges” you can cross.

I’ve just cleaned my office with the hope that it will tidy up my life. What remains on my desk are those reminders—practical and otherwise—that keep me honest.

Directly in front of me is a lithograph from the Metropolitan Museum of Art of a woman sitting on the porch of her summer cottage, naked to the waist, typing something.  I presume she is barring her soul and that her truth will set her and others who read her work, free.

There is a sepia photograph of my mother as a child looking very impish and sure of herself.

Under my computer screen is  a card given to me by a fellow Iona pilgrim which is nothing more than a bench upon which is carved: Sit here and feel the peace of Iona.

Several angels, one painted tin, another made of medal, and a third carved from wood dangle from a nearby window keep me company.

On the windowsill is a small candle holder which has carved into it the words: I am enough.

And a vase of a woman’s naked torso that fell off my desk and broke into many pieces. My husband glued it back together and I place dry flowers or leaves in it according to the season.

These are, but a few of my momentoes. They remind me to:

Bare my soul and seek truth; to be certain about self as I was as an unspoiled child; to find a place to go each day and just sit; that there are angels to lean on; that I am enough; and that, although broken I can piece myself back together again and again.

What do you surround yourself with?

The other day I was tearing around buying birthday gifts for a grandchild whose birthday comes too soon after Christmas. I am almost always late shipping off his gifts and this year I was determined to succeed. In order to make my UPS deadline, I planned so well as to have wrapping paper and scotch tape with me in the car so I could head straight for UPS with packages ready to go.

But alas, I slowed the car down when I noticed some creatures on the side of the road. Once on top of the pack it was obvious that they were a family of wild turkeys. The father was already making his way across the street and the others were nibbling on brush with no interest in crossing. I was fascinated, especially when two of the birds opened their amazing fantails. To be in nature with nature is a gift I always treasure. And it can’t be programmed, can it?  “I find, I do not seek,” said Picasso, and so I found! It took another 5 minutes for the entire family to cross over and be on their way into the woods. Of course, I missed my UPS deadline (the truck was pulling out as I was pulling into their parking lot) but never mind. Serendipity is better than planned fun. My grandson will also have a treat—a second celebration two days after his birthday. We all win!