Oh my, this re-entry from Iona has taken its toll. The outside world seems to be moving faster than is good for anyone. Speed allows us to arrive at our desired destination in quick time but I wonder how much we miss along the way. Having spent the last several weeks living at a snail’s pace it is a shock to reeve up my engines to keep time with the fast-paced technological world.

Iona, particularly, offers the visitor a special magic that moves the soul, inspires emotions, and allows one to both feel and experience her day. With only 100 residents, few cars, tiny one-lane roads, a small country inn, few shops and a pub, it is Iona which clarifies things like decision making. For example, when you walk into the tiny grocery store to pick up something for dinner, you decide on your menu according to what arrived on the ferry that day. And as you meander back to your abode, instead of horns honking and fast paced walkers talking into their cell phones you listen to turning tides, spirited winds, the ferry whistle and the occasional piper or two.

I was recently introduced to a poem entitled: Once You’ve Slept On An Island. It ends with the thought that “once you’ve slept on an island, you will never be quite the same.”

It has been said that our central nervous systems weren’t designed to handle the frantic pace of life, yet this is what we’re asking it to do more often than not.

Re-entry is a shock but I can choose to stay off the merry go round or at least slow down and move slower. For as the song goes…I want to make the moments last. Life at home can be almost as simple as Iona. It’s simply a choice.

It is Halloween…a favorite holiday because I was always able to hide, not only behind a mask, but in a costume where I could become another character altogether. It is one of the gifts of childhood…trying on different roles, believing we can be anything we want to be. For a chubby little girl such as I was, I frequently chose to dress up as a princess, Snow White, a ballerina, and one year, even a sleek black witch. Pretending was always easier than trying to BECOME the person I was meant to be.

But that has all changed with age. Being in the sixth decade, I have arrived at a time to simply be ME and remarkably, it doesn’t feel all that bad. The mask has been replaced and I am finally getting to know and accept myself, warts and all.

These Halloween thoughts stem from my recent retreat to Iona, Scotland…a Celtic island where the people herald Old Hallows Eve as the most significant festival of the year. Hundreds of years ago, Halloween (or All Saints Day) was a three day affair where bonfires were lit, rules were abandoned, and the revelers would call on their ancestors for new instructions.  What wishes would those who had passed on want to be reborn within us? It was a time of acceptance of our roots…our mothers and fathers, grandparents and great grandparents.

Instead of ignoring their ancestral attributes the Celtic peoples learned to embrace that from which they came and manifest those things their relatives did not have a chance to fulfill.

I asked my husband this morning which ancestor he revered. “My grandmother and grandfather,” he answered quickly, momentarily choked up at the vivid memory of both of them. “They were pioneers,” he continued, “a quality I should try harder to incur.”

I hold a service in an ancient chapel on Iona whereby each woman retreater lights a candle to an ancestor that she would like to emulate. More than half the women lit a candle to their grandmother and nearly every woman described their “nana” as loving unconditionally.

Old Hallows Eve or Old Saints Day has become a reminder for me to have gratitude for the miracle of knowing from whence I came and therefore what I am next meant to do or be.

Lately there have been unexpected family crises—nothing that couldn’t be solved, mind you, but challenges for sure that involved money (or the lack thereof). As such, when problems arrive—some large and some small—I tend first to panic, then my heart sinks a little, sometimes I cry, and often I can feel myself plummet to a dark land in which I would prefer not to dwell.

Joan Erikson, my mentor, deplored such situations preferring as she would say to remain in the muck as little a time as possible.

Fortunately she left behind her now famous Life Cycle chart which is becoming a more than practical guide in times of trouble.  Based on the fact that we actually grow from adversity and conflict I glanced at the first four challenges to overcome on her list of eight.

So I tried to see if I could, on top of my impending doom, apply her principles:

How could I trust myself in this present situation?  The identify and cling to a small piece of my autonomy principle? If I did that, I would begin to use my innate initiative and become industrious in the process. Taking such action would give me hope, will, new purpose, and a sense of competence.

Voila! I crawled out of the fit and got my power back.  Of course I would have to go through the same process the next time panic hits but now at least it would not stop me in my tracks but propel me (and others) as well.

Thank you Joanie for a “cure” you and your husband designed for all of us years ago.

Sorry for not blogging for awhile…preparing another book, creating a new agenda for Iona (I leave Friday),  and general woman life issues have gotten in the way.

However, today on my beach walk I noticed as I was walking up the old weathered boardwalk that takes me through low lying dunes tufts of beach grass pushing through the cracks in the boards.

I smiled at their determination—to climb into being despite the barrier that had been laid on top of them.

I have always compared dune grass to women—it is hearty, strong, and it possesses determination (not to mention a root structure that goes on forever under the sand holding literally holding the beach in tact!).   Sound familiar?  Isn’t that what we women do with our families and communities, day after day?

Although tired because my walk was winding down I developed a kick in my step as I thought of all the women I have come to know who continue to push through issues,  crises, relationships and like the dune grass, offer hope, not only to themselves but others with whom they come in contact.  That would be you!

Sandwich Retreat

If we ever thought that unfinished women only came from the United States we have recently proved otherwise. Attending our retreat at the Omega Institute recently were women from Bermuda, Sweden, Israel, as well as several from Canada.

The same surprise occurred at our day long workshop here on the Cape in Sandwich. We were expecting only “locals” when to our surprise in walked women from Colorado, Ithaca, NY, Washington DC and Ohio!

Lunch at the Sandwich Workshop

Omega Retreat

Walking the Labyrinth at Omega

Weaving at Omega

Quiet Meditation Time on the Sandwich Beach

Last week I visited an amazing place in Rockford, Illinois – an organization called Womanspace. Started by two forward thinking (and somewhat rebellious) Roman Catholic nuns back in 1974, their headquarters are warm and inviting, nestled near a pine forest—a quiet place away from the madding crowd with a meditation garden nearby and beyond, the most extraordinary labyrinth.

Stepping into this thoughtfully designed haven, one feels immediately as if she has come home. Meant to be a refuge, it has the spirit of a sanctuary—peaceful, calm, and oh, so welcoming.  That they could imagine, way back when, that such a place would be a necessity, not just a luxury in a world changing too fast for anyone’s good, is indeed a blessing.

I had long since known that primitive tribes so revere a woman’s spirit—her intuition and instinct to be precise– that they send their women away eight times a year to such a place. The tribal fathers had a knowing that all would be well if women could be  off duty and together in a natural setting, free from work to simply feel safe and contemplate what really matters.

It occurred to me that we all need sacred space—womanspace. The world so often comes crashing in on us compassionate people-pleasers that if we don’t find our own refuge we too, will crash.

I returned home moved and determined–intent on redesigning my office, making it my haven, a place with only objects and artwork of my choosing. And because I love the sound of water, I am purchasing one of those fountains that you plug in and it gurgles away all day long.

All women should have a material place within their home and a place outside—in nature—to which she can retreat. Where would that be for you and can you find a corner in your abode? Happy hunting and do indulge yourself.

Last week I found myself in Ketchum, Idaho visiting my grandkids—an out doors playground for the rich, famous, and very fit!  A highlight of the trip was trudging out to an immense field of snowy mountains to watch the Nordic Ski races. Some three hundred very fit and very young skiers had flown in from all over the world to compete for 4 days in this winter wonderland. It was thrilling to be close up and personal with Olympians and others working their way toward such accomplishment.

For a while it was exciting to watch event after event as these thin, trim, muscular men and women did their thing, each motion smooth and skilled, each stride seemingly effortless. It wasn’t until they crossed the finish line and collapsed, (literally!) that I realized what training and discipline it must take to be accomplished in this sport.

Eager to take it all in, I attempted to run from one trail to another to catch a glimpse of the front runners but alas, both the altitude (6500 feet) and my no longer youthful somewhat out of shape body inhibited me from seeing much. I found myself wishing I had had an individual sport when I was young—that I would have cared more about conditioning and athletics, both of which would have come in handy with the onslaught of aging.

As I watched the awards being handed out and the beaming faces standing before me on the podium, I vowed to begin once again and give my body the attention it deserves. I bought myself a pedometer—10,000 steps a day, they say, will not only jump start one’s metabolism but keep the doctor away.

Try walking that far—it’s actually fun competing against yourself.

I am turning a deaf ear to the horrific news that has been permeating the air waves for months now. Not that I don’t care or have the greatest sympathy for those made to succumb to man made chaos, such as the oil spill in the Gulf and the nuclear leak in Japan, to name a few. The very sanctity of the earth is being disrupted by the powers to be and it would seem that Mother Nature herself is rebelling (rightfully so) against this total disregard for her laws.  Yet, on occasion she offers a phenomenon  that, if we take the time to notice, proves her power over all.

Such is the reason I headed out Saturday night to chase the moon. Having read that a “super moon” was to appear on March 20^th I felt the need to be proactive—to support nature and praise it’s life- giving properties. And so, my friend Cathy and I packed up some wine and cheese  and headed to the Chatham Fish Pier—an easterly point on Cape Cod– for the “promised rise”. To our surprise the place was packed with locals, equally excited to stand in bone chilling wind to “wait for the light.” The expectancy was palpable—the crowded pier heartwarming. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one craving hope in her heart.

Sure enough, some ten minutes later than predicted, there appeared a swash of pink and orange and seconds later a half circle which soon became a full blazing ball on the horizon, and voila, we had our spectacle—a giant orb, uncharacteristically huge, almost seeming out of place, the color of the sun not the moon– an upside down moment that utterly captivated.

I expected everyone to break into cheers and a round of applause, but instead the spectators were strangely silent—it was  as if we were experiencing a sacred second and collectively needed to honor the inexplicable. There was no reason or justification for the moon making its closest approach to earth in 18 years—it just seemed to happen. Although much is discordant and unsteady on this earth, things in the heavens run smoothly as if by clockwork.

As I sat and relished the sight, it occurred to me that there was no controlling this occurrence, nor do we have any control over the rising sun, the tides, the seasons. We are made to accept the ebbs and flows but if we are alert and awake we must seize the day when nature presents us with visible miracles.

A strange sweet melancholy filled the car. We had both endured a tough year and in need of witnessing something bold and hopeful—to be buoyed, I suppose, before we were made to walk back into the darkness.

“Do you remember the old farmer we met on Iona last year?” I asked my friend as we sipped our wine.

“You mean the one with the white beard and dazzling blue eyes that we called the Druid?”

“Yep, him. Remember his theory about global warming—that by invading the moon back in the 60’s and stirring up all that moon dust on the surface of that sacred and important place, we somehow disrupted everything.”

She nodded.

As I’ve learned over the years to find solace in the natural world, this recent bold reminder affirms that even though I can’t control the chaos that abounds, just LOOKING can be a satisfying act of kindness to myself—a necessary peaceable act to keep me going. May you find such peace by simply sitting still and waiting.

It’s been a decade since Sylvia Bays came into my life—a tall, stately woman who oozed casual elegance. But after the first few meetings that persona melted away and what emerged was a strong spirit—an unfinished woman, for certain, who was quietly in search of truth—of knowing herself  beyond the roles that she played and then simply BEING THAT.

Wherever she was, be it Iona, Scotland, the Kenwood Inn in Sonoma, Cape Cod on retreat, her cozy home on Balboa Island, visiting children in Syracuse and Modesto, you could be certain she would be involved—aware that the sand moving through the sand timer never stops and thus, not a second of this precious life should be taken for granted.

Then came the dreadful diagnosis. A doctor, at his most insensitive, gave her the grim prognosis and Sylvia (who rarely felt the slightest bit sorry for herself) teared up.

“What are the tears for,” the doctor asked.

“I’m not ready to go,” she answered, promptly exiting his office with a quiet determination. She had miles to go before she slept, and so began her crusade of connection—criss-crossing the country via airplane—touching down like a fairy godmother waving her wand of love.

Relationship was everything to Sylvia—be it a friend, family member, son or daughter. She was truly a  GRAND mother to us all. And how we benefited from her quiet generosity, snippets of wisdom, unfounded compliments, and encouragement. Whenever I needed a dose of truth or a no nonsense perspective on anything I would call Sylvia. She always had a more than satisfactory answer to get me through a crisis or calm me down in the midst of one.

What’s more, Sylvia’s suggestions were always to the point. “Don’t get involved in your son’s divorce—it will eat you alive. Being alone is better than being with someone non-authentic. Make sure your grandchildren know who you are. Compliment, don’t criticize. Love. Touch. Hug. Breathe. And at the end of the day, get down on your knees and thank God for all the blessings he has bestowed upon you up until now.”

She also forgave herself the few mistakes she made, taking solace from the poet Robert Frost:

“Do you have hope for the future?” someone asked Frost.

“Yes, and even for the past, that it will turn out to have been all right for what it was…something  we can accept, mistakes made by the self we had to be or was not able to be.”

Fortunately, for Sylvia, she had learned a long time ago that for her, love was the ruling principle and authentic connection was a must. She stepped up her game, particularly with her grandchildren. (Even her old email address  identified her as grammy@something.com).

She hardly ever missed a musical performance or  sporting event, made it to everyone’s First Holy Communion, took her grandsons camping, and who could forget the infamous trip to  Disney World.

As for the grand daughters they went to London (probably to see the Queen), did some incredible shopping, indulged in fancy lunches, stayed in fun hotels, and always kept the room service people very, very busy.

So I am not surprised that she would chose to leave this earth around Valentines Day—she gave so much from the heart that we who benefited will be imbued with her love forever.

The Latin definition for inspire is to breathe life into. Funny that she succumbed to a lung ailment when she was a person who literally breathed life into others.

But most of all, what she insisted and taught me was the importance of being real. Our favorite verse was from the children’s book, The Velveteen Rabbit.

“What is REAL?” asked the rabbit of the Skin Horse.

“Real isn’t how you are made,” was the answer. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the horse.

“Does it happen all at once, or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once. You BECOME. It takes a long time, that’s why it doesn’t happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

Generally, by the time you are REAL, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to those people who don’t understand.”

Oh to have been blessed enough to know Sylvia.

A dear friend once said we needed to use the “F” word more often.

At first I was shocked, thinking of course that she was referring to the four-letter word we all know and try not to use.

But alas, she was talking about a three-letter word called FUN!

Ever since, I try to put some of that word in my everyday—especially when I have given a lot of time and energy to a project. And so, here I am with my fabulous assistant Cathy, frolicking in the snow (in Provincetown and Wellfleet) after our retreat last weekend. We have taught ourselves to revel in giving to the women who make the trek to Cape Cod but then make sure we receive the same and have fun ourselves.

“Joy is a duty,” said my mentor, Joan Erikson. And the Bible says, “The world loves a joyful giver.” But only if we refuel will we be successful at balanced living.

I have a calendar upon which I place stars every time I do something FUN for myself. Why not kick off your new year making the “F” word part of your plan?