Sometimes the simplest things we do each day are the sweetest. For me, taking my morning and evening walks with Allie and stopping to see, smell, and sometimes photograph the flowers always always brings me joy.
That's my greatest reminder that, although we are taught to do do do, really we need to learn from this flowers how to let ourselves just be. To blossom. To bloom.
In the summer, these beautiful lilies remind me of the beautiful Bible quote from Matthew. One I call to mind almost every day when I find myself drenched in worries and what ifs: "Be not anxious for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. . .Behold the birds of the heaven, that they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; and your heavenly Father feedeth them . . .And consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."
Less doing. More being. More blossoming. More blooming. These flowers that are the most beautiful part of my daily practice of joy remind me of this every single day!
Practice, when it is undertaken from the heart, loses sight of the goal. We become engaged in the act of practice far more than the outcome. This has been true of my daily joy practice of photography. I photograph from my heart. To see how I have seen, to feel the joy in seeing, to connect to the place in which I find myself (both inside and out), to love where I am and how I am learning to see -- this is why I photograph.
But yesterday, as I began putting up all of the images for my upcoming art show at The Good Goat Gallery this weekend, I began to feel a different kind of joy. As I resized each image for the web, copyrighted it, uploaded and wrote about it, I connected with the journey of my practice in a whole new way. By the end of the day, I had put up twelve images! And I grew more and more excited to see the whole arc of the journey of these past six years.
So, today, my Daily Practice of Joy post is my joy in the fruition of creating this website where all of the art will be up together. That's why I decided to make a new navigation tab called ART at the top of this page to link to the images from this show. For me, showing up to what has been calling me for all these years is pure joy -- both the practice and the fruition.
Right now, I have twelve images up. There will be sixty in total. A true glimpse at my journey of this part of my life. I have priced them all what I hope is very affordably, because I believe in my dad's philosophy -- that everyone should be able to have art in their home! I genuinely hope that these images will resonate for people, and they will want to live with them.
When I was a little girl, whenever my parents and I went to a museum, we played a game. Which piece -- and we could each only pick one -- would you want to live with and look at and love every day? I loved that, because we chose from our hearts, not from our minds. When I culled the images for this show, I chose from my heart, with the hope that it will resonate to someone else's heart.
May it be so! EnJOY!
I just adore this quote by Iris Murdoch: "People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us."
That's how I've felt every morning this week, walking through this sweet hilly neighborhood above White Plains, New York. There are iris everywhere, and I stop and smell, admire, and photograph them all. I cannot help myself. Especially after a rain night, like last night. I now have my favorites which I visit each morning, and these sweet purple and white iris along a white picket fence are definitely on my favorite list. I now have hundreds of photos of these iris, and I still can't stop taking pictures. I am literally mad with joy.
Irises always make me think of my mother. She adored them, and found a wonderful grower of speciality iris right next door to our church. She planted this horticulturalist's bulbs, and soon had a beautiful bumper crop.
We entered one of her iris in my high school flower show. Of course, in a gorgeous art deco vase. Needless to say, we won. My mother was the daughter of a landscape architect, and she had an infallible eye. It was stunning. But when I see iris, what I remember is how overjoyed I was for her. I always felt that way about my mom -- that sometimes she was overshadowed by my dad or even by having a rambunctious teenage daughter. It always made me so happy to have people see how incredible she was. So, it's my mother I think of when I see these iris. We chat about them in meta-virtual reality, as I walk down the street, picking our favorites.
That's the beauty of a joy practice of beauty. It connects you -- not just to the beauty of what's around you, but to the beauty of the sweet memories of beauty inside you.
What memories of beauty still move you? What flowers make you mad with joy?
I would have to say that my favorite Daily Practice of Joy is taking photographs and then creating my own "gallery" on Instagram. I love looking back and seeing how I am learning to see. I also love using my photos as a gratitude list -- a reminder of everything for which I have to be so grateful.
I firmly believe that the way we see the world is the way we experience the world. If we see the world through a lens of joy and hope and connection, the world mirrors that back to us. If, on the other hand, we are mired in fear and worry and resistance, we tend to get that back instead.
I love Instagram, because it is all about pictures -- and seeing other people's pictures always brings me joy. It's like being invited over to someone's house for dinner and getting to see all their photos on the wall or enjoying their photo album of a recent family reunion or trip to Spain. I have always loved that. And now I get to enjoy it virtually and tell them I like what I am seeing.
Someone once shared a wonderful idea with me. They said: Social Media is a Culture of Generosity. We put Likes and Hearts next to posts that bring us joy and connection. We share them with others.
So, I thought I would try a little JOY experiment.
Would you consider liking my Instagram page? You can find it by clicking here: INSTAGRAM
And would you consider sharing it with one other person and asking them to like it?
I will do the same for each new follower. Because generosity begets more generosity -- and we all need all the generosity we can give!
Let's see if we can spread the joy around and be more generous and therefore more grateful! A daisy chain of joy in photographs. In JOY!
One of the things I love most about visiting museums is being exposed to many different manifestations of beauty. When I saw this beautiful Thai statue, its grace and elegance took my breath away. It felt like a winged messenger of joy that sang straight to my heart.
The best part was that I didn't have to know anything about it to feel that way. I just acknowledged in my mind what my heart was already expressing.
Visiting museums or learning about other cultures when we travel helps us recognize just how "trained' we are to see beauty. Often what we believe to be beautiful is, in fact, far more learned than innate. Different cultures deem different things beautiful, and if we have not been exposed to those things ourselves, when we see them for the first time, we might have a hard time understanding what others see. In fact, we might find something that one culture deems the epitome of beauty downright ugly. But that's only if we look with limited eyes. When we are willing to open our hearts and minds and see through fresh lenses, the boundaries of the beautiful explode -- and our lives are all the richer for it.
Have you had the experience of changing how you see by opening your mind and your heart?
This was my inaugural post about beauty: A photo I took during lilac season in Santa Fe 2017. Somehow, however, I pressed a button a month later, and it disappeared. But I can't begin my page about my daily practice of joy as it pertains to the appreciation of beauty, without including lilacs. So I'm reposting.
Whenever I pass a lilac bush, I do a face plant. Oh goodness! That smell. And it is a smell that is impossible to capture in essential oils, which always just seem overwrought and cloying in lilac. But in real life, there is just nothing as sweet as the smell of a lilac.
I still remember the first time I -- a California girl -- encountered lilacs. It was the spring of my freshman year of college in Massachusetts, and there was a hedgerow of lilac bushes -- all purple and while and glorious -- and I could smell them from a distance. I fell in love. And I have never fallen out of love.
I think one of the sweetest things about lilac season is that it is both so early in spring -- one of its first gifts -- and that it is so short. So you have to appreciate lilacs when you can.
Appreciating and being grateful for beauty is one of my most essential joy practices. And smelling, seeing, loving flowers is one of the daily gifts of my life!
What flowers bring you the most joy>
I walk every day. Long walks. Sometimes two or three times a day. At minimum five miles, but usually closer to ten. It keeps me sane. Not just the walking. Not just the connection to my most wonderful walking companion, Allie. But the connection to my surroundings.
These past two weeks, I have been in a sweet suburb of Cleveland. I picked this area because it was near a series of walking trails. But when I am on a writing deadline, as I am now, I often find that I don't want to waste the time getting someplace to walk, if I can just step out my front door and go. So, the first few days, I tested that out. Would I like walking here? Turns out, I have loved it.
What happens when I walk a neighborhood over and over again is that I get to know it. Not only do I meet its people, and sometimes get into the most interesting conversations with them, but I also really begin to get to know a place through what I see.
For example, in this neighborhood, even though everyone has big grassy tree-filled backyards, most residents sit out in front of their houses on lawn chairs set in their driveways, so that they can watch the world go by. They also have awesome yard sales. A lot of them. And they are huge sports fans -- all sports -- though the Browns are notably absent from the sports decor. (The poor Browns. . .) And they love love love cutesy little statues of deer, birds, gnomes, doggies, and other things that I was raised to think of as kitsch.
But here's something that being here taught me: Calling something kitsch allows us to feel elevated and intelligent, when in fact it really is just another judgment. Over the past few weeks, I have actually come to adore all of the cute little statues in all of the yards here. They make me feel safe in a neighborhood that has come to feel like my temporary home. To my great surprise, I realize that I am genuinely glad to let go of that judgment about kitsch! It is a most necessary reminder that any and all judgments have to be dropped. Discernment is one thing. Judgment is simply another futile thought process that makes us feel separate from one another.
So, last night, as I was walking, watching and feeling the thunderheads form, I crossed the huge swathe of greenbelt which is home to the neighborhood's huge powerlines. I've never liked powerlines. Does anyone? I've known people who have suffered extreme health issues related to powerlines. But mostly they are just unsightly.
Then, last night, suddenly, I saw this. Beauty. Power. And a little glimpse of grace in the pink glow of the distant sunset. I saw all that in place where before I had only seen ugliness. Which made me realized that, wherever we are, if we see through the open-hearted eyes of joy, even the things which we feel justified to dismiss as ugly can be transformed through the eyes of Love.
f I am learning anything through my walkabout of intentional homelessness, it is this: To let go of all our preconceived ideas of right and wrong, good and bad, us and them, justified and unjustified, takes us to a place of peace and connection we never thought possible.
When I drive away from this sweet neighborhood in a few days, I will take away more wonderful memories than I ever would have imagined possible when I arrived a few weeks ago. That is the greatest gift of this Daily Practice of Joy. And that is why I keep on keeping on this beautiful path of being for which I am grateful every single day.
When I knew that I was going to become intentionally homeless, I thought to myself: I can live without a home. I can live without all the stuff I have accumulated over a lifetime. I can live without a partner. I can live without most things that most people feel they need. But I can't live without a dog.
So, along came Allie. I had NO idea just how much I would fall in love with her. But I have, and I am. Deeply and sincerely smitten and over the moon with My Sweet Al.
She is a poodle mix -- I call her a Puddle. A muddled poodle puddle of Pure Love. She travels with me everywhere. She has been to 36 states so far, and she is not even one and a half years old. But yesterday, I had to leave her to be taken care of while I go overseas. I was a blubbering mess.
She is mischievous -- she eats Kleenex, steals socks, jumps like a pogo stick going through cross walks, talks back to me, loves to play ball incessantly, and more or less runs the show. She is also patient, kind, sweet, loving, and the best company you can imagine. She cuddles with me at night, puts her head on my arm or leg, looks up at me with her beautiful brown eyes and bats her movie star eyelashes -- and I am just gone!
Since I miss her so much today, I just had to write about her. . .and about how much joy she brings to my life. She is teaching me so much about LOVE and JOY and LIFE and FUN. I could not be more grateful to be sharing my life with this beautiful beautiful four-legged being. She truly is my unruly beautiful bundle of joy.
To follow Allie's exploits, please check out her awesome Instagram page, by clicking here: TRAVELS WITH ALLIE I hope her adventures and her sweet face on Insta will bring you as much daily joy as she brings me.
Here's to our four-legged teachers of joy. May we be as kind and loving to them as they always are to us.
Who are your four-legged joy teachers?
Greetings from Asbury Park!
When I drove in last night, I was literally greeted by a wonderful neon sign saying that -- and making me think, very happily, of Bruce!
I'm here to officiate a wedding. I am so grateful to be sharing this day with a wonderful bride and groom -- Samantha and Addison -- as well as their family and loved ones.
We're all staying at a wonderful huge old brick hotel on the boardwalk. Not that I've seen the boardwalk, because it's pouring rain in gale force winds. This morning, however, I did take a slightly more sheltered walk through the wonderful tree-lined streets filled with colorful Victorian homes. It was beautiful. I'm glad I did -- because now it's really raining. Which means, I am having to learn to be still, once again.
That is one of the hardest things for me. To just be. To be here now. I have a glorious corner room on a high floor, overlooking everything -- with the pounding surf of the ocean in the distance. But all too often, I realize, that's how I feel inside -- like that pounding surf.
When I see photos of people lying on a sofa reading, I have an almost romantic response. Aaaaaah! I think. I would love to just lie around and read. So, last week, I read a whole memoir in two sittings. Trying to be one of "those" people. Maybe I looked like that relaxed person on the outside, but inside, I felt like the Kentucky Derby -- racing toward the finish.
The finish of what? That's the question.
I created this Practice section to remind myself every day to practice just Being. I think it really means learning to be still, be present, be here, be grateful.
So today, enjoying the view from my beautiful room before the ceremony this evening, I am grateful to be right here, right now, present to what is. Grateful, too, to know that all of you are out there to -- practice your own joy. And learning what you are here to learn. And loving that we are sharing through the Joy Connections Forum.
If you have any practices that help you be still, be present, be here now, please share them there. I would love to learn from you! I truly believe that, the more present we can all learn to be in our lives, the more lovingkindness with which we can walk through the world. A world that needs all the lovingkindness we can bring to it right now!
Last week, I changed a few of my "practice categories" on this site -- and this was one of them. I decided that I needed to practice more being and less doing. I have always loved that clever reminder that we are meant to be human beings not human doings. Nonetheless, it is difficult for most of us to just be, and let it be, as opposed to do, do, do.
I found this came up for me big time this past week. I was at the ocean. Now I grew up on the beach, and I have always loved the ocean. But since moving to the mountains, I have found myself increasingly drawn to the mountains more than the sea. This week, I found out why. The mountains allow me the sweet solace of communing with nature with enough variety of things to "do", In the mountains, I bird, I hike, I find new paths, new streams, new lakes, new birds. Whereas the ocean calls me to learn how to just be more like it. There. Just there every day. The ocean reminds me to be.
Sure there are high and low tides, seashells to gather, my dog to walk, and splashing or swimming or playing in the water. There are sunsets and sunrises and all the different kinds of light. There are windy days and calm days, days when the ocean becomes a modern art canvas, and days when it shimmers like a disco ball. But none of that changes its essential message to us all: I am here. Join me.
This week I received an unexpected writing deadline from my publisher, and as I slogged away at it at first, I found myself willing myself to write something "good". Then I would go out and look at or walk alongside the sea -- and remember all I need is to be.
In the mornings, I would shoot out of bed before the sunrise and pound for miles up the beach with my dog, gathering shells and alternately listening to audiobooks or just the sound of the surf, trying to calm my anxiety enough to get to that place: Just Be.
It wasn't until the very last morning, the sun coming up a huge orange flaming ball illuminating the whole ocean grey then orange until it finally became blue, that I heard her -- the Ocean, saying to me: I am infinite and unlimited power. And so are you. This morning my tide is out, but later it will be in. Right now the sand is covered in shells, but later the water will cover those shells. You cannot count the drops of water that make me this ocean. You cannot count the grains of sand that form this beach that tapers out into infinity. There is nothing I have to do today to be the ocean -- and there is nothing you have to do to be you. Let's both just be the infinite beings we are.
As I head back to my landlocked life this weekend, I am going to carry that sweet message from the sea with me: Just be. Be like the sea. The tides will come. The tides will go. Life will be blue or bright or cloudy or clear, windy or still -- and yet, it will always be.
This is "my" Buddha -- created on an old piece of scrap metal by the artist David DeVary. But now it lives in the beautiful garden oasis of my dear dear friends Pamela & Todd.
I took this photo of it last August, and was so grateful to see this piece I have loved enshrined among so much floral beauty in a place of pure love.
The Buddha said, "The heart is like a garden. It can grow compassion or fear, resentment or love. What seeds will you plant there?"
It a question we all need to remind ourselves to answer many many times a day -- as we practice joy, and choose compassion and love.
I love audiobooks -- though I'm a latecomer to this Lovefest. But living on the road, when weeks can go by without seeing anyone whom I would call a friend, these books have become my friends.
So, when I fall in love with an audiobook, I feel as though I am living it. But I don't recall really loving an audiobook as much as I loved this one. Everything came together -- the story, the characters, the narrator's gift with the Glaswegian accents. (As an inveterate mimic myself, I've been walking around ever since talking to myself in a Glaswegian accent -- mostly saying "Ferr feck's sayke. . .")
So, at the risk of being completely trite and predictable, this is the truth: I laughed out loud, I wept like a baby, and I was devastated when it ended. The story is a gift -- and the transformation of the main character is inspiring.
I read (or listen to) very little fiction any more, but this book gave me hope for the genre. Are you getting that I loved it? If you want to have a listen, here's the link. It was pure joy!
Having been brought up in the Christian tradition, it was through the use of parables in the New Testament that I learned to love power of storytelling in service of Spirit as a teaching device.
Brene Brown tells us that humans are actually "hard-wired" to learn through story. That feels true to me. If someone teaches me something simply by conveying information, I am unlikely to remember it. But if I come to understand an idea through a story, then it usually comes home and stays with me.
For many Christians, the parable of the prodigal son is one of the most redemptive stories of God's unconditional Love. Although I remember the parable well from my Sunday School years, it has been hearing it retold and reinterpreted in resources I have discovered in the past five years or so that has made the message really go in more deeply for me as an adult.
Right now, I am listening to the audiobook of Henri J.M. Nouwen's book about his encounter with Rembrandt's later painting of this beloved parable, and how it sent him on his own spiritual journey of self-discovery. As someone for whom art has always prompted deel soul-searching and soul-seeing, this book has really resonated.
But Nouwen's story is not the only retelling of this parable that has has a profound effect on me. Father Richard Rohr uses is as the lynchpin of his audiotape called Discharging Your Loyal Soldier. I have listened to this "sermon" more times than I can count now. It has been one of the most profound agents of change in my life. If you are looking to change your life and feel stuck in your old stories, spent the $8 and have a listen. You won't regret it.
A third retelling of this story came to me through Reverend Diane Berke, also in audiotape form. Her interpretation -- along with her use of stories from her own experience -- also had a profound effect on me. Although that tape is not available for purchase, a brief synopsis of the parable from her perspective is available online for anyone not familiar with the arc of the story.
I have included links to all three below.
At a time when hatred and vitriol are doing battle with our need for more not less human love, understanding the fundamental message of unconditional Divine Love seems more important to me than it has ever been. And the only place we can start to understand it is within our own lives.
Diane Berke clarifies the message of the father to his son:
You are mistaken in how you see yourself.
You are still my son, my heart's treasure, whom I love and in whom I delight.
Don't we all need to hear those words? And don't we all need to extend them to one another? This is the unconditional love that is our legacy. It is the only truth. That is what this is the unconditional love that our planet needs right now, more than ever.
We are here to love.
This past week, I had hoped to visit a place that has been legendary to me since childhood. But the weather did not cooperate. (Fortunately, I have been there once before.) It is a place I fell in love with in childhood, when I read this book.
As a lifelong horse lover, this book -- and many of Marguerite Henry's other books -- always captivated me. The idea of an island filled with wild horses who swam was simply magical!
This past week, just driving past highway signs pointing me to Chincoteague made my heart leap in joy. Although the torrential sheets of rain made it impossible to hike the dunes, as I had hoped, I nonetheless had the joy of remembering what reading felt like to me as a child. It felt like a window onto the magical world out there that I might one day discover.
Although I'm not sure that reading will ever feel quite as magical to me as an adult as it did in childhood, I am so grateful that I was able to fall in love with books -- and so with the world -- in the way that I did. And because of that, reading will always be one of the fundamental sources of joy for me, still opening up magical, misty worlds of possibility!
What childhood books brought you the most joy? Please share on our new Joy Connections page HERE
It's hard for me to pick just one John O'Donohue book to share, if you haven't read him or heard him speak. What a gift!
If you click the book link, it will take you to his website. There you can find all of his books, as well as a link to a wonderful interview with him about Beauty.
And here is one of his most beautiful prayers. Words for us all to live by and come to know:
May I have the courage today to live the life I would love ...to postpone my dream no longer. But do at last what I came here for and waste my heart on fear no more.
Well, I couldn't possibly begin sharing my book practice without Mary Oliver. When I was a kid, my dad taught me to love poetry by paying me a buck for every poem or Shakespeare soliloquy I memorized. I was a mercenary child. Since I only got a quarter a week for my allowance, I memorized with abandon. In the process, I fell in love with poetry. (Which was his devious plan, of course!)
Mary Oliver was not the first poet with whom I fell in love. That honor goes to Shakespeare, followed closely by Rainer Maria Rilke. But her poems have been the leitmotif of my life. As someone who tries to spend part of every day in nature, her evocation of the natural world as a kind of spiritual communion resonates for me in ways that nothing else has.
As a fellow peony lover, to find these words in her poem to my favorite flower stopped me in my tracks: Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
I try to -- every day.
Do you? Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
The summer of 2016 was the summer of all things blue. Including these sweet bright blue birds -- Indigo Buntings -- I had the privilege of seeing almost daily on my hikes through the Mohonk Preserve in New York. Blue -- the color of distance, the color of light, the color of hope, the color of infinity. This blue bird perched in the blue ready felt like me last summer. . .on the cusp of taking wing. But not quite ready. Blue.
To read more about my show and where this image fits into my journey, click Learning to See: BLUE
One of the things I love most about photographing birds is that I never really know what I'm going to see until later.
I love hummingbirds. To imagine the sheer mileage these tiny birds cover in their lifetimes always amazes me. They make my travel life seem mundane. To see one in January is always wonderful, which is what happens in California (unlike other parts of the US).
I saw this one on a morning hike near my hotel in Novato, California, and began taking photos. It wasn't until I downloaded them that I saw the little surprise. . . .
I have always thought of myself as a Great Blue Heron. Tall, gangly, all angles, prone to stare ceaselessly at something or someone that fascinates me, a water lover, mostly solitary, a flier of long distances, yet also a creature of habit.
I saw this Great Blue Heron at the Sea Ranch in Northern California in January 2017 during a break in a series of powerful storms that lashed the coast. As s/he stared at a prospective morsel in the marsh, I stared at him/her. We were aware of one another's presence, but respectfully and sweetly. We saw one another almost every day for two weeks. I certainly came to think of him/her as my friend. I hope s/he felt the same.
I love this photo. The powerful surf behind this beautiful bird that I have long considered my daemon or totem animal seems to capture the freedom and joy I always feel when in the presence of our winged friends.
Do you have a totem animal?
A few years ago, my friend Heyward, who owns an amazing chocolate shop in Santa Fe called Todos Santos, told me that he'd read about a woman in England, who made life masks of my dad in chocolate. So, I searched for her online and that year, for Christmas, I gave my dear friend and colleague Peter one. Because everything that goes around eventually really does come around, this year the three of us, along with the awesome Electric Cinema in Birmingham, England, threw my dad a wonderful birthday bash. And THIS was his cake! With a real swinging pendulum!!!
It was hard to know which joy practice to post in in -- Food or Fun -- because it was certainly both. WOW! The bottom layer was Death by Chocolate and the middle Red Velvet -- and it had dripping blood everywhere as well as references to some of my dad's best films. The pendulum itself was given away to the birthday bash guest with the best question -- and his name just happened to be Vincent!
One of the greatest gifts of my life and this joy practice is getting to meet and collaborate with wonderful people. (Peter, of course, is Numero Uno on that list.) But Annabel and her husband Tom are both such a delight -- and I feel sure that we have many more fun collaborations in us.
In the meantime, if you need a cake, chocolate, or any other confection that takes food to a whole new level of fun, get in touch with Annabel at Conjurer's Kitchen. She will make you something that will blow your mind and your tastebuds! And working with her to create it will, I guarantee, be Pure Joy!!
What is it about certain foods that look so, well, FUN that they just make you want to eat them?
I don't eat white sugar. I haven't eaten it in over 30 years. But EVERY SINGLE TIME I see Macarons, I want not just one, but one of every color. The same is true of M & Ms. It's all the colors. They make you feel like a kid -- a kid who could eat anything.
A few years ago, a friend whom I know to be both a foodie and a wordsmith wrote about Macarons. I was perplexed, because I thought she meant MacarOOns. I messaged her and, as a result, got to learn all about the resurgence of Macarons.
For those of you who don't know, a Macaron is a sweet meringue-based confection made with egg white, icing sugar, granulated sugar, almond powder or ground almond, and food coloring -- invented by the Italian chef of Catherine de Medici.
I saw this window full of Macarons in Luxembourg last fall, and it was all I could to not to buy one of every color. I didn't, of course. My I Don't Eat White Sugar ethos has been in place for so long now, that I'm barely tempted. But the thing is, now I wish I had.
So, within the next few weeks, I plan to rectify that.
You see, I am really trying to shift my joy practice around food. I grew up with a mother who felt that if you looked at a potato, let alone ate one, you would gain 500 pounds. I was allowed ONE HARD CANDY a week and the occasional ice cream, and my sandwiches were made on bread so thin that whatever she put inside had already seeped through and overcome the bread by lunchtime. It was disgusting. As a result, I have always snuck my sweets and treats -- even as an adult. I am a closet eater. The fact that I eat very healthy foods does not mean I am a healthy eater. I am forever either rewarding or depriving myself.
But this year, I have been trying something different. An experiment of eating from the inside out -- not the other way around. From a place of gratitude, mindfulness, and, yes, joy. Choosing what and how to eat from my heart and from a place of kindness toward myself, not self-loathing about everything I eat. I have gained a few pounds, but I feel so much more centered and balanced. Every so often I find the old self-loathing around food surfacing. But practicing joy around eating is really helping. That's why I included this practice. It is truly a practice I hope will change my life around food into a more holistic one.
So, next week, as I head to England and France, should I pass a window of Macarons that are beckoning me, I have promised myself to go in and have a few. A blue one, for sure! I mean who doesn't love the idea of a blue cookie!! I'm sure it will taste ridiculously sweet to someone who hasn't had sugar like this in decades, but sweeter still will be the fact that I am choosing joy and trusting that!
So, stay tuned for the update. . .and if you have any suggestions for the best place in London or Paris to get Macarons, or what colors to get, please share! But more importantly, if you have any holistic eating practices or joy practices that have helped you around any food issues you may have, I would be so grateful if you shared them.
And, as my dad always said, Bon Appetit!
Since I'm in Savannah, Georgia, this morning, I thought I would write about one of the most memorable dishes of my adult life.
Growing up as I did, with two foodies parents who enjoyed eating incredible meals all over the world, I have had the good fortune of trying almost anything and everything I have every wanted to eat. Being a finicky eater, however, the places we ate were often more memorable than the food itself.
Although I love enjoying a good meal as much as the next person, but frankly it's rare for one dish to knock my socks off -- as this dish did the first time I had it on my first trip to Savannah almost a decade ago. First of all, it's a fish dish -- and with the exception of Wolfgang Puck's Whole Sizzling Catfish with Ginger and Ponzu sauce at Chinois on Main in the 1980s, I would be hard pressed to name one other singularly memorable fish dish in my entire life.
Until this Crispy Scored Flounder with Apricot Shallot Sauce at Garibaldi's and The Olde Pink House here in Savannah. Our host recommended that I order it, so, basically because I believe in When in Rome, I did. I was blown away. So much so that I have tried to have it every time I have come to Savannah -- and recommended that countless people have it when they come.
I could rave about the texture -- crispy on the outside, melt in your mouth tender on the inside -- or the glorious layered tastebud revelations of the sauce. But that wouldn't begin to do it justice. Since I think what I loved most was the joy-filled surprise of it all.
If joy is the pure and simple delight in being alive, then eating this dish reminded me of the pure and simple delight in discovering and sharing a glorious food experience. I have never forgotten that evening. I felt so purely and gratefully happy to be exactly where I was -- the company, the place, my first visit to SCAD (the incredible Savannah College of Art and Design) -- and the unexpected WOW! of this dish seemed to mirror that experience in a way that meals rarely do for me.
For me, at least, Joy when it comes to food is all about the experience of shared gratitude -- and I will forever be grateful for that evening and the manner in which this fish dish "mirrored" the joy of a wonderful experience.
OK. Let's be honest. Part of me just wants to write this post because I love the alliteration. Another part of me figures how often do you get to use the words fiddlehead fern in a sentence! But the fact of the matter is that fiddlehead ferns are delicious.
I discovered them last spring in Bar Harbor, Maine, at their local food coop. They were so cool looking, so I just had to try them. I asked someone who worked there how to cook them, and she suggested I saute them with a little garlic, olive oil and sea salt. So I did. OMG! They were fantastic! Crunchy with a slightly bitter (think asparagus or arugula -- which happen to be my two favorite vegetables) taste.
I am not sure that you can find them everywhere, but my guess is that anyone in the Northeast or Northwest can probably get them. If you can, do! And saute them up like the coop lady taught me, and prepare to be amazed.
Apparently their season is quite short. Once they turn into fronds, you can't eat them. But while you can get them, they are fantastic. And, of course, like anything this marvelous, they also happen to be incredibly good for you, as I discovered in this recent article.
So move over kale and broccoli -- two foods whose appeal I'm sorry to say is utterly lost on me -- and welcome fiddlehead ferns! I promise you that you will feel only joy eating them. Not only are they ridiculously cute, but they are absolutely delicious.
In fact, I think that we should create a new superfood group: Joyfoods. So stay tuned for my next joyfood post. And, in the meantime, please share your joyfoods with all of us! What foods bring you joy (without all that ridiculous guilt we are taught to have when we really enjoy something)? Because joy -- and so joyfoods, too -- is meant to be shared!!!
I grew up with baseball-loving parents. We were all rabid Dodgers fans -- and so I have had the great good fortune of going to many games, including playoffs and World Series. From the time I could read, the first thing I would do every morning was check the standings in the newspaper to see how my beloved Dodgers were faring. I once even got up at 2AM in Germany, crept quietly out into the hall, curled up next to a transistor radio to listen to the American Forces Network radio broadcast of the 1978 World Series with my Boys in Blue, which was filtered through an opera broadcast.
So when I heard that my Dodgers would be playing the Cleveland Indians -- in a very rare interleague game between the two clubs -- and that Clayton Kershaw (an individual as extraordinary off the mound as on it) would be pitching, it was a no brainer.
Or was it?
You see, much as I love my Dodgers, a night at a baseball game, and sports in general, I have a hard time giving myself the gift of fun. If other people are involved, that's one thing. Joining in. Treating them. Organizing it. But just for me? MUCH harder.
My Daily Practice of Joy to the rescue! Two plus years into this process, I know better than to listen to those nasty you don't deserve it voices in my head! So I bought my ticket and off I went.
What a glorious evening! Walking toward the stadium, I spied three people in Dodgers gear ahead of me, so I caught up and asked if I could walk with them. They gladly agreed. We chatted about our team and encountered some fun razzing and a few high fives on our way to the stadium. Going through security, the guard told me that I was very welcome in Cleveland, but that if I wanted to wear my Dodgers cap, it would cost me an extra $50! The good-natured ribbing continued all night long.
There were lots of Dodgers fans in attendance, and the Indians fans were very welcoming. We all enjoyed a fantastic game! (My boys won!) But what I enjoyed the most is what I always enjoy about a baseball game -- this very paradoxical feeling of being in a large space filled with people rooting for their team to win, and yet feeling like I am also in a totally Zen place. By that I mean, sitting quietly overlooking a huge bright green field surrounded by a big sky, not doing anything. Just being. This curiously wonderful paradox feels deeply connective and peaceful, even as it feels exciting and joyful. I love it!
I left the game last night so grateful -- not that my Dodgers won (though that was lovely), nor that I had ticked seeing Clayton Kershaw pitch or visiting Progressive field off my baseball bucket list (though I enjoyed both immensely) -- but rather that my Daily Practice of Joy is teaching me to be kinder to myself, to trust myself, to know myself . . . and so to find connection and joy in all the right places, beginning with my own heart.
Are there places or experiences you know bring you joy, but you talk yourself out of? Make this your Summer of Yes, and try letting yourself be led by your heart. Your whole life will thank you!
So, here's the back story. For the past 25 years, I have not been a birthday celebrator. But when pushed about what I want to do on my birthday, I say the same thing over and over again: I wish someone would create a scavenger hunt or road rally that I could do with my friends. That sounds like so much fun!
Well, 25 years have passed. People keep asking me what I want to do for my birthday. I give the same answer. Nothing. When pushed I tell the scavenger hunt story. It's come to be a godsend. Because it usually shuts them right up about celebrations.
So last month (my birthday's in April), my dear dear Karen here in New York asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday when I came in May. I gave my same old answer. Nothing. But she pushed me. Surely there's something you want to do. So I told her that, if I had to choose something, I would like to go to The Cloisters in May. I'd been there once in the spring and never forgotten it.
That's it? she said. No dinner out? No Broadway show? Time to shut her up, I figured. So I told her about the scavenger hunt. Huh. She said. I figured my silencing technique had worked, and thought no more about it.
Two days later she called me: Are you free on May 21?
Why? I asked warily.
Well. . .she began.
If it's something for my birthday, I replied, I'm not interested. Just the Cloisters.
Well, she said.
Oh God, I thought.
How about a Scavenger Hunt at the Cloisters? she asked.
You're kidding!!!!!! I exclaimed.
She wasn't. She had found a company (the awesome Watson Adventures) that did scavenger hunts at The Cloisters, and she got us tickets.
Yesterday we went. It was a perfect spring day. All the gardens were in glorious bloom. We joined 25 other people, most of whom were in teams of 4 - 6 people. We were the only team of two. The rules were explained -- a series of clues which required solving by traipsing all over The Cloisters. We had two hours. It was timed. No points for being early, but points detracted for being late and not working as a team. You had to stay together.
So off we went. I had a grin the size of the Pacific! It was SO MUCH FUN. We solved away, working as a team, having a blast exploring and searching. We felt really great about our answers. We looked for clues in corbels and sculptures, stained glass and herb gardens, triptychs and altarpieces, silver vessels, and, of course, the marvelous Unicorn Tapestries. A true medieval scavenger hunt in a beautiful sacred place.
There was only one problem. I had to pee really badly, but there was no time. We BARELY got our answers in under the wire. In fact, points were given for the best team name, and we wrote ours in -- we were The Felonious Monks -- right as we handed the paper over.
Our leader handed Karen a paper with all the right answers and I rushed back inside to wait in a very long line for the loo. When I got back, I saw Karen standing with six other people and the leader. She waved me over urgently: Hurry up! We're tied for first.
We, the only team of two, had tied for first against all the other larger teams!
So, of course, there was a tiebreaker. The question was: When was The Cloisters opened to the public? No cheating. No Googling. And 20 seconds to come up with an answer.
I could have kicked myself. Why hadn't I read up on The Cloisters before coming?! But an answer came to me: 1932. I looked at Karen. She said she had no clue.
So, I always use this example when I talk to people or clients about trusting their guts. I call it My War of 1812 Theory.
If you're watching Jeopardy and the answer that comes to you is "What is the War of 1812?" and then you think -- but it can't be the War of 1812. I don't even know what the War of 1812 is. Who even fought in the War of 1812? Surely it's the Civil War or the Revolutionary War or some war I actually know. NOPE! The answer is ALWAYS your first instinct. It's always the War of 1812.
So even as my head was saying it's probably sometime in the 1970s, I thought -- Follow your own damn advice.
So he asked the other team first. They whispered their answer. Then he asked us, and I said 1932.
Our leader paused for the great reveal: The team of six said 1966.
Oh no, I thought. It's going to be the Seventies -- and they'll win because they're closer.
Our team of two says, our leader paused for dramatic effect: 1932.
And the answer is. . .1938.
OMG! We won. I had waited all these for a Birthday Scavenger Hunt, and not only was it at The Cloisters on a perfect spring day, but WE WON!! Oh What Fun!
This is Karen and me wearing our winning gold medals in front of The Cloisters on one of the single most fun afternoons of my adult life. Some things are more than worth waiting for. . .
If you want to do one, too, check out @WatsonAdventures in your hometown. You will have a blast!!
When I was a kid, they used to be called Ferris Wheels. But now they have more lofty titles -- Sky Wheel or The Eye. You can find them in most major cities -- a brightly colored twirling orb on a skyline lit up in changing colors. They are fascinating, transfixing, beautiful. At least to me -- a lifelong lover of amusement parks. But it's been a long time since I rode one.
Last night, I finally did. And I felt just like a kid -- awed, joyful, a little bit fearful, and altogether wonderful.
In an age of technological inventions almost unimaginable 125 years ago, when the first Ferris Wheel fascinated everyone at the Chicago Worlds Fair, it is almost inexplicable that these gentle giants could still bring us so much simple joy. But they do. For which I am grateful. They are a sweet reminder that the simple things in life may still be what bring us the most sweetness -- and that joy does not require bigger, better, faster -- but rather serves as a reminder to share and cherish the purest emotions of our hearts.
To see the pretty spinning colors, please click HERE
My dad introduced me to rollie coasters and amusement parks when I was a little girl. It was one of our great shared joys. My dad was 67 years old when he made this documentary. He agreed to do it for one reason: Because it would allow him to ride all the best rollie coaster in America. How many 67-year-olds would do that? Let alone do it with GLEE?
My dad was one of the hardest workers I have ever known. But he never approached work with anything other than joy -- and he never approached life with anything less than a great sense of FUN!
Almost every spiritual teaching encourages us to approach life as a child with beginner's mind. What child does not know how to have FUN!
I still love riding rollie coasters, and I hope to keep riding them for as long as my dad did.
Do you love rollie coasters, too? Which are your favorites and why?
The day before yesterday, on my drive to the Newark Airport, I stopped to take a hike in the Palisades overlooking the Hudson River. I saw peregrine falcons -- the fastest creatures on earth -- divebombing turkey vultures and swooping straight down vertical cliffs. I saw the city in the distance and the river below. I saw purple and white flowering trees so fragrant that their scent almost knocked me down. I saw many beautiful things. But this was the most beautiful thing I saw. A message that cannot be overstated in these intense and trying times: LOVE MORE.
LOVE MORE. LOVE MORE. LOVE MORE.
This is an image from my upcoming art show next month.
Yesterday, I was going through each image with my friend Kim -- who is helping me grow the confidence to believe in my vision as an artist. We were trying to take out some of the weaker ones.
Kim was SO supportive and loving. She was everything I would have loved to have heard when I was younger. She made me feel so good and so excited about the show. And I trust her because she was an art major, is a designer, and is a wonderful artist herself -- not to mention the fact that she is SUPER visually picky . . . in the best way.
So, when I suggested that we cut this one, I was surprised when she adamantly said no.
She said that the reason likes this image is because of how I manipulated the color to make it pop! I did that on purpose, of course, but I wasn't sure if it was too much. But the reason I did it is because I think that certain paths just call to us. They say Come This Way! Walk With Me! And those are usually the paths we need to take. But it's a funny thing -- because even though our guts know the way, inevitably the voices in our heads kick in and start telling us all the reasons we shouldn't go that way: What if it's not safe? What if there's a better way? What if you get lost? What if? What if? What if? Until you eventually turn around and go back the way you came.
So, I made the color pop because it seems to me that we reallyl do see the paths we are supposed to take with this kind of neon clarity -- and STILL those voices try to call us off. I put the words Find Your Own Path on the wood slats thinking about the runway lights that tell pilots where to land. For those of us who aren't pilots, however, we wouldn't necessarily know if we're supposed to follow the blue lights or some other color. But pilots do. And it's the same with us -- ONCE WE LEARN TO TRUST OUR INNER VOICES.
So, next time a path calls you, really listen to it! Can you trust it? I bet you can. . .Is it calling you in bright colors and clear voice to Walk This Way? Then it is very likely the path you were meant to find. So walk a ways and see what you discover!
I spent all of last spring and summer on the East Coast, where I tried to hike as often as possible with my dog, Allie. I noticed that, more often than not, I ended up on rocky paths where the trails could only be marked in paint on trees or rocks. I also found that, more often than not, I ended up on the Blue Path. And finally, I realized that the Blue Path, the Rocky Path, was usually the most difficult path. Yet it was always the one to which I was drawn. In absolute joy!
Why is it that, in our joy pursuits, we take on difficulty as a welcome challenge, whereas in other areas of life, we feel burdened, put upon, perhaps even accursed, by difficulty? Instead, I have decided to treat every obstacle as an opportunity for growth and awakening.
I am seeing that it is not so much that I am choosing the Rocky Blue Path, but rather that the Rocky Blue Path is being chosen for me, because I am ready to face each obstacle and greet the opportunity for growth in grace and understanding and connection. That this, too -- or perhaps this, especially -- is one of the most essential of any Daily Practice of Joy!
I found this path in a nature preserve in Pittsburgh when I drove cross country for five weeks in the fall of 2014.
I have been there numerous times now -- in fall and summer. It is a magical place. But that first day was the most special. . .wide green swathes of dewy grass, deer peeking out from deep in the woods, the first touch of autumn on the hills, apples ripening on heavy-laden boughs, a cozy fog swaddling the hills, and chirruping birds everywhere. With not one other person there but me!!!!
I have taken so many beautiful pictures there. . .but this one was taken about fifteen minutes into my first visit -- at a moment of utter GLEE! I felt like a little girl who had discovered a secret garden full of magical animals, that I had entered the world I had been dreaming of finding my whole life. . .
What paths have opened up magical worlds for you?
That's what I called Nancy Cintron for the longest time. It is a term of endearment. (I LOVE goats AND I sometimes have a mental blank spot when it comes to remembering names. Thus, The Goat Lady.)
When Nancy first sent me a package with her artwork from a place called the Good Goat Gallery somewhere in Ohio, I was intrigued. She was a wonderful artist with a wicked sense of humor and a love of the absurd. Not to mention the whole goat thing. . .
A year or so later, she offered to join me for Monster Bash in Pittsburgh. So, we hung out for a weekend talking about art, while I introduced Vincent Price fans to her work. Which they loved!
Since then, Nancy has come to England and New Mexico, and I have come to Cleveland. And now, this past weekend, it has all come full circle. At the Good Goat Gallery here in Ohio, The Goat Lady put up my first ever art show!
I have learned a lot from Nancy over the years. But the best thing I have learned is to be true to yourself. As a lifelong people pleaser, I am learning how to show up in my own life as me encouraged by friend such as Nancy.
Guess what? It's a lot more joyful to be you than to work hard pretending to be someone else.
I look forward to many more years of friendship and absurd joy with my dear dear friend -- The Goat Lady.
This is one of the images from my upcoming art show. Here's what I wrote about it: This isn't the first photo I've taken on an artist's study of a famous painting in a museum. I love seeing a work of art I know and love through someone else's eyes. But this time, I became transfixed with the artist herself -- and realized that it was because she had a quality that reminded me of the subject of the painting. This, in turn, brought to mind a favorite quote by Oscar Wilde, "Life Imitates Art." So, of course, that is the text that frames the image. This one never fails to make me smile -- because it is both whimsical and passionate . . . as art so often is! EnJOY!
Part of my Daily Practice of Joy is connecting with total strangers and coming away with them in my heart -- whether I speak with them or not. The joy we all feel in connection can change our lives!
To find out more about this image and the stories behind the other images in the show, please click HERE or on the ART tab in the navigation bar on the top right of this page.
It sounds like an Agatha Christie novel, doesn't it?
Well, that's how she felt to us. Mysterious and marvelous all at once.
We saw here floating through the halls of the Courtauld Institute in London. She appeared briefly, then quickly disappeared again behind closed doors accompanied by handsome men in crisply starched shirts and colorful ties.
We followed her. Stalking might be more apt. We were stunned by her stunningness. She epitomized everything marvelous about England -- her lithe figure and porcelain skin, ginger hair and stunning emerald suit, the Ascot-worthy tophat, her tasteful purse and, of course, the ubiquitous English umbrella. She was marvelous.
Two more times, she crossed our vision -- flitting across a space to enter another locked door. Then, finally, she reappeared and crossed in front of us. She seemed to float through the exhibition, leaving a whoosh of air in her wake. She was gone! This time, we thought we had lost her. But then she returned -- with our friend Bryan, who had told her how much we admired her.
He had charmed her into agreeing to let our bunch of silly but enamored global wanderers take our picture with her.
In the photo, I have my hand on her shoulder. In retrospect, that feels so. . .wrong. She is too perfect to be touched. It feels as though I intruded on her aura. But other than my hand, she is an oasis of aristocratic calm in the midst of our tourist energy -- the sun to our rays, the source to our joy-filled grins.
Which is why I am sharing it today. Simply because every single time this photo pops up as I am searching for something else, I feel the same rush of joy as I did in that moment when we met her.
There are people like that. Moments like that. Marvelous. Mysterious. Agatha Christie like. Lady on the Train. Glamour and intrigue. But in this disposable day and age of technology and time crunches, they are fewer and further between. She is my reminder that the world I thought I was going to grow up into, as sussed out from the pages of my favorite books, still exists. We just have to look for it.
To know that will always bring me joy.
This weekend I had the honor of officiating the wedding of Samantha Peersen and Addison Bjork. Talk about Pure Joy!
I first met the future Mr and Mrs Bjork about four or five years ago, at Chiller Theatre in New Jersey. We chatted after they attended one of my talks. I really loved their energy and attitude and joy.
A couple of years later, I gave another talk -- and they were in the audience once again. That afternoon, October 25, happened to be the anniversary of my dad's passing, so I decided that I wanted to create a ritual by which we could all remember him in the week before Halloween. To give a little context, I explained that I had been studying rituals in my last year of seminary -- and was really beginning to click to all the ways that our family shared joy rituals. I don't think I'd ever mentioned that I was studying to be ordained as an interfaith/interspiritual minister at a talk before.
As it all turned out, right before I began, Addison turned to Sam and said, "Wouldn't it be great if Victoria could officiate at our wedding?" Five minutes later, I talked about becoming a minister.
I guess some things are meant to be. After the talk, Sam and Addison came down and asked me if, as a minister, I could do weddings. Since the ritual I had suggested to remember my dad was all about Saying Yes, there really was only one answer to that question. . .A HUGE YES! And that's why I spent this past weekend in oh-so-cool Asbury Park, basking in Love and Joy at one of the most wonderful weddings I've been to in ages.
As I said during the ceremony, So often in weddings, the minister feels like he or she needs to share their wisdom about love and remind the couple about the serious and sacred task not just of loving one another, but of caring for and supporting the well being of one another. But to be honest, I already feel like I’ve learned more from Addison and Samantha about love than I could possibly convey to them.
So instead, I shared a few lines from one of my father’s favorite poets.e.e. cummings, who wrote “Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star.”
I have come to understand these words even more deeply knowing Samantha & Addison. And I will be forever grateful to have been part of such an important day in their lives.
(For those of you who would like to know more about what an interfaith/inspiritual does in general -- and what I do in specific -- please check out my website: www.redshoesministry.com)
One of the biggest misconceptions I initially had about horror fans and horror conventions was my idea of the kinds of people who attend them. I thought they would all be, well, scary people. Not only are they not scary -- they are kind, generous, funny, sweet, interesting, loving, and polite -- but often horror fans come from (and so come to horror conventions with) horror families. Whole generations of horror fans show up together -- grandparents, parents, and kids. Even little tiny kids come. A couple of weeks ago at Spooky Empire in Orlando, I met three children under the age of two named after my dad. One named Vincent, and two named Price.
Kids love costumes. Kids love play. Kids love sharing play with their parents and siblings. It's not scary. It's just fun. To me, that is a wonderful reminder that often the things we adults persuade ourselves are scary can be transformed when seen through the childlike eyes of joy and love.
Look at this little girl. I took her picture a few years ago in Atlanta. There she is in her darling green costume (if I were a horror fan, I would be able to tell you who she is), surrounded by fellow green icons -- tiki monsters and the creature from the black lagoon. And she is just happy as a clam!
Whenever her photo pops up on my feed, I smile. She reminds me that fear can only talk us into believing it when we buy its PR. I'd far rather have this little girl's attitude -- that these supposedly scary things are really just playthings and props to support her lifelong adventure in joy and love!
If you would care to share some ways in which joy and love have transformed your own fears, please share them by emailing me at email@example.com. I would love to chat about them in an upcoming blog post!
My friend Alison and I were walking along New York City's Highline one late October morning when we saw a photographer taking a picture of these two men. We both had the same sweet thought. I'm wondering if you are, too, as you're reading this.
As I often do, I stopped and engaged them in conversation, and found out that, contrary to what Alison and I had imagined, they were having a photograph taken for their business: The two men are longtime business partners. I asked them if I could also take their photo, and they agreed.
I love this picture, because it reminds me of many joy-filled things. First of all, it is reminder that we all love to tell ourselves stories. That's not a bad thing -- but often the real story is far better than the one we make up in our minds. Because what I am reminded of when I look at this photo is that love comes in so many forms. We are a society that overvalues romantic love. And that makes us forget how vital it is to cultivate and cherish all kinds of love.
The Greeks had four distinct words for love: Agape. Eros. Philia. Storge. We focus so much on Eros (sexual, romantic love) that we forget that love takes many forms -- compassion, lovingkindness, affection, empathy, the unconditional love of a parent (or a Divine Parent) for their children, friendship, loyalty, community, charity, goodwill, partnership, collaboration.
It is only by nurturing and expressing all of these kinds of love -- and more -- that we show up to our own lives and those of others, and so to that of the Universe. To find love in every nook and cranny of our lives is the essence of any Daily Practice of Joy -- in work, in play, in our animals, in nature, in our business partnerships, and our family life, and in our beloveds. I am so grateful for this sweet exchange of love that I got to witness and now carry with me in my own heart.
Good morning from Birmingham, England.
It's Memorial Day in the US and a Bank Holiday in the UK. The city was up all night celebrating Gay Pride and a Kiss concert. I had my windows wide open all night (they open like sliding doors with no deck right out into the open air!) and I could hear all the excitement sixteen floors below. But now, all is quiet, and I can see for miles as the rain starts to come in. It is a perfect grey morning with a breeze, giving me quiet time to reflect on all that I have to be grateful for. . .
Last night, I got to meet a wonderful group of people here in Birmingham and have some amazing conversations about life and joy and what we're all doing here anyway.
As I look out at the city below -- a beautiful small spired church that managed to survive the bombing of World War II, blended in with industrial and uber-modern architecture, I remember that this planet has already seen everything many many times. And that we are simply here to try to be good stewards and help Mother Earth shepherd more generations through this journey of life.
On this Memorial Day, may we all carry the stories of the past forward into the present with the intention to do all we can to create a hopeful and healing future.
As a lifelong Bruce Springsteen fan, OF COURSE I was excited to be invited to officiate a wedding in Asbury Park!
I drove in late Friday night and was promptly welcomed by bright white lights proclaiming, GREETINGS FROM ASBURY PARK!
We were off to a great start. And then a Nor'Easter blew in, so I didn't see too much of the town for the next 36 hours. A quick rainy walk revealed tree-lined streets with iris and azaleas soaking up the welcome moisture in gardens of beautifully-restored Victorian mansions. While I soaked in the gorgeous Berkeley Oceanfront Hotel where we were staying.
But then Sunday morning dawned. Breezy, sunny, cool -- and out I went to explore everything. What a wonderful town! The famous boardwalk, cute boutiques, seafood restaurants, and lots of music joints. Including the famous Stone Pony.
I had paleo pancakes with real maple syrup for breakfast, and chatted with everyone who walked by and greeted my dog, Allie. Then I made the rounds of a fabulous Farmers Market, where I found some awesome jewelry by a local artist. More Victorian homes and boutique hotels, and of course a souvenir tshirt rounded out my visit. I wish I could have stayed longer.
I had heard that Asbury Park was undergoing a wonderful renaissance. There are signs of it everywhere. It is an absolutely beautiful seaside town. I could have photographed there all day -- so many sights to see.
But frankly, with as much as I travel, I have come to gauge a place more by its people and its energy more than its beauty. Asbury Park has wonderful people and a great energy.
Sometimes touristy places overwhelm me -- and I'm sure Asbury Park on, say, Fourth of July weekend might do just that. But on a beautiful spring Sunday morning, watching the waves and the birds and the people and the dogs -- taking in all the joy everyone seemed to be exuding -- I am putting Asbury Park on my must visit for longer list.
One of the real perks of a nomadic life is getting to see places I have heard about my whole life -- and finding out what they are all about. Meeting real people in real places and finding sweet connections -- like a shared hug with a new friend in the Farmer's Market -- that's what it's all about. Or to quote the Boss, in a lyric never more apt in these days of disheartening headlines: "Man, the dope's that there's still hope."
This is one of my new favorite places. I was driving through the village of Sleepy Hollow looking for a place to walk my dog Allie, when I saw Headless Horseman Bridge. Well, you gotta love that. Just on the other side I saw the gates of a large cemetery, and a sign with an arrow reading Irving.
That's how I found my way into the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, and discovered an incredible walk into history. Beginning with the early Dutch settlers of the Hudson valley up to the present day -- and meandering through most of the great names of American industry and commerce -- Rockefeller, Chrysler, Carnegie, and even Helmsley -- I viewed an unusual glimpse at our nation's history. Through their memorials meant to encapsulate a lifetime in a moment of marble.
Of course, the cemetery is also home to Washington Irving's family plot, as well as tributes to countless veterans of countless wars. A beautiful stream meanders through the acres of rolling hills, covered with spring flowering trees and fragrant lilac bushes, and glimpses of the Hudson river in the distance. It is one of the most beautiful places I have walked in a long time -- a place to think about history, humanity, beauty, nature, and the meaning of life.
I found myself thinking about the great joy each of these individuals must have experienced in their lifetimes, and chose to hold that joy for them in my heart -- instead of the sorrow their passing brought to their loved ones or their admirers. I could not help but think how they would love all the beauty surrounding them this spring -- and the joy that countless visitors still find spent in their company.
There are places that sing to our souls no matter how often we visit them. Savannah is one of those places for me.
Like so many people, I learned about the rich and mysterious history of Savannah through the book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. But that book alone would not have been enough to intrigue me. I owe my fascination with Savannah to my mother. It was a place she longed to visit. In fact, she had a "scouting" trip planned when the unexpected death of her brother forced its cancellation. She never returned. She wanted to come here because one of her great passions was historic preservation -- and at the time, the late 1980s, Savannah was at the beginning of its glorious revival.
Whether I liked it or not as a little girl who often just wanted to fit in and not stand out, I respected the fact that my mother was always a prescient pioneer -- years if not decades ahead of her time in her artistic and creative vision. She had been a key figure in the historic preservation and revival of Boston's South End, and Savannah was the place that called to her next. She hoped to start her next project here. That alone was enough to make me know Savannah must be a very special place. Whatever else I can say about my mom, she had an almost unerring eye for the cutting edge and potential, for beauty and uniqueness and history.
Although she never came here, I finally did -- at the invitation of another powerful woman dedicated to art, design, architecture, and historic preservation -- the founder and president of SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design -- Paula Wallace.
I have had the great good fortune of returning to Savannah as a guest of SCAD four times now (and two more at their Atlanta campus). Each time I come, I am struck by the beauty, history, mystery, and presence of this unique and gorgeous city. And I always think of my mother and of President Wallace -- two women with gloriously unapologetic vision. In President Wallace's case, her vision not only brought Savannah back to its former glory, but also continues to inspire countless young people to careers in creativity that push the boundaries of what is possible.
In an age of the disposable, of the what's next and what's new, I am always grateful to find myself in a place where old and new intersect to create a future infused with the best of what has been and immense hope for what is to come. That is Savannah, and that is SCAD. And I am always grateful to come here and enjoy its warm Southern embrace.
Every so often you have one of those days that -- against all odds -- turns out to be pure joy. My Sunday afternoon visit to Leiper's Fork, a small village about 40 minutes south of downtown Nashville, was one of those days.
First of all, the drive there is gorgeous. Particularly if you're a horse lover like me. Rolling hills, beautiful homes, big barns, and white picket fences with green fields dotted with beautiful horses. It was a true old-fashioned Sunday drive.
I arrived in Leiper's Fork about 2:30 PM on a sunny spring day in March. In my mind, I thought I was going to find some artisanal cafes, but what I found was a BBQ joint in front of which was parked just about every motorcycle in Central Tennessee. I was starving, so I asked a couple of guys where to order. When they told me to go inside, I realized that I had Allie, my dog, with me and she probably wouldn't be welcome. So, they offered to hold her for me.
I went in and ordered, and when I came out, my fluffy white dog Allie was happy as a clam with her two new biker friends. So I joined the three of them, and we all had a lovely 45 minute lunch together chatting about Nashville, politics, construction, road trips, and dogs. We had the nicest time.
After I'd had a little sustenance, I headed out to explore the town, which turned out to be filled with cool boutiques and lifestyle stores. I stumbled upon a small store tucked behind another one, and when I went in it was packed with women and kids chatting. So I looked around and found the cutest pink and blue faded plaid shirt for $28!
When I went to check out, all the ladies turned to me and started asking me questions about Allie, who is my joy ambassador. When I told them that we were on the road from New Mexico on a two-year walkabout of intentional homelessness, the owner exclaimed, "Well bless your heart. I think I need to give you a hug." So she did, followed by all the other ladies in the store. It was the most awesome group hug I have ever had.
We all stayed and chatted some more, before I headed out to wander some more. Leiper's Fork was definitely a sweet little town. But far far sweeter were its people. The memory of my new biker friends and those ladies who gave me that huge hug -- on a day I needed it more than I can express -- will keep Leiper's Fork in my Joy Scrapbook forever.
So, if you happen to go to Nashville, make time to go to Leiper's Fork and get to know its people. It is one of the most joy-filled places I have been to in a very very long time!
Last night I was given the incredible gift of being in a gallery watching people spending time looking intently at my photographs. Really spending time with the images, seeing them deeply.
I have not only hosted many many art openings in my day, but I have also been to many many more. Getting to watch people spend time with my work -- go on their journey, be on it with me -- proved a gift beyond measure. It felt like I was co-creating community in a way I had never understood possible as an art dealer or art historian.
This image, Dark Flight, was the first photograph I created for my show. As I was playing around with the text and the color, I hit some button by accident and everything reversed. I immediately loved it. At first I thought I would show both versions together. But in the end, this was the one that stuck. It stuck because it captured something I had been feeling during the beginning of this year. That we can take wing even during — perhaps precisely during — our darkest nights of the soul.
This past January, I captured the image of these two birds taking flight from a rooftop on a rainy early morning walk in The Sea Ranch, Northern California. I always love when I capture birds just leaping into flight. But there is something about this black-as-night image with almost neon bright blue birds that makes the leap of faith that is flight feel even more poignant and powerful. That is why I chose to place the text — snippets of poems about birds, flight, hope, and beauty (in particular Emily Dickinson's Hope is a Thing with Feathers) — under the wings like whooshes of air.
Sometimes, when things seem darkest, comes the time to leap without knowing where we will land. Those moments require our greatest faith. That is what I feel when I see this image: The reminder to keep the faith, even when the night is dark. Because when we leap, we will fly!
I have had to keep the faith a lot during these past months. I am still keeping the faith. But every so often, like last night, we are given the gift of connection, community, hope, beauty, shared joy — a gift which provides the lift under our wings when we need it most. That is something we can all do for one another — show up in love and attention and kindness — to be the wind beneath one another’s wings. That is the truest journey of the soul.
"We build too many walls, and not enough bridges." -Isaac Newton
Yesterday, seven people were killed in two terrorist attacks in London, England. Twenty were killed in Kabul, Afghanistan. In the last week of May, these two countries have been victimized by horrific terrorist attacks. On May 31, 100 people were killed in a terrorist bombing in Kabul. On May 22, 20 people were killed by a suicide bomber in Manchester, England. We read about these incidents and see images of their destruction. But the ones that hit home to most Americans and Europeans are not the images of Afghanistan -- a war-torn country we believe to be far far away. But rather the images of places that seem populated with people "like us" -- places we may have even visited. As I did this past week on my trip to England and France.
I'll be honest. Terrorism crossed my mind in every train station, airport, metro and tube station, public square and museum. It crossed my mind on the day I attended the French Open, and every time I saw armed soldiers -- which happened many many times a day. It also came up for me every time I crossed a bridge . . . and in Paris in particular, I walked across the Seine a few times a day. Each time, I was aware of my surroundings and thought about the fact that we have the choice to walk through the world in fear or in love. Each time terrorism crossed my mind, I chose love. Over and over. A conscious act of loving.
So, last night, as the news came in about another vehicle killing pedestrians on a bridge, my recent bridge crossings came to me. But what came to me next were the many other kinds of bridges I crossed on this trip. Through conversations I had with people about terrorism -- people who had fled their own countries to seek a better life in other places, because of the way terrorism and extremism had come into their daily lives.
I spent late Friday night and early Sunday morning with a cab driver in Paris from the Ivory Coast. When I flagged him down, he jokingly asked me if I wanted him to take me to the Ivory Coast.
"By all means," I rejoined. "I have always wanted to go to West Africa. How long will it take us to drive there?"
"Oh, we can't drive there now. There are too many bad people between here and there. We wouldn't make it."
We began talking about all of the countries between here and the Ivory Coast, and I told him the country I most wanted to see was Mali.
"Oh Mali," he replied. "It's really bad there."
Then he went on to describe the political situation in a country that I think of as a magical place filled with incredible earthen architecture and wood carvings that I have adored since childhood.
"It's everywhere," my friend said. "Terrorism."
The next morning, our conversation continued. About climate change, international politics, terrorism, raising children, pop music, sports, traffic, the weather, tourism, the Olympics, playing a musical instrument. We talked the whole way to the airport about the kinds of things that people who are getting to know one another talk about. Except we were two people from different continents, neither of us speaking in our native tongues, one black and one white, one a father of three teenage boys, one a single woman, one a cab driver, and one his passenger. We talked and talked and talked. When we left, we felt like new friends. Though we will likely never see one another again.
This happened to me over and over again on this trip. I met people from Moldavia, from Afghanistan, from all over Europe and Africa, with whom I connected deeply as we talked and talked and talked about the state of the world. Overall, none of us felt very encouraged or hopeful about what was going on around us. And most of the people with whom I spoke had been far more directly affected by it than I have.
But here the amazing thing. I felt something different than I have ever felt in my whole life. I felt -- and I have felt this for a while now in my travels -- like people are trying harder and harder to let other people know that they are good and kind and loving and compassionate. That they want the best for their fellow human beings. That's how these conversations all felt. That we recognized and acknowledged our differences, and yet we were consciously trying everything we could to find common ground between us.
When I look back on this trip to England and France, the thing I will remember the most are the bridges. NOT the beautiful bridges I walked over the Seine or the Avon. Not the bridges in England or France that sparked momentary thoughts of terrorism in me. But the bridges that I built with every exchange and conversation and interaction I had with a supposed stranger.
Many of these supposed strangers had come to the places where we now found ourselves together for reasons far different than mine. They had not come by choice.
On my last two nights in Paris, I had dinner with one of my dearest friends. A woman who, as a teenager, had to find the courage to defect from her then Communist homeland to live a life of freedom. She is one of a few very close friends who have had to make that same horrendous choice at a very young age. She said, very quietly, as we talked about the fear that the Western world has of terrorist and refugees: "No one ever really wants to flee their home. We do it because we have to." She articulated what each of the people I met on this trip implied. They did not want to leave home, but they did because they had to. To live a better life.
So, what is the solution as our world manifests more and more chaos? Is it to ban and block and make our borders more secure? Or is it to understand that every single human being on this planet really wants the same thing -- a life of freedom and hope and healing? Is it to build walls that keep what we fear out, or to build bridges to find that we all have the same common ground in love?
Recently, the US Secretary of Homeland Security said that, if we knew what he knew about terrorism, we would never leave our homes. Before I left on this trip, United Airlines offered me a full travel waiver if I didn't want to go because of terrorism. I felt like I was being told to be afraid. Be very afraid.
But what happened when I went away? I found heart and love and hope and healing -- not fear and terror and anger and revenge, as we are led to believe -- out there in the world. I found extraordinary people whose courage to live is a daily act of faith.
The Dalai Lama is perhaps the most famous political exile in the world. A man who has every excuse to be angry -- and yet gets up at 3AM every morning to meditate for four or five hours about how to forgive and to face the world every day with lovingkindness. He has said that he believes that peace is the manifestation of human compassion. I agree. Peace is not found through borders or walls. Peace is found by building bridges between us -- bridges that find our common ground by approaching every interaction and exchange with as much hope and love as we can bring to it.
This is a website that tracks all TERRORIST ATTACKS that occur around the world. There are areas where the colors glow, because there are so many. There are vast areas of the globe where there are none. During the first five months of 2017, there have been 534 attacks, and 3,629 fatalities.
In the face of this kind of violence, what are we to do? Stay home? Lock our doors? Bar our windows? Look at everyone outside the safety of our little confine as a threat? Or are we instead to go out and build the bridges that can change the world? The three men in Portland who are being hailed as heroes did that. There are countless more heroes. More love than fear. More hope than harm.
But we can each do something "heroic" every day, by choosing to see everyone we meet -- and I mean everyone -- through the eyes of Love. To see everyone else on this planet and behave toward them as we would want them to see and behave toward us.
Every single religion has its own version of this Golden Rule. That's because it is The Only Rule That Matters: Love as you would be loved. See as you would be seen. Act as you would be acted toward. Heal as you would be healed. This is the way we can all begin to build bridges of hope and healing in a very broken world.
Yesterday afternoon, while meandering through the Asian section of the Victoria & Albert Museum here in London, I came across this Buddha. There was something about it that simply overwhelmed me with a feeling of great peace. At the end of a lovely but long day, it was exactly what I needed to feel.
I was brought up by a man who treated art as his church -- and so I often feel, when I am in a museum, a great wave of peace and comfort and joy come over me. Sometimes it is simply the space -- the vastness of quiet halls shepherding people through their own individual experience of grace in art. Sometimes it is a feeling in a piece of art. I still remember seeing Thomas Eakins famous painting of a single rower bathed in golden light for the first time when I was a teenager -- and feeling the quality of that gorgeous light, I was both overcome and fundamentally reassured by the sensation of it washing over me. Sometimes it is revisiting a favorite (Velazquez, Vermeer, "my" Twachtman) which feels like a reunion with long-lost friend. And other times -- as when I saw Matthias Grunewald's Isenheim Altarpiece -- it is sheer awe and wonder that almost brings me to my knees.
"Peace," said Reverend Martin Luther King, "cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding." This does not mean intellectual understanding. Although I find myself spiritually and intellectually and emotionally at home in a museum, many people do not. They feel there is something they should know or understand in order to appreciate and be present. Museums feel hard, strange, even alienating. A building full of shoulds. As places of worship sometimes can for others on whom a religion has been foisted. No. To feel peace, to share peace, to live peace, all you need is an open heart and an open mind.
The same is true of peace on this planet. We do not need to understand a culture that seems foreign or incomprehensible to us. We only need to see others with open hearts and open minds. Is this easy to do? Not always. Just as certain works of art feel difficult or strange, so, too, can other cultures.
But if we move through every experience and encounter with an open heart and mind, at some point, when we least expect it, that feeling will wash over us. It is the peace that passes all understanding. That is the peace that we can all keep. Because it is the peace with which Love has encoded all of our hearts.
May we all open our hearts and minds to the peace that passes all our understanding (for better and for worse) and bring us to the knowledge with which we are born -- that we are, always have been, and always will be All One.
May it be so.
Last week, at the wonderful dinner following the wedding I had just officiated, a guest asked me whether I advertised my services as an interfaith interspiritual minister. I told him that I had a website, but that I did not advertise. That my referrals came by word of mouth.
This Wednesday, as I met over dinner with a wonderful couple whom I will be marrying in October, I realized, once again, just how much I love these heart connections that come through my ministry, my public speaking, and my writing. So, I had to ask myself, why don't I tell more people about what I do?
I realize that this has always been the case with me. I never have been good at "promoting" the things that feel most deeply connected to my heart and soul. It's always been easy for me to "sell" the things that feel public -- things created for consumption. I have worked in advertising and sales many times in my life, and I was the salesperson you wanted -- the one who came in at double or triple quota every day. If my job was to sell, I sold, and then some!
But when my job was to sell art, I found it so difficult. Art, it always seemed to me, should be given the space to just speak to someone's heart -- and that someone would then simply be guided to know how to hear their heart. Art isn't something that should be purchased so you can "own" an artist or show off a canvas on a wall as a status symbol. Art is a manifestation of a deep connection -- between an artist and what they have chosen to convey, and between the person to whom that resonates, and between the canvas or sculpture or weaving or or or and whatever viewer it beckons. How can you "sell" that? So, this great salesperson was terrible at selling art, because it felt untrue to my heart.
The same has always been true of "selling" myself -- as a writer, an inspirational speaker, and now as an artist and interfaith and interspiritual minister. Because those are the "jobs" that have never felt like work. They have been heart-based passions that allow me to connect heart and soul to the hearts and souls of other individuals. How do you "sell" that? And why would you want to?
Well, that second question is easier to answer than I thought it would be? I want to because I loved that heart and soul connection. And to make people aware of what I love to do allows more connection. But how you sell that, I always believed, isn't up to me. It would just "happen".
I think the difficulty is the word sell -- which means to persuade someone of the merits of something. Advertising has famously been defined as the art of persuasion. Persuasion, however, has that smarmy snake-oil feel to it. At least it does to me.
In the case of art, how can I persuade someone of the merits of something that only their own heart can know? In the case of myself, how can I feel anything other than egotistical and disingenuous trying to persuade you that I will inspire you or that we will have a heart connection through art or ministry or speaking or writing.
So, for today's Soul Sunday practice, I decided to ask myself that question. How would it feel, I asked myself, if I shared more about my ministry?
On the surface, it feels just fine to tell you that, if you are interested in learning more about what I do as an interfaith and interspiritual minister, please visit my website: RED SHOES MINISTRY.
But that's just because I've passively shared something that you have the choice to do or not do.
What feels much harder is to say what I want to say.
And this is what I want to say: I love writing. I love public speaking. I love officiating weddings and helping to create ceremonies and rituals of all kinds. I love connecting with people and helping them through coaching and conversation to reach their highest aspirations by reconnecting with their Truest Selves. Please help me have the opportunity to do more of what I love and share what I love with you and with others!
But there you go. I said it. And you know what? That wasn't as hard as I thought! Because I asked you from my heart. I didn't pretend I was cool or that I just wanted to offer you a service. I spoke my truth. I told you how much I LOVE what I am privileged enough to be able to do -- and then I asked you to help me find a way to have more of this heart and soul connection.
That, it seems to me, is the key. Persuasion is using our minds to connect to other people's minds, pocketbooks, shoulds. Persuasion hopes to convince someone they need something about which they have not yet formed their own heart feelings.
To speak heart to heart and soul to soul is to be honest in a way that we are not taught. And yet, imagine if we all did it! The world would be such a vastly different place.
I've always loved this lyric by Van Morrison: “If my heart could do my thinking, and my head begin to feel, I would look upon the world anew, and know what’s truly real.”
We spend so much time buying and selling, getting and spending things that we hope will make us enjoy life more. But, at the end of the day, as was proved in the findings of a recently-released Harvard study, what we discover about life is that "connection is the whole shooting match".
What makes our lives meaningful, bearable, livable, are our connections with other sentient beings. In every indicator studied by Harvard researchers, those connections were far and away shown to be the most important determinant of quality of life.
So, how can it be anything but holistic, healing, and hopeful for any of us to connect with others from our hearts -- and to ask other hearts to help facilitate more of those connections? The answer is, It can't!
The professor who conducted the study says that happiness in life comes down to two things, and two things only: One is love, and the other is finding a way of coping with life that does not push love away. So, I guess I have answered my own question. How could sharing my desire for more heart-based connection be anything but the most essential kind of love practice for us all?
What kinds of heart-based connections would you like more help finding? How can we all help one another connect from our hearts?
Please share your ideas in the JOY CONNECTIONS forum!
And please reach out to me about inspirational speaking, weddings or memorials, rituals or life coaching, or any other heart-based connection by EMAIL! I would love to hear from you.
Today is Mother's Day -- and I got to spend my morning doing four things my mothers loved. Which is to say, I got to spend Mother's Day morning with my mom in spirit.
I'm in Asbury Park, New Jersey, having officiated a wonderful wedding her last night. Since it poured rain all day yesterday, this morning was my first chance to look around. So I took my mother with me in my heart as I explored a new place (she loved to travel), watched the ocean waves (her favorite moment was right before a wave crashes down upon itself), walked and talked with dogs (my mother, like me, probably loved dogs more than people), and looked at Victorian architecture (my mother was one of the early advocates of historic preservation -- especially in Boston's South End).
Needless to say, this was a wonderful way to spend Mother's Day morning -- having deep conversations with her about my gratitude for all that she gave and taught me.
But although my mom gave me many many gifts, her greatest gift was sharing her spiritual path and practice with me. So, since this is my weekly Soul Sunday entry, this felt even more perfect!
My mom's favorite synonym for God was Soul. Soul, my mother felt, was what was behind all beauty, creativity, artistry, and inventiveness. She loved to see God in all the beauty -- natural or humanly created -- in the world.
As someone who derives my greatest solace from seeing beauty in the world -- for me it is like prayer, like walking meditation -- I am grateful every day for the ways in which my mother taught me to see the Divine in everything. This is the way that the people we love and who love us get to live on through and in us. By carrying what they loved and so taught us to love -- and to love it forward. This is the true journey of Soul.
It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
- Mary Oliver
Every Sunday, I post my Soul Practice. Although I am no longer a consistently traditional churchgoer, I still love churches, temples, cathedrals -- spiritual sanctuaries of all kinds. But now I also find my "church" wherever I find myself -- in botanical gardens; in forests; on the beach; in a dog park; in a conversation with a total stranger, on a plane, train or automobile.
I grew up in a church devoid of icons and statues, but as the daughter of an art lover who became an art historian herself, I have found myself in many different places of worship. Whether the statues, paintings or iconography have any specific religious resonance for me matters not one whit, as it all turns out. When I am in a place of worship, the essence of what brings people there in communion is always a felt thing for me: The longing for peace, grace, blessing, and communion. The Oneness with the Divine.
I took this photo of this Madonna in a very quiet purely white church in Brussels. Outside, on a bustling square, homeless people mingled with businesspeople, and a busy fishmonger shucked oysters for his clients to eat standing up and small tables. But inside, there was pure peace. I needed that peace right then. My drive from the train station to downtown had been fraught with "issues" -- and a very impatient and unhelpful cab driver. I was hot and frazzled and, actually, lost. But in that sweet sanctuary, I found the peace I needed. I sat in a pew and watched worshippers kneel and pray and light candles -- and felt their sincere desire for grace. It felt the same as mine.
On my way out, I passed this Blue Madonna. She looked down at me and seemed to offer me a blessing -- a reminder that whatever I could feel inside me in that quiet church I did not have to fear losing in the outside world. That precisely the peace we need to feel whenever we need to feel it is always inside us. It is not where or how or with whom we worship. It is in that still small voice that always speaks to us of the peace and love that are always within each of us. We carry it in our hearts.
My adult life has been a long journey of forgiveness with my mother. I know my mother loved me and did everything she knew to do to provide me with every advantage. And I loved her. It's just that some of her messages landed in ways that have been harder to erase than I might have imagined. But the last year has given me so much release and healing with my mother. These days, all I feel is gratitude and love for her.
There have been so many breakthroughs in our journey together, but one came this winter, when I spent two weeks watching storm after storm pound the Northern California coast in a place my mother loved as much as any in the world -- the Sea Ranch.
My mother always used to tell me that she adored watched waves crest and crash -- and that the moment of translucence just before the waves roll was her favorite moment. I spent 12 days watching for that moment -- and trying to capture it on film. It was like spending 12 perfect days in a conversation with my mother about beauty. It made me realize even more just how grateful I am to her for all of the things we have in common -- our love of nature, animals, beauty, exploration, learning, culture, and Spirit.
So much has been written about the healing power of forgiveness, but at the end of the day it's simple: Forgiveness only loves. To see my mother through the eyes of forgiveness -- for us both -- is exactly like that beautiful cresting moment of the wave: Before it crashes down upon itself and rolls back into the ocean, it is clear, translucent, pure and powerful. Just like Love.
The practice of forgiveness is rightly regarded as one of the most essential spiritual practices there is. When we come from a place of gratitude and forgiveness, we cannot help but feel joy and love.
Man has always dreamed of flying. Socrates said, "Man must rise above the Earth — to the top of the atmosphere and beyond — for only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives."
Yet the story of Icarus, the youth who created wings that allowed him to fly, is remembered as a morality tale of hubris -- what happens when someone tries to fly too close to the sun.
The first aviators were awed by the experience of flying. Charles Lindbergh wrote, "Sometimes, flying feels too godlike to be attained by man. Sometimes, the world from above seems too beautiful, too wonderful, too distant for human eyes to see …" But now we remember Lindbergh much as we think of Icarus -- for his hubris and not his courage in facing the unknown and doing what no one else had done.
This week, we all read about the United Airlines debacle. But the fact of the matter is that flying these days is often fraught with fear and frustration. So, whenever I fly, I view every experience as holy.
As I rise above solid ground, I begin to pray to feel the awe and beauty and grace and joy of being in the clouds and the infinite blue. I pray to hold everyone on my flight and those on the ground connected to my flight in love -- and to see us all as expressing the same divine qualities.
As a result, I have had some of the most extraordinary spiritual experiences on airplanes instead of churches. Profound conversations, connections, and communion with fellow travelers. The utter awe of feeling one with the Universe in its immense infinite beauty and wonder. The gratitude for all that flight expresses -- joy, freedom, movement.
Sometimes I have had to face down fears -- of unruly passengers, mechanical delays, poor weather, turbulence, unexpected maneuvers, or just the pounding of my own heart and the chatterbox monkey of fear in my mind. But those experiences have provided me with some of the purest and most healing moments of my life. When the illusion of control is removed, we have to do what otherwise we mostly only give lip service to doing. Let go and let God. If the flying buttresses of Gothic cathedrals were built to help conveys the souls of worshippers up to heaven, what better place to feel divinely uplifted than in a plane?
My friends like to tease me because I love planes and flight in such a childlike way. I always have. I even have an app on my phone that lets me look up a plane flying overhead and see where it is coming from and where it is going. I feel such joy imagining that journey. And I try to send that joy to anyone on that flight who might be feeling something other than joy for any reason.
These days, it is easy to dis or even fear flight. But I prefer to think of flying as time with my better angels. Because, as Mark Twain wrote, "The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? — it is the same the angels breathe."