Category: Sunday Letters

Just short of two weeks ago, I stumbled into an invisible revolving door and ended up in a different world. This has happened to me before, and probably to you, too. A ways back down the road, when I first recognized this phenomenon, I named it “the revolving door experience.”

Here’s what happens. You’re lah-dee-dah-ing in your ordinary way at your ordinary pace when all of a sudden some event swoops into your reality and pushes you into this invisible revolving door. You spin around, and then suddenly land on the other side in a whole different version of the world. Everything looks the same pretty much. All the people and your relationships are the same. The story line seems a continuation of the one that was playing out before. But somehow, absolutely everything has changed.

If you’ve been there, you’ll know what I’m describing.

Anyway, I did the spin a few days ago, waking up in the local hospital’s ER. Not to worry; it’s all under control. But the spin had me pretty dizzy for a while. I felt like I was in a warping time tunnel. I speculated that we are all experiencing some significant shift in the force. It feels like a wave rippling through the planet’s energy field, leaping a slight rift in the timeline. I first noticed it at the beginning of spring. It’s as if someone struck a huge bell or a gong and the ripples of its sound have just begun to reach our ears.

While I was working at acclimating to this alternate new reality, I jotted down some random thoughts. I’ll share them with you, just for fun, and because, well, that’s why we’re here together. Right?

It all comes down to this. All you have is Now.

But Now holds everything. It’s the stage for the dance, the blank page on which the story floats, the nothing from which everything rises. And here we are, conscious and self-aware, smack dab in the middle of it.

We really don’t know much of anything. Pretty much, everything we take as true is little more than supposition, some more solid-seeming, some fantastical. You have to have a story; it’s what defines things and lets you navigate through this place.

So we weave these stories we live in, right? We gather the material for them as we go along, borrowing from everyone, making discoveries, adopting traditions, falling prey to the mind-shaping of the current official narrative, maybe breaking free.

The thing is, everybody’s story is different from everybody else’s. I call the view from in here, in the center of it, where the phenomenon I call ‘me’ is, I call that view my Reality Bubble. I live in my Reality Bubble; you live in yours. Some people’s bubbles have lots of places that harmonize nicely with other peoples’ bubbles. Some people’s bubbles clash with others. But everybody’s bubble is their true, experiential reality just as much as your is. The key is to respect that.

Remember: We really don’t know much of anything for certain. Have some humility as you walk through the world. Confidence is one thing; arrogance is another,

Personally, I know this: I know that I believe in Truth, and in the pursuit of it as a sacred path. I know I believe in the reality–and supremacy–of Love, and of Goodness, and Beauty. I believe in hope, too. These days, hope is crucially important. Hope: the faith that things will work out, a way be found, a sweet light illuminate our paths. And I believe it pays to hone a fine sense of humor, too.

One of my favorite descriptors of an ideal attitude is the phrase “divine nonchalance.” It has that row-row-row your boat ease about it. Flow with the river, trusting it will take you exactly where you need to go to get what you need. “Trusting.” I have a card on the bulletin board above my desk with this acronym:

Totally

Relying

Upon

Spirit’s

Timing,

Inspiration,

Nurturing, and

Guidance.

Somebody whose blog I use to follow wrote that years ago. I’ve always liked it. Christopher Foster, I think. Thanks, Christopher.

It’s good to weave bits and pieces of inspiration and of joyful moments into your reality bubble, by the way. They can be refreshing and comforting places to take shelter when ill winds blow.

I’m orienting quite well to this new version of reality in which I find myself. Things seem to change at a rather speedy pace here. Choppy waters in this stretch of the river. But don’t you just love the adventure of it all?

And isn’t it beautiful, really, that here we are, touching each other like this, through all the changes?

Life is good.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

Today was my mother’s birthday, so I wrote a poem for her.

I called it . . .

Remembering Marion

The colorful birds and flowers and sky,

the leaves, the scents, the warmth, the breeze,

the memories that ride on them, going back

to the patch of lilies-of-the-valley that grew

at the side of Grandma’s house, between the house

and the little sidewalk that went to the garage, remember?

and the huge bouquets of lilacs that sat on my mother’s kitchen table

and how, if you closed your eyes, their scent could convince you

that you had arrived in heaven.

And today all of this, and more, because, in addition to it being May,

it is the anniversary of your birth a hundred and one years ago.

Imagine that.

And the remembering of you breathes from the birds’ bright feathers

and the hues that paint the tulips and phlox and from the scent

of the lilies-of-the-valley and the lilacs, and none of it as sweet

or precious as your gentle smile.

I wish for you a week touched by beauty and by beautiful memories.

Warmly,
Susan

It’s really up to you, you know. How you’ll look at it. What stories you’ll weave around it. Back in the old days, they put it this way: Your attitude determines your altitude.

It’s true. And as much as we’d all like to drop our lousy attitudes at somebody else’s feet, the fact is we ourselves are the ones who hold the reins that determine our own pace and direction.

It’s not always an easy trick to do. Like anything else that’s truly worthwhile, mastery comes with a price. It takes discipline. And practice.

I got my first lessons in this holding-the-reins business when I was a mere toddler. I had this beautiful little rocking chair in my bedroom that played music when you rocked. Whenever I was being especially cranky, my mother would point to my room and quietly command, “Go sit in your rocking chair and don’t come out until you can be happy like the rest of the family.”

That may have been the beginning of my Joy Warrior training, now that I think about it. Good thing. By the time I arrived at this stretch of the road, I needed a lifetime of training to keep the door open for joy.

At any rate, I remember sitting in that little rocker, pouting and grumpy, with tears on my cheeks, struggling to make my face smile. It wasn’t easy. I had to let go of a big wad of dark, prickly, sticky feelings in order to do it. I had to see that seeing my mother’s own smile would make letting go of the dark feelings worth the effort it took to do it

I’m still working on mastery, by the way. Maybe learning to let go of the darkness is the only lesson there is.

But I keep working at it, because it’s still true that the joy of the reward makes the effort worth it.

I thought about that last night as I sat on my porch gently rocking in my rocker, the spring breeze warm and fragrant against my face, the songbirds’ evening carol floating on the golden air. And I smiled.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by Please Don’t sell My Artwork AS IS from Pixabay}

When my friend messaged me about the terrible fire, I just stared at her words in shock and disbelief. Less than a month ago I was standing right there, marveling over the beauty that she had constructed on this northern Michigan homestead of hers. Now she was telling me that it had all burned to the ground. The greenhouse, the chicken coop–a true palace of a place!–the tool shed with her perfectly arranged, decades-in-the-making collection of tools, the pole barn. Gone. She was thanking God that the house had escaped, and that she had saved the cats and chickens.

She would send photos, she said, when her internet was restored.

When they came, the pictures stunned me more than her words had. I stared at this pile of rubble, trying somehow to put it all back where it was, so vivid and bright, in my mind.

Then the note she sent with the photos registered, explaining that orange bird feeder in the picture’s center. She had just built it , she said, with some of the few materials and tools that had been in the house, escaping the fire.

“Of course she did,” I said to myself. “Of course she did.”

“I figure you have to start somewhere,” she said.

I thought she chose a pretty cool place to make her start. Do what you love. Do what brings you satisfaction. Start here, with whatever you got. And give it all you got.

Then paint it some bright color. Write it in big letters or images in your heart: My New Start. Let it note a moment of triumph.

We’re such resilient beings! We rise from horrendous traumas and trials, determined to go on, regardless. We learn that we can claim the moment and make of it whatever we will. Ask yourself what you want to do, then listen for the answer and go build a bird feeder.

That’s how you go about starting somewhere.

May you do it with humor and grace!

Warmly,
Susan

What if,
as you went through your day today,
every now and then a smile washed up on you,
for no reason at all.

At just the perfect times. In just the perfect ways.
Smiles, for no reason.

Would that not be an absolute hoot, my friend? Imagine!

That’s it. Today’s Sunday Letter.

Hugs,
Susan

Oh, and have fun
and be kind.

^{Image by Pexels from Pixabay}

“Every now and then you step into a moment so golden that it makes all the other ones worth it.” I wrote that way back on the trail somewhere. On the stretch of path we’ve been walking lately, golden moments can seem few and far between. But here’s a secret I discovered about them this week: They’re always here, hidden in plain sight. They’re like love notes written with an ink that you can only read when you see it from just the right angle.

You can be having the most ordinary day when, all of a sudden, everything around you, everything that’s happening right now, seems perfect, just as it is, and beautiful. That’s a golden moment. For me, they always come unexpectedly. But they have begun to come more often lately and to linger longer, I noticed one day both with surprise and gratitude.

The surprise of it was due to the fact that I spend a lot of my time in observation and research into certain movements in the time-space that are less than pleasant to see. But the surprise was met with an understanding that the golden moments I was experiencing now let me maintain my balance in the midst of the turmoil. They gave me stability and allowed me to embrace all that was going on with compassion and appreciation.

I wondered for a while about how this gift of golden moments came to be. It was, after all, perfect timing. Exactly what I needed now.

And one of the things I was delighted to find is that part of the reason I’m experiencing more golden moments now is because I trained for it. I smiled at that. I could take credit for some of it. Cool!

I practiced games like labeling my experiences “pleasant” or “unpleasant” as I went through the day. Or like teaching myself to ask “What’s good here?” when I noticed that I was feeling upset. Each night I write three statements to complete the phrase “I’m grateful for . . .” –even when some nights it’s hard to think of three things. I spend time looking at the world through the lens of my camera as I silently ask, “What’s good here? What’s interesting? What’s beautiful?” In the morning, I dedicate the day to rejoicing (re-joys-ing) and gladness, because the day itself is a gift of Perfect Love.

Those are Joy Warrior practices.. They require commitment and discipline. But they pay off in countless way. They bring amazing lessons and teachers, all custom-tailored just for you. They push away the barriers and let you see how you are part of a grand and mysterious universe–and that you can see that you are. As one of my mentors taught me, “I am in the universe; the universe is in me.”

The benefits of looking for, and savoring, the good extend farther than just yourself, by the way. Any time you notice something touching you because it’s so good, or beautiful, or true, you tip the scale of the whole universe. In actual, measurable fact, your vibes ripple out a fair distance from you. Joy is contagious. (Pass it on!) It’s a wonderfully powerful thing. It kills fear, for instance. Think about that! Imagine how freeing it would be to live without a shred of fear.

And all you have to do is ask for it: Show me the good stuff. Then, as you see it, give thanks.

I smile, thinking of you, over there on the other side of this screen, reading this. I smile more as I imagine you smiling back. How golden! How deeply, beautifully golden!

Wishing you waves and waves of good stuff.

Warmly,
Susan

“Good grief,” I said with a puff of disgust as the phrase came to me. “I suppose you can’t say ‘sissies’ any more.” Somebody out there will be saying that it proves you should be labeled as a despicable piece of work and moved to the cancel bin.

You have to be sensitive these days to what words you say and how you say them. Sensitive ears are listening and anxious.
 

Far be it from me to crack somebody else’s reality bubble. Yours is as valid to you as mine is to me after all. And I respect that. But I gotta say [Warning–Brief Rant Ahead] that all too many reality bubbles out there seem to have paper-thin walls. And not only that, but they seem well-prepared mightily to defend those walls against the smallest tear as well. It’s a touchy situation. Confrontational even, in some cases. You have to carry a censor with you everywhere you go. You have to be ready to bite your tongue, to dig around in your tact bag to see if there’s an acceptable way to say what you want to say. I miss the day when I could say whatever popped into my mind without a second thought. It’s a freedom lost. Another one.
 

Anyway, the phrase “Joy ain’t for sissies,” floated into my mind, as I was thinking about writing this letter. Heck, I thought to myself after doing a little survey of the lives I see around me, life itself ain’t for sissies. Life takes a fistful of stubborn courage these days if you’re paying any attention at all. Every last one of us is facing serious challenges.
 

You have to decide who you’ll be and stick with it, no matter how hard the winds of fate blow. That’s what makes you a warrior, by the way. It’s a discipline. The more you practice being who you choose to be, the better you get at it. And the better you get at it, the more challenging the next test of your dedication will be. That’s how we evolve.
 

Personally, I have chosen to serve in the Order of Joy Warriors. I have a friend who is a Focus Warrior. Her mission is to master the art of putting everything aside but her focused attention to the task at hand. And I must tell you, she creates amazing works. I know a Truth Warrior, too , and several Persistence Warriors.
 

Every warrior’s path has its own custom-tailored obstacles. And every path will push you to your limits and then invite you to push beyond them. All of them come with bruises and breaks and pain. And every last single one of them is so worth it that, in the long run, all the troubles completely lose their sting, and melt and flow away.

It doesn’t matter if you know what kind of warrior you are or not. Naming it is just one of the tools some of us use to keep ourselves on track. All you have to do is learn to listen to the true voice of your heart. Practice that. It’s a good way to stay sane.

Warmly,
Susan

_{Image by Mark Frost from Pixabay}

I drove the Interstates early on. But then I realized I really didn’t like them and took a parallel route for an hour, until my destination required that I get back on. So sometime, while I was enjoying the company of the people I had come to see, I decided I would take secondary roads all the way home. Furthermore, to make a game of it, I would go the whole 400 miles without once looking at a map. I would rely on my compass and hunches alone.

I did let myself look at the map once. (All rules should be a bit flexible.) To my surprise, the roadside sign told me I was approaching a town I had passed through several times on my travels over the years. It was smack dab in the middle of nowhere, and I remembered that five separate highways converged there. One of them, I recalled, appeared to go east when it hung a right turn and headed south. I didn’t want that one.

I also remembered that town because just outside the village limits, on its east side, in a very broad, flat, open field stood a lone, magnificent oak tree. And now I was going to get to see it again. I was thrilled. I’m like that about a few special places. Some things stand out in my mind and make me feel big and spacious and light inside.

The oak, by the way, was still there, and as beautiful as I remembered it.

Earlier in the day, my compass led me to a place where the asphalt ended and the road turned to packed red sand, pocked with good-sized holes. But it didn’t look very long, and I thought I saw water and a sign up ahead. I decided to explore, and I ended up at the mouth of a river with an unpronounceable Native American name. It was still morning, and the air was fresh and cool. I took a few photographs then turned to walk the hundred yards or so back to where I had parked my car.

Suddenly a loud clamor came from the sky, riding the morning’s stiff wind. I looked up to see a large V of Canadian geese flying over, heading north. I grabbed a few shots as I headed toward my car. The first V was followed by another even larger one, and I could see over the distant treetops that more were coming. I was nearly to my car, watching through my camera’s lens, ready to get more pictures, when my camera’s batteries died. I raced to change them, and got one fine photo of a flock overhead. It made my morning.

You see some amazing things when you get off the main highway. You pretty much have the road to yourself, and you get close-up views of things you would never imagine if you were stampeding past in some herd. It’s not all beautiful. Parts of it are rough and demand some skilled driving. Some patches can be scary. Especially if you get caught in a storm. But whatever happens, it’s always a worthwhile adventure.

Traveling with trust in your compass and intuition is an interesting way to travel through life-in-general, I think. Get off the main highways. Take some uncharted roads. Keep your faith, and consider it all a grand adventure . . . and a priceless gift.

Warmly,
Susan

I write these letters to you late on Saturday nights. I like settling into the stillness of the evening on those final hours of the week. I let go of all my thoughts about the happenings the week held, and all of those about what I expect to be doing next week. I tell all my complaints to go sit in the corner for a while. And then I just wait. Sooner or later, a little bubble floats into my awareness, and when it pops, there’s the thing I want to say to you.

Tonight, I’m filled with happy anticipation as I write. The week’s events lined up just as I had hoped they would, and tomorrow morning, maybe as you’re reading these words, I’ll be cruising down the highway to visit family and friends who live 400 miles away.

Because we’re lucky to see each other only once a year or so, the visits are special and precious.

I was thinking about how so many of us have been distanced from each other by this past year’s events, and how sad that was. The world has changed in so many ways. And as much as we might wish it, there’s no going back. There never is, you know. The past is past.

“Mom, where do all the yesterdays go?” my son, then six, asked me. I was astonished by the question. I had no idea what to say. So I asked him where he thought they went.

“I think they all gather together in some special place,” he said.

He was right. Children can often see things so clearly.

In some special place, all of the past still lives, every detail of it perfectly preserved. And we have the wonderful ability to dip into it at will, and to pull from it the parts that we experienced. All of our stories are there. Every last one of them. Isn’t that amazing?

I’m taking some memorabilia with me on my trip to share, documents and photos. They’ll act as keys to the place where yesterdays dwell, and we’ll laugh and think of things we did back when and tell each other stories.

That kind of sharing is so rich.

Especially in a world as filled with turmoil as ours is, it’s from our relationships that we draw the greatest meaning and comfort. We’re not in this alone. We have companions on this journey. And sometimes, it’s good to sit and talk with each other about where you’ve been, and what you’ve seen, what made you laugh, what embarrassed you, what made you cry, what you learned and loved along the way.

I’m glad I’ll get to do some of that for a few days. I hope an opportunity will come for you to visit and savor pieces of days past, too. I hope you get to reminisce with someone special, even if only in your mind.

In my mind, I’ll looking through this electronic screen at your face, smiling at you, glad we get these little Sunday visits. You’re real to me, you know, even if we have never met in person or exchanged notes. For a few minutes every week, we get to have this little mind-meld. And in my heart, I wish you an easy day that’s sparkled with joy and fills you with contentment.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by choemik from Pixabay}

When I was a little kid, one of our family’s favorite entertainments was “going for a ride.” Mom would pack a picnic basket. Dad would polish the car’s windows. I’d grab a stack of comic books, a pillow and blanket (in case I would want a nap) and off we’d go for the whole day, exploring the highways of northern Michigan. To me, it felt like an excursion through paradise. I couldn’t imagine any better adventure.

Sometimes, after we had been riding in contented silence for a while, one of my parents would say to the other, “Penny for Your Thoughts.” It was a great game. You never knew where it would go. The only rule was that you had to tell the other person what you were thinking when the penny was offered.

I never saw either mom or dad pay the other the penny. Finally, one day I asked about that. Dad said they just put it on the books. I had no idea what he meant. I never saw pennies on any of our books But I guessed it was just one of those grown-up things.

This week, I revived the game for myself. I put pennies in a few places around the house and whenever I happened to notice one, I would stop and ask myself what I had just been thinking. I made a little mental note of what had been occupying me, labeled it “pleasant” or “unpleasant” and went on with whatever I was doing.

It was quite a revealing game. It showed me where I needed a tune-up. I like that phrase, “tune-up.” I think of a piano or guitar and how you need to adjust the strings now and then to stay exactly on the right note. If the string is too loose, your note will sound flat. If it’s too tight, it will lean to the sharp side. And we joy warriors like to stay right on key, perfectly balanced on the exact vibration. Smooth and clear.

Maybe it’s one of those “golden mean” things, that magical space where the scales between pleasant and unpleasant, good and bad, positive and negative–however you want to think of it–where the scales are balanced. It’s that place where you find yourself most open to reality, resisting nothing, accepting it all for what it is. Including your desire for it to be something else. And feeling love for it anyway. That’s the space I call being in joy.

The penny game turned out to be a good tool for entering it, or at least for remembering that it was my intended destination. Sometimes, when you’re stuck in a dark spot in the inner stories you tell yourself, remembering that joy is real and possible can be a genuine comfort. Who would have guessed you could still get such value for a mere penny.

I’ll scatter some virtual pennies between my words here for you. You can turn them into real ones if you want and put a few where you’re likely to spot them. Then, when you do, think “Penny for Your Thoughts.” See what you find out.

Wishing you treasures!

Warmly,
Susan

^{Photo by Olya Adamovich from Pixabay}