Category: Sunday Letters

While digging around in my archives the other day, I found this “Blast from the Past” that I wrote in 2010. I was writing about character strengths at the time and this one was about the strength of optimism. I called it . . .

“The Breakfast of Champions”

None of it matters: Where you were born, who your parents are, how tough you had it growing up, how many boulders you had to climb over, what the competition was doing.

What matters is whether you’ve got heart, how much you want to be, how deep you’re willing to dive into the life force within you, what stories you believe and tell.

Especially the stories. You either have excuses or you have reasons. It’s up to you. You either let it get you or you don’t. You see people who came from the sorriest of life’s lot wearing medals, champions risen from the dregs. What kinds of stories do you suppose they listened to and chanted to themselves in the dead of night? Tell yourself those kinds of stories.

The ones who win life’s prizes don’t let a missing leg or drunken dad or empty wallet tell them that the whole deck of cards is stacked against them. They see what they have, not what they lack.

If they stumble, they don’t decide they’re worthless. They tie their shoes or watch out for cracks and keep on with the race. They remember the times they did well, beat the pack, sunk the putt, hit the target, aced the test. They believe in themselves. They tell themselves “I can,” and “I will.”

They fly the banners of hope and high expectations. They eat optimism for breakfast and dine on their victories at night, and even if the victories are small, they find enough of them to make a satisfying meal.

Life is for the brave. It sings like a riot of trumpets for the ones with the daring and guts to keep going even when things are tough. And it sends happiness to dwell in their hearts and applauds them with standing ovations.

Wishing you a week of courage and joy.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by Pexels from Pixabay}

When you visit here, maybe you’ll notice that my subtitle is “A Joy Warrior’s Journey.” “Joy Warrior” is a title I gave myself back when I was immersed in my studies of positive psychology. It started out as a game. I imagined it as my joining a kind of order or school where you dedicated yourself to learning to live in joy, no matter what. I invented an ever-growing story around it. I couldn’t help it; it’s the writer in me.

It turns out that it’s serious business being a Joy Warrior. It’s not like all of a sudden you step into a pair of magic happy shoes and tra-la-la your way though life. It’s not a game of let’s pretend.

Its goal is to master the art of dissolving anything that stands between you and perfect, radiant joy. And these days, the heap of things cluttering access to joy seems astonishingly deep and tall. It extends from right under our feet to the edges of the sky. As a joy warrior, it’s your job to figure out how to keep those things from stealing your attention and peace. And let me tell you, that’s one heck of a challenge.

So here I am, slaying the dragons that would devour my view of joy, passing along clues as I find them. I’ve learned that joy-stealers are devious, malevolent things. And they love to upset you. To them your rage is like a charred marshmallow to devour around a fire as they chortle with scorn. Remembering that is a good tool to keep in your basket. Don’t feed the joy-stealers.

Another things I’ve learned is that you’re best off when you play to your strengths. Do what you’re good at, what attracts you, what gets your heart beating. Back in the hippie days they said it, “Follow your bliss.” You go farther faster when you move in harmony with your personal strengths than you do when you try to fight against your weaknesses. Smile at your reflection in the mirror every day. Maybe wink at yourself. Remember what it feels like to have fun, to be at ease, to feel a sense of appreciation floating up from somewhere inside you.

You see things more broadly when you’re at peace and content with things just as they are. Even when they’re not what you wanted them to be. It’s a discipline to look for the silver lining, you know. And there always is one. It’s a world of contrasts, of dualities, a kind of “can’t have one without the other” place. When you can see that, and allow it to be okay, the problems of the world, even your personal ones, lose their density and the light of joy, glowing soft and silver, shines through them, and there’s more clarity, and perspective, and a kind of wordless understanding of how everything really is okay.

I didn’t mean to go on and on. I just wanted to expand a little on my experiences as a Joy Warrior. You can decide to be one, too, you know. Or invent a school of your own. Or just be who you are and have the most fun being you that you can possibly have.

Wishing you a week sparkled with smiles.

Warmly,
Susan

Chances are, since you’re human, you’ve had one or two of those times where you’re right at the edge of absolute despair and, looking over the edge into the abyss below, think the tumble might be worth it. You’re not about to find out. But you sure won’t mind when this all ends.

First of all, as someone who has the tattered tee-shirt from that place, let me tell you I’m sorry you had to feel that pain. I’m sorry any of us do. But we do. Every last one of us. It comes, it seems, with the package.

I was reminded of those bleak stretches of the road when I happened across a little wall poster that said,”Don’t you DARE give up now!” I was having a fine morning when I saw it, and it made me grin. Such a poke! Such encouragement in so few words.

“That’s right,” I said to myself. Then I watched a whole string of cliches roll through my mind:
Things change. Things get better. Light follows dark. Calm follows storm.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I thought. I don’t want to hear a bunch of truisms now. Not if I’m chest deep in the messiness of life. If that’s where I am, I’m hanging on to this big bag full of disgust and
sick-of-this-had-enough-ness. And somehow I can’t quite get myself to set it down.

So, you’ve probably been there a time or two, right? Sucks.

One of the best ladders I’ve found for digging myself out of that particular kind of a pit is Tara Brach’s mantra: “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.” Saying those words, for me, softens things, lets me let go of some of the stubbornness that’s holding onto my disgust bag. It’s one of those phrases I like to keep nearby to grab when I’m in trouble.

Now I have “Don’t you DARE give up now!” to add to the mix. It feels spicier. It’s bracing. It carries a challenge. Mind you, it doesn’t say you can’t take a rest. A nap might be just what you need before you take on the next round. It’s just saying that you need to take on the next round.

A scene from a movie I can’t remember comes to mind where these two men are having a raging fist-fight in the mud in a terrible downpour. The hero is taking a pretty bad beating. He slips in the mud and falls to his knees a couple times. Then he’s hit with a powerful blow to the jaw and falls whole body into the slimy mud. Calling on every bit of reserve he has, he pulls himself to his feet. “Why do you keep getting up?” the bad guy asks him incredulously. The hero looks him in the eye, his face covered with mud, and snarls, “Because I can.”

That’s one of the things that made him a hero. He didn’t give up. He kept on going, regardless of how bleak the odds seemed.

Things change. Sometimes – more often than we credit – things get better. And light really does come after darkness. So, yes. I’ll put this one in my pocket: “Don’t you DARE give up now!”

Stick one in yours, too. You never know. It might come in handy one of these days.

Wishing you a week where light dances gently all around you.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by TheDigitalArtist by Pixabay}

Every now and then somebody up the road sets off a volley of fireworks. Sometimes it’s the little ones that are like popcorn. Sometimes it sounds like a cannon. Once it was a sudden deep boom so loud it made me jump in my chair. It’s that weekend. The Fourth of July, even if the fourth isn’t until Tuesday. We know a holiday when we see one.

Independence Day. I wonder how many of us give any thought at all to its origin, to the context of the times from which it arose, to the meaning of it and how it reflects on the times we are living today. I suppose that sort of thing belongs to a past era. And personally, I think that’s a failure and a shame.

When I was a kid, every Independence Day I used to sprawl on the living room floor with a thick, leather-covered volume of The Encyclopedia Britannica and read The Declaration of Independence all the way through, even though I didn’t understand it. It was sort of like the Bible that way. It felt important and like something you should know.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident,” it said, “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

 That’s a pretty deep thought when you consider it. It’s one of those you can visit time and again over the years and have a more insightful view each time as your life experience grows.

Basically, as I see it, the Declaration is a group of people saying they can no longer go along with oppressive treatment from their government and will, going forward, govern themselves, thank you. It’s kind of like when somebody keeps telling you all these things you have to do for their benefit no matter how you feel about it, and then one day, you say, “Wait a minute.” You decide you’ve had enough of that game and you’re not going to play it any more.

Doing that, deciding you will be following your own rules from now on, can create a ruckus. And it did, back then, when those colonists reached their “wait a minute” moment. And here we are. Flying our flags and grilling our burgers and hearing the fireworks pop off from all directions.

I’ll be flying my flag, too, this weekend. I fly it every day that it doesn’t rain. And I’ll be thinking, as I unfurl it and place it in its standard, about the things it represents to me. Even if such thoughts aren’t currently in vogue. Truths endure regardless.

May we be free.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by picjumbo_com on pixabay}

Imagine that I’m up in the attic of this old, wood frame house of mine. Dust sparkles in the light filtering through the shutters and I’m going through the contents of an old foot locker that I haven’t opened in years. I pull out a manila file folder and open it to find pieces I wrote over a decade ago.

I don’t know what led me to this discovery. But later, when I asked myself what it was all about, an inner knowing came to me. It was so I could share two of the pieces with you. Consider them little gifts of thanks to you, just because.

The first one is called “Grace in Rocky Places.” It goes like this:

Few places are totally barren or wholly devoid of hope. Life pushes itself through the smallest cracks, takes root in the most unlikely places.

Eventually, the longest winter gives way to spring. The darkness gives way to light.

Be at peace.

You, who are not made of rock, are filled with more possibilities than you know and have eternity in which to fulfill them.

Keep faith alive in your heart; hold fast to your aspirations. Regardless of appearances or circumstances, life will make a way.

*              *              *

And the second one is “A Blessing for Your Journey.”

May your pathway open into sunlight and stepping stones show you the way.

May the waters be placid around you, the breezes mild and the weather fair.

May each step you take enlarge you, expanding your vision, your courage and faith.

May you dare the unknown with confidence and find loveliness wherever you go.

May your heart speak thanks for every grace offered, and your hands reach out in kindness to all you meet along the way.

May you hear the Great Yes whispering all around you and breathe in rhythm with its song, knowing that it sings for you, and of you, for you are one of its own.

*              *              *

It’s good to rummage around in your attic every now and then. I’ll be wishing you a week of interesting discoveries.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by Peter H from Pixabay}

This is one of those little hometown stories you don’t hear much any more. It’s about my neighbor’s son-in-law, Shawn.

Shawn worked as a meat cutter at the big chain grocery store up the road a couple miles. He’d always nod and smile when he saw me. But ahead of his job, the passion of his life was his membership in the township’s Volunteer Fire Department.

Last winter, Shawn took ill and was diagnosed with one of those “turbo-cancers” that have sprung up in the past couple years. They develop quickly and affect different areas of the body simultaneously or in rapid succession.

Shawn fought it valiantly. But last Tuesday the doctors said there was no more they could do and sent him home to die surrounded by his family.

The family set up a bed for him in the living room where he could look out the front door at the neighborhood. There was something special coming, they told him, they wanted him to see.

A few hours later, as a light rain fell from a pale sky, the sound of a fire truck’s siren ripped through the air, followed by another, and another, and another. Trucks had come from departments all around the county. One even came from E. Palestine, Ohio. Shawn hadn’t been able to fight the fire the night of the derailment last winter, but his wife went, fighting along with the rest of the department.

The bond among fire-fighters is strong. They came this night to tell Shawn they loved and respected him, to honor his years of service. The red and white lights of their trucks glistened in the rain as they drove in a slow parade all around his block, sirens wailing.

Shawn watched from his bed, smiling. Two days later, he was gone.

My heart goes out to the family. They’ve been through the wringer the past couple years. But it never got them down.

I was thinking about Shawn and his family yesterday when I came across a short story called “The Black Telephone.” It’s a beautiful little story and worth a read. In one part of it, the story-teller’s pet canary dies. He’s just a little kid at the time and the death confuses him. He goes to a wise older friend. Here’s the excerpt from the story:

 I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”
Somehow I felt better.

I felt better, too. For a minute, I imagined a grinning Shawn giving rides to smiling children and puppies in a big shiny fire truck up in some corner of heaven.

You know, it can be a tough world. There’s a lot of pain and sorrow here. Remember to be kind. And when you lose someone dear, take comfort in remembering that there are other worlds to sing in.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Bird Image by Steven Iodice from Pixabay
Firetruck photos by Bob Spann}

I’ve been enjoying my gardens this week. Because I live surrounded by woods, I lack the sunshine to grow anything that requires more than an hour or two of sun. But the shade-lovers I have, and a few precious flowers, are doing splendidly. So are the so-called weeds that grow among them, the wild ones who traveled up from the meadow below or ambled down from the wooded hillsides that surround me. The raspberries, the phlox, the chamomile, the yarrow and forget-me-nots and buttercups and ferns.

I have to admit it; I love weeds. Without any help from human hands, they do pretty doggone well. And personally, I confess that when I watch them grow, I think they have more fun than their cultivated cousins.

They seem freer somehow, less constrained. And let’s face it; they’re definitely hardier.

I think when nobody’s around they laugh. I think they just plain like what they are, that they don’t take themselves too seriously.

They grow lightly, with no silly need to be something special. They just pop out their leaves and buds and flowers and berries according to whatever pattern nature provides, schmoozing with their neighbors, making the best of whatever resources happen to be at hand.

And somehow it all turns out beautifully.

There’s a lesson there, I think. Maybe it’s that we ought to be more careful what we label a “weed.” Maybe it’s that you don’t have to be all fancy in order to please. Maybe it’s that old advice to bloom where we are planted – and to do it with abandon and joy. I don’t know. I just know that they delight my eye and make me smile. And these days anything in this world that can do that is just fine with me.

Have yourself a happy little week. I hope you happen on a weed or two, and that it makes you smile.

Warmly,
Susan

It’s not “official,” but there’s no doubt that summer has arrived in the area—full force! People greet each other in the morning saying, “It’s gonna be a hot one.” And their words prove true.

It was too hot yesterday to do much of anything outdoors, except to savor the sun and the luxurious green, and the constantly changing sky-show overhead. For a while, I found myself drifting back in time to my childhood summers.

Remember how, when you were a kid, you’d stretch out in the grass watching the clouds and see a whole menagerie cavorting across the sky?

Remember how the fire-breathing dragon would morph into a pony or bear?

Oh! The stories that could fill the sky on a summer afternoon!

Funny how it’s always the clouds that catch our gaze, and not the endless blue on which they float, isn’t it? How we’re built to see the figures and not the infinitely deep and mysterious space in which they float?

It’s how we live our lives, fixing our gaze on the thoughts and memories that drift by, on the stories we make up to give shape to the passing events. It’s how we create meaning for ourselves, and from that meaning, how we make our decisions. Imagination is a powerful thing.

But every now and then, it’s good to remember to notice the sky – the deep, formless context in which we live our lives, the space from which all our thoughts and perceptions arise, the infinite consciousness that teams with the invisible life force that powers our very being.

The dragon in the clouds seems so real as we stare at it, imagining its fire-breathing snout, its wide-spread wings, its sharply clawed feet. But moments later, it is no more; it dissolves into the mystery of sky.

Our problems are like that, too. Our interpretations, our plans, our dreams all seem so real. And then they are gone, and new ones come to replace them. But we ourselves remain, because we, at our core, are more sky than cloud. We are the vessels through which the story-clouds, the dream-clouds, are created and experienced and lived. We are the meaning-makers, dancers in the mystery.

May you dance with joy, and spin wondrous clouds as you go.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by giografiche from Pixabay}

“With my luck,” a friend began, “I’d trip and fall and break my leg.”
“Well, you know,” I said teasingly, “our thoughts create our reality. Be careful what you wish for.” We both laughed.

But it’s true. If you go around thinking of yourself as a clumsy fool with terrible luck, life is likely to accommodate you. Remember that phrase I mentioned a while back, “What the Thinker thinks, the Prover proves.” That’s really how it works. There’s a host of technical reasons why and how it happens. But the bottom line is that it does.

The proofs the Prover brings aren’t always literal, of course—although they can be. I wasn’t suggesting my friend would actually fall and break his leg. It’s more the essence or quality of our thoughts that the Prover proves.

The other day, I heard a guy put it this way, “When you do low vibrational stuff, you get low vibrational people and situations in your life.” I think that says it pretty well. And “low vibrational stuff” includes the thoughts we think, our self-talk, our mental movies.

When you find that you’ve fallen into a pity trap, or get mired in boredom, anger, sadness, or fear, one of the quickest ways out is to check what you were thinking then choose a different line of thought. Ask yourself what’s good about the moment and see what comes up. If you’re really bummed and your brain tries to tell you that nothing is good about the moment, tell it, “Well, besides that, what’s good?” You are, after all, conscious enough to remember to check your thoughts. And that’s a good thing in itself.

Another good thing is that we always have alternative thoughts available. Whole hosts of them! We just have to keep asking what’s good and move in its direction.

One alternative that I find puts things in perspective for me is a little paragraph by author and public speaker David Icke. He says the trick to freeing ourselves from something we’re experiencing is not to identify with it.

“You are not your emotions, or thoughts, or the things your remember, ” he says, “or all the sensations your physical body is registering. You are the one who is feeling the emotions, listening to the thoughts, remembering the memories, seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling. Those are the things that you are experiencing. They come and go. Whatever comes and goes is not you. You are a vehicle for all that is, and was, and ever will be to use in its endless explorations.”

If that’s the case, why not choose a different line of thought, different things to say about yourself, a movie that turns course and runs in a more empowering direction?

It takes practice, of course. Some of the ruts we get stuck in are pretty sticky. But every time we choose to look for the good the moment holds, for its opportunities, for its invitations, we get better at it and stronger. We catch ourselves sooner, before we slide all the way into our habitual pits. We start to discover that it’s freeing and fun to be in control, to remember we’re explorers in a universe of possibilities, that we can choose to nudge our paths in new directions, to step into a brighter, truer reality – even if we take only one small step at a time.

Wishing you a lifetime of endless discoveries of the good.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay}

“What I don’t know I make up,” I used to tell people as a kind of joke. I left it up to them to figure out where fact gave way to fantasizing.

I was listening to some talk about ChatGPT this week. “What is ChatGPT?” you ask. (Here’s a good description.) Basically, It’s an online tool that’s sort of like a cross between an unimaginably vast library and a great personal assistant. A big bevy of those First Adopter types are praising its capabilities. It’s passed the bar exam, scored well on the SATs, and developed detailed business plans, for example. It’s fast and smart. You’ll be hearing about it more and more, I’m sure.

Well anyway, it turns out that when ChatGPT can’t find an exact answer for you, it, too, will make stuff up. And it’s very good at it, I hear. The Artificial Intelligence developers label the phenomenon “hallucinating.”

I thought that was an interesting word choice. When I make stuff up, I think of it as imagining. But what’s the difference when it comes down to it? Regardless of which term you give it, it’s a story our brains fabricate, both the living and the machine kind.

Personally, I thought it was a bit eerie that a language tool rooted in Artificial Intelligence would make things up. Why would it do that? It doesn’t have an ego to defend, after all, or emotions to sort out. It’s not trying to entertain. Maybe it’s a technique it uses for problem-solving. That’s one of the purposes our own story-making serves. Fortunately, ChatGPT doesn’t hallucinate anywhere near as much as we humans do. It’s more of a cut and dried here-are-the-facts kind of operation. We, on the other hand, are living in our dream worlds, our story worlds, more than we’re not.

To borrow the AI developers’ term, we’re usually living in a hallucination. There’s not necessarily something wrong with that. It’s the nature of the human mind (and maybe machine mind, too) at work. It’s a way of figuring things out, of looking for solutions.

What separates us from the machine, though, is that we can turn our attention away from our imaginary stories and focus on the here and now, with all its colors, and tastes, and sounds and smells. We can feel the air moving through us and around us. We can notice our bodies and adjust them at will. We can respond to the action around us. We can decide to play a different movie than the one that we were engulfed in minutes before. Or we can go back to it. But in the meantime, if only for a moment or two, we can be here, consciously alive in the midst of a living, mysterious world. And isn’t that amazing? And isn’t it amazing that we can be amazed?

Wishing you a week where you abandon the trance repeatedly to rediscover the mysterious reality right before you.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by ThankYouFantasyPictures from Pixabay}