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Art as a Form of Forgiveness

In the midst of it all she chose color I sat listening attentively, taking in the message of the room when the speaker read a poem she’d written celebrating her daughter’s pink hair.  At first I felt a gulp in my throat followed by shallow breathing.  With my stomach in knots and my heart aching, guilt began rising.  I witnessed contrast.  Where this loving mother had celebrated the bright colors of her daughter’s hair, I had criticized mine.  Yes, my daughter also was one of the many with bold hair choices in her teen years.  Beginning with her natural soft brown mane, she became pink, dark blue, and midnight black.  My response?  Not poetry and celebration.  Criticism and shame.  I was afraid of how she would be perceived by others and instead of my bold lead in beginning the love train, I felt a need to prepare her for “out there” which really reflected “in here.”  I squandered an opportunity to love. Returning home I headed to my computer to write...

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Thirty Thank Yous

My two years in solitude were really about two years of shedding.  I started, pretty much at ground zero, and invited a continuation of digging and purging in consciousness; the most honest way I knew to honor the already demolished self.  The process wasn’t really linear.  Not like demolishing a home so a new one could be built on the same site.  It was a process of allowing death to happen simultaneously with new life.  This is where I choose the metaphor of shedding. Even that, I’m not sure is quite right. Anyhow, as I begin leaving the quiet dark and venture out into the Land of Doing, I am aware I live from a large chunk of intuition and a smaller portion of disciplined practice.  I have been redicent with practices as my old self had a tendency of turning the opportunities for  fresh possibilities into tyrranical tasks which had to get done. I promise myself with all practices, this new self will try them on and wear them a bit....

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Patti Digh: How I Know I’m Aligned with My Soul

I was introduced to Patti’s work through a stranger. I was visiting Cannon Beach, Oregon less than one month after my dad died. I was raw with grief and entered a spa with a book in hand about writing my emotions. I was greeted by a perky Lisa who asked me what I was reading. I shared with her the book was on Sark’s book recommendation list and her enthusiasm upleveled. “Have you read Patti Digh?  If  you like Sark, you’ll like Patti.”  She wrote Patti’s name on a piece of paper with the name of her book Life is a Verb.  She said “Patti’s stepdad died after being diagnosed with cancer. He lived 37 days and it his loss changed her life.”  This, of course, got my attention. Grateful for a fellow traveler I went into a private room for a foot treatment. I emerged an hour later, skin softer, heart still shattered. As I leave the private room I find Lisa pacing nearby.  “Oh My God, she says,...

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