I am grateful for the books. They bring me comfort, entertainment, fulfillment and often illumination and elightenment. Each book I have read reveals one person’s story or some collective story of many persons. There are books that tell the story of nation, or a culture. There are books that tell the story of the future while others remember the story of the past. I write to tell a story, to reveal a hidden compartment within me to others, but mostly to myself. When I walk into the bookstore and see the hundreds of shelves lined with books, take the escalator to the second floor and see more shelves lined with more books each one unique in it’s own right, I might feel a sense of competition or hopelessness at the prospect of anyone finding my book amongst all these thousands but instead I feel companionship, comraderie with all those authors, all the storytellers among us. I thrill in the opportunity to see into the hidden compartments of so many of my fellow human beings. It makes me wonder then at all the stories that don’t get told. The millions of people whose stories remain within them or told only orally at the dinner table. I consider the stories told through paintings, music and sculpture and I feel better knowing that there are many ways to tell a story and even more ways in which to hear it. When I enter a beautiful building or wander through an elaborate garden I see the story of person. When I fly in an airplane or sit in front of a steering wheel and think of the inventors of the past and that their stories move, I can sit in their stories and their legacy is the sound of the motor in my ear. Teenagers wear their stories on their bodies, mothers in the worry lines of their faces, husbands and providers wear the story of their life on the faded back pockets of their pants where there is a faint impression of a wallet. Some stories are told through the eyes and others through the hands. Some stories are told through food, a well cooked meal yet others through a distinctive hairdo. Everyone has a story, what is yours?

The challenge of my life of late is just being. Not being something or someone but just being. It is so easy to get caught up in identification of titles, possessions and status. I have wondered if I would feel differently about myself if I were to suddenly become paralyzed from the neck down and be totally dependant on others. I would lose all the external attachments and be left only with myself as I am, the unchanging eternal nature of my soul. How much of my identity is attached to ideas, possessions and abilities? It is a good question to ponder. I enjoy living life, of being a partner to another person, the opportunity to parent children, the pleasure of eating out with friends, of being able to move and laugh and sing. I enjoy talking and listening, taking a walk, reading books and going shopping. I like to travel and wear cute clothes and get my hair done at the salon. I love soft blankets and good movies. I even enjoy working on occasion. All of these pleasures are part of my life and I am grateful for them. But if I lost each and every one of those joys not one part of who I really am would be lost at all. My inner joy and the pleasure I take in those activities exist inside myself as an insular and intrinsic part of my nature. While it is tempting to attach myself to the many wonders that are all around me the most freeing statement I can make about myself is this-I am.

What is the difference between falling apart and breaking open? It is a question I have been asking myself of late. Can I allow life to break me open? For example, one day  I was walking out of the portrait studio a few years ago and I had a baby on one hip, my purse over my shoulder, holding the hand of my five year old and trying to carrying a hundred dollars worth of portraits in my teeth. I was trying to keep an eye on my other children who were behind me and in front of me running through a busy parking lot. I was feeling a little overwhelmed and stressed. As I stepped off the curb I lost my balance and twisted my ankle falling hard to the pavement. I tore holes in the knees of my slacks skinning both knees to bleeding. I kept the toddler on my hip from hitting his head but it prevented me from catching my fall. It hurt, physically. But more than that I was embarrassed. I had this odd thought that adults are not supposed to fall. I decided to do something radically different than what I felt like doing. I decided to stay put, in heap at the curb of a large and busy parking lot. I decided to stay until I addressed the discomfort of the experience. I noticed several people looking at me oddly. I felt humiliation, shame, stupidity and several other extremely uncomfortable feelings. But that passed. I felt a strange sense of liberation as I sat there rubbing my knees and noticing how different life looks from down on the ground. I started to laugh. There was an openness as my fears about how I appeared vanished in the aftermath of my fall. By the time I rose and gathered my scattered items I felt renewed and opened. My knees hurt for sometime after the experience and I had to get my hip adjusted by a chiropractor but I have reflected many times on the inner experience that could have left me feeling raw and humiliated. Instead it was as if I endured long enough to enter a forgotten realm of freedom and self acceptance. Falling apart can be an opportunity to break open, let the light of what is fill the shadows of who we think we ought to be. That is true freedom; living in the truth of each moment no matter how painful it might be.

I often say that I don’t believe in coincidences but the truth is, I do. When two events coincide with one another that are seemingly random and unrelated we call that a coincidence. I believe in coincidence I just don’t disregard it as “only a coincidence.” I know that some force larger than myself is at play and I can only see a small part of it, so it appears random and unrelated. But learning to read life allows a greater appreciation for such events. Shamans refer to this kind of event as an omen. The Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung, in an attempt to come up with a new word for coincidence created the word synchronicity. For me, coincidences are reminders that there is an invisible hand at work in my life. For some reason, these kinds of events are thrilling and even emotional at times for they appear to be infused with the meaning and purpose of my existence. I feel the threads of connection literally played out on the stage of life. Each person is intricately woven into everyone else’s life so events too, are interconnected in much the same way. A coincidence is like coming to the space that creates a crossroad. It is the point of intersection and a place of tremendous opportunity, potential and  ultimately choice. Lately, my life is riddled with coincidences. It is a riddle, a puzzle that I want to solve. Sometimes it makes me laugh and other times it startles me; or it fills me with a deep sense of purpose and belonging. According to Jung, the journey of the human being is the process of individuation, the full realization of both the self and the Divine within. A seeming contradiction, one of life’s great paradoxes. Or perhaps it is a great spiritual truth where one realizes all parts meet together as a single whole.

Have you ever cringed while watching someone on TV getting beaten? I have, in fact, most times I have to leave the room because the trauma of watching the abuse of another person is still with me. The scene on the TV only triggers the emotions and reactions from my own personal past. It is one of the things I have yet to come to terms with entirely. That is due to the fact that I didn’t know that watching someone else be abused, was traumatic to me. Particularly when that someone was a person that I loved and cared about. As a child, abuse in my house was like a natural disaster; it ripped through the home causing waves of terror to the witnesses and screams of pain to the victims. All one could do was stand in horror, helpless to alter the power of the violence. It never occurred to me that it could be stopped. Like an earthquake I held my breath each day that the quake did not come, knowing that it was drawing nearer with every moment. When it did come, it was as terrifying as I had feared and the aftershocks rumbled on long after the event was over. The earthquake affected everyone, not just the person caught in its path. My own healing of this kind of trauma, this second hand violence, is not complete-if healing is ever complete. I have walked both paths, the path of the victim, suffering humiliation and violence against my own mind and body, as well as the path of the witness, suffering the pangs of helplessness and self-beytrayal. Time does not heal all wounds. I am not sure time heals anything except to make the wound familiar and even comforting. Healing requires time, but without the belief and hope that something greater than the pain exists, that all that has happened has a divine reason, then time just marches on leaving the wounds unexamined, untouched and unhealed. The witness must also walk the fiery path of truth and heal the invisible wounds of the mind and heart.

She looked out of place standing alone among the men in their suits or black leather jackets. Everyone was introducing themselves and shaking hands. There were a few other women but they had come with someone. This woman was elderly, alone and looked a little bit lost. She timidly asked the woman tending the sign-in table if this was the correct meeting. Yes, it was, she was in the right place. Yet, her eyes were wide with a kind of innocent fear. Her clothes were mismatched; blue sweat pants, black flats and several sweaters layered over one another. Her red-colored hair frayed about her head in all directions. I was curious about her. Why was she here? How did she feel? We were all waiting for the facilitator of the meeting to arrive. We milled about the lobby exchanging small talk and making introductions. But the little red-haired woman seemed to know no one. When the facilitator arrived he began saying his formal hellos and shaking hands as he made his way across the room. I stood in the back observing. He was larger than life, dynamic and almost always with an entourage of people wanting to speak to him or ask him a question. He wore a steel gray suit and had the air of someone used to being in public, used to the naked eye of world upon him. I expected him to ignore the little old woman, to pass by the unimportant on his way to the podium, the soap box upon which he would occupy. But he did not pass her by. He turned when he saw her and strode across the room to shake her hand. The scene in front of me was unlike any I had previously witnessed. There he was, his six foot frame bent to meet the old woman at eye level. He rested a sturdy hand upon her shoulder.

“Is that an angel pin on your sweater?” he asked.

“Why yes it is,” she said proudly.

“I like it.” He was sincere.

The room was still buzzing with chatter, but for me, the big man in the gray suit and the little old lady were the only two people in the room.

“I think your angel is upside down. Can I fix it for you?” he queried.

“Of course.” She smiled at him and puffed her chest out a bit so he could adjust the tiny silver angel into its upright position. I watched him carefully turn the angel’s wings and once it was righted he  patted her shoulder tenderly.

“There,” he said still bent eagerly toward her. “Much better. I am so glad you could make it tonight.”

He walked away from the little woman with nary a thought of his actions. I realized suddenly that I was weeping when a tear rolled off my face and onto my folded arm.  There was nothing that man could say or do that would have impressed itself into my being greater than what he had already done. I found me a seat and listened to the two hour presentation. His booming voice and energetic words were stimulating and the meeting was productive. But the lesson he taught me with his actions, in those few moments when no one was looking, was a gift greater by far than any word coming out his mouth, or any idea imparted from the intelligence of his mind. It was a small thing made large by the gentle recognition of one human soul to another.

I saw love when I entered the funeral home. It was arrayed in red roses and ferns, it was dressed up in a mini tuxedo. I saw love when it packed the pews and spilled out into the lobby. I saw love in the beautiful music coming from the grand piano and the voices over the microphone. I saw love in the arms that wrapped around the grieving mother and in the hands that patted the child’s father on the shoulder. There was love in the hushed tones that expressed condolences and in the tender glances of care. Love drove miles and stopped in a cemetery; a great field of many bones. There it gathered into hundreds of individual faces looking at the deep hole that would hold the tiny box for eternity. Love stood silent with the wind blowing skirts and tousling hair. Love carried the little white coffin to its final resting place. Love said good-bye. Love let the little boy go to his home in heaven on his mother’s tears. Love lives while all else dies.

I was abused as a child: physically, sexually, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. I knew even as a child that some of the things happening to me and my siblings were wrong. What I didn’t know was how to draw a line between corporal punishment and abuse. As an adult I came to understand the scope of the abuse, the trauma and scarring that resulted from repeated beating, belittling, humiliation, starvation and neglect. These are the more common aspects of abuse but what is often overlooked and is one of the most desperately painful types of abuse is witnessing the abuse of another and feeling helpless to prevent or stop it. Being forced to witness abuse has haunted my life in ways that no other experience has or could. There is also the abuse against the self. I perpetrated acts of violence against myself including induced loss of consciousness, self mutilation and violent or suicidal fantasies. But what stands above them all were the many acts of self betrayal. I did not defend or protect myself from my abuser and in many cases participated by submission and obedience to my own abuse. Paralyzed by fear I accepted the contempt, hatred and scorn as my lot in life. I succumbed to the self loathing and inner judgement that proclaimed me a curse on the earth. I fell prey to the utter dehumanization and deprivation of my soul. I had withered, suffocated and was dying on the inside. Time alone could not heal these wounds. Only when I began to forgive myself for these acts of self betrayal and sins of omission did my heart begin to mend. Ultimately it is not what others do to us that has the greatest destructive power but what we do to ourselves. When I stopped abusing myself, I would not, could not allow others to abuse me.

A few days ago while sitting paitently at a red light at a very busy highway intersection my fuel pump decided to give up the ghost. It was 5:00 pm and rush hour traffic was in full swing. I wasn’t sure what had happened except the whole vehicle shuddered and then became silent. After making a few phone calls there was a tow truck on its way but meanwhile I was clogging up traffic in a busy section of the city. Cars were zipping around me and a few honked in annoyance. I just sat there with three or four lanes of traffic on both sides of me and there was not much I could do. Suddenly I saw a man approaching my vehicle in my rearview mirror, about ten cars behind me. He asked me if he could push me across the intersection and over to the curb. I was stunned at this man’s kindness. Of course I said yes, thank you. I drive a full size SUV and when the light turned green he started pushing my vehicle. Cars were zooming by and we were moving at a snail’s pace. We didn’t make it very far before the light turned red and the kind man stood panting at the back of my vehicle. To my right I noticed two more cars at the curb with their flashers on. Two businessmen, probably on their way home from work, crossed the busy intersection and over to my vehicle. The three of them coordinated to get my vehicle across three lanes of traffic and to the curb. I thanked them all and they went back about their business. I couldn’t help but wonder at the willingness of strangers to act on behalf of others. Others in this case being me. It inspired me, touched me and reminded me that we are all on this planet together and that kindness is one of the most powerful tools of transformation we can use to create change in ourselves, in others and in the world. My heartfelt thanks goes to the three strangers who took the time to help another person. I hope that I have the opportunity to pass that kindness forward, bettering myself, others and the world.

Contained within the atom is a power and force unknown to humankind until modern times. And yet atoms are the basic building blocks of matter. An individual atom is so small that it can only be seen through a special instrument. And yet, the power of an individual atom can destroy matter. That which we cannot see we often believe has little or no power. Hidden within the atom is an incredible power; power to create or destroy depending on how it is used. Hidden within each human being is a great power; a power to create or destroy depending on how it is used.

Two examples from history: Adolf Hitler was a small diminutive man, a failed artist and veteran from WWI. That single individual brought the German nation out of the oppression of the Treaty of Versailles and economic disaster, created a massive army, an impeccable air force and navy, created the Nazi Party and had ambitions to unify an Aryan race that he believed would carry humanity forward. He had designs for the extinction of Jews and carried out the murder of millions. He died at age 56. He built an empire of domination and fear. He left a legacy of pain and ruin. One man. One atom.

Mother Teresa was a small diminutive woman. She left her home in Albania at age 18 feeling the call of the religious life. She devoted herself to the poor, the crippled and the sick, opening hundreds of orphanages, hospices and sanctuaries for lepers and other diseased people. She started soup houses, family counseling programs and schools. She traveled the world, rescuing the dying, homeless and the forgotten from despair. She brought one of the poorest places in the world, Calcutta India, onto the international scene. She too built an empire, one of service and love. She left a legacy of hope and healing. One woman. One atom.

We are surrounded by billions of atoms and we are surrounded by billions of people. The powers within the individual lie dormant and many of us go through life without ever touching this wellspring within ourselves. We are shocked and awed when we witness someone who excercises this power, just as we were shocked and awed at the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I  believe that a single person can make a difference and does make a difference. I believe that a single individual can change the world. I can only imagine what many could do.