A Tall Feathered Tale

Sometimes things happen when you least expect it and they can totally turn your day around. This was one of those times.

I was driving down Sugarloaf Mountain Road thinking about the state of my affairs, which, if I had any thing to say about them, would be substantially different ~ Way Better ~ to be more specific. I came around a corner and what I saw before me was too weird to be true.

There was a man on a bicycle, moving rather slowly as he was pedaling  up   a steep incline. And running beside him was a long legged turkey.

I was shocked silly!

I pumped my brake pedal.

The turkey looked very tall;

the man looked very unhappy.

 

I rolled down my window and leaned out to get a better look. The poor man was trying to pedal even as the bird viciously pecked at him.  I casually asked him if this was his pet turkey. He had a hard time talking but he squawked something like, “this damn bird is trying to kill me!”

As I slowed my car beside them, the turkey was loudly vocal and partially threw out his tail feathers into a fan.  He was dark brown, wild, and rather trim, apparently from jogging.  He appeared to be much more in control than his opponent ~ gobbling, fanning and pecking at the poor fellow !

 

The gentleman biker had grey hair under his little helmet, and shiny black bike shorts that fit tightly on his upper thighs leaving the rest of his poor leg exposed. I feel quite confident in assuming he had no idea when he dressed that day that he would be fending off,  or racing against,  a rabid running turkey.

Lest you think I am being unfair to the biker, he outweighed the bird by 150 pounds at least, and I will confess, under different circumstances, I would have found them both equally attractive specimens.

 

I wanted to yell some encouraging words to the man on the bike but I was struggling not to laugh out loud. It was tough; I was choking up as I wiped tears from my eyes.

 

As I slowly rolled down the road, the scene in my rear view mirror was so comical I nearly wet my pants. That long legged turkey ran beside the bike in a dead heat.

I believe the fellow was trying to throw a kick at the bird without losing momentum. The turkey, displaying a much keener sense of physical prowess and never missing a stride, would expand his tail feathers and then pull them back into a neat bundle.

 

I know it is cliché, but seriously,

the last thing I heard as I rolled around the next curve

was the man screaming curses

to which the turkey answered with a long gobble.

 

 

No matter what is going on in my life,

I would rather be the turkey than the biker.

Archives

August 25, 2009

 

FIGHTING THE DEMONS

A friend of mine said to me recently, “You have been cycling through this pattern allot recently. You might want to consider a little round of anti-depressants to get on the other side of this.”

I was stunned. And then another tremor of shock went through me as I took a moment to consider how desirable that felt.  Oh, to take a pill and make my life easier. I barely listened as she told me her doctor’s philosophy that our brain synapsis can get off kilter and begin turning left when they should turn right, making connections that are not healthy for our organism ~ and by taking a round of anti-depressants, a person could break the pattern and get back to being their old self. 

My mind, adopting the adage “Inquiring Minds Want to KNOW,” wondered what would cause the brain to get off course in the first place.  My “Wise Woman” training believes that if we cover up  and placate the symptoms, instead of looking at and relating to the malady ~ we stand the chance of driving the dis-ease deeper into our bodies, only to surface again, later, and typically stronger than the first round.  By taking the time to look at it first, we can save time and can promote wholistic healing. 

Her observation had been a response to my statement that I had spent the afternoon “fighting my demons.” For the most part, my demons are the limiting beliefs that take me away from, or rob me of my joy.  They are not new.  (1) I never have enough time. (2) The balance I seek eludes me. (3) I concentrate more on what feeds my pocketbook than what feeds my soul. 

And the one thing I know for sure; ignoring them does not make them go away.  There are times when I address them, have a real conversation, and they diminish slightly allowing me to move forward in my day. But they have yet to disappear. However tempting, slicing them to ribbons with a mighty sword is not the solution.  So I remain optimistic that there is an answer that will satisfy both the "demon" and my “self.”

Besides, do I really want to be my old self?  A mood-elevating pill might be reasonable … but for now I am going to stay in the observation mode. Becoming the “detached witness” that so many of my teachers have talked about. Realizing that putting oneself under the microscope can sometimes be disturbing. Moving beyond old and into a new way of being is my ultimate goal. 

I choose to have an awareness ~ an allowing ~ of my “demon self.” After all, we we share the same space. 
And I am the one, with consistent help from my angels, in charge of how large the microscope is.
In gratitude I realize that every day I have more moments of pure joy than the day before.  And if I don’t?  I will just start again tomorrow.
Anyway, I have to put down my sword to pick up a cup of Tension Tamer tea. 

IRELAND, a Link to Possibility

I am looking at the girl I was "before" I left for Ireland, the girl who made the trip and the one who returned.  And I want/need/desire there to be a difference.  Please note, I am using the term "girl" very loosely here, but it is early morning and that is how I am feeling. You might understand this better, as time goes on.  {*.*}

In Ireland, the Land seemed to continually whisper to me, "Let it go."  I heard it as I leaned my head into the trunk of an ancient tree or laid my heart upon the earth. I heard it from the moss and the tiny green "villages" I marveled at on the rock walls.  My body pressed the point by becoming constipated and all I wanted to do was "let 'er rip, and let it go".  But even with herbs and massage I was having trouble ... physically letting it go. In ceremony, a shaman stepped in front of me, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Move beyond your fear. Do what you want to do. Be who you want to be."  She smiled at me and in that moment I felt like everything was possible.  Re-member. That is who I want to be now, the woman/child to whom all things are possible.  So be it.

One of the things I let go of on the Isle of Inisfallen, is my proclivity to perfection.  Kind of trips off the tongue, doesn't it?  Proclivity to Perfection.  Ta Da!!!   Well it is not only a pain in the arse, it can be an excuse for not getting things done.  I am thinking of a lovely little blog I wanted to write earlier this year and I saw it accompanied by the perfect picture of my horse. I could easily visualize the whole piece. But the weather outside did not match the message of my blog, so I waited and waited for the perfect conditions.  Then, one morning the weather cooperated and I went out and took a dozen pictures of my adorable horse, frosted from head to tail with shimmery ice crystals. My photos were not as artistic as I had envisioned but they would do. Coming back to my computer I searched for the essay and realized I had never committed the words to paper - waiting for the perfect moment I had never actually written the blog piece - so now I had “okay” pictures and no essay.  I had nothing but a good intention and a lot of dissatisfaction with myself.

If only it ended there ~ but unfortunately this sad story continues. A few weeks later, I did actually "find the time" to write the piece, but it was a sunny warm day and something inside me said that I could not really post a blog about frosty horses on such a beautiful sunny Spring day.  Preposterous!!  Everyone would know it was sunny in Colorado and that this blog piece was not spontaneous.

So now I am beginning to see the flaws in Miss Perfection.  She really only cares about what everyone else will think of her. Anything less than perfection is unacceptable to her ~~ because of what others may think.  But when I let Miss Perfection "drive my bus" … I become constipated … my physical/emotional and spiritual bowels twist up, all forward motion grinds to a halt, and nothing productive is accomplished. 

My need for perfection at all costs, especially as it relates to being judged by others, is a limiting belief that no longer serves me. This part of my personality may have served me at one time but is now coming from a place of fear. That is what I let go of in Ireland. In my search for inner peace, I released fear based limiting beliefs.

As a gestalt coach, I know that I cannot toss Miss Perfection under the bus. Even when I want to, and I do, that is not the answer.  She deserves acknowledgement and acceptance. But I will ask her to sit in the back seat and enjoy the ride, offering up her valid ideas only to help put the polish on a piece; to bring up the luster by loving it into a more complete piece of work we can both live with.

And so now my dear little blog, get ready. I might post about rain during a drought, or feeling good when I don't, or any number of random ideas. And if I think of a fantabulous addition after the fact, I give myself permission to post that as well .... in a non-sequitur manner that would not have been possible BI = Before my magical trip to Ireland.

AI = After Ireland.                                                                                                                                       I claim my Freedom !!
Loving Living Wild in Colorado,
In-Joy !!

MY FATHER

My father lies on white satin
body stiff and silent
eyes eternally closed
lips forever rouged.

Before that...
    his body became more transparent
    with every passing week.
    His words often rambling
    making sense only to him
    only adding to his confusion.

Before that...
 His eyes, sparkling with mischief,
 threatening to trip when he walked me down the aisle.
 And I, not  totally sure that he would not
 had one more thing to wonder about that day.

And before that...
 He stood at his work bench
 creating a pair of wooden stilts for
 his children to play with ~ happy to hoist our bodies
 to travel high above the ground.

And before that...
  His fathers only son,
 body tall and thin,
 a horse trainer in his own right
 riding the Missouri hills on a handsome black pony
 Ever dreaming of his future
 ... possibly even, of me.

<<< This piece is dedicated to my dear brother-in-law whose own father recently made his transition to the next journey. >>>>

SKILLS !!

My world is totally f***ing bi-polar right now.                                                                                       I am hanging on to the bell at the bottom of my pendulum, swinging wildly from one extreme to another, back and forth, back and forth, never still, never totally comfortable.

Sometimes I can throw my head back and enjoy the air rushing through, messing up my hair, and laugh at the absurdity of it all,

Other times I cling tightly to the cold metal, eye lids pinched tightly, hanging on for dear (?) life.

The trick, I am reminded, is to seek inner balance. To "not be jolted by such impermanence."

 

 

I have tricks. Skills ??

"Step outdoors,”  I remind myself,

“seek the ragged edges of my mountain landscape, 

breathe deeply the sweet essence of a horse.”

Her sweet bulk soothes my nerves.  

Her steady heartbeat quiets mine.     

The kindness in her eye restores my faith.

 

Ragged might be beautiful.

 

PAISLEY

The paisley scarf is wrapped tight around her head; a beautiful mix of blues and purples, but it is the shape that fascinates me. It makes the back of her head look like a giant light bulb. I am still looking for a fleecy little cap with horses on it; that is exactly what she told me she wants and I intend to find one. Light weight and warm to protect her newly balding head.

Cancer leaves people looking like alien beings, recently arrived from some place out of this world. Well, it is not the cancer; I know that. It is the chemotherapy poison that they inject into her body every two weeks.

With one sentence her entire life changed, and through friendship, so did mine.  Cancer has made her wonder who she will be next week. Where will she be next year? It is my (our) job to remind her that she will still be the woman we love. We will gather and celebrate next year with renewed verve. She is scared that she has no choices. It is my job to remind her that every moment is a choice. She can keep those things which are dear to her ~ and examine and discard those that no longer serve her. The choice is always hers. And choices can be transmuted, rejected, or revised any time she chooses.

Fighting, Dancing, Having cancer has become a full time occupation.  Everything looks and feels different to her and to me. Getting ready, receiving instead of giving, planning a new way of eating, a new wardrobe to wear, a new time of day to visit the grocer when the crowds are gone, arranging drivers to and from appointments ... it feels endless.

Every “thing” is simultaneously precious and unimportant.  It is alien.

A new view of every day life ... a new …. anew  … Anew !!

A THOUSAND YEAR FLOOD.

It has now been 50 days since the rains began that changed the front range landscape of Boulder, Larimer, Jefferson and Weld counties of Colorado.  We survived the “flood of Biblical proportions.”  I have written about it many times, but produced nothing worthy of sharing but serving as a cathartic stress release.  For weeks I suffered from a low level anxiety; trouble sleeping, shortness of breath, and my stomach didn’t feel right.  In fact, I feel like I ate my way through the flood, snacking all day long as I huddled close to my radio listening to what was happening to my physical realm.

At one point I talked with my sister and she could totally relate to how I was feeling. Three years ago she was caught at home ~ alone with one dog, two cats, two horses, and a dozen chickens ~ during an ice storm that left her without electricity for 10 days.  She moved into survival mode, doing what she had to do to take care of everyone, securing water was difficult. She ended up getting sick from attempting to heat a portion of her home with a propane space heater. But everyone on her ten acres lived. The story had a satisfactory ending. For the rest of the winter she, and many of her friends in southern Missouri, had a panic attack every time a storm set up which could bring a layer of ice to their world.

We survive. Katrina, Sandy, massive tornadoes, rampaging forest fires, shifting, sliding, unable to stay the same ...

Slowly it passes.

Below is an excerpt from my friend, my astrologer, and my writing buddy, Jyoti Wind’s astrological newsletter. Her words moved me; she said it better than all of my ramblings and I asked her permission to share it with you here. 

Dear friends, The human and emotional toll of a natural disaster is deep and encompassing.It scars the landscape of one’s thinking so that one returns again and again to that abrasion.  A collective atmosphere of shock and stress grows into a thought form, an energetic, that permeates the area more than the mud and water, and takes a while to recede.  Relief aid, a listening ear, an offer to help are the balm that wipes clear the window onto the future. Possibilities then become visible.

We are in the process of shifting. It doesn’t have a clear demarcation line of when it started, but in the last one and a half years it has felt like there was an escalation. We have another one and a half years to go. And again, there won’t be a stopping line, and end. It may begin to feel that there is more of a flow instead of a push.

Meanwhile the push to change old patterns continues.  Looking at how you have changed over the past one and a half years might be an interesting undertaking. Blessings,Jyoti

For more information and to contact Jyoti Wind:
http://www.writes-of-passage.blogspot.com
http://www.aweeksworthofwomen.blogspot.com
www.jyotiwindastrology.com