What Would It Be?

If you had to have something written on your heart, indelible, what would it be? Would it be one word or a quote? Would it be someone's name? A mantra or motto? A plea? A shout-out to God or the universe? A cry? A poem?

And would you hide it or reveal it? Would you use to it teach others or shock them? Would you guard it or share it with, even, strangers?

I'd love to hear your answer...


EDIT: I posted this yesterday and a full 382 people have stopped by to read it in the past 24 hours, but only two responded. Two!  I'm curious why most people don't respond. Am I not inviting enough? Does the question seem rhetorical? Do I only have an audience of lurkers in the summer? I'm curious as to why so many blog readers never comment. Any ideas?


I'd still really and truly love to hear your answer:)

Shhh...Listen

I'm sorry I don't post as much, friends. The reason is very simple - I'm in a 'gathering' process. Writing seems counter-productive and somewhat of a struggle at this time. It feels as if all my soul's energy and will is focused on absorbing, gathering and taking 'in'. You might ask 'what', right? I'd say I am absorbing as much information, wisdom and insight as I can. I am praying and meditating twice daily - listening for insight from God/Love. I'm disciplining myself to listen inwardly, to tilt my ear towards the Great Silence and hear what that beloved Creator of 'All That Is' might be saying.

And I'm practicing awareness. I'm watching myself and, with great kindness, trying to teach myself a deeper and deeper knowing and caring of others. I'm trying to listen more deeply, and love more unconditionally. I'm trying to push all worries, fears and excuses aside and just be present with whomever is put in my path. I'm trying to be as open and flexible in my heart and head as I am able. I am holding high expectations of myself to be the most loving and helpful version of myself I can be.

It's hard. Sometimes our physical selves want to be lazy. Mine does. Sometimes I don't want to discipline myself and it takes great effort and commitment to keep at it. I think of Jesus, and Buddha. I think of people who have disciplined themselves and walked through great trials. I think of Gandhi and MLK and Mother Theresa. I try to learn from their lives, their words. I try to listen more deeply to the things they said. I challenge myself to try harder and harder. I want to be the most loving version of myself possible before I leave this planet.

And why? Because I cannot think of anything greater to aspire to on this earth than to be as loving a vessel as possible. Love means a great many different things to a great many different people. What I aspire to when I say 'loving' is to listen and be present with others right where they are at, to be as forgiving as my flawed little self can muster, to be as accepting and caring and present as my human form will allow. This does not mean there is no room for strong words and strong actions sometimes. Sometimes Love is a winnowing fork. My job is to be present, to listen and to discern with as much Love as I can muster.

And when you make this commitment, life will hear you. You will have trials. You will be given the chance to practice your commitment in the worst of circumstances. This has been my experience lately. I haven't passed every test, but I've learned from each of them. Right now I am learning compassion for those who hate me. We all have those who hate us, but we usually strive very hard to either sway their opinions or, in less inspired instances, seek revenge of some kind. I'm choosing neither. I'm practicing loving these people despite their opinion of me. Is it easy? No. But it gets easier every day. We must strive to rise above all darkness, especially the darkness that can settle in human hearts. How else can we foster change? We can't. Unless we invite the light in, unless we love when others hate, we cannot evoke change of any lasting kind.

I want to truly, unequivocally, with all my heart, be part of true and lasting change. And the only change that makes a difference is Love.

I'm now heading back into a very busy work schedule and I'm scared. I know how difficult it will be to hold this level of awareness when I am working so many hours, and responsible for so many people. I will call on Love to inspire and uplift me through it. I will ask for my heart to be enlightened. I will listen as fervently and humbly as I can.

So that is why I have been relatively quiet. I feel incapable of sharing anything of true consequence lately, because my whole heart and soul are so very preoccupied with listening and learning. But it's just a season. I know another season will come sooner than I expect. But for now, I am in a quiet place and my ear is turned to the Source of All Love, and I am listening.

Father's Day and Other Triggers

Sasha, Nastia's birthfather

This has been a week of triggers for Nastia - the end of school, Father's Day, news about her birthmother, and a few other big ticket items. Of course, when you parent a child of trauma, you get to be the recipient of much long-buried rage and anger. I can't say I've enjoyed her company much lately, but I am certainly doing my best to support her with love through what I know is a very difficult time for her.


Friday was meltdown day, with her in a pool of tears over a school project. 8:30am found us still on the floor of my downstairs office - her in the fetal position and hysterically crying, me trying to coax her out of her armor. If I didn't get her to school for her 9am final, she would get a zero. Boy, did I pray. I somehow got her there just in time, though she cried all the way to the door, and then I went in to talk to the school psychologist about what was going on. She wasn't there. Was I able to hold it together? No. I ended up in a pool of tears myself right there in the guidance office of the high school.

Saturday we got unexpected news about her birthmother. We've heard nothing about her for years now, so it was a very big shock. I can't share the news, and it wasn't upsetting news per se, but just the fact that we got an email about her from Nastia's remaining family in Siberia ripped a big whole in my daughter's heart. She was not ready to deal with this during such an already difficult time.

Then...Father's Day. For any of us with non-living fathers, this day is, at best, uncomfortable. Add to that the conflicting feelings of a teenager who never knew her father (and still can't decide if she wants to love him or hate him) and you get a very 'unsteady' and unwelcome holiday. We talked - alot - about both our fathers. We visited my Dad's grave and talked aloud to him in the shade of his beautiful gravestone. We took a long walk in the woods. We talked about what our fathers might say to us if they were here with us on this day. We sat in silence for awhile on the grass in the cemetery, and stared up at the green canopy overhead. We discussed death and heaven and loss everything in between. It was a pretty somber weekend.

Today Nastia wanted alot of alone time. I let her. Usually it's not healthy for her to isolate in her room, but today it was fairly obvious that she was processing alot and needed it. At about 3pm, after she had two hours of quiet, I coaxed her into walking the dogs with me by reminding her of the bread we had to feed the turtles and ducks. We headed to the pond in the woods and fed the biggest snapping turtles you have ever seen. And then we went to the other side and fed a family of ducks -- a mom and six ducklings. They were the cutest little things! We walked home at a leisurely pace with Henry and Matilda, fed everyone, and got to work on some final homework things she had left for her last day of school, tomorrow.


Tomorrow is also the seventh anniversary of my own father's death. He died just a few weeks after I brought Nastia home. He never got to meet her, though he called me about a dozen times a day to ask about her, in the days leading up to his death. He was so excited to have a grandchild - his first one. He called me incessantly to ask what she was doing, what new discoveries she was making, what was she eating, what new words had she learned. He revelled in each new discovery. 'Write it all down!' he'd admonish me at the end of every phone call. 'You don't want to forget any of this stuff!'

It doesn't hurt so much anymore - the anniversary of his death. The first few years felt like a flesh wound was ripped open every June 19th. Now it's just a day with a little pensive quality to it. Not too sad, but not a day to forget either.

Nastia and I are both on a healing journey and I see it getting easier with every passing year. Sometimes, like this past week, we hit setbacks. But for the most part, we are moving forward with every day, shaking off the dust of past hurts and traumas, and leaning into an ever-brightening future. I wish the same for you all.