Tag: spiritual growth

Alchemy

Old Soul Medicine Crow4 Comments

Alchemy: a power or process that changes or transforms something in a mysterious or impressive way.

I went to dinner in Lexington with some women. Friends, and friends of friends. Three of them had birthdays in the same month so not only was there reason to celebrate, after dinner we were attending a reading by another friend who was celebrating the release of her latest book. A night out for the ladies.

Since we had gathered primarily for the literary arts, the dinner conversation began with literature. Who recently read what, which books are must reads, what we’re currently writing, and morphed into general story telling since most of us were writers of one form or another. One person’s story reminds someone else of a similar story, reminds another, and so it goes. In this instance, we traveled the world going from Chicago to Milan to New York and all the way back to Kentucky, where we all currently live. One theme that emerged was housing. From tiny squeeze-ins to expansive high-rise sublets to starter homes, the ladies spoke of lucky breaks, exigent circumstances and turning bad situations into good. I saw a theme emerging.

“Alchemy,” I said.

“What’s alchemy?” my friend asked. I explained poorly that it was a term referring to the medieval attempt to turn base metals into gold. But that today it also meant just what she had been saying, how she’d turned a bad situation into a good one.”

Then, “Martha’s” Kentucky story of purchasing a farmhouse without prior knowledge of the den of snakes who had taken up residence beneath the front stoop drew gasps from everyone.

            “I’d have to back out of the sale,” one said.

            “Or put it right back on the market,” another chimed in. “You didn’t stay there, did you? Is that where you live now?”

The fear of snakes always sparks eeks and cringes followed by other close encounter stories. I’d venture to guess we all have snake stories. These ladies all did. The fear of the serpent is likely the most common phobia. We love to hate these creatures.  

I, too, am no fan and prefer not to get personal with a snake.  I thought about reminding us all that snake symbolism was originally that of the divine feminine and that maybe we had been conditioned to fear snakes based on the patriarchal need to control the innate power of women. According to Ted Andrews’ book Animal Speak, seeing a snake denotes resurrection, renewal, rebirth (shedding of one’s skin to become anew). In dreams, simply encountering the snake is thought to be the subconscious awareness of a pending new cycle of life. Being overly afraid of the snake symbolizes fear of the changes necessary for internal growth. Getting bit might symbolize the level of resistance or blocks you’re throwing into your own path. I’ve had plenty of these dreams throughout my spiritual awakening journey as well as in person sightings. An explanation like this might be interesting, but it rarely does much to allay a well-honed fear of snakes. Thinking of the power of transformation, I juxtaposed one of my own snake stories instead.  

I am the third generation of my family to inhabit the family farm, in a house that was built in 1901. Dad refurbished the house, mid-seventies. Insulation, Drywall, paneling, popcorn painted ceilings and area rugs turned the place around, even before electricity or plumbing was added. Instead, fireplaces, a Warm Morning stove, outdoor toilet and a rain barrel became our every summer adventure, heading back to a small abode with a thermostat and a real bathtub during the school year. We merrily frolicked at the river’s edge, raised cattle, pigs and chickens, the occasional mule, helped Dad with tobacco, hay, planting and harvesting vegetables, hunted arrowheads, shot BBguns, picked blackberries and maintained a healthy awareness of snakes like we lived in the 19th century. In his head, my father sort of did. I was having the time of my life. Today, I am grateful for this character-building years-long sojourn into the past. My parents installed plumbing and a few other upgrades and moved into the farmhouse after all of us children were grown, around 1991. 

In 2012, due to Mom’s cancer and other circumstances, my father bought a house closer to town and nearer to doctors and the hospital. The farm is isolated with sometimes inaccessible country roads. Since I was freshly divorced, he convinced me to take up residency on the farm so that the empty house would not get vandalized or become a drug den.

In the seventies, Dad didn’t believe in the future of electricity or otherwise could not envision the number of useless appliances the next generation would find not only convenient but necessary. He felt ahead of his time including two whole outlets per room. Re-learning how to live in an old house whose electricity has not been modernized to meet today’s standards and whose prior inhabitants had learned how to “make things work” without actually having them repaired, included several “combinations” of actions I needed to learn to keep the house running smoothly. Namely, deciphering the tangled web of which outlets in how many rooms, both upstairs and down, whose wiring led to the same 15-amp fuse. I should have bought stock in Buse fuses for the number of boxes I purchased and went through in those early months, grateful they still existed.

Another thing he made sure to tell me was about the relationship he had formed with a huge black rat snake that lived in the shed out back. As I’ve indicated, snakes aren’t even my favorite subject, but out of reverence to my father, I listened to his tutorial.

            “You know I store feed in that building, for the cattle. Mice get in it and make a big mess. That big snake keeps the mice and rat population down so I like him being in there. He’s not poisonous and he never bothers me. When I go into the shed to retrieve the lawn mower I talk to him, warn him I’m coming in. He may be hanging from a rafter or laying on the ground someplace. I pull the riding mower out and start it up. When he hears the engine, he comes out and makes his way down toward the pond. I guess he’s getting a drink. I don’t see him again until after I’ve finished cutting grass. Later in the evening, when it’s quiet, I can sometimes see him returning to the building. We’ve been doing this for years. We made a deal.”

            “Okay,” I tell him, “I can live with that.” Even though secretly I thought, okay then, I’m not going in that shed, which turned out to be impossible. So, I did indeed follow in my father’s footsteps and tried my hand at snake whispering, which might or might not sound more like clanging and banging and yelling warnings rather than actual whispers. I named the snake, Earl.

Dad cut more grass than the immediate area around the house. He had cleared and tamed almost an acre of land, to keep the snakes at bay, he’d said, even though he made exception for Earl. He thought it wise to claim territory separate from the wilder fields and fence rows that bordered the woodland’s edge to provide a clear view of encroaching wildlife. He advised me to do the same. But since he took his riding mower with him to the new house and I still only had a push mower, I hired a neighbor to keep my lawn tidy. I told him the snake story and asked if he could please respect my father’s wishes and look out for Earl. “It’s been there for years,” I tell him. “It doesn’t want to harm anyone.”

Vernon was on the lookout for Earl, no doubt. His first encounter with Dad’s rat snake shocked them both. He entered the shed looking for a weed eater. The lanky sentry hung from a rafter at eye level as he entered, probably wondering who the hell this guy thinks he is entering Herbert Crow’s field mouse buffet. After that, unbeknownst to me, Vernon began strapping on a sidearm before arriving to mow the grass.

After a month or two of cutting the grass with no further incidents I thought all was well. However, one day, Vernon gave in to his own fears and ignored my sentiment about the friendly cohabitant of my abode. He knocked on my door, and using a hoe to extend his reach and not actually touch the old guy, held out his conquered prey to me the way my dogs string out a dead rabbit on my doorstep…as a gift.

            “That’s Earl,” I say, confused.

            “Don’t worry, I got him,” Vernon said. “I hate me a snake. That’s why I carry this.” He proudly pointed to his waist band where he’d holstered the offending weapon. The story he told was just as my father had described, the snake heard the mower and came out of the building to head down to the pond, minding his own business. Only Vernon didn’t care where he was going. Seeing the snake, he chased it down with his lawn tractor, close enough to get a good shot with his pistol because he sure as hell wasn’t going to get off that mower and possibly get bit. He also wasn’t going to let it out of his sight for fear of where it might go…and…he didn’t want to miss. Poor Earl had made it all the way to the fence row, about to cross the threshold to safety before he felt the blow. Vernon was proud.

My father had warned me about the snake we’d named Earl. But we both failed to warn Earl about the viper named Vernon.

            “Oh, that’s so sad,” said the lady who would have instantly sold Martha’s den-of-snakes’ house.

“I can’t believe he did that!” said another. “Did you let him keep mowing your lawn after that?”

“Do you hear how you have all changed your attitudes from loathing to compassion and concern for a snake?” I ask, “Now, that’s alchemy.”         

Grow Where I’m Planted

Old Soul Medicine Crow6 Comments

I can be hard on myself, especially in winter when I’m not as productive. In any case, I knew better than to set myself up to fail with a new year’s resolution. But I do like to think of each new year as a fresh start, unscathed by failure, and filled with possibility. My adult daughter told me she was choosing one word to set a theme for the year. I liked that notion.  After a day or so of discernment, the word that came to me was, “open”. 

“Open”. Open to new ideas. Open to new opportunities. Open to new ways of seeing myself and others. Open to change or at least to be a tiny bit more flexible in my perceptions. Maybe even travel more.

I was invited to a friend’s annual birthday party which always occurs mid-January and can be quite a pick-me-up from the doldrums. On her sixtieth birthday, and every year since (more than 10), she has thrown herself a party. It is traditionally an all-women-all-day-sometimes all weekend affair. Fascinating female friends, new and old, from all walks of life come and go. There is food, drink, games, and lots of chatter. A full-grown slumber party, women of all ages schlepping around in pajamas, drinking wine. If you give in to it, it can be a time of empowerment and support. This year the party was limited to one all day affair so no pajamas but good food and plenty of wine.

I have never been the kind of person who could throw themselves a party although women should probably learn to celebrate themselves more. On my 60th birthday (I’ll be 62 this summer), while the earth didn’t move like it did when I hit 42—and spent a decade trying to right wrongs and get my feet on solid ground—I did feel a slight shift in perception. Another course correction in my navigation system. I stated out loud to myself and to my closest people that I am in the fourth quarter, looking at my parents’ health and longevity. This gives me another 20, if I’m lucky. Possibly only 10 of those in reasonably good health and energy. I declared that if there was something I wanted to do, I would do it. Here I am, two years later, still trying to remind myself. It takes a long time to unlearn a way of being.  

This party was my first social outing in weeks as I had been sick with Covid compounded by a sinus infection that refused to release my brain from its foggy prison. My work office closes down through the winter holidays so I guess it was a good time to be sick if I had to be. Still, I felt like I should have been reading and/or writing. Instead, I sat in a stupor for days. Unable to form a simple thought, I merely observed myself be sick. If I’d been trying to meditate—remove rampant thoughts from my head—I would have had monkey mind. In this case, it felt like my brain had been wiped clean. On the plus side, I’ve never slept so well or for so long at a time. I hoped, whether I intended it or not, having no thoughts for a suspended number of days worked as a clearinghouse to make room for a brighter year full of ideas and execution. I wasn’t really feeling social, but I went to support my friend and to be “open.”

The party was to begin around 10 AM. and last until 10 PM. I moved reluctantly through my house, readying myself for a long day of interaction. Stretchy, comfortable clothes. Black tourmaline beads on my right wrist to protect from taking on others’ negative energy. Rose quartz beads on my left to receive a positive flow of love. Blue lapis lazuli earrings for overall protection and positive energy. It couldn’t hurt. We are all made of matter. All matter vibrates at a specific frequency. The higher the vibration, the more positive the experience, like thoughts. Whether you believe in the vibrational energetic properties of gemstones or not, I believe setting intentions raises my vibrational experience. Rituals are powerful. It’s like an active meditation. Plus, I believe we find what we’re looking for. Raising our thoughts, raises our experiences. Since recently being sick of body and mind, I was feeling vulnerable and needed a little spiritual pick-me-up. Finally, properly attired, I started out the door shortly after noon reminding myself to be open.

Even if I was successful in raising my vibration, my starting point must have been pretty low. It was soon evident I was still in observation mode, hardly up to the challenge of real conversation.

As in years past, at some point during every party a circle is formed. Women take turns introducing themselves to the group. It used to be a game of telling three things, two truths and one lie. The other women in the circle tried to discern the lie. This year, the circle took a more organic conversational turn which included mysticism and spiritual journeys. From ketamine clinics to holitropic and effigy breathwork to shamanic drumming it was clear many of these women had begun the inner work of midlife, curious and open to spiritual growth and all the trending modalities. This was my wheelhouse. I started this deeper work two decades ago but even since the age of nine, I have been a spiritual seeker. When I was a beginner on my spiritual journey, I couldn’t wait to share my experiences and epiphanies but more and more since I turned 60, I have grown quieter. Maybe I’ve gained just enough wisdom to realize nobody wants to hear it. They have their own life to deal with. The circle was large. It seemed each woman spent at least 15-30 minutes sharing pieces of their best life. Places lived, jobs, interesting experiences, meeting famous people. This lasted all afternoon…hours it seemed. It was exhausting, really. While a few women opted out of the circle to graze the food table, I had grown roots on the couch, unable to free myself.

I know it was mostly because of my illness, but listening to the experiences of these women, their ability to move through life with a sense of autonomy, independence and direction, the jobs they’d had, the places they’d lived, temporarily thwarted my confidence.

My early path was traditional. Compared to the stories told, the choices I’d made felt small, unremarkable, cliche. For a writer, cliché is such a disappointment. Get married young, support husband’s career, raise children. And I might add here that I raised a stepson for many years before bearing my own child so that my child rearing years were prolonged, having raised not one, but two only children. It is worthy work and I don’t regret the dedication I gave to my family but like too many women of my generation and older, raising a family was my only purpose. I became a “we” before I became a “me”. And let me tell you, once entangled in a “we” situation, especially if one member of the “we” was not already a “me”, it is difficult to extract even a part of oneself without disassembling the whole.

**Sidebar: In my opinion, patriarchy has done a fine job selling the notion of marriage where “two become one” as a romantic notion rather than one of control.  To me, it means one of the people (usually the woman) must disappear into the shadows of the other.

I can proudly say I added two responsible contributing members to society which is no small feat (even if they did need counseling, lol), but I kept nothing for myself during those years. No matter how much I’ve grown, how far I’ve come, or what I have overcome, for almost three decades, I had no personal ambition. I never even let myself dream of choices outside of what my family members needed or wanted. I don’t think I meant to be a martyr. I was more like someone who had been brainwashed (or brainwashed herself) to believe she was not worthy.

When it came my turn to speak, I was dumbfounded. Not only was my actual voice weakened and shaky, my thoughts were still foggy. Even the most worldly of women in attendance seemed inviting, kind, yet, I fell victim to the soul deadening act of comparison. At that moment, I did not measure up. I rambled a bit. I got emotional. I passed the torch. Then, I spent two days analyzing my reaction…like any neurotic memoirist would.

I meditated on those circle conversations, discerning what it was exactly that had set me off.  No matter their life’s journeys, many of these women were just beginning the spiritual inner work that I had embarked on years ago. I wasn’t behind here. As a matter of fact, I was ahead of the curve in some respects. I’ve had years of counseling/self-awareness/memoir work. But I did start a career just as many same aged women were retiring, making me a late-bloomer with regard to choosing a personal life direction.

The thing that stuck out for me about the stories those women told was the number of oddball opportunities that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and the fact that many of these women had seized the moment. They’d been in the right place at the right time and recognized it. They’d followed their own path, refraining from child rearing and even marriage until their own careers were off the ground or maybe doing both at the same time. How did they come about the confidence to follow their own path so young, being reared in the same era as me? Different cultures, maybe? Different role models? Certainly, different birth family expectations. Also, most of these women were not Appalachian, which may have a bearing. Nobody in all the generations of my family would have considered moving to another country straight out of college. Hell, my brother and I were the first to ever go to college.

What struck me that day, I would recognize later, was grief. There are whole parts of me that I ignored for years. Choices that I made that were clearly not in my own best interest. They may have been choices out of my control…or choices that were beyond my mental capacity at the time, but they were still my choices. I had already spent years of therapy restructuring my life, so it wasn’t new information. I knew this. I had grieved before. But that’s how grief works. It finds an opening and uses it to heal deeper wounds than you knew you had.

There was clearly something else for me to learn at this juncture. Listening to those ladies made me revisit my younger self, remember how insecure I had felt. But the gist of what they had all been saying was that they had been presented with an opportunity, sometimes not of their own making, recognized it, and seized upon it. With hindsight, I can see a number of opportunities that had presented themselves to me while I was doing laundry, making the twice daily commute to the school pickup/drop line, thinking, “no, my purpose is already being fulfilled.”  These were things I could have done while raising children—jobs, trips, experiences–but wouldn’t assert myself. More than that, I felt unworthy, like my life belonged to someone else. In the end, there was no room left for me in the life I’d accepted…or made.

I believe in synchronicity. Some say ask and ye shall receive. Others speak of the law of attraction. Prayer, setting intentions, asking the universe for help, talking to God and my own personal angels, etc. It works. I know. Miracles are everywhere, if you look. And, I’m incredibly grateful for this, my favorite part of my life. So, hear me when I say, be careful what you ask for and be detailed and sincere when you ask.

I had chosen the word “open” for my year’s theme and as soon as I was able to get out of the house, I was offered a variety of women whose stories modeled being open and were a testament to what a blessing it had been in their lives.

If my count is right, I’ve visited 39 states, at least 4 provinces in Canada and several islands in the Caribbean. But I have always lived within two hours of my childhood home and today, I am the third generation to occupy my family’s farm on the Kentucky River. (I have friends who won’t drive themselves to the next county so I know that all things are relative.) I am reminded daily of the ways of my ancestors. I walk their paths, see my reflection in the same mud puddles. I am grateful for them. Their tools are still in the barn for me to use. Are there more opportunities in other places? Absolutely. Sometimes I wonder how I might expand my horizons by living elsewhere, but is that what I want? Not really. I love my place. I’m sure I could learn to love other land, but this land loves me.

No, I think the lesson of the day was to remain open and aware of opportunities as they present themselves. I had, in fact, turned down opportunities through the years. Surely there are more to come. Especially, when I finally see myself and my time as a worthy endeavor and ask the Universe for help.

Speaking of help…almost no sooner than I came to this clarity, my phone rang. It was a government holiday and a snow day to boot so I was not in the office but when I looked at the caller ID, I recognized the number as belonging to a woman who had been trying to reach me at work. I halfway suspected it was a sales call but there was something in her voice message that made me return her call and even leave her my cellphone number.  

She lived in Florida. She had ties to Kentucky and she had taken a philanthropic interest in a subject that had led her to my nonprofit’s webpage. She was not a sales person. She’d already made an online donation to our cause and had called to see if she could be of further service to me! It was clear she is a young lady who thinks large, has a world of philanthropic foundations at her fingertips and wants to help me grow and expand my services! She opened my eyes and my mind to larger possibilities for a work project I’ve been contemplating. Just like that, my sorrowful attitude was turned around. Thank you Angels! And I didn’t even have to leave my farm! Even snowed in on an impassible road, opportunities can still present themselves. God is great! The Universe has my back. I am native to this land and I will grow where I’m planted.

Bad Date

Old Soul Medicine CrowLeave a comment

This is an essay about a time in my life (almost 20 years ago now) of great personal, spiritual growth and transition. And the worst date of my life.

At forty-two and nearing the empty nest portion of my life, I decided to go back to school. During a critique of the first short story I wrote for class, my instructor, though encouraging, said, “I just don’t think you’ve found your voice yet.”  He was right, but not just about my writing. I had not asserted my voice in life. I cried all the way home, not because I couldn’t handle criticism but because of what his words said to me metaphorically. My attempted short story, instead of fiction, was nothing more than a true account told by an unreliable narrator, me. What I had believed was a bizarre but laughable scene disturbed the other (much younger) students. They didn’t like some of the characters, called one a jerk, thought one was emotionally abusive. This was news to me. In literature, the narrator is the speaker (in fiction, this is different than the author) who tells the story. If it is an unreliable narrator, the reader can see what is presented is not what it seems. In other words, the narrator doesn’t know what the reader can clearly see. If done well and on purpose, this is a good literary device. You can see how this might pose a problem for someone writing about their own life, passing it off as fiction. Thus, the unreliable narrator.

For the record, inexperienced writers often depict stories in the wrong light simply because they lack knowledge about the elements of literature. What is intended doesn’t always come across correctly. What seems like abuse, might not be if the writer unintentionally leaves certain facts out. I was definitely an inexperienced writer. I was also definitely an unreliable narrator to my own life. Writing was the vehicle that showed me the truth. 

 Just two years prior to taking the writing course, when I turned forty, I bragged to my childhood best friend that the milestone birthday did not faze me. I finally had life figured out. I was confident. I knew what I believed spiritually. My sense of self-worth was validated by my roles as mother and step-mother of two healthy, intelligent children and wife of a public politician. If depicted on a tarot card, I would have been the support beam beneath an ivory tower that was crumbling. Having seemingly conquered the world, I was about to embark once again on the Fool’s Journey. I’ve written volumes about this time period and coined the phrase, “Volcano of the Soul” to describe how it felt.

            A friend suggested I read The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron, a twelve-week course intended to help you get in touch with your creative side.  In the first weeks of the course it is suggested the reader take themselves on a date at least once a week for a minimum of two hours. The only rules are: what you do must be for you and you alone.  No one can go with you.  It is an attempt to let your creative side (inner child) come out to play without the peering eyes and expectations of onlookers, aka family. At this point every outing I had taken had someone else’s intentions behind it.  If I went shopping by myself it was to buy something for a member of my family. Even this was against the rules. I decided to give this date thing a shot.

At forty-two, having been married twenty-four years, I went on the worst date of my life.  Even worse than when I was fifteen and asked one of my brother’s best friends to escort me to a dance. I was a sophomore in high school.  He was a freshman in college. He was the only one of my brother’s friends who had been genuinely nice to me without the agenda of getting close to my hotter best friend. I had been in love with him for years and it took all the bravado I had to ask him out. He agreed and picked me up in the black mustang I had stalked all over town. He was the kind of guy who opened doors for his date! And also turned out to be the best dancer at the party. At the end of the evening, he walked me to my door but wasn’t interested in kissing me goodnight. He and his husband are very happy today.

            No, this date was even worse than when I was sixteen and the guy honked the horn in the driveway because he was thirty minutes late already and didn’t want to miss the previews of the movie we’d chosen.  He farted on the way to the movies and blamed it on me, then told me I “owed” him something for the price of the movie ticket and the gas (the car’s, not his) and stuck his tongue so far down my throat I thought I’d have to swallow a whole bottle of Listerine to get rid of the memory of him.

            I gave up on dating and married the next guy who asked me out. Well, it’s not exactly that simple but truth is like a rolling vein, every time I take a stab at it, it moves. Anyway, I’m not sure if my marriage was a mistake, because…karma and all, but take my advice and don’t get married until you know who you are. It saves everyone involved a lot of heartache.

As it turned out, having been married for decades and raising children did not make me any better at going on dates, even when I was by myself. I simply didn’t know what to do with myself. I’d never slept in a bed alone. I hadn’t been to the bathroom without interruption in over twenty years, not to mention a silent bath or a good book. How was I supposed to know what to do? I headed toward Lexington, Kentucky, the nearest real city in fifty miles of my rural hometown. Richmond was closer, but smaller and I was there all the time. Once I hit the interstate, it occurred to me how much I disliked trips to Lexington. The traffic was horrible and it took as long to get from one end of town to the other as it did to travel the whole fifty miles from home. I thought about which Lexington exit I might take and what I would find there, a shopping center, a mall, some restaurants. The only reason I ever went there was to buy my daughter’s clothes. I hated shopping and the book said I wasn’t allowed to buy for someone else on this trip, so why Lexington? I pulled over on the interstate to decide on a new destination. Nothing. Nada. Couldn’t think of a thing I wanted or needed to do except get away from the noise of the house and take myself on a date as instructed. I wasn’t hungry so no need for a restaurant. I didn’t need any clothes. I bought all mine at the Catholic Church basement sales because it didn’t yet feel okay to spend real money on myself. (Did someone say self-esteem issues😊) I sat on the northbound side of I-75, tears streaming, because I couldn’t even take myself on a stupid date.

I took the next exit and headed back toward Richmond. I drove around thinking of things I had once enjoyed doing and thought of Peddler’s Mall, a flea market opened daily and filled with booths of consigned items. Treasure hunting is what my husband and I did for pastime. I pulled in and walked around but it all looked like junk now, not treasures. It dawned on me how full of junk our house and lives were. Then, I realized it was my husband who loved this place, he who bought all the eclectic detritus that had become our abode. Once upon a time, his grandmother came to our house and when she walked in the door, she said, “Well, I see everything here but money.”  Another time, early in our relationship, a friend of my husband’s came in the house with someone who had never been there before. There was a dental stand in the living room we used as a planter, a full-sized stop light lit up for mood lighting in the corner and the dash board of a 1957 Chevy on the end table. There were bicycles hanging on every wall instead of photos or pictures. “Everything you see here is all Ralph,” the woman said. At first it hurt my feelings because I lived there too, but then I realized she was right. Nothing in our house said I lived there. I didn’t collect anything. I didn’t have a “taste” in furniture. I’d never even bought furniture. I used whatever was available, whatever he’d had before I got there. I lived in my husband’s house.

            In the back corner of Peddler’s Mall was a booth with nothing but books. I wandered in there and fumbled through the titles. In the Kentucky section were books by Wendell Berry and Janice Holt Giles. Having just been introduced to good literature through my class, I bought one of each. Reading had once only been an escape for me while I waited for my daughter to get out of dance practice. It was the only time of day I allowed myself the pleasure of reading because the waiting hour had already been built into my day as non-productive. I don’t know where I got the idea that reading was a waste of time. It is not! As a writer, I’ve learned that one must read more than they write as part of learning the craft. I took my books and went home.

            The next week, I drove straight to a used book store and sat at a table for my two-hour date, reading. After that I found other book stores and visited them each week on my “date.” In one of them was a poster on the door advertising belly dance lessons. I thought I might need some exercise, so why not? It was a two-hour lesson each week which filled my time slot. During that first session, other women dressed the part of a belly dancer. We’ve all seen on television what this looks like for a performance with all the jingles and sparkles. But for practice, this amounts to a long flowing skirt, any kind of stretchy top and lots of scarves. It’s fun to dress the part. If you really want to play, you can wrap scarves into your hair, add the hip scarf with the dangling discs and even wear a bindi, the beautiful forehead jewelry worn by Indian women. My hair was almost waist length so I could braid and wrap with beads as well. This really did fit the bill for letting out my creative inner child. (Halloween was one of my favorite holidays, after all). As soon as they got wind of what I was doing, both my daughter and my daughter-in-law wanted to join the class. It was great fun and I hated for them to miss out so it became a family thing, a woman thing I was reluctant but also happy to share. It was back to the drawing board to find a date for and by myself.

My search for enjoyable outings was a good step in learning about myself. I truly enjoyed the dance, the dress-up, the ritual. Belly dancing is an empowering act for a woman. I had previously thought of belly dancing as a seductive performance for men’s pleasure but it turned out for me to be a bonding feminist Goddess experience of sharing with other women. The seduction, for me, was to allow myself to fully engage in play. Our instructor taught a fusion style of dance, meaning that the moves were borrowed from different cultures. She said that historically, the ability to belly dance (it takes extreme fitness and tones every muscle in the body) was significant for readying oneself for childbirth. The slightly darker side of that tradition is that women danced for prospective mothers-in-law to prove their ability to carry on the family name and be chosen as a wife for their son. I have mixed emotions about this part of the tradition but I realize we borrowed this beautiful dance from a different culture and a different time. Still, it was a powerful dance performed by women, for women.

We began each belly dance class encircled, in a movement meditation which also served to stretch our muscles. The instructor asked a probing inward-looking question for each of us to consider. Each person had an opportunity to share their answer. I know they worried about my sanity and stability. It was a raw time, painful to go through, beautiful to look back on.

Because I had asked for personal growth, the Universe opened doors for me to walk through and learn. I was aligning with my true authentic self and all the events of my life seemed synchronized to that end. Tears were always just below the surface. At this time, my father-in-law was a board member for the Kentucky River Authority. He talked about the locks and dams and how the gates had been welded shut when water traffic had stopped. He checked the locks regularly by boat to see if they were holding, it was sometimes one of our family outings. I felt like nobody had been checking mine because the dam had broken loose and there was no stopping the floods that came without notice. Anything set me off. I believe it was grief for the part of me I’d given away so many years before.

            I decided I could use counseling. I looked in neighboring communities for the sake of anonymity and found a good therapist in Berea, a forty-five-minute drive across back country roads. I always liked Berea. The college there brings a concentration of creative endeavors and the downtown has a good vibe. I liked that I had no cell service on the drive so I would not be disturbed. I liked the way it felt to go to the coffee shop before my appointment, to sit among college students and hippies, and to the fair-trade store afterward. I loved everything in that store. Most of the women in my belly dance class lived in Berea and I usually saw a few friends on the downtown square. My counseling appointments became a new part of my date. They were arguably all about me, after all.

            I have written volumes of complicated pages about events that occurred in the decade of my life that began on my 42nd birthday and upturned everything I had ever known. In a simplified nutshell, it went something like this: I buried both my in-laws, two of my siblings and both of my parents, ended my 30-year marriage, my daughter moved 2500 miles away, I learned to live alone (in Berea and then my inherited family’s farm). I learned that no matter how much I loved being a mother, the role did not completely define me. I learned to take myself on dates. I acquired a Master’s degree. I met my people in the form of other writers. I learned that if I was going to collect anything, it would be books. I learned that I’d still rather buy used clothing than new, not because of self-esteem but because I hate waste. (There are so many good clothes in consignment stores.) I’d rather be in the woods than a mall. I learned new and deeper ways to listen, feel and to see God’s presence all around me. I found feathers, stones, and driftwood to decorate my house. And for a while, whenever I invited friends over to my home, every one of them said, “Wow, this looks just like you.”

Twenty years later, I am more settled and content. I know who I am but I know better than to think I’ve arrived. As a spiritual being having a human experience, I know I am not finished learning and hopefully not finished growing. In this third and final phase of my life’s work, I’m actually hoping for some of that crone wisdom. In the meantime, I again have too much junk in my house and plenty to do to keep me busy.