Tend and Befriend Yourself

I'm deeply grateful for my new career: As a mindfulness teacher, I can’t escape my own crap. I’m continually called out, not by people but by awareness itself. When I prepare a class on self-compassion, I see multiple ways in which I’m harsh or judgmental, and then I choose differently: I practice forgiveness. When the topic is gratitude, I notice many ways that I protect my heart, and then I choose differently: I practice generosity.

I forget and remember hundreds of times each day. Earlier, I had three projects going and felt anxious about time. As part of my workflow, I edited a guided meditation and then listened to my own words, which returned me to awareness: What’s most important? I focused my attention and softened my heart. (I also smiled at myself: met my own crap with kindness.)

We often push ourselves, past exhaustion, when what we most need—as people, businesses, and society—is rest, creativity, compassion, awareness, and clarity. Yet to have compassion for others, we must first have it for ourselves. It’s okay to rest, laugh, and play. It’s okay to make mistakes. Life requires honest effort; it also requires gentle forgiveness.

If you want to practice a different habit—a habit of self-compassion—listen to this short guided-meditation: 


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Not Knowing

Poet Jeanne Lohmann writes: "Two more words to let go: never and always, and through the space they leave I look out on possibility where categories become boulders beside the trail." What if the trail was covered in possibility and not knowing?

There's so much I assume I know: the way a person (always) acts, how a situation "should" be, or the conditions I need for happiness. But these aren't the truth, they're just expectations. And when I expect things to be a certain way, I invite disappointment.

Though it challenges me daily, I'm trying to not know; to allow for possibility. Because people change, surprises happen, and curiosity opens my heart. After years in academia trying to analyze, understand, and know, I open to the mystery of this moment: Who knows what might happen? This question makes space for possibility, surprise, and wonder. It softens my heart and opens my mind.

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Blind Spots

Since mom died, I've tried to practice self-compassion. I need gentleness as I move through grief. I need gentleness as I navigate this unpredictable life. And I thought I was doing just that. Then I attended a 3-day silent meditation retreat and received a clear message: I need sincere love and kindness from within. This insight brought me to tears. I thought I was giving self-kindness, but it was on the surface, going through the motions. During the retreat I went deeper: I felt love and gratitude within my body and heart. My practice was sincere.

We all have these inner blind spots--places where our actions are not aligned with our intentions. Sometimes it's obvious: we feel a disconnection and make a change. Often it's not obvious. Our minds are wily. We trick ourselves in complex and varied ways. It's important to regularly check in. Not in a heady way, but in a full-being way. This requires space, stillness, and quiet. Space to sit with the question: What is most important? Then sit with the question: Are my daily actions or non-actions aligned with my values?

Judgment can sneak in, telling us we've failed or we should be different or we should give up. But judgment is not helpful. Honesty, kindness, and awareness are helpful. Judgment closes our heart; awareness opens us. When we find a blind spot, it's a moment of awakening. We can now make conscious choices. Small steps toward wholeness.

But first, we must make space. Instead of packing our schedules and distracting in every free moment, we can choose a different path. A regular check-in can happen through meditation, walking in nature, or savoring a cup of tea. I often ask myself: Am I moving toward or away from wholeness? Do my choices lead to openness or constriction? I'm most present in my own life--and most present to others--when I'm open and aware; when my intentions and actions are aligned; when I feel my interconnection with all beings.

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Easing into Silence

When I go on meditation retreat, I often hear some version of these words: "You don't speak for three whole days? I couldn't do that." It's interesting that not talking is the deal breaker. There are many hard parts of a meditation retreat: judging mind, fear, doubt, and physical discomfort. On retreat, there's no place to hide. I get an honest look at myself and that's difficult territory. But not speaking, that's a gift.

Silence releases me from care-taking, performing, and focusing externally. Silence gives permission to look inward; to watch potential speech arise and discern my motivation. This gives me insight into daily conversation. Am I seeking approval? Am I merely filling space? Am I trying to be right? Or am I speaking truth in a kind, helpful way?

Karen Maezen Miller says "pure silence is the ultimate kindness." I think the word "pure" is important. We've all experienced the separating coldness of impure silence. Yet pure silence is a gift. It's the ultimate kindness. We're just not used to it. Silence isn't what our culture encourages or supports. But we can choose differently. In silence, we listen, we notice, we experience, no words necessary. There's beauty in the pure silence. There's wisdom, too. 

Imagine someone you dearly love. Now imagine being with that person in silence: taking a walk or watching a sunset or eating a meal. Purposeful silence for a short period. Ease into the silence and see what happens.

Everyday Mindfulness: Put Down the Silverware

There are many ways to rush through our days. And there are many choices for small yet substantial pauses. Spread throughout the day, purposeful pauses can shift our landscape. One of these places is mealtime. Food nourishes us and, in community, it nourishes connection. It's an important time to be fully present. Yet we seldom are.

While in academia, I ate at my desk facing the computer, barely chewing my food nor tasting the flavors. Everything seemed so important and pressing. If I made time to experience lunch, I wouldn't get everything done. Yet I was perpetuating my own busyness, removing my choices. And in that process, I lost connection with myself.

It's common to feel we're "on our way" to something else, even as we're in the here and now. Eating a meal can feel this way. But meals provide a gentle and needed space. Here's a counter-culture approach to food: close your eyes for 30 seconds, pay attention to your breath, be in your body; look at your food, take in the colors; smell your food, breathe in the aroma; taste and fully chew your food. I know this might sound radical. (I don't have time for this nonsense, there's more important things to do.). Here's a key ingredient: put down your silverware (or your food), let go, between bites; between every bite. This act, in itself, will slow your pace. Even if your mind races and you quickly anticipate the next bite, there's a bit of space. You can notice your reactions. If you're with other people, you can give them your full attention. Look them in the eye. (Or, if alone, look inward at yourself.) 

Give yourself this gift: put down the silverware, release your grip. Make space to savor your meal--even if in small ways. It helps your digestion, but more importantly it helps you connect with others and reconnect with yourself. (I'm with you on this journey, still practicing and starting anew each day.)

Everyday Mindfulness: Red Lights

Daily life can feel hectic. We cram our schedules full, leaving no space for surprises and interruptions, both of which we can depend on regularly. This feeds our irritation and separates us from joy. Yet it's possible to make breathing room in the tightest of schedules. Momentary pauses abound. 

Red lights and stop signs are beacons of stillness. It takes this subtle shift: I'm stopped from moving forward (argh!); I'm allowed to pause and be, to relax for a few breaths. This practice has buoyed me. I now welcome red lights. I don't look in my purse or at my phone or obsess in my mind, I bring my awareness back to my breath and my body. I rest at the red light.

I also do this as a pedestrian. When crossing a busy street, I must wait for traffic. I wait and breathe deeply. Or I repeat loving-kindness phrases to myself: may I be safe, may I be happy, may I live with ease. Whatever the practice, it creates a break in the busyness. It gives me access to the present moment. It moves me toward both stillness and aliveness.

Slow Down

The season is winter. Animals hibernate, conserving their energy. Plants go dormant, covered in snow. Darkness sits on the earth, asking it to sleep. There's a beautiful stillness in winter; a place for restoration. Yet we humans create bustle and doing. We actually choose the busyness--parties, shopping, gifting, scheduling.  

Mark and I did errands on Saturday and saw an interesting juxtaposition: holiday music declared "the most wonderful time of the year" while people with tense, tired faces pushed and rushed. We receive cards in the mail that contain no message, no intimacy. It's as if cards, gifts, and holiday cheer are on the very long to-do list. 

Remember: this is the season of hibernation. We can choose quiet and rest. We can slow down. I want to do less and appreciate more; to make deeper connections with fewer people; to minimize gifts and expand love; to work from my heart, not external pressure; and to listen to nature, as it gracefully rests.

Sacred Space

Meditation acts as a microscope on my mind. Certain thoughts trigger bodily tension. That tension attaches to emotion. That emotion triggers thoughts. And around we go, in mere seconds. These seconds speed by, as do my habituated reactions. In meditation, I observe this cycle, but it doesn't define me. In meditation, there's no "me" to define. 

Yet in daily life, the story of me plays loud and large, in not so pleasant ways. I'm trying to find more space. This space I seek is not grand. It's the space between moments--the gap in conversation, pause in movement, or break in workflow. Viktor Frankl describes this place: "Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom."

When I allow for that space, I access and respond from my heart. When I rush through that space, I act out of habit. I'd rather choose. I'd rather be free.

Lost in Thoughts

Yesterday I went for a run and was completely lost in thoughts. A small dog, tied up in a yard, barked at me. I jumped out of my skin. Then I laughed and reflected. The stories we construct in our minds can consume us. I was running outside, yet I didn't experience my body or nature, only my thoughts. I was living in another world--in my head--where I was disconnected from everything, including myself.

Thinking is good. It helps us process and understand. Yet if our thoughts consume us, the understanding weakens. When do you receive your best insights and ideas? Possible answers: the shower, while gardening, on a walk, brushing my teeth, a quiet moment sitting on the couch. 

Often, we box ourselves in. We overthink a problem or situation. Indeed, our culture reveres intellectual hard work. But we can't solve all problems just by thinking. It's also important to process emotionally, let an idea sit, and gain larger perspective. The spaces that naturally happen in life--showering, walking--provide a break from the thinking and often allow for insight. Imagine if we purposefully created more space.

When I'm lost in thoughts--and I notice--I use a variety of techniques: nature walk, yoga, weeding my garden, breath awareness, meditation. My best strategy, though, is simply lying on the couch. Non-doing. I don't necessarily meditate, but I scan my body. I feel my emotions. I notice my thoughts but I don't follow them. I don't jump from the couch to do the next thing that pops into my mind. I lie on the couch for a while--longer than I think I can. And I settle. I stop believing the stories in my mind. I find a bit of clarity and perhaps a new perspective. Just by lying on the couch, intentionally doing nothing.

Be the Change

In his poem "Being a Person," William Stafford writes: "How you stand here is important. How you listen for the next things to happen. How you breathe." Stand. Listen. Breathe.

We get immersed in the doing. Do. Strive. Achieve. Yet what is the state of our being (individually and as a collective)?  

The phrase, "be the change you want to see in the world," comes to mind. In particular, I like the word choice: be the change. Inhabit the qualities you want to see. Start with yourself. Not by doing. Not by thinking. Not by talking. By being.

We can stop the busyness, say for ten minutes, and sit quietly with ourselves. To be with our breath. To be with our experience, as is. Actions on autopilot don't lead to change. Being with ourselves and those we love--that can bring powerful change.

When I remember, I ask myself: Right now, do I fully inhabit my body (or am I lost in thoughts)? In conversation, does the other person have my full attention (or am I lost in thoughts)? In this moment, what is the quality of my heart (open, closed, numb)?

We can't just think our way to positive change or do our way to positive change. Ultimately, we must be the change. We must stand, listen, and breathe.

Permission

Initially I resisted my unplugged Saturdays. Now I welcome them. My spirit craves the weekly, 24-hour break from technology. Once I gave myself permission, the hesitation eased. All the what-if scenarios sprinted through my mind (something could go horribly wrong). I let them pass. The only permission I needed was my own.

While on meditation retreats, people agree to Noble Silence. We don't speak. This allows for inward focus; space to watch thoughts and emotions without the distraction of speech. I've been asked if this silence is challenging for me. Just the opposite: the permission to not talk provides great relief. My aversion appears when silence lifts. It's important for me to realize: at any moment, I can choose not to space-fill with my words. (For me, speech contains many long-held, emotion-masking habits. A topic for a different post.) 

Freedom exists in the present moment--if I allow for my experience, as is. If I let in difficult (and pleasant) emotions and investigate. Where does a feeling manifest in my body? Does the location change? Does the feeling change? Is there another emotion underneath? In order to be curious, I first must allow. I must take off my protective armor. I must open my heart.

To allow (to grant ourselves permission) feels counter-intuitive. We're used to rejecting difficult feelings. We're used to striving and improving. The permission of which I write is not acceptance of malicious behavior by others. It's not weak. It's not apathetic. It's the permission to be in this moment (a very brave choice). It's allowing for our own experience, as is. Not trying to change or fix. Just allow. And the only permission we need is our own.

Nourishment

It's November and my body craves soups not salads. I enjoy my seasonal shift in tastes--a connection with the natural world. And I enjoy making soup. Soup asks for little and provides much; it's forgiving and flavorful; it's easy and wholesome. All this soup making created a mantra in my mind: nourish. 

To nourish is to provide with food or other substances necessary for growth, health, and good condition (New Oxford American Dictionary, 2001). Growth, health, and good condition. Yet we often feed ourselves news, food, images, or self-talk that inhibits health; that discourages growth. We're habituated. Our busy lives provide little space for actual nourishment. Unless we take a purposeful pause.

Some worthwhile questions: Do the people in my life nourish me? Do they support me and help me grow? Do the actions I take nourish me? Do they feed my creativity? Do they move me forward? Does my speech nourish me? Is it truthful, helpful, and kind?

I stood in my backyard today and watched the perennial beds now covered in leaves. Instead of sadness, I felt contentment. These plants go dormant for the winter, but then emerge with life in the spring. Dormancy + nourishment = aliveness.  As I enter winter, with its low light and cold air, I think of myself as a perennial. This is precisely the time to pause, notice, and nourish. I can embrace winter as I quietly grow my spirit; a spirit that emerges brighter and stronger each spring.

Simplification

Last year I gradually cleaned out my campus office. Each week I put more files in recycling, deleted emails, and gave away textbooks. The process was cathartic. As I tossed out the old, I wondered: why have I kept all this for so long? The quick answer: I didn't have time, while in the throes of the academic calendar, to purge my materials. Yet I made time last year, even as I worked long hours. The deeper answer: I clung to those materials; they provided me a sense of security. If I really simplified at the office, I would see how unhappy I was.

My schedule is now flexible. Time is not an issue. Besides writing, connecting, and exploring, I'm drawn to simplification--cleaning out the pantry, my closets, the few junk drawers. I see what an accomplished consumer I used to be. I collected things as a way to fill an unnamed emptiness. But it didn't help. What did help was my commitment to inner-work, not the clothes I accrued.

It's interesting: since I quit my job, I must simplify (we're down to one income); yet not having my job makes it easy to simplify. I'm not overwhelmed by life. I'm not exhausted at the end of the day. I no longer need all the band-aids of years past: new clothes, new books, easy dinners, expensive lotions. Instead, I practice actual self-care: meditation, reflection, nourishment, presence.

Mark's great at sussing out needs from wants. Often he'll ask me, do you really need that? Do you have to take this particular action? Do you have no choice? My quick reaction is yes, but my eventual response is no. There are few material goods I need. There are few tasks that must be done in a very specific way. There are few circumstances in which I don't have a choice.

Because I (blessedly) have extra capacity, I more clearly observe my surroundings. I see how people often interact with the world: rushing, interrupting, complaining, longing. I just rented a car and an employee asked about my plans. I told her I'll spent the weekend at a silent meditation retreat. She replied, "wow, I so need a meditation retreat." (The whole office gave a collective sigh.) Yet we continue to apply band-aids. We're overwhelmed by work, commitments, and life, but instead of meditation retreats we choose busyness (more gadgets, eating out, mindless activities, texts instead of conversations). The very things our souls crave--creativity, space, rest, reflection, connection--elude us. 

But here's the good news: we can make different choices, right now, in this moment. I choose to get off-line and spend the weekend in silent meditation. Is there a different choice you can make now, maybe a micro-choice? A choice that fills instead of depletes? A choice that simplifies instead of complicates? A choice that connects you more deeply to yourself and others?

Making Space

Recently I've craved space. Space to patiently sit with my creative ideas. Moments (long moments) of active non-doing. I want breathing room. Just when I needed it, Kristin and Meredith sent this prompt: negative space. A place to rest.  It's interesting how some things align (and others are completely out of whack). I'm grateful for this artistic cue. It connects my visuals with my intentions.

Negative space is a gift in photography. For the viewer's eye, it's a place to rest. No over-stimulation, just easy focus on the subject with extra peaceful space. Negative space is also a gift in life. Our busy schedules often allow no room--no room for life to interrupt. And life always interrupts. People get sick, emotions arise, cars don't start, accidents happen, bad things happen to good people.

If we don't actively make space, we can feel assaulted by life. (And if we incessantly do and distract when we have space, we can feel empty.) But with precious breathing room, we can help others while taking care of ourselves. We can experience life rather than racing through the day. We can know we're okay in this moment, with this breath. It might seem like everything's gone to hell, but really, it hasn't. If we find make the space, then we have time to reflect.

This week I've tried to stay very curious, especially when I have breathing room. What's the state of my heart in this moment? What am I feeling? What actions give me energy and what actions drain my energy? What am I projecting on others that's actually my own internal storm? How can I stay true to myself while navigating a new creative path?

It's been a lovely (and difficult) week of reflection. Only possible because I made space.

Don't Try to Be the Fastest

The lojong teachings are 59 mind-training slogans. One of the sayings: "Don't try to be the fastest." This one resonates with me right now. It doesn't say "don't be the fastest." It's all about intention: "Don't try to be the fastest." Don't try to be the first person to respond (or say something witty) in a conversation; don't try to be the first person to comment on a friend's photo (or blog or Facebook status); don't try to be the first person with the most creative, coolest idea in the whole world.

Because that place of intention necessarily rushes the process. Trying to be the fastest leaves little space for sincerity, reflection, and connection. 

I participate in limited social media, yet even I feel urgency from such sources. Of course, it's my own self-imposed urgency, but sometimes I buy into it. I spend time reacting (trying to be the fastest) instead of being with what is. I take an action, when no action is necessary--when non-doing would be the more skillful path.

Leaving academia has opened new creative channels for me. In fact, the doors are blown wide open--the ideas spill from me. Yet this is precisely a time to be patient; to not grab onto something that might bring temporary safety (or an external stroke). It's time to ride out my creative ideas. To sit with them. To let them develop organically. To not try to be the fastest.

It's Not a F***ing Book

The reality has hit: I'm no longer a professor. School is not my structure. Instead, I take photographs, connect with people, write short pieces for my blog and longer pieces for possible publication. I make space for my writing--how can I share in a way that's new, interesting, and honest? What's my authentic voice?

Yet ego cares little about authenticity. My ego wants a print book with a respected publishing house. Oh, and a great review from the New York Times--something like, "Jordan writes intelligently, yet with raw emotion. Her insights are keen and her writing is beautiful." I shouldn't be surprised. In academia, a well-respected book is the path to success. But I'm so tired of ego's expectations.

I often write free-hand in a notebook before typing on my laptop. During these writing sessions, my emotions flow and creative seeds are planted. Recently a mantra arose: it's not a f***ing book! I'm writing to find my voice; to see what has heat. I'm writing to write, not to produce. And my work might take unusual forms--shapes I won't recognize for months. Like I said, it's not a f***ing book. This makes me smile every single time. It's my (foul-mouthed) bell of mindfulness that brings me back to myself. It brings me back to why I love writing, even when the process is hard.

My ego is focused on external validation. It sabotages the very work I hold dear. And it's speaking very loudly right now. Because at the end of the month, I no longer get a paycheck. Can I make a living through my writing? I don't know. But I'll try. And in this way, I stay true to myself.

Saying Goodbye

For months I've purged the innards of my Lawrence office. Each time the recycling bin is emptied, I throw in more paper. It's a cleansing process (with occasional nostalgia). But outwardly my office didn't change--until last week. In just 20 short minutes, Mark and I dismantled the feng shui I had carefully cultivated. The lamps, throws, photographs, water fountain, rugs--all purposeful choices to create a relaxed, living-room feel--were packed in mere minutes. And I felt verklempt. I took a moment to process the change and grieve the space. This space that made students feel safe; this space that witnessed much learning--about statistics and life. It was an unexpected wave of emotion. And then it passed. (Of course, spaces can be cultivated throughout our lives in many different environments.) 

Initially my sadness about leaving Lawrence focused on students. I care deeply about the students--not just as learners, but as people. Then the sadness extended to my amazing colleagues. Yet I've had closure in these areas--end-of-year parties filled with both emotion and celebration. I thought I'd processed it all. But when I left my office for good, Keith and Mike--the custodians in my building--expressed sadness. They told me how much they'd miss me ("miss seeing my smiling face"). Indeed, I'll  miss not only my students and my colleagues. I'll miss the custodians, administrative assistants, admissions counselors, career advisors, and on down the line. Lawrence is a special community. I feel blessed to have touched many different lives and to have them touch me back. Saying goodbye was a great lesson in saying hello. It made me realize the importance of everyday interactions--a smile, a patient ear, an act of kindness. These simple, yet intentional actions build community. And I'll carry that with me wherever I go. Whether for a friend, coworker, stranger, or myself, a genuine smile goes a long way; it has a ripple effect.

Uncertainty and Justification

After an adrift few weeks post unplugged sabbatical, I feel more centered and focused. My creative energy is spent on a happy task: the baccalaureate address I was asked to give during commencement weekend (thank you class of 2013!). I'm enjoying the celebratory end-of-year events, which also celebrate my own last weeks at Lawrence.

My decision to leave academics, tenure, and my PhD training is still mysterious, surprising, and perhaps refreshing to many. Even as the news sinks in, there's always the question: what will you do next? It's natural for people to be curious. I understand and in fact anticipate the question. But people seem uncomfortable with my answer: I don't know. 

Often, the conversation goes like this...
Curious Person: What will you do next?
Me: I don't know.
[Blank stare from curious person.]
Me: I'm purposefully making space to not know. First I must feel what it's like not to be an academic, so my horizons expand and I get in touch with what I really want to do next.
Curious person: But you must have some idea? Some inkling?
Me: No. 
Curious person: Well, what do you like to do?
Me: Okay, I enjoy writing and I'll give that some time and energy, but who knows what will happen. That's not necessarily what I'm "going to do next" for my profession.
[This is often when the person inserts what she thinks I'd be good at: life coach, pilates teacher, world traveler, etc.]
Me: What's great about my situation is I still get a paycheck through the end of August. So I have paid space to make choices authentic to me.

I don't mind having this conversation. People are curious; humans have difficulty with uncertainty. I understand all the underlying mechanisms, and I'm happy to talk through my personal process. But here's the unnecessary justification: I'm still paid through the end of August. When those words escape my mouth, I know my true self has left the building; I'm justifying my existence via my paycheck. Money = worthiness. (Ugh.) 

I'm working hard to hear my authentic voice over the persistent yelling of ego. Yet it's not only about listening; it's also about speaking my truth. Right now my truth is I don't know. I want to pursue activities that bring me creative joy; I want to work hard on creative projects; I want to stay open to opportunities. And at the same time I really want to not know. This is very unsettling to ego--ego wants me to know (right this moment) how I'll earn money in September. Interestingly, the negative reaction from ego means I'm on exactly the right path: not knowing, staying creative, connecting with people, centering myself, exploring new territory. Often times knowing-something-for-sure separates us from creativity, authenticity, and freedom. 

So dear blog readers, here's something I know for sure: I don't know.

Unplugged Sabbatical

I'm a space filler. Coming off the long hours of an academic term, it's hard for my doing-self to slow. My ego (doing-self) is uncomfortable when idle. If I'm not mindful, then my day is crammed with new things (e.g., errands, new--not necessarily well thought out--projects, list making, plans, extra correspondence). These are all efforts to prove my worth--who am I if I'm not doing or achieving? I'm always curious about the new tasks in which I place my self-worth. When I'm mindful, when I make space to just be, then I know my self-worth is inherent. It exists, always. I am always worthy, just by being me; there's no doing that changes my self-worth. But ego is wily and often circumvents my true intentions, though I'm onto ego: I recognize its machinations more quickly and when I do, I immediately pause, breathe, or meditate.

Lucky for me, I will be soon be away from all external pressures and duties. On Saturday, Mark and I leave for 5 weeks in Nevis, West Indies. While there, we rent an 800-square-foot cottage on a beautiful property--filled with gorgeous gardens and just a short walk to the beach. And we're completely unplugged: no Internet, email, television, newspaper, computer, or cell phone. It's interesting to notice my reactions when first there--I'm trained to look at the answering machine or check email. I have that reaction in Nevis and then I smile. And soon I have no expectations. That's when I'm really unplugged. And I feel so very free. So available to experience life with all my senses.

While on Nevis we don't check email, watch TV, read news, travel in a car, dine at restaurants, or surf the Internet. What do we do? Read books, cook food, take long walks, commune with the ocean, sit in silence, have deep conversation, experience the moment, do yoga, run along the beach, play scrabble, take photographs, play music, ride bikes to the market, listen to the wind, watch the hummingbirds, write, take naps, look at the stars, create, and just be. We experience life through all our senses, no distractions. Does ego still add commentary? Of course, daily commentary. But it's much easier to turn the volume dial to low or mute.

So, friends, I'll be away from this blog for a while. (Although, in some sense, I'll take you all to Nevis with me--in my heart and my experiences.)  Check back later in the week--I have some ideas for you to ponder and experiment with while I'm gone.