The Urge to Purge

I have too much stuff.

1. Toys & puppets. Just in case a kid comes over, they'll be entertained. (Isn't that what the pool     

 table's for? It's the perfect toddler's toy - colors, patterns, noise.)

2. Clothes. I crave variety (but seem to wear the same thing over and over again.)

3. Recipes I want to try. (There are so many that I can't even look at that pile without reaching for matches.)

4. Books on finance. (I'll have a brain transplant one day and finally understand them.)

5. Big scary man tools. One day I'll learn to use them.  (Yeah, like when they invent flexible steel gloves, heck, A BODY SUIT, so I don't cut something off.)
                                                                                                                                                                               6. Costumes out the wah-zoo. Because
Mardi Gras may come to the North Country
one day and I'll have to outfit all my friends.
(Laugh, but I have been known to do this.)

7. Gigantic painter's easel. Not totally out there since I am an artist. (There's no way to get it's humongousness up into my studio.)

8. Full tilt workout bench and weights. (We all know this dream, right?)

9. My mother's baby clothes. Quaint, sentimental. (I can hear all these women saying, "Awwwww.")

10. An accordion. Because when family begins to get edgy and mean, nothing breaks tension like a good loud accordion tune. (Spiders have long ago woven the case shut.)

In my defense, most of these things are not in my living space, crowding me out. But I do feel the urge to purge. And if you haven't guessed by now, listing these things publicly is a way for me to begin to bust a move. I think I'll hold onto the accordion, though - doesn't God bless the peacemakers?

Transforming the Mighty Gremlin

I'm an artist so really strong visual images catch my attention. I'm also a life coach and in my coach training, we learned about "The Gremlin", a metaphor for that voice in your head; that judge, the inner critic who pipes up anytime you want to try something new. I will forever be indebted to the fabulous Rick Carson, who wrote and illustrated the book, "Taming Your Gremlins", and I highly recommend it. He created this great metaphor and it has helped me notice, talk to and conquer those inner voices that were keeping me from growing.

The word "gremlin" worked for me - it was something to kick to the curb, shove off a cliff. It worked for me for years. I even designed workshops around the concept, culminating in Gremlin masks and Gremlin finger puppets: meet Howie, ("How-ie ya gonna do THAT?") and the finger puppet I still can't name because he creepily looks a bit like my ex-boyfriend.

But three experiences, years apart, have gelled together to give me a deeper and kinder way. Nearly two years ago, Debbie Philp of True North Yoga led us through a visualization that was powerful for me. In my capsulized version, she asked that we think of a picture of our young selves, step out of the picture, do whatever we would be doing, notice how we felt, then step in as our grown selves and give our young selves what we needed. I needed love and attention. My second experience happened this year, a year of physical pain and physical therapy and through all that, a new knowing to be kinder and gentler to myself. Finally, a retreat with the wise and wonderful Jennifer Louden helped me reframe the gremlin. We imagined our young selves and, and when the gremlins begin their chatter in my head, she reminded us that they are part of us, remembering a past hurt. As my coach Ed would remind me, they think they're protecting us. Then Jen had us imagine them as a frightened child. I remembered that little girl who wanted to be loved. And my promise to be kinder and gentler to myself.

That's when it hit me - if I'm going to love myself, then I must love all those pieces and parts, even the scary gremlins. I don't have to LIKE all my parts but I can imagine them morphing from a scary gremlin into a frightened child (me) that I can wrap my arms around and reassure that it will be fine if I take that next step, whatever it is. (Okay, sky diving NOT included!) This will help me honor the promise I made to myself to be kinder to me, to love the little girl inside that is filled with joy. Thank you Rick Carson, Debbie, Jennifer, Ed and all those gremlins that helped bring me to this place of greater love. I am truly blessed.

The Good, the Bad and the Barky

 Every morning (and afternoon) I walk my trusty pooch, Cooper. Living in the woods, she can run without a leash, though I have to keep my eye on her. She does like to follow a hunch every now and then. My husband, Lance, and I used to walk the top of Charley Hill Rd. every morning, down to Rose and Keith's mailbox and back. He'd pull out their newspaper, check the weather report, and carefully put the paper back. At one of our Christmas tree trimming parties, Rose and Keith brought us a newspaper weather report on a hook as their contribution to the ornament collection. A decade later, I still love pulling that frayed and fragile weather report out as a reminder of the audacity of my husband and the humor of my friends.

I rarely take that whole route anymore and I miss it. Lance is no longer here (in physical form, anyway) and the folks who moved into a house along the way have a scary dog who is always chained up outside and gets very upset if we go by. I sometimes walk in that direction, but turn back way before their house.

Last Friday, I got up before it was light outside to hit an early yoga class. I headed in that direction and, as we got to the crest of the hill, here came the scary dog and its owner. (Much to my relief, she walks him on a leash.) Fortunately, I diverted Cooper's attention before she saw them by playfully running back to my house. It wasn't easy because inside I was grumbling and annoyed that this dog owner had ruined our walk. I reached my front yard and was greeted with a spectacular sunrise. Run-inside-the-house-and-get-the-camera worthy.

What a splendid and humbling reminder to trust that all is as it is supposed to be. Thank you, scary dog. If you hadn't come along, I would have missed it.