I must have been about 7 and it was my first sleep over. Being a socially awkward child, I was freakishly nervous and cautiously insecure. I was also quite intrigued about the potential bonding that occurs between a young gaggle of girls. Little did I know it would be the introduction to a world of playful incantations and magic. Did you ever play the game Light as a Feather? One daring child lays on the ground, encircled by her clan, their pinkie fingers slightly tucked beneath the outline of her body while chanting this prayer in unison, Light as a feather, stiff as a board. Light as a feather, stiff as a board, in the curious hope that the girl be light enough to initiate a paranormal levitation. Though I don’t have an exact recollection, the whimsical thinker in me grew up believing that we had, in fact, seen that girl’s body float two inches off the ground.
We grew up on a hill, 3rd West Hill to be exact. Our house was at the base of one of the best views of the town. I spent years at the peak of our property staring down at the Great Falls Valley watching the Smith River meander through little houses, brick buildings, speedways, and under old bridges. Watching the seasons change the canopies of trees to autumn gold, winter white, spring buds, and summer greens. Life moved at a slow pace, it seemed, and I always relished as a witness on the outskirts. Up on the hill I made dirt forts and igloos and with the world alive at my feet I found myself more engaged in the elements and expression of the places beyond people. I loved the mystery of the Montana winds, fierce and unpredictable. I would ask the winds questions and rely on them to direct my moral compass and understanding of my life. “If there is a God, make a dust storm.” I would say. I was convinced the wind carried a current of wisdom and it would answer my inquires by a brush on my face or a run through my kinked hair. It always seemed to respond in the way I needed most to be taught.
At Nana’s house I learned to play dress up with old gowns, diamond costumed jewelry and cherry red nail polish. I fell in love with Etta James and would stand on the living room table belting out A Sunday Kind of Love. I learned of growing roses and daisies, drying clothes on a line with the warmth of the sun, long island ice-teas, the intensity of a good bridge game, and early rise Sunday morning Catholic Mass with tick-tack-toe and the body of Christ. I also learned the power of the intention and unshakable faith from Nana. I was 12, I believe, and she insisted that when she pass it would be on Easter Sunday…..and sure enough, she did. It seemed that Nana had a special communion with God, and that made her magical, almost invisible in my eyes. She was always a woman of wonder.
Of course, we may believe what we want to believe, but I have had no reason to challenge such memories that cast a genuine interest and contemplation into the mysterious power of the unseen, and the mysterious inspiration that comes from giving experience our own unique meaning. Meaning doesn’t have to be measurable or comparable to others’, it is felt from the regions of self that are often intangible and derived form our own authentic interpretations of life. It is sourced from a deep inner need to craft personal belief and make experience our own.
These little clips of my life scenarios are just a few of thousands that have significantly shaped my infatuation of the majestic, existential, metaphorical and contemplative aspects of my life. Their imprint has cultivated a life-long interest in WONDER, meaning-making and inspired living. I am convinced that this dedication to meaning making has been the foundation to my resiliency as I have faced elements of abuse, addiction, toxic relationships, loss, a struggle with anxiety and depression, and cancer. Each of these scenarios have been opportunities for post-traumatic GROWTH. In adversity we can source the Sacred and harness hope to not only overcome our challenges but turn them into something beautiful and livable. Psychiatrist Victor Frankl believed man is not destroyed by suffering; he is destroyed by suffering without meaning. In my private practice I can relate, on many levels, to each of my clients and I can attest that it is through creating meaning in their suffering that the therapeutic relationship takes on a healing power of its own.
I am dedicating the next few blogs to a series: Rising from Adversity with Meaning-Making and Inspired Living. This week I invite you to journal and reflect on some early memories that were significant in your process of whimsical thinking and personal meaning making. Draw upon those times of innocence when you believed in anything and were in love with the wonder of the universe. Notice if that wonder needs to be reawakened. Look for it and listen to it…..it might be light as a feather, distant as the wind or in a Sunday kind of love, but I assure you, it is there and it is holding unique meaning for you.
Blessings, Namaste, Aho
Robin
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
W.B. Yeats
Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.”
Socrates
