Author: janlinley

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Take a Hike

imagesEvery year or so, a friend and I go on a writing retreat. We like to be near the water in a peaceful, reflective setting. This year we found a quaint house on a small part of the bay where osprey and heron regularly do flybys and the water serves as a mirror for tall leafy trees in the morning.

Prior to setting out, I attempted to re-read the most recent version of my work-in-progress, so I could hit the ground running. A hundred pages in, it was clear that there was a reason I’d stayed away from my child for so long. He was rambling and incoherent! And I felt powerless to help. My brain was in the deep freeze.

At lunch on about the third day, I told my friend I couldn’t figure out the fix. I thought I should abandon ship. She thought for a minute and then offered a suggestion that would never have occurred to me, one that provided near instant brain thaw. But was it instant?

When I shared this experience later with another friend, she told me about the three-day effect, a term coined by cognitive neuroscientist David Strayer to describe what happens to the brain after we’re immersed in nature for three days. It rests and reboots, increasing creativity and boosting problem-solving capability by as much as 40 percent.

While three days may be the Cadillac reboot experience, as little as 15 minutes in the woods can have profound effects on us, reducing cortisol and increasing overall well-being. Increasing the time in nature to 45 minutes can improve cognitive performance. But the effects go even further than that. Florence Williams traveled the world working with nature neuroscientists to find out the reasons why. She details those findings in her book, The Nature Fix: Why Nature Makes Us Happier, Healthier and More Creative. Wallace J. Nichols explores similar effects of water in his book, Blue Mind: The Surprising Science that Shows How Being Near, In, On, or Under Water Can Make You Happier, Healthier, More Connected, and Better at What You Do.

How lovely to be tended to by Mother Nature in this way. In fact, taking in nature in any way available can bring powerful restorative benefits to our brains. So yes, take a hike, or find a seat with a view.

 

 

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Knight’s Dare

thumbnail-1 2Several two-story high trees were felled in the woods on the Palisades after Superstorm Sandy; their broad, shallow roots useless against hurricane force winds. A mile into a walk, the massive root ball of one of them faced me, a fallen warrior as majestic in death as in life, lying in state holding a shield decorated in a mesmerizing pattern of intertwined roots and dirt. As I paid my respects, like something out of a fable, the brave knight dared me to steal a heart-shaped stone the size of my fist from the center of his shield. I accepted the dare and slipped the stone into a pocket.

At home, I rinsed off the dirt with warm water and put it on the windowsill to dry where it sat forgotten for a few days. But it lured me back. It fit perfectly in my palm. My thumb and fingers ran over the tawny marbled surface, turning it over and back, instantly soothing.

A jagged buttonhole gash marks the top of one side. On the other, there is a hole next to the left ventricle where scar tissue has formed in the shape of a shark’s tooth. Small pockmarked wounds create an uneven pattern of dots on both sides. Cracks and veins that didn’t create full breaks tell stories from before the storm. It is flawless in its imperfection.

Virginia Woolf committed suicide by filling her pockets with stones and walking into the river. The Hope diamond, one of the most precious and now belonging to the Smithsonian, was said to carry a curse that ended when Harry Winston donated it rather than sell it for profit. Canyons shaped by rivers, pebbles washed up on beaches, desert rock formations, greats like Gibraltar, Uluru, Stonehenge and Plymouth, pyramidal stones—storytellers all.

Hard, smooth and uneven, the umbo I hold pulses with life, the connector between me and the tree and the earth that warmed it. It tells me a story about how that knight held my heart in its fist, keeping it hidden and safe, returning it to me when I was ready, reminding me the consequence of accepting the dare is to risk again.

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Wild Heart

bd4c67dfc9786cd16c8719f0f80b8065--motorcycle-bike-biker-babesWild heart, strap on your biker boots and take me places I would never dare. Reckless, guileless, bold and brave, tell the voices and distractions to get out of our way.

Rev the engine and take Main through town to the dusty back road that leads to the top of the hill. Let gawkers gawk, because they will. Steal a kiss and give one, too. It doesn’t have to last, but make sure it’s true.

Soar eagle high, dive cormorant deep, catch me a star fish while you’re there. Set a seal and leave your mark, drop bouquets after dark. Go merrily, merrily, merrily. I’ll meet you at the shore.

Cast your net wherever you wish, but hold me tight when the waves hit. Carry it light, and we’ll not go down. Share all our bounties from the beautiful sea. She is us and we are she.

Weapons down, gates thrown wide, dance by the light of the moon, the moon.  Come close and let me whisper in your ear, you are divine, it’s true.

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Altarations for the New Year

UnknownTake all the secrets and shame from the vault and lay them open on the altar of compassion where they will be burned with sage and sweet grass, then rinsed away with a tincture of holy water, lavender and mercy.

Lie down on the granite altar of pain and offer your sorrow as sacrifice. Let the flying buttresses and the bowl of the apse catch your soul’s keening. Be soothed by the cool stone beneath you. Hold steadfast that a light heart will beat again.

Kneel before the altar of humbleness and receive the host of gratitude and forgiveness on your tongue. Sip bittersweet from the chalice of chance and experience. Rise up.

Walk down the aisle toward the altar of the flowing river draped in the morning sunlight. Slip on the ring of promise, and vow to start each day with a sacrament of beauty.

Dance on the refracted colored light on the floor of the nave before the altar of joy to a jubilant chorus raising the cathedral roof singing of your goodness.

Gaze up to the hawk’s shrill cry, follow flashes of cardinal and streaks of blue jay, glides of tawny sparrow to where they adorn the shrines of mighty oak and pine, and woodpeckers tap their praise.

Gild the altar of life with fragrant flowers, the finest threads and most vivid colors. In exaltation, summon forth courage and creativity; bless the arts and music. Welcome with open arms all who are bold enough to risk.

Dip inspiration into the baptismal font of hope where doubt knows no name. Process the ashes of fear out the holy door and down the avenue in a caisson drawn by white horses.

Worship in awe-filled silence in the sanctuary of your understanding. Glorify that which you feel to be holy. Come often to be centered and fed. Shout Hallelujah! Chant om, shanti, shanti, shanti. Namaste. Amen.

 

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Expectant Joy

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Grandmother Linley (Gin)

This year my family awaits the arrival of my youngest niece’s baby boy, due December 28. He will be the firstborn of his generation in this branch of the family. Our Advent season of waiting, wondering, hoping and praying began in the summer when she shared this news and has now taken on the true mystery and magic of this time of year.

Somewhere during this long Advent, I started an overdue project of going through boxes of family photos, which brought joy as well as poignant moments peering at the faces of those lost too soon. Along with photos, I have become the recipient of a small cache of family history in letters, articles and pamphlets allowing me to catch swirling, snow globe glimpses of my origins.

I smile at letters between my grandmother Virginia, known as Gin, and her sisters and brothers, each with their own nifty nickname like Ede, Bunch, Pike and June (a junior). In the summer, while visiting my younger brother, we strike a deal–I will get the painting by our great aunt of our father at 20 (we think) who our nephew strongly resembles, with a promise to send my brother portraits of my grandparents in exchange.

The strong cheekbones and curly hair of my oldest niece look out at me in a young photo of my other grandmother who got short shrift in my self-absorbed youth. I make a silent wish that I could talk to her now and an apology that I didn’t do so more when I had the chance. Not too many days later a packet arrives from my uncle that includes an old photo of me with her and one of a great grandfather I had never seen.

I realize they have all been clustering forward this year, reminding me they are still here, even very near, and always have been. Perhaps on the other side they are throwing a going away party for the soul about to join us, sharing wisdom for the journey, sad to see him go, yet filled with joy at the promise of his life. What past will he carry? What future? How will we nurture his awesome light and honor his courage to come? We wait with love in expectant joy.

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Incarnation

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Blades crack, sinews pull, a pinion forces a tear creating space for the next, and the next, and all that come after. Torso drops forward to support the transformation. The invisible unfolding is swift. Arching upright, wings expand to full. The familiar weight rests easy, feels good, is a comfortable carry.

These are not strap-on, costume feathers for fun or show. They go entirely unnoticed, moving easily through busy streets, fitting comfortably on crowded subways and planes, in tiny elevators and hospital rooms with humming machines, blinking lights, ambient exterior noise, blurring days. There is nowhere they don’t or won’t go.

They enter cavernous silences bringing offerings of what is needed–a gentle touch, an unexpected smile, a compassionate heart, unconditional love made easy. They bring the hands and hearts that treat the sick, that help those stuck in the snow, that pamper with haircuts and massages, tend and comfort the children, feed the hungry, adore the animals. Their ears patiently listen; their hearts make soft landing for vented anger and fill the cup with laughter on days that teeter on the edge of sorrow. It takes but a sliver of grace inserted in a gaping ache.

So effortless and unconscious the alteration, sometimes you forget who you are, that you joyfully made the promise when you signed the covenant to come. Yes, there are the troubled days in between, transformation stunted or thwarted, leaving in your wake misfired mercy and smoky, ruffled plumes. But for the most you bring the peace, hoist the courage, set things right for at least one in some significant way. You are the guardian and incarnation of the angel you shelter.

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Sequelae

While you’ve been lumbering along for centuries trying to overcome your divisions, I have loved you without regard to race, economic status, religion, sex, or gender orientation. I love you if you’re smart or not so much, famous or anonymous, young or old. Ah sweet youth! I especially covet you, your tender spirit and mind so pliable. I have a soft spot for the broken, the wounded, any who need my solace.

I have known your family for many generations. I was quite close to your father, and knew your grandmother, your uncle, too, and your cousin John. There were many others. They were all so excited when you came along, had such hopes and dreams, but so did I. I couldn’t wait for you to get older to get to know you better.

I wooed you like a lover on a springtime’s eve making you blush and giggle. Your eyes twinkled as I released your inhibitions. It wasn’t too long before we became inseparable. I went with you to all your parties and events—showing up at holiday dinners, birthday celebrations, weddings, graduations, anniversaries, intimate trysts, ballgames and barbecues. I was the life of every party.

And I am there now when you are alone, crying into the night fearful, sad and worried. I am there to keep you company while you binge-watch late night television, surf the internet for hours on end. I help you write witty or nasty comments on Facebook. Oh, how I love when we tweet.

When you wake up sick and tired from too much of me and vowing you will never go out with me again, casting your eyes away, I cringe outwardly while I secretly smirk knowing we will probably meet up again before the day is over. This will go on for days and weeks, months and years while you live two lives. You love me. You hate me. I adore you. I am devoted to you.

I become possessive and enslave you in your very own body, your mind and soul my favorite playgrounds. I transform you into my own version of you. Your goals lose their luster, your dreams remain in the land of sleep. You begin to almost lose sight of yourself. You think about me all day long. When you go a day without me, you decide maybe this isn’t the right time to break up after all. I couldn’t be happier.

Alas, I see you are weary of our relationship, for real. You truly seem unhappy. You are not as enamored with me, which only makes me cling tighter. You decide we should break it off, but I won’t allow it. We’ve all but stopped seeing your friends and family. We’ve made scenes and are no longer welcome. You are ashamed, but I don’t care. Besides, they are too critical, always so worried. Why can’t you quit our dysfunctional relationship? Where is your willpower? Your sense of self-worth? Where is the you they love? How can you be so selfish?

They don’t understand that you have no control, and it’s not your fault. If I have it my way, we will stay together ‘til death do us part. And it will. I am hard on all your organs, on every system in your body, top to bottom, but if I can’t have you, nobody will.

What is that you say? You are walking away for good? Really? You think you’re better off without me? You say you are forever changed by me, made humble, returned to yourself? Well, all right then for you. I can find another to love in the blink of an eye, the birth of a babe. Look around you. I can own this nation, maybe the world.

A Few Statistics from the World Health Organization

  • On average every person in the world aged 15 years or older drinks 6.2 litres of pure alcohol per year.
  • Less than half the population (38.3%) actually drinks alcohol, this means that those who do drink consume on average 17 litres of pure alcohol annually.
  • Some 31 million persons have drug use disorders.
  • Almost 11 million people inject drugs, of which 1.3 million are living with HIV, 5.5 million with hepatitis C, and 1 million with both HIV and hepatitis C.
  • In 2012, 3.3 million deaths, or 5.9 percent of all global deaths (7.6 percent for men and 4.1 percent for women), were attributable to alcohol consumption.
  • In 2014, alcohol contributed to more than 200 diseases and injury-related health conditions, most notably DSM–IV alcohol dependence, liver cirrhosis, cancers, and injuries.
  • In 2012, 5.1 percent of the burden of disease and injury worldwide (139 million disability-adjusted life-years) was attributable to alcohol consumption.
  • Globally, alcohol misuse was the fifth leading risk factor for premature death and disability in 2010. Among people between the ages of 15 and 49, it is the first. In the age group 20–39 years, approximately 25 percent of the total deaths are alcohol attributable.

There are many evolving statistics on addiction, few on recovery. One study (An eight-year perspective on the relationship between the duration of abstinence and other aspects of recovery. Dennis, Foss MA, Scott CK.) suggests the longer the abstinence, the lower the relapse rate:

  • Only about a third of people who are abstinent less than a year will remain abstinent.
  • For those who achieve a year of sobriety, less than half will relapse.
  • If you can make it to 5 years of sobriety, your chance of relapse is less than 15 percent.

Partial list of addictions other than drugs and alcohol:

  • Eating Disorders
  • Exercise
  • Food
  • Gambling
  • Porn
  • Sex
  • Shopping
  • Smoking
  • Technology
  • Work
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Optics: Weed or Flower?

I came across a patch of Queen Anne’s lace in the woods about a month ago. Queen Anne’s lace, also known as wild carrot, is a plant I’ve loved since I was small, when I was told it was a weed and not the lovely flower I saw. I still find it odd that a weed is named for a queen’s delicate lace, it’s tiny dark red center poetically representing a drop of blood from her needle-pricked finger. Apparently, it also bears a close resemblance to the poisonous hemlock, and one is cautioned to be careful if planning to eat it. This is not a weed. It’s a short story on a stem. What makes a weed and what a flower? Who decides?

Presumably a weed grows where it shouldn’t. This doesn’t necessarily make it a bad thing. In fact, so-called weeds often serve a positive purpose. In the case of Queen Anne’s lace, when it’s native to the area, it attracts wasps and sometimes butterflies and can boost tomato production. But in the wrong area, it’s considered noxious and a pest.

There is much that seems dualistic or is revealed to be something other than it is. “Optics” has become a buzzword. Optics are used to influence how we will interpret or view the facts and seem to play as important a role as the facts. And while we’d like to think we are immune to that influence, the truth is we are all sensitive to appearances or our perception of things.  We do make judgments and decisions based on optics. Is a panel of women asking the questions or a panel of men? Is the panel multiracial or one race? Young or old or mixed? We create entire stories based on images. We also know that optics often don’t tell the whole story, that they can be a fiction.

The best we can do at any given moment is see past the fiction to the truth, knowing the truth can sometimes be a matter of perception. When we find out the flower is a weed, we always have the option to recalibrate. Can I still love a weed? Not always. Sometimes? Absolutely. Because in the end, we’re all like Queen Anne’s lace.

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Forgiving August

Burning white hot days, electric thunderous skies, oppressive smothering humidity, claustrophobic preternaturally cool interiors; it’s August again. It was August when you left. The cells of my body, the cells you created, they forever carry your parting, forever try to connect between the veils. Is August nicer there? Is it calmer? Is it cooler?

Tahlequah pushes her dead newborn calf for weeks and miles in the sea, her raw mourning on display, teaching us about grief and loss and complicity and neglect, breaking and expanding hearts all over the world. She brings me to my knees with her pain, with my human shame. So much to atone. In August, mother and calf let go, she begins the road to healing, her pain subsumed, not forgotten.

He went to the mountains. She went to the ocean. They went halfway around the world. Me, I’m running from you in place, August, dripping with salty sweat, evaporating suffocating thoughts with the business of breathing. I keep moving through you, trying to get past you. A heavy, blush pink hydrangea overflows onto the sidewalk, blocking the path, grazing my cheek with a dewy cuff, or is it a kiss? My fingers reach up to feel where you touched me.

August, oh August, we are locked in an eternal heated tango, stomping and twisting, twirling and teasing in a dizzying, exhilarating and enervating dance to nowhere. Aren’t you tired? I throw down my castanets to you my nemesis, my soulmate, my mentor, my match.

Come on, then. Let’s put on our bright colors and straw hats, escape now to our very own luncheon of the boating party, sip on a cool, crisp white, have a laugh with some friends, the still river floating by us on a warm, breezy afternoon. I like this side of you, dear August, and I forgive you all.

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Lady of the Lake

Last month when I took my first trip to Lake Tahoe with my brothers, all sorts of imagery played out in my mind in advance of our arrival. I didn’t expect to see the Arthurian Lady of the Lake, but she certainly featured in my imaginings. It’s a little late in the game for me to get my Excalibur. On the other hand, dreams are not only for the young, nor are they for the faint of heart. Who knew what Tahoe would offer? I felt the anticipation and excitement one might feel on the way to meet a guru or high priestess. How could I show my reverence? Was I setting her up to fail with my high hopes?

Saluted by Sugar Pines, Jeffrey Pines, Aspens and White Firs and ringed by the protective peaks of the Sierra Nevada, Tahoe’s startlingly blue waters have an impressive 72-mile circumference. When we got there, my younger brother turned to me and asked, “Well, is it everything you imagined?” Eyes filling behind my shades and too overwhelmed to form a sentence, I could only nod and half-whisper, “Yes.”

We drove around the lake, stopping at several spots, including the Emerald Bay, a striking pool of green water in an otherwise endless oasis of blue. There, I learned Lake Tahoe is known for her healing powers.

Down by the waterside, I looked to my older brother, “Could you get one of those pine cones over there and dip it in the water and bless me?” Without so much as a crooked smile or sarcastic remark, the former acolyte quietly walked over and picked up a large pine cone, dipped it in the water and sprinkled me with elixir from the lake.

It’s not Excalibur that rises from Tahoe; it’s a reflection of spirit writ larger and deeper than Arthurian tales. The eyes literally cannot take in all the beauty. The soul takes over, rising within and expanding to meet its own reflection. The lady does not disappoint, offering a glory-filled chalice to carry forth on the journey and an open-ended invitation for a refill any time.