Living Happiness

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post (PJS, Obituaries, and Barbaric Yawps) in which I shared with you about a remarkable evening I had with me, myself, and I — an evening so remarkable, in fact, that it lingered with me for days afterward, bringing a perpetual smile to my face and joy to my heart.

But in the weeks since then, life has taken over and eclipsed this wonderful evening, placing all of that joy in shadow and placing a big corona, instead, around “all that’s wrong in my world.”

Yesterday, however, I ran across a lovely post in my reader from a new blog I have begun following, Stacey Curnow’s Midwife for Your Life. A wonderful reminder that even though I haven’t been paying much attention to her, my inner voice is still there. And she still has the same great things to say … if only I’d just let her speak.

So today, I would like to share with you a bit of that conversation I had on that remarkable night a few weeks ago. Here is the love letter I received from my soul to me. I hope it encourages you today (as it already has me) and prompts you to take some time to listen to your own heart, as well.

Dear Chania Girl:

First off I want to say just how fantastic you are. You don’t always realize it, but you’re an amazing woman. You are going to go so far. You have come so far. We have taken stock recently of your successes, all of the many things that have led you to this place. Don’t discount the part that you’ve played in bringing yourself to this place … you’ve had a hand in orchestrating it too. It’s okay to be proud. It’s okay to say such things. But since you so rarely say these kinds of things to yourself, I’m saying it for you: Well done you!

But let’s take a look at the life before you. It’s even grander than you can imagine. You don’t want to believe this. There’s a part of you that thinks you’re being silly, extravagant, maybe even a little selfish. You’re not. This is the life that was meant for everybody, but not everybody knows it. Not because it’s a secret, but because it’s so bold and daring that no one can believe it could be true. But it is!

I can see it in you now as you type. I know you’re scared. You’re scared to write the words; to see your future is blasphemy almost. Too much. Don’t be scared, CG. The Universe won’t give you everything all at once. Everything will come in its own time … when you are ready. But be careful: don’t waste too much time getting ready. There’s a whole spread of a feast waiting for you.

Still scared? Why? Why are you scared, my darling? What is holding you back in the past? Is it your self-worth? You are worth it! Worth everything! Is it the power of what you are about to see? Maybe. It can be a lot to handle. But. Hm. Should we maybe go slow? What would you like to see? Let’s start there. That’s probably the best way to start. Ah, yes, but even as I say this, I can see you are let down. You want the shiny curtain to open. You want to see what’s before you, no matter how frightening it is. Okay then. That’s what we’ll do. And I promise you, you can handle it. Everything’s going to be just fine.

Peace be with you. Namaste.

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Photo Credit: Both photos by Angie Nan

Yesterday morning dawned a bright warm day here in Crete, and I set off on my own little mini-adventure. I was ready. I was set. All I needed was to go.

For weeks I’d been eyeing a well-worn path that runs up a hillside and out of sight. G and I pass by it every time we drive down into town. It winds up the side of the hill and (surely, in my mind) winds back down again the other side. Which is exactly what I wanted to confirm when I set off yesterday morning. I was excited and armed with water, my towel, my journal and a pen. Woohoo! Here we go.

I had worked out in my mind that after following the path up and round this hill, I would find myself in this gloriously peaceful clearing with sheep and goats grazing, olive trees olive-ing, and mountains gleaming off in the distance. It would be my own personal Sound of Music gone Cretan! I might even sing!

Instead, I found myself at the top of the hill, sallying forth into a glade of beehives with not a sheep or goat in sight. Thankfully, I had the wherewithal to recognize all the gazillion humming boxes for what they were a good few yards before I actually walked right smack into them. But this definitely meant that my primo, number one choice of seating location was out of the question … unless I wanted to suddenly go native and try to discover any natural abilities I may have as a beekeeper. There were no olive trees either, by the way. The only part of this fantasy that came true was the mountains really, and they weren’t exactly gleaming, as a big cloud bank had swarmed up from the south and west and covered most of the tops of them … and the bottoms were disguised in a filmy haze. The most assurance I had that they were actually there was the fact that I’d seen them there the day before … and every other day since I’ve moved to Crete.

Not to be deterred, however, I simply trailed down one of the little side paths that others had obviously worn before me, hoping perhaps that one of these led to a little spot of Zen. The first trail, though, led to a steep drop that forced me to turn back around and walk back UPHILL the way I had come. The next little trail, likewise, led into a full on army of ants who had commandeered the path and were busy hiking themselves up and down it in full vigor. Can I also just mention that these ants were HUGE?! So again, back up the path I went and found a little rock stool that apparently someone had created there for just such an occasion as this. “Finally!” I thought and got ready to get down to the business of being still.

I had been at this stillness for about ten seconds, though, when I heard it: the unmistakeable sounds of a jackhammer … or many … emanating from somewhere below. Then it stopped. “Ah,” I thought, “peace and quiet, at last.” And then jumped when the jackhammer started jackhammering again. Which it did. In approximately seven-second intervals for the next fifteen minutes that I sat there.

“I can’t believe this,” I inwardly grumbled. “I come all the way up here for peace and quiet and this is what I get.” And I spent another five minutes trying to figure out where that jackhammering sound had been in the thirty-five other minutes it had taken for me to walk from my house to here because, I swear it’s true, I hadn’t heard it!

Finally, with curiosity disappointingly sated and with nerves undeniably jangled, I took back up my water, towel, journal, and pen and made my way back home … where it was blissfully quiet.

So why do I tell all this to you today? Because I learned a couple of lessons along the way that I thought you might like to hear.

1. It is in the silence that we can most hear the noise. The paradox of yesterday’s hillside experience for me is that I went seeking solitude and instead found more noise. And while on a physical and literal level there was nothing I could do to quiet the noise down, this is not the case when the silence we are seeking is of a more spiritual sort. Many of us in some way or another try to meditate or to have a few moments of quiet each day, but as anyone who has meditated for years will tell you, it’s precisely when you hunker down and get still that all the craziness in your mind and soul just erupts: a veritable cacophony of sound bursts forth in your head. And it’s up to you to tame those beasts. This phenomenon isn’t a bad thing. It alerts us to the noise we’ve surrounded ourselves with every day but been deaf to because of all of the other sounds around us. So the next time this happens to you. Don’t panic. Know that it’s normal. It’s one of the reasons why we meditate. And take heart that, at least in your case, you can get the jackhammering to stop.
2. The silence we seek is often found where we started. I left home yesterday looking for an illusory spot of Zen … and did not find it until I came back home. After setting my water, towel, journal, and pen down, I walked out onto the back patio and heard nothing but the sound of birds twittering and wind in the grass. It was peaceful and still. The same is true for us spiritually: the silence that we seek outside of ourselves must inevitably come from within.

Namaste and peace be with you,

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Photo Credit: Photo61Guy