Kristina Sabbia Mainella

Call me an anomaly, but I love this time of year in the Northern Hemisphere.  The biting cold, the darkness that descends well before the workday has even begun to wind itself to a close: the irresistible pull to stay at home, light the fire, and hibernate.

This time of year is also for me a time of deep reflection, a chance to ruminate on the year that is swiftly passing, and an opportunity to hold my family and friends and the world at large in my heart, and ask, how are we doing?

Well, this year, I have been really struggling with that question.  I have felt the weight of suffering in the world, as so many of us do.  But this year feels particularly acute.  It’s as if the regular cloak of armor I hold around myself just to survive on a daily basis has been breached, and the suffering and grief and pain and injustice of the world is pouring in, like molten lava, burning me from the inside out. I see it everywhere. I feel it everywhere.  

As I write this, I have a very dear family friend who in a few short days is heading out to Minnesota to The Mayo Clinic to be with her brother as he receives treatment for a brain tumor that is invading his frontal lobe and wrapping around his optic nerves.  A carefully calculated treatment protocol will be initiated, involving two separate neurosurgeries and critical follow up care. They will be there several weeks, through Christmas and into the New Year. While I can think of many heart wrenching ways to spend the holidays, this certainly makes the top of the list. I feel afraid for my friend and her brother, so like family to me.  I want desperately for everything to be ok for them.  And on the heels of my fear I feel rage: Why, God? Why so much suffering? For them, for others, for the world at large?  What is the point of so much pain?

It seems that my questions are not all that unique.  Since the dawn of human self-awareness, others, it turns out,  have been asking the very same thing to whatever deity they’ve got going at the time. Mystics, ascetics, medieval anchoress’, philosophers, poets, playwrights, sculptors, artists, physicians, you name it. They’ve all bought stock in the existential question of why.

 The rage I feel spins me into a feeling of vengeance, and I begin to feel overcome with an intense urge to hold God or Source or the Universe or whatever your version of a higher power is accountable for his/her/its sins.  I want to grab God by the scruff of the neck, throw him into the mosh pit and slam him to oblivion for doing such a lousy job of it here on Earth. How about it, God?  I roar.  When we meet someday, You are going to wish You never made me. And so goes the inner railing, and the fist pumping towards the sky. It makes me sympathize with Lucifer’s defection.

Yet, despite all the ranting and raving and fist pumping, when the beast has moved through me, when I am empty, exhausted, quiet and spent, when there is simply no one left to turn to and no where left to go, I find that instead of seeking God or Source or Brahman or whatever, it is Source or God that seeks me out, gently beseeching me to remember who I am, and that who I am is inseparable from the very entity I believe I am railing against. It is me. I am that.  We are all that together. I am Source and it is me that turns towards me. I am the person in the mirror. This world, our world, is my responsibility, our responsibility, one choice at a time.  We are the Creator. We can also be the Destroyer.

This year, in my despair, I found myself doing something I rarely do:  I started to pray. I don’t consider myself religious. I was never raised with any orthodox religious background. We didn’t go to church as a family.  I don’t read the Bible, although I know a lot about it.  I do practice Christmas, and I hold with great reverence the 12 Holy Days from Christmas to the Epiphany, knowing and feeling that this is a time of deep, personal communion with Source.  And I do meditate, which I believe is a form of prayer.  But the idea of actually getting on my knees, clasping my hands together in supplication, and begging with all the humility of my being for help has up until this point just been a source of background noise for me.  Now I have read somewhere that God answers prayers in four ways: yes, no, later and you’ve got to be kidding.  Up until this point most of my prayers have been the garden-variety of the “you’ve got to be kidding” type: Please God, let my kid win this football game so he’s not in a bad mood later or Please God, help me win the lottery. But this year was different.  This year, I got on my knees, I clasped my hands together, I bowed my head, and I prayed fervently. I prayed to know God. I prayed for hope. I prayed for understanding. I prayed for healing for all who are struggling, with poverty, injustice, racism, bigotry, illness, misunderstanding, war and pain in general. I prayed for our country and its well being. I prayed for my family. I prayed for my dear friend and her brother. I prayed for my pets. And I prayed for myself. And I prayed that God would help me make peace with this great mystery we call life, and the incessant question of WHY.

I am still praying. So far, I have received two sources of inspiration.  I wouldn’t quite call them answers, but close enough to bring some solace.

The first, was an impulse to revisit a 21 day meditation series led by Oprah Winfrey and Deepak Chopra called Hope in Uncertain Times.  I did this, and it helped immensely.

The second was to take a deeper dive into Ted Loder’s work. Ted Loder was a graduate of Yale Divinity School, and spent over thirty years as a senior minister of First United Methodist Church in Germantown, PA.  He was also an activist, and a strong advocate for social services and diversity, equity and inclusion long before it was fashionable.  I was familiar with some of his poems from his book, Guerrilla’s of Grace: Prayers for the Battle.  But I had never investigated his other works.  In my search, I found a book called The Haunt of Grace.  The title immediately spoke to me. In it, Loder shares a collection of some of his sermons. They are beautifully written and deeply thought provoking. They were an injection of hope for me and helped to ground me in a sense of faith and trust in the mystery that none of us can really know but that all of us are living.

In one particular essay, called New Rules for Engagement, Mr. Loder encourages the reader to “not be afraid”. He argues that nearly the whole meaning of Christmas and the gospel can be distilled down to one simple phrase: Do not be afraid.  In this piece, he quotes a poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, called The Invitation, which I found deeply moving:

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.  I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your hearts longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.  I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.  I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.  I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.  If you can bare the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.  If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day.  And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes”.

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.  I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.  I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

To stand in the center of the fire and not shrink back. It’s a call to our integrity. It’s a call to our authentic power. It’s a call to our gratitude.  And it’s a call to our freedom. Will you stand in the center of the fire with me? Will you not shrink back in fear as the flames lick your feet? Will you stand like a warrior, perhaps wounded, but ready to defend to the best of your ability all that you hold Holy and dear?  And when the flames grow ever higher, and begin to kiss your face, can you let it burn you from the inside out, letting the searing pain of it make space for something new?  Can you do that for yourself? For others? For the world?  And when it all feels like it’s just too much, that you cannot bear another moment on this planet, would you be willing to do something you may never have done before?  Would you be willing to risk a prayer?

There is a famous quote from Maya Angelou:

“ Hope and fear cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Invite one to stay”.

For Wendy and Roy, with love.

I will stand in the fire with you always.

Recently, I completed a  21 day meditation practice, led by Oprah Winfrey and Deepak Chopra, called Creating Peace from the Inside Out.  This was not the first time I had participated in this 21 day series.  I find myself returning again and again to many of the 21 day meditations offered through The Chopra Center.  Each time I circle back, I feel the meditations go deeper, and I feel an opening of understanding, awareness and yes, peace, that was not present before.

In this particular meditation, I was reminded of the three traditional Indian practices of Seva, Sadhana and Satsang. Seva is a Sanskrit word that translates as “selfless service”.  It means to help others without an agenda for any personal gain, reward or recognition.  Sadhana refers to walking a spiritual path: your own spiritual path, which is unique to you and you alone.  And Satsang means to share your truth in community, in a group of like minded people.  While each of these practices deserves its own spotlight and reflection, it is Seva, this idea of selfless service, that called to me for a deeper dive and more intimate contemplation.

Thinking about Seva called to mind the concept of dharma, an idea with which I have been obsessed for over twenty years.  Dharma is a Sanskrit word that appears to have multiple meanings across different religions. Its Sanskrit root literally means “to hold” or “to maintain”.  In the Bhagavad Gita, an ancient Hindu spiritual text, dharma is referred to as a moral law or code of conduct, a sacred duty to yourself, others, the universe and God.  In simpler terms I have heard dharma being referred to as your purpose in life, the unique gift you are here to bring and give to others.  To me, this seems to translate more simply as your calling in life, the one thing ( or maybe several things) you are here to contribute that nobody else can bring to the world in the unique way that you can.  “How can I serve? How can I help?” seem to be the questions that are central to living your dharma. 

Seva and dharma, in my mind, are closely connected.  And this recent re-introduction of Seva reignited this struggle I have been experiencing over the last couple of decades with this concept of dharma and this idea of selfless service. For years, I translated this idea of “selfless service” as something akin to misery, the equivalent of “ life is just an endless series of waking up and doing what you don’t want to do”. Since I was 14 years old, I have been in the service industry in one form or another.  Though the form in which this has manifested has changed several times over the years, what I have received from it has not: very little joy. Sure, moments of pleasure and sometimes, triumph ( largely connected to ego), have come and gone.  But as a whole this concept of true purpose and selfless service, while out there doing good things in the world and providing essential services for others, has left me personally bereft.

Prompted by this meditation, I was encouraged to deeply reflect on what Seva, and dharma, at this stage in my life, actually mean to me personally.  I am a hard worker, and I have always given my best to any service in which I have found myself employed. I push myself beyond my comfort zone, telling myself to work harder and dig deeper ( like a Shaun T. workout video, and yes, I do them, and yes, they are hard). Years ago, when the Nike slogan, “Just Do It”, went viral,  I  emblazoned it in my heart and mind as my personal trademark, even though ( sorry Nike) I never bought a pair of their sneakers. If you are sensing an OCD perfectionist pattern here, you’ve hit the jackpot. Part of it has served to push me, but the larger part has served to hinder me.

Somewhere along the line, I absorbed the belief that life is a struggle. Life is hard.  Life is a series of doing what you don’t want to do. And while I still believe that these things can be true and that life can be full of challenging  experiences, I am beginning to realize that somewhere in there, joy should be allowed to blossom, like a single flower, that despite all odds grows and stretches its way to the sun from a meager patch of dirt within a slab of granite.  And with that joy a sense of alignment with who you are and who you would like to be in this world. If you could allow yourself to plant even the tiniest seed of possibility of joy in your life, who would you become? What would you do? Who would you be with? And what sort of service would you perform?  And could it, by any stretch of the imagination, become a service performed out of joy?  A joyful service, which is aligned with your dharma, which would be a reflection of your truest self?

I have come to believe that for me to provide joyful service to others, I need to be fully engaged in what I am doing, emotionally, physically, spiritually and mentally. Selfless service can be joyful service, and not simply a means for survival and not just a form of self-flagellation.  The late Rick Jarow, in one of his books, poses the question: “ Does your day feel like you are nourishing your soul? Your soul and the soul of the world?….If an accomplishment does not yield insight or penetrate into the inner levels of our being, it is wasted time”.

So how do we begin to step away from the emotional disengagement, depletion, drudgery and the unconscious deeply seething anger that is always simmering when we do not love what we do, while supposedly providing a service?  We begin to tease out what we love, no matter how small or how seemingly insignificant or impractical it may appear. Labelling something you love as impractical, by the way, is a judgement.  To create space in your life for something you love is perhaps one of the most practical things you can do.  When you do something you love, even if it’s just taking a 15 minute walk every day, it nourishes and sustains you. It provides the fertile soil from which you can grow. In addition, setting aside time daily for quiet contemplation allows you to connect with who it is you really are and what it is you really need. Very often for me, that means rising at 4/4:30 in the morning, so I can have an hour to myself of complete peace, complete quiet, and time to write and meditate. 

We are socially conditioned to look outside of ourselves for answers, bypassing that still, small voice within that calls for recognition.  For me, that has meant chasing down endless accomplishments only to find myself where I left myself: confused, angry, empty.  The understanding is beginning to dawn that your dharma isn’t something you create “out there”, through endless hard work and struggle and self-deprivation, with “should” being the most motivating word in your vocabulary.  Your dharma is a reflection of your true self, something that you can only access from deep within yourself.  It demands that you honor and nurture it from within, turning away from externals for validation and benchmarks. It is therefore something unique only to you, with no competition and no comparison.  There is a famous Zen saying that speaks about  “the face you had before you were born”. This is how I interpret dharma.  To use the author, Richard Rohr’s words, I think of it as your “immortal diamond”.

If you are struggling with your work in the world and feeling very little joy in the service you are providing, here are a few resources I recommend:

The Ultimate Anti-Career Guide by Rick Jarow

The Ultimate Anti-Career Guide

Creating the Work You Love by Rick Jarow

https://www.amazon.com/Creating-Work-You-Love-Commitment

The Calling by Rah Goddess

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=the+calling+rha+goddess

Wishcraft  by Barbara Sher

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=wishcraft+barbara+sher

Of course, there are many others.  But these are a good start.

The 13th century poet, Rumi, once wrote:

“ Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love.  It will not lead you astray.” 

Ever since I can remember, I have loved animals.  That sounds like such a cliche,  but for me it is true. They have been a part of my life in one form or another since I was a baby.  When I learned to crawl, or so I am told, I disappeared one morning from the middle of the kitchen floor where my mother had placed me so she could go about doing her house chores.  When she returned, I was M.I.A.  She became hysterical, of course, frantically searching the house to try to locate me.  I guess she didn’t anticipate the sudden leap I would make to being mobile: flip over, and go!  When she finally found me, I was snuggled deep within the legs of our ginormous great Dane, sleeping soundly.  Apparently, I had crawled through the gate of his playpen ( I guess there were large gaps, although not large enough for a great Dane to crawl through), and, finding him lying there, settled in for a nap.  It seemed he was pleased as punch to have me, curling himself around me protectively with his four very long legs, keeping me safe and sound. My mother left me there, figuring I was safer with the dog than anywhere else.

Since that time, I have never been without a four legged companion ( and they don’t always have to have fur: along with two dogs I now have a Russian Red Foot tortoise).  Animals, whether mine or someone else’s, have always been able to do for me what most people cannot: accept me totally and completely, without judgement or reservation, and without expectation or criticism. I can simply be my total and uninhibited self, no guards and no masks, and know I will be loved.  And I can take comfort in knowing that no matter what, they will unequivocally, totally and with their whole heart, be present for me when I need them, and remind me, in return, to be present with them too.  

I know most of us have read about all the potential health benefits of owning a pet: they can help decrease stress, decrease blood pressure, reduce feelings of loneliness, help boost your mood, increase physical activity and even act as a source of support in the home with children who may have emotional or social challenges.  Pets can be invaluable in settings such as nursing homes or hospitals, visiting either as therapy dogs or living in residence. And then there are the seeing eye dogs, as well as dogs trained to alert their epileptic owners of an oncoming seizure. And of course, there is the selfless service domesticated animals provide outside the realm of being a pet, for the military, police, medical research and the like. Any medication you have ever taken or any medical, life saving treatment you or a loved one has ever received, whether that be a family member, your child, a friend, a spouse or even your pet, has first been tested on an animal.  We owe them a great debt.

As a veterinarian for the past 23 years, I have been a consistent witness to this invisible, unmeasurable but very potent connection people have with their pets.  Very frequently, when I have diagnosed a cat with diabetes or a dog with heart failure or pancreatitis or inflammatory bowel disease or some other morbidity, the owner, more often than not, will cut me off partway into my didactic lecture on the disease process and say, “Yes, I know, I have that too”. 

 When I first started out in practice, I shrugged those experiences off as coincidences. But over two decades later, having experienced numerous encounters with clients whose pet ultimately begins to manifest the same disease process as their caregiver, it gives me pause. I have no double blind, randomized study to confirm my observations. But something in my heart tells me to open myself to the possibility that there may be a very sacred exchange taking place here.  

There is a book I hold dear to my heart called Kinship with All Life, written in 1954, by J. Allen Boone. In this book, Boone, a film producer, chronicles his relationship with Strongheart, a German shepherd who, in the 1920’s,  became the first major canine film star to grace the Hollywood scene (he  preceded Rin Tin Tin by two years and Lassie by at least twenty).  Born in Germany in 1917, he was initially trained as a police dog, and was “ discovered” by a couple of filmmakers who decided to bring him to the United States and make him a movie star. To my knowledge, he appeared in at least six movies and became a raging success, making his owners a lot of money and being one of the few dogs to be honored on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

At the beginning of the book, Boone lays bare the situation: Strongheart’s usual keepers, the writer and producer who originally brought him to the United States, needed to leave town unexpectedly for an extended period of time.  Strongheart needed a babysitter, and, in short, Boone was available and willing.  What transpires in this book is a beautiful and inspiring recounting of his experience living with Strongheart, a dog whose intelligence, stamina, agility and larger than life stature gifted Boone with some unexpected, but welcome, lessons.

Boone shares his experience of quite literally learning how to communicate with Strongheart. He does so not with commands, cues, demands or dominance or in any other form you would expect to be “trained” to communicate with a dog. Laying aside all preconceptions (and misconceptions), Boone quietly, patiently and methodically observes Strongheart, allowing the depth of Strongheart’s Being to rise up and lay itself before Boone’s very soul.  Boone receives a deep understanding of the dog and in so doing opens himself to the creation of a mental bridge with Strongheart that is rooted in that infinite, all encompassing binding agent we call consciousness. Boone and Strongheart were then able to communicate through this consciousness, this intelligence that lies behind the force of every living thing. It was obviously life-altering for Boone, and paved the way for him to be able to appreciate this relationship with all living things.

If a dog like Strongheart could teach an older man who already considered himself well educated and established something new about life and the nature of our relationships to every living thing around us, and affect him so deeply as to write a book about the experience that defied conventional lore, then what is it in our daily experiences that we can choose to see differently, to think differently about?  How can we humble ourselves enough to learn something new, about ourselves and about the companions with whom we inhabit this earth? How can we bring more mindfulness to our relationships with our animal companions, allowing more space for curiosity and quiet observation, asking what it is they are here to teach us?  How can we open ourselves to reverence? To the possibility that we might not know as much about our animal companions as we thought, and that somewhere, in that precious exchange between caregiver and pet, there is an animal allowing itself to be vulnerable to us and to the sticky mess that is our lives?  And in that vulnerability, what burdens may they be sharing with us, carrying for us, selflessly and unconditionally?

The poet, Mary Oliver, had a deep connection with animals, and has written many poems about her dogs. When she asked her dog, Percy, how she should live her life, she heard this reply:

“Love, love, love says Percy.

And run as fast as you can

Along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust.

Then, go to sleep.

Give up your body heat, your beating heart.

Then, trust.”

Recently, I went on vacation with my two boys and my partner, Mike.  Through the incredible generosity of some family friends of Mike’s, we got to stay for seven magnificent days at their beautiful and spacious camp on  Brassau Lake in Northern Maine.  The scene was idyllic: a large outdoor porch with comfortable seating sat atop a modest hill overlooking the lake.  There was an open lawn, and a private dock with a float perfect for swimming and shallow diving, as well as access to canoes, kayaks, a motor boat, and a shed full of extra accoutrements, including a skeet thrower, which we made ample use of during the latter half of the week.

The first day we were there, my younger son and I took one of the canoes out for a paddle around the lake.  He had been attempting without much success to fish off the end of the dock.  I had suggested taking the canoe out to deeper waters so he could try his hand at fishing out there. The lake was calm and glassy, with the sun shining overhead: perfect for a paddle.

As we made our way out from the dock, beginning by taking a starboard tack ( so to speak) and hugging the shoreline, I felt everything begin to fall away.  All of the baggage, both literally and figuratively, that I had brought with me to Brassau gently began to crumble.  As I am sure many of you can commiserate with, it takes a lot of work to have fun: planning the meals, doing the grocery shopping, packing the coolers, getting the fishing gear together, loading the bikes, the dogs ( and all their gear – food, medications, first aid kit and the like), clothing, swimming gear, etc.  It’s a wonder we as a species have survived so long with all the stuff that we seem to need just to exist, never mind relax and have fun.

But as I moved slowly along the shoreline with my son, all of that just seemed to melt away.  The peace of just being with my son, not even talking, just feeling the joy of his company, watching him cast his pole as we leisurely cruised a shoreline of muddy banks and whitewashed tree trunks and loads and loads of tall, fragrant pine trees, was suddenly, just simply, enough.  And as we unhurriedly abandoned the shoreline and made our way out to deeper water, my attention came to rest on something so apparently obvious, something so seemingly benign and passe, as to be easily overlooked, yet something that felt so resplendent, so rich with joy that it seemed improbable that something this simple could make me so exquisitely happy: the now, the immediate present, the immediate moment, here, in the middle of this beautiful lake, with my son, silent, spacious and quiet. And suddenly something deep within me dropped and fell away, and in its place, was a space: a space that seemed to have no differentiation between that which was within, and that which was without. And in that space, I felt ( yes, felt, not heard) something say: This is what is. This is all that is. This is all that remains. And in the silence of myself I became aware that I was being gifted a moment of grace.  Something was trying to get me to understand that if I could just stop the endless chatter in my brain, the endless “to do” list that is always running, the endless struggle: pay the mortgage, balance the accounts, pay the bills, fight the raise in property taxes, get the applications done, the forms submitted, check the email, check the snail mail, clean the house, do the laundry, pack the lunches, plan the meals, do the work out, go for a run, make the call backs, go to work ( which has a pressing “to do” list all its own), make sure I meditate and write in my journal, etc, etc, etc.  If I could just STOP that incessant jabbering in my mind which really was about NOTHING AT ALL, all I had left was PEACE.  All that remained, and all that ever was, was PEACE. When I emptied my mind, all that remained, was PEACE.  And in that peace, was FREEDOM.

On the ride home from Brassau, as I was reflecting on our week there and the canoe ride I so enjoyed with my son, I felt a gentle challenge arise within myself.  Would it be possible to live my life, doing all the things that need to be done, without the incessant prattling on in my brain?  Without the anticipatory anxiety that piggy backs the endless “to do” list which is always all about the future, and never about the present?  As I was contemplating this thought, I realized that to open myself to that invitation would likely make me a much happier person.  And as I rolled that thought over in my mind, I was reminded of a quote I had read many years ago from Ramana Maharshi:

Let what comes come.

Let what goes go.

Find out what remains.

I love quotes.  I have quotes that I find inspiring taped up all over my office, stuck on my bulletin board, and an entire file stuffed full of them, taking up about a quarter of the space of my filing cabinet. The file has gotten so heavy that every time I open the drawer, the weight is enough to make the file cabinet teeter, and almost topple to the floor.  This happens every time I open it.  I never think to thin out the file. It makes me happy just to peer in and see all those luscious, random pieces of paper with quotes all over them. So much possibility.

 The title for this blog is one such quote, and comes from a poem called I Dwell in Possibility by Emily Dickinson:

I dwell in Possibility-

A Fairer house than Prose-

More numerous of Windows-

Superior-for Doors-

Of Chambers of the Cedars-

Impregnable of eye-

And for an everlasting Roof-

The Gambrels of the Sky-

Of Visitors-the fairest-

For Occupation-This-

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise-

When I first read that line, I dwell in possibility, I was captivated, curious, repulsed and irritated all at the same time. The idea called to me… what must it be like to dwell in possibility, instead of fear, uncertainty, anxiety, catastrophic thinking and the like? What must it be like to constantly be thinking about all the things you do want, rather than all the things you don’t?  But some part of me would have none of it: Dwell in possibility? For whom? Those who have the means, resources, opportunities and time? Those who aren’t in pain, physical or otherwise? Those who are born into wealth and power and never have to work a day in their life? On and on the inner talking went. I argued with it, denied it,  wrestled with it and at times abandoned it. Yet, there the quote sat, taped to the window above my desk.  Sometimes I thought it was mocking me.  At others, I felt an inner pull to something vast, something greater than myself, and all the possibility therein. It was bigger than my “normal” life.  It was bigger than me, and it was much, much bigger than the daily concerns, anxieties and fears that kept scurrying through my consciousness, like a large rat intent to keep feeding on the all the garbage thoughts I could offer. I can not describe it in any other way except to say that, in my most reflective and quiet moments, it felt like a call to all the infinite possibilities that might have been, may yet still be, and the thrilling glimmer of new paths not yet forged, just waiting for me to gather my courage and take the first step. For years this thought kept nudging, kept pushing, despite my objections. It was persistent and, over the course of time, seeped deep into the very foundation of my thinking. It has pushed me and encouraged me to re-envision what I want my life to look like, and how I want to live the rest of my years, however long that may be, on this planet. It has essentially given me the permission to set higher expectations for myself, to dare and to dream, and to not be satisfied with the ordinary, but long for the extraordinary. And the extraordinary looks different for each and every one of us. What does an extraordinary life look like to you? Dwell in the possibility of it.  Nurture it, talk to it, ask it to explain itself to you. And then, little by little, follow it.  See where it may lead. Take a risk. Wayne Gretzky has been quoted as saying, “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take”.  Well, taking those shots means to dwell in possibility.  It is living on the other side of fear.  It is along the lines of “if you want something you have never had, you must be willing to do something you have never done”. I think Thomas Jefferson said that.  You see. I told you. I love quotes.

The point is what do YOU envision for yourself?  What is it YOU want?  Because if you can’t get clear about it, dwelling in the potential of what is possible, you will never get there.  Thinking about it, gracing yourself the time to dwell in the vision of what you truly want for yourself in this lifetime, without arguing with yourself, without censoring, and without judging, is a gift to yourself and a gift to the world.  No one wins living in conformity. In fact everyone, including the entire planet, loses. You were meant to live the highest and best version of yourself, which means honoring what makes you unique, the one special gift only you can give to the world, which is your true self.  In the words of a personal champion of mine, Eleanor Roosevelt, “ Do one thing everyday that scares you”, and in the words of another personal champion of mine, Martha Beck: Change your life “one degree turn by one degree turn, just a little bit every day, turning action in the direction of the truest truth that we can find inside ourselves”.

Be brave. Be curious. Be outrageously open, and dwell in possibility.