Monday, April 19, 2010

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zero grams of high fructose corn syrup About this time 24 years ago, I was a convalescent, flat on my back. I was recuperating from plastic surgery following a motorcycle accident in which it appeared a ghost melon ball utensil had scooped about that much flesh out of my lower left leg, just above the ankle. The surgery was not cosmetic. It would allow me to continue walking on the planet, since the tissue wasn't growing back on its own from said melon ball scoop. All of this occurred in Italian, on the boot-shaped peninsula where I was living a few lifetimes ago. The surgery was beautifully performed by a medical professional trained in the U.S., and my convalescing was beautifully orchestrated by several nuns from various places around the world, most of whom spoke no English but cooked up some awesome grub and changed bed linens like nobody's business. One in particular fairly bubbled over with enthusiasm for the service she had been given the opportunity to offer; I think she was from Poland, and I remember looking forward to her whistling, her very wrinkled face and her focused intention on my healing. I always felt better when her shift came around, even though we couldn't communicate with the spoken word. During that time I was at a crossroads in my young life, figuring out what might come next. I knew that it would entail going back to The States, but where, and doing what? I had no idea. One evening in the middle of recuperating from the surgery, I started making lists of what needed to get done in order for me to fly back across the pond when my ticket said I was, and what it might look like when I got to where I was going. A sugar high of desire took over...
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crack me open 1.1 So rockin' this mantra thing has been quite a ride lately. In case you missed the 1.0 original post, here's a recap on the mantra: "Crack me open, universe. I'm making room for what doesn't serve me to be washed away; take over that vacated space with what does, please." It's been humbling and ecstatic and rough and sublime, all at the same time. Sort of like life is anyway, but with a purpose, a direction, an intention, a reason for the commotion, and a framework in which that commotion makes sense. Which is more than I can say for the first four decades of my life. Lots of commotion, not much purpose. Well, that's not true. If it weren't for all that previous commotion and the preferences it triggered in me, then this stretch of the journey wouldn't be the satisfying culmination that it is. It's never too late. Ever. For anything. It's hard to believe that though, in the throes of seemingly directionless commotion. I didn't either, at the time. But part of me did, and never gave in to the confusion. I didn't buy that it was supposed to define my life. Nope, didn't ever totally buy into that concept. And now here I am, veritably basking in a harvest of peace of mind that just won't quit. That's not to say that there aren't periods of time in my days where frustration, irritation, clenching and gnashing take up residence on occasion. But when they do, I know they are temporary placeholders. On a cellular level, I know this. Just like I knew back then that there had to be something more to life than a daily slog through hell. Now, within a relatively short length of time of liberally dosing an apparently negative situation with a...

Deb Schanilec

Connected and Committed relationship transformation strategist.

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