Children at Play

It was a random weekday night, with a spontaneous invitation to dine out in a nice (without being stuffy) French restaurant. The feel of the decor, a reminder of three weeks in Paris seven years ago. White candles in candelabras dripping wax, settling happily at the silver bases with an occasional spill onto the tables. Stone walls, dimmed lights and tables lined with their best white—butcher paper.

With dinner under wraps and a few more sips of wine to be savored, this was the perfect time to use the paper, lining the table, to toss out a few ideas for issues of great importance. Some of the best ideas have been worked out on a paper napkin in a bar, you know?

With business behind us, and pen in hand a doodle happened. I think it was a circle, it's hard to remember now and not really important. What is important is the sequence of events that happened next.

One piece of paper, one pen and two adults. A circle drawn, calling of course for a happy face. The pen and ink rendering grew from there. The pen being passed from one to the other, politely taking turns, giggling like little kids at what the other had just contributed.

Just plain silliness! As the scene played out, we were no longer aware of our surroundings, or who was watching. An unadulterated and unplanned curriculum of cooperation and collaboration. One stroke of the pen building upon the other. Completely without ego and waiting to see, with the energy of "little-kid" excitement, what the other was going to lay down next. Insert giggling after each one's turn. No one trying to outdo the other. An exercise in co-creation. If only this is how adults behaved all of the time.

We left that drawing behind on the table that night (not without first taking a picture of it, of course.) Grinning and laughing at our little masterpiece as we walked out the doors of the restaurant. No need to bring it home to mom to hang on the fridge or frame it for the family wall of fame. Laughing at the thought, now that we were back in adult mode, of who would see it next and if they would laugh too. Or would it be overlooked without amusement and tossed away, to ready the table for its next diners.

Shoulders shrugged, simultaneously, in a who cares gesture. The afterthought of how a spontaneous moment, that came out of the ether, we were children at play. And quite frankly we would all be better off if we allowed ourselves to be more like that, more of that. Lessons are everywhere if we choose to see them that way.

By the way, what do you think of our masterpiece?

Back Side of the Heart

During a recent Yin Yoga class, our instructor lead us through a series of cat and cow postures. In her very best yogi-voice she whispered, "Relax your belly, let it drop down towards the earth. Lift your head and chest upward toward the sky, opening your heart." Me, breathing-in, breathing-out, breathing-in, breathing-out. She begins again with, "Now, slowly drop your head and arch your back toward the ceiling like a cat. Bring your chin to your chest. Feel the stretch of your spine, opening fully—opening the back side of your heart."

My ears perked up immediately. The flow between postures momentarily disrupted. What? How have I never heard that before? In all the years I have practiced yoga, I had only been taught postures that were about opening the heart from the front. But of course, without speaking those words, postures like the 'cat' were doing exactly that. Opening the back side of the heart. An aha moment. And why wouldn't we address all sides of the heart, whether speaking about it physically or symbolically?

Not having ever breathed in that intentional opening through the back, I imagined my own heart looking a bit lopsided, dim and neglected. Very excited by this revelation, I began the breath-work of resuscitating inhales and noticing how happy my heart was starting to feel. To finally be receiving some long overdue love and attention—from both sides.

You know how once you hear something you can't un-hear it? In this case, I was grateful for her words. Locked forever inside my senses and intentions toward my heart. Another moment of grace—received.

I am curious now. What does the back side of the heart actually look like? Combing through the images I found during my research, the posterior view (back side) of the heart organ, anatomically carried the familiar lines and contours of the heart symbol in illustration. You know—the shapes we girls romantically draw in the sand, on paper and sometimes as the dot over the letter "i".

Who knew?

Now what—you might be asking? Nothing more really, other than to acknowledge the heart holistically. With equal breaths in-and-out, attention, healing and opening—front to back and back to front. The image of the heart etched in my brain. I will never be able to look at someone's back without also seeing—the back side of their heart.

I Saw Me—In You

Have you ever caught a DNA glimpse of your parents, siblings or children in you? In some families I have seen that unquestionable repeating of physical pattern, yet in others—not so much. Once in a while when I look down at my hands, I'll see my mother's hands or I will look at a photograph of my children and recognize my nose or the shape of one lip as identifiably me. For the most part, however, I have found my physical self to be uniquely me—often joking that I must have been left on my parent's doorstep. And as far as my children are concerned, one born a blue-eyed blond, the other one with a copper-top, I've wondered "Where did my genes go?"

My life as a portrait photographer has offered me the opportunity, in close range, to roam the landscape of people's faces. Very intimately during the post production phase in the computer "light-room" applying what I call, "Photoshop kindness." Never pushing that beyond what feels natural, the camera not as forgiving as our eyes. Not only do we see what is in physical form, we also see with our senses, experiences and our hearts. Adjusting for the harshness of life, smoothing over the contours of skin and form, seeing below the surface and peering deeply into the "window of the soul." The eyes.

It is an occupational wonder looking into someone's eyes. I have studied my own, fascinated by the range of color, the spectrum of layers in the iris bursting out like fireworks from around the pupil. The limited category for eye-color on a check-this-box document, falling very short of what I see. I wish for more boxes to choose from. How about a box that says "Other" with a line where you would write in your own descriptive color—mine, would be amber.

My dad's eyes are blue. Baby blue. Icy blue. His features—Germanic in lineage, and up until yesterday I never saw anything of me in him—that is to say, in a physical sense. I arrived in the Latin package, wrapped in olive skin, high cheek bones and skinny legs. While we were chatting it up at lunch, I held his gaze in mine (like we are supposed to do—always look someone directly in the eyes), listening deeply when I drifted off to somewhere I had never been before. The shape of his eyes. Circling the rims sent me into a momentary lapse in listening—his eyes were in the shape of almonds. The same shape as mine. How had I never noticed that before Dissuaded by quite-the-opposite in colors—maybe? All I know is that my dad, in his eighty-something year, was sitting opposite me, and in a strangely beautiful moment of recognition, I saw something of me—in him. What I refer to as a God moment.

Whistle While You Work

My home office is toward the front of my house. It faces the ever-so-busy-with-people street; neighbors chatting, dogs walking their owners, stroller-pushers and occasionally a glimpse of the fun lady on her tricycle—waving her giant bubble-making wand along the "mountain view" drive. I love this neighborhood. From the driver's seat of my ergonomic desk chair, I can hear everything! From the conversations collecting on the corner to dogs barking their territorial reminders. Some of my personal favorite sound bites come from the neighbors giving personal tours to their friends and family of my garden and the mosaics I have created on my front wall and fireplace. This makes me happy—knowing that I have created beauty that others enjoy as much as I do. Very happy indeed.

This morning, as I was pounding away on my computer keyboard, I could hear a very beautiful tune being whistled, and by no one I audibly recognized. (You get to know these things around here.) I pushed open the drapes to catch a glimpse of a man on a bike, fashioned with an extension of small wheels, carrying his treasure of recyclables. He pedal-pushed in an unhurried cadence, something along the lines of a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park, except its Wednesday and he's in the middle of the street. There was something striking about this picture, a man collecting cans and bottles presumably for his livelihood, pedaling a bike loaded down with the weight of aluminum and glass and whistling a happy tune.

It made me wonder. Does it make you wonder, too?

Work happily interrupted, I wandered out to catch up with the man whistling a happy tune. Juan from Uruguay. I started out with English and asked if he understood. He shook his head no, explained in brevity that he didn't understand much English, even after being here for 34 years. In my best attempt at Spanish laced with awkward motions of basic sign language, I told him I heard his whistling and how beautiful his song was. I wanted to know if he was—happy. He smiled into the lines carved deeply into his face, and nodded his head with a universal "Yes." I smiled back. I was happy too.

My instincts rarely let me down, my senses very keen—I see and hear everything. And more than not, I follow the path and signs that are lit up for me to follow. As I progress through my life journey, my senses heighten and my heart yearns to mingle with more moments like these. Today I was blessed with Juan from Uruguay—whistling while he worked.

What would it take for you to whistle a happy tune—at work, or anywhere in the moment?

I'm whistling right now.

Fully Alone: In the Company of Me

For nearly ten years I dreamed, rather fantasized, of taking a road trip. You know, the kind where you throw some things in the truck, van or whatever, gas up and hit the highway. Maybe a loose idea of where you are headed, but open to making a right or left turn at the crossroad. At the "Y" choosing this way or that way—and none of that mattering, because the only purpose is to be going somewhere. "Anywhere will get you there," and in this case, that adage works.

In 2004 I bought a sport utility vehicle. The first thing on the must-have-on-board list, behind the heated seats, was the ability for me to crawl in the back, and make a bed. Just thinking about the road trip fostered the most incredible feelings of freedom. The fantasy of being a gypsy rebel hippie-type felt so right. All of that, saddled with the responsible, level-headed, what-the-hell-are-you-thinking—societally crafted woman. But know this, it might take this Renaissance woman some time to make something happen, but when she does—watch out!

I never did take that SUV out for that self-promised adventure. During my next car purchase, a compact sporty hatchback, I used the same evaluation techniques—crawling into the back to see whether I could fit in there comfortably in case I got the itch to just take off. I did fit, yet sadly it's 2008 with no heated seats—a sign of our times. I bought in anyway.

Fast forward with 50,000 miles under my treads and still no road trip. At the opening of last year I could feel a real tug, no nonsense this time, to hit the road. Sunset Magazine, three months in a row, sending me front-cover options. The Grand Canyon, Highway 101 to Big Sur and Yosemite. I held onto all of them like a bible, this was surely a sign—I only need to choose. My soul screaming louder than ever. "Just pick one!"

You know the saying, "He/she who hesitates is lost." I didn't want to be lost any more. Hesitation cast aside I commit to a trip to Yosemite—alone. Big gulp. And with it comes racing in my internal voices of reason, doubt and fear, compounded by the fears of others when they hear about my plans. "What about the bears?" "You're going—alone?" And there it was—the thing that had been holding me back, out in the open. Alone. Well, I live alone, and I've been doing my life alone. What was this all about, the idea of driving a very long distance—in the company of me? That was my fear. Who would I find during this long and seamless 400-mile drive? Would I be bored with her? What if she snores? (Obviously that was a joke.)

Here's what I found. The road trip was an amazing opportunity for self-
discovery. From the minute I rolled onto the highway, my left brain busy with the details of driving, the right side in complete creativity and awareness. Solidly present to my surroundings, and more importantly, to my heart and soul. I sang out loud, laughed out loud, laughed at myself and raced a train, making portraits of life all along the way. It was an entertaining time that passed far too quickly—such a surprise. The outward journey was also an inward journey of self-appreciation and love. They say if you can't love yourself (all of you) then you can't fully cast that love out to anyone else either. All these years living in the fantasy of a road trip, which I thought was about being away from the daily grind, turned out to be far more than that. It was about being in the company of me—fully alone. I filled up my own cup.

And I never saw one damn bear!

Is there something you've been dreaming about—that trip of a lifetime, complete with the list of why-nots to support it? If you tell me about it—I will support you in making it happen. How about now?