Releasing the need for perfection

Do you pride yourself on perfection? Are you the perfect mom or dad? Perfect son or daughter? Perfect employee? Do you pressure yourself to always say and do the right thing? Always cook the perfect meal? Or maybe you find perfection in your workout program? Or keeping a pristine diet? Or maybe you drag yourself to work when you’re sick and you know you should be home in bed?

If you are steeped in this kind of perfection, I will tell you you this. You are putting an awful lot of pressure on yourself in an already heavily pressured world.

The real story you’re telling yourself is this: “If I’m not perfect, then I’ve failed. And failing is bad.” In the worst of situations, that gets extrapolated into, “and that means I must be bad.”

This is a false story. And nothing good ever comes of it.

Brene Brown covers this idea in her talks and books on Shame. There is a vast difference between the words “I made a mistake” and “I am a mistake.” That last one happens when we identify with the importance of what we do over the importance of who we are. We need to check in with ourselves when we find perfection taking over. Perfection is a warning bell.

So, if you’re caught up in imperfection, where do you begin?

I tell people to start with you doing you, not what you think you need to be doing. Check in with your heart. Is it at peace? If not, why? Ask yourself where that peace lives. And then go find its address again.

How? Start with caring for yourself. Yes, you should take care of yourself. But when was the last time you really cared for yourself? Loved and nurtured yourself like you would a lover. All of yourself. Your body. Your mind. Your spirit. Your soul.

In the Enneagram, there are nine personality types. We hold all nine types, but we lead with one of the nine. Perfectionism is associated with Enneagram Type 1.  All Enneagram Type 1s fear being defective.  And all Enneagram Type 1s value integrity. Therefore, perfectionism where they live.

Don’t think you’re off the hook if you’re not an Enneagram Type 1. We all play the perfection card in some corner of our lives. It’s just a question of how many hours in the day we do it and how much it affects our relationships, including the one with ourselves.

You might think that in the world of craftsmanship perfectionism is a virtue. But historically, it’s not. Quilters will always put an imperfection into a quilt. Jewelers who craft original pieces will also always sneak in a minor imperfection.

They do this because they believe that only the Creator is perfect. It is their way of bowing their heads to the Divine and acknowledging their humanness before God.

I promise you, you are not imperfect if you don’t clean your house this weekend, or if you skip your workout, have a dish of pasta, and gain a pound this week. It’s okay if you didn’t completely get the grass stains out of junior’s baseball uniform. It’s okay to take a day off from work when you’re sick. You are allowed. You don’t need a permission slip. We were not put here to be perfect. We were put here to be real. We were put here to learn.

Mostly, we were put here to love. How about you start with yourself?

It’s summertime. Cut yourself some slack. Pour yourself a glass of wine and watch the sunset tonight. Or a cup of coffee and watch it rise tomorrow morning. Schedule some time off. Put down your phone. Shut off the television. Have a friend over. Laugh. Eat good food. Feel the sun on your back. Trust that your Creator’s got you. Trust that your Creator loves you that much that you can take a day off to breathe.

You’re not here to be superwoman. Or superman. Leave perfection to God. She’s way better at it than you can ever be anyway.

Blessings and peace on your journey,

Maria Grace Mandarino

(If you are interested in learning your Enneagram type and doing personal and spiritual work surrounding the Enneagram, call Maria Mandarino at 623.262.7222 or email her at spiritpointacu@gmail.com)

 

 

 

 

Being called into covenant

It is not my intent to use this blog as a political forum.  And while some might see this post as political, I see it as otherwise.  And I invite you to open your heart and feel the movement of the Spirit in you as you read this post.

Back in the early 1990s, I worked at a university hospital on Long Island with a young woman who was from Haiti. She had escaped the island with the clothes on her back during the coup. She grew up wealthy and privileged and was thrust into a life she knew nothing about in a new country, but was so grateful for what she had: her husband, her three year old son, her parents, her sister, the apartment in Queens they lived in, the car she drove, and the job she had. This was a woman who was raised in a mansion and had maids to make her bed and wash, iron, and put away her clothes. She had wanted for nothing.

We were both in our early thirties and we shared stories about our cultures often. One day she was speaking to me with her rich Haitian accent, and then suddenly I could not understand her words. When I asked her to repeat what she was saying, she began to laugh. She realized she had slipped into speaking Creole because she was so comfortable with me. She had an great laugh and a raucous sense of humor, a beautiful and kind heart, and she wanted the same things most young women want: a good and safe place to raise her child and the chance to work hard and own a home with her husband who worked long hours driving a cab. She never once complained that life was unfair in all the years I knew her. I marveled at that. She just resolutely moved forward and kept focused on what mattered: her family and making a better life for them.

We were both house hunting at the time and we’d compare notes on Monday mornings. One morning she asked me about Smithtown, a sleepy little town on Long Island’s north shore, where I was looking at homes. She asked me about the school district, the commute to work, about crime, and the size of backyards. Then she asked me a question that fractured that Spring morning. My wonderful friend with the hard life and the beautiful family and the amazing sense of humor asked me: “is it okay for black people to live there?”

This was the mid-90s, in a highly educated part of New York. And I would have loved nothing more than for my friend to be my next door neighbor.

Her question though presented a hard reality. Not everyone thought the way I thought.

She ended up buying a house in a different neighborhood, one that was more “blended” and where I believe she felt safer. I hate that she had to ask me that question. Because truth was I’m not sure how well-received she would have been in Smithtown, as much as I adored her.

I’ve thought of her and that conversation a lot these past few days given the racist things the current president has said about people from parts of the world where life is hard. I’ve thought about the headlines that have punctuated a truth my Haitian friend knew back in the 90s. A truth I didn’t want to accept then. And a truth I still can’t accept now. Sadly, I know a handful of people who have made excuses for the incomprehensible things we have heard these last few days. They have shaken me. Penetrating such ignorance seems insurmountable. And I am tired of going to bed and wishing I could wake up in another time and place where ignorance is obliterated and decency and goodness are the values that guide our days.

I also know this is not why the Creator put me on this planet. Most of us who are awake right now know we were not put here to have an easy life.

This morning I visited a church in a neighboring town for the first time. Sometimes God puts us in the pews exactly when we are supposed to be there.

The Sunday morning service also included the baptism of a little girl named Isabella. And as with all baptisms, the congregation was asked to renew their baptismal covenant. Before we did so, the pastor discussed the flexible nature of Episcopal theology. One person might view scripture one way. One might view it entirely differently. But if they can support their beliefs, generally we Episcopalians acknowledge that either one can be right. Typically, we are said to not arrive at decisions easily because of this flexible nature.

But the pastor spoke about the baptismal covenant and how the baptismal agreements are “non-negotiable.”  These agreements are foundational. There is no grey area in them. More than once he repeated the last one: “Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?”

The words filled that chapel. This question has been written on my soul. And in fact, the question is written on the souls of all of us who have receive the sacrament of Baptism. We know what is right. We know what our covenant with God requires. And yet we feel powerless in this world. And in my clinical practice, I am seeing the daily manifestation of this disempowerment. People are suffering spiritually. And their bodies are paying the consequences. So many, myself included, have been asking “Why?” Why me? Why here? Why now, God? We feel powerless. And our bodies cannot bear that burden. We have no operating manual for this.
Last week I spoke to someone who said the Why question is a disempowering question. She said she has restated her Why questions into What questions. What would you have me do, God?

When I was a kid and I’d ask my mother why I should or shouldn’t do something she had wanted me to do, her favorite reply was “Because Y is a crooked letter.” Why questions typically do not get definitive answers. But What questions do.  What time would you like me to put the roast in the oven when I get home from school? What can I do to help you out when you get home from work? We know what to do when we ask What questions. And doing something makes us feel like we have the ability to make a difference.

What questions are action questions. What questions empower us.

And so I leave you (and myself) with these questions:

What will I do to strive for justice and peace among all people?

What will I do to respect the dignity of every human being?

God and the people of the world are waiting on all our answers.

Blessings and peace on your journey,
Maria Mandarino

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons on Love from a 20 Pound Dog

 

Just over fifteen years ago, Kira came into my life. I was in my last year of massage therapy school in New York, and just entering into what would become a long and difficult divorce. My ex-husband was allergic to dogs. And so my first declaration of independence was to get a puppy.

I had wanted to adopt a shelter dog, but when I applied to the shelter, I was told that adoptees who were getting divorced were not proven to be responsible pet owners and most dogs adopted by people in my position were eventually returned to the shelter.

I assured them I was not that person. I assured them this dog would have a wonderful life and be part of my family forever. I had a beautiful fenced yard. And I had references.

I was still denied.

I would not give in though, and with the help of friends, I made my way to a reputable breeder.  I visited his home and met the three puppies that were available. I was standing in the middle of the finished basement, holding a tiny and timid apricot cockerpoo, about to choose him as my new friend, when his larger buff colored sister gracelessly charged across the long room, crashed into my feet and gripped her paws around my right ankle. She would not let go.

The breeder said to me, “You might want this one, but that one wants you.”

And so I gently put the apricot pup down and picked up the buff colored pup. I fell in love with her boldness. She made me laugh. And for some reason, she seemed to have a great fascination with me.  She melted me.

I brought her home weeks later, after she was weaned. She howled like a beast into the night. As I tossed and turned, I marveled at how anything so tiny could make a sound so large. Within hours, she was sleeping in bed with me and settled right down. And that’s how it always went with Kira. When she dissented, you knew it.  And you learned to do it her way. And over the years, it’s worked out just fine.

She was headstrong.  We attended puppy kindergarten and failed miserably. The instructor told me the treat held no power over her because people intrigued her more than the reward.  What is a puppy parent to do, but embrace the uniqueness of their four legged child? We skipped the advanced training class. We’d figure it out on our own. And so we drove back home into the dark December night.

But Kira was quite smart. Brilliant, really.  So long as it was something she cared to learn. She understood commands in three languages. And then she took up learning hand commands. Within days she learned how to ring the bell I hung on the back door when she needed to go out.  She took to housebreaking like a champ. And she could howl out sounds that were clearly words to anyone who understood the soul of a dog. She loved to learn so long as the learning was fun. She loved to please. And she loved to hear me laugh. I didn’t have cable TV for nearly a year because Kira occupied my every leisure hour. Nothing on cable could compete with her. And on days when the drudgery of divorce litigation beat my spirit into the dirt, Kira was the reason I’d get up in the morning. Because if I didn’t take her out and feed her, no one else was going to. She gave me purpose. And confidence that if I could be responsible for the wellbeing of a 20 pound dog,  just maybe there was a chance I’d come out of this divorce okay too.

I can have something of a snarky sense of humor, and so when I would introduce Kira to people, I would tell them she was the four legged dog who replaced the two legged dog, but she was much smarter, more affectionate, and far more loyal.

But the truth was, despite my smart mouth, Kira came into my life to teach me about love.

As new relationships presented themselves, in hindsight, I realize now she was giving me her feedback on each of them. One would play with her and rile her up so she didn’t settle down to sleep for hours. Another would spoil her rotten and make it difficult to get her back to a routine for days.  At the time, I hadn’t realized she was trying to tell me they were lovely distractions, but none of them was “the one.”

Kira is fifteen now. Her body is frail and tired. But her spirit has been strong, despite her failing body. She has been in congestive heart failure for well over two years. Soon after that diagnosis, she lost her hearing.  In the past year, she’s lost almost half her weight. And she’s lost almost all her hair.  In recent months she developed a steady and hacking nighttime cough that is the telltale sign of fluids filling the lungs. But the hardest thing in recent days has been the dim look in her eyes from oxygen not reaching her brain. Even after she lost her hearing, we’d communicate through hand signals and she would demonstrate that she was still eager to learn. As hypoxia began to set in though, learning came harder. And it seemed to make her nervous. She seemed to know I wanted her to do certain things, but she couldn’t recall what they were. If I left the room, I would find her anxiously searching the house to find me. Her eyes took on a disturbingly vacant look this past Saturday morning. And I could see fear in her eyes for the first time. It killed me.
Anyone who knew Kira knew hands down that she was fearless.

When a dog comes into your life, they bring untold joy. But you know too that one day they will leave and they will rip your heart in two. And so when Kira came into my life, I knew the responsibility would one day fall to me to make that hard decision when she was having more bad days than good days. I have been watching her closely and waiting for her to tell me. In the last few days she has. This Thursday, on the eve of the new moon, which speaks to new beginnings, we will be visiting our holistic vet across town where Kira will begin her next journey and be freed of the body that limits her, along with the panic that consumes her. It is the heartache I must step into in exchange for all the love and caring she has given me over fifteen years.

Since early this year, I have had an awareness that Kira came into my life when love disappointed me. And that she was getting ready to say goodbye because she knew she had already taught me what to notice when it was time for a real and lasting love to enter my life. Here are some things I suspect she’d want me to remember when that love shows up:

• Remember to always be yourself and find someone who thinks that’s an awesome idea.
• Be bold. Be fearless. And don’t be shy about claiming the things you want in life.
• Make sure you find someone who lights up your world and that you find them more interesting than the best treats.
• Never quit learning, but remember to have fun while you’re doing it. (And never waste time learning silly useless things that you’re too smart for).
• Find someone who is fun and interesting enough to make you not care if you own a TV.
• Make sure he spoils you, but not so much that you become complacent. Remember to spoil him too.
• Make sure you really like the sound of his laugh.
• And make sure something about your crazy heart makes him laugh often.
• Never get tired of seeing his smile.
• Remember that being timid and easy going are overrated and the good stuff happens to people who know they deserve it.
• Love him no matter what. And make sure he loves you no matter what.
• Sometimes howling like a beast is a good idea when no one is listening to what you know you need.   
• Be patient with each other when you grow old.
• And when it’s time to say goodbye, know you have loved each other with all your heart and that that kind of love will never end.

Blessings and peace on your journey, my sweet Kira.  You have been an awesome girl. And an outstanding teacher. I love you!

©Maria Grace Mandarino

October 16, 2017

Poetry Post: Prayer on a Full Moon

Over the past two years, I have been developing classes in contemplative writing. One of those classes focuses on prayerful writing according to the rhythm of the moon. Experiencing the cycle of life with the phases of the moon is something all ancient cultures did. And it is an art we have lost in the modern world. We have lost our connection to the God’s expression in the natural world. Living and creating with this rhythm has been a powerful process for me in my own inner work. And it’s something I look forward to sharing soon with my students. 

Here is one of my recent full moon prayer-poems. 

 

Prayer on a Full Moon

On this moon of completion

help us to release old things,

heavy things which have outlasted

their purpose,

attachments and expectations

that are burdensome,

ancient,

and senseless to keep carrying.

Lift the weight of chain mail,

and unbind the shackles

that keep us from love.

 

Bless us with courage

to shed old ways,

and with faith

to believe we are enough,

and don’t need to drag

outdated furnishings

into a new home,

a home where you have plans for us.

 

Give us the conviction

to walk into a new room

in a new way.

 

Copyright 2017

Maria Grace Mandarino

09.06.17

Turning the Corners

I have been asked to pray for a lot of people in this past week. People grieving loss. People dealing with serious illness. People facing paralyzing fears that come with major life transitions. People who are scared, overwhelmed, in pain, and fresh out of hope.

Then there have been names like Irma and Maria.

Places like Las Vegas.

How do you hold all of it? How do you pray for all of it?

As spiritual directors, we encourage our directees to seek out forms of prayer that call them into a more intimate relationship with God. Usually these are not the prayers found in a prayer book. Oftentimes we talk about body prayer. The labyrinth is one such form of body prayer.

This morning I attended a business networking function to promote my acupuncture practice. I don’t even think about the hat I wear as a Spiritual Director at these meetings.

And then a spirited woman sat across from me. We had a conversation about our respective professions. She complimented me on the Brigid’s cross that I wear. It opened a conversation and we talked about church, community, and serving others in need. She, like me, was an Episcopalian, and a former Roman Catholic. The odds of sitting across from this woman and having this conversation in this moment at a professional networking group were slim. And I suspected the movement of God was involved.

I am not a natural at networking events. I can do them. But I am an introvert. And after such extroverted activity, I find myself wanting to decompress, usually alone and in nature. But I had things to do at the office, and other appointments to get to later on.

On the way to my office though, I took a wrong turn. And I passed the Unity Church that is less than a quarter mile from my clinic. It houses a breathtaking labyrinth that I promised myself I’d visit once the triple digit summer temperatures dropped. I turned into the parking lot, expecting to spend maybe ten minutes there. The word “turn, ” by the way, is significant.

I spent a half hour there.

That half hour held the power of a weekend retreat. Alone, against the backdrop of an Autumn desert blue sky, with the warm sun on my back, I was in awe of the hummingbirds, butterflies, and honey bees at work all around me. I stood at the entrance to the labyrinth and thanked these creatures for allowing me to share this holy space with them. Desert flowers of orange, yellow, fuchsia and purple, framed in shades of sage green, framed the circular path. The sound of water from the large fountain behind me filled the space.

My heart was overwhelmed.

God was everywhere.

I began to walk. I usually walk a labyrinth at a medium pace. I like an even rhythm. On a walk. And in life.

The turns were hard today though. They seemed narrow. I was wearing a low heel. My balance felt off. The long spans were easy. But the turns threw it all off. I slowed my pace.

Slowing down was not enough though. I still bobbled at the turns.

I don’t like to bobble and I was uncomfortable.

On the next long pass, I knew I had to navigate the approaching turn differently. I stepped. And paused.

I waited longer. And I listened. To the sounds of the fountain, the honey bees, the birds. Even the train whistling in the distance.

In the Benedictine tradition that I am trained in, we are taught to listen with the Ear of the Heart. And so I listened in this way too. And I heard, “Step again. Then wait. Again.”

I did.

And then I pivoted slowly to continue in the other direction.

I did not bobble.

I stepped again, two feet landing side by side.  I paused again.

I still did not bobble.

And then slowly and mindfully, I continued on in this way.

 

The labyrinth is a metaphor for life. I like predictability. When I strike a pace, on the physical path, or the spiritual path, I like to keep that pace. I appreciate patterns and rhythms. They comfort me. And they have always been where I’ve found God. But nothing about these past weeks has been predictable. Or comforting.  And I’ve felt a little disconnected from God.

In moments like these, when the old ways no longer work, you can either keep walking as you always have, or you can seek a new way.

 

I have not been able to pray easily this week because of the monumental sorrow of so many people around me.  As I prayed for these people as I walked today, the labyrinth taught me a new way to be with sorrow, and how  to make space for hope and the movement of God in what might feel like hopeless and spiritually vacant times.

When I became an Episcopalian, the Bishop spoke of the importance of turning. Turning away from the things that were not in alignment with the flow of God. The questions beg:  what do we turn away from? What do we turn toward? How do we navigate those turns? How mindful are we in making those turns? How slow? How fast? How willing? How unwilling? How patient?

In my walk today and in the hours that followed, I thought about the Bishop’s words and how significant the idea of turning really is on the spiritual path.

We are living in new times. We are all figuring things out, day by day, and often hour by hour. If your usual ways of prayer feel limiting, try a form of body prayer. While moving and praying, listen. Listen with your feet. Listen with your legs. Listen with your lungs. Listen with your heart. Listen for the voice on the wind. Stand there as long as it takes. Take off your shoes. Wait a few seconds. Maybe a minute, or ten. Then wait a little longer still. Step again. Pivot, with your feet, with your mind, with your heart. God is working in all those movements, in the stepping, in the standing, in the turning.

 

Blessings and peace on your journey,
Maria Grace Mandarino

Sacred Space Spiritual Direction

www.MariaMandarino.com/spiritualdirection.html

 

Blog Post: The Mystery of Love

We are coming very close to the day when my best friend, Jim, dropped to the ground from a massive heart attack last year and was without oxygen for ten minutes . My body is remembering. I’m tense, a little anxious, wanting to see him, just to be sure he’s okay. It’s irrational. I know he is fine, back to work, taking care of his mom who now has dementia, and his awesome dog, Francesca. He’s sailed on Great South Bay. He drives again. He calls me and texts. He’s okay.

That day though, for a split second, I think my heart might have stopped with his. The shock caused my hair to fall out a month later. It’s amazing what sorrow can do.

But we got that miracle. God is good. She hears battle cry prayers and I sure prayed them. And then when I knew Jim was clinically too far gone to come back after nearly a week-long coma and a grim prognosis if he managed to live, I had a chat with him while sitting on my bedroom floor. And I told him I loved him and if he needed to that it was okay to go. And I cried.

Two hours later he came out of that coma and wiggled his toes on command. No one expected this. Doctors had no explanation.

Jim’s journey back to health took months. But by September he was back in the classroom teaching social studies.

Miracle Boy.

Last night I had this beautiful dream of him (the first dream ever, actually), painting the most magnificent landscape of Sedona. I was in awe and hugged him tightly and said, “Could you always paint?” And he said “no, this happened after my heart attack.” I asked, “No classes or lessons?” And he said, “Nope.” And kept painting, despite me not letting go of him and crying with pure joy.

So much in my life has changed since that bleak week. I’m pretty sure I’m not even the same woman. I love a lot more fiercely since almost losing Jim. I have a way deeper relationship with my Creator. Perhaps the most important people I’ve met in Colorado have walked into my life. I see how infinitely blessed I am. Life might never be Party Perfect. But there is always love, I tell you. There is always the mystery of love. Don’t ever take it for granted. Don’t ever underestimate it. And don’t ever miss an opportunity to share it.

Because to boil it down to its essence, my friends, God is love. Which means we should never, ever fear it.

Blessings and peace on your journey,

Maria Mandarino

Blog Post: Sense, Coffee, and Kindness

The phrase flew out of my mouth that morning: “Live your coffee.” My day (and truthfully much of my week) had been cloaked in struggle, the kind that is caused by the bad behavior of stressed out, suffering, self-involved, and mindless people. I know you’ve been there too. As the Chinese say, we are living in interesting times.

I am proposing a simple antidote:  sense, coffee, and kindness.

Let me explain….

 

Be sensible

According to Webster, sense is simply defined as conscious awareness. It’s easily implemented by anyone, whether you are eight or eighty. Be conscious. Be awake. Be aware of something outside yourself. And be aware of what is within yourself as well.  If you’re reading this blog, you are probably well on your way to some such practice of mindfulness.

But we all fall off the wagon. There will always be that person who presses your buttons and catapults you right out of your Zen. (Usually it’s someone who is close to you and has installed those buttons, by the way).

As my T’ai Chi instructor used to say to us every week in class, the practice of T’ai Chi requires constant correction.

So does the practice of sense.

 

Live your coffee

If you’re not conscious, if you’re not awake, if you’re not aware, well, then have a cup of coffee. Okay, so maybe not literally.  It’s a good metaphor though. Coffee sharpens the senses. It makes you more alert.  You know that saying, “wake up and smell the coffee?” Well, it has merit. At any given time we have the choice to pay attention or not, to be awake or stay asleep, to live our coffee or not.

What are you missing? Who are you not seeing who is suffering and needs to be seen? Might it be the crabby lady on line behind you at the Post Office? Might it be the crying child in the cart at the grocery store with the exhausted and short-tempered parent pushing the cart?

Might it even be you and your desperately neglected, abused, and weary spirit?

Pour yourself a cup of Joe. And ask yourself, ” To what and to whom may I be more present?”

Is God calling you into a deeper communion to be a vehicle of healing in this world?

Live your coffee and lean into that calling.

 

Be kind

Once you’ve taken the first two steps, I promise the third is a terrifically easy stretch. Robert Fulghum said it brilliantly in his book, Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten:

Share everything.
Play fair.
Don’t hit people.
Put things back where you found them.
Clean up your own mess.
Don’t take things that aren’t yours.
Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
Live a balanced life –
Learn some and think some
And draw and paint and sing and dance
And play and work every day some.
Take a nap every afternoon.
When you go out into the world,
Watch out for traffic,
Hold hands and stick together.
Be aware of wonder.

A quick reminder:  Fulgham’s rules of kindness apply to you as much as they apply to the crabby lady behind you at the Post Office and the child in the grocery cart. The rule in my clinic is to put the oxygen mask on yourself before you go about the work of rescuing anyone else. It’s a helluva lot easier to smile at someone in need when that smile comes from the center of your soul. That kind of smile plays a lot better in the world too, by the way.

Be awake. Live your coffee. Be kind. The world needs you now more than ever.

Blessings on your path,

Maria Mandarino

Blog Post: Honoring your Boundaries and Your Sacred Place in Creation

This past weekend was not an easy one. My fourteen year old little dog, Kira, had a serious cardiac episode. She’s been a cardiac patient for nearly two years now and we’ve had some episodes of syncope from which she’s always recovered quickly. This time she came into the house from a brief walk, coughed a few times, walked to her bed, sat and looked at me with a slightly dazed expression, and then her nose crashed into the bed and she didn’t move again. I picked her up. Her body was eerily light. Her head flopped lifelessly against my shoulder. I wasn’t scared so much as I was in disbelief. I held her against my heart, stunned that a vibrant life could extinguish so fast and without struggle. There’s a great sadness and also a blessing in being able to depart like that. I held her this way for what felt like a good minute, but probably was less.

Then, slowly and miraculously, her rib cage began to expand and she was breathing again. She still couldn’t lift her head. And so I kept holding her, not sure if she was making a momentary return, only to leave for good.

She surprised me. She lifted her head and looked around. I checked her gums. They were a mix of grey and lavender — hypoxia — and the first sign I’ve seen of it since her cardiac disease began. I looked into her eyes and they seemed to register. She gave me a look that I swear said, “If you can do this, I can.” She was straining to breathe, but she was in there and seemed to have an interest in staying. So I grabbed a blanket, wrapped her in it, and kept holding her.

I called a friend who is a hospice nurse and we decided that it was wise to give her a homeopathic for anxiety and her cardiac herbs, all of which she happily chewed (you have to love a dog who has a palate for Chinese herbs). A timid shade of pink was returning to her gums. I felt her energy sink deeper into her body and she had more of a substantial feel to her. In Chinese Medicine, we would say the Shen (the Spirit) was rooting back into the body. Slowly but surely (over a period of about 90 minutes), she returned to her old self, walked around, stood in front of her empty dish, looked at me with an expression that said “Are you gonna do something about this?” And I fed her, sitting on the floor next to her, never so grateful to watch that little creature eat.

She went on to play with her toys and look out the front door and bark at the dogs that walked by. Today she was even better and her energy levels seemed to be improved beyond what I’ve seen in her in weeks. She spent the day soaking up the sun as it streamed through the house, my job being to move her bed around so she could continue to sunbathe. (I am quite certain she was Cleopatra in a past life).

I am waiting on some labs this week and will then review options with my holistic vet, who is the only vet who has ever really understood Kira (or me, for that matter). And we will talk about maybe introducing a cardiac medication along with her herbs. I’m not sure yet how I feel about that.

There is an energetic component here too (isn’t there always?) and Kira is a sensitive dog. Less has always been more with her and pharmaceuticals have always held a price. So I’m not necessarily convinced that integrating meds will be right. But I am open. For now she is doing well, she is happy and playful, demanding as ever, and there is some seriously good Shen in those soulful brown eyes. She amazes me.

Kira has been my teacher since that early November day in 2002 when she ran across a basement room, crashed into me, wrapped her paws around my ankle and chose me. We have journeyed through so much together: divorce, three interstate moves, three businesses, the magic of holistic medicine, new loves, lost loves, two academic degrees, friends we’ve met (human and canine), friends we’ve lost far too soon. When I was scared and alone and had no one to count on, she forced me to get up each morning to take care of her. And in doing so, she made me believe in myself. God had entrusted me with this tiny life that was reliant upon me. What was God thinking? Through my panic and fears of inadequacy, Kira made me laugh and forget the terror. She astounded me at how smart such a tiny creature could be (she understands three human languages, plus sign language). She inspired me to give up cable because she was such an incredible puppy, all I wanted to do was play with her, watch her grow, and study for exams with her sleeping on my lap.

Two years ago, when she became old overnight with no clinical explanation and lost her hearing completely, she taught me how to be present to the unexpected. She also taught me about the grace of aging. Her muscular body was now thin and frail, her once thick and shiny coat had thinned and had become dull, but her spirit never wavered. She even barked louder, just like an old person who was hard of hearing. Her body might have gotten old, but she still knew how to get her point across.

Perhaps this past weekend was the best lesson Kira ever taught me though: sometimes it’s not only okay, but it’s absolutely necessary to put yourself and your own needs first in order to take care of those you love and who are truly are dependent upon you. She woke me up to the fact that living like this is part of honoring the sacred in yourself. I urge you to live this way, if you don’t already. As one whose vocation renders me a caregiver (and on-call most days), it’s a requirement to know when I am dangerously low on reserves. If I have nothing to give, I am not much use to others. Still I tend to give more than I wisely should. I don’t believe our Creator desires us to give everything.  What creator who loves her creation would? Honoring your boundaries is not selfish. It is a way to honor your sacred place in Creation and in the end, serve others better.

This honoring of boundaries in my life will be a new normal for a lot of people around me. But it’s healthy behavior and it’s what I need to do — for myself and for those I love. A lesson well-delivered by a 13.5 pound little dog with one great big spirit and a very determined heart.

Blessings and peace,
Maria Grace Mandarino

Blog Post: Wherever You Go, There You Are

Six months ago, I had promised I’d write more about the unfolding of my journey into the healing arts. When I began on this road seventeen years ago as a student in the massage therapy program at the New York College of Health Professions, I was quite linear. I was learning. And I was a damned good learner. Muscle origins and insertions, innervations. Kinesiology. Neurology. There was plenty to keep my linear mind busy. Not to mention sitting for one of the most grueling massage boards in the country.

When things started to open up on that journey, I really didn’t quite understand what was happening and my linear mind wasn’t keen on making space for the non-linear stuff it didn’t understand. When I started to grasp it through T’ai Chi and Qi Gong, I couldn’t quite accept that it was happening to me and that it was happening so fast. Wasn’t this sort of thing supposed to happen over time with dedicated cultivation and the guidance of a wise mentor?

Over the years though, I came to realize this cultivation of energy had started long before I got to the massage program. This did not happen in a two year massage therapy program.

In Spring of 1996, I was a pretty intense Type A sort, working in medical editorial, driven by the almighty deadline. My boss, a physician from India, didn’t play into such physical world dramas, and one day when I had probably had one cup of coffee too many, and was chomping at the bit to select manuscripts for the next issue, he suggested that I learn to meditate. As only a dedicated Type A New Yorker could respond, I said, “I don’t have time for that stuff.” He nodded, smiled graciously, and said, “Precisely when you need to do it most.”

Some weeks later, I found myself in an independent bookstore on Long Island that was closing its doors. Everything was marked down. “Misplaced” in the literary fiction section was this book, facing outward so the title boldly stared me in the eye. It read, “Wherever You Go, There You Are.”

I was fond of the Clint Black song by the same name that was popular at the time. So I took the book off the shelf.

It turned out to be about Zen Meditation. I recalled my boss’s recommendation. The book was half price. What did I have to lose? I bought it. I opened it when I got home and devoured it. It was the first thing that made sense to me in a long, long while.

That book altered the course of everything that followed.

Three months later, I received a phone call at work — a defining moment for which nothing could have ever prepared me. I learned of the death of a childhood friend who was only 30 years old. It was impossible to breathe. Sound distorted. Vision blurred. My mental focus was lost and stayed that way for months. I plunged into despair. And there was no consoling me. I wanted one last time with my friend. One last conversation. One last song sung together. One last moment of raucous laughter. One last hug.

There would be none.

It was my first adult journey into grief. And I had no resources to guide me, except for the daily Zen practice I had begun three months before. Practice grounded me. It calmed me. It slowed down my racing heart. The very thing I had told my boss “I didn’t have time for” was the very thing I made time for — now twice a day. And eventually practice acquainted me with the peace of letting go. That process took nearly a full year.

But my opportunity to cultivate my energy wouldn’t end there.

But for a half hour, it would have been the first anniversary of my friend’s death. I was driving home from my grandmother’s house after her funeral, a funeral which came after an arduous two weeks of her failing health. During those weeks, I watched my grandmother decline in a hospital bed and stood by my mother and helped her make the decision to remove her mother from life support. I was present when she died. I saw her spirit leave her body. Although I told myself I had imagined that. The thing was back then, if you had asked me the point from which the spirit left the body, I would have said the crown. Because back then, even though I was meditating, I still lived wholeheartedly in my mind. The problem was, the gold spiral of energy I saw leave my grandmother’s body just before she flat-lined? It rose above her heart.

I was beyond thinking about it. I was emotionally drained. And I was making the journey into another layer of grief.

That night after the funeral, I was only about 15 minutes from home when traffic came to a stop at a construction site on the northbound Sagtikos Parkway.  I saw the cars in my rear view mirror cascading off the road as they were struck one by one, a ballet of headlights as cars were pushed onto the shoulder in a surreal blur. I remember bracing against the steering wheel and the brake pedal. And then the unforgiving sound and feel of metal hitting metal as my car was struck hard by the drunk driver, propelling my car into the car ahead of me, which my then husband was driving. I remember the sensation of my body moving upward against the strain of my seat belt. Then a violent slam back down into my seat. And then nothing.

I don’t know how long “nothing” lasted but it couldn’t have been long.

I remember being suspended in blackness. A peaceful silence. And these tiny beautiful sparkling lights permeating the blackness. I felt like I was floating. The stillness was welcomed and I was held in it for what seemed a long time. Then I heard a man’s voice. It was not a voice I recognized. But it was clear and firm in its directive: “You need to go back. Your mother cannot handle losing you and her mother.”

And then the next thing I remembered was sound. Loud and intrusive sounds. My husband was banging against the driver’s side window, screaming my name, pounding his fists against the glass. I wanted to tell him to shut up. A distant car horn was piercing the night. And then I saw my husband’s face as he continued to pound on the window. I recognized a frantic look I’d never seen before. I had been married to Joe Cool. An attorney. Nothing flustered him. Nothing. But this had him unearthed.

I got out of the car. I could walk, even though people told me I shouldn’t. I remember pacing like a wild animal on the shoulder, wrapped in a blanket until help arrived. We went to the ER. No bones were broken. Nothing required stitches. But soft tissue injuries and chronic pain plagued me, which provided me with more opportunity for Zen practice over the months that followed. I was also left with a heightened emotional sensitivity and spiritual awareness I didn’t understand and often scared me. And I was hesitant to breathe a word about those things to anyone for quite some time.

It wasn’t until years later, while in my first Myofascial Release class, that I had recall of a similar experience, when I was 17 years old. I grew up on Long Island and any Long Islander knows you never turn your back on the ocean. I had been taken under by a silent wave that rose up behind me. I remembered losing my footing and spiraling in the water, not sure what direction I was moving in. I pushed down on the ocean floor in panic and could feel my hands and legs being scraped by sand and rocks. I struggled. I fought. And then I had no fight left. I let go.

I experienced that same blackness with the sparkling lights. The same restful silence. The same feeling of suspension. Time ceased.  And then the harsh intrusion of sunlight as I found myself on the shore.

I told no one about this, not for years anyway. My linear assessment of the event went like this: 1) I was infinitely stupid for turning my back on the ocean, and 2) I was damned lucky to not be carried out to sea. And that was all I was capable of understanding at the time — luck had beat out stupidity. No need to celebrate it.

While I had forgotten about that day at the beach, when I experienced the blackness with the sparkling lights after my car accident, I knew I would never be the person I was before that night. I knew I was here to do something completely different from anything I’d done before. It would be a long time before I could give any of this a voice and put language on it. But the one thing I knew without a doubt was that after that night, there was positively no going back to life as I had known it.

Blog Post: Alchemy and the Radical Transformation of Metal into Water

 

We are soon approaching the Winter Solstice, which in Celtic Spirituality is said to be a thin time, a moment when the spirit world is a bit closer to us, a time which celebrates the end of darkness and awaits the return of the light.  We cannot see it yet. But the promise of light is near.

In Five Element theory, we hold a similar idea. We leave the season of Autumn and the element of Metal as we progress toward the season of Winter and the element of Water. In the practice of acupuncture, we call this particular transition a radical transformation.

Consider the process. How can one transform Metal into Water?  Metal is hard, dense, and unyielding. Water is fluid, embodies movement, and life is born from it.  How can we logically explain such a drastic transition? The creation cycle of the other elements is clear: Water creates Wood. Wood creates Fire. Fire creates Earth. Earth creates  Metal (minerals).

But what of this radical transformation of Metal turning into Water? How does it happen? How can we apply laws of physics?

We can’t. This process involves magic. Alchemy. The hand of God.

In Five Element theory, the shift out of Metal and into Water is said to be the movement of death into birth,  similar to the Celtic view of the Winter Solstice and moving from darkness into light. And so this is why the shift from Metal to Water is called a radical transformation. We must make a giant leap. A leap that science cannot explain.  A leap of faith. Hard and unyielding Metal will be affected so deeply by some inexplicable force that minerals will be turned into water and life will start anew.  It is a transition beyond the mind’s reach.

Magic. Alchemy. The hand of God.

This transition involves a belief in a divine process,  in divine law, not man’s law. A process which requires us to make space in our lives for divine movement. This is the space in which God plays. And it is the space in which we wait and trust in our Creator’s deep love for us and in the belief that life will go on, despite what seems to be highly unlikely odds.

We experience this transition — this waiting between endings and beginnings — in times of grief and sorrow as well. In Chinese Medicine, it so happens that grief and sorrow are associated with the element of Metal. And the element of Water is associated with fear.

Ah, now, doesn’t this get a little more interesting?

When we grieve, we hurt so deeply that we are convinced we cannot survive our pain. Grief is a momentary death of our spirit. We are at the end of the cycle of Metal. Water is on the other side. Grief checks us. Fear stares us down from the distance. We are afraid of what’s on the other side of sorrow and grief. We wait in darkness, immobile, resisting the alchemical shift from death into birth. We are at an impasse. We are terrified of living again, of feeling again.

On the other side of darkness though is emerging light. Always. The Celts knew this. The ancient Chinese knew this. Metal waiting to be turned into Water. Death waiting for rebirth.

Magic. Alchemy. The hand of God.

To consider rebirth though and to start this cycle again is to risk great pain. We clutch at the darkness. Darkness is at least familiar. It is not normal or sensible to want to feel pain.

Birth is painful. For the woman. For the child.

But it offers immeasurable joy too. Birth is the only path to the human experience. To experience joy means to eventually experience sorrow. You cannot have one without the contrast of the other.

As we move toward the Winter Solstice, ask yourself these questions:

• What in me has died?
•  What in me is waiting to be reborn?
• Am I willing to take the radical journey of alchemy from Metal into Water?
• Am I willing to make space for magic and trust in the hand of God?

And in the tradition of a woman who asks no one to take a journey she has not taken herself, I assure you that I am on the path of radical transformation as well, walking right alongside you.

Blessings and peace to you as we all await the light’s return,

Maria Grace Mandarino