The High School Reader

I started a new journaling technique today. I bought an old book, in this case, "The High School Reader". The flyleaf states: Entered according to an Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, by the MINISTER of EDUCATION for Ontario, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.

At the time it was a published in 1886, it had a ticket price stamped on the front of Sixty Cents.

1886? Sixty Cents? I paid $10.00.

The book I really wanted cost $80.00. It had tissue thin paper that crinkled as each page turned. It smelled of age and time past, of a future never caught up to, never realized. Each page light as air, it sat heavily in my hands. Erudite. Learned. Weighty matters.

"It's perfect," I told the shopkeeper. Until I looked at the price. And then its perfection paled into that future light of knowing -- I couldn't pay $80.00 for a book upon whose pages I was going to write and paste and draw and colour.

And so, I found the next perfect book waiting on a shelf by the cash register. The High School Reader.

The previous owner had written her name in cursive on the inside front cover. Tidy. With letters inked over on the edges resembling caligraphy. Aggie Mather, Thurlow, Ontario.

And on the inside page, "If I should chance to drop this book/ and you should chance to pick it up/ and if you wish my name to see/ turn to page 103.

I turned to page 103.

Now since you have took the time to look/ Turn to the page in the back of the book.

I turned to the page in the back of the book, and Aggie had written:

Oh you goose you cannot find it/ Shut the book and never mind it.

Intrigued, I could not shut the book.

This Aggie had spiked my curiosity.

I want to go hunting for her. To do a quick 411 search but in 1896, ten years after the book was published and the year Aggie wrote her name in the front cover, 411 and Internet searches didn't exist.

And Aggie has long since left the world for other realms. Yet, still, I wonder about her. This woman of the spidery pencil marks littering each page. I want to know who she was, yet, not know.

The intrigue is much more fun than knowing. The anticipation of a mystery I know will never be solved sometime in the future much more enticing than the real and immediate fact of knowing in the present.

She has written in pencil throughout the book, this Aggie Mather. Written notes in poetry and prose. Her writing is tiny -- even with glasses it is hard to discern her scribbles.

Beside the title of the poem, "The Bridge of Sighs" she notes, Lyric. She commits a sin by drowning herself in -- and I cannot read the words -- she jumped from London Bridge, she concludes beside the first paragraph.

The Bridge of Sighs
Thomas Hood, 1799 - 1845
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate
Gone to her death!

There is a note between the third and fourth line. Pencil thin. Indecipherable.

The object of writing such a journal is to highlight words within the printed text while writing entries on the page.

I began...

Beginnings. I write on a page lined with thought and find no sympathy for my thinking. The power is not in what I understand but rather in my remembrance of what was.

The non italicized words are the highlighted words I randomly chose from the text.

It is an interesting process this journal writing. To create a sentence using words already on the page while writing freefall. Challenging.

I write another sentence:

Some of these words I write are simply insights that cannot be experienced without losing their value.

In the Trial Scene from "The Merchant of Venice" Aggie has underlined words, obdurate, malice, forfeiture, moeity, commiseration, brassy bosoms. "Pound of flesh" she writes in the margin beside forfeiture.

I wonder who owned this book since Aggie first made her tiny marks. I want to let them know that in the distant future someone bought it for 100 times its original value and still it was a steal.

I set pen to page. Deep breath. I begin to write upon the PREFACE page. I finish my first page of writing and on the second page paste a collage of words and images. This is to be a memory journal, an art object, a personal vision map. Of times past leading to the present opening windows to the future.

It is a fascinating exercise, this using pages of a book to write upon. Past. Present. Future combining on one page. I fast forward. Flip through pages to page 207. Aggie is present here. She's underscored several words. "The Sensual and the DArk rebel in vain,/ Slaves by their own compulsion."

She's underscored 'Sensual', 'Dark', 'Slaves' and 'compulsion'. Above compulstion she's written, 'ignorants'.

I wonder if she twittered nervously like a schoolgirl at the word 'Sensual'. If she blushed and paused nervously before saying the word outloud.

She is present on the page and I am intrigued by The High School Reader from 1886 and a woman named Aggie Mather whom I shall only meet in the past tense of what she wrote in the pages of a book I am using to journal my way into the future.

In the "Introductory" it states, "The ability to read well cannot be attained without much pains and study. For even a moderate proficiency in the art of reading two requirements are essential: (1) A cultivted mind quick to perceive the sequence of thoughts which the words to be read logically express, and equally quick in is power sympathetically to appreciate the sentiment with which the words are informed... (2) a voice so perfected that its utterances fall upon the ear of the listener with pleasing effect.... Of these two requirements the first is undeniably the more important...

I wonder about the 'pains' required to read well. I wonder about how to best cultivate my mind to perceive the sequence of thoughts.

In that perception, the sequence of the future rests, idly waiting for time to appear upon the horizon.

"Hi Aggie, I write. "Nice to meet you. It's one hundred and five years after you wrote your little poem on the inside cover of your High School Reader. The utterances of your pencil fall upon my eyes with pleasing effect. The future of which you once dreamed is here. Hope you like it."

and I close the book. I will return to cast markings on the page, to create another story upon the story told long ago. I shall return, some time in the future, to tell a story beyond the pages of this book that Aggie bought for 60 cents in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-six.

************************************************

Today's entry is part of Blog Carnival over at Peter Pollock's place. Today's one word promt is "future".

To read other entries, click on over to Peter's place and enjoy the creative and varied prose other writers share on the prompt, future.

Nameste!

Love at the DI

We are continuing to work on the play, A Drop-In Wedding: The Musical, our collaborative theatrical project we are writing as part of the 50th Anniversary Celebrations of the homeless shelter where I work (The DI -- and to put it in context, we sleep 1220 people a night and serve up to 3500 meals a day along with providing the full gamut of services needed for someone to reclaim their lives beyond homelessness).

Writing such a piece collaboratively takes great patience and perseverance on the part of everyone involved. People come and go. They 'get housed', they go to jail, they disappear, they're on a bender and simply can't turn up. One Tuesday they're there, eager to participate. The next, they want to pull all their contributions, scrub their name from the file and erase their presence.

It is a constant art of juggling, appeasing, cajoling, coercing, begging and pleading. It is a constant labour of love.

Our process is simple. We meet every Tuesday from 4 to 6pm, whoever turns up is invited to share their 'weather report' -- a statement about what's going on for them in that moment and anything they want to share from the previous week.

We read something from the past week's writings, or maybe just something inspiring someone wants to share. From there, we do a few theatre exercises to 'build group' and then, we sit down to write. The topic always pertains in some way to 'love'. The instructions simple: Write for ten minutes, in silence, about... and a topic is provided:

* Your worst date.
* A perfect first date.
* Wedding vows.
* A lover's quarrel
* A break-up.
* The meeting between two people at the shelter.
* A wedding dress memory.
* A memory of love.
* ...

It is hard work, this writing from the heart of heart matters. Hard work for those who don't live at the shelter and even harder for those who do. For in the writing, in the exploration of love, in the digging into memory and dreams are the sticky spaces where love went awry, was lost, or simply died. In the writing are those spaces where pain edges into peace of mind, where loss drives happiness away, where memories of love that has died erupt on the page and anger and pain collide with memory.

It was the pain of loss that lead someone to ask a question last week -- Where does love go when it dies?

My response was the thing you're told never to do -- answer a question with a question.

Can love die? I asked. Or is it our willingness to be open to its presence that dies?

The question lead to a discussion. To insight and openings and feelings spilling out.

Love isn't present in a homeless shelter, said one man. It's just not possible.

I believe in the impossible, answered another.

That's stupid, replied another.

Remember, this is a safe and respectful place, I interjected.

Sorry, said the participant who had commented last. I just meant if something's impossible, how can you believe in it. Doesn't impossible, by its very definition, mean there's nothing to believe in?

What do you think? I asked.

I think it's impossible to find love at the DI, he replied.

And then, we wrote. Ten minutes on "Love at the DI."

This was my contribution:

Love at the DI

Louise Gallagher

It seems impossible that a couple could fall in love and get married in a place like the DI. Loving someone is hard enough without adding in the challenges of living in a place like this where the greatest common denominator is the nothing everyone shares.

Nothing to hold onto. Nothing to hold out for. Nothing to keep to yourself.

Life in the DI is filled with constant noise. Continual jostling for position, possessions, possibility or sometimes impossibility of a bed, a chair, a shower, a bar of soap, a quiet corner.

How can love between two people grow when they never get a chance to just be two people, being together, hanging out?

Think about it. Out there in the ‘real world” love isn’t built on big moments. It grows in the quiet times. The silences shared, the simple times of kicking back and doing nothing but being together. The joy of laughter sparked by nothing other than the thought it’s you and your beloved, together against the world.

In the DI, it’s the world against you and him and her and her and him and them and us and you.

It’s the world against a thousand people, fighting to find just one single square inch of space where they can be themselves without having to constantly watch out for who’s behind them, who’s watching, who’s seeing, listening, hearing, everything you think, feel, say, smell, know, do.

In the DI, saying goodnight becomes a furtive look over a shoulder to see who's watching. Will staff catch you stealing a kiss before you separate and go to your separate dorms? Will someone tease you about those tender looks, or, as one woman said happened to her, will a cop stop his car as you walk down the street, holding hands and seeking just a few moments of together time, and ask, "Hey Giselle. What corner you standin' on tonight?"

It’s a daunting thought to think someone can find themselves at a homeless shelter, let alone that they could find some special someone to love, to hold, to be with forever.

But then, now is not forever, especially at a place like the DI. And maybe that’s what’s true about love in a place where forever settles into the long cold winter of your soul feeling like it's dying with every breath. Maybe what's true about love in a shelter is love may not be forever but while it lasts, it sure makes being there easier to be the place you're at, easier to endure, easier to live.

Love is present at the DI. Just like it's present where ever we are when we turn up and get into the moment of being present with where we're at.

Tweeting Juliet (a poem)

Photograph: The Show Must Go On by Jacob F. Lucas.

Used with permission for One Stop Poetry

Romeo, Romeo
come thee hither
I've got news that'll drive you all a twitter
Desdemona, the tart, has run off with a Moor
Now she's banned from entering her father's door.

Oh Romeo, Romeo
come here my sweet
I've got something I just gotta tweet
'bout a mid-summer's dream of love gone astray
and a donkey-headed man with a real foul bray.

Romeo, Romeo
Quick! Come here now
I've got some juicy gossip for your RSS feed crowd
Ophelia's been told to get off to a nunnery
and Hamlet is spouting mad-minded comment'ry.

Romeo, Romeo
come and look
This story deserves a big Like in my Book
It's a comedy of errors about two lost sons
and the search to reunite them by their father Egeon.

Oh Romeo, Romeo
What a mess
I must post the news in 140 characters or less
but all this twittering has put my mind in such a fog
These characters deserve a full post on my blog.

****************************************************************************

Over at One Stop Poetry, Chris Galford has posted an interview with Seattle based photographer, Jacob Lucas along with one of his photos as a poetry prompt -- see photo above. Jacob F. Lucas, please visit the site.

Hopping on over to Glynn's Faith. Fiction. Friends, I was intriqued to see the photo prompt inspired him to write a poem called, Broadway Revival of an Old Favourite -- combine Glynn's poem with Jacob Lucas' comments about tweets and FB likes and 140 characters ... and suddenly I was inspired to write from Juliet's perspective of the writings of Shakespeare. Go figure. It all makes sense, right?

Moral of the story. Always count on the unexpected with the Muse. She's keen to take you where the spirit leads away from the linear path of least resistance.

When we live in LOVE

I lost two children. Both were tiny 12 week fetus. Both erupted from my body before their time.

I didn't allow myself to grieve. To feel their loss as anything other than nature's way of taking care of the eternal circle of life.

The doctors told me I'd never have children. It is impossible they said. I grieved then. I grieved the unborn child. The emptiness of my womb. The hollowness of my arms.

And then, Alexis was born. Beautiful. Perfect. Miraculous. And then Liseanne appeared, erupting into the world in wild, joyful perfection.

And I rejoiced. And gave thanks.

And in their birth there was a moment so pure it was if I was seeing, feeling, breathing, touching LOVE as if for the very first time. A moment so transcendent that I was infused with LOVE in all its eternal grace and ever lasting light.

And in the same breath of knowing LOVE in their presence, I feared for the life of these two miraculous and wondrous beings. I feared their life would be ripped from my arms with every breath I took.

And in my fear, truth awoke. In knowing LOVE, I feared death for the very first time.

In their life, I knew the absolute pain of loving so completely I could not bear the thought of their dying.

And in that truth, I had to awaken to the sacred trust into which they were born. My fear could not overcome LOVE. LOVE is greatest of all.

My fear could not take away the beauty of their being here on earth. LOVE is pure and perfect, ever lasting.

I heard the story of a friend of a friend who used to dress her daughter in exactly the same colours as she was wearing whenever they went out. "In case she gets lost," this mother said. "I'll always be able to tell the police what she was wearing."

I wonder about the obsessive fear that drives her. The over-arching need to keep a child safe by preparing for every catastrophe before it happens.

It is the fear a mother's heart, and father's too, never loses. What if I lose my child? What if something happens?

It is the fear we must breathe into if we are to be free to nurture these miraculous seeds of life into the beauty of their lives unfolding before our eyes. It is the fear we must release with every step they take away from the safety of our arms. It is the love we must breathe into to ease the heart ache of knowing that for them to be safe in the world beyond our embrace, we must set them free to explore without fearing our need to keep them near. Always and forever.

And I wonder about the infants I lost. The two who were torn from my body before the miracle of life brought them full-born into this world. I do not think of them often. I do not think of them in thoughts of love or regret, or even loss. But today, over at Ruth's synch-ro-ni-zing, she writes of the almost unbearable weight of love and of a mother who lost a child before it could take the journey from her womb into her arms.

I think we are all mothers at times like this, writes Ruth. Whatever our gender or childbearing ability, we carry the weight of a child, as Anne Michaels said in her powerful book, Fugitive Pieces:

"There's a moment when love makes you believe in death for the first time. You recognize the one whose loss, even contemplated, you'll carry forever, like a sleeping child. All grief, anyone's grief...is the weight of a sleeping child."

And I think of those infants lost before they were born. I give a prayer of gratitude for the lives I know and breathe into the wonder of life here on earth.

It is all part of the circle of life into which we are each born, through which we are all connected.

A circle of life that is completed in our dying.

A man came into my office yesterday to talk about his last wishes. I've written of him before. He lives at the shelter and he is dying. He rode a horse in December and smiled big. He received a gift of a ticket to Mardi Gras at Christmas and cried, big.

He cannot take the trip to Mardi Gras. His strength is fading too fast.

He cannot imagine spring. His health is failing too quickly.

On Tuesday, we're taking him to a local 'crab shack' where they've agreed to set aside a room, decorate it in Mardi Gras fare so we can celebrate this man and his life and give him a taste of the city and the event he yearned to experience.

He is like a child. Frightened. Struggling to understand. Grasping at anything to hold onto for as long as he can. Yearning to capture a few more moments of Life, that precious and delicate thread we all take for granted we will awaken to when we fall asleep at night.

For this man, there is no promise of morning. No assurance that when he closes his eyes tonight, he will have the life he needs to open them in the morning.

His brother is coming to the party on Tuesday. I called him this week to invite him. They haven't seen eachother in twelve years. T. cried when I told him his brother was coming. He'd given me the number to invite him. He was afraid his brother would say no.

"How sick is he," the brother asked when I called.

I took a breath and searched for an easier way to speak the truth. There was none. "He's dying," I replied.

"How soon?" he asked.

I gave him the response the doctor had given me last week. "No one knows. We're not God. What's important is we treasure each moment now."

Anne Michaels writes, "There's a moment when love makes you believe in death for the first time."

There's a moment when death makes me believe in love as if I am experiencing it for the very first time. A moment when its eternal grace and everlasting light shines so brightly I know, there is no death to fear, when we treasure each moment we live in LOVE.

It's a great day out there. What are you waiting for?

Restless nights and early morning meetings all add up to bleary eyes and foggy thinking.

But not foggy enough to not know, it's still cold outside! :)

I was kinda' waiting for divine intervention to come and blow the cold weather away, 'cause believe me, it's all anyone is talking about.

The news is filled with stories of irritated citizens and frozen pipes bursting spilling residents into the streets. And the shelter where I work... well, it's filled with irritable clients and stressed out staff.

That's the challenge of cold weather. People get stuck indoors and are loathe to venture out. Crowded quarters make for crowded minds filled with thoughts that keep rolling around about how 'bad' they've got it.

And baby, when it's this cold outside, it can be real bad inside!

No matter the weather, though, I am responsible for my outlook.

And today, despite my foggy thinking or maybe because of it, my outlook is for blue skies and clear sailing.

Have a meeting all morning to work on the book we're publishing in honour of our 50th Anniversary as an agency.

And I'm excited.

The book is coming together really well and promises to be a beautiful publication, a tribute to the agency and to those of us working on putting it together.

yup. I'm excited.

and being excited to face my day is so much better than the alternative of dreading the day ahead.

I may not be able to do anything about the weather outside, but I have all the control in the world on my internal temperature. On my outlook.

And today, my outlook is shining. It's filled with possibility and anticipation for a great day.

It's quite simple really. In thinking about my day, I ask myself, What kind of day do I want to create? The answer is a reflection of my temperature, my mood, my belief in my ability to create more of what I want by doing more of what creates what I want in my life. And I choose, today to create a day of joy and fascination. A day where I am giving my best and creating a ripple of harmony where ever I go.

That's me. Gotta run. Early morning meeting can't wait. The fog is lifting and I'm seeing the day through clear eyes.

It's a great day out there just waiting for me to greet it!

Hope yours is a great one too!

Nameste

Mother Nature -- I'm disturbed.

This morning I looked at the weather forecast and saw it was 'only' -22C and thought, "oh goodie. It's warmed up outside."

Hello? Since when does minus 22 Celsius warrant a 'warmed up?' That's not warm, 'cause baby it's cold outside.

And it's March already. Seriously. Can't the weather get in line with the spring-like thoughts blossoming in my head? Can't Mother Nature get on board the global warming phenomena scientists and meteorologists have been quacking about forever. And I mean, forever?

Oh right. Forever is a long, long time.

Yeah, well, it sure feels like this forever cold is taking a long, long time to warm up.

Maybe it's the weather causing people who are normally so compliant to act out. Take one of the clients who has been coming to the arts program at the shelter where I work. He's shown a proclivity to turning up in the space under the influence of alcohol. And it's just not allowed.

Except, I've been allowing it by not doing anything about it. Oh yeah, I have occasionally had a conversation with him about his drinking and he commits to 'not doing it again'. And then, he slips and I slide into that space of 'oh well, at least he's compliant' and then, it continues until an opportunity is presented, like yesterday, and I have to take action. As I told a co-worker as we discussed how best to deal with the situation, "I have to also think of the big picture of the program and the impact of his behaviour on others. I don't want to prevent him from coming to the studio. It has had such a great impact on him and he is such a gift to the group."

When he's sober.

Because when he's there under the influence, his gift is diminished. And he knows it and I know it and the others know it and we all pretend we don't know it.

I need to be conscious of the message allowing his behaviour to continue will have on others in the program. I need to be conscious of the big picture and do what is best for the whole, not just the individual. And truth is, barring him for awhile from accessing the space could be a positive experience for him too.

As someone said to me, "You're not responsible for his actions. You need to give him the best of you. And your best is found in doing the right thing."

Why is doing the right thing so hard sometimes?

It's that ego thing. I tell myself, 'if I do this then he will do this'. In reality, I don't know what he will do when I 'do this' -- particularly when the 'this' of my doing lacks integrity. And, in accepting the unacceptable, I have acted without integrity to the whole. And in this case, the whole, being the program and the other artists and musicians who turn up, deserve my best, not my 'let's pretend it's my best and what's happening is for the best.'

It's one of the things I love about writing here every morning -- writing anywhere for that matter -- I get to see my thinking and find those places where I have run away from reality as it is into reality as I'd like to pretend it is.

A colleague and I, a fellow life coach, are putting together a program based on 'I Power'. I know, I know -- reality as I'd like it to be says I have all the time I need to create this program. And.... I do, when I quit pretending all I am is based on my work at the shelter.

See, the reality is, I work long days because I choose to. Not because I must. And I choose to because I take on too many projects, fill my 'bucket' with too many rocks and have trouble hefting it around.

It's the word 'choose' I struggle with. Because, truly, I'd like to pretend "I have to". I mean seriously, if I don't do it, who will?

Well.... the 'who will' is always an issue in a not for profit. There's always more to do than people and resources to do it.

So... my challenge is to step into my I Power to say, "I do not have the time nor resources to do this by saying, "This is a great idea. The resources to make it happen are beyond our current reality. Is it important enough an idea that we are willing to let something else go? And if so, what is that 'something else' that has to go?"

I buy into my own myth of my indispensable 'importance' when I keep adding rocks to my bucket without balancing the weight by removing the things I can't carry.

I am not giving my 100% anywhere in my life when I am dragging myself down with 'must dos' without considering 'can't dos'.

Sure, I know the sayings, "Whether you believe you can or can't, you are right." or, "There's no such word as can't."

Seriously, is any of that true? I believe I can't, do it all.

Right or wrong?

Maybe it's not about right or wrong and just about reality.

Yeah. Reality is I am one person with a given number of hours in a day and a need to balance my life with time spent, working, sleeping, eating and.... spending time with those I love, meditating, reading, writing, creating. I need to ensure I am balanced to give my best in all areas of my life.

And I am not balanced when I am choosing to let myself become overwhelmed with too many things to do and not enough time to give my best to them.

Whew. Now that I've got that thinking straigthened out, I can get on with my Pleasantly Disturbed Thursday.

I can get out into the world, confident in my ability to step into my I Power and be my best, without dragging myself down into the land of telling myself I'm giving my best away to everything and everyone else but me! 'Cause really... my best is not in play when I am playing on empty.

Pleasantly Disturbed Thursday is the brainchild of Duane Scott over at Duane Scott. Now how's that for pleasantly disturbed. Duane Scott is Duane Scott. (I know. I know. I can be soooo funny -- and did I mention original? -- sometimes.)

Though it's the genius of Glynn Young over at Faith. Fiction. Friends. this morning who reminded me of the fun and the power of letting the thoughts flow without censure or unpleasant adherence to worrying about what I'm thinking not being 'good enough' for the world to consume. Seriously? Sometimes, being pleasantly disturbed is the best way to get out of my own way and get real with what I'm doing and how I'm living my life!

Wishing you a pleasantly disturbed and undisturbed Thursday. May it be to your liking. May you choose always to do the right thing for you and your world so that you are authentically in the flow of living today as your best day yet!

And may Mother Nature hear the call of spring and warm up already! 'Cause I'm unpleasantly disturbed by the weather these days!

What do you see?

My friend Mark, over at Mark is Musing, is immersed in a conversation about 'truth'. His. Hers. Theirs. What was. What wasn't. And anyone else's who takes the time to chime in and share their truth too.

It's the thing about truth that I know to be true. No matter my 'truth', yours will always be different.

No two people can see the same thing, same person, same situation exactly the same. Everything we see is filtered through our experiences, beliefs, eyes, nose, perspective of past, position in the present and outlook of the future. Everything we experience is filtered through our past experiences and the beliefs we formed in the there and then which we've carried into the here and now. And those beliefs will either limit our lives, or open us up to new horizons.

It's all in how we 'see' the world. It's all in how the light filters through our eyes, revealing the past, shadowing the future, lighting up the present.

It's all in our 'I'.

This 'truth' was evident last night at a course I was teaching at the homeless shelter where I work. I gave the class an exercise called, "I Am Here Now".

You can try it too!

Divide a sheet of lined paper down the middle.

Breathe deeply. Think about your life right now in the here and now. Feel the feelings. On the left side of the page, write a list of feeling words to describe your life right now.

Now, imagine yourself a year in the future, living almost the same as you're living now, having done nothing overt to change your circumstances now. How will you feel about your life?

Everyone agreed -- they'd feel the same or worse about their lives now if they did nothing but what they're doing today.

If I do what I've always done, I'll get what I'll always got.

Beneath the list of words, I invited the class to write at least five things they could do, starting right now, to make change in their life that would take them a step closer to their goal of leaving the shelter.

Imagine your life one year in the future, after having done those five things. Close your eyes, imagine it and imagine how you'll feel. Now, on the right hand side of the paper, write those feelings down.

Everyone agreed, they would not be feeling the same if they took steps to make change happen -- regardless of the 'success' of the steps, they would not be feeling the same.

The steps don't have to be 'big'. They have to be active.

It was the key, the group decided, active engagement in the process of change. In that active engagement, they would feel more successful, more capable of creating the life of their dreams, more involved in their own journey.

Because, the truth, no matter how the group looked at it, was -- the world constantly changes but their lives don't change in the direction of their choosing until they become engaged in the process.

Ask yourself, the question, When my life is ideal I am...

One man answered, 'content'. Another, 'peaceful'. another, 'living on a beach'.

No one is ever static, I told the group. When we are not taking steps towards our destination, towards our dream or goal or vision of life outside the shelter, out comfort zone, our limiting beliefs, we are taking steps away from our destination, our dream, goal or vision.

One man piped up, "yeah but"... and he listed the things that could happen to limit his life if..., how when he gets off work and feels discouraged and all he's got is twenty bucks, then the best thing he can do is go to the store and buy a can of soup and a six pack. 'Cause that's the reality of the twenty bucks, he added.

Maybe that's true, I countered, -- but where has the six pack got you in the past? Does it take you closer to having more of what you want in your life or less?

And there's that truth thing.

In his perspective, all he sees, based on his experiences and beliefs, is the limitations of his life tied up in a twenty dollar bill and it's buying power of a can of soup and a six pack.

What I see is what I get to experience.

What I tell myself is true, becomes my truth.

...even when the truth, doesn't become me.

Sitting on my side of the desk, standing in front of the class from a place of having moved beyond the despair and horror of being completely lost and 'homeless' into my life today, I see possibility.

What do you see?

Do you see a year from now feeling the same as you do today?

Or is your truth wrapped up in a package of delight waiting to be unwrapped as you see the truth of your limitless possibilities when you see beyond the limiting beliefs that would have you believe, the truth about you is floundering in where you're at today?

Truth or lies -- we create the story of our life in our minds and then we act out that 'truth' for all we're worth.

What if, we create the story of our life by spreading our wings and flying free of limiting beliefs we hold to be true, simply because we've never taken the action needed to fly?

What if, the greatest truth of each of us is.... we are born to be free to be all that we are when we let go of grounding ourselves in beliefs that don't support us when we spread our wings and fly?