Magic Night Cream, Magic Night Cream, Do Your Job, Do Your Job


Last night, I put my five-year old Stella to bed.   Well, I snuck in and stole the best part from Rick, who had her in her jammies, teeth brushed and she was in her bed with book in hand, waiting for someone to read to her.  I crawled into her bed by her and read her a story.

I love, love, love doing this with Stella.  I regret not loving it with my older two, Carly and Lydia.  We should have separated them more during the bedtime routine so I could have had more of this one on one time with them.  But mostly we did it all together, which made it so much more exhausting and chaotic and filled with fighting and bickering.  By the end of the day I just didn’t have the energy to deal, much less enjoy bedtime.

But Stella gets the story alone.  And she is so squishy and fresh and funny, and I adore it.  She loves the ritual of the hour, and I do too.  I read to her, and then I say, “Stella….”  as if I am about to begin a great story or tell her a fantastic secret… and she will say, “I know what you are going to say!”  I act surprised.  “How can you possibly know?  You can’t know!”  And she giggles that giggle that makes the cells in my body reorganize themselves so they can be permanently attached to her warm belly and her staccato laugh.

“You are going to say, I ADORE you.”

“Whaaaaaat!?  How did you know?”

I usually smash my face into the side of her soft neck at this point.  I feel so full of the force of my love,I want to breathe her into my body again.

Then, we do magic night cream.

My girls hands, (especially in kindergarten),  become so dry in the winter they turn bright red and crack.  (I now realize  it is a hand-washing and drying issue.)  It’s awful.

I have a bottle of Aquaphor by her bed that I rub into her little hands, and we chant, “Magic night cream, magic night cream, do your job, do your job…” a few times.  Just massaging her squishy hands, still chubby with the vestiges of toddlerhood just greases up the magic of the nighttime ritual.  Last night, I bent to kiss her cheek and she grabs my hair with her lubed up fists and says, “I have one more thing to tell you, mom.”

“What’s that?”  I lean in, her lips right in my ear, bracing for another sweet declaration of her love for me, and she says,

“Boca gum staaaaaaaah… bock, bock, bock bote bote…”

This is what she believes is the first line of the song  “Gangnum Style.”

Which brings on the giggles, and my heart bursts like an over-filled water balloon and I leave feeling like tomorrow, I can do this whole parenting gig all over again, just for the magic night cream, and that laugh.

I am holding tight to this right now, as I am desperately trying to remind myself to be present.  To ignore the phone, burning a hole in the butt pocket of my yoga pants.  To stop checking off the time I am with my kids the same way I check off my chore list.  To quit longing for that glass of wine and a good book, or a moment of peace devoid of Meghan Trainor on repeat and constant bickering.  To just Be in my body.  Be alive.  In the moment.  RIGHT NOW.   There are sensations.  And feelings.  And breathing in and out.  And those things must be noticed, if I am to live a full and meaningful life.  I am trying to wake up and BE.

It’s fucking hard.

So I did some searching, and realized that Stella’s magic night cream is my life line.  My anchor.  My one moment I can count on, where I am fully in my body.


Right then, I am out of my mind.  I am in my fingertips, smoothing her chapped hands, feeling the dimples still in her knuckles and the meaty part of her thumbs as they connect to her palm, and I don’t need to tell her that I adore her, she knows because my love is a vibrating energy that is coating her, thick and protective.  It’s better than the magic night cream.

It is the invitation to be here, and nowhere else.

Magic night cream, magic night cream, do your job, do your job.

The Wound

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“The wound is the place Light enters you”    – Rumi

About a year ago, we were entertaining guests on a friday night.  I opened the refrigerator to offer my friend a beer, and the bottle seemed to launch itself at me from its overstuffed pocket and smashed to the tile floor, pulverizing in an impressive explosion of beer foam and teeny shards of glass.  One particular piece of miniscule shrapnel left the tip of my pointer finger bleeding, the glass stubbornly embedded itself deeper and deeper with each attempt to pull it out.  Eventually, my finger healed over the shard, and I had a tiny brown freckle at the tip of my finger.  It would give me a sharp, biting reminder of it’s presence once in a while, when any pressure was applied to my fingertip.  It was a part of me, this invader, a permanent wound lurking under a new layer of skin.  I lived with it there for a long time.  And then, many months later, I found myself in pain again.  My finger became red and sore, the tip got swollen and hot, and my body began to fight.  The eviction notice had been sent.

This process was shocking and sudden and a bit unwanted… I had grown accustomed to the glass, and did not appreciate the throbbing pain I was suddenly dealing with.  The expulsion was much more painful than the first moment it entered me and left me bleeding.  My body smartly worked that glass back to the surface of my fingertip, and in a moment of desperation, wanting to end the pain, I aggressively pinched under the enflamed tissue, hard and tight, and squeezed until the glass cut through the skin once again.   Finally rejected, I rinsed it away,  purged at last.



I have been silent.  Gone.


Things happened, and the pain swallowed me up for a while. And I am learning that I do not handle my own pain well.  I have no tolerance for my own tears.  My own suffering.  It simply does not feel just, when I am so aware of my privelege.  There is a magnitute of suffering outside my own sphere that I cannot comprehend…  So,  I have learned to be scornful of my wounds.  And now, that scorn has revealed itself… the dark truth of it’s nature.

We all have shrapnel, healed over and buried beneath our skin.  Words that carry shame and rejection, moments that violate and negate… these are the shards that cut deep and become a part of us, grown in.  We carry them until it is time.  When we are ready to let them surface, force them out, and bleed again.

But it is not the purging that transforms.

It is in the wounding.  The embedding. The healing.

In this spiraled process, we are found whole.

The Cure

We think we get over things.

We don’t get over things.

Or say, we get over the measles,

but not a broken heart.

We need to look at that distinction.

The thing that becomes part of our experience,

never becomes less a part of our experience.

How can I say it?

The way to get over a life is to die.

Short of that you move with it, let the pain be pain.

Not in the hope that it will vanish

But in the faith that it will fit in,

find its place in the shape of things

and be then, not any less pain,

but true to form.

Because anything natural has an inherent

shape and will flow towards it.

And, a life is as natural as a leaf.

That’s what we are looking for:

Not the end of a thing,

but the shape of it.

Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life

without obliterating, getting over,

a single instant of it.

                       -Author Unknown

Einstein: Harnessing Love in Your Hands

“Man’s concept of his world built on the experience of the five senses is no longer adequate and in many cases no longer valid.”

-Shafica Karagulla, M.D.,

a Turkish-born psychiatrist

I am a white witch.  DId I fail to mention this?  True.  I did away with secret temple rituals and went straight into sorcery….


I don’t share this with people.  Because when I tell people that I see and manipulate white light, and it magically puts screaming babies to sleep, their eyes narrow, they nod politely, and take a few unsteady steps back.

I made a major exception to my undercover sorceress policy just over two weeks ago, when a lovely mother began to open up to me on the playground of the elementary school.  She told me she was feeling desperate about her son, who would not go to sleep at night.  He was an anxious and sensitive seven-year old and he was getting up multiple times at night, fearful and tearful.  She was at a loss, and feeling trapped.

So I told her my white witch story.  And she laugh with nervous disbelief, but I could tell she would try it out… something told me that she needed this story.

Her son went to sleep that first night…and every night since then without trouble.   She laughs gleefully when we bump into each other every afternoon as we pick up our kiddos.  She high fives my sorcery as a powerful white witch.

But it’s not voodoo.

It’s science.  It’s quantum physics.  Energy.


When Lydia was about 9 months old, she began screaming all night long, every single night.  She had been an easy sleeper,  a point we clung desperately to, since the day time Lydia was perching herself precariously on every tall piece of furniture, eating vaseline and toothpaste and generally finding ways to defy death at every turn.  At first I thought the night crying was just a growth spurt, but she wouldn’t take more milk.  And I tried everything to get this kid back to sleep.  I bought every sleep book I could get my hands on, I implemented every method with exactness, desperate for rest and bewildered by the sudden change in her sleep.  Or lack of.

And the screaming.  Endless screaming.

I changed her diapers.  I bought a new brand of diapers.  I bought heavier pjs. I cut the feet off her pjs and put on socks. I bought her flannel sheets.   I put a fan in her room for white noise.  I played low, classical music.  I rearranged the furniture in her bedroom.  I hung a mirror in her room.  I tried different night lights.  I left the lights on.  I taped black paper to her window, and bought black out curtains to block the moonlight.

I read a story about a lovely mom who examined her screaming baby only to find a long hair wrapped tightly around a purple, throbbing toe.  This story tortured me.  I stripped her down, looking for a rash, a bite mark, a bruise, a purple toe.

I took her to the doctor, and they stubbornly refused to give me baby tranquilizers or sleeping pills and insisted that Lydia was healthy and thriving.  No cause for medical alarm.

Except that I was going apeshit crazy.   I have never experienced that level of sleep deprivation.  Even with two babies, just 15 months apart.    I thought about sleep every single minute of the day.  Like a dying man crawling in the desert for the mirage of a deep, blue pool, I crawled into my bed every night, and it began again.

The only thing that would make her stop was to sit upright in a chair and hold her while she slept. In fact, she would pass out into a deep slumber, punctuated only by her shuddering hiccoughs, within 60 seconds of being in my arms. Even submerged into dreamland,  if I tried to put her down she would wake and scream, clawing at my chest. After four months of this endless struggle, half dozing in a chair as she slept  and my arms throbbed painfully, I realized with sudden clarity, what it was.  The answer seemed to actually hang, fully formed, in the dark of her small bedroom.


She was terrified.

The fear, once I recognized it and gave it a name, seemed as tangible as a snarling tiger in her crib with her.  As menacing as a fire, creeping up the curtains.

WHY?    Understanding it was fear did not help me solve our problem.  It became more distressing to realize that my baby was traumatized each night by agonizing terror.  And what could she possibly be afraid of?

Her life was filled with Cheerios, Barney, twirly skirts and my constant loving presence.

Why is it that so many of my life’s lessons come only after I have a complete mental breakdown?


I had one.

A breakdown.  Hysteria.

My brother was visiting.  Rick and I had gotten through bath and bed time with ease and Rick had left for the library to study.  Gard and I had just settled into our tiny living room for a relaxing chat when Lydia’s screams began.  Several hours earlier than usual.

I freaked.

The frustration and severe sleep deprivation and paralyzing failure took me down to my knees.  My brother let me rant and my building hysteria matched Lydia’s upstairs.  And then he handed me a box of tissues and told me to sit down.  He told me take a few deep, calming breaths with him.  Then he held his hands out, almost touching each other…. and taught me to feel energy.  This may seem far-fetched,    it certainly seemed crazy at the time.

He told me to sit with my hands close together, and feel the heat there… energy.  He told me to imagine that energy as a white light, gathering in my hands.  I used my hands to “press”  this warmth, this “white light,”  this energy in my hands.  And slowly we moved our hands further apart, concentrating on building the energy in our hands into a big, warm, ball of light.  He told me to gather all of my love for Lydia, all of my fierce feelings of love and protection, and put it into this huge ball of light.  My hands began to prickle and tingle, the heat in my hands was tangibly growing, even as I moved them further apart. We sat side by side  on my brown sofa at the foot of the stairs, eyes closed in meditation, our hands open to “hold” our energy spheres.


Upstairs, Lydia was choking on her sobs, she sounded like she would vomit soon.

Then he told me to visualize Lydia, screaming in her crib.  I was to visualize myself walking over to the crib with a my ball of white light, and place it over her head, letting that light wash over her.  He would do the same with his energy.

I felt crazy.

But I felt shredded by her cries.

I did it.

She stopped crying within ten seconds of “giving” her our light.

Tears of relief and disbelief dripped off my chin.  I hugged my brother in gratitude for the moment of peace for both Lydia and I.

He left with the instruction to do that every time she woke.

I got pretty damn good at feeling energy with my hands, and gathering a large amount of it for Lydia quickly.  Every night it worked, I felt shocked that it worked again.  And within two weeks of energy meditation, Lydia was back to  sleeping through the night, and the crying stopped.

Lydia, now eight, still asks me for light when she is upset or scared or is having trouble sleeping.  It has never failed to help calm and soothe her.  I am teaching her that she can gather this light herself, but there is nothing like a mother’s love.

It seems like life is handing me some pretty concrete experiences before I read about it in this E squared book…the timing is pretty amazing.

Because after counting 3 orange cars the first day, and 4 purple hats the second day, in my  VW Jetta experiment, I read experiment #3.   Pam Grout’s words are in red.

Lab Report Sheet 

The Principle:  The Alby Einstein Principle


The Theory:  You are a field of energy in an even larger field of energy.


The Question:  Could it be true that I could be made up of energy?


The Hypothesis:  If I am energy, I can direct my energy.

The rest of the experiment is laid out to help you see how you can direct energy using a simple device made of a coat hanger.  But I absolutely know that this is true, and was provided a great way to see this work for someone else, even before I read the chapter in this book.


If you still think I am a witch, you are missing out on a pretty handy, powerful tool in your tool box.  If you want to give it a go, but need some direction, go get this book and follow her experiment, The Alby Einstein Experiment.

After all, I’m gonna need some sorcery, and a more than a little white magic to get these sweet girls to adulthood…

Don’t we all?



I felt high after my last post.

It actually worked, this E-Squared business, and I couldn’t wait to try the next experiment.  I spent a day just BE-ing and it felt amazing.  I was ready to call up a tattoo shop and get’er done.  I felt more present and open.  I felt free from the long list of things that I had felt splitting me apart… the to-do list still existed, but I had really only one assignment.

Be.  In each moment.

I was like Maria in the Sound of Music.  Heart full, skipping down a path with my guitar in one hand and carpet bag in the other, singing with gusto…


I have confidence in sunshine!
I have confidence in rain!
I have confidence that spring will come again!
Besides which you see I have confidence in me!

Strength doesn’t lie in numbers!
Strength doesn’t lie in wealth!
Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers!
When you wake up — Wake Up!

Butterflies fluttered and birds sang.  I was super happy, people.

I quickly ate up the next chapter or Pam Grout’s book, E-squared…. ready for my next experiment!

And that is when I was clotheslined.  Hardcore TKO.  Maria, sprawled in the dirt unconscious.    I don’t remember that part of the movie, but that is what happened.  Yeow.  Just typing the words, my heart beats painfully in my deeply bruised chest.

So the last few days I have had to regain consciousness, and access the injuries.   When life clotheslines you, it is natural to ask, why?  I didn’t have the words at first.  But yesterday, and today, the why has come.

“WHY!!!!??????”  (Shakes fist at the sky)

I forgot about E-Squared.  I forgot about almost everything but the hurt.  Just Be.  In the hurt.  It has taken all of me to not curl into a ball and turn this hurt into a hard nugget of anger, a stone that I would carry with me forever.  That was my old pattern.  And I am trying so hard to stop that.  But what do I do with this hurt?  How do we deal with grief?

I found this on my Facebook page, posted by Cheryl Richardson on Sunday.

“Today I invite grief in. I welcome its teachings, its benevolence, and its ability to connect me with my vulnerable, tender heart.  After all, that tenderness is important. It’s the aliveness we all secretly long for every single day of our lives…”

Then, I decided to listen to a good, uplifting radio show.  Something to boost me up, hold me a tiny bit higher than the lowest vibration.  A caller called in with a question for the guest doctor on the show that could have come right out of my own mouth.  About being clotheslined.  About my hurt.  The answer was so uncanny, so exactly what I needed to hear that my husband, who walked into the kitchen as the host was giving the answer turned to me and asked if I manifested this radio program.

Huh…. did I?

We went to meet an incredibly inspiring woman, Colleen Alexander, and her husband on Sunday.  It was the first time we have met, and she brought me a book…an unexpected gift… Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh.  I was touched by her story and bravery and sensitivity.  I tucked it in my bag after we said our goodbyes.

Last night, Lydia woke with a terrible nightmare.  She was out of sorts this morning, being sassy and angry, over reacting, and was in tears by the time she got into the car to go to school.  I tried wrapping her in love as I pulled up to the curb, sending it back to her from the drivers seat.  But  she jumped out of the car and slammed the door, and took a few angry steps to walk away, looking dark and sad.  And then she ran to me, and I opened the car door and pulled her to my lap and held her.  I suddenly asked her about her nightmare.  It felt relevant in this moment.  She said she dreamt that someone took me… stole me. Her fear was real and still present in her eyes.  I hugged it away, reassured her that I would kick anyone’s butt that tried to take me away.  I pulled away from her, and said it again, but this time I gave her a delicious pebble of emphasis… “I would kick their ASSES Lydia.”  She smiled then, and went to school.  Lydia has always been the mirror, reflecting me…

Then it was off to work, and I exchanged a smile with the kind cashier as she expressed concern for me, saying I didn’t seem like myself.  Am I really this transparent?  So I sat with my coffee and the book Colleen gave me and asked the FP  (the field of infinite possibilities) to give me a healing message from the book to help me.  I opened it, and this is what it said:


Come Back To Yourself

“Most people are afraid to come back to themselves, because that means having to face the pain inside of them.  With the practice of mindfulness, the situation changes.  We come back to our pain, but now we are well equipped with the energy of mindfulness that has been generated by mindful  breathing and by meditation.  We use that source of energy to recognize and embrace our pain.”

Ok.  So I was clotheslined.  It happened.  And then I brought a whole slew of healing messages and moments into my life to help me hold the hurt.  I am going to choose differently than I have before, when feeling broken by something in my life.  I think I am realizing how powerful we all are.  In the sense that I called in these healing moments, I also called in the branch that knocked me out…left my inner Maria reeling from a lesson that needed to play out.  But, oh LORD how it can hurt, this business of reaching for wholeness.

I just re-read the second experiment in E-Squared.  The Volkswagon Jetta Principle.  This is what it claims:

You Impact the Field and Draw from It According to Your Beliefs and Expectations

I read this for the first time last thursday,  just an hour before I hit that branch.  And reading it now, it is funny how the incident, the pain, the clothesline… it demonstrates this principle in the most absolute possible terms.  It exposed to me in no uncertain terms how powerful we are…when we are looking for messages of love and support and healing, they come.  When we are looking for messages to confirm our deepest fears and insecurities, betrayal and rejection… they come too.  And our intention can not direct what others are manifesting in their own lives.

Because of the seriousness of the injury and the obvious way I feel this principle was shown to me, the actual experiment seems funny.  But I will participate in it, if only to give me more time to breathe and come back to myself.

If you missed the first experiment, The Dude Abides, you can see the set up here and the results here.

So here it is, the Lab Report Sheet.  Once again, for clarification, the words in red come from Pam Grout’s book, E-Squared.  The words  in black, are mine.



The Principle:  The Volkswagon Jetta Principle


The Theory:  You impact the field and draw from it according to your beliefs and expectations. 

The Question:  Do I really see only what I expect to see?


The Hypothesis:  If I decide to look for sunset beige cars and butterflies, I will find them.  


Time Required:  48 hours


Today’s Date:  Tuesday, November 12, 2013          Time:  10:25 am


The Approach: According to this crazy Pam Grout girl, the world out there reflects what I want to see.  She says that it’s nothing but my own illusions that keep me from experiencing peace, joy and love.  So even though I suspect she’s cracked, today I’m going to look for orange cars.  Tomorrow, I will look for purple hats.

       a.  Number of orange cars observed _________

       b.  Number of purple hats observed _________

Here we go.  Breathe.  Be.  And play seek and find.

“You will not break loose until you realize that you yourself forge the chains that bind you.”

                      -Arten in The Disappearance of the Universe, by Gary Renard

BE My Tattoo


I am 35 years old, and I need a tattoo.  I have been considering this desire for quite a few years.  When Rick and I walked out of our mormon faith, it was incredibly disorienting.  Like Dorothy, stepping out of a black and white world in Kansas and into full Technicolor, in a world where experiences and possibilities that I had labeled as impossible or evil now lay at my feet.  The list of forbidden fruit is long and deep in the world of a devout mormon.  There is a primary list of things you can not do if you want to  be able to participate in the temple, which is a must-do to earn eternal glory and salvation.

Then there is a secondary list of rules. These rules are driven by cultural expectations and are taught from the authorities, but without concrete consequences to fear.  You need only worry about the disappointment of Heavenly Father, chastisement of your peers, and the step that will lead you down the path to outer darkness.


No big.

Tattoos are a big NO-NO in conservative mormon-land.  For the last few years I have been pinning tattoos on Pinterest, and giving serious thought to getting a tattoo…but I knew I would have to be certain I would want it.  Take my time.  Make it meaningful.

One week ago, my brother and I were discussing tattoos.  He already has a few and we were talking about his plans for more.  I told him that I had recently decided on my tattoo…and it was only a matter of making an appointment.

I wanted the word BE tattooed on my hand.  Something small and discreet, but visible to me.

I want it as a reminder to stay present and centered.  To ground myself when I am feeling weak and ungrounded. Lately, I have been feeling very scattered and disconnected.  Like a piece of taffy, being pulled in ten different directions at once.  It’s messy when I allow myself to scatter…the core of my being begins to disintegrate and disappear like that pulled taffy when I allow my energy to splinter off in a million directions.  And it can be very challenging to pull it all back in.  It’s during these times that I begin to feel frantic and panicky, anxious… and then experience a strong sense of failure.  Because without being grounded, I am not effective.

I need to pull myself together again.  Be whole.

On monday, I used Pam Grout’s book E-squared to ask for a clear, unmistakable gift or sign in my life within 48 hours.  This sign would be the first confirmation that I have access to infinite possibilities, and the ability to create my own reality.

It worked.

Monday night, a friend called.  This is a woman I have become friends with this year… I feel very drawn to her, very connected.  She pops into my mind throughout my everyday life, many times during the week.  When we speak or get together, I feel like I understand this woman, in ways that are not so common… it’s an unusual connection.  The thing is, she is nearly impossible to get a hold of.  She is very busy and not great at responding to communication like texts, emails, phone calls.

We all have people in our life like this, right?

Normally, especially in a newer friendship, I would cut ties with someone who is sending a clear message that they are not interested in connecting.  But this friend is an exception for me.  I simply know that it is not personal, and I am meant to reach out to her, to know her.  So I do.  I text her, or leave a message, or send her a little light and love with intention when she comes into my mind.

She called me on monday, and we talked for a couple of hours about what was going on in her life.  I must mention here that this woman is incredibly gifted.  She has been given some highly developed gifts in this life. I have never known someone personally with these finely tuned gifts…it is amazing.   She is psychic, and sensitive to a world that most do not understand or see.  At the end of our long conversation she thanked me for talking things out with her, and then offered up a little prayer of thanks for our friendship.

And then she told me, as she does every once in a while when we talk, that I have a lot of angels and guides that are with me.  When she gives me this kind of information, I imagine myself opening up, literally cracking open and allowing my mind and heart to expand to new possibilities. Because when someone starts talking about things that are unfamiliar, it is human nature to harden and shut down, instead of invite in the mystery.  I was silently doing this kind of visualization as she tried to articulate the message that my angels were sending me.  I was also pulling wet laundry from my washing machine and cramming it into the dryer… aware of how strangely congruous it felt to be doing such a benign task as she gave me this information.

I wondered if this experience could possibly be the E-equared sign I was looking for… it was certainly a gift to be talking to this lovely friend.

And then she said, “you know, your guides just keep showing me a word.  Just a simple word.  They are telling me that it is the answer that you are seeking right now.  I see this word… Be.  B-E.  Just be.  Does this make sense to you?”


I’m thinking it does.

I have been able to gather up the stringy mess I had become, and bring it back to center.  I feel more grounded.  It’s the first assignment.  Always, the first part.


Gather yourself up.  Stop multitasking, splintering your SELF into pieces, leaving your energy scattered and your core weak.  There are things to do.  But they will do YOU if you do not stay whole.

Now, to find a good tattoo shop.

I Feel Like I Peed My Pants and God Made Me Do It

“Man’s chief delusion is his conviction that there are causes other than his own state of consciousness.”

                  -Neville Goddard, Barbadian Author and Mystic


I am sitting in my office… a Panera Bread booth.  And my jeans are wet, from the knees up.  My undies are wet.  Grateful for the long sweater I chose this morning, I tried to hide this unfortunate fact as I ordered and squeezed lemon in my tea.  When I stood up to retrieve my squash soup, I tried to act cool, despite my suspiciously wet butt.

 It’s all GOD’s doing.


Let’s explore.


I bought a book over the weekend.   I love to buy books…. they fill my shelves and boxes in my basement and weigh down my bag.  I do my best to read them, but the trouble is, I don’t have much time these days. I schlep them everywhere just in case an hour falls into my lap.

This book has  been calling to me since I first heard about it in May at a writer’s conference.  It’s called E-Squared by Pam Grout.  I went to another conference this weekend, and a speaker there mentioned the book again. There was a large stack of them being sold at the back of the room,  whispering to me.  I finally gave in and  bought one, and added it to the thick, teetering tower on my nightstand last night… wondering how I would find time to read it, along with the other VIP material on the list of must do’s.


This morning, I had a doctor’s appointment.  And uncharacteristically, I was a half hour early.  What?  EARLY?  Yep.  Go ahead and send me a nice warm pat on the back.  And if you know me personally, you can dab at the tears in the corners of your eyes.  Before I left for the appointment, all the books in my nightstand stack  were transferred to the passenger seat of my car, as I am incapable of prioritizing before 11 am.   I have already begun to read three of the books, ones that have information I know will help me in my work.  So naturally, I plucked E2 out of the stack, a book I know almost nothing about, and took in into the doctor’s office with me.


The doctor was an hour late. I sat in his waiting room staring at the white printer paper sign he has taped to the door, kindly asking us out here in the waiting room to give 24 hours notice if we need to cancel, or pay a $30 charge and please don’t be late.  And instead of being annoyed, I realized with pleasure, that I had no other choice but to read my new book!


I cracked it open.  And it turns out, it’s one of those “your thoughts create your reality” books. In it, she talks about the science behind this fact.  And she talks about GOD…aka Heavenly Father as I was taught to call Him.  In the book, she gives assignments, or experiments that will prove the claim that we create our reality by our own thoughts, and Heavenly Father is actually a  scientific law, like gravity.  She calls this law, or God, the “FP,”  short for “Infinite Field of Possibility.”


This is not the first book I have bought on the subject.  And I am not a world-famous author, (yet) so maybe I have some more to learn about this practice.   Thus, the idea of doing specific things to prove that FP was out there, just waiting for me to plug-in with intention… intrigued me.


After I left the office, I decided to run into the Stop and Shop across the street and buy some hand soap…we were out at home, before heading to the “office” (Panera Bread).  These days, driving my car was like getting into a  giant garbage can with wheels, and it was at this moment that I exceeded my tolerance level for sitting on crumpled preschool worksheets and struggling to keep the luna bar wrappers from flying out the open door when I grab my purse.   So, while in the store, after buying my soap and an inappropriately large  bottle of lime seltzer, I grabbed a brown paper sack to use to collect the trash heap in my car.


I spent my shopping time contemplating whether I would follow through with reading the rest of E-Squared and doing Pam Grout’s assignments.  Have I bought in to the idea enough?  I have so much work to do!  Should I spend time on this?


Should I?


Should I?


When I got out to my car, I took a moment in the cold November air to gather up all the empty seltzer cans, gum wrappers, Halloween candy wrappers and old receipts floating around in my car and tossed them into the paper bag.  I picked up a very, very old white plastic ziplock bag full of wet wipes.  This bag has been stepped on a thousand times,  it did not close properly, it had been living on the floor of my car for well over a year, unused…because surely the wipes were a brick of filmy, dried out towels by now.


My mind said, “Do not throw this out.  You will need these wipes.  The minute you finally throw it out, inevitably, you will want them back….” (said every hoarder in the universe).

Not wanting to play into my inner hoarder any longer, I tossed it in my garbage sack.


I got in my seat, put my iPhone in my lap and then wedged my 1 liter bottle of lime seltzer between my legs.  And I thought, “it’s a mistake to put that beverage so close to your phone” but I rolled my eyes at that inner rule-follower… she annoyed the crap out of me…and I had had enough.


I began my drive to Panera.


You know what happened, right?


I opened my seltzer and it exploded, as carbonated water is wont to do at the most inconvenient of times, while you are driving a car and it is in your lap and sitting on top of your key to the universe-your cell phone.  And the bag of dried out wet wipes that have been getting crusty on the floor of my car since Stella wore diapers in 2011 had been tossed out.  So I drove to my office as my ass soaked up the lake of seltzer I was sitting in.


After waddling into Panera, I decided to crack open this E2 business again.  Just a hunch.


In the first chapter, she redefines the word GOD as being the infinite field of possibility, and instead of being a He that judges and rules us, GOD is more like electricity… an energy to be used for our benefit.  Just as we use electricity to curl our hair, wash our dishes, toast our bagels. This energy responds to our thoughts and intentions just as our hair dryers turn on when we plug them in.

The fact that I feel and look like I just peed my pants has me nodding in agreement here, as my first lesson on manifesting things had obviously begun this morning.  I also had a strong urge to set down my soup spoon and applaud after each point she made about the myths we tell ourselves about God.  The one about God looking like ZZ Top is particularly accurate.


So I am going to do her first experiment, which she calls “The Dude Abides” principle  and I will let you know how it goes… I figure, you may not be convinced that GOD, or as Pam Grout calls it, the “FP” created the exploding seltzer and my wet pants, so I will accept her challenge to do this first experiment to prove it.


She has named each principle of the “FP”  (remember, the infinite Field of possibility).

She also includes a “lab report sheet” for each experiment, which I will fill out here so we can all see the results.


For clarification, the words in red come from Pam Grout’s book, E-Squared.  The words  in black, are mine.



The Principle:  The Dude Abides Principle


The Theory:  There is an invisible energy force or field of infinite possibilities.  And it’s yours for the asking.


The Question:  Does the FP exist?


The Hypothesis:  If there’s a 24/7 energy force equally available to everyone, I can access it at any time simply by paying attention.  Furthermore, if I ask the force for a blessing, giving it a specific time frame and clear instructions, it’ll send me a gift and say, “My Pleasure.”


Time Required:  48 hours


Today’s Date:  Monday, November 4, 2013          Time:  12:54 pm


Deadline for Receiving gift:  Wednesday, November 6th   12:54 pm


The Approach:  I hate to break it to ya, FP but folks are starting to talk.  The’re starting to wonder, “Is this guy for real?”  I mean, really, like it’d be so much skin off your chin to come down here and call off this crazy hide-and-seek thing you’ve been playing.  I’m giving you exactly 48 hours to make your presence known.


I want a gift – something unexpected.  I want a clear, unmistakable, obvious sign…something that cannot be written off as coincidence.


Research Notes:


(I will fill these in after the deadline!)


Three cheers to GOD, Heavenly Father, or the FP… I have ordered myself up a gift in the next two days.  Let’s see where this takes me!



Open Me


Birth is a powerful force, uncontrollable and raw.  It brings us into our most primitive, simple forms.  The design of our bodies, the synchronicity of our composition.  It is a compact, intense and potent experience…our whole life collapsed into a single moment.  The moment we become.

Become a living, breathing expression of our soul.

Become a mother, the soul inexplicably and forever tethered to another in the most cosmic and physical sense.


I have spent many years searching for the latent and omnipotent meaning behind this soul-altering experience.   I have also been searching for something.   A lost part of my spirit.A way to turn ON the dead parts of me that I have shut off and let die.

I have been aching to define it, give it words, give it LIFE…give birth to this need for the something I can’t even outline.


Recently, I have been drawn into working as a doula… a woman who is hired to support a mother during labor and birth.  I have moved into this work with a powerful sense of purpose…there is something here for me to learn.


To see.


To experience.


I need to be here, doing this.


Getting into the work has been exhausting.  Emotionally and physically draining, and challenging my patience and communication skills constantly.  I teeter on the edge of quitting, turning tail and running, cutting the stress and expectation and difficult  relationships loose and being freed from it all.  But I stay.  Because there is something here, in this work.


Something that I am meant to do.


What is it?  What is birth meant to teach me? Continue reading