My sisters and I were talking about the whirlpools of our lives—the spinning that seems to keep us stuck in place and prevent us from achieving—or, at times, even remembering—our goals.

I related how I’d been under-employed for a year, had lost all but $2,000 of my $124,000 IRA investment in 2011, had attended a networking conference with nearly 1,000 entrepreneurs–virtually all of whom needed PR, marketing, web content, and other communications assistance–and gotten exactly two paying clients (most of the companies were pre-revenue), and was batting poorly in the PR department for my one client under contract.

My sister looked at me and said, “You’d better be grateful.”

I stared at her, momentarily dumbfounded—and then burst out laughing. I hadn’t considered the gratitude angle.

“Really!” she continued. “You’ve been saying for years that you want to be a real writer–that you want to write about what is important to you, not your clients–and that you also want more time to travel in pursuit of your spiritual explorations.  Despite the fact that you have lost most of the assets you thought you had and have virtually no visible means of support, you still manage to live a comfortable life, travel to Peru, visit your land in Washington, stay in the unfinished house, and continue your Inca Medicine Wheel training.  You think maybe the Universe is trying to tell you something?”

Like what?

“Like keep writing!  Keep exploring!  Keep practicing!  The Universe has your back!”

She was so right.  We laughed because—like so many people—we so often think of our lives as problem-filled, instead of solution-filled. We ignore the very blessings Divine Intelligence—or Dumb Luck, if you prefer—has put in our path.  We blow past the miracles in our harried lives, instead of falling down on our knees in amazement and appreciation.

There are various cures for this condition, and most of them involve strategies for becoming more aware, more present–of bringing more of ourselves to each passing moment.

Unfortunately, our culture seems to demand that we become less and less present and more and more distracted. We’re not being maximally efficient if we’re not multi-tasking—listening to the news while making dinner; reading a book while eating lunch; checking our messages while walking the dog. We’re endlessly interrupted, and interruptible. We pay more attention to the email that just entered our smart phone than to the person in the same room, or the task in which we were previously engaged. We drive like demons to yoga class, so that we can slow down and breathe deeply, only to endure our mind charging the fences like a crazed POW for the next 90 minutes.  We focus on the clients, work, and impact we’re not making, rather than on the clients, work, and impact we do have and make.

When are we ever completely present at one time?

Thich Nhat Hanh says to reintegrate ourselves by focusing on the breath: “Breathing in, I know I am breathing in.  Breathing out, I know I am breathing out.”

Yes.

Others recommend keeping a gratitude journal—a log of the countless blessings that pour into our lives each and every day.  Soon you realize what an unappreciative clod you are capable of being…

And stop.

I sleep in a spacious room, under a down comforter, on a feather pillow, roses at my head. I awaken to a fog-cooled morning, with cooing doves and hummingbirds hovering outside my window.  My smooth-skinned husband sleeps next to me. I luxuriate in his warmth. As the sun burns off the fog, the hens wake up and begin to cackle as they work on producing breakfast.  My husband has brewed coffee, dark and strong the way I like it, which I sweeten with sugar and cream. I sit in bed with Rev. Angela’s “Morning Blessings” and align myself with the Divine Intelligence that animates the cosmos.  Have I not already enjoyed a day’s worth of good fortune?

And there is more. The water with which I wash my face has been delivered from the mountains, through a wild river and a manmade lake. I do not have to travel a mile or more on foot to carry the day’s supply of water home in a ceramic urn or a plastic jug. The reason I have time to sit at the computer for hours each day is because other people have planted and tended crops I use for food; harvested and shipped the food to my hometown—and often times, prepared the ingredients into bread, butter, pasta, sausage, mayonnaise, and other appealing combinations of nutrients and flavors. I enjoy oil from olive groves in central California, watermelon from Yuma, Arizona, parmesan cheese from Italy, Swiss chard from my own garden. Is there anyone enjoying a richer life than mine?

But wait, my beloved sons are alive and doing well. So are three step-children I too seldom see. And so are six nieces and nephews, six siblings, and both parents. How do I ever complain about anything?

Instead of judging my life by how many meaningful moments I am able to cram into it, why don’t I instead judge it by how much of myself I am able to bring to each moment?

And for a stretch goal, perhaps one day I’ll even stop judging…and instead just be grateful.

And so it is. 

(See more at http://asyouthink.org …)

In the shamanic traditions of the Inca, practitioners carry a “mesa,” or medicine bundle, which holds the sacred stones and power objects called upon in prayer.  “Mesa” means “table” in Spanish, and for shamans from Spanish-speaking countries, the mesa is a portable altar they can spread anywhere. The objects are wrapped in a cloth called a mestana, which is folded into a neat four-cornered bundle and tied—traditionally with a beaded cord. North American Indians, too, carry a bag with their ceremonial objects in it—tobacco, sage, eagle feathers, and the all-important lighter, or box of matches—typically in a leather or cloth bag, often beaded, or decorated with pieces of antler or bone.

Various indigenous cultures have their own ways of selecting the stones, or kuyas, of a mesa and ascribing, or infusing, meaning to them.  In the Four Winds Medicine Wheel tradition one selects stones according to criteria for each of the four directions.  In my work with the Q’ero shamans of Peru I was instructed to choose stones differently—to allow one or more stone from each ceremonial site to speak to me for inclusion in my bundle.

Since I’m just an apprentice shaman, my mesa has been fairly lightweight.  Earlier this year, I’d selected three small stones for my journey through the South direction of the Medicine Wheel.  In ceremony, I’d infused each of them with painful issues I wished to release. The stones carried these emotional toxins for me into the Earth, Pachamama, who is accustomed to mulching our wastes and transforming them into nutrients for coming generations.

For the upcoming journey through the West in the Medicine Wheel training, I’d been instructed to select three stones of different colors—one red, one yellow, one black. What meaning they would come to hold for me I did not yet know, but I’d already selected these stones, plus one other solely because I loved it, prior to my trip to Peru.

In Peru, however, I discovered that the Q’ero shamans choose their stones differently.  Don Marco advised me to allow one or more stones from each ceremony site to speak to me and include it in my bundle.  Since we conducted three to four ceremonies each day, my mesa soon grew quite large and heavy.

The day Don Marco and I went to Machu Picchu, he instructed me to find a quiet place, open my mesa, and after spending time with it, to ask each of the stones whether or not it wanted to work with me.  If not, I was to return it to the Earth at Machu Picchu.

I took my bundle down a steep flight of stone stairs to the side of a terrace wall hugging the cliff.  The spot was partially protected from the equatorial sun by a tree, in whose shade I shared my sandwich with a small bird. Then I opened my mesa and surveyed my stones, arrayed on my mestana.

The first that drew my attention was the stone I’d purchased for love. A beautiful, multicolored, egg-shaped stone from Madagascar, it is polished smooth to reveal rings of red, brown, green, pale yellow, and pink.  I picked up the stone, wrapped my fingers around her and, holding her to my lips, blew my energy into her.  “Do you want to work with me?” I asked.

Perhaps not surprisingly to you—the reader—but more so to me—the skeptic—she did.  Her purpose was to remind me of my love of travel, of letting life take me, confident that only good could follow.  She also represented my connection to the variegated tribes of the Earth, and of the beauty that is revealed only through polishing—through rubbing away all of the rough edges. I was grateful to have a visual reminder of those qualities and held her coolness in my palm for a while, then blew prayers into her before returning her to the mesa.

Next I picked up the piece I’d chosen as the black stone for my mesa. It was actually a dark gray spike of granite reminiscent of a railroad stake. This stone was phallic, male. He had four sides, symbolizing the four directions. I blew into him and asked him if he wanted to work with me. He did. He said he was my connection to the strength of being grounded. He symbolized staking a claim, making a stand, being immovable. I was grateful to have his protection, his strength, his warrior stance and blew my prayers into him.

My third selection was a yellow, semi-translucent, quartz-like stone I’d chosen from my own collection in Ojai.  I’d added it to my mesa because it was yellow—one of the requisite Medicine Wheel colors—although it wasn’t a stone I was particularly drawn to, despite its unusual color and translucence.  I held the stone in my palms for a while, then blew into it, asking if it wanted to work with me.

Yes, it said, it represented abundance, “the golden energy” that Thaayrohyadi, a Toltec elder, had said I’m connected to.  Again I was filled with gratitude.  Sitting there alone, on a ledge carved from the side of Machu Picchu, I was having an emotional experience with stones—so-called inanimate objects.  But see, shamans will tell you, we’re never really alone.

But back to the stone: like so many people, prosperity has been an issue for me the last few years. So of course it’s ironic that I wouldn’t “be particularly drawn” to the stone willing to correct that imbalance for me.  And, you see, I already had a stone in my mesa that was supposed to represent abundance. During the Medicine Wheel rites in the South, I’d sent all my financial issues into it.  Unfortunately, it was small and pinched at one end—a reminder of financial worries, rather than of prosperous aspirations. I was glad to exchange it for his larger, more opulent representation, which conveyed gold, crystal light, sunshine, all needs met, the power to help people receive their good. I blew my thanks into the stone and set it back upon the mestana.

The fourth stone I turned to was a small, round, white one I’d collected from the stream at Mandor, where Don Nasario and I had performed a ceremony at the foot of a waterfall.  Now I held the cool stone in my hands, blew my prayers into it, and asked if it wanted to work with me.

“Of course,” it said. “Why else would you choose me from the countless stones in the river?” This stone represented my connection to water, to flow, to Urubamba—the river that swirls to Machu Picchu—to purity, and the power of ease, effortlessness, softness, grace. I thanked the stone for its kindness and generosity, and returned it to the mesa.

Next I picked up a small, gray, egg-shaped stone that, through my Medicine Wheel rites in the South, I’d associated with time—the sufficiency of time. Just as there is no lack of material good in the Universe, there is no lack of time, either.  Urgency, haste, impatience exist only in my mind. This stone was my reminder that creation in the physical takes time, that “all good things [come] in all good time.”  I asked the stone if it wanted to work with me and it said yes. In addition to assurance of the sufficiency of time, it wished to be my connection to new beginnings, new creation, to a new heaven and a new earth.  As my purpose is all about ushering in the new world, I was grateful to have its assistance.

I now turned to a blood-red rock I’d purchased in Ojai along with the beautiful multi-colored stone. This stone was also from Madagascar and also polished smooth. I asked it if it wanted to work with me, and it agreed to do so, symbolizing the red blood of Pachamama, the Earth, and the red of the liver, which, like the Earth, detoxifies all poisons, renders them harmless, neutralizes and purifies all that doesn’t serve us—yet that we ingest nonetheless.  It also wanted to represent the color of love, of passion and intensity, of the fire of commitment that can accomplish big things.  A-ho!  I blew my prayers of gratitude into the stone.

Next I picked up the small green-gray stone the shaman Don Nasario had given me in exchange for a small plastic bear I’d carried in my mesa as a representation of my power animal—the one who had defended me in the underworld until I was ready to step into my power as a shaman. I asked this stone if it wanted to work with me, and it said it would be my connection to the ancestors—to the ancient spirits of Peru Don Nasario had introduced me to.  I thanked it for its kindness—and returned it to my mesa.

Now I turned to the small white, pinched stone that had represented my connection to prosperity and abundance—until the golden quartz stone assumed that symbolism. I held the stone, blew into it, and asked if it wanted to work with me.

“No,” it said.  “I am too small to be of much use to you.”

“What are you talking about?” I argued. “That’s not true! Small things can be tremendously powerful!  What about the acorn that grows into an oak, the hole that sinks the boat, the grain of sand that makes the pearl, the spark that ignites the inferno?”

“Exactly,” said the stone. “I just wanted to make sure you appreciate me.”

“I do, I do,” I said, in gratitude, and blew my prayers of appreciation into her.

The remaining stone was an arrowhead that former friends had given me. (Not old friends, former friends.  They’d cut me out of their lives for reasons they’d never cared to explain to me.)  Still, I appreciated their gift of the arrowhead, who now agreed to work with me to symbolize the power of pointed concentration, of being focused and single-minded, of flying like an arrow with only one purpose, of the saying, “You can’t do everything, but you can do one thing.” It also represented the power to pierce, to cut to the heart of the matter.  I thanked it for its wisdom and held it briefly to my lips and my heart before returning it to the mesa.

Having ascertained the agreement of all the stones in my mesa, I bundled it up and returned to Don Marco, well-satisfied with the afternoon’s accomplishments.

The next day, however, I welcomed another stone to my mesa.  Two days prior I’d met an Argentinean woman at Mandor.  She too was traveling alone, only she was traveling on foot, without a guide, for a month.  I admired her quiet confidence in doing so, her beauty, the slow manner in which she spoke, as if considering every word.  She was on a spiritual journey of reconnection and was planning to hike the Inca Trail the rest of the way to Machu Picchu—a steep and precarious route.  We’d visited for a few minutes at Mandor; then I’d run into her the following day at Machu Picchu.  Now, as I sat on the train for the return trip to Ollantaytambo, who should be assigned the seat next to me but this same young woman, Andrea?  We talked like long-lost sisters, until at length I was prompted to ask her birthday.  “September 28,” she said.

September 28, the same day as me.  Tears filled our eyes and she reached into her backpack to retrieve a red quartz crystal.  This is for confidence, she said, to remind you never to doubt yourself, or your path.  I nodded.

In return, I gave her my arrowhead, so that she could fly like an arrow to visit us in California.  She said she would.

A few days later, at Lake Titicaca, a stone asked to join my mesa to replace that arrowhead and remind me of single-mindedness.  Of course I welcomed the addition. It is a large, gray arrow-shaped stone—again, rather like a railroad spike. I’ve already grown distracted and lost it once—at a beach in California—but retraced my step and found it again, thankful for the reminder to stay focused on my purpose.  There are many worthwhile endeavors in the world, but only a few that I am here to accomplish.

Now that these stones travel in my mesa, they have become my kuyas, stones that are more than stones; they are power objects.  I honor them and am grateful for them.

One might say that “Stones don’t speak. You were only projecting your subconscious onto them.”  I won’t argue with that perspective; for all I know it is correct.  The important thing to remember is that I listened.

Whether it’s the stones or your subconscious speaking, listen.

And so it is.

 

There’s a lot of talk these days about “losers.” To hear some folks tell it, the country is full of them. They’re the unemployed people who occupy Wall Street. According to Herman Cain, they’re also the ones who crashed the economy, signing predatory loans (that they knew full well they couldn’t pay) and defaulting once the loans ballooned and their home values tanked. Or they got laid off (losers), fell sick (poor genetic stock or bad habits), or both. Soon they had no health insurance (freeloaders), couldn’t pay their medical bills (deadbeats) and declared bankruptcy. Next they’ll die out of spite—just to make the rest of us look heartless.

Let’s assume for the moment the Republicans are right: the 99% of us who do not make up the financial elite are losers.  We didn’t accumulate the most toys.  The 1% holding most of the marbles won. 

But a culture that defines success so narrowly that only 1% qualifies is a culture on its way to extinction.  Because no one is born a loser.  Each child is born unique, with a purpose, a gift, a reason for being here. Republicans proclaim this loudest of all—while the child is en utero—insisting that the sanctity of fetal life even trumps that of the mother’s if the two should ever be at odds. The child only becomes a loser upon being born.

True, many children enter the world with the odds stacked against them—and addressing that injustice is our collective responsibility. Holding a child responsible for the circumstances into which she is born is the antithesis of opportunity. In fact, it’s the caste system all over again. Why should people contribute to a society that excludes them?  In a democracy, they will rewrite the rules of engagement—as is their right and their duty, as proclaimed by our own Declaration of Independence.

So-called primitive cultures know that every person comes into the world with a gift—which means that we once knew it too. Native Americans made a space in the community for the heyokas, the contrarians, the tricksters, and believed these stand-outs had a special connection with the divine.  Similarly, Dagara shaman Malidoma Somé says, “We all come into this world with a gift that must be given to the world.” “All,” he says, not “some.”  Depth psychologist and author Michael Meade reminds us, “Everyone needs some help learning who they already are.  That’s the root of genuine education and the task of real culture.”  And Nietzsche said, “Every man is a unique miracle…uniquely himself to the very last movement of his muscles; more…in his uniqueness he is beautiful, and worth regarding, and in no way tedious.”

Contrast this with the prevailing view of the Occupy Wall Street critics: that only white, male, professionally educated, financially successful men, and well-groomed, sexually attractive, heterosexual women are beautiful.  We’ve seen this narrow-mindedness before, in Germany, and it didn’t end well.  Worse, it excludes by definition, everyone “outside of the box.”  In other words, innovators, rebels, artists, musicians, idealists, visionaries, scientists, trouble-makers, inventors—in short, everyone likely to give the world anything other than what we’ve already got.

If you think I overstate the case, consider the oft-quoted reference to Einstein, who didn’t speak until the age of four.  Or Beethoven, who was born into dire poverty and was deaf.  Or Michael Jordan, who was cut from his high school basketball team.  Or Steven Spielberg, who was rejected by three film studies programs because of his lackluster grades.  Or Oprah Winfrey, who was told that she’d never have a career in broadcast journalism.  Or Stephen Hawking, confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak, and almost completely paralyzed, who has nevertheless transformed our understanding of the universe.

The losers, the misfits, are the ones who—ironically—enrich our lives. Without them, life would have a bland sameness—not because we are all actually the same; but because we all try so relentlessly to conform and play the game by the rules, rather than challenge the rules and enlarge the game.

Steve Jobs, whose death has reminded us of his life, helped to write the Apple ad copy that accompanied the company’s “Think different” campaign.  It went like this:

Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes.

The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them.

About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art? Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?

While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world…are the ones who do.

Life is not a footrace or a game of marbles.  It is a collective enterprise.  Human beings are social animals and we need each other.  We need even the “weak” among us: the infants—they’re our future; the old ones—they’re our past, our memory, our wisdom; the immigrants—they seed our culture with new food, music, customs, clothes, language, and ideas; the “disabled”—if nothing else they teach us compassion and, if we pay attention, they often inspire us with their resourcefulness, resilience, and breathtaking courage. 

What’s especially ironic is that our country’s veterans–who are so loudly applauded when they’re in crisply pressed uniforms going to or coming back from war–are so piteously rejected when they are the dirty, toothless, and homeless on city streets. Talk to these men–and women–some time. You will find that they are not so mentally ill as you may imagine. Rather, they have been traumatized by what they have seen, and done, and have no way to integrate themselves back into a society that rejects them.

The social contract we’ve been busy unraveling over the last few decades is what knits us together through good times and bad.  It’s the diversification in our portfolio that hedges our bets against future challenges and optimizes our chances of game-changing breakthroughs.  It is well worth the investment of those of us who are temporarily strong—the healthy, employed, or independently wealthy—to support and encourage those of us who are temporarily weak or vulnerable.  We will all—if we live—be weak or vulnerable one day.

Does God answer prayers? Does the universe respond to our requests? Do we, as individuals, have the right/power/ability to influence the collective whole?

I’ve previously posted my vision statement advocating “a world that works for all of us.” But a late-night conversation with my brother, in which we each tried to clarify our beliefs regarding prayer, forced me to consider more precisely what it is that I believe about the universe and humanity’s place in it—as individuals and as a collective.

I believe that we’re all—nearly 8 billion of us—emanations of the Divine. God manifests through each one of us, regardless of what we “believe.” We are made “in the image and likeness of God.” “The Word (God) was made flesh and dwelt among us.”

This was not a one-time event, as Christians claim, but the whole purpose and point of creation. God experiences life in, through, and as us. As Jesus took pains to remind us, “The kingdom of heaven is within you.” Hence,

There’s only One of us here—many drops comprising a single Ocean; many cells comprising a single Body. Since we’re all One, What we do to others, we do to ourselves. Hence the Golden Rule. Hence the stupidity of greed, war, or killing our planet.

Since God is in each one of us, We are all co-creators with God. As co-creators, our potential is unlimited. Wherever we are, God is. The dreams we manifest are creation happening in the now. The creation story has never ended. It continues at the sub-atomic level and in the farthest reaches of the universe, because it is all imbued with divine intelligence—with the stuff of God. Hence,

We influence creation. In other words, God answers prayer. I’m not referring to a God “out there,” that old man with a long white beard we saw pictured in Sunday school. I’m referring to the divine intelligence that orders the universe. When we align ourselves with it, we put that power at our disposal. We put ourselves “in the flow” of creative power that is everywhere present. We “plug in” to the cosmic grid and we direct that current to power the appliances of our lives. Hopefully we’re doing something more magnificent with it than running appliances; however:

We have free will. Hence the state of the planet at the moment. However, millions of people are waking up—which is the whole point of evolution—and realizing:

The more powerful our consciousness, the more powerful our influence. A master like Jesus could calm the waters, heal the sick, and even raise the dead on command. He was/is not the only one who could perform these (so-called) wonders. Lakota medicine men routinely part the storm clouds to redirect the rain away from Sun Dance ceremonies. Siddhas reportedly heal the sick, halt the aging process, and materialize food, drink, and riches through the strength of their consciousness. African shamans can walk on water, co-locate, shift shapes, and open portals to other dimensions. Those of us who have not finely honed or perfected our consciousness create haphazardly, or in time, rather than in the now. As we grow in our perfection—surrendering our ego to the unified energy field in which we live, move, and have our being—we manifest more perfectly and more immediately.

We strengthen our consciousness—our effectiveness—by aligning ourselves in prayer. Muslims pray together five times a day. If we were wise, we would do likewise—in form, if not in content. Uniting our consciousness with others increases our effectiveness. As Jesus said, “Whatsoever two or more of you ask, it shall be done by my Father (God consciousness) in heaven (within you).”

Aligning ourselves means aligning with the unified field. The cosmos is intricately ordered by divine and magnificent intelligence. Paraphrasing Jesus again, “Of ourselves, we can do nothing. It is the Father (God consciousness) within us” that creates wonders. Individualized consciousness is limited; universal consciousness is infinite. My sister keeps this reminder on her refrigerator: “Remember Beth, someone else is running the show. Not you. You have a minor walk-on part. Relax and enjoy the show!” In other words,

We can trust whatever happens. We may not like it; many times I don’t. The oceans are dying (and it’s appalling how significant a statement that is and how readily it is passed over); millions of innocent people are being killed by my government (same paucity of response); Troy Davis may be wrongly executed by the State of Georgia in two days (a million people protest). Yet consciousness itself cannot be destroyed. The universal intelligence in back of all things is not troubled. There is, after all, no death. The consciousness that is my Afghan sister, my executed brother, my dying sea turtles, lives on—waiting only for me to awaken and recognize my Oneness. Hence, I

Fear not, for I know that all things work together for good. Divine intelligence operating through all persons, places, and events will prevail. Despite appearances, all is well in my world. And so it is. (With thanks to Rendy Freedman for the beautiful photo she took and sent to me from Tibet.)