The Magic of Meditation

As openly pagan, and now that I’m embracing the title of “witch,” I get a lot of curious questioners asking about magic and my spells. I do cast spells, but I’m one that takes a great deal of time designing them, so it really has to be for something I consider very important. That usually does not involve turning a particularly nasty co-worker into a toad. If she already is a slimy mud slinger how would I transform anything by giving her green skin? Though people seem disappointed that I’m not interested in seeing if that might be possible. Spell work is more akin to goal planning than Harry Potter. What I am interested in pursuing, is not precisely what may be possible, but what I can make probable. 

Imagination is the cornerstone of magic. You have to be able to imagine what you wish to accomplish. Once you can see the possibilities, it’s much easier, if not simplistic, to move on to what is probable. I think it is the possibilities that magic offers that pulls people towards a magical path, whether it is interest in witchcraft or the pursuit of ceremonial magic. Those new to it want to dive straight in – let’s cast a spell! I know from experience that it is a huge let down when instead of being trained how to use a wand, one is told to meditate. How can there be any possibility in something that sounds so dismally boring?

I certainly can appreciate that. I have yet to find enlightenment by monitoring my breathing. I am also decidedly not an advocate for spending hours on end chanting “om” in uncomfortable positions while sniffing headache inducing incense. If I were only to describe mediation as simply “quieting” or “focusing” the mind, or counting breaths I can easily see how this might be seen as boring. The point of meditation is to clear all of the mundane noise out of my head so that I can actually see the possibilities. Meditation is used to explore the possibilities to find the probability - which is exactly what fuels magic.

 

The Mantra 

When I first moved to Chicago in 1998, I was very fortunate to see an advertisement for a class on magic being offered by the late and great Karen Jackson. It was the first formal magical classwork of which I had ever been a part and I have never forgotten what she taught me. Karen explained that meditation was important ground work for the magical process but she also said that it certainly did not need to be painful! She explained that clearing one’s mind of all thought was a highly advanced technique that Eastern Monks practice their entire lives with varying degrees of success. Since I’m certainly not living in a monastery, and have to contend with the mundane pressures of bills, parent/teacher conferences and rush hour traffic, I don’t have to aim that high in order to work some magic.

“Set a timer for ten minutes,” Karen said. “See if you can make it that long. Try to do it once a day. See if you can. If you can’t, that’s fine. See if you can work up to it.”

She also explained that getting your mind to focus is much harder than one might think -as the brain is constantly thinking about a hundred different things in a fraction of a second. She had a brilliant plan to redirect all of those thoughts in a more cohesive direction: the mantra. A mantra can be the cliché phrase “om” or it can be any repeated word. Karen Jackson gave me a phrase. I have never forgotten it and I still use this meditation to help me focus, calm down, or just because it makes me feel good.

Karen’s suggested phrase is: I am (my name). I am a part of the earth. I am a part of the unmanifest. I am alive in a universe that is alive. I am here and it is now. 

Naming myself calls me to focus on myself. I am the most important person in these 10 minutes that I’ve set aside for myself. The focus is me.

Focusing briefly on the earth reminds me of the physical world, and the significance of being a member of the flora and fauna that together is the planet earth.

But I am more than physicality. I am also a part of something that is unknown and unknowable. The mantra calls my attention to my life and the role that I play with the living earth which is both physical and tangible and yet vast and mysterious.

The present moment is the focus. Where am I really? The answer is here. What time is it? The answer is now. I cannot process the past nor plan for the future if I am not present in the moment.

Karen Jackson founded the Temple of the Four Winds, an inclusive group of pagan women and men based in Evanston, Illinois. Sadly, it passed into the ether with her. She was a teacher, writer and publisher. I am grateful that I knew her.

The Cleansing White Fire Vortex 

The Cleansing White Fire Vortex meditation is one of the many reasons I loved Ted Andrew’s excellent book Psychic Protection.

This is a visualization to cleanse and revitalize the aura and the main energy vortexes of the energetic body commonly known as chakras.

In this meditation, I visualize a ball of cleansing white energy which ignites the power center above my head (crown chakra). As I exhale, the ball of light travels down to the front of my forehead. When I next inhale it enters the power center within (the chakra associated with “the third eye”). On the exhale it exits the back of my head and travels back to the top of my head. On the next exhale, it then goes to my throat (throat chakra), in that same triangle fashion. This cycling continues for each power center – heart, solar plexus, womb, below the genitals, knees, and feet. The final point is below my feet, at this point, I visualize the ball of energy splitting in two. One ball shoots deep down into the earth, like an anchor, the second returns to the crown chakra traveling up all of the chakras on route. Once it returns to the top it starts circling around my body. I like to imagine it increasing in speed and magnitude as it passes each chakra. I imagine it cleansing and pulling out any stuck “debris” whirling it into the vortex which is now pulsating with all this bright energy. Then, I imagine it spinning itself out, scattering anything it has picked up down into the earth. Ted Andrew says this is good psychic fertilizer for the earth and I love that imagery.

I find that this is especially a good meditation when I am worn out from over stimulus, but I like to engage this meditation for really no particular reason other than it feels like a terrific hot shower after a long or even satisfying day.

Discursive Meditation 

This method was not only described in John Michael Greer’s excellent book, The Art and Practice of Geomancy, but I was also fortunate to hear him speak about it in person.

The word discursive is used to describe an inner discourse. This meditation technique is particularly useful regarding magical symbols. I use it to further my understanding of the 16 divination symbols of Geomancy, a Renaissance and mathematical divination system I absolutely love (and of which John Michael Greer is the leading expert).

The geomantic symbols are simple and easy to hold in my mind, but if I’m working with a more complex symbol, such as a tarot card, then I place the card where I can comfortably see it. Then I just allow my mind to flow. Sometimes characters come alive from the symbol to tell me more about their meaning. Sometimes it’s a series of thoughts and emotions. Either way, I come out of it with a profound understanding of an element of that symbol.

I also use discursive meditation to explore abstract concepts. I have explored what courage, commitment, connection and a host of other topic mean to me on a uniquely personal level.

John Michael Greer suggested that when I catch my mind wandering off topic, not to simply refocus, but retrace the steps that got me off track. The reason for this is to further my development by studying the individual workings of my own mind.

 

The Tree of Life Meditation 

Geda Parma is a young man with an ancient soul. I was fortunate enough to meet him and was truly in awe of the power and the peace that radiates from him. He describes the Tree of Life Mediation in his book By Land, Sky and Sea.

In this meditation I focus on my feet and I imagine that my toes become roots. They start to grow down, burrowing into the carpet under them and piercing the cement foundations of my home until they find the reddish clay earth under my Illinois home. These toe roots continue to push through each layer of the earth’s core until they reach the fire of the earth itself. But as powerful and heated as this life force energy is, it doesn’t burn me, instead that energy fills each of these long and powerful roots with its pulsating heat. This energy travels back up those long roots, through each layer, back to the clay and cement and carpet and back into my feet. My body then continues to drink in the energy, alighting each part of it with the life force energy of the earth until it reaches my head. Then much like my toes became roots, I imagine branches growing from my head until they touch the stars.

This is incredibly healing to me, I absolutely love the feeling of being literally grounded to the earth. Once, I experienced what I can only describe as being as one with the universe. For a fraction of a second I had a glimpse into what was everything. But I collapsed quickly into awe, and it was gone. I have never been able to reach celestial heights since, but if that is not magic in its full magnitude, then I don’t know what is.

 

Witch Sight 

I found Robin Artisson to be a very difficult author to follow while reading his book Witching Way of Hollow Hill. I really had to press through the dream like pattern of his thought process, but he does have some really beautiful gems of knowledge to offer.

One of those is his Witch Sight Meditation. The first step is to allow myself to feel everything - to hone in on every sensation of touch from the very basic of temperature, to the easy to ignore, like the touch of fabric on my skin. Next, without letting my awareness of all those sensations fade, I then open myself up to sound – again from the overt - like the ticking of the clock in the room - to the faded distant sounds of the wind blowing through the trees in the park several blocks away. I don’t imagine what I hear, I just open myself up to everything that I can hear. It can be pretty surprising and it makes me wonder at the living universe that I am living in.

Artisson goes straight to sight next, but I think it is important to go through the senses of taste and smell. Particularly if I have incense burning, I like to explore the different scent notes in the air and how something so removed can affect the palate while I do nothing but sit and take it within.

The final sense to explore is sight. However the goal is something more than just seeing a clock, some fabric – it’s about a deep awareness. The first time I did this exercise I was actually hopping with anxiety! I think it was the intensity of it all. Away from meditation, it is so easy to filter what I experience. It’s a natural process to let some things fade into the background in order to better focus on something more specific. The goal of this mediation is to get me to achieve heightened focus with all of my senses engaged equally.

I keep a journal of all my meditation sessions. I find that if I write them down they are etched better in my memory. And if I still forget them, there is a record to peruse later. There is no doubt that I am more focused and grounded when I am keeping up with daily meditation. Truth be told I’m much calmer, more patient and generally a much nicer person. It helps me to see the possibilities in others around me, I experience deeper empathy, but in a calm way that does not overwhelm me. I am better able to help others if I am grounded in the present and open to the nuances of varied experience.

More than that, mediation shows me paths to try when I am feeling like I have lost options. It shows me possibility and probability.

My meditation is where my magic begins.

It's NOT the thought that counts.

Happy Holidays! 

I love the Winter Holiday Season. I love the lights that glow at night made even more beautiful by the frost. I love the music. I love the special foods and flavors. I love the glittery decorations. I love the trees that are trimmed and skirted. I, much like everyone else, am filled with what is traditionally referred to as the “Holiday Spirit.”

But do I love the holiday gifts? Now that is a question. 

Like many people, I have heard the saying, “It’s the thought that counts.” I assume that this is supposed to mean that a gift really isn’t supposed to be about the thing itself. When I receive a gift, I’m not supposed to be thinking about how much it cost, or where it was purchased, or if I already have something like it; I’m supposed to appreciate the “thought” behind it. What makes me nervous is when I dare to ask the question, “What is that thought?”

While I am a bit embarrassed to admit to a long string of failed relationships I’ve had, I can say that those men and women taught me a great deal about gifts and the thoughts behind them. I once had this really cute t-shirt that my son’s father had given me when we were still married. It was particularly funny because it was a fabric applique of a girl’s face that looked like a perfect cartoon image of me. It was also fitted and sassy. I was wearing it one day when I went to pick up our son from his house. His eyes narrowed into smug little slits when he saw me wear that shirt. I knew what his thought was at that moment, “I gave her that.”

I had another boyfriend who gave me a belt that just happened to go perfectly with one of my favorite Steampunk outfits. I continued to wear it after we had decided to move on from one another. When we ran into each other at a function, he said, “Nice belt.” I knew what he was thinking as he said that, “I gave her that.”

Another lover wanted to know my plans for Mother’s Day. I said that I was taking my son to a garden shop to pick out a yellow rose bush to plant in our garden. When he expressed mild horror that I was supplying the cash for it, he talked me into allowing him to buy me the rose bush. Later that summer, we went to a concert together with some of his friends. I was the final pick up on the road to the concert, so all of his friends were in the car when they arrived at my house. “See that rose bush,” he said proudly, “I gave her that.”

I Gave Her That.

That was the thought I was supposed to be so appreciative of, “I gave you that!” It meant that we were still connected. It meant ownership – not just of the gift given – but of me.

It has been my experience that the things people own become imprinted with memories and emotions; and they can even become symbols of concepts the individual believes defines them. Sometimes these things inspire or can become touchstones that provide positive comfort and grounding. Sometimes though, they become beacons of negativity sapping the life force right out of the owner. Those imprinted memories are filled with remorse and engage emotions of regret and shame. Sometimes the things people own are imbued with concepts that are no longer relevant in the present. Instead these objects instantly transport and trap a person in the echoes of the past. I have seen people (I have seen myself do it too) try to bury these things in boxes and hide them in storage units, but they still manage to become physical presences literally blocking the path towards a productive future! I call these treacherous things, Accidental Talismans.

A talisman in a magic spell is an object that is used as a touchstone for the magic. It is a placeholder to hold what I wish to create in my future. The object holds my intention and my purpose; and is created with focused thought and identified emotion. The thing is, like everyone else, I am always thinking and feeling, even if I am not focused and conscious of my intentions. That is why Accidental Talismans are so much easier to create because everything a person owns will invariably remind them of something – some thought or feeling – it may be in the back of the mind, but it is there. All things are symbols for thoughts and memories, emotions and concepts that define an individual. Gifts are particularly nasty Accidental Talismans because they don’t just store the thoughts, emotions and concepts or the receiver, they store those of the giver too. So I’m not just dealing with what thoughts and emotions and concepts that I associate with a particular object, I’m contending with whatever else the giver put in there too.

When I speak about the power that things, and Accidental Talismans have, people have observed that this phenomena does occur and most will even admit that they do still hold onto things that make them feel weaken instead of empowered. A lot of people argue with me that they can in fact change how they think and feel about a particular thing that they own - I have my doubts about that. There is no doubt however, that it is impossible, for anyone to change how someone else feels and thinks.

It didn’t matter that I liked the t-shirt, and the belt, and that I’m rather fond of yellow roses. What mattered to those three different men was that those things were a direct connection from him to me. A part of me still belonged to them because I had a thing that kept that connection alive. In my case, the gifts I mentioned took on a more nefarious “ownership” connotation. However, connection is precisely the “thought” behind all gifts. People give gifts and receive them as a symbol of the connection and the nature of their relationship.

The thoughts counting in gifts are not always darken from the ghosts of lover’s past either. Allow me to create a fictional character for the purpose of explanation – I’ll call her Aunt Milly. Almost everyone has an Aunt Milly or two in their family. Aunt Milly is that person who gives the worst gifts. They are either hideously ugly, completely impractical or just out of sync with just about everything. Aunt Milly always makes a big production when she presents her presents with some extravagant story of the hardship she underwent to acquire the gift. But she always finishes her tale with, “I saw this, and thought of you!”

Aunt Milly is pretty relatable. Nearly everyone knows someone who fits this simplistic fictional description and I have observed that nearly everyone responds to Aunt Milly’s gift in one of three ways:

1. It promptly gets chucked in the trash, or given to a rummage sale. This would be the best thing to do with it in my opinion. However, the problem is that Aunt Milly invariably will ask where her gift is, the next time she visits. The receiver can then lie that it was broken or stolen which is likely to result in Aunt Milly supplying a replacement. Or they have to face her stony stare if they tell the truth that her gift was unsuitable. 
2. It gets put in a storage box. When Aunt Milly comes to visit there is a mad dash to find it and then find a place for it. Aunt Milly will then coo and cluck over it and once again will go on and on with the extravagant story of the hardship she underwent to acquire the gift. She is also likely to bring something new that expressly goes with it. How lucky! 
3. It gets put in a room. This is quite possibly the worst thing to do with it, in my opinion. At first, the receiver will still use the room although their first thought when they see it, is “Ugh! I hate that thing!” Then over time, they will train themselves to push that thought to the back of their mind. That’s the thing with Accidental Talismans though, the thought never really goes away. It lingers, in the subconscious, and the feeling just pervades. I’ve had my own Aunt Millys and I can personally attest to the final result. I simply stopped going into the room the blasted thing was in! It was as if the thing had been given sentience. It was no longer my room, it belonged to Aunt Milly’s gift. 

What is the thought behind Aunt Milly’s gift anyway? When gifts are given it is so common to say, “I saw this and thought of you,” but I believe that what the Aunt Milly’s of the world are saying is, “Every time you see this, I want you to think of me.”

It has been suggested to me that Aunt Milly’s gift is an expression of love. Unless Aunt Milly is expressing her love of shopping, her love of martyrdom, or the love of hearing her own voice then I would disagree. And neither is it an expression of my love to Aunt Milly to accept her gift. I would not express my love to an alcoholic by buying them alcohol – how is accepting a gift from a shopaholic any different? If I really love Aunt Milly wouldn’t it be better to set boundaries? “Aunt Milly, if you really must bring me something from your trip, can you make sure it’s something that I can eat or give away?” But if the thought behind Aunt Milly’s gift really is “Every time I you see this, I want you to think of me,” doesn’t that suggest that she thinks that she is not in my thoughts unless there is a physical representation of her next to me at all times? She needs a physical representation of our connection, because she doesn’t trust that the connection between us is strong enough without it.

Don’t I need to show her that I value the connection between us? We may be related, but that relationship doesn’t carry weight without tangible connection. If I really love her wouldn’t it be better to show her how much I love her? “Aunt Milly, the only gift I want from your trip is to have you tell me all about it. Did you take any pictures? If you don’t have a scrapbook may I make one for you?”

If I really love her wouldn’t it be better to show her by taking her to lunch to hear her stories? If she doesn’t live close, can’t I call her on the telephone or write her letters to demonstrate that she is in my thoughts? If there is true connection in our relationship, Aunt Milly would respect my boundaries. She would bring me cactus candy from her journey to the desert. Or something to donate to my son’s school rummage sale.

But maybe…just maybe…it’s just so much easier to put that butt ugly gift in a box and bury it instead of addressing a truly horrible thought: Maybe…just maybe…Aunt Milly doesn’t love me. Maybe…just maybe…I don’t love Aunt Milly. Isn’t that what I’m really burying? I’m burying the fact that there isn’t a genuine relationship. I’m burying the fact that maybe, I don’t want a relationship with Aunt Milly. To me that’s akin to burying a body in the back yard. Both things are likely to haunt me.

I’ve had to face the fact that many of my lovers no longer loved me. Some told me outright and in hindsight, that was much easier to deal with. I had closure. It may have hurt more at first, but it does make moving into a productive future much easier. Closure is so much harder when the connection isn’t severed outright. That is one of the difficulties of life I have not been able to avoid and I don’t have many answers when it comes to dealing with that. I do know that holding onto the echoes of that connection will not move me anywhere except back to past, and I can’t live there – no one can.

So when I give gifts I try to do so knowing that the connection I have to that person will not always be the same. I try so hard to give gifts knowing that what I thought might have been so perfect in my mind, is actually the exact opposite. My gift may end up in the trash, because it was inappropriate, because I didn’t know the person as well as I thought I did. I’m not going to lie, that does sting a little, but it’s an opportunity to keep learning. Other people are one of the great mysteries of life – I will never know all there is to know. Isn’t that what makes the connection so exciting?

The Day I Died

On August 11, 2005 at 7:00 in the morning, I went into labor with my first and only child. My water broke - which contrary to popular belief is not really how labor usually begins - usually you have contractions first, and then, during the labor process, the water sac breaks and the baby is born. That water sac not only protects the baby, but it also is a safety barrier for the mother. A safety barrier I was missing for 42 hours. It wasn’t until August 13th that my son was born. He was so very healthy. He was so strong! He was also huge at 10 pounds and 2 ounces.

“That’s the biggest baby I’ve ever seen!” one of the nurses shrieked as my son finally made his way into the world.

His placenta was also gargantuan, also weighing in at 10 pounds…or so they thought…

On August 15th, I was discharged from the hospital. The nurse came in to check on me one last time. “Hmm,” she said. “You have a little bit of a fever.” I thought that was odd, but they issued me my discharge papers and off I went.

As I struggled with my then husband to get our (not-little) new babe into his car seat for the first time, a lovely mother who had been discharged with me that morning came to our aid and showed us what we were doing wrong with the car seat. She seemed fine, great actually, that heroic awesome mom who helped me. Any yet, I was worried; because I was decidedly not fine. I felt awful and I never feel awful. I’m rarely sick. I’ve never have had a broken bone. I’ve never even had a cavity!  I rationalized that maybe I just had never really experienced pain before and that what I was feeling was normal. I saw a toddler in awesome mom’s car with her newborn and I thought that maybe childbirth is easier the second time around.

When I got home I struggled out of the car and staggered to the house. I stumbled to the bathroom and then a thick piece of flesh - at least six inches in length - fell out of me (I know now that it was the missing 2 ounces of placenta). I was panicked; but my then husband covered up all that goo and told me I was fine. I really wanted to believe him.

He helped me to the couch that sat in the summer sunshine. I layered myself with several blankets. It didn’t matter that it was August, I was freezing. My husband put our son in a laundry basket next to me and then he left, perhaps to get food, but I don’t think I was able to comprehend where he was going. Then it was as if time slowed down. I started to shake with the chills and then I remember my head banging against the couch several times in a bizarre state of movie-magic slow motion.

And then…it just stopped. I found myself surrounded by this beautiful soft white light. I was floating in silky white clouds. I was so beautifully warm and comfortable and perfectly at peace. I had never felt so relaxed. I had never felt so complete, so completely myself. I had no concerns for my future. My past had such perspective, and such clarity. There was only this beautiful peaceful moment, surrounded by softness.

“Whew! I’m so glad that’s over!” I said.

It blossomed quickly in my mind, however, that while I was relieved that the convulsions were over and the fever was gone, that was not what I meant. I was glad that everything was over. It was as if I had spent 35 years studying feverishly for an exam and although I wasn’t sure if I had passed or failed, for better or for worse, I had taken the exam and it was over. It was done.

I was dead. 

My peace was then suddenly replaced with incredible panic. “I’m dead!” the white light vibrated with that thought, because I wasn’t in the white light, no, I had no body anymore, I was the white light.

I had been a practicing pagan for many years at this point, but I was still staunchly monotheist. I believed in a one all encompassing female divinity that happily accepted any mantle or name you felt comfortable to give Her (even if it was male). I had always gravitated towards the warrior, protector stories of the Greek Goddess Artemis; but in my arrogance at that time, I believed that to be a silly construct of my human mind. The name Artemis, surely was beneath this divinity. But in this state of anxiety I gave into my humanity and I named my Goddess.

“Diana! Diana!” I called to Her. “Please! I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son!”

And just like a cliché movie ending twister, I gasped in that very dramatic and noisy breath of life, I sat up, and I gazed upon my sleeping son.

When my husband returned he did drag me to the doctor. When I described the fever and all that goo the doctor’s face turned notably white and he stammered, “You…you should be in a hospital! You…you shouldn’t be standing here!” But I was in fact standing in his office and I never was re-admitted to the hospital because there wasn’t a single thing wrong with me. There was no fever, no sepsis, nothing. I was just fine. They did prescribe me antibiotics just to be sure, but I wonder if I really needed them.

I had died that day. Yet Diana, She who is also called Artemis, She had heard my plea and had given me life. I spent a great deal of my postpartum researching Diana. It just so happens that She is also attributed as the Goddess of Childbirth (I had no idea); as She helped Her mother Leto give birth to Her twin, Apollo. Another interesting fact – my son’s birthday, August 13th is called “Diana’s Day.”

August 15, 2005 remains as one of the most spiritual experiences of my life to date. It is a day that I reflect upon often. I still struggle with what I learned that day. I am still processing the magnitude. What I learned was that life and death are largely a choice. That knowledge is fraught with heavy responsibility. I didn’t just choose to live, I chose to live this life – my life – as it is.

That is sometimes very difficult for me to accept, because I am so often disappointed with my life and more precisely, myself. One of my greatest shames is that I thought I never wanted to be a mother. My childhood was in some ways difficult and I did not want to continue that legacy. I had been told that I had trouble connecting with people, and so I was not confident that I could connect with a child. But I was desperate for the love I lacked in my childhood, and I was wooed by a man who wanted a child, and begrudgingly…begrudgingly, I gave him one. That same man who left me as I died, left me before that child he demanded from me reached his first birthday. In my darkest hours, that shame courses through me. It is then that I tell myself that I never wanted to be a parent, and certainly not a single parent. And certainly not a single parent who works at night, and on weekends, and holidays, and birthdays, and who often has to work late, sometimes 48 hours late… In my darkest hours, I tell myself that I am precisely the lousy mother I never wanted to be.

And yet, when I was dead I called to Diana and I said, “Please. Please I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son.” I didn’t say “My son needs me.” I said, “I need,” that was what I said. “I need to be a mother to my son.” The truth is, my son really doesn’t need me. Yes, absolutely, we have a great relationship (one I never believed I was capable of). I have made a positive impact on his life. I am a decent mother, and sometimes maybe even better than just decent. Yet, had I chosen to let go on August 15, 2005, my son would have continued on without me. I may not be a fan of my son’s father but if I acknowledge the truth again, he left me, not his son. His father loves him. My son would have been cared for and supported. When I begged my Goddess to live, I wasn’t begging for my son, it was all about me. It was for my experience. I chose this life. I chose to be a mother.

I am still bemused by the consequences of that choice and more importantly, the responsibility of that choice. I chose this life. Not only did I choose to be a mother, I also chose, much to my chagrin, to be a single parent. Not only did I choose to be a single parent, I chose to be that single parent who worked at night, and on weekends, and holidays, and birthdays. Those were in fact, my choices. I am responsible for all of that.

I have had people try to argue with me that I could not have possibly known that my husband would leave me. However, the writing was on the wall that my marriage was not made to last. There were all kinds of warning signs, not to mention a few blunt comments from a close and brazen friend. I however, chose to ignore those signs, my intuition and my feelings. When he demanded a child, it wasn’t a request, there wasn’t a discussion; it was an argument. I could have divorced him then but I chose to be a mother instead. I was ultimately the one that made that decision. I was the one who made the counter demand - I would have a child, but it had to be before I turned 35. On my 34th birthday, I remember distinctly that I said to my then husband with nothing short of disdain in my voice, “I’m reminding you that I’m 34 today.” I turned 35 a month before my son was born. I cannot hold my son’s father accountable for that. That was my choice.

It was also my choice to accept a career that had me working nights, and weekends, and holidays and birthdays, etc. etc. My husband crooned that it would be stable and secure; there would be benefits and oh so much money. My close and brazen friend warned me there would be consequences for my family with this career. My heart warned me that this career was not going feed my creative personality. There were once again multiple signs that I would sacrifice a great deal of personal happiness for stability and security in addition to the desires and needs of my son; but I ignored them all, along with my intuition and my feelings when I made my choice.

It would be easy to lay the blame elsewhere and whine that I had no choice. I could blame my once husband for the demise of our marriage, but I had a heavy role to play there. I do not think talking about our conflicts would have resolved our issues; because the reality I must face is that I chose a husband who was not the right partner for me; nor was I a good partner for him. I knew it from the beginning. I chose to ignore our conflicts – I buried my head in the sand. I also chose my profession. I chose security and stability over creativity. I knew it would ultimately make me very unhappy, but again I buried my head in the sand. I also knew I was dying the moment that nurse told me that I had a fever. But I chose to ignore my own instinct. I ignored my own instinct because I think I wanted someone else to accept responsibility. I wanted the consequences to be someone else’s problem.

I think I say that I have no choice when what I really want is to shift responsibility. The day I died I learned that as much as I wanted to blame someone else, there was only myself to blame. I had been given all the information I needed. I had been given multiple signs in addition to my instinct and feelings. I chose to bury my head in the sand, until I was faced with the ultimatum of no sand, at all.

“Diana! Diana! Please, I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son.”

Diana gave me life on August 15, 2005, of that I am sure, but it was because I made my choice. I wanted – I needed – to be a mother to my son. That is profound, just that, but something else that I find interesting is that it was the one time I made a choice based on my own instinct, and feelings.

When I ignored my instincts about my marriage, it resulted in a very ugly divorce. When I ignored my instincts about my current career, it resulted in a diagnosis of depression. I based my choice not on what was within me, with my own instinct and feelings; but external stimulus and information that largely had nothing to do with me. I nearly refused to become a mother based on external stimulus and information as well. I assumed that I would repeat the pattern of my childhood. I assumed that I had no choice there. Yet, when there was nothing of me, except my instinct and my feelings, the one thing I needed and wanted most was to be a mother.

I am responsible for my choices, and actually, what I would consider as the worst of those choices came with some great fringe benefits. My job is seriously lacking in creativity but boy that money is great and it does afford me to come up with some creative vacations. My marriage may have been doomed from the beginning, but boy, oh boy did it give me the most wonderful boy. Conversely, motherhood is not without its counter as well. As I said, in my darkest hours, I recall all of those external stimuli and situations in attempt to convince myself that I was wrong to want to be a mother – that I made a bad choice. Although, they are only hours after all. The ultimate truth is that when I had the courage to tap into my own instinct and feelings, that choice lead to the greatest joy I have ever known. It makes me wonder what I would be capable of if I reached for that divine clarity in my life, rather than only on the edge of death.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that death is easy. It’s more than easy, it’s sublime. Life in contrast is not easy. A great deal of the time it’s not anything even close to sublime. It’s complicated and confusing and downright messy. Life is filled with goo; but what I have learned is that some of that goo is sticky cotton candy kisses. Life is full of choices – which leads to responsibility and repercussions, and then more choices. Maybe that is why death is so peaceful, it is the last choice anyone ever has to make.

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This article was largely inspired by Errol McLendon’s one man show the Final (?) Journey that was performed at the Life Force Arts Center in correlation with their gallery show Art and the 9 Levels of Self.

I was also moved and inspired by the book Mastering the Art of Quitting by Peg Streep and Alan Bernstein.